by C. S. Poe
Sam tapped one pocket.
Of course, they were nowhere near where Marcus called home, and Rufus had to provide directions to get them back into the city—115th and Second Avenue, to be precise.
Rufus passed some of the time stuck in midday traffic fiddling with the car radio. Finding nothing but the latest Top 20 pop songs and an endless stream of local, cringeworthy commercials, he tapped the power button and leaned back in the passenger seat. He glanced at Sam’s profile. “You know something? You’re pretty cute.”
“It’s my moisturizer.”
“It is not.” Rufus shifted uncomfortably in the seat. It wouldn’t go back farther and his knees were practically knocking the dash. “Do you use moisturizer? I didn’t look in your ruck, cross my heart.”
“No, not usually. Do you usually look in other people’s bags?”
“What do you think?”
“So I’m cute? I feel too old to be cute.”
“How old are you again?” Rufus asked. “Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-seven.”
Rufus made a so-so motion with both hands. “All right, so maybe you’re not cute.”
Sam leveled a look at him.
Rufus started laughing. “What? Christ, I was going to say you were hot. But if you’re going to give me fuckin’ stink eye….”
“You’re lucky I’m driving.”
Rufus was still laughing under his breath as he turned to study the building numbers out the side window. He pointed suddenly. “That blue building, I think.”
“Later,” Sam said.
Rufus was patting his jacket pockets to confirm his tools were still tucked inside. “What’s later?”
“Later, you’re going to tell me I’m hot. And you’re going to be very convincing.”
Rufus raised his eyes to the roof, hummed dramatically, and in general, made a show of contemplating Sam’s words. When Sam pulled to the side of the road, Rufus said to himself, “Maybe you don’t deserve the compliment now.”
Yanking the parking brake, Sam turned to look at Rufus again. Then his hand slid to Rufus’s thigh. Then his hand slid up. And Sam’s eyes were dark and alight all at the same time, his expression closed. “Rufus, baby?”
Rufus suddenly couldn’t swallow, his mouth parched. “Y-yeah?”
Sam kissed him, hard and quick, and whispered, “I’m really, really sorry.” Then he kicked open the door and got out of the car. “Now move your ass so you can buy me a saucer of sugar or whatever the hell you were talking about.”
Rufus opened his door, started to get out, and was choked by his seat belt. He swore loudly, hit the release, and stumbled out. “I want a fancy dinner,” he called, slamming the passenger door and catching up to Sam, who was already approaching the old apartment complex. “For when you lose. Something with tablecloths and candles and shit.”
With a grunt, Sam jerked his head at Marcus’s building. “This is a lot of fucking foreplay just so you can lose a bet.”
Rufus slipped in front of Sam, drew dangerously close, and tit-for-tat, whispered huskily in Sam’s ear, “You haven’t had foreplay until me, hunk.” He smirked at Sam’s expression and then went to the front door.
Rufus looked through the grimy glass window, confirmed the vestibule was empty, then made quick work of the dated lock on the door. A handful of seconds and they were inside, studying the mailboxes lining the wall. Rufus knuckled 2B—Marcus Borroff—and headed up the stairs that had been painted a dozen times over in landlord high-gloss black. He paused at the staircase landing long enough to take in all the sounds of the building, but it was afternoon and no one—on that floor, at least—sounded as if they were home. Rufus moved to the first door on the left, broke in with such speed and dexterity that he could have made it an Olympic sport, and motioned Sam inside with a sweeping gesture.
“Wow, what a dump,” Rufus said after closing the door. His nose wrinkled a little. “All right, so I know it’s conjecture, but what do you think we’re even looking for?”
“Let’s make some educated guesses. Educated guess number one: Jake had something tying Heckler to those trafficked kids. We know Juliana pointed him at the kids, and we know Heckler’s dirty. That doesn’t seem like too much of a leap. Educated guess number two: whatever Jake had was solid enough that Heckler was worried—otherwise, she would have let Jake flail. Educated guess number three: Jake waffled because he’s Jake, classic fucking waffler—otherwise, he would have sent the evidence to the FBI or the state attorney general or somebody instead of standing around with his dick in his hand.”
Rufus was frowning as he moved into the garbage-littered living space. He listened to Sam while watching a roach scurry out from under a pizza box—the damn pest was big enough to wield a knife. “Incriminating evidence against a badge,” Rufus began. “If Jake trusted a petty thief more than anyone else.” Taking his sunglasses off, Rufus turned and added, “More than one of the ‘good guys.’ So a tangible item, yeah? Like a notebook? Tablet? Something used to keep track of the comings and goings of the business?”
“Photographs,” Sam said. “Videos. Shit, what if he was going to tell you a name?” He shook his head. “Never mind, that’s a dead end, so let’s not even think about that. Something physical. Something you could carry. Let’s start there. Did Jake ever have you do other pickups? Did he ever give you anything—I mean, anything, ever?”
“Yeah. A few in the past. He’d text me a meetup address—always different—have me hang on to something or do a drop-off. Then I’d ditch the burner.” Rufus was thoughtful for another moment, and then he smiled at a recollection. “Jake bought me dinner sometimes. As a job well done, I guess. He bought me a book at the Strand too.”
“Well, I don’t think he gave Marcus a book.” Sam glanced around the apartment. Then he looked back at Rufus. “What book?”
Rufus felt his cheeks warm but he shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
Another moment passed, and then Sam turned away. “Great. Really helpful. You can remember the numbers on streetlamps or whatever the hell you were talking about. Fine. Let’s look.”
Rufus ignored the dig and nudged a plastic bag on the floor. It was full of wadded tissues and empty soda bottles. “I guess Jake failed to mention any X’s marking the spot in those e-mails to you, huh? In between the keyboard smashes and relationship comments?” Rufus regretted the words even as he said them.
Sam’s shoulders straightened, but he was still studying the other side of the room. “What’s that supposed to mean? That little jab about relationships.”
“Nothing. Never mind. Jake never said anything in an e-mail?”
But Sam was quiet for almost a full minute, and when he did speak, he only said, “I would have told you if he had.”
“I know. You have them memorized.” Rufus went to the mattress on the floor and warily picked up a blanket, checking underneath.
“And what the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything about anything. I’m stating a fact—you have the e-mails memorized.” He didn’t turn around.
“For fuck’s sake,” Sam said, breath exploding after the words. He spun to face Rufus. “I can’t do this. If you’re hung up on Jake, if you… I don’t know. I just can’t, ok? I like you. I told you stuff I don’t tell anyone. I’m too fucking old to be in my own fucking head about whether you’re hung up on a dead guy. And, apparently, I’m too fucking old to be cute. And I know I’m the one who said that, so don’t—” The words cut off as he tucked his hands under his arms. “I’m really, really fucking overloaded right now. I think I need some fresh air or something.”
He staggered toward the window and yanked on the latch.
Rufus’s stomach was doing somersaults. He dropped the blanket to the mattress and studied Sam—his back turned and shoulders shaking as he hunched over the window. “I’m not hung up on Jake. Not… really. It sucks, even thinking about him. He made me feel smart and needed, and I miss h
im.” Rufus yanked his beanie off. “But I like you too. And I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m still trying to get a grasp on… what sets your tremors off. I’d like to help, if I can.”
Sam’s breathing was labored, but after a minute, he said in a low voice, “Page one of the Sam Auden freak-out manual: get him something soft, something cool, something that smells like mint or grass or lavender, something with a nice texture. Get him somewhere open, away from people.”
Rufus pulled the pack of gum from his pocket and then leaned against the wall beside Sam. “It’s spearmint, but that’s close, right?” He held out a stick in one hand, and his beanie in the other. “This isn’t really soft, but you do not want to touch that blanket over there. Pretty sure Marcus used it as a jerk-off sock.”
Forehead to the glass, Sam took a piece of gum, folded it in half, and put it between his teeth. Then he accepted the beanie, big fingers knotting in the wool, his thumb moving restlessly over the ribbing. He closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was distant. “So, you have now officially had sex with a guy who needs toddler accessories to keep him from flipping out of his skull.” Then he shook his head slowly, forehead still in contact with the window. “I wasn’t trying to be shitty. I just—Jake had this whole life that I don’t know anything about, and I keep thinking of the Jake I knew. It’s messing me up.”
Instead of acknowledging that comment, because Rufus felt like he, too, was studying Jake through the looking glass, he asked, “Do you want me to touch you?”
“Shit. I don’t know. Yes.”
Rufus pressed one hand between Sam’s shoulder blades. He moved it up and down a little, but mostly kept it there as an anchor. “You’re freaking out about me having sex with a guy like you, and I don’t know why you’d be interested in a guy like me. Does that equal us out? Like a math problem?”
“Uh, no. One cute, redheaded smartass does not equal one fucking nutjob.”
Rufus smiled a little, squeezed the back of Sam’s neck, then said, “Stay there. I’ll search the rest of the apartment.” He moved off the wall and added, “You can’t keep my beanie, though.”
“No, I’ll help. I’m ok. I just—” Sam laughed, pushing back from the glass, and then he wiggled the beanie into place on Rufus’s head. “Believe it or not, I really was in the Army; I wasn’t always such a fucking headcase. Tell me where you want me to start.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Under any other set of circumstances, Sam wouldn’t have caved to a technicality. And the redhead had been so goddamn cocky about the bet, so goddamn sure that Sam would lose, so goddamn snide about the place he was going to make Sam take him when he lost. It felt like the whole thing was rigged. But if Sam were honest, Rufus being cocky was actually kind of cute. And technically, Sam had lost the bet—the terms were that Sam would find the pickup first. Which he hadn’t. The fact that Rufus hadn’t found anything either didn’t seem very important at the moment.
Rufus kept the crowing and strutting and, yes, even a little bit of preening to a minimum. For Rufus. They’d parked the junker on the side of the road a dozen blocks away, and then he took Sam west and downtown. As they walked, Sam started doing some mental scrambling. Rufus deserved something romantic; that much was pretty obvious to Sam. But when your entire amorous life fit in a shower stall, what the hell was romantic supposed to look like? Was Sam supposed to buy him flowers? Was there going to be live music, a piano or a violin, something classy, and Sam was supposed to—Jesus Christ, was he supposed to fold a twenty and slip it in the waiter’s pocket and ask for something like “Dream a Little Dream of Me?” What the hell did normal people do on dates? The closest Sam had ever gotten to romance was when he let the guy share the hot water before kicking him out.
Not true, a quiet part of his brain said. Not true, because you packed candles for that float down the Chattahoochee. You bought that piss-poor excuse for a beer that Jake liked. You knotted a lanyard around his wrist, and both of you got chills when you looked up. You kissed him, and that kiss wasn’t just about fucking in a tent or blow jobs out by the fire, the heat from the coals scalding your back. That kiss was its own kind of fire.
But thinking about Jake, thinking about those days when Sam had skated closest to something normal, that didn’t help. That didn’t help at all. If anything, it increased his panic. What if Rufus wanted Sam to choose a bottle of wine? What if Rufus wanted him to order something off one of those godawful menus where everything was in French? What if Rufus—
Rufus had stopped at a set of stairs that led down from the sidewalk. A door painted turquoise hung open an inch at the bottom of the steps, and a sign in the window said: Central Park Masala. And then below, for those who needed a little help: Indian Restaurant.
“Here?” Sam said.
Rufus looked at Sam with a huge smile. “Want to give it a try?”
“You won the bet; you pick.”
Rufus trotted down the stairs in answer. He pushed the door open and was asking a passing waiter for a table as Sam came down the steps. The restaurant was hardly big enough for half a dozen tables, all with placements for two people. The lights were low, with a warm tungsten glow. There were currently four patrons split between two tables, the one young waiter catering to each, with an older woman overseeing the register in the front and kitchen in the back.
Rufus and Sam were offered the farthest corner table, and even as skinny as he was, Rufus had to contort himself a bit to get into the seat that backed up against the wall without enough space for his long legs. Still, he hadn’t stopped smiling. “Smells good,” Rufus stated. “Whoa, and check out these tablecloths.” He smoothed the tabletop with both hands.
Trailing his fingers down the tablecloth, Sam looked up, looked around, took a deep breath: cardamom and cumin, coriander and ginger. Maybe even cinnamon. No music. No stuffy waiters. He flipped the menu—a single, two-sided affair—and he could read every word. Then he looked up at Rufus.
“Is this ok?”
Rufus picked up his own menu and stared at the listings. “How should I know? I haven’t been here before.”
“No.” Sam forced Rufus’s menu flat. “Is this, you know….” When he couldn’t come up with anything better, he repeated, “Ok?” Rufus’s stare gave him nothing, so Sam gestured. “Are there supposed to be candles? What about wine? Are you going easy on me because I freaked out?”
Rufus wiggled out of his jacket, tugged his beanie off, and said, “No.”
“No?” Sam forced his shoulders to come down. “But I want to take you somewhere romantic. I’ll do that thing where you stuff money in, you know.” He mimed a jacket pocket.
Rufus’s eyebrows went up to his hairline as Sam spoke. Finally, he shook his head and said, “I don’t even know what you’re doing. This place is perfect, don’t you think?” He glanced over his shoulder, up at the lighting, then added, “Low lights, no one around, and we’ve got our own corner. If I can get my leg under the table, we can even play footsie.”
“This isn’t some sort of soft letdown?”
“No,” Rufus drew out, more firmly this time.
Silverware chimed. A girl at the next table laughed softly and leaned in to say something to the older man she was sharing her meal with. Sam wiped sweat from his forehead and said, “Ok.”
They ordered. Or rather, Rufus ordered. Sam contributed a few suggestions, but Rufus made the final decisions, and the list of dishes—curries and chicken tikka masala and lamb vindaloo and dal, on and on like that—made the young man waiting on them grin.
“I guess we’re putting him through college,” Sam said with a grin. Then he flagged down the waiter and asked for two Taj beers, and the young man’s smile got even bigger. “Don’t say anything,” Sam said to Rufus.
Rufus hadn’t stopped smiling, and his expression was the most real and open Sam had seen since they met. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome,” Sam said. “Thank you. For everything. Honestly, I ha
ve no idea what I’d have done if you hadn’t been seduced by those chips.”
Rufus’s cheeks got pink and blotchy. He scratched at his cheekbone where one freckle in particular stood out in stark contrast to all the others. “I guess you got lucky. Nearly nine million people in this city, and you happened to drop in on me.”
The Taj came, and Sam took a long pull, watching Rufus over the brown glass. “Very lucky,” he said when he pulled the bottle away.
They ate. When the bill came, Sam flipped through his wad of cash—his rapidly shrinking wad of cash—and tucked the money under the plate. Then, standing, he held out his hand. With one of his crazy Rufus grins that was somehow both bashful and full-on shit-eating, Rufus took it.
Jake’s apartment wasn’t far from the little restaurant. They walked, and although the city continued its normal bustle—the breakneck pace of all those people trying to be where they needed to be, get where they needed to get—Sam found himself sliding through the throngs, Rufus guiding him through the press. Horns, shouting, the rumble of a hundred thousand engines idling at red lights—it all became a sound wall in Sam’s head, but instead of fighting it tonight, he crashed into it and let Rufus tow him. A trim woman, older, looking like a million bucks, played a mean game of chicken, and she flipped Sam a double bird when he veered at the last second. Even that couldn’t shake him. He just floated after Rufus.
Then they were inside Jake’s building, Rufus tapping the mailbox, taking the stairs, passing into the relative dark of the apartment. No more waiting; the thought was a pile of gunpowder in Sam’s belly. As the door closed behind him, he planted himself and pulled back, reversing Rufus’s momentum, drawing the redhead into his arms, turning so that he could bear down on Rufus, pressing him against the door.
He kissed Rufus on the neck. He kissed him on the ear. He kissed his cheek. His lips ghosted over Rufus’s once, twice, like testing for heat that could burn. And then he kissed him, really kissed him.
