Yes.
“Why would you ask that?”
He raises an eyebrow, thinning his lips as his eyes accuse me of lying. “You know why, DeShaun,” he says, my name a whisper.
I get an alert on my phone—definitelynota Grindr notification—and look down at it, distracted. Even said in quiet anger, I love the sound of my name on his lips.
“DeShaun.” His voice is softer, pleading. The incoming message can’t be ignored, but my mind feels like it’s being ripped in two. Unhelpfully, it supplies me with the sound of his pleading in my ear that day in the electrical closet.Fuck, you feel so good.
I again try to deepen my breathing and re-refocus on him. Running my hand over my freshly faded hair, I scramble to remember what we were talking about.
Oh, yeah.
The fact that I’m stepping away from the team.
“I—no. It’s not you.”Not only you.I gesture to my head. “The live ops still give me nightmares.”
“Still? DeShaun…” He grabs my arm, and it’s all I can do not to push him down on this table. The unexpected rush of blood to my groin is a stab of agony and, as I grimace, I’m reminded of why this will never work out.
He lets out a gust of air, deflating like an old tire. “You don’t have to look at me like that. I get it. Sorry for bringing it up.”
There’s no easy way to say that boners hurt, so please stop being so fucking sexy.
I run the backs of my fingers over his jaw, and he pulls back.
“This face has nothing to do with you.” I pause, then go with a gentler lie. “My knee is getting loud and standing is somehow worse than walking.”
He purses his lips, his eyes full of mistrust.
“Odd, I promise. I’m just in pain, that’s all.”
“Then sit down, baby,” he says, pointing to a chair. His expression morphs into regret as his own words land in his ears. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but stops, closes it, and shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m just gonna go.”
“Odd—”
He ignores me and walks out the door.
But he called me baby. And he meant it.
No one’s ever called me that before.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that the man would give up anything for me. I remind myself that I can’t let him do that.
Between the situation in my pants and the throbbing in my knee, I take Odd’s advice and sit. Hedy set me up with a dark-web version of Google alerts, and when one of them goes off, I have to investigate.
I hit a few buttons and begin scrolling, cursing as the pages roll by. Two Marshals were executing a warrant and something went wrong. One of the Marshals died while the other was gravely injured, and it looks to be a career-ending traumatic brain injury.
The report is sketchy, but from what I can tell, they were surprised, greeted by more people than they were anticipating, and quickly overpowered. The surviving Marshal was assumed dead at the scene but revived in the ambulance. There’s hope that, once he regains consciousness, he’ll be able to give more details. If he can even remember his own name at that point.
Regardless, the sinking sensation in my stomach confirms that which I know to be true. The busted data we’ve been getting from the Marshals doesn’t just impact us; it’s impacting people on the inside too. These small discrepancies don’t seem like much until they get someone killed.
It’s easy for us to recognize the pattern because we’ve been focused on it. I wonder if my friends in the Marshals office are quite as focused. I pull up Jake on FaceTime. He’s walking into his condo and Jean-Pierre swoops in for a kiss.
“Didn’t I just see you?” Jake asks, still smiling from the kiss. The goth-happy vibe works for him.
“Have you checked your notifications?” I ask, annoyed by the sweetness.
“Nope, just got in. Heading to my office now,” he says, walking into a room filled with canvases and computer workstations and carefully organized bits of multimedia. I’m reminded that he’s got a gallery opening in Dallas in a few weeks, and I have no idea how he makes it all work.
