High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Beck moved, gentle strokes building to harder thrusts. His cock grazed the bundle of nerves inside, and fiery ripples radiated through Zach’s pelvis. So good. Beck leaned over Zach, bracing himself on his hands and pressing their chests together. Trapped between them, Zach’s cock leaked hot precum onto his belly, adding to the smell of them together. The pressure and friction heightened Zach’s arousal. So hot…spine-melting. He grabbed Beck’s hair, pulled him in for a kiss. Beck’s tongue glided in and out, keeping time with his hips, and oh God. Heat built, spiking every time Beck hit his prostate.

  “More. Harder.” Zach licked a drop of sweat from Beck’s chin.

  Beck dipped his head, sucked on Zach’s lower lip, then let it go. “You got it.”

  Sitting up, Beck grabbed Zach’s hips and slammed in, fucking hard, strokes driving deep. The fire of impending orgasm blazed down Zach’s spine to his balls, and he came hard, white-hot spasms shooting from his cock. With one last thrust, Beck shuddered and groaned. Zach tightened his ass as best he could, drawing out Beck’s orgasm, trying to make it last.

  Beck collapsed, panting, head landing on the pillow next to Zach.

  With trembling fingers, Zach stroked Beck’s hair back from his sweat-slicked forehead. Tightness built in his chest. Sated, that was all it was. Postorgasmic exhaustion. Nothing else.

  Not love.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Send him in.”

  The door swung open, and Olivetti’s campaign manager stepped into the corner office. He closed the door and crossed the stripes of morning sunlight patterning the carpet, coming to a stop in front of the massive desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Olivetti?”

  With his bald head and Ben Franklin glasses, Levin bore a resemblance to the eighteenth-century politician and inventor. Just like the portrait on a hundred-dollar bill. The resemblance ended there. Except for the tailored navy suit, the man was a mess. Perspiration dotted his forehead, and his collar turned up on one side. Off balance. Good. To date, Levin had had no scruples about doing Olivetti’s bidding. Today would be a bigger test.

  Olivetti sipped at his midmorning power shake and let the man sweat for the count of ten. “Have a seat, Levin.” With a grimace, the pudgy man sat. Olivetti hit the intercom. “Ms. Sweet? See that I’m not disturbed.”

  As the assistant acknowledged the request, Levin white-knuckled the arms of his chair.

  Olivetti caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. Filthy habit to relieve stress. Pressing the tips of his fingers together, he swiveled in his chair. “How’s your daughter? Talk to her recently?”

  The campaign manager’s lips thinned. “She’s okay.”

  “New Horizons is doing a good job getting her off the methamphetamine?” The high-end rehab center got marvelous results. For a marvelous price. And thanks to Olivetti’s intervention, she was there instead of jail. Quid pro quo was a heady technique.

  Levin gave a terse nod. Light reflected off his forehead. He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted away the sweat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Olivetti?”

  “We’ve got business to discuss.”

  The color drained from Levin’s face. “What kind of business?”

  Olivetti gave a benign smile. “The political kind, of course. You are my campaign manager, are you not?”

  “Isaac, I can’t control the polls. I’ve already—”

  “It’s a simple matter. And you won’t have to be involved on a personal level.” Just a loose end, waiting to be tied up. Silence radiated from Levin. The dark eyes narrowed behind the Ben Franklin specs.

  “You do want your daughter to complete her rehab and stay out of jail, don’t you?” A little incentive, a little reminder. “Nothing outside your usual purview, Jeremy. This is part of managing my campaign.”

  “Mr. Olivetti, your campaign runs more along the lines of corporate takeover than a political operation.”

  Pursing his lips, Olivetti ignored the remark. “Today’s business is a simple matter. A special purchase to help ensure the success of my campaign.”

  For a few seconds, Levin’s frown deepened, and his nostrils flared as he clutched the arms of his chair and pushed to his feet. “You must be joking.”

  “Oh, but I’m not. Relax. It’s merely a transfer of funds.”

  “Think I’ll leave. I don’t want to hear about illegal use of campaign money. Whatever it is, Mr. Olivetti, I’m sure you can purchase it privately.” Levin glared, spun, and headed for the door.

  Good thing he’d had the office soundproofed. Olivetti would hate for Ms. Sweet to hear this conversation. “Do you want the press to find out about your DUIs? Third-offense drunk driving is a felony, Jeremy.” Olivetti splayed his hands on his blotter. “I hear those gangs are pretty rough on newcomers, especially a gentleman like yourself.”

  Levin jerked to a stop, paused, and did a slow pivot. Olivetti noted the man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down with a hard swallow.

  “I’m not asking you to kill anyone.” Olivetti spread his hands and gave his most charming smile.

  Wrinkles of confusion lined the campaign manager’s forehead.

  “See? The job isn’t so bad, is it?” Olivetti dropped the smile. “Now have a seat.”

  Resigned, Levin slunk back and slumped into the chair. “What do you need?” His voice creaked with dread.

  “It’s a simple matter. The money will be wired through a series of banks, finally ending up in a numbered account.”

  Levin’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you being blackmailed? I told you at the start of this campaign you had to tell me everything so I could do damage control. Is…is this something from your past?”

  “Nothing like that.” Olivetti waved away the inquiry. “I’m buying insurance.”

  “If it’s a criminal matter, why don’t you pass the information along to the police?”

  “I said nothing about ‘a criminal matter,’ Jeremy.”

  For a moment, Levin didn’t move. “What do you expect me to do?”

  Olivetti leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Move five thousand dollars from the campaign fund into the numbered account. Today. Then hide the tracks. We don’t want problems if there’s an audit. And of course, we want your daughter to benefit from rehab, not end up in jail.”

  Levin stared out the window. Olivetti knew that look. Thinking, considering. Weighing the risks against the benefits, like everything he did for the campaign. The world clock on the wall opposite Olivetti’s desk counted off the seconds. Five, ten, fifteen.

  After a full minute, Levin turned to face him. His expression had hardened to steel. “What’re the bank account numbers you want this wired through?”

  Olivetti gave Levin his most benevolent smile. If anyone looked into it, Levin’s fingerprints would be all over the transaction. The trail would stop there, and Olivetti would be seen as the victim of an unscrupulous campaign manager, a man who would stop at nothing to put his candidate in office. A man who would steal money from the campaign for illicit purposes. A man who would win at any cost.

  A foolproof plan.

  * * * *

  Coffee, coffee, and more coffee. Beck shook his head. Zach likely bled brown. A few minutes ago, the guy manning the coffee cart on the plaza had greeted Zach by name as he prepared Zach’s fix.

  A couple of hours ago, Beck had gotten up and brewed his lover’s favorite drink while he slept. Beck had awakened him with the fragrance of coffee with milk. Zach had groaned in pleasure and, after downing the cup, rewarded Beck with a thank-you blowjob. Beck had reciprocated in the shower, and they’d fooled around until they were running late, teasing like they’d been together years, not days.

  Beck grinned. Good thing they’d made it in this morning before McManus. Good thing the blowback from last night’s janitorial encounter wasn’t directed at Beck and Zach. Good thing they had plenty to do in the field today.

  “The Man blew a rod about the janitor.” Beck sidestepped a wad of gum on the downtown s
idewalk. “Heads are going to roll in the janitorial section today.”

  “Sounds about right.” Zach slurped at his coffee. “What did the uniforms say to you about that guy last night?”

  “I gave my statement.” Beck shrugged one shoulder. “They said they’ll get back to me.”

  “I’ll let Sands know about it later today.”

  “I did a little digging on my own right after we talked to McManus.” Beck shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. Against protocol, investigating a case where he was the intended victim, but the uniforms hadn’t worked up much enthusiasm. Of course, that was before McManus got to them, igniting fires under asses in the department and DPD maintenance.

  “And what did you dig up?” Zach raised an eyebrow.

  “No John Stanton ever worked for the city of Denver. Two deceased John Stantons in the metro area. No known living ones.” Beck squinted up at the sky. Clouds had stolen the sunlight, and a chill breeze blew through downtown. A dark day, shadows blending into the landscape. Maybe an early snow this year. “The guy had no connection to the department.”

  “A fake name.”

  “And a fake ID. Changing the picture is easy: a penknife, a new head shot, and you’re set. The staff needs those IDs to open the electronic key locks on the doors after hours. They’re supposed to keep the IDs locked up when not in use, but apparently that’s been lax. Going to cause a shake-up in the building maintenance section today.”

  “Good. Last night could’ve had a—”

  “It didn’t,” Beck muttered. “Let it go.”

  For half a block, Zach strode next to him in silence, eyes directed straight ahead. Beck shot him a sideways look. Had he ticked Zach off?

  At the corner, as they waited to cross the street, Zach glanced over. The breeze ruffled his hair, golden strands grazing his forehead. He cocked an eyebrow, a faint smile on his lips. “So what’s the plan for the rest of today?”

  Gorgeous, and unaware of the magnitude of his appeal. After a moment, Beck let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. “Talking to any newly revealed friends, neighbors, and associates for Weaver and Riggs. Visitor records for Julio Fox. And a couple of subpoenas for Weaver’s juvie and foster care records.”

  “Mmm. This is going to require more coffee.”

  * * * *

  The shower room air was a conflagration of mildew and harsh soap and bleach. Green ceramic tile covered every square inch, including the ceiling. Droplets of condensation glittered on the four-foot-high walls separating the shower stalls. The plip, plip of a leaking fixture echoed off the tile. The hard-bristled brush hissed as Ferris scrubbed, the sound unbroken by the growls of the guards. No showers during cleaning.

  Ferris dumped more scrub powder on the tile and got down on all fours to scour. No gloves allowed—too tempting for tourniquets. God, his knees ached. He wiped the back of one wrist across his forehead and then let his breath out in a huff. The drain reeked of men and dirt and bodily secretions. The industrial cleanser had eaten the skin off his knuckles. He could taste the damn stuff in the humid air—like licking a jalapeño, and about as tasty. Shit. What was in this stuff, battery acid?

  Cleaning the showers might not be a hazardous job, but there were too many confined areas out of the sight of the guards. At least Brown wasn’t assigned to this work detail—too high a risk. That big devil was stalking him, and living through another encounter didn’t seem likely. Despite the humid air, a shiver ran up Ferris’s back like a spider with legs of ice.

  Why had they pulled him from the safety of the prison laundry detail? Delivering clean sheets had it all over this slave labor.

  Couldn’t feel his knees at this point, damn it. Ferris looked around and struggled to his feet. Huh. No one in sight. Where were the guards? Where were the other inmate laborers? Had they left? A female CO’s voice echoed off the tile, rounding them up. Ferris headed that direction. The guards and the other men assigned to the detail waited there.

  The woman CO and her male counterpart waited on the other side of the room. She eyed him, watching his approach. “Let’s go, Riggs. The stalls are next.”

  “Sure.” Ferris forced a smile. What a nice cooperative prisoner he was. He dumped the bucket of filthy scrub water down the drain and followed two other workers, identical gang tattoos showing on their triceps. Ten stalls like concrete closets lined the exit, five on each side, making the passage into a gauntlet. Condensation fogged their clear acrylic doors.

  They handcuffed the violent prisoners to metal rings inside these stalls to shower. Traces of pepper spray clung to the walls. A splash of water in the eye while scrubbing burned like holy hell. Of course, no safety glasses allowed.

  “Get to work, Riggs.” The woman grasped the canister of pepper spray on her hip.

  The light had a gray quality here, a dirty used-up look to it. A cold premonition licked up Ferris’s neck, and his footsteps faltered. Getting in there sounded like such a bad idea.

  “Riggs. Now.” The male guard crossed barbell-enhanced arms over the acreage of his chest.

  “I’m goin’.” As the gorilla supervised, Ferris filled his bucket with steamy water. The other inmates had started on the two stalls nearest the door. He stalked to the cubicle on the opposite end and pulled open the door, stepped inside, and set down the bucket. The stench smacked his sinuses. Fuck. Did they let those guys shit in here or what? The moist air reeked worse than the latrines in the army.

  Claustrophobia dropped over him like a blanket. Brown wasn’t here. With a shaking hand, Ferris sprinkled cleanser on the scratched tile floor and dipped the brush in the bucket. A low burn kicked up in the raw skin of his knuckles.

  A yell and the smack of fist to flesh came from outside. Ferris poked his head out to see the other two inmates grappling with each other. The male guard grabbed one from behind. The woman called for help, yelling into her shoulder mic.

  Now’s your chance. Run.

  An arm came around Ferris’s neck, and a meaty hand clamped over his mouth. Fuck. That smell…

  The unseen captor dragged him to the shower room, away from the fight and the guards. The gray light dimmed as his heels scrabbled for purchase on the tile. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

  Beneath his ribs, a searing jab followed by liquid heat running down his belly. His knees buckled, and the floor approached in slow motion as the attacker lowered him to the damp tile. Cold set in. The wicked smile of his tormentor blurred, faded. Ferris gazed toward a drain; the glistening tile took on a pink cast, darkening to red.

  * * * *

  One look at McManus’s face, and Beck knew something bad had crapped all over their case. The Man waved Zach and Beck into his office, then quietly closed the door. “Riggs is dead.”

  “Fuck.” Beck fisted his hands at his sides. Their only solid lead, gone. So fucking close, and it’d slipped through their fingers. Why couldn’t they catch a break, damn it? “What happened?”

  “Someone caught him alone during a cleaning detail and stabbed him.”

  Beck groaned. Son of a bitch.

  Sliding into a chair, Zach asked, “Did he tell the warden who was behind the murders before he died?”

  “No.” The Man’s lips thinned.

  “Did he tell anyone?” Beck hoped to hell the answer was yes. He took the seat next to Zach.

  “Not that we know of.”

  “We can check with his cell mate.” Zach drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

  “Doubt he knows anything. The cell mate was supposedly locked up when it happened, plus he’s new—been with Riggs less than a week, and Riggs spent part of that time in the infirmary,” McManus said.

  “Then Riggs’s previous cell mate,” Zach said.

  McManus didn’t look optimistic. “I’ll get the names, but it’s unlikely you’ll get anything.”

  “Does no one else see the value of this lead? We have to try something,” Beck snapped.

  “Stand down,
Detective, or you’re out of here.” McManus looked as friendly as a blizzard blowing in over the Rockies.

  Beck stood down.

  Zach leaned forward. “We’re checking into other avenues of information. We have some leads from last night.”

  The records. Beck cleared his throat. “Boss? I need the visitor log for an inmate named Julio Fox.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The Olivetti housekeeper’s second cousin. It’s a long shot. I also need a couple of subpoenas. One for Weaver’s foster care records, including the names of the others he was housed with, and another for the names of the kids in juvie during the time Weaver was there.”

  The Man raised an eyebrow. “These are your other leads?”

  “Subtle connections can yield results,” Zach said. “Fox is an outside chance. Weaver was only twenty-two at the time of the home invasions. Most of his life was spent in juvenile detention or foster care. There’s a good chance he met his partner in crime through one of those connections.”

  “What about leads on Riggs?”

  Beck spoke up. “Riggs was in the army. Dishonorable discharge. Might be something.”

  “I can check with Director Sands, see if he can arrange for those records to be released,” Zach said.

  McManus nodded. “Get your subpoenas, Stryker. I need to see some progress here, some results.” He turned to Zach. “If your unit can get the army records, go ahead.” The Man eyed Beck. “But don’t wait for those records.”

  Beck took in a much-needed breath. “Yes, sir.”

  The Man grimaced. “Update me when you have something. Dismissed.”

  * * * *

  Olivetti leaned back in his desk chair, sipping coffee. He buzzed the secretary.

  “Yes, Mr. Olivetti?”

  Sir. She was supposed to show respect and call him sir. “I’m not to be disturbed. If something comes up, call Ms. Sweet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Olivetti smiled, clicked off, and lowered the TV screen. The pundits should be having their midmorning convocation about now.

  Video of Bill Richards filled the screen. The man was dressed in jeans, and his Western shirt strained across his generous belly. The sitting governor waved a microphone and clomped across what looked to be a makeshift stage. In the background, some sort of cattle barn or rodeo stands. Cheesy. Olivetti raised the volume.