“Oh damn. That’s right—saw the news. Sorry, Rahm.” A line appears between his brows. “Wait. Who the hell’s rejectingyou?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,”I moan, and then take another drink.
Before any of us think to do it, Sy is there, handing Oakley a towel from our hall closet. Mav is—unsurprisingly—still eager to give me shit, and he scoffs at my fussiness.
“Oh, c’mon. Youhaveto tell Oak who rejected you. That’s the best part.”
“Shut up.”
Maverick turns to Oakley. “Queen Rami was rejected by none other than Hot Barber, and now he has to go find someone else to curate his glorious cowlicks.”
Oakley’s brows raise as he runs the towel over his unfairly thick chest hair. “Truett rejected you? Seriously? Two beautiful one-night kings like yourselves?”
“Wait.” I point my—huh, empty—beer bottle at him. “How do you know Truett? More specifically, how do you know he’s a one-nightking?”
Leaning down to give Cup another scritch behind her ears, Oak lifts a meaty shoulder. “I think we exchanged hand jobs at Mardi Gras.”
What the fuck?
That’s it. I can’t handle all the cross-conversation, mostly aimed at roasting my ass. I’d planned on ordering some pizzas, but I need to get the hell out of this living room and try not to imagine Valentine laughing his ass off at my entire pathetic existence.
7
ANDERS AND OMAR
Pointingat the asshole tied to the ancient camping chair, Anders clucks his tongue as he looks through the man’s things. “We are definitely scheduling a situational awareness refresher with the Wildlings. Did you see how close this sick fuck got to our son?”
The husbands are standing in the man’s creepy squatter’s cabin in the woods off Red Bud Trail, rotted boards creaking beneath their feet as they wonder where the hell they went wrong.
Omar shakes his head, disappointment etched into his handsome features as he opens the plastic bins that stand in for kitchen cabinets. “Rami had zero awareness of the dangers around him.”
After tracing Orange Bow Tie—OBT, according to Maya—to the Pecan Street Festival, Anders and Omar discreetly pulled him off the street half a block from where Rami had been standing, distracted by the pottery he’d found in a booth crowded with greenery and artistry. To be fair to their son, that was Rami’s version of heaven.
“Seriously, how many plants does our son need?” Omar asks. “The penthouse already looks like a plant nursery.”
Anders pokes through the ancient chest next to OBT’s bed. “I dunno. I kinda like the way they’ve styled the place. Like, modern hacienda meets plant girlie meets?—”
When his beloved fails to continue, Omar turns from the plastic bins. Anders’ expression is dangerous as he stalks up to OBT.
“Whatthe fuckis this?” he asks, holding up a syringe with his gloved hand.
The man’s eyes widen, and he tries to talk, but his words are muffled by the orange bow tie—found in the pile of dirty clothes at the foot of his bed and now stuffed in his mouth. He struggles, attempting to turn the chair over, but it’s too squat.
The fathers work more diligently. The syringe, filled with a creamy liquid, is not the most terrifying thing they discover in this man’s shitty little hovel. There’s a length of rope, a gag, several sharp instruments, and a roll of plastic sheeting in an ancient, peeling IKEA wardrobe.
Clearly intent on causing their son grievous harm.
The fathers’ team in Wimberley would later find an online forum on the Hell_AI app where the man had written in great detail what he wanted to do to their son. He’d been obsessed with Rami Bash for the better part of a year, following him on all social media, tracing his steps formonths.
Tsk, tsk.
Omar, also gloved up, plucks the syringe from his beloved’s fingertips, shaking his head. “Habibi, this man planned on incapacitating our son to inflict maximum pain and suffering. Whatever shall we do with him?”
Anders works his jaw as he picks up the rope, weighing it in his hands. “We could do to him what he intended to do to our son.”
After taking on a thoughtful look, Omar shakes his head. “I suspect this one lacks the imagination to properly torture someone.” Patting the man’s cheek, Omar explains, “My husband has mastered the art of psychological warfare. You are in the hands of a genius. Truly.” Turning back to Anders, he asks, “When was the last time you gave your imagination free rein?”
Anders pauses. “Well goddamn,” he drawls. “I guess it’s been a while.” He thinks about it for a moment, then his eyes light up. “Did we bring that collapsible tripod?”
