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“—and, of course, your history with Nick.” Shaw coughed delicately. “Your incisors? Remember? All that blood?”
“Listen to me, you aged-out, flat-assed, patchouli-funked expired excuse for a twink—”
“Ok,” Ezell called from inside the building, “I want to see some ID—”
“—if I’m so fucking terrible at blow jobs, then you don’t have anything to worry about—”
“Hey! Did you hear me?”
“—because I will never, ever, ever be giving you one again—”
“North, no!” It was hard to tell in the dark, but it sounded like Shaw was close to giggling. “Don’t give up on your dreams!”
“Are you listening to me? I said—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” North shouted toward the store. “Are you blind? Are you deaf? Do you have zero fucking awareness that I’m in the middle of something?”
A handful of seconds trickled past, and Ezell said, “Uh, sorry?”
North rubbed his forehead; a vein was throbbing in his temple. Maybe that would be a good way to go. Something bursts in your brain, and then it’s over. Short and sweet. It sounded especially good compared to the possibility of growing old with—
“I think it’s admirable that you’ve never given up,” Shaw said, “not even after the lawsuits, the injunctions, the court orders, the skin grafts.”
“Jesus, take me now,” North said as he stalked toward the back door.
“It’s inspirational, North. You’re an inspiration. You could inspire, uh, dozens of gaybros to keep fighting for their dreams of one day being able to—what’s the gentlemanly version of swinging on a knob? Oh, you could do speaking tours!”
When North reached the door, he said, “Do you have a gun?”
Ezell said, “Um.”
“Great. Shoot this motherfucker, and I’ll let you go.”
The most disappointing part, North thought distantly, was that the only response was silence.
“Open the fuck up,” North said.
“Your IDs—”
“Get the fuck out of here about the IDs. Do you hear the kind of shit I have to put up with? Open the fucking door, turn on the fucking lights, and then step out here with your fucking hands where I can see them, or this is going to be the fastest murder-suicide on record.”
“Interesting fact,” Shaw said, “the previous record holder was—what was the name of the guy who looked like Rasputin, only not quite as sexy, and he liked ladies to hit him with their shoes?”
“Never mind,” North said, “it’s just going to be a suicide.”
Something squeaked as it was dragged across the floorboards, and the door inched open. A moment later, warm yellow light spilled out into the night.
“I’m coming out,” Ezell said.
“Nice and slow,” North said.
“Don’t shoot.”
After the most recent spate of bullshit, North didn’t exactly like the fact that he and Shaw rolled their eyes at exactly the same time. But he couldn’t help but appreciate it.
Ezell stepped out of the store, and North’s first thought was that his hands were empty. North’s second thought was that, strangely, he looked familiar. He had a moon face and red cheeks, and his thin, blond hair was slicked back tight against his skull. Average height, stocky build, tattoo on the inside of his arm, lots of gothic swirls with what might have been a sword or a gun—it was too dark to tell. He wore jeans and a t-shirt that said YOU LOOK LIKE I NEED A DRINK. He was the kind of person North would have wanted to punch on general principle.
“Where’s the gun?” North asked.
