Declination, Page 3

  With a final, furious sputter, the puppy shook his head and let the shoe fly. He backed away, still growling.

  “Come.”

  The puppy whimpered and dropped his head.

  “Right now, mister.”

  Slinking, the dog approached North from the side.

  With an irritated huff, North grabbed the Löwchen and cradled him against his chest. He kicked the shoe toward Pari.

  “It took Botticelli fifteen years to find the right shade—”

  “Don’t buy such fucking expensive shoes.”

  “That’s not really fair,” Shaw said. “Your dog is the one who—”

  “Pick up your shit, and he wouldn’t have gotten your fucking sandal.”

  Shaw and Pari exchanged a look.

  “No,” North said. “Don’t do that.” He stabbed a finger at Pari. “I hate dogs.” He stabbed at Shaw. “I fucking hate them.” Then he stood there, chest heaving, stroking the Löwchen’s head and letting the dog lick his hand.

  Sighing, Shaw just said, “Yeah. I can tell.” Then he unlocked the inner office and went inside.

  Their desks could have been a study in opposites: North’s held only a single banker’s lamp, the base neatly positioned in one corner. The rest of the surface was immaculate—not even any dust, as far as Shaw could tell. Shaw’s desk, on the other hand, was covered in junk: an empty box of Lorna Doones, the waxed paper from a block of penuche fudge, fourteen volumes of American Soap Operas: An Encyclopedic History, what Shaw thought might have once been a fur muff but, he thought he remembered vaguely, had been sewn into a pillow at some point, and stacks and stacks of case files.

  North sat at his desk, petted the dog for another moment, and then set him on the ground after shaking a few biscuits into a tray. Shaw flopped down at the other desk, starting a mini-cascade of manila folders. One of them hit the floor, spilling a spray of glossy photographs.

  “Shit,” Shaw said, dropping to his knees and scooping up the prints.

  He wasn’t fast enough. North bent, caught one between his fingers, and held it up to the light. “Are these headshots?”

  “No, they’re for a case.”

  “No, they’re headshots. Are you trying to be an actor?”

  “God, no. They’re just, um.” Shaw made a grab at the photograph in North’s hand, but North pulled it out of reach.

  “You look like a baby in this.”

  “It’s just the lighting.”

  “No, you look like you did when we started school. Jesus, you look so innocent. Are you wearing a sari?”

  “No, it’s not—will you give me that?” He snagged the photograph and stuffed it in an envelope.

  “I didn’t know you wanted to be an actor.”

  “I didn’t want to be an actor.”

  “You got headshots.”

  “Everybody got headshots in the 2000s.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You were too busy welding Quonset huts or something like that.” Shaw shoved the rest of the pictures into the envelope and stuffed it in a drawer. Then, after a look at North, he produced a key and locked the drawer. “Anyway, I found them because I was looking through some old boxes for a replacement pair of Birkenstocks, and . . . I don’t know.”

  “Can I see them again?”

  Shaw felt his face heat. “No.”

  “You’re really cute.”

  “Stop being dumb.”

  “You’re always really cute, but there’s something about eighteen-year-old Shaw that’s . . . kind of driving me crazy right now. Maybe it’s the sari.”

  “I knew you’d make fun.”

  “One more peek.”

  “No.”

  “Please?” North drew the word out, and the note of begging in his deep, smoldering voice started something turning low in Shaw’s gut.

  Then the dog yipped.

  “No,” Shaw said. “I’ve got to type up the invoice for Dzeko. And you’ve got to get a proposal ready for tomorrow in case Washington Strategic says yes. We’re not letting them slip away; we need that business.”

  North raised his hands in surrender; Shaw took out his MacBook.

  The dog yipped again.

  “Can’t you take him home?”

  “He’s not my dog, Shaw. He’s just staying at my place because you pretended to go into anaphylactic shock when that guy left him here.”

  “I wasn’t pretending. My throat was closing up.”

  The dog yapped this time.

  “See?” North said. “Even he knows you’re full of it.”

  For the next quarter hour, Shaw managed to make some progress on the invoice, toting up hours and expenses (not much, in this case, aside from mileage) for their pursuit of Patrick Monaghan, who now went by Truck. But as Shaw typed and added and calculated and typed some more, his brain moved backward, drifting along sunlight and peeling laminate and the smell of lavender floor wax until he was staring at Jadon Reck, whose life had been turned upside down because he’d been stupid enough to care about Shaw.

  Standing there, outside the Circuit Attorney’s office, with the fluorescents and the sunlight competing and spilling a grayed-out fan of shadows, Shaw had glimpsed how much his mistake had cost Jadon. The hollow cheeks, the dark pouches under his eyes, the slight whiff of body odor, the mess of sandy hair—they were all signs that, two months before, Jadon Reck’s life had slipped the rails.

  The clatter of ceramic filled the room as the dog pushed its bowl of biscuits across the floor. Shaw blinked, trying to drag himself out of the memory, but its grip was too strong. Slipped the rails wasn’t really correct anyway, because Jadon hadn’t slipped; he’d been knocked off the rails. He’d been doing just fine until he got tangled up with Shaw, and when Shaw had pressed his investigation into the West End Slasher too far, Jadon had paid the price. Shaw could still remember the blaze of July heat, the metallic smell of blood, the sudden, dizzying fear that another blackout might take him as he stared at the razor cuts on Jadon’s chest. He’s next.

  And that threat had meant North; North was next. That was the message, the warning: if Shaw continued to search for the West End Slasher—the real one, not the patsy who had been murdered in prison—then North would be the one to pay for it. And the worst part of it, the part that made Shaw toss, feverish and sweating, in the small hours of the morning, was that Shaw thought he knew who was behind all of it. A cabal of dirty cops was working to hide the real Slasher; they had been the ones to send that warning. Even though Jadon couldn’t identify his attackers, even though there was no proof, Shaw knew.

  Warm hands on Shaw’s neck startled him, and he twisted, half-rising, his heart pounding in his chest. North stood behind him, his callused fingers tracing Shaw’s collarbone, the lines of his throat, his chest. “Where’d you go?” he asked in that fire-hot rumble of a voice.

  “I was just working on this invoice.”

  “You’ve been staring off into space for fifteen minutes.”

  “I got distracted.”

  North’s hand drifted lower, flat on Shaw’s chest like a brand, pressing him into the seat. The familiar smell of leather and Irish Spring floated in an invisible cloud. “I think Jadon’s right. You’re too thin. And you’re . . . you’re worrying too much. I don’t like what it’s doing to you.”

  Shaw shook his head. “Do you think Jadon—do you think he hates me for what happened?”

  North’s hand tightened into a fist, gathering the fabric of Shaw’s shirt, but that slow rumble stayed the same. “Why does it matter if he hates you?”

  “Blames me, I guess. I don’t know. I just don’t like the idea of someone being hurt because of me.”

  North’s hand slid lower; he was bending over Shaw now, his mouth tracing Shaw’s hairline, kissing along his temple, lapping at Shaw’s ear. The hand settled on that sensitive spot just below Shaw’s belly, just above where Shaw really wanted North to touch him, a
nd North’s fingers curled and pressed, light pressure, just enough for Shaw’s breath to catch in his throat and for him to hear himself, the thin whine of his panting.

  “Why don’t we do something that’ll help you take your mind off Jadon Reck?”

  “North, I—” Shaw gulped, trying to focus his words. North’s fingers dug deeper, and now the thin whine in Shaw’s breathing became ragged, louder. “North, stop. We’re . . . we’re in the office. We’re . . . Pari can . . . people could hear us.”

  Drawing back a few strands of hair that had slipped loose, North mouthed along Shaw’s neck, lingering to suckle and bite where Shaw’s neck joined his shoulder, raising what Shaw guessed would be one hell of a hickey.

  “North.” Just that one word, just his name, but it felt like it took Shaw an hour to say it, felt like it was the only sound left in Shaw’s world and it stretched a mile long.

  “Yeah,” North whispered in that rough, whiskey-fire voice. “Again.”

  “North.”

  His fingers pressed again, low, that maddening pressure that wasn’t quite enough. “Again.”

  “North.”

  “That’s right. Say my fucking name. My name. Say it.”

  “Oh fuck.” North’s fingers dug under Shaw’s waistband; the pressure was spiking now, the sensation overwhelming, North’s fingers slipping lower under the elastic, through the dense, reddish-brown fur. “Oh fuck.” His fingers kept moving. “Oh fuck.”

  “Say it, baby. Right fucking now. When I tell you to. Say it.”

  “North.” Shaw could hear himself, the hysterical need in his voice, and couldn’t even bring himself to care.

  “Good boy,” North said with a soft laugh, nuzzling aside Shaw’s shirt and kissing his shoulder. “Now, up. We’re going upstairs.”

  “But Pari’s out there. She can—she’s out there, North. Right there.”

  “Well, if you weren’t so fucking loud, we wouldn’t have to go upstairs, would we?”

  “But you . . . but you’re the one who . . .”

  “Right now.”

  Shaw’s face was on fire as he fumbled with the door. Damp cotton clung to his thighs, and he tugged his shirt straight as he scurried past Pari’s desk. She had a complete cheese platter laid out in front of her, as well as figs and honey and several sliced apples, and she was trimming the rinds from the cheeses and dropping the refuse into one of her desk drawers. One of her eyebrows shot up when she saw Shaw; her bindi was the color of chlorophyll today.

  “Don’t say anything,” Shaw said, hating how breathless he sounded as he sprinted past her. “You’re going to get fired if you say anything.”

  But even as he darted into the relative safety of the kitchen, Shaw heard Pari say, “You’re going to take care of him, right? Because that boy needs it.”

  “You’re fired,” Shaw shouted back at her.

  “Maybe bend him over the couch,” Pari suggested as North’s heavy footsteps came after Shaw. “He got really loud last time you did that.”

  “You’re absolutely, totally, irremediably fired,” Shaw called as he took the stairs up to the rooms he kept above the offices.

  North came more slowly, laughing.

  In the bedroom, Shaw took in the normal disorder with only a glance: an enormous stuffed ostrich took up one corner—the man selling it had been vague about provenance, but Shaw had been reading about large, flightless birds, and it seemed like a good deal—and a pile of books on seventeenth-century American witchcraft was holding up the tea service Shaw had inherited from his grandmother. The bed was a mess, as usual, with the sheets balled up at the foot of the bed. The standing mirror gave back the image of a red-faced, flustered, and painfully aroused man. Shaw ignored the poor bastard in the mirror and shucked his clothes.

  He had barely finished kicking away the briefs when North reached the top of the stairs. North locked gazes with him, eyes so intense with desire that Shaw’s skin pebbled, and he felt himself shaking as he waited. North’s steps were even. North’s steps were slow.

  “Hurry up,” Shaw said.

  North’s expression didn’t change. North’s pace didn’t change.

  “You’re a tease,” Shaw said. “Quit teasing.”

  North just kept coming. When he reached Shaw, he planted a hand on his chest again and pushed. No words. Just a shove hard enough to land Shaw on his back on the bed, bouncing slightly as the mattress gave under him.

  Shaw’s breath came faster, louder, shrilling like a train whistle. His skin was too small, prickling now, as though Shaw’s desire was so great it might actually make him burst. Pleasure was building inside Shaw’s skull, and fear too. There was still always fear.

  North’s hand took Shaw’s knees, forcing them apart, the movement violent in its abruptness. The resolve on North’s face was melting; lust seeped through, spilling like wine across his fair cheeks, highlighting the clean lines of his beauty. “I like you like this,” he said in that guttural, honeyed voice. A tingle of the old fear ran through Shaw’s chest now; he tried to ignore it. “I like you waiting for me. Because you’re mine.” He didn’t bother undressing; he just loosened his belt, worked his fly, and hauled Shaw forward by the ankles.

  Something was wrong, though. This time, fear tipped the scales. Shaw felt cold now, as though he’d fallen ass-backward into snow, extinguishing the flame of pleasure. North’s hands felt rough, unfamiliar, intrusive, and Shaw gasped and felt his body contorting, twisting away. North grabbed him, dragging him back, opening him.

  Shaw thought about what Dr. Farr had said. The need to talk about what he was feeling with North. The need for those stupid exercises.

  But Dr. Farr was wrong. She thought this was about Shaw and North, but Shaw and North were perfect. Shaw and North, together, didn’t have anything wrong. It was just Shaw, all by himself, who was so messed up.

  “You’re wild,” North whispered, straddling him, his cotton tee so rough on Shaw’s overly sensitive body that Shaw let out a gasp. North’s hands took him over again. “You’re so fucking wild today.”

  The white in Shaw’s brain trailed down, a flare dropping into darkness. Vulnerable. Shaw remembered what it was like to be vulnerable. He remembered the Slasher’s hand around his throat, the accelerating collapse of the universe as Shaw’s mind shut down, the darkness crashing over him. Vulnerable.

  “Hold on,” Shaw said.

  North’s fingers stilled between Shaw’s legs. His mouth paused on Shaw’s chest.

  “Hold on,” Shaw said again, his voice even more ragged.

  North looked up. The ice-blue of his eyes was darker with his pupils dilated. “Come on,” North said, nuzzling at Shaw’s jaw. “Let me take care of you. Let me help you stop worrying for a while.” His hand slipped up between Shaw’s legs. “Babe, what’s going on? Did I do something wrong?”

  Closing his eyes, Shaw rolled his head to the side, closing his eyes. “No. No, it’s great. I just . . . I’m not feeling well.”

  “You’re not feeling well?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shaw, what the fuck? Hey. I’m talking to you.” North’s hand tipped Shaw’s head back the other direction, and even with his eyes closed, Shaw could sense the heat of North’s body, his fresh sweat mingling with soap and catalogue-boy hair product. “Knock, knock,” North said, rapping lightly on Shaw’s forehead.

  Shaw allowed himself a count of three: three safe heartbeats he was alone in the darkness. And then he opened his eyes.

  “Hi,” North said.

  “Hi.”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “I know I was a little rough. If I hurt you—”

  “God, no. It was great. It is great.”

  “You are a shitty liar.” North scooted closer; his hand settled on Shaw’s stomach, not sexual this time, just
contact. “Do you want me to get naked?”

  “What?”

  “Does it freak you out that I’m still dressed?”

  “No. North, come on, it wasn’t—”

  “Because I will get naked for you any time, any place. You just say the word.”

  “Like a Disney prince.”

  “Damn right.” His eyes were still serious, though. “Shaw, if you’re not feeling well, you never have to play along. I mean, I want you. Bad. But I want you bad all the time. And I thought you were into it; you were, I don’t know, reacting.” For some reason North blushed now, as though he hadn’t just teased Shaw to the point of insanity, with Pari just downstairs. “If it’s something about me, like you want me to shower first or, Christ, I don’t know, you just have to tell me.”

  Shaw closed his eyes again; he didn’t want to, but he was so tired. Physically, yes. But the real exhaustion was in his bones, and it went back seven years to the Slasher’s attack when Shaw had learned what it felt like to be vulnerable, when he had learned that he was weak, and it had cost Carl, his first boyfriend, his life. “No,” he said, the word like snakeskin in his mouth. “It’s not you.”

  North’s touch shifted restlessly on Shaw’s stomach for a few moments, and then he said, “Well if it’s not me—” And then he stopped, and the mattress creaked as he dropped onto it, his shoulder against Shaw’s, both of them lying there.

  Shaw scrambled for something to say. Anything. The first thing to pop into his head. “Do you think I should talk to Jadon?”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “What?”

  “Were you thinking about him?”

  “No. North, Jesus, no. It’s not—I would never do that.”

  Silence.

  Shaw raised his head. North’s eyes, the blue of fresh snowfall, stared fixedly at the ceiling.

  “North, I promise, that’s not what—”

  “I heard you.”

  Shaw dropped his head, and after that, neither of them moved. The afternoon faded into evening, and the last of the summer sun bathed the room in gold.

  “Let’s try again,” North said, tugging the hem of his t-shirt up to expose the dense muscles of his chest. “You drive. I think you do better when you drive.”