One
Sacha: March, Kansas City, Missouri
“Bolic.”
Sacha glanced in the direction Rick was pointing. Their target slipped out from between some loose pieces of plywood covering the doorway, gesturing with his free hand while he talked on a cell phone. The man saw Sacha, and his eyes widened for an instant before he turned and bolted in the opposite direction.
Sacha took off after the government’s prize witness against the US boss of the Molejevic crime family, keeping his prey’s flashy red parka in view. He heard Rick shout something but couldn’t quite make out the words. As he ran, he gave thanks that Jacobsen looked like a Ross Dress for Less clearance rack had thrown up on him. He and Rick had spent two days freezing their asses off waiting for Jacobsen to show. No way was Sacha going to lose him now. His knee twinged, threatening retribution as he pushed himself faster; he ignored it.
Jacobsen was no Usain Bolt but he knew the neighborhood better than Rick or Sacha, plus the streets were slick from intermittent rain showers and Sacha had to avoid slipping on metal sewer and electric access points as well as litter and unidentifiables. The rain started spattering down again. In moments, Sacha’s hair was plastered to his head and rivulets of rain ran down his face made it hard to see. Still, he had almost gained enough ground to grab the back of Jacobsen’s jacket when the man took a sharp left into a tiny alley.
The stench of past-due trash rose up around Sacha. He forced down a reflexive gag as he sped down the dark, narrow space between two brick buildings. It was dank and barely wide enough for two men to walk side by side. Sacha was big enough to feel claustrophobic as he pounded after Jacobsen, losing a little ground because a trash container loomed from the shadows, forcing him to slow down. Jacobsen glanced over his shoulder at Sacha and grinned. Putting on a burst of speed, their uncooperative witness leapt to catch the bottom rung of a sketchy-looking fire escape and began to clamber up it with familiarity.
Using the brick wall to push off, Sacha leapt for the fire escape, barely grabbing hold of the grimy metal bar. Praying to any possible saints of US Marshals, he hoisted himself upward, hoping the flimsy, weathered metal would support his weight. Sacha’s prayer held for a few seconds into the climb when two things happened. The first was an ominous creaking that echoed up and down the alley, along with the earsplitting shriek of metal on metal. The second was the silhouette of a large-caliber handgun appearing from a window several stories above him. Fingers flexed on the trigger as Sacha lunged to his right, leaping off the fire escape… except that it followed him, peeling away from the brick wall it had formerly been attached to.
This was going to hurt.
His stomach lurched, and for the briefest moment he was weightless before gravity came calling. All the air left his lungs when he hit the top of the old recycling container. He sort of bounced and, unfortunately, rolled off onto the concrete underneath the now-defunct fire escape. Flakes of rust, pelting rain, and litter that until that moment had been lodged for God knew how long in the metal grating of the fire escape showered down around him, on him. In a kind of slow motion he had only read about, the fire escape creaked to the right and smashed into the brick wall opposite. More rusty flakes showered down, along with pieces of the old metal structure itself.
Sacha lay where he’d fallen, trying to suck a few molecules of oxygen into his lungs, thanking fuck for the fire escape collapsing under his weight. If it hadn’t chosen that moment to disintegrate, rather than reconsidering his life and most especially his career choices, Sacha would be a dead man with a hole in his head the size of a fist. The weighty mass of the forty-caliber bullet displacing the atmosphere alongside his ear was as close as Sacha wanted to get to death today.
Groaning, he rolled over and craned his head toward the window Jacobsen had disappeared into. There had only been the single gunshot. Sacha didn’t know if the guy had actually been trying to kill him or was simply trying to get him to stop following. Regardless, whoever it had been was going to be extremely sorry he opened fire on an officer of the law.
His partner, who hadn’t been right behind him, came panting around the corner. Rick’s searching gaze landed on Sacha where he lay in the stinking trash and dog… or possibly human… shit behind the derelict building their perp had disappeared into. Sacha thought even Sig Jacobsen should have had better taste than this place. Fuck, rats had better taste.
“Fucking hell.” Sacha rolled onto his hands and knees, pushing himself to his feet. Every one of his thirty-nine years was making itself known. By some kind of miracle he’d merely had the wind knocked out of him and would have some impressive bruises tomorrow from hitting the trash container, but nothing felt broken. His knee throbbed, threatening imminent collapse, but after a second he was able to ignore it. Rick, the prissy asshole, didn’t bother to offer a hand, and when he got close enough he wrinkled his nose.
“Where the fuck were you?” Sacha brushed at unnamable bits stuck to his jacket and jeans without much result. Giving up, he unzipped his jacket, took it off, and dropped it to the ground beside him. Sacha didn’t care that he was shivering in the forty-degree weather and getting wetter by the minute as the rain increased in intensity.
“I was a little behind you. I tried cutting through to the other side when he turned.” Rick brushed nonexistent grime off his suit jacket. “You know, to head him off. But the other end was blocked. I had to turn around and come back.” Sacha forced aside the urge to grab Rick by the neck and throttle him. They had been after Jacobsen for weeks, and now the guy had vanished into thin air. “Oh, wow, Bolic, you landed in—”
“I know what I fucking landed in,” Sacha ground out. “I could have been fucking killed. Did you see the shooter?”
Rick looked around, like he was going to see the shooter waving for his attention from a nearby window. Sacha had been lying in non-metaphorical shit for several minutes, checking all his parts to make sure they worked properly. The shooter was long gone, and Sacha was going to be hellishly sore for a few days. “You know what? Never fucking mind.”
They walked back to their car in stony silence, abandoning Sacha’s jacket in the alley. Rick knew better than to try and talk to Sacha when he was in a shit mood. Which was most of the time.
When Sacha had returned to regular service after two brutal years undercover, he’d hoped the transition would be easier than going under. Not so far. He took a deep breath, immediately regretting it when his side hitched, searching for patience he wasn’t known for. It wouldn’t help his case if he ripped Rick a new one… in public, anyway.
Since returning to duty in February, Sacha had been assigned three partners. The first lasted a single retrieval before demanding a change, claiming insurmountable personality differences. What the fuck ever. The second lasted three weeks before digging up a reason not to work with Sacha ever again. The kid had been witless. Sacha tried to get him to understand that there were capital-R rules, and then there were guidelines. Not every fucking guideline had to be followed with unerring rigidity. Sacha hadn’t survived twelve years in the Marshals service because he followed every guideline like it was God’s word.
Unfortunately, their current vehicle had not been stolen, vandalized, or towed away. The early-2000s Subaru Forester was so boring no one, not even taggers, took a second look at it. It sat where they’d left it, three blocks up from the alley.
“I’m driving.” Sacha held his hand out for the keys.
“Sacha…” Rick whined.
“I’ve had enough close calls for one day; I’m driving.”
“Fine.” Rick slammed the keys into Sacha’s palm before opening the passenger door and getting in.
Sacha slid into the driver’s seat. “What’s your problem? I’m the one who was almost killed. Once by you and once by Jacobsen.”
“Whatever.”
Fuck’s sake. Sacha took a deep breath in through his nose. Ignoring Rick’s passive-aggressive bullshit, he started the engine. Talk radio blared out of the car’s speakers, making conversation unnecessary. Neither one of them moved to turn it down.
Partner number three, for the past two months, had been Rick Lancer, prick extraordinaire, who was smarter than he acted. But this was the third time (or fourth if Sacha counted nearly being T-boned the other day when Rick was fucking talking while driving and not watching the road) Sacha had nearly been killed since he’d been back on active duty. Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something. Maybe it was time he listened.
The lure of something different flitted along the edge of his thoughts. Maybe he needed real change, not merely a new partner. A career change. He’d had the thought before, but the onus of duty had always stopped him from leaving the service. When he left the army and joined the Marshals, his drive had been to bring down as much scum as he could. He’d made a promise to his foster sister Mae-Lin, and to himself, that as long as he walked this earth he would work to rid it of human traffickers.
His heart wasn’t in the fight anymore. Not with the same fire that’d led him down this path so many years before. Maybe he needed to find a different way to fight. He didn’t see himself giving up, but he needed something else, something intangible and indefinable. He was tired of trying to explain himself when no one listened. His body wasn’t bouncing back from back-alley tackles— or falls from fire escapes— quite the way it had when he was twenty-five. Change was in the air.
Chapter One
Miguel
“For crying out loud, Miguel, pull yourself together.”
The bedroom door banged shut, vibrating in its frame for a few seconds. Joey’s angry tread faded away as he stomped back downstairs. Not good. Miguel didn’t think he’d ever seen Joey angry before. Whimpering, he rolled over, misjudged where he was on Joey’s bed, and ended up in a painful pile on the hardwood floor. He landed on something hard and pointy that dug painfully into his lower back. He grunted and pulled it out from under him. A shiny black dress shoe. He glared at it.
Right. Wedding. Drinking and dancing. Sex.
Miguel groaned again, louder and longer this time. His head throbbed painfully in time with his heartbeat. He struggled against gravity until he was mostly upright— on hands and knees anyway, nowhere to go but up. Finally he stood, still naked, but upright. He kicked spitefully at the shoe, and it skittered across the hardwood before thunking against the wall under the windowsill.
Yeah, it hadn’t been the wisest choice to hook up with the hot boy from the east side of the mountains. Even then, it wouldn’t have been so bad if Owen had stuck around for a little bit of post-hookup snuggling. Miguel liked his skin time, and he could take the heat from Joey over the indiscretion. Waking up in an empty bed with only shame for company? That was different.
The bedroom was dim; late-evening shadows stretched across the hardwood floor, creating monsters out of stacks of laundry and making the open closet door especially menacing. Miguel squinted around, trying to locate all of his clothing before making his body move in the general direction of his crumpled dress shirt and rented tuxedo. Only for Buck, Joey’s new husband, had he donned one of those monkey suits. If he ever tied the knot— he snorted at the random thought, because no way in hell was he ever getting married— it would be on a beach wearing board shorts and a T-shirt, or maybe a swanky Hawaiian print shirt, with the sunset behind him. Fuck, his head hurt.
For him to be anywhere close to considering marriage he’d have to date, meet someone who’d evolved past crawling up onto the hot desert sand— at least he assumed the sand would be hot; why would a creature crawl out into the cold? And why was he thinking about marriage when the evidence of a very recent poor choice surrounded him? The lingering smell of sex and strewn clothing was damning.
In fairness, Miguel mused as he struggled to make himself fit for public, Sara Schultz was absolutely decent. They just weren’t quite right together— and that was okay; they’d managed to get back to being friends. They’d danced, hadn’t they? He was pretty sure he remembered dancing and Sara laughing while he demonstrated his moves to an Arctic Monkeys song. Or maybe it had been Maroon 5. Or not Sara? No, it had been Sara. He was sure.
Checking the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door, he grimaced. His unruly black hair stood up in random tufts, making him look like an unsexy version of that actor from Shakespeare in Love. There were bags under his eyes the size of carry-on luggage, and his skin had a sort of ghostly pallor. Also, he’d missed a button on his dress shirt, so it was bunched up awkwardly. He stared down at it for a minute trying to decipher which button to undo and rebutton before deciding it was never going to happen. He shoved his arms into the uncomfortable suit jacket and gingerly made his escape.
Joey was right: it was time for him to get his shit together. The wedding debacle was another in a long string of poor choices. All those choices started with wanting something that just wasn’t possible, but he’d allowed himself to keep trying anyway… with the same results. Wasn’t that the definition of insanity?
Miguel shut Joey’s door behind him and negotiated the stairs one careful step at a time. He needed to focus, decide what he was going to do with his life. Between the top stair and stepping out into the hallway two floors below, Miguel swore off men. And women too. Done. For a while, anyway.
He’d been in Maureen James’s house enough times by now to know there was a side door leading out to the almost-wraparound porch. The murmur of wedding guests lingering in the living room and kitchen reached his ears. Probably some were still out in the backyard as well. It was late, but in the Pacific Northwest this time of year it was barely dusk, and the cleverly placed mason jars with solar-powered lights inserted into them were beginning to wink on.
Miguel tiptoed along the hall toward the side door, his best and only hope. The voices behind him rose in laughter. Joey was probably telling a work story. Or Kon, Maureen’s foster kid, was entertaining. Miguel twisted the crystal doorknob, pushing the door open just enough so he could slide out sideways and pull it shut behind him. Turning as quickly as his hangover would let him, he ran smack into someone. Someone with a hard chest. They were the same height, and their foreheads cracked together, leaving Miguel with black spots dancing in his vision and a stomach threatening to empty itself. “Jesus fucking Christ, watch where you’re going!”
The man who’d run into him glared back, rubbing his forehead with a pale, freckled hand. Miguel recognized him as one of Adam Klay’s cops; couldn’t remember his name. “Excuse me? I think you’re the one trying to sneak out of the house. You need to work on your exit moves, buddy.”
What’s-his-name had fiery red hair, the kind that looked like a copper penny that had been in someone’s pocket for a while. Freckles exploded across his face and down his neck like a galaxy of stars. Miguel wondered if he had them all over. He almost smacked himself in the forehead again. He’d just been ditched by a hookup.
“Whatever, just move already.”
“Are you all right? You smell like a distillery.” The man waved a hand in front of Miguel’s face. Should he bite it? “You aren’t driving, are you?”
“Fucking fuck.”
Miguel had come with Joey and Buck, not having a car of his own. Why would he have one, since he worked at an auto repair and could borrow the shop car anytime? Miguel cast around, thinking who he could hit up for a ride. He’d have to slink back into the celebration to find someone. He hadn’t thought he could feel any worse. Someone turned up the sound system; Dennis Edwards crooned Papa was a rolling stone… wherever he laid his hat was his home… Buck had finally wrested control of the music selection from his new husband.
What’s-his-name pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. “Let me drive you home. Even if you aren’t drunk, you look terrible. You aren’t going to be sick, are you?”
Home sounded so good.
He would have walked, truly he would have, but the thought of making the three-mile trek in rented dress shoes made him want to cry. Or throw up. Maybe he was going to be sick. Relentlessly he squashed the feeling, refusing to admit he felt less than stellar. “No, I’m not going to be sick, thank you very much.” Taking a deep breath and letting it back out, he tried to gain some control over this weird situation. Sticking his hand out, he said, “Miguel Ramirez.”
“Nate Richardson.” The man grinned, and his somewhat plain appearance went from what Miguel privately called “cop face” to a thing of beauty. He was devastating. It was a good thing Miguel had sworn off men only minutes earlier, or he might be tempted to see if Nate wanted to take a walk on the wild side.
“It’s, ah, great to meet you, Nate. Normally I’d say ‘No, thanks,’ but I need to get out of here. I could use a ride.” He’d done an inadvertent double take and now was trying not to stare… and probably not doing a very good job of it. Awareness spiked inappropriately, rolling thunder careening across his sensitive skin, reminding Miguel of what he could not have.
“Thank god; I need a reason to leave. I’m happy to give you a ride. Hopefully you’re miles out of town?” Nate asked, blue eyes sparkling with humor. Miguel wondered if he had any idea how attractive he was. “My boss made me come. I’ve never been forced to attend a wedding before. Let’s get out of here.”
Yes, let’s, Miguel thought, only barely managing to suppress the urge to flirt. Nate was slim and strong; he’d look good behind a desk or out in the field— a modern-day cowboy. And the way he looked at Miguel, thoroughly, assessing, like maybe he was really seeing him. It left Miguel a little breathless.
Nate led the way across the porch and down the three small steps to Maureen’s driveway. He pointed his keys and squeezed the fob. In the distance, red lights flashed.
“You don’t need to say goodbye to anyone?” Miguel asked.
Nate looked over his shoulder, giving Miguel a knowing glance. “Do you?”
“Fucking hell no. Let’s get out of here.”
Nate drove one of those shiny, black cop-style SUVs meant to intimidate other drivers and pedestrians On the other hand, it had a decent sound system that blared a song Miguel didn’t recognize when Nate cranked the engine. “Oops,” he said sheepishly, reaching to turn it down.
Miguel stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Not on my account. I need something to wash all the sappy love song crap out of my ears.”
Nate chuckled. “It was a little over the top.”
“Dude. You have no idea. The things Joey wanted to do; he claims he settled.” Miguel settled into the passenger seat, leaning back against the headrest. “Buck would have let him do anything. I think we’re lucky we didn’t have to all sit and watch a special showing of Beauty and the Beast. His mom put her foot down, and Kon— the ring-bearer kid— claimed he would be embarrassed at school. Thank god.”
It was only a fifteen-minute drive between the two houses, with traffic lights, and this time of night traffic was almost nonexistent. Dark had fallen by the time Nate pulled up in front of Buck and Joey’s. Miguel’s stomach plummeted when he remembered something else he didn’t want to think about. Buck and Joey didn’t need a third wheel hanging around their marriage. He had to find his own place to live.
Briefly he considered going back on his newly minted vow of chastity and seeing if Nate wanted to come inside for a while. They would probably have some fun in the sack. Chances were that the guy was open; he’d witnessed a marriage between two men, after all. But really, it was too depressing, inviting a guy back to a house that wasn’t his.
Nate fumbled around, and the door locks clicked open. Miguel opened his door. “Thanks for the ride, man. I owe you one.”
“Seriously, it’s fine. You have no idea how much I wanted to leave.”
“Weddings aren’t your thing?” Miguel chuckled, standing with his hand on the door, not ready for the empty house.
“Not really.” The engine rumbled as the SUV idled. “I hate making small talk, and I hate talking about myself, and I’m new to town so I don’t know anyone.”
“We’d make the perfect couple; I have no trouble talking about myself.” Miguel waggled his eyebrows. Then realized what he’d said. “Oh crap, I’m sorry.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Sometimes my mouth gets away from me.”
“Only sometimes?” Nate teased.
“I need to put myself to bed before I dig an even bigger hole for myself. Thanks for the ride. Look me up sometime. I work at Swanfeldt’s; maybe we can grab a coffee or something.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Miguel shut the car door, stumbling a bit on the uneven sidewalk. Maybe he was still a little drunk. He’d made it about halfway to the front door when he stopped in his tracks, realizing he didn’t have any keys. Or his ID. Because he’d left them in his favorite pair of jeans when he’d put on the monkey suit. His jeans, which were somewhere in Maureen James’s house.
“Fucking fuck.”
“You’re locked out, aren’t you?” Nate’s voice startled the crap out of him.
Miguel spun around and would have fallen if Nate hadn’t grabbed his arm.
“Wha-?” His vision swam, and his forehead hurt where he’d smacked into Nate.
“I’m a pretty smart guy. Also, I know how to break into places. Unless you want to head back to the wedding?”
“No! Break in all you want.” He gestured at Buck’s two-story bungalow.
Ten minutes later they were standing in Buck’s kitchen. Nate was insisting Miguel drink a gallon of water before he tumbled into bed. He wasn’t that drunk, but he could feel the residual alcohol in his system. Nate disappeared for a minute before returning with a bottle of ibuprofen.
“I rummaged through the medicine cabinet. I think you may want this.”
“Oh hell yeah. You are my knight in shining armor tonight. What did I do to deserve you?”
Nate blushed. Miguel couldn’t avert his eyes. When Nate blushed he went big; there was no hiding the tide of red that swept across his face.
“Aw, it’s okay, baby. I needed a hero.”
“I’m pretty sure you need some more water and to go to bed.”
“Yeah, probably, but you know I’m gonna try and get you to join me.” Yep. Vow of chastity out the window.
Nate blushed harder, but he grinned too. “I don’t think we play in the same league. As in I’m an amateur and you must have several gold medals under your belt. So to speak.” Even more blush. He was cute. And way too good for Miguel.
“Is this your place?” Nate asked, while refilling the water glass. He tapped two ibuprofen into Miguel’s palm and watched as he swallowed them.
“Nah.” Miguel waved a hand at the kitchen walls. “It’s Buck and Joey’s. Buck— who, before I start sounding truly ungrateful, is my best friend and possibly the nicest person in the world— got all high-handed when he found out where I was living and basically made me move in with him.”
Nate glanced around the kitchen, and Miguel was struck by how much he’d miss this place, he felt physically sick and didn’t think it was the alcohol. It was homey and comfortable, with little touches like a goofy black cat clock with a swinging tail and a vintage tin Mobil gas sign with a red Pegasus leaping into flight taking up most of the wall behind the breakfast nook. The back door they had come through led out to a small deck with potted flowers and a two-person table-and-chairs set.
“I gotta find my own place before they get back.” Miguel tried not to let on how depressing he found that idea.
“They asked you to move out?”
“No.” He let out a heavy sigh. “But it’s time this little bird left the nest. I can’t keep letting Buck take care of me. Joey is enough of a handful.”
Miguel made his way upstairs to his bedroom, Nate followed him.
“Are you gonna tuck me in? Isn’t that below your pay grade Fed?
He threw himself dramatically onto his bed. The covers were a tragic mess as usual and Miguel didn’t care enough to try and straighten them.
“Are you going to sleep in your tuxedo? Let’s at least get the jacket off.”
“Fucking tuxedo.” Miguel muttered but he sat up so Nate could help him take the jacket off, his own fingers fumbling helplessly with the various parts that needed unbuttoning or unsnapping. How’d he managed to get the cummerbund back on? Nate carefully folded it along with the jacket, laying them across the back of a chair sitting in the corner. Then he returned to unbuttoned the stupid shirt. Miguel just sat there, a dress shop dummy, and watched while Nate took care of most of his clothes.
“What about your slacks?” Nate eyed Miguel with
“What about my slacks? You wanna see what’s underneath? I gotta secret…” Miguel waggled his eye brows. “I don’t like underwear.”
“I think you can sleep with the slacks on.”
“Fine.” He pouted, he’d take them off as soon as Mr. Straight-laced left the room.
“That’s enough, Romeo,” Nate chuckled after a stray hand ran down the inside of his trouser-covered leg. It was Miguel’s hand. Huh.
“I’m just being friendly.”
Nate rolled his eyes. “You have the hands of an octopus.”
“Octopus have tantacula, tentacles. Right.” Amused blue eyes stared down at him. “Wow.”
“Wow, what?”
“Your face… mmm.” Miguel lifted a hand, trying to reach Nate’s cheek. His freckles fascinated Miguel. He had the most ridiculous thought that he wanted to trace them and see if the constellations he was imagining led anywhere. Exhaustion and alcohol finally overwhelmed Miguel; he shut his eyes and swirling images of galaxies and red-haired men with eyes like the night sky beckoned him toward sleep.
A hand touched his shoulder, startling him. Nate— right— pulled the duvet up over his shoulders. Miguel loved the weight of covers despite the early-summer heat. His pillow was cool under his cheek, and the last thing he was conscious of was the bedroom light blinking off.
“There you are, you jerk.”
A bright light shone directly into Miguel’s eyes. He rolled over, fumbling to pull his pillow over his head and eyes. The pillow was pulled ruthlessly from his head.
“You are such an asshole. Did you ever think for one minute that people were worried about you? You couldn’t have left a note or told someone you were leaving?”
Miguel tried to blink the sleep from his eyes while he processed and deciphered what was being said. “Please turn the light off?”
Buck huffed but did as Miguel asked. The dark was a blessing. Miguel wondered what time it was and how long he had been asleep. Buck came over and sat on the edge of his bed, a serious expression on his face. Oh, great, it was daddy-chat time.
Miguel rolled over onto his stomach, his head resting in the crook of his elbow. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to get home, and Nate Richardson offered me a ride. I didn’t want to barge in and interrupt anything.”
“You mean you wanted to sneak off without a lecture.”
“Yeah, that too.” He turned his head so he could see Buck. He was still wearing his wedding tux. The man looked incredibly hot. Miguel could hear noises coming from downstairs, where Buck’s new husband was probably plotting Miguel’s death. “What time is it?”
“Late. But I was worried about you.” Buck ran a hand through his thick blond hair. He sighed. “Look, are you going to be okay while we’re gone?”
Shit. He must have really messed up if Buck was this worried about him. Miguel cast around for a way to reassure his best friend that he would not careen off the tracks while Buck and Joey were off enjoying Disneyland, or World, or wherever it was they were going.
“I was blowing off some steam, all right? Please don’t worry. It’s all good. I got this, the boys and I have the shop under control, and you are going to go off and enjoy your honeymoon with your man, all right?”
He must have said the right things, because Buck looked relieved. “Okay. If you need anything, call, okay? We can come home.”
Right. Miguel was going to interrupt his best friend’s honeymoon by calling him home. No fucking way. “I’ve got this. I promise. You go keep Joey out of trouble— if that’s possible.”
An indignant “Hey!” floated up from the first floor.
Buck grinned and dragged Miguel into a huge hug, which he didn’t protest against, because who wouldn’t like a great big hug from a handsome bear of a man?
Four hours later, the airport shuttle arrived to whisk his friends off on their three-week honeymoon. Miguel said goodbye and watched as the van drove away from the little bungalow. It settled into an odd silence, like it knew Miguel was alone. He could hear the creaks and groans of the old house, the tick of the kitchen clock, the slow hiss of the toilet tank filling back up.
He wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Hitching up the sweats he’d dragged on, he headed to the living room. Buck had set up an old desktop computer system in the corner, and Miguel booted it up. He needed to start looking for his own place; he might as well start now.
