The old monitor droned on, various surveillance tapes spilling a grainy procession of bodies in bars and sidewalks. People drifted in and out of focus, silhouettes made of static, laughter reduced to phantom gestures. Minutes stacked in silence, broken only by the scrape of chopsticks and the whir of the player. Rick’s vision blurred. Time smeared itself across the room; a half-hour gone, maybe more.
Ash lounged with a carton balanced on his thigh, plucking noodles absently, almost bored, when his hand froze mid-air. “There,” he said.
Roused to attention, Rick leaned closer, reading the timestamp. The Green Fairy, three nights before Elliot Price turned up faceless in the gutter. In the corner of the shot, a man lingered, half-hidden, watching something off-screen. Then he rose, slid toward the bar, and vanished out of frame.
“You know that guy?” Rick asked.
Ash’s jaw flexed. “Yeah. His name’s Griffin. A bartender at the club Jimmy went to the day before he died. He was on me last night.”
Rick’s head snapped up. “The hell do you mean ‘on you’?”
Ash’s eyes slid sideways, bright purple under the lamp. “Waited for me outside the Eclipse. Followed me around. But don’t worry.” A half-smile. “I handled it.”
Rick set the carton down, chopsticks snapping against Styrofoam. “Handled it? And you didn’t think to tell me this before?”
Ash’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I don’t run to the cavalry every time someone looks at me funny. I take care of my own shit.”
It was old wounds speaking, Rick knew that. So he fought the urge to slam his fist into the desk, to shake him until those damn walls cracked. He swallowed the growl and let it smolder in his gut. “This Griffin fella—he could be a suspect,” he said at last, his voice quieter, rougher. “Worth checking out, I reckon. But not worth parading in front of the Captain just yet. For now, we keep this between us.”
Ash nodded, lashes flashing in the lamp’s glow, face all gleam and shadow. “He works nights, so his place is empty ‘til morning. Could be worth a snoop. Didn’t look like much when I was there, though.”
Rick’s nostrils flared. “You were there?”
Ash’s lips twitched, sly. “Yeah. We, uh… hooked up. Three nights ago.”
The fury raked his ribs like claws. “You what?”
Ash settled into the couch, all calm, infuriating provocation, as though daring him. “What? A boy has his needs. And you…” he tipped his head, voice sharp as glass, “were too busy trying to pin me for a murder I didn’t commit.”
The chair scraped hard along the floor as Rick stood. His pulse thundered, his fists itched, his skin felt too tight over his bones. Rational thought told him he had no claim, no right; but the thought of Ash in another man’s bed, another man’s mouth on him, made his blood sing hot, savage. It was unbearable. He needed to tear it away, burn it out, erase it. “Get up,” he said, the growl ripping out of him before he could temper it.
Ash smiled, wicked and knowing. “Rick—”
“Now.”
He hauled him from the couch and out of the office, pressing him forward across the bullpen, palm firm at Ash’s nape. The night-shift cops barely spared them a glance. Right now, Rick didn’t care who saw, didn’t care if the whole damn station buzzed with whispers. Ash moved in front of him with that loose-hipped swagger, docile only in appearance, but Rick felt the tension alive under his touch, the pulse at his neck hammering under his thumb. He herded him down the corridor, past the vending machines, into the antiseptic glare of the men’s room, rank with bleach and old plumbing.
The door hadn’t even swung shut before Rick shoved him to the tiles, mouth crushing mouth. Teeth knocked, breath seared; this was no kiss but a collision, a conflagration. Ash arched into him, fingers sliding into Rick’s hair, erection pressing shamelessly against Rick’s thigh.
The sink took the brunt of them, the mirror shuddering in its frame as Ash’s spine hit porcelain. He yanked down Rick’s zipper in one sharp tug, hand diving inside to rub the stiffening length through the damp cotton of his briefs. Their bodies pitched together, trembling with violence and want.
“You’re impossible,” Rick murmured against saliva-slick lips, desire hotter than reason.
“And you like it,” Ash answered with a smile sharp as a blade, reckless, complicit. He pulled him closer, opened his mouth wider, squeezing Rick’s heavy balls through the fabric.
The door squeaked. A rookie stepped inside and froze.
Rick’s head snapped around. “Out.”
“But I have to—”
“OUT!”
The officer bolted.
Ash’s laughter rang like shattered glass, but Rick smothered it with another kiss, forceful and claiming. He spun him towardthe stalls, shoved him inside. The wooden door clanged, lock snapping home. Rick’s hand went to his fly and dragged his cock out, freeing it from the press of wool and cotton. Precum oozed from it in translucent ropes, the scent of sex already musk-thick in the air.
Ash didn’t waste a second. He sank to his knees and took Rick into his mouth, no teasing licks, no warm-up, just wet heat swallowing him whole. The sudden suction made Rick’s breath stutter. He thought he’d spill before they even got to the main course. With a growl, he gripped Ash under the shoulders, hauling him up, then spun him roughly and shoved his trousers down to his thighs. Ash bent forward without hesitation, palms braced on the stall wall, shirt rucked up his spine, his body a taut, trembling line, offered like a dare.
