Infected: Lesser Evils Page 36

  Dylan was looking at him with a curiosity tempered with knowing wariness. “Something up?”

  “Holden has something for me on another case. But he expects me to go to the Dungeon.”

  Dylan knew exactly what that was, and raised his eyebrows. “The S&M club?”

  “Apparently it’s fetish night. If I show my tattoos, I can get in for free.”

  “Ooh, does that include me?” Grey asked, entering the hall. His hair was still wet but slicked back, and he’d changed into dark jeans and a black button-down shirt that made him look almost like a normal person. Except for the stuffed equipment bag slung over one shoulder, which was so full it looked ready to burst.

  “You just won your game. Don’t you wanna go celebrate, have a beer or something? “

  “Where we going?” Tank asked, joining him. Scott and Jeff soon followed, with Zack, Richie, and Ethan not far behind.

  “You guys aren’t going,” Roan told them.

  Grey ignored him, and told the guys, “A place called the Dungeon. Apparently it’s fetish night.”

  “Fetish?” asked Jeff warily. “What kinda fetish?”

  “Oh cool,” Tank exclaimed. “Fi’s told me all about the Dungeon.” Zack did a double take, but since he was standing behind and to the side of Tank, he didn’t notice.

  “This is about a case I’m working,” he explained. “You’re not going with me.” But of course they were, and Roan knew it even as he insisted they weren’t.

  Great. Now he was going to an S&M club with (mostly) straight hockey players to meet a hooker. It sounded like the setup to a porn film.

  And come to think of it, it might be more enjoyable if it was.

  33

  Perpetual Bris

  IT WAS probably awful of Roan to hope that the guys got lost on the way to the club, but he still hoped anyways. It didn’t matter, because it never happened.

  Ultimately, only Grey, Scott, Tank, Zack, and Ethan came, as Richie was a married man (really? He seemed too young for that) and his wife apparently wasn’t happy with his after-game carousing, and Jeff was too wary of a fetish night. (He said he used to live near the meatpacking district in New York City, as if that explained why he didn’t want to go to a fetish club. Maybe it did.) Still, Roan wasn’t looking forward to this.

  Roan told Dylan about the cat killer case, and lied, saying he was looking into it for the police since no one in the Heights was going to talk to a cop, but they’d have no trouble talking to Holden and his friends. This lie was eminently plausible; so plausible, in fact, that Roan wondered why the cops hadn’t asked him to do this. Then again, he hadn’t exactly checked in with Chief Matthews yet, mainly because he was in no hurry to get chewed out by her. Now that he wasn’t an actual cop, he was in no rush to put up with all that bullshit.

  Both he and Dylan held out hope that Zack and Ethan would be turned away at the door, as both were definitely too young to drink (legally, here—Canada was a different story), but that was shot to pieces as Fiona met them there, and at the Dungeon, she was minor royalty. It turned out she was watching the game from the stands, and Tank had called her to tell her where to meet them. She wasn’t allowed near the locker rooms since the “camera phone incident.” (No one elaborated, but Roan whispered if she had any photos she’d like to share. She gave him a cheerful thumbs up.)

  Fi got them all in the club easily, even though the only leather she was currently wearing was a jacket. Ironically, they all had leather jackets, save for Dylan, who had a canvas one, and Ethan, who had a denim one. (Ethan was so corn-fed farm boy that it was kind of cute. Roan could totally see Dylan going for him, if Dylan were single and Ethan were gay.)

  The club had that dark/bright dichotomy that he’d seen in many clubs, where the light was dim near the bar and near the tables, but was brightly lit by the back and in an area where it appeared hospital curtains were separating a section of the room from what passed for the dance floor. The lighting there was bright enough that you could see the shadows of people behind it, some holding drinks, and there were ominous shadows of some kind of device that could very well have been a dentist’s chair. As it was, the curtain was pulled back partway, and yes, it was a dentist’s chair, and there was something like a tattoo needle rig beside it. Roan could smell fresh blood in the club, beneath the smell of booze, sweat, amyl nitrate, and wet leather, but there was more sour pain in the blood than he would have expected from tattoos (unless the tattooist was truly horrible).

  They went up to the bar, and the bartender, a large black bear with a gleaming bald scalp, wearing a black leather vest and a chin piercing, pointed a meaty finger at them all and said, “You guys are familiar looking, but you ain’t regulars. How do I know you?”

  Roan had a smartass quip ready to go, but Fiona told him, “They’re part of the Falcons, and this is my boss, the guy who ends up in the papers for pissing people off. Dallas, this is Roan, that’s his husband Dylan, and this is Tank, Scott, Grey, Zack, and Ethan, the Falcons’ posse. Guys, this is Dallas.”

  “The Atlanta Falcons?” he asked, obviously confused that there’d be so many skinny white guys on the team.

  “The Seattle Falcons,” she replied. “The hockey team.”

  “Oh,” Dallas said, like he knew who they were, even though it was fairly obvious he didn’t. “What’re your positions?”

  The guys shared a glance, and it seemed obvious they were going to follow Scott’s lead. Rather than call him out on not knowing the team, Scott decided to just pretend he hadn’t noticed, which was smart of him. You never wanted to piss off your bartender. “I’m a center,” Scott offered.

  “Defense,” Grey said.

  “Goalie,” Tank said.

  “Left wing and right wing,” Zack said. “Whatever the coach wants me to play.”

  “Second goalie,” Ethan said.

  “I just piss people off,” Roan added, not wanting to be left out.

  “I tend bar over at Silver,” Dylan said.

  Dallas gasped. “The rich people’s place? Dude, I hear they have a hundred-dollar burger in that joint.”

  He shook his head. “It’s a hundred-dollar steak. They wouldn’t sully their menu with a burger.”

  “Fuck me. So what’s this hundred-buck steak like?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I’m vegetarian, I avoid the kitchen at all costs.”

  He nodded as if that was wise, his chin stud catching the light like a mirror. “I used to work at the Blue Onion, and let me tell you, after seein’ what went on in that kitchen, I don’t eat out anymore, ’cept at places where I got a good view of the kitchen. So what can I set you guys up with?”

  Grey, who being the tallest had the best vantage point, pointed at a board behind the bar, where the specials were written up in colored chalk, and some seemed to glow in the dim lighting. “What’s the absinthe special?”

  Roan winced, and Scott said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “You get a price cut if two or more people order it at the same time,” Dallas said.

  “Anyone wanna do it with me?” Grey wondered. “Roan?”

  “Why are you lookin’ at me?” he replied, not sure if he should be offended or not. “I can’t do it, the smell of the stuff knocks me back like a sucker punch.” Which was absolutely true. Absinthe was far too strong for his heightened sense of smell; it was like taking a sledgehammer to the sinuses.

  “I’ll do it,” Zack said cheerfully.

  Dallas looked at him through squinted eyes. “How old are you?”

  “Not old enough for absinthe,” Scott said for him. “Fine, I’ll try it.”

  “Count me in,” Tank said. “Chère?”

  Fiona shook her head. “Not my scene.”

  “Umm, what’s it like?” Ethan wondered.

  Scott patted him on the arm, like a parent soothing an upset kid. “If you have to ask, you aren’t ready for it. We’ll take the absinthe, but these two will take a couple of beers.” He indicat
ed Zack and Ethan, and then looked at Roan and Dylan. “You guys want beer?”

  Dylan shook his head. “I’d rather have a margarita.”

  “Just give me a soda, anything with caffeine in it.” Roan was driving, and besides, he’d done enough drug mixing for one week.

  The bartender nodded, and got the easy ones first, namely his Coke and the two beers. The margarita was next, and the absinthe was last.

  There was a bit of a ritual with it. The little glasses were laid out, with a slotted spoon put over the top of each. Dallas brought out a sugar bowl from beneath the bar, where sugar cubes that reeked of the anise-scented absinthe sat, and with a tiny pair of tongs he put a cube on each slotted spoon. Then he retrieved a tiny blowtorch, of the kind you used to brown the crust of a crème brulee, and set the alcohol-soaked cubes on fire. He then dumped the cubes in the small glass of green-colored liquor, which caught on fire, burning with a small, almost perfectly translucent flame, before he doused it with a shot glass full of water. Only then was the absinthe ready to drink. As far as Roan was concerned, if a drink had that many steps involved, it wasn’t worth it.

  As soon as they all had their little green drinks in front of them, Grey said, “On three. One… two… go.” Showing how accustomed they were to being a team, they all slammed their drinks at the same time, like a synchronized drinking team. Their reactions weren’t synched, though. Grey winced, Scott’s head shot back before he doubled over like he was about to lose control of his gag reflex (he didn’t), and Tank’s face barely registered anything at all.

  “Wow, that tastes like shit,” Grey said, putting his empty glass down on the bar.

  “I’ve had worse,” Tank said.

  “Now here I only asked you to come, and you show up with your het posse,” Holden said, joining them at the bar. He was dressed in black leather pants and a skin-tight white tank top that seemed nearly luminescent, indicating the club had a black light somewhere. He’d added blond streaks in his hair since Roan had last seen him, and his hair had the casually mussed look of intense calculation. Holden leaned up against the bar, hand on jutted hip, with a smile so slick it was impossible to tell if he wanted to fuck everyone or kill them (or as Roan had mentally dubbed it, smile number three).

  “Het posse,” Grey echoed, chuckling. “I like that.”

  Roan noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Scott gave Holden The Look. It was very brief, but it was unmistakable. The look being the one that only gay men seemed to recognize, the one that put lust into a purely tangible form, and Roan was surprised to see it. Maybe it was the absinthe? (Not that it could work that fast.) If Holden saw it, he had no reaction to it at all, but he wouldn’t—he was accustomed to the look, and enjoyed getting it.

  “Zack, Ethan, this is Holden, Roan’s assistant investigator,” Grey said, introducing everyone.

  “Oh, uh, guess that explains the getup,” Ethan said.

  “Does it?” Holden replied, giving him an unsettling smile before switching his gaze to Roan. “Can we talk in private?”

  There was a weak cheer from behind the hospital curtain, and Zack couldn’t contain himself anymore. “Do you know what’s goin’ on over there?”

  Holden’s glance held a kernel of contempt, but it was quickly smothered. “They offer piercings on fetish night.”

  “Piercings?” Ethan asked. “Like ear piercings?”

  Holden laughed, genuinely amused, and looked at Scott before replying, “Oh, this guy is darling. What rearview mirror did you pull him off of?” Yeah, Holden saw the look Scott was giving him, and now he was… what was he doing? Roan got a feeling there was subtext between the two of them, which was weird, as he was sure they didn’t know each other. Except clearly they did; how well was up for debate.

  It was Fiona who said, “It’s more intimate piercing.”

  Ethan was puzzling over that, and what Holden had said (he seemed torn over whether he should be insulted by that rearview mirror comment or not), when Tank said, “They’re talking about dick piercing, Hillie.”

  “And balls and scrotum,” Holden added, with an inordinate amount of cheer.

  Ethan looked confused, then skeptical, and then blanched. “You’re—you’re serious? Why would anyone do that?”

  “Well—” Holden began, and Roan held up a hand to stop him.

  “Kid, trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  “Roan’s right,” Tank said, giving him a hardy slap on the back. “Let’s save that for after your wedding night, huh?” He then looked at Fi, and asked, “Wanna dance? I wanna dance.”

  “Then let’s dance,” she agreed, even though it was now Ministry playing, and Roan wasn’t sure how anyone could dance to that. But Tank strutted out to the meager dance floor like a pigeon on crack, making Fiona laugh, and Roan wondered if the absinthe was hitting him, or if he was just being himself. Could you tell with him? Probably not.

  “I’m not a virgin,” Ethan said petulantly, in a way that suggested he was.

  “Sheep don’t count,” Grey said, grinning.

  “Fuck you,” he replied, but it was an exhale, with no strength at all. So the other guys teased Ethan over his farm boy background, huh? Figured. Some of the trash talking Roan heard behind the bench was from one teammate to another, although in that joking “we’re men’s men, aren’t we?” kind of way.

  Roan leaned over, and whispered in Dylan’s ear, “Keep an eye on them.”

  Dylan gave him a look like he couldn’t believe he was being volunteered for such a thing, but he nodded, and Roan followed Holden to a relatively quiet corner. Once there, he asked, “You and Scott…?”

  “Me and Scott what?” Holden replied, with an innocence that was totally fake.

  He sighed, aware that he wasn’t going to get much out of him right now. Holden was in coy mode, and that never did anyone any good. Except maybe Holden. “Why are you even here?”

  “A client. Now, this guy I want you to meet, Franco, is a little paranoid, so that’s why he’s got to make a face to face before squealing. Also, he’ll probably want money, but a twenty oughta do him. He’s high and desperate for cash.”

  Great. “How reliable is his info?”

  “You can bank on it. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Life was full of subtext. It wasn’t just the in-jokes between friends that meant nothing to you, but the way people could be truthful, and yet commit sins of omission, leaving out little bits that meant a lot. He knew Holden was doing that now. “He a former client?”

  “Now you know I can’t confirm or deny that one.”

  “Why didn’t you just get the info yourself?”

  “He’s high, but he’s not stupid. He knows I didn’t want it for me. He wants to know who wants it.” And with that, Holden turned and slinked through the darkened room, like only he could. For a good-sized guy, he could be surprisingly graceful when he wanted to be.

  Before following, Roan took a quick look around. Dylan and Ethan were at the bar, talking, and Dallas had joined them, while Zack, Grey, and Scott had gone to see what was going on behind the curtain. His guess was they’d decided to show Zack what a piercing was to discourage him from ever wanting one, as Zack seemed to want everything. He had ambitions of hedonism, often undone by his own inability to stomach it. He was a kid in a candy store, who continually forgot he puked after two handfuls of Skittles.

  There was a good-sized crowd in here tonight, and since it was fetish night it was mixed, with gays and straights and to-be-determineds sharing the space. There was a lot of leather, lots of piercing, tattoos, and body modifications, as well as someone in a tight latex suit that made them look like a living condom. There was some weird shit on display, but none of it as weird as the shit you could find on the Internet, such as guys dressed up in frighteningly realistic animal costumes or people throwing food on one another. (That was probably done later, in the privacy of one’s place.) Tank was still dancing like a nut to a song that must have been called
“I Want Your Damage,” as it was repeated multiple times in the chorus, and it was neopsychedelic, fuzzed-out kind of rock, not the easiest stuff to dance to. But Tank was doing pretty well, and his general enthusiasm had livened up that corner of the club. He was dancing with Fiona, other women, other men, he didn’t care, which is what made Tank Tank—fear was for other people. He threw himself in front of potentially lethal projectiles for a living, so what was there in the real world to worry about?

  Franco was a six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound Samoan man, shirtless beneath a leather vest so tight it looked like it was about to explode off his barrel chest and wound several bystanders. He also had an impressive Afro, a nimbus of fuzzy black hair that made his head look huge, and a tribal tattoo that climbed up his neck like a jagged vine and fanned out just beneath his jaw line. He was heavily pierced too, with studs in his chin, nose, eyebrows, cheek, and earlobes, with a slender silver chain connecting his left ear to his left eyebrow, and small silver charms dangling from each pierced nipple, which Roan could see beneath the tight leather. His arms were as thick as legs, and the light fuzz of curly black hair on his chest looked both pubic and singed, and Roan could smell the nail polish remover-like scent of amyl nitrate oozing through his pores, along with the softer scents of rum and pot. His eyes were wide, black, and glassy. He could have been handsome in a sort of exotically rugged way, if lots of hard living hadn’t started showing on his face in acne scars and bumps beneath the skin that could have been some kind of allergic reaction, but probably weren’t.

  Franco was paranoid in that way that people got when they let life get to them more than it should. While Holden hovered several feet away (apparently he wasn’t invited to this party), Franco quizzed Roan on who he was and why he wanted to know, and thank whatever deity was tops this week that Franco didn’t recognize him. He’d be busted if he knew who he was. He was adamant on asking if he was a cop, and Roan lied (sort of) and said no, but he followed it up with a solid truth: the cops hated him. When Franco started believing it, it mollified him a great deal.