“I was off-duty,” Rick said, voice even. “I handled it.”
“Clearly,” Frank bit out. “Your car’s wrecked outside a murder suspect’s building, and you couldn’t be bothered to call me?”
“Was kind of busy at the time.” Rick spotted his shoes poking from under a chair and bent to grab them.
“Not helping your case,” Ash murmured from the kitchen, unbothered. The smell of fresh coffee cut through the tension like an unexpected balm.
Frank shot him a death glare. “Stay out of it, kid. It’s bad enough I had to walk into your cathouse and see—” he waved between them, “this.”
Ash stirred the coffee lazily, leaning against the counter like he had front-row seats to a matinee. “It’s a converted firehouse. Show some respect.”
Rick threw him a look—half warning, half gratitude—then yanked his A-shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it on, dried blood painting one side in dark red. The bandage tugged loose with the motion, and he ripped it off without thinking.
Frank’s tone dropped, steel replacing fire. “Another one’s dead, Rick. Another pretty boy with his face gone. Dumped in Ravenholt Park. Crime scene’s a fucking mess.”
That stopped him cold. A chill went over him, colder than the morning air. He turned slowly, breath catching in his chest. “When?”
“Jogger found him at dawn,” Frank said. “Gloria’s already on site. Time of death puts it sometime around when you were busy playing house and dodging questions.”
“Fuck,” Rick hissed, reaching for the rest of his things. He scooped up his bloodied dress shirt and suit jacket, bundling them under one arm. The holster he didn’t bother strapping on, just grabbed it by the rig and let it dangle from his fingers. No time for the tie or the coat. But he did pause long enough to plant his fedora on his head, shadowing his eyes.
“Let’s move.” He turned to go, but then stopped and met Ash’s gaze. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later.”
He was halfway to the exit when Ash called out after him. “Wait.”
Rick paused, hand on the knob.
Ash came closer, mug in hand, his robe half open. “Your wound,” he said quietly. “It’s gone.”
Rick stiffened. Ash reached up, touched his bare shoulder, fingers brushing smooth skin where the bullet had pierced only hours before. “There’s nothing there,” Ash murmured. “Not even a scar.”
Behind them, Frank shifted his weight with a grunt, the creak of floorboards loud in the silence that followed.
Ash’s eyes lifted, searching Rick’s face with something sharper than confusion.
“Guess we’re more alike than you thought, huh?” Rick said, holding his gaze.
Ash blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“You want to tell me you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Rick studied him a beat longer. There was no guile in Ash’s face; only naked, bewildered honesty. His brows drawn slightly, mouth parted, violet eyes bright and startled. Beauty made vulnerable by sincerity. Something twisted deep in Rick’s gut.He doesn’t know. Somehow, he really doesn’t know what he is. How the fuck is that even possible?“We’ll talk,” Rick said at last, voice low. “I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
Ash seemed ready to argue. His mouth opened and closed. He stared at Rick, studying his face as if trying to excavate the truth by sheer force of will.
Rick turned toward the door again. Frank had started down the stairs, footsteps echoing. But Rick hesitated.
Ash stood where he’d left him, one hand on his coffee, the other tucked into the crook of his robe. The gray light touched the edge of his cheekbone, and his gaze tracked Rick with an expression Rick couldn’t read—too many things in it all at once.
Rick returned in two long strides, leaned in, grabbed Ash by the jaw, and kissed him—fast, rough, nothing elegant about it.Only contact. Only truth. Ash’s mouth opened under his without hesitation, heat meeting heat.
Then Rick pulled back, stepped away, and jogged after Frank.
(12:19 p.m.)
Rick ran out of the grungy auto repair shop and slid into the passenger seat of Frank’s SUV, pulling the door shut with a heavy thump. The old bench seat creaked under his weight, and Frank started the engine without a word, his jaw tight, eyes forward.
