nearly drowned in the other man’s deep brown eyes. Dammit. “Uh, I don’t… at the Ramble… no.”
“You don’t put out for pancakes,” Sam said like a kid doing sums. “You don’t go cruising.” Then, one plus one equals two, he said, “Oh God. You’re a virgin.”
“What? No, I’m not. Fuck you.”
Sam nodded slowly. “Of course not. My mistake.”
“I’m not. And you know, acting this thirsty to fuck a bona fide redhead is excessive. Just ask nicely.”
Nodding again, Sam said, “Ask nicely. I’ll remember that.” Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of bills and counted out cash. “Will that cover the check?”
Rufus looked down at his mostly eaten meal.
Jake hadn’t ever asked Rufus how he was doing on money—Jake had simply done things for him. Little things. Like calling in delivery whenever Rufus broke into his apartment because he was lonely and couldn’t stand another night in his shithole studio without someone to talk to. Sometimes Jake would slip a fresh MetroCard in alongside Rufus’s CI pay, because Jake knew he jumped the turnstiles and he was trying to deter the petty thief in Rufus. And occasionally Jake would ask Rufus to go buy them both a coffee at a bodega, but he’d give Rufus too much money and Rufus never came back with change and Jake never questioned it.
Sam hadn’t offered to buy Rufus a meal. He’d merely done it—in his own aggressive and brutish way, of course—but it’d meant something to Rufus. It meant something when another man could see his fault lines cracking, growing wider, shaking his foundation, and instead of pointing it out for everyone and God to see, they… nudged a plate of pancakes in front of him because Rufus hadn’t eaten much in the last few days and it was probably starting to show.
So the least he could do in return was bring Sam to Natalie Miller’s apartment. It’d put Sam on the path toward discovering answers, and then he could talk to the cops about whatever he found. They’d believe Sam. He was ex-Army. Jake’s friend. He’d see that justice was served. And whoever thought Rufus was a threat would be handled and everything would… go on.
Rufus downed his remaining coffee, collected his jacket, hat, sunglasses, and said with a quick nod, “That’s enough.” He got out of the booth, put the articles on, and instead of making a show about how he was now, in fact, putting out for Sam, he asked, “Get all those singles from stripping?”
Sam raised an eyebrow as he slid out of the booth. “Ask nicely, and maybe I’ll show you.” And then he was past Rufus and heading for the door, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s go blow another heteronormative world to fuck.”
CHAPTER SIX
While they’d been in the diner, it had been easy for Sam to keep his shit together. Noise—the soap playing on the television mounted in the corner, metal spatula scraping the grill, patrons talking, a balding man laughing on his phone—but a level that Sam could handle, nothing too loud or too abrupt. And smells, too, but for the most part, they’d been good smells: the pancakes, the grease, the coffee, the hint of Rufus’s Dial soap that snuck through everything else. In the diner, while Sam could clamp his hands under his arms and pretend everything was fine, he’d been able to work Rufus pretty well, get most of what he wanted without giving away too much.
As soon as they were back on the streets, though, Manhattan invaded. The thrum of a jackhammer; two women shouting at each other from open windows on the fourth floor of a brick building; a screech of brakes as a car swerved to avoid a courier, and the courier swearing as he swerved in turn to avoid a mommy gang pushing strollers. The heat, the stink, the dirt. Sam took deep breaths and jerked his chin at Rufus to take the lead.
It only got worse. Rufus led him down a flight of stairs to a subway station. The rattle of an approaching train filtered through the hub of voices, and Rufus sprinted forward, jumped the turnstile, and glanced back at Sam with something smug all over his face. When Sam hesitated, Rufus shrugged and jogged down another flight of stairs.
Swearing, Sam copied the movement, blushing at the dirty look an older man gave him. Someone shouted after Sam, and he pitched down the stairs, hitting the landing below at a jog. He caught sight