of a tank, waiting.
Rufus briefly considered how satisfying it’d be to pour the water on the floor. He was trying so hard to rile Sam up because—fuck, he didn’t even really know why. He just was. And Rufus wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted. But he ultimately opted to finish the water, not because Sam told him to, but because Rufus had done a lot of running in July heat and was thirsty.
“Come on,” Sam said. “I’ve got the room until eleven thirty.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sam led Rufus past the elevators and toward the service stairs. He needed the time to pull himself together, and the thought of being in a metal box, inches away from Rufus, threatened to push him over the edge. They climbed the cement steps in silence, the only noise the soft whick of their shoes.
Part of Sam tried to focus on Heckler. His guess had been right; Heckler not only had thought Rufus was dead, but now she needed him dead. She had taken another risk today—a major risk—by showing up at Rufus’s apartment and chasing him through the city. She had tipped her hand. And she had shown how far she was willing to go to bury anything that might reveal the truth about what had happened to Jake.
But another part of Sam kept going back to Rufus: the flush in his cheeks when Sam had seen him in the lobby; the way the thin T-shirt clung to him, damp with sweat; the firestorm of hair. The night before, in thrall to two separate rage fucks, Sam could pretend he had gotten Rufus out of his head. Seeing him again, though…. Well. Damn. So much for that.
And the way Rufus had said, Thank God you found someone to give you a hand last night. The note in his voice. The way he had pressed on it, not letting it go. He’d heard the same thing in his own voice, the time or two he’d tried to talk to Jake. The thing about relationships, Sam thought—shocked to hear the word in his head, shoving it away before he could acknowledge it—was that nobody ever had new lines. You just played the same parts with the same script a hundred different ways.
Oh Christ. He needed to get laid. Again. And get far away from redheaded trouble.
In the small room, though, there wasn’t anywhere to get away. There was Rufus, right there, filling up the space: the smell of clean sweat, Dial soap, his hair. Sam took a spot on the far wall, hands under his arms, putting as much distance as he could between them.
“So?” he said.
Rufus tossed his jacket and beanie on the bed, walked to the window AC unit, and cranked the knob to High. He hiked his shirt up and leaned over the vent. “Heckler came to my apartment,” Rufus began, staring at the city below. “All she said was it was important we talk.”
“But you ran.”
“I went out my window and down the fire escape. I ran to the subway and she followed, but I lost her at West Fourth.” Rufus cocked his head and stared at Sam. “Do you want a Rufus thing?”
Sam did, but Rufus was too close. He moved to the other end of the room and dropped onto the foot of the bed. Then he nodded.
Still holding his shirt up, Rufus turned so he could cool the sweat on his back. “I’ve got a record. I was arrested for pickpocketing when I was a punk kid. Two years ago I ended up in some hot water—Jake was the detective involved. But when he learned who I’d stolen from and the information I had… he convinced me to testify in exchange for no jail time, and that criminal is serving a life sentence now. Jake made an arrangement with me afterward. In exchange for having my juvie record scrubbed, my details under lock and key, and the occasional paycheck, I inform.”
The window unit chugged; the hiss of cold air was like a stream of static through Sam’s head. This, Rufus telling him this, was more than just facts; it was a Rufus thing. A small one, yes. But a peace offering.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “For telling me.”
Rufus shrugged.
“So you know what she really wanted when she came to your place.”
Rufus put a finger to his head and imitated a gun. “She showed me what she wanted.”
“You worked as a police informant. Maybe the best thing for you to do now is