Love Is Heartless E-Book

Kim Fielding

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 420

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

A Love Can't Novel Small but mighty—that could be Detective Nevin Ng's motto. Now a dedicated member of the Portland Police Bureau, he didn't let a tough start in life stop him from protecting those in need. He doesn't take crap from anyone, and he doesn't do relationships. Until he responds to the severe beating of a senior citizen and meets the victim's wealthy, bow-tied landlord. Property manager and developer Colin Westwood grew up with all the things Nevin never had, like plenty of money and a supportive, loving family. Too supportive, perhaps, since his childhood illness has left his parents unwilling to admit he's a strong, grown man. Colin does do relationships, but they never work out. Now he's thinking maybe he won't just go with the flow. Maybe it's time to try something more exciting. But being a witness to a terrible crime—or two—was more than he bargained for. Despite their differences, Colin and Nevin discover that the sparks fly when they're together. But sparks are short-lived, dampened by the advent of brutal crimes, and Colin and Nevin have seemingly little in common. The question is whether they have the heart to build something lasting.

Leseprobe

Love Is Heartless

By Kim Fielding

A Love Can’t Novel

Small but mighty—that could be Detective Nevin Ng’s motto. Now a dedicated member of the Portland Police Bureau, he didn’t let a tough start in life stop him from protecting those in need. He doesn’t take crap from anyone, and he doesn’t do relationships. Until he responds to the severe beating of a senior citizen and meets the victim’s wealthy, bow-tied landlord.

Property manager and developer Colin Westwood grew up with all the things Nevin never had, like plenty of money and a supportive, loving family. Too supportive, perhaps, since his childhood illness has left his parents unwilling to admit he’s a strong, grown man. Colin does do relationships, but they never work out. Now he’s thinking maybe he won’t just go with the flow. Maybe it’s time to try something more exciting. But being a witness to a terrible crime—or two—was more than he bargained for.

Despite their differences, Colin and Nevin discover that the sparks fly when they’re together. But sparks are short-lived, dampened by the advent of brutal crimes, and Colin and Nevin have seemingly little in common. The question is whether they have the heart to build something lasting.

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

More from Kim Fielding

Readers love Love Can’t Conquer by Kim Fielding

About the Author

By Kim Fielding

Visit Dreamspinner Press

Copyright

Thank you to the incomparable Amy Lane, who gave me part of the name of a certain punk band.

Prologue

September 1997

THE HANDCUFFS fucking hurt. That bitch of a cop could’ve used a zip tie, but she’d slapped cuffs on Nevin instead and ratcheted them tight enough to trap his small wrists. The knuckles of his right hand throbbed where they had connected with Prick’s face. Nevin kicked hard at the inside of the squad car, but he only managed to hurt his foot, so he settled into a deep scowl instead.

The cop kept him waiting as she took her sweet time talking to Nevin’s foster father. The guy’s name was Price, but Nevin called him Prick instead—because he was one. Like right now, Prick stood in his driveway with the sun glaring off his bald spot, and he waved his hands in what looked like a dramatic retelling of the afternoon’s events. Dramatic and full of fucking lies, no doubt.

Nevin Ng snarled as he watched. Prick’s nose had swelled, and drying blood splattered his polo shirt. That was good.

The cop finished her conversation with Prick and then spent a long time talking to someone on her radio. When she finally plopped down into the front seat of the squad car, she slammed the door and sighed. She didn’t say anything for such a long time that Nevin began to fidget.

“C’mon,” he finally growled. “Juvie’s waiting.”

She twisted around to look at him through the metal grille. “How old are you, Nevin?”

“Fifteen.” He looked younger. On the rare occasions he’d gone to a restaurant with any of his foster parents, the restaurant staff automatically handed him the children’s menu and crayons. He fucking hated that.

“Pretty soon you’ll be too old for juvie,” the cop said.

“So?”

“So what do you think is going to happen when a pretty little thing like you ends up in jail?”

He bared his teeth. “Any of those assholes come near me, I’ll rip their balls off.” He would, too. He could beat the shit out of guys twice his size.

The cop snorted a laugh. “You’re a tough little twerp, aren’t you?” Her expression softened a bit as she looked at him. “Tell you what. Let’s go get something to eat and have us a little chat.”

“You’re gonna give me a burger before hauling me in?”

“I was thinking something better than burgers. And if we have a good talk, maybe I won’t have to haul you in.”

Nevin narrowed his eyes. “You’re just saying that to keep me calm. I know Prick’s gonna press charges.”

“Prick—um, Mr. Price—has no choice in the matter. I decide whether to arrest you, not him. And if I do, someone in the juvenile unit at the DA’s office decides whether to file a petition.” She faced forward, put on her seat belt, and started the engine.

Nevin’s wrists still hurt, but now he had something else to think about while the car rumbled through traffic. He didn’t know if she was telling him the truth about pressing charges, and he had no idea what her angle might be. What the fuck did she want from him? He considered various possibilities, but nothing made sense.

The car turned onto Macadam, which surprised him. He’d expected her to take I-5 over the river into Northeast, where the juvenile facility was. Instead she pulled into a small strip mall and parked. Then she got out, opened his door, and looked down at him.

“If I take those cuffs off, will you behave?”

“I can’t eat with them on, lady.”

“Not unless I spoon-feed you like a baby bird. But I’m not that maternal. Okay, I’ll take them off, but I warn you—if you make a run for it, I will catch you. And then you’ll be eating your dinner at Donald E. Long instead.”

“They have shitty food.”

She grinned. “So don’t run.”

As she unlocked the cuffs, he considered taking off. But although he was fast, this cop had long legs and looked athletic. Besides, this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where he could easily hide. And he was hungry. He followed her across the lot.

The restaurant turned out to be a Mexican place with an emphasis on healthy foods, which was weird. But they had enchiladas, and the cop let him order chips and guacamole. He dug in as soon as his food arrived, but she held her spoon and looked at him over her plate of rice and beans.

“For a little guy, you can really chow down.”

He glared. “Look, lady—”

“Officer Pender to you, kid. Or ma’am.”

Nevin rolled his eyes before shoving another forkful of enchilada into his mouth. Officer Pender was pretty. Really old—at least thirty—but with smooth sepia skin and closely shorn black hair. Maybe he should drop the attitude and try for a little flirting instead. She might buy that, even if she was a cop.

But before he could turn on the charm, she pointed her spoon at him. “How come you decked Price?”

He smiled slightly, remembering the satisfying feel of his fist connecting with Prick’s nose. But when Officer Pender raised her eyebrows, he frowned. “You didn’t read me my rights.”

“That’s because you’re not in custody and I’m not interrogating you.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because I think Mr. Price lied to me.”

That surprised him, and he paused as he reached for his Coke. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“He told me he was trying to get you to do your homework, and instead you called him a name and punched him. But I gotta tell you, kid, my bullshit detector’s top-notch, and I think he’s full of it. Plus I talked to your social worker. She told me that you have problems with authority, but even when you get bumped around from school to school, you earn straight As.”

He shrugged. His classwork came easy to him. Maybe he enjoyed it because it was something to concentrate on besides his crappy life.

“So why did you hit him?” Officer Pender asked.

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

He pushed away his empty plate and crossed his arms. He knew the drill. He’d spill, but the only thing the cop would see was a runty kid who’d been in so many foster and group homes he couldn’t remember them all—an unwanted mutt who’d end up in prison soon enough. That’s what everyone else had seen when he tried to tell them about Prick. Officer Pender was going to take him to juvie—or somewhere else with locks on the doors—so Nevin’s days in the Price household were thankfully over. Which would have been just peachy, except it left Becka with Prick and nobody to look out for her.

Fuck. Nevin had to at least try.

“Prick has another foster kid,” he said. “Becka. She’s… dunno. Eleven or twelve, I guess. But she thinks more like a preschooler. She doesn’t even know her ABCs. She’s sweet, though.” She couldn’t pronounce Nevin’s name—she called him Nin instead—and she insisted he watch cartoons with her after school. In the mornings she’d hand him several plastic flower barrettes and wait patiently while he tackled the knots in her curly blonde hair.

Officer Pender’s warm brown eyes had gone icy. “What about her?”

“Prick is…. Becka told me he touched her. She doesn’t know the right words, so I don’t know exactly what he….” Nevin shook his head impatiently. “She didn’t like it. I know that much.”

“Did you report this to anyone?”

“I tried. I told my social worker. She said I was making shit up ’cause Prick’s too strict and I wanted another placement.” Nevin hadn’t expected that bitch to listen to him. A couple of years earlier, when another pearl of a foster father had taken to slapping him around, she hadn’t believed Nevin because he didn’t have bruises to show for it.

The officer’s mouth thinned. “So what did you do?”

“I tried talking to Mrs. Prick, but she wouldn’t even let me get the words out. That twat doesn’t care about anything but herself.”

“Watch the language. A young man’s gotta learn to respect women.”

“How’m I supposed to respect anyone who knows her husband’s a skeeze and does nothing about it? Anyway, when she shot me down, I told Prick that if he touched Becka again, I’d cut off his dick while he was sleeping. He tried to grab me and I belted him.”

“You hit him pretty hard.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Small but mighty.”

Unsure what to make of her reaction, Nevin slurped his Coke.

Officer Pender silently ate her meal, seemingly oblivious to the way he toyed with his straw and jiggled his legs. When she was finished, she wiped her lips on a paper napkin and gave him a piercing look. “You care about Becka.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“You’ve only known her a few months.”

“So?”

“Why defend her?”

He looked away. A few tables over, three women in their early twenties laughed as they sat down. They seemed so fucking happy. It wasn’t fair. Years ago, he used to dream of someday being happy too. He used to think that even if he didn’t land with a decent foster placement, at least someday he would grow up and create a loving family of his own. Now he knew better—and those kind of dreams were for dumbshits.

“She’s just a little kid,” Nevin said quietly. “I don’t know what the hell happened to her family, but nobody’s looking out for her.”

“Nobody but you.”

Nevin twitched his shoulders.

Officer Pender sat up straight and brushed an imaginary crumb from her uniform. If he had a nice uniform like that, he’d keep it clean too.

“You’re at a crossroads, Nevin Ng,” she said.

He glanced out the window toward the parking lot. “Huh?”

“Metaphorical. Look, life dealt you a shitty hand. That sucks. You can wallow in that shit until it covers you, kid. Until it becomes you. Then, I don’t care what a tough cookie you are, you’re going to end up rotting in prison or just plain dead.”

“So?” he demanded, his jaw clenched.

“So you don’t have to go that way, little man. If you’re such a badass, you can beat that shit. Rise above it. Instead of wasting your life, you can use it to help some of the Beckas of the world. Because there’s a lot of them, aren’t there? Believe me, I know.”

His throat was tight. “I can’t do nothing for nobody.”

“Bullshit. Today—right now—you can do something for yourself. That’s where you got to start. Won’t be so hard if some folks give you a hand. And I might know where to find those folks. And when you get a few more years on you—and maybe a few more inches—then you go out and save the world.” She grinned and polished her badge with the heel of her hand. “Cape and tights optional.”

Nevin glowered at her, but all she did was smile serenely back. And the damnedest thing happened—he looked at her and saw nothing but the truth. She believed that stuff she’d just told him. Maybe even… believed in him, just a little.

He leaned forward and sighed. “So who are these folks you’re talking about?”

Chapter One

June 2015

CLUTCHING A cardboard coffee cup, Nevin stood on the small porch and watched the rain. Welcome to June in Oregon. A uniformed officer cut across the tidy front lawn and clomped up the stairs. He would have gone tromping right inside if Nevin hadn’t stopped him with an upraised hand.

“Wipe your feet first, fuckwad.”

The guy opened his mouth as if to protest but then clearly thought better of it and carefully scraped his shoes on the doormat.

“You gorillas just about done in there?” Nevin asked.

The uniformed officers were used to the way Nevin addressed them. Hell, they could treat uniforms the same way if they ever managed to move up the ranks.

This one shook his head. “We’re gonna be a while.”

“Fuck. Well, send out the landlord. I want to chat with him.”

The landlord emerged a minute or two later, his denim-blue eyes wide in his pale face. He’d clearly been running his fingers through his hair, working the strands free of product and into a wavy, sand-colored tangle. He tugged at his polka-dot bow tie, which was a bit crooked. “You wanted to talk to me, Officer?”

“Detective. Nevin Ng. And yeah.”

“Colin Westwood.” The landlord held out a neatly manicured hand, which Nevin shook. Westwood’s palm felt clammy, a good match for his green-tinged pallor. He looked like the type who’d shriek if he found a spider in his bathtub, but Nevin had to give him at least some credit. According to the first officers on the scene, Westwood had waited until emergency personnel arrived before rushing outside to puke into the rhododendrons. It was good of him to tend to the victim and not foul the crime scene.

The porch was bare except for the mat and a pair of empty flowerpots, and Nevin was tired of standing. “Follow me.” He led the way down the sidewalk to his car.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Westwood smiled. “I didn’t realize the Portland Police Bureau got so creative with its cop cars.”

Nevin stroked the hood, disrupting some of the raindrops that glistened like jewels. “She’s all mine. A 1967 with a 400 V-8 and 335 horses under her hood.”

“It’s… purple.”

“Factory original color. Plum mist. Her name’s Julie.”

Westwood blinked. “Why Julie?”

“Name of the first girl I fucked. Get inside before we drown.” Nevin followed his own advice, slipping into the comfortable driver’s seat. He didn’t bother to tell Westwood that his previous car—a far less showy but perfectly serviceable ’08 Camaro—had been named Luis, the first boy Nevin had fucked.

After Westwood sat down in the passenger seat and closed the door, he stroked the wood-covered console between them. “Is the interior original too?”

“Some of it. The leather’s not a stock color, but I like charcoal gray. Most of the rest is restored or replaced to factory specs.”

“Wow. I, uh, don’t know anything about cars.”

That didn’t surprise Nevin. That soulless BMW parked in the driveway undoubtedly belonged to Colin. “I didn’t bring you in to talk about cars. Tell me what happened here today, Mr. Westwood.”

“Colin. And I already told—”

“Humor me.”

“Okay.” Colin gave a shaky sigh. “I was coming over to take a look at the toilet. Mrs. Ruskin called yesterday and said it was broken.”

“It took you a day to fix a little old lady’s toilet?”

Colin rolled his eyes. “It was in the guest bath—she has another. And anyway, she calls just about every week to get me to repair something. It’s never a big deal. Last week she said her window was broken, but it turned out the cord for the blinds was so tangled she couldn’t reach it. She’s really just looking for a little company.”

“No family?”

“A niece, but she’s in, um, Delaware.”

Nevin pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket, opened to a fresh page, and scribbled a few words. “Somebody’s going to have to notify the niece.”

“I already did. Mrs. Ruskin gave me her contact info years ago.”

“I’ll need that name and number.”

Colin patted his shirt pocket and then frowned. “Darn. I left my phone inside.” He reached for the car door, but Nevin grabbed his arm.

“Not yet,” Nevin said. “You can get it later. The niece is it?”

“Pretty much. Mrs. Ruskin has a few friends, but they’re all around her age. Most of them don’t drive anymore, so they don’t see each other much. I’ve been telling her she should consider moving into one of those assisted living places.”

“You want to get rid of her so you can jack the rent. Or tear the place down and cram in a couple of fucking town houses.”

Colin had one of those faces that broadcasted every emotion, and now he looked injured. “No. I thought she’d be less lonely. And safer.”

Nevin jumped on that immediately. “You knew she was in danger?”

“Not from… this.” Colin shuddered. “Just, at her age, she could fall or something.”

“Or something.”

In his lap, Colin’s hands squeezed together tightly enough to turn the knuckles white, and he gave Nevin a beseeching look. “Is she going to be okay, Detective Ng?”

Something inside Nevin softened at the man’s obvious distress. “Nevin. And I don’t know.” That stretched the truth. Although Nevin hadn’t arrived at the scene until after the ambulance took Mrs. Ruskin away, he’d seen the faces of the first responders, and he didn’t think the lady was ever going to return to see the mud tracked into her house by careless cops. Not that it meant the assholes shouldn’t stop to wipe their goddamn feet.

Colin exhaled loudly. “She’s a nice lady. I come over to fix things that don’t really need fixing, and I’m pretty sure she schedules her housecleaning around me, so her place will be tidy when I arrive. We drink tea. We talk about movies and theater, mostly. She used to be a makeup artist. She met a lot of famous people.” He gave a weak smile.

Rain traced complex patterns on the windshield and drummed on the roof, making Nevin drowsy. He would need a good run when he was done here. Maybe he’d call Jeremy and see if he was up to it. Jeremy the brawny outdoorsman didn’t care about the weather. Hell, he was a tall enough guy he probably produced his own microclimate.

“So you came to fix Mrs. Ruskin’s toilet and fangirl over Rodgers and Hammerstein. What happened when you got here?”

“The front door was unlocked. She does that when she knows I’m coming. Saves her from having to get up if she’s comfortable in the living room. It’s… it’s hard for her to stand up, sometimes.” He swallowed audibly.

“So you just stepped inside?”

“I rang the doorbell first. I always do, so she knows I’m there. Then… I saw her.” His face turned more pallid.

“You better not barf in my car!”

Lips clenched, Colin shook his head. Nevin gave him a few moments to compose himself. It wasn’t like most people stepped into a crime scene on a daily basis, and Colin looked like the delicate type. Yellow plaid shirt, coordinating bow tie, and a pretty schoolboy face even though he was probably pushing thirty. He carried a little muscle on his slender frame—a lot of hours spent in the gym, Nevin guessed—and probably had only three or four inches on Nevin’s five foot four. He had a soft voice too. Nevin would have bet Julie that Colin spent his teen years hanging out with the drama club and getting bullied by most of the kids in his private high school.

“Sorry,” Colin whispered. He picked at one of the dried blood spatters on his shirt.

“Don’t do that. They’re going to want your clothes as evidence.”

Colin gave him a stricken look. “Evidence?”

“Yeah.” Nevin made a mental note to make sure somebody gave Colin something clean and decent to change into. Mrs. Ruskin’s dresses weren’t going to work. “What did you do when you saw her?”

“I… I ran to her. At first I thought she was dead, b-but I saw her breathing. I tried first aid, but it’s been a long time since I learned that and they didn’t really teach us….”

Nevin nodded. High school health classes weren’t usually all that big on how to treat elderly victims of a beating. “You’re the one who called 911?”

“Yes.”

“When you pulled up to the house, did you see anyone else? Anything unusual?”

After a moment of thought, Colin shook his head. “No. But I wasn’t paying much attention. I was distracted.”

“By what?”

Colin shot him a sour look. “My boyfriend dumped me last night.” He tensed slightly, maybe anticipating a homophobic put-down.

But Nevin shrugged. “This just ain’t your week, dude.”

“God, it really isn’t.” He leaned back into the plush leather and closed his eyes.

Nevin sketched a castle in his notebook. A modest one, but sturdy. He imagined it inhabited by a minor prince who wanted to keep his family safe while he went about documenting the history of three rare species of dragon. After he drew the final turret—topped by a tiny flag—Nevin hummed a tune.

Colin turned his head to look at him. “Is that Neil Sedaka?” he asked incredulously.

“Breaking up is hard to do.”

“That’s….” Colin huffed. “You’re not what I would have expected in a detective.”

“Why not?”

“Well, there’s the car for starters. And your suit! I figured detectives wore off-the-rack black polyester. Yours is way nicer than that.”

“Off-the-rack doesn’t fit me.” He’d actually had department store salespeople outrageously suggest he try the boys’ department. So he’d found a Hong Kong tailor who occasionally came to Portland to do fittings. He’d measure Nevin up and discuss fabrics, colors, and styles. A month or two later, Nevin would receive a package with his new suits and dress shirts, and everything would look damn good on him.

Unexpectedly, Colin chuckled. “God. Show tunes and fashion. Now we can discuss interior design or hairdressing, and you can give me a medal for being the gayest guy you’ve talked to this week.”

Nevin thought about the hot twink he’d hooked up with a few days earlier. “Sorry, Colin. You’re not even in the running.”

“You mean I can’t even win at being gay this week?” Colin shook his head. “Too bad. I’m usually pretty good at that.”

“You can head over to the Silverado when we’re done here. That’ll restore your cred.”

This time Colin snorted. “Is that what you do after a breakup? Go to a strip club?”

“I’ve never broken up with anyone.”

“Seriously?”

Nevin wasn’t exactly sure why he was discussing his sex life when he was supposed to be questioning a witness, but whatever. It beat standing in the rain. “I love ’em and leave ’em. Sometimes they demand seconds, but that’s all they get.” He grinned. “Always leave ’em wanting more. That’s my motto.” Well, that and Don’t hand your heart to someone who’s going to stomp on it. Maybe some guys wanted relationships—True Love and fucking rainbow sparkles—but he’d seen what that wanting did to them. Jeremy still hadn’t recovered from his last ugly disaster, even though that had been years ago and the ex was a douchecanoe.

Colin shook his head. “Not me. I’m… what’s the opposite of a commitmentphobe? Back in grade school, I spent hours planning my future wedding even though everybody back then told me I couldn’t get married. I am going to wear a white tuxedo with a black bow tie, and Etta James’s ‘At Last’ will play when I walk down the aisle. My groom will wear a black tux with a white bow tie. And we’ll have chocolate-dipped strawberries, Bowie, and the B-52s at the reception.”

“Invite me,” Nevin said. “I like to dance.”

“Done. As soon as I find someone to marry me.” Colin’s smile disappeared. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about this stuff when Mrs. Ruskin….”

“Screw the shouldn’t be. Life goes on.”

“She’s a nice lady. We’re friends, I think.”

It was time to get back to business. “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to hurt her?”

Colin scrunched up his face. “You mean, like, enemies? I doubt it. She’s a nice old lady. She has a collection of spoons from every state, and until her knees gave out, she used to like to garden.”

“No exes?” Nevin asked, not really expecting a yes.

“Her husband died in the Korean War. No kids, and she never remarried. She told me not too long ago that she was always kind of into girls instead of boys but never had the guts to do anything about it. I told her eighty-three wasn’t too old to give it a try.”

“You’re a genuine goddamn romantic, aren’t you?”

“I guess.”

Nevin wanted to hate Colin Westwood, with his stupid bow tie, his rental properties, his ex-boyfriend, his fucking German sedan. The guy apparently had an inner life peopled with cherubs, chorus boys, and rainbow-hued wedding planners. But it was hard to hate a man who had weekly teas with an octogenarian and who was so clearly upset over her attack.

Nevin slapped the notebook shut and tucked it away. “Let’s go get that niece’s information, okay?”

“COMEBUCKET!” NEVIN followed the expletive with a complex series of hand gestures, none of which were visible to the bus driver who’d just cut him off. It wasn’t often he longed for the old days—driving one of the bureau’s Crown Vics and handing out traffic citations—but now was one of those times. He’d have fucking loved to pull over that asswipe and write him a ticket big enough to make him puke. Instead he snarled at the bus as it lumbered up the street.

He was still growling under his breath as he pulled into his building’s parking garage. He was goddamn ravenous. After finishing with Colin, he’d intended to swing by Providence Medical Center with the slim hope of getting a statement from Mrs. Ruskin and then go for a run with Jeremy. Afterward Nevin was going to grab some tacos, shower, and try for a quick hookup. But when he got to Providence, the doctors told him Mrs. Ruskin hadn’t made it. No statement from her since he didn’t own a fucking Ouija board. He’d gotten tied up forever with Frankl and Blake from Homicide, both of whom decided Nevin should be the one to notify the niece of Mrs. Ruskin’s death since he’d caught the case first. Assholes. And the niece? She seemed more annoyed at having to make burial arrangements than torn up over losing her aunt.

Now it was too late and too dark for a run, Nevin’s stomach was threatening to consume his other internal organs, and he didn’t have the energy even for takeout. Screw it. His freezer must contain something he could nuke.

His fourth-floor apartment boasted one bedroom, a galley kitchen, and a view of the slightly weedy courtyard. He’d chosen this place because it was handy to freeways and downtown, had a secure parking spot for Julie, and housed a fitness center that was a decent substitute when he didn’t have time to get to a real gym. A few of his least lame drawings hung on the living room walls, while thank-you cards from victims he’d helped in the past clung to the refrigerator door with advertising magnets saved from junk mail.

He paused long enough to fling his suit jacket over a living room chair before he strode into the kitchen in search of dinner. What he found was an ice-entombed box of General Tso’s chicken.

“About as authentically Chinese as me,” he muttered as he threw the tray into the microwave.

By the time the appliance beeped, he’d changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants. He dumped his faux Asian food into a bowl, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and uncapped a bottle of Full Sail. Then he plopped down into his usual chair—the one directly facing the TV—and dug in.

Half the food was hot enough to scald, while the other half was still chilly. It made for an interesting eating experience, a sort of Russian roulette of a meal. He didn’t care. It tasted like dog shit anyway. And even though he normally enjoyed this brand of beer, tonight it was like swilling piss. He kept flashing on images of Colin Westwood in his bloodstained plaid shirt and the reality of an old lady dying from a beating with nobody to mourn her but her landlord.

Fuck.

He was way too young to be burned out. On days like this, he sometimes contemplated quitting the bureau. But then what would he do? He’d wanted to be a cop since he was fifteen. It was the only job he’d ever envisioned for himself—unless you counted his even earlier aspirations to be a thug. He’d majored in criminal justice, and being a cop was his only marketable skill. His only talent.

Just as he was poking morosely at the remains of General Tso, Nevin’s phone buzzed.

Not tonight, Nevin sent back, even though he knew resistance was futile.

Non-negotiable.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

15 mins.

He considered throwing the phone against the wall, but that wouldn’t save him from Ford. He tried a different tactic instead. I don’t own anything punk. Wasn’t like he had combat boots and studded leather pants tucked away in his closet.

Just wear black.

Skank.

But Nevin set aside the bowl and empty beer bottle and trudged to his bedroom in search of something black.

“YOU LOOK like hell,” Ford said as soon as Nevin got into his truck.

“You told me to wear black.”

“I don’t mean the clothes, man. Although I gotta say, you look more FBI than NOFX.”

Nevin flipped him off. “We can always stop along the way and get an anarchy symbol tattooed on my forehead.”

“Too extreme. You might look cool with a Mohawk, though.” Ford reached over and mussed Nevin’s hair.

Nevin responded by punching Ford’s bicep. “I’d’ve hit you harder if you weren’t driving, fuckface.”

“Yeah, yeah. Always talking tough.” Ford pulled away from the curb and into traffic. He wore his usual: boots, faded jeans, and a worn T-shirt emblazoned with what Nevin presumed was a heavy metal band. Ford’s scalp gleamed; as soon as he’d noticed an incipient bald spot, he’d taken to shaving his head completely. As always, his pickup smelled slightly of fertilizer and soil, but apart from a few stray fast-food wrappers, the cab was reasonably clean.

Even though it was far too late to do any good, Nevin launched a final protest. “I’m not in the mood to go out tonight.”

“Bummer.”

“Ford—”

“I’m in the mood for some feminine companionship, Nev, and we both know we pull better as a team. So shut your yap and forget about whatever crapstorm hit you at work today. You’re going to get drunk, we’re both going to dance, and if we’re lucky, we’ll find some temporary company.”

Nevin sulked.

Ford took them to a dive bar way out on Division. The hipsters hadn’t discovered the place yet—or if they had, they’d cleverly disguised themselves in torn leather jackets and creative facial piercings. The crowd was mostly younger than Nevin and Ford, although a few of the customers might have long ago owned the Ramones on vinyl.

While a band warmed up, Nevin downed a beer and scoped the place out. Ford stuck to drinking Coke—his biological parents had both been hardcore alcoholics, so he avoided the stuff entirely. Which was convenient for Nevin, who, knowing he had a pet designated driver, could get as sloshed as he wanted.

Nevin gestured with his bottle toward the small stage. “What’s the name of this band?”

“Dick Zipper and the Jizz Parade.”

“Yeah? I like it. Catchy and refined.”

“Nobody knows refinement like you, little bro.”

As it turned out, Dick Zipper sucked ass. But they played loud and fast enough that it didn’t matter. After another beer, Nevin squeezed onto the crowded dance floor and joined the other writhing, sweating bodies. He stopped now and then for enough beer to keep his buzz going. He didn’t feel good, exactly. But he was alive, and fucking hallelujah for that!

Eventually his energy flagged. He found Ford dancing with a bleached blonde, grabbed his arm, and dragged him to a relatively quiet part of the bar.

“I have to work in the morning,” Nevin yelled over the din. It was past midnight.

“You call that work? I’m the one’s gotta transplant rosebushes at dawn.”

“Suck on a rosebush, Four-door. I’ll catch a cab.”

But Ford followed him out of the bar and into the ringing quiet of the parking lot. “I’m hungry,” Ford announced. He pointed at the chain restaurant across the street. “C’mon. I’m buying.”

Nevin would have refused, but he decided maybe it would be a good idea to soak up the alcohol with some food. On unsteady legs, he crossed the street in Ford’s wake.

Nevin had never been to this particular location of the franchise, yet it smelled familiar: coffee, sausage, fake maple syrup. Being a cop meant he’d spent a lot of time in places like this, especially back when he pulled night shifts. The predictable assortment of customers filled about a quarter of the tables. Truck drivers, stoners, college kids, people who’d worked late somewhere else. There was also a healthy scattering of patrons from the club. They were easy to spot with their intentionally torn clothing and creatively gelled hair.

Their waitress was a tired-looking young woman with long hair pulled into a ponytail. She filled their coffee cups as soon as they sat down, earning a thankful smile from Nevin.

“Do you think they have cooks here?” Nevin asked as he perused the menu. “Or does it all come from the same prepackaged mix? They just press a button on a machine to say whether they want waffles or scrambled eggs.”

“You’re drunk.”

“So? Wasn’t that your plan?”

Ford opened his mouth to answer, then started waving at someone near the door. Nevin turned around to see. It was the blonde, accompanied by a slightly plump, pretty woman whose straight hair was the color of a fire engine. The women waved back and approached the table. Ford scooted over—the blonde immediately sat next to him—so Nevin did the same, prompting a grin from the redhead.

Apparently deciding introductions were in order, Ford waved a hand. “Nevin, this is Cat and, uh….”

“Riley,” said the redhead.

“Ladies, this is my little brother, Nevin.”

“Brother?” Riley asked, gaze darting between them.

“Close enough.”

That seemed to satisfy her, which was good. Nevin was in no mood to explain, and she didn’t need to know, that he and Ford had been in the same foster-home placement for two years until Ford aged out of the system. Nevin had aged out a few months later, and they’d shared a shithole apartment while Nevin went to the community college and they both worked a variety of sucktastic jobs.

The waitress came by, poured coffee for the newcomers, and took food orders. While Ford chose one of those enormous skillet things and the women both wanted blueberry pancakes, Nevin just asked for toast and fruit.

After the waitress left, Riley turned to look at Nevin. “So where are you from?” she asked brightly. She smelled like clove cigarettes.

“Portland.”

“No, I mean before that.”

Oh, Christ. One of those. Nevin sighed. “I was born right here at Good Sam.”

She scrunched up her pert little nose and nodded. “What are you?”

Sometimes he had clever retorts for that question. Sometimes he just made shit up, like when he told people his parents were Mongolian yak herders who’d traded him to missionaries for a washing machine. But tonight he didn’t have the energy for any of that, so he told the truth. “Half Chinese. The rest, who the fuck knows?” If his mother had any clue who his father was, she hadn’t disclosed that little factoid on his birth certificate. And she’d dumped Nevin and disappeared long before he was old enough to ask her.

“I’m Irish, Scottish, German, and French,” Riley informed him. “And also one-sixteenth Cherokee.”

“That’s interesting,” he lied.

She slid closer, until her warm thigh pressed against his. “What do you do for a living?”

He rarely told people he was a cop because that knowledge either scared them away or activated bad porn scenarios in their heads. Not that he was opposed to porn, but he liked the good stuff, and the whole man-in-uniform trope never appealed to him. Too close to home. Now, on the other hand, lonely cowboys or naughty doctors….

Nevin smiled. “I’m a professional kung fu fighter.” Was there such a thing?

While Riley oohed, Ford landed a solid kick on Nevin’s shin. Nevin swallowed a yelp and promised himself that Ford would pay for that later.

The food arrived promptly, and while everyone ate, Riley regaled Nevin with tales of her corgi named Jimbo, her job at a bicycle repair shop, and every band she’d seen in the past three years. But she was funny, and once he got past his initial aversion to her, he realized she was also very sweet. He felt bad about lying to her—but not bad enough to hand her the truth.

The waitress kept bringing coffee, and when Nevin glanced at his phone, it was nearing two. “Shit. I have a buttload of paperwork to do tomorrow.”

“Kung fu masters do paperwork?”

He shrugged. “Uh, yeah. Tournament reports.”

She snuggled into him. “Too bad. I wanted to introduce you to Jimbo. I bet he’d like you.”

Nevin glanced over at Ford, who waggled his eyebrows in return and gave Cat a squeeze around the shoulders. By the looks of things, Ford was going to be driving Cat home instead of him.

“You know what?” Nevin said, hoping he sounded more excited than he felt. “I’d love to meet Jimbo. You have a car here?”

Chapter Two

July 2015

COLIN LAY naked on his bed, sweltering. Considering the cost of his loft apartment, he would have expected the air-conditioning to be in proper order. It wasn’t, though, and when he’d called repair places, they’d all said they’d be happy to come take a look. Next month. Apparently when the late July heat wave hit, everyone in the city had turned on their cooling and discovered it was on the fritz. He would have complained to the landlord, but that was him.

He reached into the little bowl on his nightstand, fished out an ice cube, and set it on his belly. It gave him a delicious little shiver as it began to melt.

It wasn’t absolutely necessary for him to torture himself by staying in the apartment. He could have gone to his office, even though it was a Saturday. He had plenty of work to do. He could have gone to a movie, a shopping center, a nicely chilled café. He could have gone to his parents’ big house in the West Hills, where the AC wouldn’t dare give his mother any problems. But none of these options were open to his cat, Legolas, so Colin stayed home in solidarity. Not that Leg seemed to notice—he was currently napping in the bathroom sink.

Nothing was left of the cube but a warming puddle on Colin’s skin. The water slid off his waist as he twisted and reached for another chunk of ice, which he placed higher up, midway between his nipples. It settled into the scar there, sending a miniature river down the long groove. He imagined a tiny boat sailing down his body, the captain calling out for his helmsman to beware of the intermittent chest hairs. Captain Hook. No, Captain Jack Sparrow.

Colin sang a few yo hos, but lack of energy made him stop. “Ahoy!” he said through a yawn. He gave his cock a few strokes but gave up before his body showed interest. Despite his friends’ attempts to throw him back into the dating pool—and despite not one but two matchmaking efforts by his mother—he’d remained solo and celibate since Trent dumped him six weeks earlier. It was just too hot to jack off. Maybe he ought to follow Leg’s lead and have a nice nap instead.

Just as his eyelids were drifting closed, however, his ringtone sounded. He fumbled for the phone, knocked it onto the floor, and retrieved it barely before it went to voice mail. “Hello?”

“Hey, Colin, it’s Manuel. Are you in the mood to do me a great big huge favor?” He sounded flustered, but then Manuel Ceja always sounded like he was waving his hands around in a tizzy. He ran Bright Hope, a nonprofit serving elderly and ill LGBT people, and although he ran it well, Colin worried Manuel was going to work himself into an early grave.

“Anything for you,” Colin replied in a calming tone.

“You are a peach, Colin baby. So Debbie was scheduled to visit Roger Grey today but she just called to tell me her car broke down on the way home from Lincoln City and there’s no way she’s going to make it on time and I know usually you see him on Tuesdays but I’m worried about Roger ’cause it’s so hot today so if you could go there I’d really appreciate it.”

After inhaling in empathy for Manuel’s overtaxed lungs, Colin said, “Sure. No problem.” Even if Roger lived way the hell out near 122nd and Halsey.

“You’re a prince.”

“She picks up groceries for him, doesn’t she?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll message you a list. If you don’t mind paying, I’ll reimburse you as soon—”

“It’s on me. Consider it an extra donation to Bright Hope.”

Manuel hummed a few bars of “God Save the Queen,” then laughed. “You’ve just been promoted from prince to monarch.”

“Excellent. I’ve always wanted a crown.”

It took genuine force of will to make himself put on clothing. Knowing that most of Bright Hope’s clients had few visitors, Colin usually dressed up a little. It helped make the clients feel special. Besides, as more than one of them had pointed out, they got extra enjoyment out of attention from some young eye candy. But although Colin generally tried to look nice, today all he could manage was a pair of fairly skimpy shorts and a tank top. He was going to give the people at Safeway an eyeful.

Legolas meowed sleepily when Colin said good-bye, but the cat didn’t bother getting out of the sink. Maybe Colin should get a dog instead. Dogs appreciated their people. On the other hand, Leg used to take dumps in Trent’s shoes whenever Trent spent the night, and in retrospect, Colin was pleased by that.

The interior of Colin’s car was approximately ten degrees hotter than the surface of the sun. He turned on the air full blast as he wiped stinging sweat from his eyes and waited for the steering wheel to cool. He realized he was scowling—not at the roaring heat but at the car itself. He’d never given much thought to vehicles. His parents had given him a sensible sedan as soon as he got his license, and after he’d joined his father’s business, he’d been supplied with a stream of BMWs. His dad said it was important to convey class and success to clients. Which might have been true, but at the moment, Colin felt envious of the purple car owned by that detective. Nevin Ng.

Colin’s frown disappeared, chased away by a wistful smile. Detective Ng had been an interesting man. And in the shock and distress of Mrs. Ruskin’s attack, Colin had found Ng oddly comforting.

The drive was endless, the entire city seemingly stuck in slow motion. But Safeway was heaven. Especially the refrigerated aisles. Colin hung out there for so long that he was in danger of developing permanent gooseflesh and earned suspicious stares from a pimply-faced employee wielding a broom.

“Can I help you?” the kid finally asked.

“I’m, uh, just admiring the yogurt.”

Well, that got rid of the kid pretty quick.

Of course, during the time Colin spent in the store, his car had reached thermonuclear meltdown temperatures. It didn’t cool at all in the few blocks to Roger Grey’s house, and by the time Colin knocked on the apartment door, he was dripping sweat.

“You’re not Debbie,” Roger said when he opened the door.

“Disappointed?”

“Not in the least. Debbie’s a nice young woman, but you, my boy, are a feast for ancient eyes.”

Colin hefted the grocery bags slightly. “Can I put this feast away?”

“Of course.”

Roger’s studio apartment was about the size of a largish hotel room, with a Murphy bed, a kitchenette, a tiny table with two metal-and-vinyl chairs, and one overstuffed armchair. Colin suspected Roger slept in the armchair more often than the bed. A bookshelf—double- and triple-stacked with paperbacks and hardcovers—dominated the remaining space, while newspapers and magazines littered most of the horizontal surfaces.

As small as the kitchen cupboards were, their interiors were nearly bare, and the tiny refrigerator was almost empty. As he put away the groceries, Colin made a mental note to ask Manuel whether someone ought to be restocking Roger’s larder more often. “I brought a rotisserie chicken,” Colin said to Roger, who’d settled into his armchair. “And some mashed potatoes and gravy. What kind of veggie would you like? Packaged salad or this green-bean stuff?” He held up a plastic deli container.

“You don’t have to fix my dinner.”

“But I’d like to. Usually I only get to prepare meals for my cat, and he doesn’t like green beans.”

Roger had a raspy laugh. “Then by all means, go ahead. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the pleasure.”

While Colin got everything ready, he told Roger about Debbie’s mishap on the way home from the coast. That prompted a risqué, nostalgic tale from Roger about a time he and five friends had rented a house near Cannon Beach and engaged in a weeklong orgy. “They’re all dead now,” Roger said, staring at the food on his TV tray. “AIDS. Except Emmett. He committed suicide back in eighty-nine, right after his partner died.”

Colin turned one of the kitchen chairs to face Roger and sat down. “Was that the first time you guys partied like that?” he asked gently.

So Roger told him more wild stories—which might or might not have been true—and although Colin listened appreciatively, part of his mind was elsewhere. He’d been lying around absorbed in self-pity over Trent, but look what Roger and his contemporaries had been through! Roger had lost his parents and siblings decades ago, when they refused to accept his homosexuality. He’d had to watch as his friends died, as his lover died, and although Roger himself had survived being HIV-positive for over twenty years now, the virus and the treatments had taken a toll on his health and bank accounts. He was frail for a man in his early seventies, alone in a shoebox apartment, relying on charity for food and company.

“I suppose things are different nowadays,” Roger said wistfully, cutting into Colin’s reverie. “Apps and latex and all that.”

“I guess. I’m not really into the scene.”

“But didn’t you tell me you’re single?”

“Yeah.” Colin stood and cleared away the dirty dishes, which he took to the sink to wash.

“And you’re a very handsome young man. I don’t think standards on male beauty have changed so much since my day.”

Colin shot him a grin. “Thanks. I’ve seen your old photos, though—you were a whole lot better-looking than me.”

“I was a heartbreaker. But that’s not my point. What keeps you from properly enjoying your youth?”

The thing was, Colin wasn’t sure he’d ever had a youth, at least not in the way Roger meant. Sometimes he felt as if he’d been born middle-aged. “I guess I’m just the picket-fence type. And I haven’t found the right guy.”

“If you can’t find Mr. Right, settle for Mr. Right Now,” Roger said with a leer. Then he shook his head. “It’s so strange, all this marriage equality.”

“Would you and Frank have gotten married if it was legal?”

“I don’t know. We loved each other, that’s for certain. But this kind of thing you’re talking about, this… normality. We never envisioned it. I don’t know if we’d have embraced it.”

Colin nodded and finished cleaning up. When he turned back around, Roger was regarding him thoughtfully. “You’ve only recently begun volunteering for Bright Hope, correct?”

“Just a few weeks ago.” It had been a way to get his mind off Trent. But he’d also thought of it as a small way to pay tribute to Mrs. Ruskin’s memory. She would have been tickled to know Colin was paying visits to aging gay men.

“Why are you spending time with decrepit dinosaurs like me instead of boys your own age?”

“I like spending time with you,” Colin answered truthfully. “You’re interesting.”