“We’re a team, and we all should’ve anticipated something going wrong. Only your quick response kept me from getting killed. I can’t believe you got off the shot you did with a bullet in your shoulder.” Truman held out his hand, and he took it. “Thank you for saving my life.”
To hear Truman absolving him of blame choked him with gratitude. “I-I don’t know what to say, but I’m so glad to see you looking so healthy.”
“Yeah. Which is why I’m here. I’d like to know if I could rejoin the team.”
“Of course. I’d be thrilled to have you. Bring in the doctor’s note giving you clearance, and we’ll get you reactivated.”
As he spoke, Truman drew an envelope from his pocket. “I might’ve come prepared.” His smile was wry. “Not that I don’t love spending time at home with my family, but…”
Tristan clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get you sorted out with human resources and here where you belong.”
The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. If Truman could forgive him, he could forgive himself. Life was about to get a whole lot better.
* * *
The door to the apartment opened, and Tristan snickered to himself, hearing Sean’s reaction.
“What the hell is this?”
He knew when he came home from work that he only had a little while before Sean returned from his gig, so he’d quickly removed the regular light bulbs from their lamps and replaced them with multicolored flashing ones. He hit the button to start the Spotify playlist he’d dug up from when he used to dance at Man Up, and walked out from the bedroom with what he hoped was a sultry swing to his hips.
“You’re always complaining that I never dance for you, so I found my old costume—God only knows why I saved it—and figured tonight was as good a night as any to show you my moves.” He flexed his arms and whipped the silky black cape over his shoulders. The tiny sequined bikini glittered iridescent in the lights.
Howling with laughter, Sean dropped his bag by the kitchen island and hopped on a stool. “Well, come on, Sparkles. Show me what you’ve got.” He clapped to the music.
Hands overhead, he shimmied and shook his hips to the beat. Whistling, Sean dug out his wallet and waved some bills.
“Shake that thang, big boy. Let’s see that moneymaker.”
Shimmying so hard he threatened to explode out of his outfit, Tristan whirled and danced, moves he’d thought long forgotten, returning. “Where’re my dollar dollar bills?” he called out. He turned around and wiggled his butt, then stalked over to Sean and gyrated in his lap. God, and to think he’d done this for a year.
Sean held up the money and leaned in close. “Here’s a tip from me,” he whispered into Tristan’s ear. “Don’t give up the day job.” Long fingers tucked the bills into his bikini.
“That bad, huh?”
Sparkling eyes met his. “Actually, you’re pretty good. But you know you don’t need to do anything to turn me on.”
He winced. “I must be getting old, because that music is giving me a headache. Let me turn it off, and we can sit.”
Now quiet, they moved to the sofa, and Tristan groaned as he lowered himself beside Sean, who patted his legs. “Come lay on me.”
“Usually it’s the other way around.” But Tristan didn’t mind and rested his head in Sean’s lap. “Ahh. Feels good.” He stretched out and wiggled his toes.
“Yeah, but in that outfit, I don’t think I’d get much rest. I’d have it off you in two seconds.”
“Yeah? And the problem with that is?”
“Nothing. But I’m wondering what brought all this on. Did something happen, or are you planning on leaving the bank and looking for work as an exotic dancer?”
“Could you imagine? An over-forty stripper? I’d need a Bengay rub after every show.”
Sean howled with glee. “You could come work with me—entertain the mothers while I keep the kids busy. We’d make a fortune.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Oh, come on. We could call it Butts and Balloons.”
“You’re having way too much fun,” he grumbled, and Sean bent to kiss him.
