Peter followed the other boy’s stare, twisting in his seat. “What—” His smile was so breathtaking, in the split second I got to see it, that my hands briefly tightened into fists. Then the smile was gone. “Cai, get your things and go home.” Peter’s eyes never left me.
Cai blinked and flashed a confused squint to Peter. “But—”
“Now,” Peter interrupted and began to scoot out of the booth; I stood at the end of his seat, caging him in.
Cai offered a shy, inquisitive peek under his black bangs while he grabbed a messenger bag, putting his drawing tablet inside. “Night, Rabbit.” He directed a twitchy smile at me and hesitated before slipping out of the booth and disappearing behind the kitchen doors. I propped my chin in my palm as I took his place at the table.
“Have I been too subtly hostile?” Peter said, clasping his hands and leaning forward. “Was my I'd-only-have-sex-with-you-if-you-paid-me statement too vague? Exactly how do I get rid of you? A billboard? A letter in braille? Sign language? I could threaten to go to the cops, but I think we both can agree that would be pointless.”
I couldn’t place the reason for my nervousness. For my sweaty palms and racing heart. I wasn’t intimidated by his words or his anger. I wasn’t scared in the traditional sense. And let’s face it, someone named Peter Cotton wasn’t exactly ominous. It was just him and his furious eyes. He got to me. “Your freckles are adorable.” Somehow I didn’t think Luis would approve of that opening line. And, by his incredulous glare, I knew Peter didn’t. That, or he was seeing spiders crawl out of my ears.
“You’re not just short a few sandwiches,” he said, lip curling up in disgust. “Your picnic is missing the basket and blanket. There’s not even ants at your picnic.”
I couldn’t help the grin. “Tell me about Prisc Alvarado.”
“What?” His eyes blinked wide, head jerking backwards. And then he quickly adopted an air of indifference.
“Is he my competition?” I asked.
“Everyone is your competition.” Peter lifted his hand to his eyes and began lowering it incrementally. “It goes normal human beings, crazies, republicans, my hand, imaginary characters, corpses and then, in a moment of lustful psychosis, you.” By the time he was done, his hand was below the table.
Ouch. “A little over the top, don’t you think?”
“No.” He tried to scoot out again. I laid my badge on the table and he hesitated, a brief pull of his brows as he stared at it.
“I really do need to know about Prisc,” I said. “Officially.”
He sat back down and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t help you. And if this is some kind of ruse to get in my pants, it won’t work.”
“We’ve established how I can get into your pants. And I didn’t bring any cash.”
“That was a one-time offer.”
“For me? Or does Prisc get a discount?”
At this rate, the sheer amount of time he spent glaring at me was making me immune to it. “Why the sudden interest in Iss? I didn’t see your car stalking me today, but it can’t be coincidence that he came see me on the same day you question me about him.”
“Different car. And I wasn’t stalking.” Yes I was.
“Don’t worry. Not like I could report you, is it?” He sneered.
“Are you genuinely asking? Because if so, yeah, you can report me.” I reached into my inside coat pocket and retrieved my wallet, a pen and one of my business cards. I wrote two numbers on the back and slid the card in front of Peter. “That’s my full name and rank on the front. The back is my badge number and the number to my direct superior. You can make the complaint to Captain Ashenafi Mangistu.”
“You’re making up that name,” he challenged.
“No. He’s Ethiopian, and he’s very uptight, politically correct and there’s not an ounce of corruption in his soul.” Damn.
Peter eyed the card for a few seconds and then met my eyes as he reached over, palming it. “And what would he do?”
“Probably suspend me pending an investigation,” I said honestly. “Internal Affairs would be called in. It’s not like the movies, they don’t all band together around me and create an impenetrable blue wall.” My heart twisted in new ways that had nothing to do with my attraction for Peter.
“Especially not a faggot,” he challenged, arms crossing in front of him.
Ouch again. I was going to need stitches if the jabs continued this sharply. “I don’t know. Maybe one of them would try to convince you I’m a great guy.”