Mitch's new non-caffeinated faux-coffee."
Greg shuddered, face turning, looking, searching. "I think it's made
from desiccated earthworms."
"There you go. That's gross." The Camaro looked fine, cherry-red and
chrome shining in the streetlight, but he stopped Greg all the same and
checked it over. Just in case. Then he opened the door, letting Greg
brush against him a little. No one said he was a saint.
"Thank you. It is." Greg settled into the passenger's seat with a
sigh, slipping on some thin gloves—finger condoms he called them
when things weren't serious. "I'll hold the food."
"Cool. Here goes." That holding food on his lap and driving thing?
Not easy. They got out without anyone hitting them and headed for home
... Greg's place.
"Don't touch the trash can." Greg walked well around it, balancing
the food as those long legs took the back steps. The lid wasn't there,
the top bag intact. Goddamnit. He'd bet his bottom dollar that son of a
bitch had been here when Greg left. "Come on, Artie. Come in and eat.
Don't forget the pictures."
"I got it." Grabbing the folder, he wandered in after, checking the
danger spots. There was a shiny new lock on the back door. Thank God.
Greg handed him the food, unlocked the door. "I have new keys for you. Everything but the elevator. That's the same."
Just announce it out here in the open, professor. Christ.
"In, man. In." He wanted to get the fuck out of the alley. His neck
itched. And he wanted ribs, too. With sauce. The kind you had to wear a
bib to eat.
"Got it." There was nothing like the smell of Greg's
apartment—cinnamon and musk and eucalyptus and Greg. Damn. "Come
on in. I'll get plates."
"Be right there." He dialed the precinct, got the drive-bys to come
by more often, look for the white pickup. Then Artie got cups,
silverware, leaving the folder in the kitchen when they headed out to
sit at the table, not wanting it to ruin the meal. Oh, man. Biscuits.
Damn.
Greg provided butter, honey, a bottle of hot sauce for the greens.
Damn, it looked better than take-out, dished up and waiting on that
shiny table.
Artie groaned, flopping down and digging in to fill his plate. "God, it's been a long week."
Greg nodded, stealing a biscuit first, slathering it with butter and
honey. "The store had good sales this week, Alice said. People ramping
up for Halloween. Lots of books on love spells and hexes and voodoo
dolls."
"Lord, lord. It'll be crazy that night, huh?" All cops dreaded Halloween. "Agatha wanted me to take the kids trick-or-treating."
"You should bring them here. Alice has a whole thing
planned—kid-friendly and everything. They could rest in between
hunting candy." Greg dug into the macaroni with a happy sound. "Alice
and Mitch are dressing as Cupid and Psyche."
"That's ... terrifying." Mitch as Cupid. Well, they always showed
the little guy as kinda ... doughy. "Do you really want the twins?"
"I'm staying in the office, but I'd like to see them." Greg
shrugged, took some chicken, managing to lean over just in time not to
drip on the pure white sweater. "I'll be near the elevator in case I
get tired of the crush."
"It's a deal, then." His sister's kids were trying. But, hell, he
and Agatha had been that way. "Jeez, that macaroni is to die for. Put
that place on speed dial."
"The beans are up there, too. How're the greens?" Greg was leaning now, shoes off, relaxed. Better. Much better.
"Good. A judicious use of pork fat." Artie wiggled, settling his ass
in his chair. Much, much better. Maybe they could have a slow couple of
days.
Greg reached over, speared a bite from Artie's plate, and ate it. "Oh, not bad at all. I like."
Greg stole another bite, nodding.
He raised an eyebrow. "You got a thing against taking some for
yourself?" Not that he minded, and Greg knew it. He just had to tease.
"Yes, detective. Yours tastes better." Greg grinned, stole another bite.
"Yeah? I wonder if your biscuit is better than mine..." He nabbed a bite, humming at the
Greg shuddered, face turning, looking, searching. "I think it's made
from desiccated earthworms."
"There you go. That's gross." The Camaro looked fine, cherry-red and
chrome shining in the streetlight, but he stopped Greg all the same and
checked it over. Just in case. Then he opened the door, letting Greg
brush against him a little. No one said he was a saint.
"Thank you. It is." Greg settled into the passenger's seat with a
sigh, slipping on some thin gloves—finger condoms he called them
when things weren't serious. "I'll hold the food."
"Cool. Here goes." That holding food on his lap and driving thing?
Not easy. They got out without anyone hitting them and headed for home
... Greg's place.
"Don't touch the trash can." Greg walked well around it, balancing
the food as those long legs took the back steps. The lid wasn't there,
the top bag intact. Goddamnit. He'd bet his bottom dollar that son of a
bitch had been here when Greg left. "Come on, Artie. Come in and eat.
Don't forget the pictures."
"I got it." Grabbing the folder, he wandered in after, checking the
danger spots. There was a shiny new lock on the back door. Thank God.
Greg handed him the food, unlocked the door. "I have new keys for you. Everything but the elevator. That's the same."
Just announce it out here in the open, professor. Christ.
"In, man. In." He wanted to get the fuck out of the alley. His neck
itched. And he wanted ribs, too. With sauce. The kind you had to wear a
bib to eat.
"Got it." There was nothing like the smell of Greg's
apartment—cinnamon and musk and eucalyptus and Greg. Damn. "Come
on in. I'll get plates."
"Be right there." He dialed the precinct, got the drive-bys to come
by more often, look for the white pickup. Then Artie got cups,
silverware, leaving the folder in the kitchen when they headed out to
sit at the table, not wanting it to ruin the meal. Oh, man. Biscuits.
Damn.
Greg provided butter, honey, a bottle of hot sauce for the greens.
Damn, it looked better than take-out, dished up and waiting on that
shiny table.
Artie groaned, flopping down and digging in to fill his plate. "God, it's been a long week."
Greg nodded, stealing a biscuit first, slathering it with butter and
honey. "The store had good sales this week, Alice said. People ramping
up for Halloween. Lots of books on love spells and hexes and voodoo
dolls."
"Lord, lord. It'll be crazy that night, huh?" All cops dreaded Halloween. "Agatha wanted me to take the kids trick-or-treating."
"You should bring them here. Alice has a whole thing
planned—kid-friendly and everything. They could rest in between
hunting candy." Greg dug into the macaroni with a happy sound. "Alice
and Mitch are dressing as Cupid and Psyche."
"That's ... terrifying." Mitch as Cupid. Well, they always showed
the little guy as kinda ... doughy. "Do you really want the twins?"
"I'm staying in the office, but I'd like to see them." Greg
shrugged, took some chicken, managing to lean over just in time not to
drip on the pure white sweater. "I'll be near the elevator in case I
get tired of the crush."
"It's a deal, then." His sister's kids were trying. But, hell, he
and Agatha had been that way. "Jeez, that macaroni is to die for. Put
that place on speed dial."
"The beans are up there, too. How're the greens?" Greg was leaning now, shoes off, relaxed. Better. Much better.
"Good. A judicious use of pork fat." Artie wiggled, settling his ass
in his chair. Much, much better. Maybe they could have a slow couple of
days.
Greg reached over, speared a bite from Artie's plate, and ate it. "Oh, not bad at all. I like."
Greg stole another bite, nodding.
He raised an eyebrow. "You got a thing against taking some for
yourself?" Not that he minded, and Greg knew it. He just had to tease.
"Yes, detective. Yours tastes better." Greg grinned, stole another bite.
"Yeah? I wonder if your biscuit is better than mine..." He nabbed a bite, humming at the
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