Unquiet (7 page)

“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.

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 also plugged in to the local smuggling scene, and every now and then had info to pass on to Loren he felt couldn’t wait until they were scheduled to see each other again. When that happened Slats would text Loren the word “club” from his fed-supplied burner cell phone, and if possible they would meet within the hour at this nasty gay strip club, a place where none of the guys Loren and Slats ran with would be caught dead in. They could meet and talk at will, and the beer was cheap. It was easy to ignore the guys up on stage, guys who looked to Loren like straight college dudes desperate for cash, awkwardly bumping and grinding in their Speedos, their faces flushed, trying to avoid the lascivious stares of the patrons while at the same time working them for tips.

Definitely not a high-end joint, but it served his and Slats’s purpose well enough.

“I’ll pass that info along, man.”

Slats opened his mouth to protest, and Loren held up his hand. “Those decisions are so far above my pay grade, it might as well be Mt. Everest. Just let me go through the proper channels, all right? I appreciate the info, though.”

Slats gave a sullen shrug, and Loren said, “Let me buy you another beer.” He hated to placate the asshole, but that was part of the job.

Loren walked up to the bar and leaned against it, looking around at the unusual crowd. He queried the bartender, JJ, about it when he came up to take Loren’s order.

“Angel must have put the word out that he was dancing tonight,” JJ drawled, pulling Loren a couple of Bud Lights from the tap. The bartender was shirtless as usual, in tight leather pants, with glow necklaces around his neck and wrists. The guy was good-looking, with a decent body, and he and Loren had hooked up a time or two in the back room after Slats had imparted his information and gone. After all, to JJ, Loren was just another horny strip club patron.

Loren was about to ask who Angel was out of idle curiosity, but then Slats beckoned impatiently, uncomfortable with his surroundings, so Loren bit back the question and headed to the table.

Slats drank down half of his beer with one gulp, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the foam that was caught in his bushy mustache even worse.

“Thanks for the beers, but I’m outta here, man.”

Slats never lingered long, which made Loren appreciate their choice of meeting locations even more. Loren couldn’t stand the guy, a Hells Angels wannabe with the accompanying racist, homophobic, and misogynistic ways.

After Slats left, Loren finished his beer and then eyed JJ, wondering if he would be up for a little back room action, but in the next instant he realized the club was way too busy for the bartender to leave his post. Whoever this Angel was, he had really packed the place out.

Just then the pounding house music stopped, and the DJ, dressed in a ridiculous pair of tight gold lamé shorts Loren couldn’t believe he could ever sit down in, bellowed into the microphone, “Gentlemen, this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Get those greenbacks ready, those cocks at attention”—this last bit said in a sly tone, causing uproarious laughter—“and give it up for our
very own Angel
!” Loren winced as the DJ drew the name “Angel” out for at least ten seconds like an obnoxious game show host, then started playing some sort of thumping stripperish music at one hundred times the decibels that was comfortable for normal hearing.

The men gathered around started hooting and hollering, some waving money up high over their heads, and Loren looked idly toward the commotion, the empty beer mug sliding out of his nerveless fingers and crashing to the floor as none other than Eliot Devlin strutted onstage.

Loren hadn’t seen Eliot in over nine years, but it was him; it was definitely him. His blond hair wasn’t long and blue streaked anymore, but rather short and spiky. But that face, that body—they’d been burned into Loren’s memory, those memories having lain dormant for a long fucking time, but all of a sudden they were right there at the surface, making him gasp for air.

Ignoring the broken glass at his feet, Loren drifted closer to the stage, the pounding of his heart and the roaring sound in his ears overpowering even the throbbing music that reverberated around him. As he got closer, he could see Eliot had some sort of green body glitter applied around his eyes, which made them look huge and exotic. The same glitter was dusted on his smooth, hairless chest, and it arrowed down his torso, drawing attention to the lower half of his body. He was wearing a microscopic black Speedo, the swimsuit cut so low the top of his trimmed mat of pubic hair was clearly visible, the bulge in the front prominent and impressive.

Loren’s mouth dried up as Eliot started his dance, undulating his lean and wiry body in the motions of pure sex. He cupped his crotch, ran his hands up his body, circling his nipples with his thumbs. The men howled as he grabbed the pole and straddled it, sliding up and down, circling his hips and thrusting around it, his head thrown back, eyes closed. Suddenly the memory of Eliot dancing on that cafeteria table so long ago flashed in Loren’s mind, how abandoned he’d been then, how sensual.

That’s how this was too. Despite the setting and the ridiculous costume, Eliot’s dance wasn’t sordid. It was seductive, designed to make a man think of having him in his arms, feeling him move against him, rubbing that beautiful body against his with sensual skill. The men watching were responding to it, stepping up to the stage and sliding bill after bill into the strap fastened around Eliot’s upper thigh. Some of them even touched him after tipping him, letting their hands wander up and down the lean muscles of his legs, daring to skim across his crotch or along his ass.

The music changed and Eliot leapt lightly down from the stage. Loren watched as he straddled a seated man who was waving what looked like a twenty-dollar bill around, gripping the back of the man’s chair as he gave him a lap dance. It didn’t last long, maybe a minute, before he moved to the next customer, and the next.

Before Loren knew what he was doing, he’d pulled a twenty out of his wallet and found a nearby chair, holding his breath as Eliot made his way around the room, titillating, seducing. Soon it was the man next to Loren’s turn. Before Loren could change his mind and put away his money, Eliot was straddling his lap, one hand coming down to grip the back of Loren’s chair for purchase, the other up behind his head to show off his abs and chest. He undulated, riding Loren with consummate skill, the heavy bulge between his legs brushing Loren’s crotch as he circled his hips in a motion that was just short of lewd. The smell of clean sweat and a light woodsy scent drifted up from Eliot’s body, and just like that, Loren was painfully hard, his heart pounding once again in his ears.

Eliot rose to his toes to skim his crotch along Loren’s abs, the motion making his grip on Loren’s chair shift, drawing Loren’s attention to a huge raised scar that ran along Eliot’s lean forearm. The sensual haze suffusing him dissipated in an instant, and Loren couldn’t help but whisper achingly, “Oh, Eliot.”

The words seemed to snap Eliot out of whatever zone he was lost in, and his rhythm faltered as his gaze sharpened on Loren’s face for a brief moment.

“Who—” Eliot began, and then a man seated a few feet away reached out toward him, waving his money, and just like that Eliot was gone again, his back to Loren as the other man was treated to his seductive attention. Loren realized he was still clutching the twenty-dollar bill in his clenched fist, and he flung it to the sticky floor, not caring.

He stalked to the bar and demanded a shot of whiskey, bolted it down, and ordered another one right after, trying to ignore JJ’s knowing grin.

“Angel does that to people,” the bartender drawled, winking. “He’s so hot, and holy fuck is he a sweet ride.” JJ licked his lips with a lascivious look, and Loren felt sick.

“Does he come here often?” he choked out as he shoved the shot glass toward JJ again, demanding more.

“Nah,” JJ said, pouring Loren’s whiskey and then leaning companionably against the bar top. “It goes in stages. We won’t see him for a couple of months, and then all of a sudden he’ll be in here several nights a week. This is the first time I’ve seen him in like four months. He’s got a ton of regulars, and I guess what he does is text a couple of them to let them know he’ll be dancing, and those guys spread the word. He always packs the house.”

Loren stood there, drinking and watching, as Eliot worked the room, sometimes visiting the same man over and over, the money building up in his garter until he was bristling with it. At last the lap dances came to an end, and Eliot sauntered to the bar where JJ had several shots lined up waiting for him. He tossed them back one by one, not even seeming to notice Loren sitting there. Just as he finished the last shot, a man approached him and grasped his arm pleadingly, clutching a hundred-dollar bill in his other hand. The dude was wearing a wrinkled business suit, a wedding ring gleaming on his left hand, a look of hunger and desperation on his face.

“Please, Angel,” he whispered. “
Please
.” He stuffed the money in Eliot’s garter, his hand grazing the front of Eliot’s Speedo as he did so. Eliot set down the shot glass and led the man back toward the shadowed hallway. Loren, not able to help himself, followed, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

He rounded the corner just in time to see the man push Eliot up against the wall, and Eliot leaned back against it, his arms up over his head, his legs apart, not resisting as the man kissed his way down Eliot’s bare, sweaty chest until he was kneeling before him. Loren saw the man pull down the front of Eliot’s briefs and take his cock in his mouth, and Loren turned and stormed out into the hot desert night.

“WHAT YOU
doing here, Smith? It’s fuckin’ 3:00 a.m.” The desk sergeant leaned laconically against the counter, eying Loren from behind the bulletproof glass. Loren shifted on his feet, impatient.

“Hot-wash,” he said, his voice terse. “Informant gave me an info dump. Just lemme use a computer, half hour tops.”

The desk sergeant shrugged and nodded, buzzing Loren in through the Authorized Personnel Only door, which led to the police substation offices.

“Use O’Leary’s computer.” The sergeant pointed at the nearest empty office, and Loren lifted his chin in thanks before going into the darkened room and shutting the door behind him. He flipped on the lights, and while he waited for the computer to boot, he sat at the absent O’Leary’s desk and brooded.

Jesus, what a shock it had been to see Eliot at that seedy dance club several thousand miles from home, and after so many years. He knew the Devlins moved Eliot out of state after he was released from the hospital, but he never knew where.

Loren scrubbed his hands over his face as he remembered those first few weeks after Eliot’s suicide attempt—anguish followed by profound relief when he learned Eliot would live, relief that just as quickly turned to anger because no one would tell him anything, because everyone treated him like a stupid fucking kid when
he
was the one who had tried to take care of Eliot in the first place, to look out for him.

Then, worst of all, the savage guilt that threatened to destroy him, guilt that took him years and lots of therapy to learn to live with. At least he
thought
he’d learned to live with it, but seeing Eliot tonight, in that situation, brought it roaring to the surface again in all its punishing, excruciating agony.