“I think he’s nice to look at, yeah,” Sullivan replied, brow creasing. “But so are lots of people. It’s not going to change my life. Are we really having this conversation right now?”
“No.” He ignored the warmth in his chest currently competing with his disgust at what he was witnessing, instead refocusing on the kitchen, where Spratt was talking, gesturing with one hand, and Ghost was listening and watching, his expression attentive but somehow dull at the same time.
“Could be consensual,” Sullivan said, though he didn’t sound like he believed it. “The sex slave thing—it’s not an uncommon fantasy for Doms, but there’s usually more, well, sex, in the whole sex slave thing. Or at least lust.”
“Handcuffs take it a little far, but I agree about that last part,” Tobias said, because there was no discernible chemistry between the two men in the kitchen. Weirdly so, considering one of them was an attractive hustler who looked like he’d just crawled out of a client’s bed.
For the next hour, as Spratt cooked and Ghost sat at the counter watching, their conversation ebbed and flowed like that of any other couple making dinner, but the body language continued to be off. Tobias couldn’t put his finger on it, exactly, but something niggled.
“Something’s wrong,” he said.
“He doesn’t look injured.” Sullivan took a couple pictures. “Stop making that face. I thought they might be torturing him or something, and when Ghost came upstairs like that, I was worried we were in for some pretty fucked-up shit too, but they’ve been perfectly civil. The restraints seem to be preventative, not punitive. Doesn’t look like Spratt’s even touching him. I’m less worried than I was, honestly.”
“No, something’s wrong.”
Sullivan sighed, but Tobias grabbed his arm. “I know him. Something is wrong.”
Sullivan studied him in the yellow glare of the sodium lamp beside the car. “Can you explain it?”
Tobias avoided his gaze in favor of watching Ghost carefully. It took a while, but he finally realized what it was. Ghost wasn’t playing.
Ghost was always playing. He was always aware of what the people around him expected, and he reinforced it with every breath. Even with Church and—he forced himself to be honest—Tobias, Ghost was pretending. He was playing the role of friend. Tobias was never certain how much of that role drew from real life, but he couldn’t pretend anymore that it wasn’t a performance.
Perhaps the better way to say it was that Ghost was always acting. He was constantly in flux. Ghost was a verb, always, and sitting like a dull lump in Spratt’s house, he looked very much like an object.
Tobias didn’t say that though. It might feel true, but it would only sound stupid. Instead, he said, “I know all the different people he can be, but he isn’t being anybody he’s ever been—he’s...he’s blank. Ghost is never blank. He’s always got something working. I can’t make it sound right.”
“Maybe this is who he really is,” Sullivan said, but more doubtfully. “Maybe this is what he’s like when he drops all the bullshit.”
Tobias tried to keep his tone even rather than frustrated when he said, “Sure, his friends for years get the act, but a cop he’s known for ten minutes who tied him up in the basement gets the real thing?”
Sullivan’s lips twisted wryly. “Fair enough.”
“And he’s not here willingly or there’d be no need for handcuffs. No. Something is really wrong. This isn’t him playing Spratt.”
Sullivan’s shoulders tightened. “Okay. I believe you.”
Tobias squeezed back, the air in his throat catching. “Thank you.”
Sullivan’s fingers tapped on the steering wheel in an erratic pattern for the next twenty minutes as Tobias watched Spratt and Ghost through the binoculars.
“A cop is going to have motion lights in his backyard,” Sullivan said finally.
“Probably.”
“He definitely has an alarm system. Whatever we do, it’ll have to be fast. And quiet. We don’t want any well-meaning neighbors calling the cops either.”
“What do we do?”
“We do what any good PI does.” Sullivan gave him a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We snoop.”
* * *
Apparently snooping consisted of a much smaller camera in Sullivan’s pocket taking the place of the Mark III, a couple of enormous bottles of cheap malt liquor that Sullivan called 40s ineffectually hidden in brown paper bags, and a long amble down the alley behind Spratt’s townhouse.
Where Sullivan waved his arms in a parody of drunkenness and purposely set off the motion light before setting his bottle down.
“Here.” Sullivan lounged against the nearest fence and pulled out a new pack of Marlboros. He tapped the box against the heel of his hand several times, then tore it open and took two out.
“You don’t have to inhale, but at least pretend to,” Sullivan said quietly, lighting one and passing it over. “And we’re thinking deep, drunken, middle-of-the-night guy thoughts, so get expansive.”
Tobias figured that meant it was his job to keep the motion light on. So he pretended to smoke, which was ugh, disgusting, why did anyone do this—
“Oh, God,” Sullivan groaned, sounding downright pornographic, and Tobias’s whole body tightened before he realized Sullivan was reacting to the cigarette.
“This is a side of you I haven’t seen before,” Tobias said, equal parts repulsed and amused. “Where’s your nicotine gum? Did you leave it in the car?”
“That stuff is horrible. It tastes like an ashtray.”
Tobias brandished his cigarette, which was on the verge of going out because he wasn’t smoking it. “This tastes like an ashtray.”
Sullivan was unbothered. He only tipped his head back, blowing several smoke rings that floated into the night, pale gray in the sharp light from the fixture above Spratt’s back door.
Faintly, Tobias heard the click of the camera working.
“Take a drink,” Sullivan offered.
“Isn’t this illegal? An open container or something?”
“Yup. But if anyone asks, they’re Slurpees.”
Tobias made a face. No one in their right mind would believe they were drinking Slurpees, but Sullivan was too busy reuniting with his lost love to care.
“I really hope
