“More Buffy?” Nevin asked, tousling Colin’s hair.

  “I was just thinking that this is the messiest sex I’ve ever had.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No. Not at all.” It was, Colin thought, pretty darn good.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THEY WASHED up before they left Colin’s wreck of a house, but the effort was mostly futile. The place only had cold running water, and they didn’t have so much as a napkin to dry themselves. Shivering and still fairly dirty, they got back into their clothes. Colin had attempted to tame his hair with his fingers, without much success, and his coat was a goner. He hadn’t even tried to put his bow tie back on and shoved it in a pocket instead.

  But all those lovely postfucking hormones thrummed through Nevin’s body, and he didn’t want to give Colin up just yet. “Coffee?” he asked as they walked to the door.

  Colin couldn’t seem to stop grinning. He looked like a naughty schoolboy. “Sure.”

  “I know a place on Belmont. Take us there.”

  During the short drive, Nevin had misgivings. Jeremy probably wouldn’t be at P-Town, because he was working. But Rhoda likely would, and Nevin wasn’t in the mood to explain Colin. Especially since Rhoda was bright enough to know the moment she saw them what they’d been up to. Hell, Colin’s fair skin was still flushed, and Nevin’s lips felt kiss-swollen. By the time he decided to maybe route them elsewhere, however, Colin had pulled into a spot directly in front of P-Town. Nevin couldn’t think of a way to redirect him without being a twat, so he girded his loins and together they walked into the coffeehouse.

  Not too many customers, and no sign of the owner. Nevin heaved a tiny sigh of relief.

  “Hey, Ptolemy,” he said to the barista. “Where’s Rhoda?”

  Ptolemy was wearing elaborate eye makeup that reminded Nevin of ancient Egypt, but the flannel-and-jeans outfit looked more like nineties grunge. “Parker is having an existential crisis. Again. Rhoda drove up to spend a couple of days with him.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Which was true despite his relief that he wouldn’t be dealing with Rhoda today. “The usual for me. And whatever he’s having.”

  Those Osiris eyes widened. Shock at Nevin showing up with someone who wasn’t Jeremy? Surprise at Colin’s obvious postcopulatory state? Or interest in Colin himself, who looked good enough to eat with a spoon? Nevin couldn’t tell.

  Colin had been swiveling his head, taking in the atmosphere and décor. Judging from his grin, he liked P-Town. “Do you have herbal tea?” he asked Ptolemy.

  “Of course.” Ptolemy handed him a laminated list and waited patiently for Colin to read it.

  “Is the peppermint caffeine-free?”

  “Yes. Nevin’s having enough caffeine for the both of you, huh?”

  “Probably.”

  Once Nevin had his double espresso and Colin had a ceramic pot, large mug, and tea bag, they picked a table in the back, next to the tiny stage.

  “You’re a regular here?” Colin asked as he sat down.

  “Yeah. It’s Germy’s place, really—he lives a couple blocks away—but I come pretty often.” If he was honest, at some point P-Town had become his place too. It was comfortable and quirky, and Rhoda had a knack for cultivating customers who were interesting and… good. Some of the regulars were queer and some weren’t. They ranged from teenage to geriatric. A few had bank accounts cushier than Colin’s, a few looked like they lived out of shopping carts, and the rest were somewhere in between. A lot of them had skin a lot darker or features a lot less European than Nevin’s. And a couple of them—like one of the regular musicians, a beautiful man with long pale hair—were definitely a little… odd. But Rhoda’s regulars were all decent people.

  And Colin fit right in.

  “The artwork here is really interesting,” Colin said while he waited for his tea to steep. “I like that one best.” He pointed at a painting of a unicorn, Bigfoot, a wolf, and a merman playing cards.

  “It’s your style,” Nevin said.

  “What’s your style?”

  Nevin thought about the bad sketches on his walls at home—castles, cottages, and cars—and shrugged. “Art’s not really my thing.”

  “Huh.”

  “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Except I’ve seen you drawing in that notebook you carry. And sometimes you trace shapes with your finger on tabletops.”

  Nevin clenched his treacherous hands into fists and put them on his lap. “I don’t—”

  “You totally do. You’re not the only one who can notice details, Detective.”

  “Asshole,” Nevin muttered, then scowled when Colin laughed. “What?”

  “Swearwords are like terms of endearment from you.”

  Nevin almost cussed at him again but stopped himself with a mouthful of espresso. Looking smug, Colin fished the tea bag from his mug, set it on a saucer, and took a cautious sip. “Mmm.”

  “Why are you drinking… lawn clippings?”

  “Peppermint.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  Colin lost his grin. “I, uh, try to avoid too much caffeine. I do a morning coffee, sometimes some iced tea, but that’s about it.”

  “Why?”

  Instead of answering, Colin took another sip. Then he gazed around the room again, eventually taking a moment to stare at two men sitting several tables away. One of them was reading a paperback, while the other was writing in a notebook. Colin leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “That guy looks just like Tab Hunter.”

  “Who?”

  “Tab Hunter. The actor.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Sometimes Colin looked at him as if Nevin had just landed from another planet, but right now Colin just seemed sad. “He was big in the fifties. My mom told me he was her first heartthrob. She was, like, eight. Maybe we could watch one of his movies together. Damn Yankees, I think.”

  “Collie, we can’t—”

  Colin put up a hand. “Don’t. I don’t know why you’ve convinced yourself you can’t do a relationship, but whatever. I’m not expecting one. I’m not asking you to make any promises. Sleep around if you want—just don’t tell me about it. But we have a good time together, right? So why can’t we do that? For a little while, at least.”

  It was an appealing offer. He’d had plenty of good fucks in his life, but none of those people made him feel the way Colin did. Hell, he’d want to hang out with Colin even if they didn’t have sex—though Christ almighty, the sex was good. But the more time they spent together, the harder it would be when they stopped.

  “You need to move on from Trent the douche and find your One True Love.”

  “Fuck my one true love!” Colin yelled loud enough to make the movie star guy and his friend turn to look. But he didn’t seem to care. “I’d rather have a wild and reckless fling. Or, I don’t know. Maybe a friend with benefits. I like you, Nevin.”

  Nobody liked him. Okay, that wasn’t true. Jeremy Cox did, but then that ox liked everyone. Ford did, but back when the world was a cruel, empty place, all they’d had was each other. That leaves a mark heavy enough to withstand time and shitheadedness. There were a few other people who could stand Nevin’s company for short periods. But here was Colin Westwood with his bow ties and his earnest face and his fucking BMW, and he wanted Nevin’s company.

  Maybe he was crazy.

  Nevin shot back the rest of his espresso and set the cup on the table hard. “Ford? I met him when we were in the same foster home.”

  “Yeah?” Colin replied carefully.

  “It was the last one for both of us because we hit eighteen. Wasn’t a bad place. Decent bed and food, and the foster parents stayed out of our hair as long as we did what we were supposed to.” He set his jaw but had to loosen it to say the rest. “That was my fifteenth placement.” He hadn’t known the precise number until a few years earlier, when he’d used his connections to gain access to his old records. He’d spent a weekend going through the files and reading the social workers’ notes, and he’d gotten so drunk he had to call in sick to work on Monday.

  “What happened to your parents?” asked Colin.

  “Father wasn’t anything but a sperm donor. Mother…. That bitch left me alone in a shithole apartment when I was three. Probably went to score crack or turn a trick. She must have got lost on the way, ’cause she never came back.”

  Colin didn’t envelop him in a sloppy hug or say he was sorry. He didn’t spout platitudes, or get weepy, or ask stupidass questions. What he did was stare for a second or two and then say, “That’s fucked-up.”

  And somehow that was the perfect response. Nevin threw his head back and laughed. “You’re all right, Bow Tie. You really are.”

  “Does that mean we can fling?”

  “I suppose it fucking does.”

  That made Colin leap from his chair and attack Nevin with a bear hug.

  NEVIN SPENT Wednesday morning at an adult day care center. In theory he was there to chat with the staff, but he knew that particular facility well and the employees were some of the best he’d seen. What he really did during his visit was play Go Fish with Alzheimer’s patients. Then a couple of women with therapy dogs came by, and Nevin stuck around to watch the clients pet golden retrievers. He saw that even the more confused and distressed people relaxed as they stroked the clean fur, and that reminded him of Legolas. Animals were a little magic, sucking away the pain and replacing it with calm. Some people were like that too.

  He was about to swing back to the office and maybe stop for lunch along the way when a call came through about an elderly woman in distress. He diverted his route to the address in Northeast, where he was beckoned to the side door of a modest house by a woman in her late twenties. “It’s Gram,” she said, flustered. “She thinks someone’s stealing from her, but nobody is. She’s just confused.” The woman wore old jeans and a sweatshirt, and her hair was in a messy ponytail.

  “I’d like to talk to her, please. What’s her name?”

  “Shirley Gerhard. But she won’t make any sense.” She led him through the kitchen and living room, where a toddler was watching TV, and down a dark hallway. The interior of the house was cramped—with old furniture shoved into rooms that were too small—but it was reasonably clean. Toys lay scattered across the floor and the walls looked a bit grubby, but that wasn’t unusual in a home with at least one small child. Nevin certainly didn’t see anything constituting a health hazard.

  Mrs. Gerhard sat in an overstuffed armchair in the master bedroom. Beside her, a plastic-and-metal TV tray held several pill bottles, a remote control, a glass of water, and a pair of eyeglasses; a small television perched on the dresser. She wore a puffy bathrobe and a scarf over her hair. “Who are you?” she demanded, ignoring her granddaughter completely.

  “Detective Ng from the Portland Police Bureau.”

  “You’re not a policeman.”

  He’d been through this before. He wasn’t sure what made people question him—his lack of uniform, his height, his ethnicity. Whatever the cause, he knew what to do. He dug out his badge and held it so she could peer at it.

  “I called you people hours ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gerhard. But I’m here now. Can you tell me what your complaint is?” To show he was earnest, he pulled out his notebook and pen.

  Mrs. Gerhard waved impatiently at her granddaughter. “You can go now.”

  The young woman shot Nevin a long-suffering look, then left the room.

  “I’ve been telling her about this for months,” said Mrs. Gerhard, “but she doesn’t listen. That girl thinks she knows everything. Takes after her father, and he was dumb as a rock and twice as hardheaded.”

  Nevin nodded, not letting his sympathy for the granddaughter show. It couldn’t be easy, caring for an elderly relative as well as a young child. A lot of people wouldn’t even try. “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

  “Someone’s been stealing my things. That’s the problem!”

  He ended up fetching a chair from the kitchen and listening for almost two hours while she told him her theories about people taking her jewelry and other belongings. Mostly she blamed the neighbors and her granddaughter’s friends. She gave her opinions on all these people and their habits, devolving often to discuss her long-dead husband, who was apparently the next best thing to a saint.

  When she’d exhausted herself enough to run out of words, Nevin closed his notebook and stood. “Thank you for such a thorough report. I’m going to do everything I can to help the situation.”

  She patted his arm with a shaky hand. “Thank you, Detective. You’re a good boy. I bet your mother is very proud of you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he lied.

  In the kitchen, the granddaughter was chopping vegetables while the toddler played with a set of plastic cups on the floor. “Nobody stole her jewelry,” she said wearily. “That stuff was sold years ago.”

  “I understand.”

  “And my grandfather? He was a drunk. He used to beat her and my mom.” She dropped a handful of sliced carrots into a pot.

  “Death and decades smooth over a lot of faults.”

  She snorted. “I guess so. She used to be this strong, amazing lady, you know? Pretty much raised me. And now….”

  “Has she been diagnosed with dementia?”

  “No. I mean, she’s got a lot of health issues, but this is new.”

  Nevin pulled some cards from the collection in his pocket and set them on the counter near the cutting board. “Talk to her doctor right away. It could just be a reaction to some of her meds, and if they adjust those, you might see an improvement. One of these cards is for a respite-care group—give them a call. They can find ways to give you a little break now and then.”

  She didn’t stop chopping—a potato this time—but when she glanced at Nevin, she smiled gratefully. “I try really hard.”

  “I can tell. You’re taking good care of your family. But you need to take care of yourself too.”

  She sniffled and nodded.

  “Another thing that group can help you with is finding some companionship for your grandmother. You’re really busy, and she’s probably a little lonely. Sometimes people just need a new set of ears to listen to them.”

  “She hardly ever gets out,” she said. “And she’s outlived her friends.”

  Nevin briefly thought of Roger Grey. “This group can help. I work with them a lot. I’ve left you my card too—call me if you need help.”

  She put down the knife and wiped her hands on a towel. “Thank you, Detective. I know you have lots of really important things to worry about, and—”

  “You and your grandmother are important. Helping you is my job.”

  She walked him to the door and then surprised him with a quick hug. “Thank you,” she said when she pulled back. She swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Really, thank you so much.”

  “You take care.”

  Sitting in Julie, he made a few quick notes. Real ones instead of the muscle cars he’d been sketching while Mrs. Gerhard spoke. He’d have to do a little paperwork on this case; maybe he’d phone the granddaughter in a week or so to see how things were going. Police calls like this one could be frustrating, but they kept him going. For a couple of hours, an old lady had received a willing audience, and maybe her restless mind was comforted. Her granddaughter certainly was. If the respite group could help, the whole family would benefit.

  But this story wouldn’t have a happy ending, no matter what he did. Mrs. Gerhard wasn’t going to miraculously return to her tough, active self. Her granddaughter would still be faced with the painful job of caring for her family while watching a loved one fade. That fuckface Mr. Gerhard would rest peacefully in his grave, absolved of effort or blame by the final benefit of death.

  Then the thought that was never allowed entered Nevin’s head, and this time he couldn’t summon the strength to push it away. What would become of him when he grew old? He refused to rot in some institution—he’d sooner put a bullet in his brain. Would he end up like Roger Grey, visited by pitying young charity volunteers, or like Mrs. Ruskin, murdered for fuck knew why? Maybe Colin was right and it would all end much sooner than that, Nevin’s brains splattered on the asphalt.

  Jesus H. Christ. What kind of life were you living if the best possible ending involved getting flattened under the Number 8 bus?

  Growling, Nevin pulled out his phone and began to text.

  Chapter Fifteen

  DINNER TONIGHT?

  The phone didn’t give the identity of the person who’d texted him, so it wasn’t anyone in his contacts. It could be a scam or wrong number. But as Colin sat in his office, staring at the screen, his heart did a little dance.

  Is this a fling dinner? he texted back.

  It’s fucking steak and potatoes, Bow Tie. You in?

  Colin smiled so widely his face hurt.

  A few minutes later, he knocked on his father’s door. “Dad?” he called.

  “Come in.”

  His father sat in one of the leather armchairs, a golfing magazine in his lap. “What’s up?”

  Trying hard not to fidget like a schoolboy, Colin said, “I’m heading out early today.”

  “Sure. I was thinking of doing the same but haven’t gathered the energy. You have plans?”

  “Dinner. Um, dinner date, actually.”

  His dad frowned slightly. “Your mother didn’t set you up with someone again, did she?”

  “Believe it or not, I found this one by myself. Remember that detective?”

  “Really?” his father chuckled. “Police interrogations. There’s a way of finding romance I never thought of when I was single.”

  Remembering what Monday’s “interrogation” session had become—his coat was currently at the dry cleaner’s—Colin blushed. “Yeah. Nevin is… interesting.” Well, that was a lame way to describe a beautiful, complicated man. “But actually, I didn’t come here to talk about my love life.”