Page 60 of Dirty Work

Clay sprawled out half-naked on the bed. His jeans were unbuttoned and slung low over lean hips, and he’d kicked his boots off. Bruises covered his arms and torso, camouflaged by the scars and ink. He had half a bottle of whiskey propped against his stomach, his fingers wrapped loosely around the neck. Country music hammered out of the speakers, loud enough it made the lingering tinnitus in Grade’s ears turn up a few notches.

It didn’t look like he wanted company, never mind to fuck anyone.

Grade hesitated in the doorway. He’d no reason to think that he was wanted here. It hadn’t exactly been a real invitation, and it definitely hadn’t been a real confession.

And it wasn’t his problem.

Clay cocked one leg up, faded denim pulled tight over lean muscles, his foot braced against the sheets, and took another swig of whiskey.

“You can just go,” he slurred without lifting his head. “I don’t need sobering up.”

Grade shrugged his jacket off and walked over to the bed. He crawled onto it and lay down next to Clay.

“You know what I learned today?” he said as he tangled his fingers through Clay’s. “You can’t think and fuck at the same time.”

Clay swallowed thickly and propped himself up on one elbow. His hair still had blood in it, matted into the curls.

“Is that true?” he asked.

Grade shrugged and reached up to curl his hand around the back of Clay’s neck. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you want to find out?”

There was a pause, and then Clay made a raw, desperate noise in the back of his throat. He stooped down and kissed Grade roughly, all teeth and stubble and the salty bite of fresh blood that tangled on their tongues. He only pulled away long enough to drag Grade’s shirt up over his head and toss it off the bed.

Then he hesitated, braced over Grade.

“I get people killed,” he said.

Grade pulled him back down. “Me too.”

Epilogue

Buchanan rested hisplaster cast on the bar as he waved down the bartender. The lean woman ignored him as she bantered for tips, but finally the pretty people cleared and she made it down to him.

“Vodka,” he said, over the heavy beat of the industrial music through the speakers. “Straight. And I was told to ask for Dmitri.”

She poured them both a shot and tossed hers back without a flinch.

“That’s me,” she said as she wiped the back of her mouth on her hand. Blue ink curved between her knuckles and over her thumb.

Buchanan picked up his glass. The vodka smelled like something you’d use to clean paint off a brush.

“Grade sent me,” he said. “Grade Pulaski.”

Dmitri raised her eyebrows. “That’s you?” she said. “He told me you’d be coming by.”

She took the vodka out of his hand and tossed it back. Then she crooked her finger for him to follow her.

It turned out that Tommy Pulaski’s little boy was a lot more connected than Buchanan had thought when they first crossed paths. Apparently he was very good at his job and had met some very interesting people.

The back of The Rule had women in bras pouring cheap-shit whiskey into expensive bottles. There were guns on the wall and half-finished passports laid out on a desk. From what Buchanan had picked up, Dmitri was a fixer. If you needed somewhere to go and some way to get there, Dmitri made it happen.

And Dmitri, he guessed, owed Pulaski.

“I need out of the country,” Buchanan said. He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket—what he’d been able to grab from the bag before he ran—and set it down on the desk. “Columbia eventually, but wherever I can go to start with.”

Dmitri picked up the cash and nodded. “I can get you anywhere you need to go,” she said. “Do it.”

The garrote looped over Buchanan’s head and dug into his throat. He gagged and clawed at his own skin and then behind him, at the hands that twisted the thin rope. The woman had gloves on, and his nails just raked over the leather.

“Grade said he had a message for you,” Dmitri said impassively. “You shouldn’t have hurt his sister.”

Buchanan tried to speak up and defend himself, or maybe it was to try and bargain his way out. He couldn’t tell, because the words caught below the garotte like a burp. He reached for the money as the red crawled in at the side of his vision, but the world went black before his fingers touched it.