Chapter 5

The Iron Peg was almost empty, just the last four customers and the bartender still inside.

Kenith, the Wolferton Police Department trainee, had migrated to the floor. Somewhere between the last round of stories and Corby wiping down the final stretch of bar, he had slipped off his chair, unlaced Marcus’s boots, and set them neatly aside. His crisp, carefully pressed uniform now sat folded on a stool three seats down. The shirt had come off earlier when he nearly spilled a drink and decided it was safer out of the way. When he started to lower himself to the floorboards, Corby had warned him — half joking, half serious — that the floor was filthy. Kenith had paused, considered it, then carefully stripped off his pants as well, folding them neatly on top of the rest of his uniform. Now he sat cross-legged between Marcus’s knees in nothing but black socks, a tight black tank undershirt, and plain black jockey shorts that left very little to the imagination. The dim amber light caught the lean lines of his shoulders and the pale strip of skin above the waistband every time he shifted. Both hands worked steadily over Marcus’s tired feet and up the hard, furry lines of his calves. Every so often his palms drifted higher, testing how far he could go. So far he was past the knees, mid-thigh, and still climbing.

He kept his eyes locked on Marcus’s face the whole time — wide, eager, mouth slightly open. A thin thread of drool tracked down his chin. He didn’t bother wiping it away.

Corby glanced over from behind the bar, one eyebrow up.

“You planning on going home tonight, Kenith?”

Kenith blinked slowly before he looked up, hands still moving. “Eventually.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Kenith grinned, the lisp soft when he got playful. “Then eventually is still my answer.”

Marcus snorted into his drink. “You’re going to regret that tomorrow.”

“Probably. But tomorrow-morning Kenith can deal with tomorrow’s problems.”

“That’s a terrible philosophy for a police officer.”

“Good thing I’m still a trainee.”

Galen laughed from the nearby booth where he’d resettled himself, arms spread along the backrest. Earl the pup was pressed snug between his thighs, masked face nuzzling against the thick bulge in Galen’s jeans. Every time the redhead shifted or made a soft sound behind the muzzle, Galen’s fingers flexed once in his hair.

“Kid’s got you there, Marcus.”

Marcus shook his head and leaned back. The stories had gone on longer than he’d planned. Somewhere along the way the conversation had stopped being only about Malik and turned into the kind of late-night ease that only happened when the bar was nearly empty and nobody was watching the clock.

Corby set out another round of tequila shots, the bottle clinking softly. “Last call for the good shit before I lock up.”

Marcus eyed the glasses. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“That was last last call.”

“There’s a difference?”

“There is when you’re the guy closing the bar.”

Marcus picked up one of the shots, then reached down and caught Kenith under the chin with two fingers. He tilted the trainee’s head back, slow and deliberate, until the younger man’s mouth opened wider on instinct. Marcus poured the tequila in a thin, controlled stream. Kenith swallowed obediently, throat working, eyes still fixed upward, drool and liquor mixing at the corner of his lips. Only when the glass was empty did Marcus release him, lift his own shot, and knock it back in one go.

The second Marcus glanced toward Galen and the pup, Kenith’s hands slid higher — past the knees, along the inner thighs, thumbs brushing deliberately close to the growing heat between Marcus’s legs. When Marcus looked back down, the trainee froze for half a second, then resumed the massage like nothing had happened, pure hunger written across his face.

Corby chuckled as he reached for the rag again. “Go on, Marcus. You’ve got that look.”

Marcus settled deeper into the chair, one hand dropping to rest lightly on Kenith’s hair while the trainee kept working.

“All right,” he said. “Five weeks in, everybody had gotten a little too comfortable.”

The memory came back easily.

A few days had passed since the last quiet dinner.

Malik hadn’t been able to come over. An emergency at the commercial laundry had kept him there far longer than expected, and when the plant started offering overtime to help clear the backlog, Malik had taken as much of it as he could.

It was good money.

It was also exhausting.

He had texted Skye a couple of times to explain, apologizing even though she kept telling him he didn’t need to. Marcus had warned him not to burn himself out, too, but Malik had laughed it off.

He was rebuilding.

If the hours were there, he was going to take them.

The problem was that his absence had made the house feel different.

Dinner was normal.

Technically.

Cheryl kept the conversation moving, asking about work and school and making an effort to keep things from settling into the kind of silence that had become common before Malik started coming around. Skye filled in the gaps whenever she could. Jesse answered when someone asked him something.

Vernon mostly ate.

But everyone seemed more aware of everyone else.

Without Malik sitting at the table, there was no easy center for the conversation. No one to redirect Vernon when his answers became clipped. No one for Jesse to quietly ask about something he’d been thinking about. No easy excuse for Skye to smile.

The tension wasn’t explosive.

It was simply there.

A tightness beneath an otherwise ordinary evening.

Even Cheryl seemed to notice it.

At one point she set her fork down and looked around the table.

“This is ridiculous.”

Vernon glanced at her.

“What is?”

“This.”

She gestured vaguely at the table.

“We’re having dinner. Nobody’s fighting. Nobody’s yelling. And somehow everyone looks like they’re waiting for something to happen.”

Jesse looked down at his plate.

Skye tried not to smile.

Vernon gave a small shrug.

“Maybe everybody’s tired.”

“Maybe,” Cheryl said.

She picked her fork back up.

“Eat.”

That earned the faintest smile from Jesse.

It wasn’t much, but it helped.

By the time dinner was over, the tension had eased enough for everyone to breathe again.

Dishes were gathered. Leftovers were put away. Cheryl disappeared into the kitchen with a stack of plates while Skye lingered near the table.

Dishes were gathered. Leftovers were put away. Cheryl disappeared into the kitchen with a stack of plates while Skye lingered near the table.

Later that night, Skye was back in her bedroom, sitting near the window and half-watching the street.

She wasn’t expecting Malik anymore.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

He had been working ridiculous hours at the laundry plant all week. There had been some kind of emergency at the facility, followed by a backlog that had turned into overtime, and Malik had taken every extra hour they offered him. He’d texted earlier that he was still working.

So Skye had stopped expecting him.

Then headlights appeared at the end of the street.

She leaned toward the window.

The familiar dark green Impala turned onto their block.

Skye’s face immediately brightened.

“That’s him.”

She was already moving before the car reached the driveway.

Downstairs, Jesse was in the living room when the front door opened and Skye hurried outside.

He glanced toward the window.

“What—?”

Then he saw the Impala pulling into the driveway.

“Malik’s here.”

Jesse jumped to his feet.

“Mom!”

Cheryl looked up from the kitchen.

“What?”

“Malik’s here.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Oh.”

She immediately turned toward the refrigerator.

“Let’s see what we have.”

Outside, Skye barely gave Malik time to close his car door.

“You’re here!”

Malik looked up, exhausted but smiling.

“Hey.”

“You said you were working late.”

“I was.”

“You didn’t say you were coming over.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Skye grabbed his sleeve, then slid her hand down to lace their fingers together, already tugging him toward the house.

“Well, now you are.”

“Skye, I’m exhausted.”

“I know.”

She pressed closer as she pulled him along, her free hand slipping under the back of his shirt to rest warm against his skin.

“That’s why you’re eating.”

Malik gave a tired laugh as she dragged him inside.

Jesse was already waiting just inside the door. The second Malik crossed the threshold, Jesse stepped in close, almost bouncing, and reached out to squeeze his arm.

“Hey.”

Malik looked at him.

“Hey, Jesse.”

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

Jesse disappeared into the kitchen and returned almost immediately with a cold drink, pressing it into Malik’s hand and letting his fingers linger.

“Here.”