down a box and carried it to the table. He shook his head. “I don’t know
what it means. Quit asking me.”
“At least tell me what you’re thinking. You know I have your back no matter what.” “Yeah,” James acknowledged. “I know you do.”
He collected two more boxes of evidence and returned to the table with them, while
Greg sorted through the contents.
“Remember that guy from the camp I hassled?”
“Powell, the FBI suit. I remember.”
James pretended to be engrossed in the carton he was searching. “I wanted him.” “Wanted how?”
“Wanted like you think I mean,” James muttered. “Knight had him and it pissed me off.
Knight’s as straight as you get—I thought. But he had Powell and I saw them together.” Greg stopped organising the piles on the table top to look at him. James could feel
Greg’s eyes watching him. He appeared cautious, but he was listening.
“I didn’t understand why I was so angry at the time. But what they were doing—God, I
wanted it.”
“You wanted Knight to give you a blow job?” Greg asked carefully.
“I wanted to give Powell—I wanted him to make those sounds for me.” James rushed to
explain. His face burned, but he knew the conversation wouldn’t go any further. “And you’re just figuring this out now? Don’t you think if you were gay you’d know it
before thirty?”
“I knew.”
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t,” Greg countered.
“I knew but I didn’t want to know. If that makes sense. The kiss last week made it
impossible to ignore. Don’t get me wrong, I sure as hell tried to ignore it.”
“That’s why you got into a bar fight?”
“Pretty much.”
“Now what?” Greg asked.
“Great question. I’m kind of wearing it around for now.”
Greg nodded thoughtfully. After a moment, he resumed the evidence retrieval. “Okay,
then.”
“Okay, then,” James repeated.
“What are we looking for?” Greg asked, completely letting the subject drop. James smiled with relief, feeling his shoulders drop. “Her ring. She was engaged,
according to her parents and her co-workers. Mindy, the older woman, even commented on
the design. So why haven’t we found her ring?”
“Maybe she didn’t wear it that day.”
James pulled out the surveillance tapes from the diner. “Let’s go through them and see
if we can find out.”
“You think the fiancé has the ring?”
“I’m counting on it.”
Chapter Eleven
The rest of Friday seemed to roll a little smoother, and he found himself whistling as he walked through the front door at the end of the day. Friday was the day Shawn cooked huge quantities of food. He stopped whistling, smiled and inhaled deeply when he stepped through the foyer towards the kitchen. He stood for a few minutes watching his room-mate bustle around.
Shawn had tied an apron around his waist. His hair was mussed and it looked like the unnatural tuft in the front had to do with wet flour, if the smear across his cheek was any indication.
Red sauce bubbled on the stove. Shawn sidestepped, stirred and dropped a lid on top. Then picking up a different spatula, he stirred the contents of a pan that had some intoxicating combination of what smelt like onions, garlic, herbs and mushrooms.
The oven dinged. James felt his face split wider as the frenetic movements of the other man erupted into babble as Shawn talked himself through something in his current plan.
The oven had a casserole dish, foil-wrapped French bread and two covered pots inside. Shawn murmured approval, turned the oven to warm and closed it up again.
Yep, it was Friday. Two Fridays in a row suggested a possible pattern, and a pattern of dinner together pleased James immensely beyond the expectation of some serious food consumption. Standing in the kitchen watching Shawn, he already couldn’t wait to see what he prepared next week.
Last week had been Tex-Mex, when James had gone on a date. Now he wished he could do that day over. The week before, Shawn’s first week
what it means. Quit asking me.”
“At least tell me what you’re thinking. You know I have your back no matter what.” “Yeah,” James acknowledged. “I know you do.”
He collected two more boxes of evidence and returned to the table with them, while
Greg sorted through the contents.
“Remember that guy from the camp I hassled?”
“Powell, the FBI suit. I remember.”
James pretended to be engrossed in the carton he was searching. “I wanted him.” “Wanted how?”
“Wanted like you think I mean,” James muttered. “Knight had him and it pissed me off.
Knight’s as straight as you get—I thought. But he had Powell and I saw them together.” Greg stopped organising the piles on the table top to look at him. James could feel
Greg’s eyes watching him. He appeared cautious, but he was listening.
“I didn’t understand why I was so angry at the time. But what they were doing—God, I
wanted it.”
“You wanted Knight to give you a blow job?” Greg asked carefully.
“I wanted to give Powell—I wanted him to make those sounds for me.” James rushed to
explain. His face burned, but he knew the conversation wouldn’t go any further. “And you’re just figuring this out now? Don’t you think if you were gay you’d know it
before thirty?”
“I knew.”
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t,” Greg countered.
“I knew but I didn’t want to know. If that makes sense. The kiss last week made it
impossible to ignore. Don’t get me wrong, I sure as hell tried to ignore it.”
“That’s why you got into a bar fight?”
“Pretty much.”
“Now what?” Greg asked.
“Great question. I’m kind of wearing it around for now.”
Greg nodded thoughtfully. After a moment, he resumed the evidence retrieval. “Okay,
then.”
“Okay, then,” James repeated.
“What are we looking for?” Greg asked, completely letting the subject drop. James smiled with relief, feeling his shoulders drop. “Her ring. She was engaged,
according to her parents and her co-workers. Mindy, the older woman, even commented on
the design. So why haven’t we found her ring?”
“Maybe she didn’t wear it that day.”
James pulled out the surveillance tapes from the diner. “Let’s go through them and see
if we can find out.”
“You think the fiancé has the ring?”
“I’m counting on it.”
Chapter Eleven
The rest of Friday seemed to roll a little smoother, and he found himself whistling as he walked through the front door at the end of the day. Friday was the day Shawn cooked huge quantities of food. He stopped whistling, smiled and inhaled deeply when he stepped through the foyer towards the kitchen. He stood for a few minutes watching his room-mate bustle around.
Shawn had tied an apron around his waist. His hair was mussed and it looked like the unnatural tuft in the front had to do with wet flour, if the smear across his cheek was any indication.
Red sauce bubbled on the stove. Shawn sidestepped, stirred and dropped a lid on top. Then picking up a different spatula, he stirred the contents of a pan that had some intoxicating combination of what smelt like onions, garlic, herbs and mushrooms.
The oven dinged. James felt his face split wider as the frenetic movements of the other man erupted into babble as Shawn talked himself through something in his current plan.
The oven had a casserole dish, foil-wrapped French bread and two covered pots inside. Shawn murmured approval, turned the oven to warm and closed it up again.
Yep, it was Friday. Two Fridays in a row suggested a possible pattern, and a pattern of dinner together pleased James immensely beyond the expectation of some serious food consumption. Standing in the kitchen watching Shawn, he already couldn’t wait to see what he prepared next week.
Last week had been Tex-Mex, when James had gone on a date. Now he wished he could do that day over. The week before, Shawn’s first week
Similar Books
