“Not enough to fucking torture that family any more,” he yelled, angry color flushed up ruddy over his cheeks. He pushed himself to his feet, shoved his chair back from the table by his thighs, and glared at Morgan. “You’re what pisses me off, Morgan. I actually thought you were being straight with me, but you’re just another con artist. More fool me.”
Morgan bolted to his feet as his temper washed hot and furious under his skin. He’d been fifteen minutes away from his get-out-of-jail-free card, ready to cruise out of town in a black-cherry muscle car and leave Shay to watch from the sidewalk for once. Instead he’d let Boyd get into his head. And now—
“You’re so worried about Sad Sammy, but I don’t deserve this shit either,” he snarled at Mac. “I’m going to get put inside because Lo came to sweep me up foryouto interview. And maybe my life wasn’t so great to you, but it was my fucking life.”
Mac grabbed him by the hoodie, fist twisted into the soft black fabric. “You think this is going to help? Do you really think that I’m going to keep you around now? After you played Donna Calloway like a goddamn fiddle? Lied to me? Wound Shay up? You’re going back to Huntington tonight, cop express, and this is on you.”
He roughly shoved Morgan away and jabbed a finger at his face to underline his threat. Morgan slapped it away. His lungs felt too stiff to breathe with, and his knuckles ached to be balled into a fist.
“Fuck off. If I’d lied, you would have lapped it up. My fuckup was that I told the truth,” he said. “Oh, and who do you think put Hill’s name on the block?”
Mac inhaled as he absorbed that. He looked disappointed but not surprised. He walked around the table, grabbed Morgan’s arm, and yanked.
“Sit your ass down,” he instructed. “You’re going back home before you cause any more trouble.”
Morgan slouched down, legs stretched in front of him, and crossed his arms. He wasn’t about to go back to Huntington, and he’d pick his time. There was a lot of distance between here and the airport. With any luck, he could at least see if he could get some cash off Fernfield before the judge learned his problem was already on the way out of town.
“Probably a relief to you, right?” he sneered. “If I were Sammy, people would definitely expect you to be able to close the case.”
Mac grabbed a pair of sneakers from the back door and pulled them on. “You don’t give a damn about any of this, do you, Morgan?” he asked. “You’ve hurt these people. And why? They don’t have anything. You think the Calloways didn’t have enough pain in their life? Or that a firefighter gets paid enough they can just piss away fifteen grand? I told Boyd to stay away, keep his distance, but the boy’s got too much heart. Maybe he’ll learn from this. Next time he’ll give it to someone who’s not an asshole.”
It was true—not all of it, but enough. Morgan scowled. He didn’t want to think about Boyd with some non-asshole. Happy. Better off. His cock in the mouth of someone who wasn’t fucked-up.
“Fuck you,” he said. “I could take Boyd forthirtygrand, and he’d come back for more. He loves me. He thinks Boyd’s short for boyfriend.”
That caught Morgan off guard. He’d just run his mouth on autopilot to undercut the sting, but that wasn’t what he expected to say. The idea of it made him good for a second, like a mouthful of warm honey on a sore throat, but then reality slapped him out of it.
“What’s Boyd short for?”jeered the mockery of a child’s smug singsong between his ears.“Boyfriend?”
It was an almost physical jolt, like two hard hands against his chest, and Morgan felt a sick wash of shame sluice over him. It almost didn’t feel like his. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that bad about anything, but then it washed away as quickly as it came.
Morgan shrugged off the moment. He didn’t know what that was about anyhow. It wasn’tnewsthat Boyd was too good for him. Even Boyd knew that, and Boyd love… liked him. Halfway to love was just a fancy way of saying like, really.
Mac ignored, or missed, that something had left Morgan shaken. He gave him a disgusted look. “You know, I was wrong. I’m glad you’re not Sammy. He deserved better than to grow up to be you. Come on. Get up. I’ll call the judge in Huntington from the station.”
He gestured impatiently for Morgan to get up. Morgan rubbed his hands down his thighs, wiped his sleeve over his mouth, and slouched out of the chair in his own time. Mac grabbed his arm, dug in his fingers, and tried to march him toward the door. He yanked him forward like a parent with a stubborn kid.
Morgan balked. The rye-sharp taste of anger cut through the egg and salt-meat taste of breakfast. It wasn’t helpful, but it never was.
“Get off me.” He yanked back his arm. “If I wanted you to touch me, I’d have told you.”
Mac hung on to his sleeve for a moment, fabric pulled taut, and then his phone rang urgently in his pocket. He glared at Morgan for a second but then scowled in frustration as he let go to reach for his phone instead.
“It’s my day off—” he started to protest. Whatever the person at the other end said, it shut him up. Their voice was sharp and spiky with concern, but too faint for Morgan to make out the details. Not that he cared, he reminded himself as he rubbed his arm.
Fuck this town.
“Shit,” Mac muttered. He ran his hand over his short-cropped hair and exhaled raggedly. “Are you sure? Right. Give me… shit, ten minutes. I’ll be there.”
He hung up and stuck his phone in his pocket. Then he grabbed his police bomber jacket from the hook by the door. A Cutter’s Gap Police badge was stitched onto both arms.
“Stay here,” Mac told Morgan as he zipped the jacket up over his T-shirt to his collarbone. “I’ll deal with you when I get back.”
“What happened?” Morgan asked. He supposed he cared enough to be nosy.
Mac hesitated for a second as he tugged his collar straight. “There’s a fire at Shay’s car shop,” he said. “They think he’s inside.”
A hollow pit opened in Morgan’s stomach where the anger had rooted. Nothing took its place, just that sinking, empty feeling.
