have conniption fits.”
“My first night on the job, and you’re already planning to destroy it.”
“Not destroy, it’s such a harsh word.” He paused, mainly for effect. “I prefer bloodless coup. Or bloody coup, as long as there’s some kind of coup, I’m good.”
Dylan was shaking his head, but he was still smiling. No matter what, Roan knew he could make him laugh, and that was a good feeling. “Did you just come here to sabotage me or what?”
“Curses, foiled again. No, well, besides that, I just wanted to let you know I might not be home when you get home.”
His face fell, and while he tried to smooth it over, Dylan clearly wasn’t happy. “Why not?”
He gave him the shorthand version of what had happened at Club Damage. He seemed as bewildered as Roan felt. “What? How the hell did it get into Damage?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. And that smell… it was like a chemical factory, even counting out the perfume. I haven’t smelled a lot of poison, but it wasn’t anything that seemed possible. All I could think was chemical weapon, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you okay?”
“Superhuman, remember? She never even scratched me.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
No, it wasn’t, was it? He was ready to lie, but Dylan’s dark eyes were sympathetic and imploring. With a sigh, he admitted, “I dunno. This is really bothering me, and I can’t say why.”
Dylan briefly put his hand over his before removing it, a quick caress, and probably all the public display of gayness that he dare risk here. “Because it’s a puzzle, and you do love your puzzles.” He said it with a kind of affectionate weariness, like he knew that Roan was going to be preoccupied and busy for the near future.
“I love you too, you know,” he replied.
Dylan gave him a brittle smile. “I know. But if you don’t solve this, it will kill you. I should be used to being a detective’s husband by now.”
“How do you think it is for me, being a bartender’s husband? Especially when that husband will only give me pineapple juice.”
There was an overweight guy approaching the bar, looking like the most harried ad man in existence, so Dylan gave Roan a sly smile as he turned away. “Gotta earn better,” he whispered with a wink.
He should have known—blackmail. Bastard. Husbands were all alike.
Of course the case wasn’t why he’d be home late, it would be Dee chewing him out. But he didn’t want to admit he’d be home late because of an ex-boyfriend, even though there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d ever sleep together and Dylan knew it.
Dee had an apartment in a downtown complex with decent security, although the weather-beaten brick facade made it look more run-down and an easier mark. For a man who hated heights, it was probably ironic that he lived on the top floor (the eighth), but he didn’t like having people over his head (in an apartment sense).
As if Roan by himself wasn’t enough to put the lie to the stereotype that all gay men were neat and good decorators, Dee nailed it home. His apartment was generally a mess, a riot of dirty clothes and unopened mail, unwashed dishes and empty cartons. He basically cleaned up when he had days off, so then it looked like less than a pigsty, but during the work week it was like visiting a straight frat boy’s place, and it caused no end of amusement. It even smelled like stale beer and Chinese food starting to go south. He wondered how Luke, his boyfriend, liked this. (But he was a male nurse, just as busy, so maybe his place was similar.)
“Weren’t you two moving in together?” Roan asked, as he moved Dee’s uniform jacket aside and sat down on the ratty blue sofa that Dee had had as long as he had known him.
Dee was obviously just home from work. His hair was still wet from the shower, pasted down to his scalp, and he wore a gray sweatshirt and navy sweatpants. He looked tired but frazzled, which was typical after work.
“My first night on the job, and you’re already planning to destroy it.”
“Not destroy, it’s such a harsh word.” He paused, mainly for effect. “I prefer bloodless coup. Or bloody coup, as long as there’s some kind of coup, I’m good.”
Dylan was shaking his head, but he was still smiling. No matter what, Roan knew he could make him laugh, and that was a good feeling. “Did you just come here to sabotage me or what?”
“Curses, foiled again. No, well, besides that, I just wanted to let you know I might not be home when you get home.”
His face fell, and while he tried to smooth it over, Dylan clearly wasn’t happy. “Why not?”
He gave him the shorthand version of what had happened at Club Damage. He seemed as bewildered as Roan felt. “What? How the hell did it get into Damage?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. And that smell… it was like a chemical factory, even counting out the perfume. I haven’t smelled a lot of poison, but it wasn’t anything that seemed possible. All I could think was chemical weapon, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you okay?”
“Superhuman, remember? She never even scratched me.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
No, it wasn’t, was it? He was ready to lie, but Dylan’s dark eyes were sympathetic and imploring. With a sigh, he admitted, “I dunno. This is really bothering me, and I can’t say why.”
Dylan briefly put his hand over his before removing it, a quick caress, and probably all the public display of gayness that he dare risk here. “Because it’s a puzzle, and you do love your puzzles.” He said it with a kind of affectionate weariness, like he knew that Roan was going to be preoccupied and busy for the near future.
“I love you too, you know,” he replied.
Dylan gave him a brittle smile. “I know. But if you don’t solve this, it will kill you. I should be used to being a detective’s husband by now.”
“How do you think it is for me, being a bartender’s husband? Especially when that husband will only give me pineapple juice.”
There was an overweight guy approaching the bar, looking like the most harried ad man in existence, so Dylan gave Roan a sly smile as he turned away. “Gotta earn better,” he whispered with a wink.
He should have known—blackmail. Bastard. Husbands were all alike.
Of course the case wasn’t why he’d be home late, it would be Dee chewing him out. But he didn’t want to admit he’d be home late because of an ex-boyfriend, even though there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d ever sleep together and Dylan knew it.
Dee had an apartment in a downtown complex with decent security, although the weather-beaten brick facade made it look more run-down and an easier mark. For a man who hated heights, it was probably ironic that he lived on the top floor (the eighth), but he didn’t like having people over his head (in an apartment sense).
As if Roan by himself wasn’t enough to put the lie to the stereotype that all gay men were neat and good decorators, Dee nailed it home. His apartment was generally a mess, a riot of dirty clothes and unopened mail, unwashed dishes and empty cartons. He basically cleaned up when he had days off, so then it looked like less than a pigsty, but during the work week it was like visiting a straight frat boy’s place, and it caused no end of amusement. It even smelled like stale beer and Chinese food starting to go south. He wondered how Luke, his boyfriend, liked this. (But he was a male nurse, just as busy, so maybe his place was similar.)
“Weren’t you two moving in together?” Roan asked, as he moved Dee’s uniform jacket aside and sat down on the ratty blue sofa that Dee had had as long as he had known him.
Dee was obviously just home from work. His hair was still wet from the shower, pasted down to his scalp, and he wore a gray sweatshirt and navy sweatpants. He looked tired but frazzled, which was typical after work.
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