Infected: Lesser Evils (46 page)

As soon as they all had their little green drinks in front of them, Grey said, “On three. One… two… go.” Showing how accustomed they were to being a team, they all slammed their drinks at the same time, like a synchronized drinking team. Their reactions weren’t synched, though. Grey winced, Scott’s head shot back before he doubled over like he was about to lose control of his gag reflex (he didn’t), and Tank’s face barely registered anything at all.

“Wow, that tastes like shit,” Grey said, putting his empty glass down on the bar.

“I’ve had worse,” Tank said.

“Now here I only asked you to come, and you show up with your het posse,” Holden said, joining them at the bar. He was dressed in black leather pants and a skin-tight white tank top that seemed nearly luminescent, indicating the club had a black light somewhere. He’d added blond streaks in his hair since Roan had last seen him, and his hair had the casually mussed look of intense calculation. Holden leaned up against the bar, hand on jutted hip, with a smile so slick it was impossible to tell if he wanted to fuck everyone or kill them (or as Roan had mentally dubbed it, smile number three).

“Het posse,” Grey echoed, chuckling. “I like that.”

Roan noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Scott gave Holden The Look. It was very brief, but it was unmistakable. The look being the one that only gay men seemed to recognize, the one that put lust into a purely tangible form, and Roan was surprised to see it. Maybe it was the absinthe? (Not that it could work that fast.) If Holden saw it, he had no reaction to it at all, but he wouldn’t—he was accustomed to the look, and enjoyed getting it.

“Zack, Ethan, this is Holden, Roan’s assistant investigator,” Grey said, introducing everyone.

“Oh, uh, guess that explains the getup,” Ethan said.

“Does it?” Holden replied, giving him an unsettling smile before switching his gaze to Roan. “Can we talk in private?”

There was a weak cheer from behind the hospital curtain, and Zack couldn’t contain himself anymore. “Do you know what’s goin’ on over there?”

Holden’s glance held a kernel of contempt, but it was quickly smothered. “They offer piercings on fetish night.”

“Piercings?” Ethan asked. “Like ear piercings?”

Holden laughed, genuinely amused, and looked at Scott before replying, “Oh, this guy is darling. What rearview mirror did you pull him off of?” Yeah, Holden saw the look Scott was giving him, and now he was… what was he doing? Roan got a feeling there was subtext between the two of them, which was weird, as he was sure they didn’t know each other. Except clearly they did; how well was up for debate.

It was Fiona who said, “It’s more intimate piercing.”

Ethan was puzzling over that, and what Holden had said (he seemed torn over whether he should be insulted by that rearview mirror comment or not), when Tank said, “They’re talking about dick piercing, Hillie.”

“And balls and scrotum,” Holden added, with an inordinate amount of cheer.

Ethan looked confused, then skeptical, and then blanched. “You’re—you’re serious? Why would anyone do that?”

“Well—” Holden began, and Roan held up a hand to stop him.

“Kid, trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Roan’s right,” Tank said, giving him a hardy slap on the back. “Let’s save that for after your wedding night, huh?” He then looked at Fi, and asked, “Wanna dance? I wanna dance.”

“Then let’s dance,” she agreed, even though it was now Ministry playing, and Roan wasn’t sure how anyone could dance to that. But Tank strutted out to the meager dance floor like a pigeon on crack, making Fiona laugh, and Roan wondered if the absinthe was hitting him, or if he was just being himself. Could you tell with him? Probably not.

“I’m not a virgin,” Ethan said petulantly, in a way that suggested he was.

“Sheep don’t count,” Grey said, grinning.

“Fuck you,” he replied, but it was an exhale, with no strength at all. So the other guys teased Ethan over his farm boy background, huh? Figured. Some of the trash talking Roan heard behind the bench was from one teammate to another, although in that joking “we’re men’s men, aren’t we?” kind of way.

Roan leaned over, and whispered in Dylan’s ear, “Keep an eye on them.”

Dylan gave him a look like he couldn’t believe he was being volunteered for such a thing, but he nodded, and Roan followed Holden to a relatively quiet corner. Once there, he asked, “You and Scott…?”

“Me and Scott what?” Holden replied, with an innocence that was totally fake.

He sighed, aware that he wasn’t going to get much out of him right now. Holden was in coy mode, and that never did anyone any good. Except maybe Holden. “Why are you even here?”

“A client. Now, this guy I want you to meet, Franco, is a little paranoid, so that’s why he’s got to make a face to face before squealing. Also, he’ll probably want money, but a twenty oughta do him. He’s high and desperate for cash.”

Great. “How reliable is his info?”

“You can bank on it. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

Life was full of subtext. It wasn’t just the in-jokes between friends that meant nothing to you, but the way people could be truthful, and yet commit sins of omission, leaving out little bits that meant a lot. He knew Holden was doing that now. “He a former client?”

“Now you know I can’t confirm or deny that one.”

“Why didn’t you just get the info yourself?”

“He’s high, but he’s not stupid. He knows I didn’t want it for me. He wants to know who wants it.” And with that, Holden turned and slinked through the darkened room, like only he could. For a good-sized guy, he could be surprisingly graceful when he wanted to be.

Before following, Roan took a quick look around. Dylan and Ethan were at the bar, talking, and Dallas had joined them, while Zack, Grey, and Scott had gone to see what was going on behind the curtain. His guess was they’d decided to show Zack what a piercing was to discourage him from ever wanting one, as Zack seemed to want everything. He had ambitions of hedonism, often undone by his own inability to stomach it. He was a kid in a candy store, who continually forgot he puked after two handfuls of Skittles.

There was a good-sized crowd in here tonight, and since it was fetish night it was mixed, with gays and straights and to-be-determineds sharing the space. There was a lot of leather, lots of piercing, tattoos, and body modifications, as well as someone in a tight latex suit that made them look like a living condom. There was some weird shit on display, but none of it as weird as the shit you could find on the Internet, such as guys dressed up in frighteningly realistic animal costumes or people throwing food on one another. (That was probably done later, in the privacy of one’s place.) Tank was still dancing like a nut to a song that must have been called “I Want Your Damage,” as it was repeated multiple times in the chorus, and it was neopsychedelic, fuzzed-out kind of rock, not the easiest stuff to dance to. But Tank was doing pretty well, and his general enthusiasm had livened up that corner of the club. He was dancing with Fiona, other women, other men, he didn’t care, which is what made Tank Tank—fear was for other people. He threw himself in front of potentially lethal projectiles for a living, so what was there in the real world to worry about?

Franco was a six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound Samoan man, shirtless beneath a leather vest so tight it looked like it was about to explode off his barrel chest and wound several bystanders. He also had an impressive Afro, a nimbus of fuzzy black hair that made his head look huge, and a tribal tattoo that climbed up his neck like a jagged vine and fanned out just beneath his jaw line. He was heavily pierced too, with studs in his chin, nose, eyebrows, cheek, and earlobes, with a slender silver chain connecting his left ear to his left eyebrow, and small silver charms dangling from each pierced nipple, which Roan could see beneath the tight leather. His arms were as thick as legs, and the light fuzz of curly black hair on his chest looked both pubic and singed, and Roan could smell the nail polish remover-like scent of amyl nitrate oozing through his pores, along with the softer scents of rum and pot. His eyes were wide, black, and glassy. He could have been handsome in a sort of exotically rugged way, if lots of hard living hadn’t started showing on his face in acne scars and bumps beneath the skin that could have been some kind of allergic reaction, but probably weren’t.

Franco was paranoid in that way that people got when they let life get to them more than it should. While Holden hovered several feet away (apparently he wasn’t invited to this party), Franco quizzed Roan on who he was and why he wanted to know, and thank whatever deity was tops this week that Franco didn’t recognize him. He’d be busted if he knew who he was. He was adamant on asking if he was a cop, and Roan lied (sort of) and said no, but he followed it up with a solid truth: the cops hated him. When Franco started believing it, it mollified him a great deal.

The truth wasn’t going to do for an explanation, though. If Roan said he wanted to find this asshole and keep him from hurting any other cat ever again, Franco might like it, but he might not. Roan couldn’t fuck up what had been his best lead to date, so he decided to follow the theme. Roan said he wanted to find the guy because he had a kink for cat fur—real cat fur. He mentioned the phonies on craigslist, trying to sell cat fur they claimed was real and wasn’t, but didn’t go into detail, because only liars spelled everything out for you.

Franco had to consider this, and while he was, he took out a large capsule and popped it beneath his nose, inhaling and then shuddering as the drug hit his system. It was a popper (aka amyl nitrate), which Roan knew from the sharp, acrid scent wafting over the table. How people did those he had no idea, to him it was the drug version of absinthe. After he took a minute to enjoy the popper, Franco finally said he might be able to hook him up with a guy who had the real deal, but he was really careful, and picky, and he’d want hard cash up front. Roan gave him the number for a cheap, prepaid cell he kept around for undercover purposes, and Franco indicated this discussion was over by asking one of the heavily tattooed waitresses for another rum and cola.

As Roan stood up, he saw Zack pinballing around the crowd in his frantic run for the bathroom, and he seemed to make it. He caught up with Grey and Scott as they made their way back to the bar. “What happened to him?” Roan asked.

Grey, smirking, told him, “We saw a guy getting his dick pierced.”

“Better him than me,” Scott added. “God, my dick still hurts from just watching it.”

“I’d think it’d be hurting from your constant abuse,” Grey retorted.

“Hilarious,” Scott replied, with no humor whatsoever.

After a moment, Roan said, “Not that I’m casting aspersions, but should you leave Zack on his own in that bathroom?”

Scott and Grey exchanged concerned looks before Grey heaved a martyr’s sigh, and said, “Fine, I’ll go keep him from being ass raped by a congressman.”

“I don’t know,” Roan replied. “Those closet cases are incredibly strong.”

This made Scott chuckle, although since he was a bit of a closet case himself, Roan wasn’t sure why. As soon as Grey was gone, Roan had a chance to talk to him alone. “You know, I wanted to thank you for that pep talk.”

“Huh? Oh, that was nothing.”

“No, it helped. I need a kick in the ass sometimes. But I was thinking that whole trailblazer thing was so well rehearsed… that’s what you’ve told yourself, isn’t it? Trying to convince yourself to come out.”

Scott grimaced and looked away, many different expressions playing across his face, his jaw clenching and unclenching, before he said, “I can’t. I mean, I know someone has to be first, someone has to be brave enough… but it’s not me. I’ve played hockey all my life, and I want to have a career in it. Is it fair that my admitting I’m bi might impact my career chances? No, it isn’t, but it’s the way things are right now. Maybe if I get into the NHL, maybe then I’ll come out… but I can’t right now. I can’t risk it. I know it’s chickenshit, but there it is.”

Roan didn’t know what to say. He should probably tell him he wasn’t being a coward, that it was all he could do right now, but he didn’t, because he didn’t see how hiding your true self could be healthy for anyone. Yeah, Scott might not have a professional career, but personally he’d probably be a lot happier. Still, it was his choice to make, and Roan had no room to make judgments, as much as he wanted to.

Tank was having too much fun. Mainly because he was now dancing on the bar, waggling his ass in an exaggerated manner. He took off his shirt and started swinging it around, much to the cheers of the crowd. His astounding six-pack abs got a round of applause. Fiona was egging him on and laughing at the same time, enjoying the show.

“Was the absinthe that good?” Roan asked Scott.

He shook his head. “Tank just does this sometimes. Wait—when he strips down to his underwear, they’ll be novelty shorts, with cartoon characters on them or something.”

“So all goalies are like this?”

“Nobody’s like Tank. That’s probably for the best. I don’t think the world could take two of ’em at once.”

Truer words had probably never been spoken.

Run It Through the Dog

T
HE
night turned into a minifiasco, as it was bound to.

It started when a drunk Zack started chatting up a woman dressed like a Halloween version of a dominatrix (black vinyl bra top, matching tight skirt, heels high enough to stake a vampire with), who had a fairly realistic Chinese dragon tattoo running from her stomach to the base of her throat, curving around like an apostrophe, peeking out of her bra like it was taking a measured gaze at the crowd. She didn’t look that into him, but humored him because he bought her a drink. Then an angry boyfriend showed up, a muscle-bound behemoth who looked like he had just walked off the set of
The Road Warrior
, with a brand (not a tattoo, an actual brand burned into his upper arm, like a cattle rancher had been at him) and a flat strip of a Mohawk on his otherwise shaved scalp. He grabbed Zack by the back of the neck before throwing him off his bar stool. Dallas shouted that he was out of there, and summoned what passed for security, but Grey got there first. Grey grabbed the man by the arm and all but threw him out onto his ass on the dance floor, telling him to back the fuck off. (Mohawk had about fifty pounds on Grey, but Roan would still give this fight to Grey, because fighting was in his job description. It was how he made a living, and he did it well.)