A Friend in the Dark - Gregory Ashe Page 0,26

you lose that?” Sam said, nudging Rufus and looking at the condom. He had joined them without Rufus hearing him, which seemed impossible for the big lug.

Rufus visibly jumped at Sam’s voice and hissed, “Jesus.” He stared at the condom for a beat before giving Sam side-eye. “No. I did not.” He shoved the lost and found back across the bar.

“No joy,” the bartender said. “Sorry about that.”

Rufus shrugged, waited until the woman left for a new customer, then asked Sam, “That beer worth eight bucks?”

“You’re about to find out,” Sam said, passing it to Rufus. “I don’t drink alone, and I don’t drink domestic. Not when I can help it.” He queried the bartender about other draft beers, settled on Sapporo, which Rufus couldn’t believe they had, and the bartender moved off to get it.

Eyeing Rufus, Sam closed his index finger and thumb around Rufus’s wrist. The roughness and heat of his fingers shocked Rufus, especially after Sam’s earlier comment about being touched. Sam met Rufus’s gaze for a long moment, murmured, “Still dainty,” and then called down the bar for an order of loaded nachos. Then, releasing Rufus, he pulled out a stool and sat.

Rufus put his hand to his chest, rubbing his wrist. He could still feel the impressions Sam left behind. Like his touch had seared through flesh and muscle and tendon and branded itself on Rufus’s bones. “We’re staying?” he asked, hearing how stupid and obvious the question was even as he spoke.

Sam hooked the stool next to him with his heel and touched the tip of Rufus’s ear. “They’re doing it again.”

Rufus plopped down on the barstool. He tugged his beanie off and set it on the counter beside his beer, showing off that, yes, in fact, his ears were pink from a blush. “I’m fair-skinned.”

“It’s cute.”

Cute. There it was again.

“Are you fucking with me? Or should I say thanks?”

Sam just gave him a slow blink. “I like it when guys say thanks.” Then, without waiting, “What’s your last name? Your real one, I mean.”

Rufus looked away. He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the bar, realized what a mess his hair was from the beanie, and vigorously finger-combed it. He grabbed the tall glass next and took a long pull. Rufus lied. He always did. A petty thief turned CI didn’t share information that could be traced. That’s why he tossed his burner every few weeks. That’s why the apartment he’d grown up in wasn’t technically in his name. It’s why every scumbag he’d helped the NYPD put away over the past few years thought he was a Smith. A Brown. A Baker.

Rufus put the half-empty beer down, looked sideways at Sam, and suddenly it was so difficult to lie. So difficult to spin a whopper to someone who’d dropped their entire life to come here and seek justice for Jake. “O’Callaghan.”

“Rufus O’Callaghan,” Sam said. The bartender brought him his beer, and Sam took a drink. His hand shook in the middle of it, and beer spilled down his chin, spattering his legs. Swearing, Sam set the glass down hard and grabbed a handful of napkins. He mopped at himself for a minute. Then he shoved the wad of wet paper away. Then he shoved the drink away. He put his hands in his pockets and stared straight ahead.

It was impossible to pretend Rufus hadn’t noticed the shakes this time. So he asked, because he was always of the mindset to just rip the Band-Aid off instead of peeling inch by inch. “PTSD?”

Sam laughed, a hard, sharp bark. “No.” For a moment, it seemed like that would be the end of it, but then he added, “It’s called essential tremor. It’s not a big deal.”

Rufus screwed with his hair again. “Do you take anything for it?”

“Not right now.”

“Oh.”

“So.” Sam cleared his throat, and some of the stiffness in his posture eased as he glanced around. “This your scene?”

Rufus snorted. “Hell no. This place is for new-age punk kids who’ve never heard of CBGB.”

Sam actually smiled at that; this time, he managed not to spill any of the beer, although the tremor was still noticeable. When he set the glass down, he leaned on an elbow and turned to face Rufus, his eyes a mile deep and searching. “Tell me about the origins of punk.” He shrugged. “Or tell me about anything, really. Tell me a Rufus thing.”

Rufus’s eyebrows shot up. That seemed a simple enough request: Tell me something about yourself.