“Shit,” he yelped.
Bass leaned down, one arm slung along the top of the door, and raised an eyebrow at him.
“What’s the matter?” he teased. “You got a guilty conscience, Doc?”
“Actually no,” Tag said. He dragged the bag between the seats and slung it over his shoulder as he got out of the car. “You just startled me.”
Bass wrapped a hand around the nape of Tag’s neck, his fingers warm and sweaty, and pulled him down into a kiss. Stubble scraped against Tag’s lips, and Bass’s mouth tasted like beer and salt. Tag ran his hand down Bass’s back, over the long, toned muscles under the thin T-shirt, and into the dip of his lean waist.
“What?” Bass asked as he leaned back. His grin was wickedly careless and caught under Tag’s ribs like a hook. “Were you expecting someone else?”
Tag pulled him closer, the line of their bodies half-hidden behind the Mustang’s open door, and teased a light kiss against the corner of Bass’s lush mouth. “No,” he said. “Not tonight, anyhow.”
“So you can manage to fit me in?” Bass asked as he reached around to grab Tag’s ass. He squeezed roughly and nudged his knee between Tag’s thighs. Tag had to grab the side of the door for balance, desire hot under his skin and in the back of his throat. It would be easy to sprawl back into the car, the gear stick in his ribs and Bass’s weight on top of him. Stupid as fuck, but easy. Bass bit a kiss into his throat. “Good to know.”
“It was tight, but….” Tag’s voice trailed off into a breathless moan as Bass scraped his teeth along his collarbone. A laugh tickled against damp skin, and then Bass exhaled, his chin tucked into Tag’s shoulder and his hands tight where they gripped him. Tag absently ran his hand upstroked Bass’s back, and he could feel the tension in the hard lines of muscle. “What?”
Bass gave a low, rough chuckle and stepped back with a shrug. He hooked his finger in the V-neck of Tag’s scrubs and tugged him away from the car.
“So you really are a doctor?” he asked.
“I told you I was,” Tag said. He shoved the door shut behind him and clicked the button on his remote. The flicker of the lights highlighted the scrawled graffiti on the side of the bar. Black paint roughed out a mask of empty eyes and gaped, fanged mouth, and then it faded back into the dark as the bulb dimmed. Nerves itched at the back of Tag’s neck, but he tried to ignore them. “Not going up to your place?”
“Not yet,” Bass said. He let go of Tag’s collar and turned around, one arm slung companionably over his shoulders. “Come have a drink first.”
Bass tightened his fingers on Tag’s arm as he dragged Tag across the lot toward the bar. A bright yellow sign plastered crookedly in the window announced that the bar had been closed for “Health and Public Safety.” It was dated three days ago, but the closure didn’t seem to have slowed business any. Music pounded against the walls, and voices were raised to hear over the guitar riffs. A bottle smashed inside, and someone cursed in a ragged voice.
“What’s going on?” Tag asked as he balked.
“Just trust me,” Bass said, his voice suddenly low and intent. “Play along. It’ll be fine.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the road for a second and then pushed Tag through the door into the bar. The smell of alcohol and old blood hit the back of Tag’s throat as he inhaled. Bloody rags lay on the floor, and a pallid, sweaty man was laid out on a table, one hitched leg roughly bandaged with old T-shirts and towels. Two mean-looking men in leather and denim held him by the shoulders as they tried to pry a blood-smeared pool ball out of his hand before he could break any more of the bottles in the bar. A dozen other men were slouched at the bar, arms around skimpily dressed women with rat-tailed hair and their attention on Tag.
A kick of adrenaline made Tag’s blood fizz in his ears. He took a step back, but Bass grabbed his elbow.
“Trust me,” Bass reminded him under his breath as he shoved him into the room. “It’ll be okay.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Tag hissed back.
Bass sighed ruefully. “Figured I would be.”
One of the other men in the bar jumped up to lock the door behind them with a sharp click. It made Tag flinch, and he swallowed hard. His mouth was dry, but not for the usual reasons.
Bass pulled him to a halt in front of the table and pitched his voice to carry to the rest of the bar. His voice sounded rougher, cockier, and he reached up to scruff a hand through Tag’s hair. “See, Shepherd? I told you I could get him to follow me anywhere.”
The big fair-haired man finally wrenched the slimy cue ball out of the bloody man’s fingers. He tossed it idly in his hand, the hard slap of weighted ivory against callused skin distinct enough to cut through “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor,” and stared at Tag with narrowed eyes. Deep wrinkles fanned back from the corners in a web worked into his skin by sun and wind.
“I know you,” Shepherd—Tag assumed—said slowly. He pointed a finger at Tag’s face. “Where do I know you from, Doc?”
Tag yanked his arm out of Bass’s grip and throttled the urge to correct Shepherd with his name. This guy did not need to know his real name. Doc would do.
“Prostate exam?” he asked, his voice tight in the back of his throat.
For a second the option of violence hung in the air as everyone waited for Shepherd’s reaction. Calculation flickered through the big man’s eyes as he weighed his response. Practicality won out over brutality, and he laughed, his grin nowhere near his pale eyes.
“Check out this bastard,” he said as he glanced over the pool table to the heavyset man on the other side. “He’s got balls the size of church bells.”
The man on the table groaned and pushed his knuckles against his forehead. “I don’t care if he drags ’em around on a fucking cart,” he slurred. “I’m in fucking agony here, you bastards.”
