any cocaine,” Eliot said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “He wanted another BJ, and because he didn’t have any coke, he said he’d pay me some money instead and give me his dealer’s number. So it’s pretty much the same thing. I blow him, I get coke.” Eliot shrugged.
Loren felt like he’d stumbled into some alternate reality, thinking maybe this was a horrible dream. But no, the smell of the equipment room and the sight of Eliot with swollen lips and drying come caught in his stubble was all too real.
The sound of his heart breaking could doubtless be heard in the next county.
“So what we’ve been doing, talking about, it was—what was it, El?” he rasped around the ground glass in his throat. “Just saying what you thought I wanted to hear so I’d get you off?”
“It’s so much better with you than it’s ever been with anyone else, Loren,” Eliot said earnestly, taking another step forward. “You make me feel so good. Thank you.”
“ Thank —”Loren’s voice choked off, and he closed his eyes. He didn’t know Eliot had gotten so close until he felt a gentle hand on his cheek.
“Loren, I lo—”
Loren shoved him hard. “Get away from me, you fucking crazy son of a bitch!”
He turned and ran out of the building, never once looking back.
Later that night, Eliot Devlin attempted suicide.
He didn’t succeed.
Chapter 4
Present Day
“IT MUST be fags’ night out,” Slats muttered darkly, looking at the crowd of men, sneering at one couple who was making out in the shadows not far away. “Ain’t never seen this shithole so fuckin’ packed.”
The club was one of those hole-in-the-wall nasty places Loren would never have patronized on his own. If he was going to go to a gay club, and he’d been to plenty over the years, he preferred it to be lively, with good music, an interesting mix of clientele, strong drinks, and at least a passing attempt at being clean. He didn’t care for strip clubs all that much either, although he’d been to plenty of those too.
The club they were sitting in was a true dive, the kind that reeked of stale smoke, sour sweat, and desperation. The floors were sticky, the hallways dark and shadowed on purpose, with plenty of private rooms for those patrons who desired more… er, commercial company. It was the kind of place that turned the stomach at night and would be horrifying in the unforgiving light of day.
“Then get to it and let’s get outta here,” Loren said to his companion impatiently, chugging his beer. “What you got for me?”
“Shit, man, I heard from some dude I know that a group a’ Mexican coyotes has started a side business,” Slats said. “The assholes is separating the women out, tellin’ ’em they’ll move ’em across the border for free and then sellin’ them to a couple pimps up here. Then the pimps either put ’em to work on the streets or farm ’em out to whorehouses and whatnot.”
Slats gave a dramatic pause, acting like he expected Loren to be shocked at the news, but human trafficking was a blight Loren had run into all too often in his career, and sadly it didn’t shock him anymore. Still, if Slats had some names and locations, maybe Loren could pass the word on to the right ears and get this particular pipeline shut down.
Slats was a tweaker—reformed, he claimed—and he was being paid five hundred dollars a week to introduce Loren to drug suppliers as a new player in town and accompany him to actual drug buys to help grease the wheels. He was also to step in and take a hit, a puff, a bump, whatever, if the supplier insisted they sample his product as a show of good faith. As a sworn police officer and honorary federal agent, Loren had to avoid taking drugs at all costs unless his life depended on it. Slats, as a so-called “narcotics exception,” made that unnecessary, and Loren grudgingly had to admit the D-bag was earning his keep for that alone.
Slats was
Loren felt like he’d stumbled into some alternate reality, thinking maybe this was a horrible dream. But no, the smell of the equipment room and the sight of Eliot with swollen lips and drying come caught in his stubble was all too real.
The sound of his heart breaking could doubtless be heard in the next county.
“So what we’ve been doing, talking about, it was—what was it, El?” he rasped around the ground glass in his throat. “Just saying what you thought I wanted to hear so I’d get you off?”
“It’s so much better with you than it’s ever been with anyone else, Loren,” Eliot said earnestly, taking another step forward. “You make me feel so good. Thank you.”
“ Thank —”Loren’s voice choked off, and he closed his eyes. He didn’t know Eliot had gotten so close until he felt a gentle hand on his cheek.
“Loren, I lo—”
Loren shoved him hard. “Get away from me, you fucking crazy son of a bitch!”
He turned and ran out of the building, never once looking back.
Later that night, Eliot Devlin attempted suicide.
He didn’t succeed.
Chapter 4
Present Day
“IT MUST be fags’ night out,” Slats muttered darkly, looking at the crowd of men, sneering at one couple who was making out in the shadows not far away. “Ain’t never seen this shithole so fuckin’ packed.”
The club was one of those hole-in-the-wall nasty places Loren would never have patronized on his own. If he was going to go to a gay club, and he’d been to plenty over the years, he preferred it to be lively, with good music, an interesting mix of clientele, strong drinks, and at least a passing attempt at being clean. He didn’t care for strip clubs all that much either, although he’d been to plenty of those too.
The club they were sitting in was a true dive, the kind that reeked of stale smoke, sour sweat, and desperation. The floors were sticky, the hallways dark and shadowed on purpose, with plenty of private rooms for those patrons who desired more… er, commercial company. It was the kind of place that turned the stomach at night and would be horrifying in the unforgiving light of day.
“Then get to it and let’s get outta here,” Loren said to his companion impatiently, chugging his beer. “What you got for me?”
“Shit, man, I heard from some dude I know that a group a’ Mexican coyotes has started a side business,” Slats said. “The assholes is separating the women out, tellin’ ’em they’ll move ’em across the border for free and then sellin’ them to a couple pimps up here. Then the pimps either put ’em to work on the streets or farm ’em out to whorehouses and whatnot.”
Slats gave a dramatic pause, acting like he expected Loren to be shocked at the news, but human trafficking was a blight Loren had run into all too often in his career, and sadly it didn’t shock him anymore. Still, if Slats had some names and locations, maybe Loren could pass the word on to the right ears and get this particular pipeline shut down.
Slats was a tweaker—reformed, he claimed—and he was being paid five hundred dollars a week to introduce Loren to drug suppliers as a new player in town and accompany him to actual drug buys to help grease the wheels. He was also to step in and take a hit, a puff, a bump, whatever, if the supplier insisted they sample his product as a show of good faith. As a sworn police officer and honorary federal agent, Loren had to avoid taking drugs at all costs unless his life depended on it. Slats, as a so-called “narcotics exception,” made that unnecessary, and Loren grudgingly had to admit the D-bag was earning his keep for that alone.
Slats was
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