Black Mustard: Justice (3 page)

Loic pointed. Firmly.

He looked down, grinned at the message.

“What’s your excuse, asshole?”

“Asshole? Listen to you! I remember when you wouldn’t stoop to calling me anything but Hibbideux. Now you’re texting perversities at me.”

Loic stared him down.

“I bet that’s like... sexual harassment or something.”

More staring.

“Lunch. Shrimp at Duvet’s?” They both liked it there, it was quiet, quick, good, and had free wi-fi, so Loic could text away and they could chat.

Loic nodded, handed him the Mitchell file, the papers marked with dozens of pink and orange sticky notes, all scribbled on in Loic’s blocky handwriting.

“You still need this or is it mine?”

Loic tapped the post-it note on the front cover. “Don’t fuck with my tabs, Justice.”

“Right. You still need it.”

He grabbed his wallet, his phone, his iPad. “Come on, fearless wonder, let’s eat. Maybe you can move your lips and pretend to talk this time.”

The sound of Loic’s hand swatting his ass made him cackle as they headed out.

***

Loic was searching through miles of electronic documents, hunting something -- anything that would help them get Modette off death row. Weird, wasn’t it? He’d never seen himself doing this, but he’d talked to that poor woman -- well, okay, she’d talked, but he was learning about that, about listening.

About hearing.

And she’d had things to say. Jesus. How Modette had been so high that she’d thought they were on a carnival ride, medical reports from beatings, vaginal tears, burns. It hurt his feelings, hurt his soul, but that woman had a joke for them every time they came in, had a smile for him, a hug for Justice.

“I’m not scairt.” She told them. “I ain’t scairt to meet Jesus, but it ain’t right, them telling me when I got to die. ‘Sides, I can help women in here, help them find goodness and real life.”

She had been helping, too. Teaching classes, taking classes, speaking about the dangers of heroin. It was honorable.

Loic couldn’t believe someone with a soul like hers could be a cold-blooded murderer.

A cup of coffee and a paper-wrapped sandwich appeared at his elbow, Justice dropping it off on the way across the office.

He watched the stocky little banty rooster man move. Every day was a long day, every case got Justice’s attention, and every morning when Loic got in, Justice was here already, pitch black coffee in one hand, cigarette in another, stubby fingers clacking on the keyboard, answering the last few hours emails, sending editorials to some poor newspaper, writing another senator.

They’d discovered that they worked together like a dream, too. Justice was a bulldog -- refusing to stay down, no matter how many times the law or the conservatives or the big money knocked him down. Justice believed in his clients -- each and every one of them -- and was willing to bleed for them. Loic had never known a man like that before, and he was fairly sure he never would again. When he added in his own skills -- research, organization, and a not-altogether surprising skill for spying, they were an amazing team.

Loic was more than a little bit in love -- if not with the man’s body, then with the man’s drive.

He knew Justice was like him -- the man was the go-to guy for the Alliance here -- and he thought Justice would be interested, if he made the offer, but the fact was, Loic wanted this job, needed the work way worse than he needed a piece of ass.

Justice turned, looked back at him, saddlebags under the man’s eyes. “You good, cher?”

He nodded, that little endearment making his mouth dry. He was. Justice needed a nap, though. He could tell.

“Excellent. It’s catfish. I’m going to get my shit ready for court in the morning.”

He lifted his hand, made the A-Okay sign. He’d be here.

Watching.

Working.

Wishing.

***

Justice sat on the balcony of his apartment, staring out at the lights, the Friday night folks coming home from work, going out to supper. The heat was weighing on him, the humidity in the air so thick that showering just made it worse. On a normal night, he could smell the spice from Zyedco’s on the corner, smell the river like a low-level, weirdly comforting funk that permeated everything. Smell the flowers from a foot away from his head, their perfume heady and perfect and belonging nowhere on earth but right here.

He took another shot of his bourbon.

It wasn’t a normal night, though.

It wasn’t at all.

He hadn’t even bothered to take off his slacks, his button-down, even his shoes when he’d locked up for the weekend, stumbled upstairs with a pounding head and tear-blurred eyes and grabbed a bottle and a low ball glass. His tie was off, but it had been off downstairs, before he ever got the call.

Jesus, life wasn’t fair.

He heard the knock like it was from a million miles away, then he heard the scrape of the deadbolt scratching along. He didn’t look.

He didn’t have to.

There was one man in this city with a key to his place; one man who’d have seen the locked office and thought to worry.

Loic’s worried, pinched face appeared in the door. “Justice?”

“You ever find it ironic that the only word you can say is my name, cher?”

Loic scribbled. “You ever find it ironic that your name is the only legal term that makes sense? What the fuck is wrong?”

“Modette.”

Loic’s head tilted, eyebrows lowering, and one of those long hands made a curious motion.

“Heart attack. This morning. Massive. She didn’t even make it to the infirmary.”

Loic stumbled forward. “Justice!”

Justice was fairly sure Loic meant ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’, maybe ‘goddamn’, since that was the right amount of syllables.

He nodded, the tears coming close again. “She just died, cher. I was there with her, not twelve hours earlier, and she was singing to me, telling me some of her bullshit stories.” And he wasn’t ever going to be able to help her.

Loic sat next to him, one hand on his thigh, and Justice reached down, needing to hold onto something. Loic was solid, warm, just what he needed.

“God damn it, ain’t I ever going to make a difference? To anyone? We keep fighting and fighting and, if some asshole with money and delusions of grandeur don’t get in our way, then the good Lord does.”

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t. Modette had deserved her story to be out there, to teach her classes.

Loic didn’t say a word -- like Loic could, for fuck’s sake -- but that hand stayed on him, holding on. Touching him. Like a rock.

“I mean it.” He poured another couple of fingers, offered Loic the glass, pleased when the man took it. “We fight and fight, and shit still happens. I just... fuck, I’m mad. I can’t believe we’re not going to run up to the prison and go see her Monday.”

That hand shifted, rubbing his thigh, and Justice took it as a sign to keep going, keep talking.

“We do this and do this -- nobody fucking respects us, how hard we work, how we’re trying to make things fair and decent and good in the world. Assholes are making a fortune being assholes and you and me? Shit.” He wasn’t starving -- hell, if he was honest, he wasn’t even close to hurting -- but it wasn’t fair, damn it.

Loic shot his drink, hand still right there.

“She wasn’t perfect, cher, I know this, but she was my friend.” Somehow or the other, they all became his friends. He leaned down, put his head in his hands, let himself wallow in it a minute.

They were off work hours, weren’t they?

Shit yes.

Off work and mourning and drinking.

***

Loic watched and listened, the rambles a familiar song, something he had in his bones, now.

Justice rang in him, balls deep.

He hummed and let Justice rant and reminisce while he luxuriated in the feel of that rock-hard thigh against his palm. The way the muscles jumped and jerked made him a little stupid, really, a little dry-mouthed.

A lot hard.

His thumb was on the seam of Justice’s jeans, rubbing in the slowest line, touching and feeling all at once. This close Justice smelled like Ivory soap and tobacco, whiskey and leather.

He licked his lips, swallowed his moan and the need to lean down and rest his head in Justice’s lap, inhale deep, suck in Justice-flavored air, all in the same motion.

One of Justice’s fingers -- ink stained and square -- traced the line of his cheek. “Shit, you’re fine, cher. You should drink whiskey more often.”

He knew he blushed; he could feel his skin heat. Still, he shrugged, unable to not lean a little, move toward that touch. “Justice.”

Justice nodded. “Yeah, cher?”

That sweet hand moved again, touching him so right. Oh, please. He whispered the word, but what came out was “justice” again.

Somehow, it was okay, though, because Justice’s finger moved to outline his lips and he opened up for it, wrapped around it.

Sucked.

Oh, fuck, Justice tasted so fucking good. And the moans. The deep, bourbon-soaked hunger sounds filled the air, and he’d done it, him.

Broken and fucked up and still.

Justice wanted him.

“Cher.” Justice’s eyes liked to burn the place down, the stare like a flame licking between them.

He nodded, and the motion slipped more of Justice’s finger into his lips, let him suck just that much better.

“Been wanting. Been wanting to touch.”

Well, he was right here. Available, even, and hard as a rock. He let Justice’s finger pull free with an audible pop, then spread his arms. “Justice.”

Seriously.

“Cher... You sure?”

He’d never been so sure of anything in his entire fucking life. Still, it looked like Justice wasn’t going to get the clue until Loic climbed up into the man’s lap, let his mouth drop down, kissing Justice like it was a condemned man’s last wish.

Oh. Better.

***

Justice groaned and his high ball glass hit the balcony, rolling off and clattering against the window boxes.

He couldn’t.

This wasn’t.

Bon Dieu!

He wrapped his arms around Loic’s lean body and dragged the man closer. Loic’s tongue wasn’t stupid, no, not stupid at all. It danced in his mouth, pushing his lips open, touching his teeth. Justice’s eyes rolled and, even though he hadn’t had enough to drink to be dizzy, the entire world spun about, leaving him breathless and gasping, gripping Loic’s arms like a drowning man.

Loic backed off, winked at him. “Justice.”

“Oui. Need you, yeah? More.” Loic nodded at him, smiled, and Justice’s heart skipped a beat. “Cher. Cher, please.”

He reached out, fingers molding around Loic’s cock, measuring it through the thin slacks. Oh, fine. Long and lean, like the man it belonged to, that sweet prick bobbed like it needed him as bad as he wanted it.

His thick fingers were clumsy as all fuck as he tried to work buttons open, zippers down, and Loic pressed closer, hiding from the crowds down on the street -- silly, normal folks going to supper, to drink, to dance, all missing the wonder, the miracle he had in his damn hand.

“Ain’t gon’ share, cher.” The little word play made him chuckle, made Loic hoot.

It was a fine thing, when he freed Loic’s cock, exposing the long shaft to the night air. His fingers wrapped right around and he let himself stroke, base to tip, moving easily. Loic grunted, teeth sinking into that full bottom lip, hips rocking not at all carefully. The scent was perfect -- bayou and soup, whiskey and hunger. Justice’s mouth watered.

He leaned back, drawing them deeper into the growing shadows in the lee of the house, the nearly faded sunlight held at bay by the rainbow flags waving in the breeze.

Storm was coming, praise God.

A wild one and he was celebrating it, right here with his Loic. He used his thumb on the tip, pressing in the barest bit, hunting a sting. He knew he found it when Loic jerked, bucked up, and his name rang out, like the best kind of curse.

“Oui. Oui, cher. Just like that.” He moaned, watched every second. “Just like that. Need to see.”

Then he’d take Loic in and see the rest -- top to bottom -- and let Loic see him.

Loic nodded, hips moving faster, butt bouncing on his lap, cock driving in his fingers like his cher had the need riding him, a dark vacher on a wild horse. He kept his fingers tight, kept finding those things that made Loic want.

The wet drops of pre-come slicked the way, eased it enough that he could squeeze harder, swipe his thumb just that much faster. Loic’s fingers pressed into his skin, making bruising promises that the man better damn well keep.

“Come on, cher. Come for me. Need.”

Pearl-white heat spurted up over his fingers, onto his wrist, a line of wet heat.

Loic shook for a minute, trembling above him, before he tugged good and hard, bringing them together, the weight making the old chair creak and complain.

“Lord, cher. You. Me.”

Loic snorted, eyes rolling. “Justice.”

“Yeah.” He pressed Loic’s hand to his fly, to where he ached. “There ought to be.”

Loic’s wild, hungry smile was about fine.

Just almost good enough to eat.

***

Loic grabbed Justice’s shirtfront with one hand, grabbed his open and falling slacks with the other. They didn’t need the booze or his notepad where they were headed.

Justice’s seams creaked, but the man stood, followed him the few short steps into the living room with the big, overstuffed leather couch, the soft, soft green blanket draped over it. He shoved hard, sending Justice down while he kicked his pants off and locked the balcony door. Justice’s hands weren’t being stupid, he was glad to see, tearing at buttons and zippers, baring that hard, solid belly, the thickest, fattest cock he’d ever seen.

He stepped forward, eyes on that hard, dark prick, the tip swollen and wet for him. Oh, Jesus. Why on earth had he ever waited for that? That was a piece of work. Loic knelt between Justice’s sprawled legs, shoved the man wider so he had all the access he needed.

“Cher... Damn, Loic.”

He would have shushed Justice, told the silly bastard to lean back and let him work, but words weren’t his friends anymore, so he planted one hand in the middle of the man’s fuzzy, broad chest and shoved. Stay.