“Fine.”
We head through the police department, following the Exit signs. In a long hall past the bathroom, where a few officers are congregating, I turn to Miles and frown. “You know that guy? The lieutenant talking to you?”
“Rhett?” Miles asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Yeah. He’s an instructor at my police academy. Why?”
“Did you call him Rhett? You’re on a first-name basis with the man?”
“He said that’s what we should call him on the first day of class. Is something wrong?”
“I don’t like him.”
We exit out a side door into the police vehicle parking lot, and the predawn darkness is the only thing to greet us. It’s been a long night. All I want is to get home. We cross the lot and enter the visitor parking away from the crowds.
When it starts sprinkling, Miles jogs ahead and unlocks the car. I walk over to the passenger side and crank open the heavy door with a bit of effort. Our clunker came cheap, but that’s the only good thing you can say about it. It’s silver, with a black driver-side door, and it’s some foreign model of a two-door town car that I don’t recognize.
I miss my old vehicle—she served me well for years—but I had to leave everything behind when I “died.” I think I mourn the car most of all.
Miles starts up the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. The city of Joliet is quieter than Noimore, and I already feel sleep taking hold. Our radio has two stations: white noise and static. Instead I listen to the gentle patter of rain on the windshield.
“I thought you weren’t going to do this anymore,” Miles says, his gaze set to the road and his voice neutral.
“Sometimes PIs get into some shit. Comes with the territory.”
“Not gunfights. I never expected to get a phone call in the middle of the night and hear bullets whizzing by.”
I exhale and lean back. What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette. “It’s a job.”
“You know this isn’t like working for the mob, right? You don’t have to do whatever Shelby tells you to do. You can say no.”
I don’t answer.
What’s he trying to say? That I should act like a coward and duck out if a situation looks too hairy? Fighting guys is the one thing I know I’m good at. He shouldn’t fret so much.
“Listen,” he says with a sigh. “I was worried, okay? I’d prefer if stuff like this didn’t happen anymore. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I’m a grown-ass man, and I can take care of myself. I’ve done it for longer than you’ve been alive.”
He doesn’t say anything else after that. Probably for the best. What’re we even arguing about?
The drive continues in silence. When the dawn breaks, it cuts through the thin storm clouds and ends the drizzle. The peaceful streets of Joliet are quiet at this time of the day, and it honestly relaxes me. Despite having argued with Miles, knowing he’s in the car with me is a comfort. I don’t have much in this world besides him, literally and figuratively. He’s one of the few people who know who I am and who I trust.
Our home sits on the edge of town, in a small collection of one-story houses grouped together like a suburb but treated like a dump. Chain-link fences are the norm, abandoned houses are commonplace, and the sidewalk is cracked more than the broken windows. Some homes are pleasant—well-loved jewels in a pit of soot—but they’re the exception, not the rule.
Miles pulls the car into our slanted driveway and parks. I step out, walk over the brown grass of our lawn, and unlock the front door. He follows me in and locks the deadbolt after.
The pale morning light isn’t strong enough to pierce the thick curtains over the windows. Our place is dark. I like it that way. I like my business private, and I’d prefer not to see anyone else’s either.
Miles walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my midsection. He pulls me close and licks my neck—his erection painfully obvious through his sweatpants.
He nibbles my ear and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Pierce. I can’t stand the thought of losing you again.” He unbuttons my shirt and runs his hands along my stomach and chest, his hot breath accelerating with each passing moment.
“I’ve got your back,” I say, enjoying the feel of his desperation. “I’m not going to leave you because of some thugs in a rail yard.”
“Mind if I go to bed with you?” he whispers.
“Get in there and wait for me,” I command. “I’m going to take a shower first.”
“All right.”
He lets go of me and complies with my demand.
After the firefight in the rail yard, I would have killed to have Miles for a round of sexual escapades, but waiting three hours in a crowded police department put an end to that thrill ride fantasy like Travis put an end to Old Yeller. Miles, on the other hand, is still young and horny—he’ll be twenty-one next week—and I swear he’s never satisfied. After a hot shower, I should be good to go again.
I walk into the bathroom and shed my jacket and shirt. Once I click on the lights, I’m greeted with the dull, soul-crushing gray the room is decorated in. I swear it looks more like a prison cell. I’ve seen seedy motels with better accommodations.
I turn on the water in the shower stall and strip off the rest of my clothing. Right as everything gets lukewarm, I slide in and exhale, allowing the water to take away any excess stress. The heat does wonders for my sore body.
The shower stall clicks open and I flinch back, startled by Miles’s sudden appearance. He steps into the stream of water, unapologetically pressing up against me and pinning me to the tiled wall.
Jesus Christ. I forget how good-looking this kid is from time to time.
