Tancredi shrugged. “Iron the details out with her if you take it,” she said. “You might see the neighborhood and decide you’d rather stick with the Super 8.”
Tag scoffed at her. She’d obviously never spent the night there. It didn’t have local color going for it, just toenails under the bed and a vague, greasy film on the shower curtain.
TWO DAYSlater he got off the bus at the end of the street and wondered if she maybe had a point. A big brindle mastiff barked furiously from behind a not particularly sturdy picket fence, and there was a row of battered cars in various states of rust squeezed into the yard next door.
To be fair, it was probably a step up from the motel, and no one had thrown piss or warm water out of a window at him yet, so definitely better than his old apartment. Besides, he’d promised Tancredi’s mother he wouldn’t judge until he saw it, and in return, she agreed to let him pay his own utilities.
Apparently doctors who saved babies from biker gangs played well in the news. He must have looked less petrified and sick to his stomach than he felt in the news footage.
Faded chalk sketches were scrawled over the pavement. Whatever the powder had originally depicted had been scuffed underfoot until they were just pastel rainbow hues. Some of the houses had their windows papered over with scraps from local papers, newsprint pressed against the glass.
Tag checked his phone again for the address.
Number 82, Tancredi’s email informed him, between the blue house and the one with a yellow truck. The truck didn’t seem like a good choice of landmark since it could be driven away, but then he reached it. The pickup was propped up on blocks, the bed full of bundles of shrink-wrapped clothes.
Tag grimaced and almost turned around, but then he saw the house itself. The yard was just bare dirt and a concrete path, but the house was freshly painted white with a glossy blue door and oversized windows that were so clean they actually sparkled in the sunlight.
Okay. He could see why Tancredi’s mother wanted him to see the house before he made a decision. He unhitched the gate, pushed it open, and headed up to the door. Tancredi said she’d have someone meet him here.
He knocked the door, and it swung open onto… nothing. The inside of the house was just bare walls and concrete floors. When Tag looked up, he could see the liner on the underside of the roof. Truncated pipes and wires jutted out of the walls, capped and looped together with wire, and the air smelled of dust and adhesive.
“What the hell?” Tag muttered. He started to text Tancredi but stalled when it came to what had actually happened. What was he supposed to say? That the house had been burgled? No, not the furniture. The actual house.
He stepped inside to have a look around. There wasn’t much to see, but…. The door closed behind him with a sharp noise that made him jump and turn around. The panic that throbbed against his ears meant it took a moment for Tag to register that it wasn’t one of the Brothers who’d trapped him.
Or it was, but… one he wanted to see.
“Bass,” he said. Then he corrected himself. “Nico.”
It didn’t feel right.
Slouched against the door, hands in his pockets, Bass crooked up the corner of his mouth in a grin.
“I wanted you to see it when it was done,” he said. “But apparently it’s going to take weeks, and you know I’m not into delayed gratification.”
Tag stared at him. Part of him had expected Bass to look different, to carry himself like a cop instead of a seedy asshole. Based on first impressions, though, the only thing that had changed was that he’d swapped his motorcycle boots for black chucks.
“You….”
Liar. Asshole. Manipulator. There were a lot of things Tag had called Bass in the two weeks since Merlo bundled him out of the SUV and they both disappeared. He’d come up with nearly as many questions—like what had been real and what had been part of the act.
Now he had his chance to say what he wanted.
Or… not.
Tag crossed the space between them in two long strides, pushed Bass back against the door, and kissed him. He buried his good fingers in Bass’s curls and hungrily drank down the taste of him. Tongues tangled and teeth scraped over lips in rough, eager bites.
Bass gripped his hips and pulled him closer, until Tag’s body pressed against long, lean muscle and bone. It didn’t feel any different from when Bass was a criminal. Maybe there wasn’t so much difference.
After a long, heady minute, Bass pulled back. He tilted his head against the door and gave Tag a curious look. The cut on his head had scabbed over and been picked off, but a tender swipe of pink scar tissue ran down from his curls to his eyebrow.
“Not going to deny I hoped we’d get around to this,” Bass admitted. “But I didn’t think it would be this easy.”
Tag leaned in and rested his forehead against Bass’s, breath mixed and warm between their lips. “Neither did I,” he admitted. “You lied to me.”
“I did.”
“You were a cop,” Tag pointed out as he traced the curve of Bass’s mouth with soft, openmouthed kisses. “There’s no way you should have called me to operate on Sonny that night. No way you should have gotten me involved.”
