“Can’t do, sorry. Parents having a fundraiser. Just found out the Chief’ll be there.” I waggled my brows.
“Kissing some ass, then?”
“Whatever it takes,” I replied. Luis knew about my FBI plans. Everyone in the division knew. “Kissing ass, sucking cock.” I blanched at the words as I said them. I had been trying to not to think about that very thing all day. My stare settled outside my window where rolling green lawns sparkled with sprinklers.
Now I was thinking about jizz.
“Hey, you don’t need to kiss ass, kid.” I didn’t mind the nickname, though it was condescending. He could’ve called me a lot worse than ‘kid’.
Way back when I started the force, I got a lot of flak from the other officers. My family was rich—I was rich. A lot of the guys assumed, rightly or not, that being a cop was just some flakey rich kid’s rebellion. I was going to college at night back then. My days were spent on patrol. I joined the police force early so I could get the required experience before I applied with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Rich kid joining the police force for kicks? That was bad. Rich kid using the police force for his own ambitions? That, other cops could understand, even if they didn't approve of it. Ambition meant that I was going to work my ass off. And I did.
“I gotta kiss ass, Luis. You know it, and I know it. My record’s good, but when the hiring freeze is over, applications are going to pile high. I want mine to rise to the top.” I batted my lashes at him, adding in an affected feminine voice, “Like lovely clotted cream.” This earned me another swat to the head.
Whatever. I still felt on top of the world, even though I was going to spend the rest of my shift doing nothing but cataloging evidence and filing paperwork.
We left the station around midnight, exhausted, but still on a high from our bust. Although Alvarado had lawyered up, we had good evidence: Mexican passports and I.D.s; pictures of men, women and children along with names and ages; paperwork on various warehouses in the city and a hefty sum of cash. I waved goodnight to Luis, fully intending to head home and sleep—or, more likely, blackout. But once out on the road my car seemed to steer on its own.
Neutral Schmeutral
Throughout my crazy day, I had failed to keep my mind off Bunny Slippers, but at least they were neutral thoughts. Was he a college student, working as a busboy to pay his tuition? Did he live at home, or in a dorm? What did he taste like?
Maybe not so neutral.
This obsession was terrifying. I couldn’t go one hour without thinking about him. I was sick of thinking about it. My sexuality shouldn’t be an issue at twenty-six. I had to do something. To prove…Prove what? I didn’t know. My answer was inside the diner; I had somehow convinced myself of that much.
The thought of even possibly being gay terrified me. I worked hard to prove myself on the force, and soon I'd have enough experience as a detective to apply to the FBI. Law enforcement careers weren’t particularly conducive to being gay. And fuck it, I’m not gay. Goddammit.
I’m bunny-slipper-sexual?
Not gay, but there I was, sitting in my car, parked in the diner’s lot, watching the alley through my rearview mirror. My stomach twisted at the thought of seeing him. It was becoming more and more difficult to swallow with the knot in my throat. And I had barely thought about Angelica all day.
“You’re an asshat, Austin,” I said to myself.
Shit. Hell. Damn.
Go home. Call Angelica. Or go to a shoe store and buy the boy some loafers.
I switched the car on and prepared to pull out. The dashboard clock blinked at me. I had been sitting here three hours arguing with myself over whether to go in or go home.
Three hours.
Oh, Christ. This was getting creepy.
Reaching for the stick shift, I got ready to pull out. The side door to the restaurant opened.
I froze as the lighter illuminated his cheek and lips. He took a long drag, billowing smoke out into the night. My heart beat erratically. I sat there, same position as last time, same neck ache, same inability to leave. He was about fifteen feet from my Jag. Fifteen bunny-slippered feet.
Even this late, the parking lot was full of battered cars, probably from club-goers getting a last meal before passing out. But mine was the only car idling. Which was why I wasn’t surprised when Bunny Slippers propped his shoulder against the wall, cocking his head slightly as he looked toward my car. My breath halted. I was sure he couldn’t see me through the darkened windows, but somehow, it felt like he was seeing right into my slipper-obsessed soul.
The bunny slippers, a different pair—and how many did he have, for fuck’s sake?—appeared under the street lights as he walked toward my car, cigarette flicking from his fingers and bouncing across the pavement. I followed the trail of red sparks until they burned out. “Fuck,” I whispered.