some kind of insurance, which did fuck-all for him because Heckler blew his brains out anyway.”
Rufus was already nodding as he spun on one heel and continued walking.
“Good thing you’ve got me with you,” Sam said, a tiny smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Maybe this time you’ll find something better than a bag of chips.”
“Jake’s place was clean. The chips were about all there was to find.”
“I watched that place for half an hour after you went in there. It took you half an hour to find a bag of chips?”
Rufus turned to walk backward. “I had no reason to rush,” he said with a touch of defensiveness. “In fact, let’s bet again—who finds the pickup first.”
“I’m going to feel bad taking your money.”
“What? No. You can’t just—you’re not going to find it before me. Ten bucks.”
“I barely got out of gum debt.” Sam hemmed. “Let’s go big: loser buys dinner.”
“If you win, then your dinner is going to be coffee and sugar packets.” Rufus licked his finger and motioned dabbing with it. “Gotta use your finger too.”
“Why do I get punished if you lose?”
“Life sucks.”
“Snake,” Sam said.
“Don’t you dare. Come on. You still have Marcus’s ID, don’t you?”
Sam tapped one pocket.
Of course, they were nowhere near where Marcus called home, and Rufus had to provide directions to get them back into the city—115th and Second Avenue, to be precise.
Rufus passed some of the time stuck in midday traffic fiddling with the car radio. Finding nothing but the latest Top 20 pop songs and an endless stream of local, cringeworthy commercials, he tapped the power button and leaned back in the passenger seat. He glanced at Sam’s profile. “You know something? You’re pretty cute.”
“It’s my moisturizer.”
“It is not.” Rufus shifted uncomfortably in the seat. It wouldn’t go back farther and his knees were practically knocking the dash. “Do you use moisturizer? I didn’t look in your ruck, cross my heart.”
“No, not usually. Do you usually look in other people’s bags?”
“What do you think?”
“So I’m cute? I feel too old to be cute.”
“How old are you again?” Rufus asked. “Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-seven.”
Rufus made a so-so motion with both hands. “All right, so maybe you’re not cute.”
Sam leveled a look at him.
Rufus started laughing. “What? Christ, I was going to say you were hot. But if you’re going to give me fuckin’ stink eye….”
“You’re lucky I’m driving.”
Rufus was still laughing under his breath as he turned to study the building numbers out the side window. He pointed suddenly. “That blue building, I think.”
“Later,” Sam said.
Rufus was patting his jacket pockets to confirm his tools were still tucked inside. “What’s later?”
“Later, you’re going to tell me I’m hot. And you’re going to be very convincing.”
Rufus raised his eyes to the roof, hummed dramatically, and in general, made a show of contemplating Sam’s words. When Sam pulled to the side of the road, Rufus said to himself, “Maybe you don’t deserve the compliment now.”
Yanking the parking brake, Sam turned to look at Rufus again. Then his hand slid to Rufus’s thigh. Then his hand slid up. And Sam’s eyes were dark and alight all at the same time, his expression closed. “Rufus, baby?”
Rufus suddenly couldn’t swallow, his mouth parched. “Y-yeah?”
Sam kissed him, hard and quick, and whispered, “I’m really, really sorry.” Then he kicked open the door and got out of the car. “Now move your ass so you can buy me a saucer of sugar or whatever the hell you were talking about.”
Rufus opened his door, started to get out, and was choked by his seat belt. He swore loudly, hit the release, and stumbled out. “I want a fancy dinner,” he called, slamming the passenger door and catching up to Sam, who was already approaching the old apartment complex. “For when you lose. Something with tablecloths and candles and shit.”
With a grunt, Sam jerked his head at Marcus’s building. “This is a lot of fucking foreplay just so you can lose a bet.”
Rufus slipped in front of Sam, drew dangerously close, and tit-for-tat, whispered huskily in Sam’s ear, “You haven’t had foreplay until me, hunk.” He smirked at Sam’s expression and then went to the front door.
Rufus looked through the grimy glass window, confirmed the vestibule was empty, then made quick work of the dated lock on the door. A handful of seconds and they were inside, studying the mailboxes lining the wall. Rufus knuckled 2B—Marcus Borroff—and headed up the stairs that had been painted a dozen times over in landlord