And a porch swing that looked out over the neighborhood in the cool of the evening.
Brady peered into the shade where the swing sat and saw him, wearing khaki shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. His hair had grown out of its chic cut and was trimmed simply around his ears, and he seemed a little less… groomed than he had.
But a lot more at peace.
Brady swallowed, took his courage in both hands, and got out of the car.
“I was wondering if you were getting out,” he said as Brady drew near.
“I felt overdressed,” Brady told him, standing diffidently on the porch. “I thought about going somewhere to change, but the closest place I could go was Ace and Sonny’s, and… well, I wanted to see you first.”
Eric smiled and waved a hand that showed battered mechanic’s knuckles and grease embedded in the fingernails. “I’m not as fancy as I used to be,” he said with a sort of pride. “But I can appreciate a man in a sharp outfit.”
Brady bit his lip. “I… I wanted to impress you.”
“You’re famous now,” Eric said dryly. “Aren’t you impressive enough?”
“No,” Brady said softly. “Not for you. I needed to be real. Famous doesn’t cut it. I needed you to see I meant it when I said I’d come back. I’d come home.”
The expression he turned toward Brady was heartrendingly vulnerable. “Home?” he asked softly.
“It had better be home,” Brady told him, hoping, finally hoping. “I… I just got a job nearby.”
“Yeah?”
“Apparently they needed an interim sheriff to rebuild the department before they elected a new one,” Brady said. “I thought I’d give it a shot.” What was left of the department, anyway. An awful lot of the names on that phone—and pictures—had been the guys who’dneverhad Brady’s back.
“I’d vote for you,” Eric said.
“But would you ask me in?” Brady pleaded. “C’mon, Charlie, throw me a bone here—”
He was on his feet then, pulling Brady into his arms, his mouth hard and hot andreal.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked, voice rough and breathy.
“God, I thought you’d never ask,” Brady murmured. “Can I stay?”
In answer, Charlie kissed him again.
Brady took that to mean “Forever.”
Blind Faith
By Amy Lane
So I’d been creating a Spotify list for the end of Assassin Fish—you can find it under the title “Dragging Ass Back Home.” Around the same time I also spent four hours in the Las Vegas airport, when you can bet that list and this song figured large, and since it was Vegas, well, my Victoriana boys were on my mind.
CORT LIKEDhis music old, and since Orly had just hauled him to an EDM festival and a stand-up comedy show, it was only fair that Cort’s classic rock Spotify dominate their trip back home.
Also, there didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
For an hour they rolled down the windows and caught the late morning cool, knowing they wouldn’t get a breath of anything other than air conditioning after noon, and let the music roll over them. Orly took in Blind Faith and Eddie Vedder and Bruce Springsteen and thought that there were worse things in the world than music that had been around since before you’d been born.
Like your best friend never speaking to you again.
Orly was leaning on the window, his head half hanging out of Cort’s SUV, when he felt the window whine under his chin. He jerked back and realized Cort was rolling up both sides, and Orly had probably missed him saying that because he’d been trying to blow, blow, blow away into the desert, lost in his own self-pity.
The windows were up, though, and Cort turned down the music. Into the abrupt silence, he said, “You could have told me.”
