Page 55 of By Any Means

Laurie leaned in on an elbow. Close. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you killed those men. I haven’t thought that since you collapsed into my arms.” Chary’s eyes widened. His pupils were black and huge. “I do think you’re hiding something.” Like a brother. “You might have a good reason, though.” One could hope.

Chary lifted his chin, looking down over his nose. The pretty flush was back. “I wish I could be honest with you. I do wish I could. But…”

Laurie kept some distance. Not much. He waited.

“But you can’t, because I’m a journalist.”

“Yes,” Chary whispered.

Laurie scooched closer. Still reclined, nonthreatening, inviting confidence. “Chary. Please trust me. You have my honesty now and going forward. The truth. You know who I am and what I write. I’m not going to sell your story, or August’s, I promise.”

Chary glared, the un-pomaded fall of blond hair and dark eyes the only things visible from over his shoulder. The Fallen Angel—unsure and betrayed, frowning terribly, utterly stunning in his vulnerability.

“If you did want to tell me something, to unburden yourself,” Laurie said, “whatever you tell me, I won’t do anything with it without your permission. I swear it. I just want to get to the bottom of these deaths. I need your help. I need to see all of it clearly.”

They were very close. Did Chary know that all he had to do was twist a little, put down a hand, and he’d be there with Laurie, mouth and hands and hips looming?

“Why’d you let me stay here,” Laurie whispered, “play your lover and tend you, if you don’t trust me?”

“Who says I trust you?”

Laurie waited through three unstable, mirrored breaths. “Don’t you?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Herbert and his Stetson were closer now, pacing the rows. Close enough to get a pretty good eyeful of both of them. Perfect.

He touched Chary’s shoulder.

“Here. I changed my mind. I think you should kiss me. Right now. In front of your bigot foreman.”

“What?” Chary’s body opened up to him at last in surprise, twisting to face him. He swallowed visibly again, eyes wide and locked on Laurie’s. “Whatever for? Right now? You would go so far as that?”

Laurie remained reclined on elbows. Chary could flatten him if he wanted—or not.

“Yeah,” Laurie said roughly. He would, and farther. He’d already imagined it, on the train, in the rooming house—last night. This morning. Chary displacing his limbs, Chary’s taut, sinewy chest meeting his tongue. Laurie’s knees pushed far up, held against the sweet curve beneath Chary’s ribs. He’d never been with a man as tall as him. There’d be a lot of accommodation, repositioning. Nothing the same way twice, like his expressions.

“Why not?”

“It sounds dangerous,” Chary said. He leaned in anyway.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Laurie promised. “I’ve done more dangerous things than this.”

“This is your modus operandi. You only want me to trust you. Tell you everything. It won’t work.”

Liar. Of course it would work. “So what? C’mon,” Laurie said. “Just quickly. Or come close enough to feign it. Else what am I out here f⁠—”

Chary’s lips weren’t cold. They were sunburn-pink and warm, champagne-sweet. Trembling. Soft, then firm.

Laurie didn’t know where his breath had gone. He’d promised to keep his eyes open.

He heard Mr. Herbert’s steps in the sandy soil halt, heard the whoosh of rope drawn through gloves stop. A soft curse.

But Chary’s lips had been on his: there and gone. And were still close enough to feel their warmth.

“Not enough,” Laurie muttered. Truth in double meaning.

Chary paused, curled over him. His eyes were wide. “No.” He shook his head. “He hasn’t run,” he whispered. “Staring.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Laurie could see Mr. Herbert was indeed staring. But kissing wasn’t evidence—as long as neither of their mouths went lower—he didn’t know Maine jurisprudence, but sodomy was pretty much the same anywhere, pricks in holes⁠—