“Fuck off,” he said. “I don’t sleep with cops.”
Mac glared at him. “And I don’t sleep with ex-cons. So we’re even. It’s just until I sort something else out.”
“Yeah? Well, sort it out tonight,” Morgan snapped. “Because I’m not staying here.”
“It’s here,” Mac said. “Or a bed in the cells. Your choice.”
And it should have been an easy one. The mattress was thin, but the pillows were fluffy, and the quilt was clean. Morgan had slept worse places. That was the problem. His spineitchedfrom the nape of his neck to the small of his back at being in the room. The window was small and looked like it was painted shut, so no easy exit there. All Mac had to do was close the door, turn the lock, and Morgan would be back in jail—just a slightly nicer one.
Except there’d be no oversight. No halfhearted welfare check from the bored cop on duty. Just him, a locked door, and some old dick on the other side of it with the key.
Fuck that. He’d rather be back in jail.
“Cells, then,” he said flatly. “And good luck with keepingthatquiet.”
Mac scowled at him. “You’re picky for a man with no options,” he said. “Did you forget I saw what your place looked like? One room with a shit lock and an ice chest in the corner. I won’t even be here most of the time. It’s this thing called a job.”
“Not fucking staying here,” Morgan repeated. He hitched his carryall up onto his shoulder and shot Mac a flat, determined look. “So sort something out.”
A muscle jumped in Mac’s cheek. He rubbed it with his thumb and breathed out through clenched teeth.
“There’s no room’s available in the Motel 6,” he said. “And the local B and Bs are booked up too. What do you want me to do?”
“Move to a town that’s got more than one hotel?” Morgan said. He felt a flicker of satisfaction when the muscle in Mac’s cheek jerked again under the tanned skin. “I don’t care where I sleep. As long as it’s not here.”
There was a taut pause. To his credit, Mac didn’t throw a punch, although Morgan was pretty sure that was one of the options. He liked his odds. The old guy looked like he had some muscle under that T-shirt, but Morgan had twenty years and half a foot on him.
“I’ll see if I can call in a chit and get someone to put you up until tomorrow,” Mac said. “But I’ll have a patrol car outside to make sure you stay put. Not optional.”
Morgan just smirked. He’d dodged enough cops on stakeouts over the years that he didn’t think that would slow him down if he did decide to run. It wasn’t like it was in films, with eagle-eyed cops alert for every unidentified fart. Unless someone had screwed up enough to get the feds involved, most stakeouts were just some bored cop in a hot car more worried about his next toilet break than he was about Morgan.
“Whatever helps you sleep until your 1:00 a.m. piss,” he said.
Mac snorted, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and stalked out into the hall to find a spare room. Left to himself, finally, Morgan dropped his carryall onto the floor and sat down on the edge of the bare mattress. The springs creaked under his weight, and the smell of Febreze squeezed out of the fabric.
It wasn’t doing him any favors being a dick. He knew that. This get-out-of-jail card was going to expire soon, and he needed Mac to drop his guard by then. Morgan didn’t intend to face the music for Lo’s nose, and he had nothing in Huntington. None of that meant Morgan was going to stop his jabs at Mac, whether it was a good idea or not.
His back had been up since this whole thing started, and then they got on the plane, and Morgan realized that Boyd wasn’t there. It was stupid, but it felt like he and Boyd were in the same boat somehow, both of them jerked around by some idiot tech’s forensic fail.
It was stupid to depend on anyone—Morgan had learned that lesson years ago—but he’d still feel better with Boyd there. If nothing else, the guy had the worst poker face Morgan had ever seen. Every emotion flashed across it like subtitles. So if Mac did intend to frame Morgan for something here, he’d at least get some warning.
AndmaybeBoyd was the hottest nerd Morgan had ever met, with his pretty whiskey eyes and sharp cheekbones. Not Morgan’s usual type, although to be fair, his “type” was mostly “there” and “up for it,” but never let it be said that he wouldn’t try something new. Besides, Boyd was fifteen grand in the hole already. The least Morgan could do was show the guy a little gratitude.
Sure,Morgan snorted at himself in disgust,I wanna fuck him for charity.
He leaned his elbows on his knees for a moment and picked at his nails as he listened to Mac argue with some B and B owner about a late-booked room. It didn’t sound like he was going to win.
Morgan pushed himself off the bed and went to lean against the door instead. He waited for Mac to growl and hang up, or be hung up on, in disgust.
“What about Boyd?” he said.
Mac flashed him a hard look. “What about him?”
“He got a couch?”
“No.” He turned back to his phone as he flipped through the contacts, thumb hovering over one or the other as he scowled.
“A floor?”
