“It’s your funeral,” she said portentously as Tag climbed out of the car. He slammed the door behind him and watched, already drenched again, as the car pulled away. Water dripped down the back of Tag’s neck, under his shirt, and he wondered if he should call Ned.
In case I turn up skinned, dismembered, and missing a cock, the guy who did it is calledFightJunkieand has abs you could climb like a ladder.
Tag snorted and wiped his hand over his wet face to flick away the water. Under the circumstances, he thought he’d rather his last hours remain a mystery instead of a cautionary tale about internet safety.
The door to the bar slammed open, and two big men shoved out a heavyset man in stained denim and a ragged T-shirt.
“Sober up and fuck off, Boone,” one of them yelled before they slammed the door again. Boone staggered around, gave the bar a very dignified finger, and then headed around the side of the building. He paused on his way past Tag to give him a squinty look of suspicion.
“Fuckyou,” he slurred, underlined with a jabbed finger, and then lurched away.
After a second Tag checked the directions in chat. They hadn’t changed, so he swore under his breath and headed around the side of the bar. A rusty set of stairs was stapled to the side of the building. It creaked under Tag’s weight as he headed to the second floor. Country music and the sounds of a rowdy good time pulsed through the cracked siding of the bar and vibrated under Tag’s feet.
Number 25A.
This was, it occurred to Tag as he knocked on the door, fucking ridiculous. What the hell was he about, soaked to the bone on a booty call in the Heights like some horny teenager? He’d had enough contempt for Kieran’s on-call fuck, but that was just careless. This verged on pathetic.
He took a step back and down when he misjudged the small landing as the door opened. The excuse he was about to make was lined up on the end of his tongue, the old doctor-on-call get-out-of-jail-free card. Then he saw the man who’d opened the door, and the words dried up on a wash of quick, uncomplicated lust. The thought of sex—after two months of angry, hopeful celibacy—had been a low-grade itch in his balls all the way over here. Now it flared to life, hot and eager, and scorched quickly through his hesitation.
“Sonofabitch,” the man drawled as he leaned against the doorframe, tattooed torso just as bare and ripped as in his photo. Light-brown hair stuck up in messy curls around a lean, sharply carved face that would have been handsome even without the ridiculously sensual full mouth framed by a scruff of day-old, gilt-pale stubble. The tilt of humor to that mouth carved a deep line in his cheek as its owner returned the favor and slowly looked Tag up and down. He raised his eyebrows. “You taking me to prom, Doc?”
Just because he was hot didn’t suddenly make this a good idea. Tag had seen enough good-looking bastards wheel their victims in and out of the ER. Psychosexual killers could have curls and skin the color of fresh honey.
He knew that. But standing on a narrow metal landing, soaked to the skin with Johnny Cash in the background, it seemed worth the risk.
“I had something else in mind,” Tag said thickly as he leaned in. He scruffed the back of the other man’s neck, the prickle of fresh-cut hair against his fingertips, and pulled him into a kiss. Heat crawled under his skin, an eager rush of lust that arrowed down to jostle his already hard cock. The lush mouth curled into a smirk under his.
“Good,” the blond muttered around Tag’s tongue. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Tag’s trousers and tugged him through the door. “Cause I’ve got fuck all to wear.”
