marked
by tiffany rawlins

Lance is an easy mark. Van walks through the club once and Lance tracks his movement with a sly, appraising stare. Van leans one elbow on the bar, puts his foot up on the lowest rung of the stool, and pivots so his hips face Lance like headlights. A perfect three-point turn.

It's just that easy. Lance meets his eyes, and Van drops his gaze to the counter. Grin. Blush. Look back. Lance smiles and nods instructions to the burly guy on his right. That must be Joe, the head of security. Van would've thought he'd outrank booty duty, but maybe Lance doesn't trust just anyone with that side of business. Lance doesn't trust many people at all, Van knows that much.

There's no reason Lance should trust anyone. Being a black-market middleman's probably the most dangerous job after cab driver. Lance is the guy who can get you things, no matter how much or dangerous or illegal or flat-out fucked-up. If you pay cash -- or trade, sometimes, guys like Lance work in trade for something someone else wants -- he can get it for you.

He's got something Van wants, and of course it has to be the kind of thing even Billie can't land for the Candy Store. He's got access. That's okay, though.

Van has something he can trade.

He orders a glass of Merlot. Joe stands between Van and Lance, blocking the view like an All-American linebacker. "There's a room in back I think you'd like better," Joe says.

Van wipes a bead of wine from his bottom lip. Dumb, Billie said. A little dumb. "What kind of room?" he asks.

Joe looks him up and down. Measuring the merchandise. He's probably used to doing that for Lance. Van smiles like he doesn't notice and Joe says, "The kind where your type might be more comfortable waiting."

Van says, "What am I waiting for?"

Joe almost smiles, but the corners of his mouth turn down and he looks closer at Van, like he recognizes something. He leans in and Van can see Lance watching them. "You're supposed to say, 'What's my type?'"

THREE DAYS EARLIER

"What do you mean, what's my type?" Van bounces his keychain against the glass coffee table. His shoes are dirty again. He buys new shoes, and they get dirty. This is why he should only wear clothes once.

"What's your type?" Billie asks again. "I've been thinking it was blondes, given your track record in the short time we've known each other, but then again I have the feeling that you, Van, you are the kind of guy who might get bored, who might like a change of scenery from time to --"

"Sir," Van says. "I --"

"I just wouldn't want to assume anything," Billie says, tapping a cigarette on her knee. "I wouldn't want to assume that just because in the past it's been blondes that it always was before that, or, for that matter, that it always would --"

"Sir," Van says, standing up. Billie is wearing these tight, stretchy bright blue pants and a white wifebeater that says GOOD GIRL across her breasts. In no life was Billie a blonde.

"Though if I had to guess," Billie says, undeterred, shifting on the couch and still managing to stare him down even when he puts his shoulders back and glowers. "I would say they've all been blonde. All the ones who mattered."

Van sits back down and stares at the hole in his dirty jeans. He hates wearing dirty clothes. He hates the feel of them against his skin. He'd rather just take off his shirt than wear a dirty one. He sits down and Billie twirls her cigarette between her fingers like a majorette and when she puts her hand on his knee, he knows she's not hitting on him. He knows she knows.

"Is there anything about me you don't already know?"

She shrugs. "I skip the part of the medical form with details on size and circumcision."

"Oh, that's very considerate of you, Billie. Very thoughtful."

"No," she says. "It's just gross."

"You think boy parts are gross?"

Billie stands up and crosses the room to her desk. "What I think of you and your. Equipment. Are not the point of this little heart-to-heart, Van. This is about you."

"Me and my type," he says. He lays one palm against the clean, perfect glass table and carefully smears fingerprints along the edge. There. Dirty.

"It's not your fault he died," she says. "I've seen the file. I've read the whole thing, and just because you were there doesn't mean --"

"You know," Van says quietly, and Billie shuts up. He looks away from the view of his shoes through the dirty glass long enough to see how carefully she's watching him. "You know, that was a pretty shitty way to bring this up. You could have asked me. You could have just asked and I would have told, you didn't have to go and act like you were trying to set me up with your sister or something."

"I don't have a sister."

"That's not --"

Billie perches on the arm of the sofa and rests a hand on his shoulder. "That was a bad joke."

"No," Van says. "A bad joke is something about three priests and a bar."

"Okay, it was a bad idea."

Van hangs his neck down loose and scrubs at his face. "He was a two-bit drug dealer in over his head. He got shot and I was there and I couldn't stop it. You read the file. What else am I supposed to say?"

"Why you were there," she says.

"Oh, did they leave that part out?"

Billie stands up, steps around the table and sits back down on the other end of the couch. "I'm asking you why you were there," she says.

Van pinches the bridge of his nose. "I was twenty years old and my dad had gotten locked up again and I needed a place to sleep."

"So he was your roommate." Her voice goes up a little at the end.

Van shoves off the couch and stands by the glass wall, looking down on all the toys. All those cars and bikes. Connor would've really gotten a kick out of this place. A kick and a half. He was the one who liked all those old '70s movies with fast wheels and high-speed chases. Van only watched them so they didn't have to get out of bed.

"I was twenty years old. I met him outside a bar on Santa Monica where he sold dope to rich kids. He was blonde. He looked like he was one of them, but he lived in a crappy studio in West Hollywood and sold dope to put himself through school." He shrugs.

"He was beautiful," Billie says. She's standing at her desk now, fingering a file.

Van glances back at her, steadies himself with a hand on the glass. "He looked better when he wasn't dead."

"You loved him," Billie says.

Van stubs his toe against the floor and pushes back from the wall. "He was my boyfriend."

"I know."

"Then why are we even talking about this?" He shoves his hands in his pockets.

"There's a case," she says.

A case. Van tries not to laugh. All this, Connor's autopsy photos on her desk like playing cards, and it's not even about Billie playing Freud. Of course it's all for a case. "Then what's it even matter what my type is," he says, wearily. "It's a case. It's some guy, set him up, knock him down. You really thought you had to get out the kid gloves to send us after some guy?"

"It's not just any guy," she says. "It's not just any case. I need you."

"What about Deaq?"

"Deaq's backup here. You're deep under. We can put him in play so you'll have contact, but you're the primary cover."

Van crosses his arms. "Fine," he says. "Who am I this time?"

Billie taps her nails and says, "You're the guy's boyfriend."

"What?"

Van turns around and Deaq's standing in the doorway.

"He's the who's what?"

Billie looks at Van, looks at Deaq, looks back again. "I'm gonna put together the briefing materials downstairs," she says, and leaves them alone.

"Hey," Van nods.

"The what?" Deaq crosses his arms.

Van clears his throat. "The boyfriend. There's some guy, I don't know. My cover is to be the boyfriend."

"Oh," Deaq says. "I see."

"What do you see?"

"I don't know, man. It just seemed like a thing to say." They sit down next to each other, and Deaq bumps his shoulder against Van's. "You cool with this?"

"It's just like any other case," Van says.

"For you, maybe."

"Yeah," Van says. "For me, it's just like any other case, okay?"

Deaq puts his hands up. "Okay." He stands up. "Me, I'd at least want to know who the bachelor's name before I dropped my drawers." He grins and bats at Van's arm. "You gotta start telling me shit, man. That's what partners are for."

"Yeah, okay," Van says, and when Deaq goes to bump fists, he smiles. "Let's go find out his name."

His name is Lance Bass, and he's the guy who can get you things. He doesn't touch product, doesn't touch payment. He gives you whoever's got what you want, and you give him ten percent.

"This town doesn't have enough motherfucking agents they gotta let a shark get a piece of this action, too?" Deaq rolls his eyes.

"If it's a trade," Billie continues, "he takes ten percent of the estimated value. That's fine, if it's product for product. You get a mutually agreeable appraiser and go dutch."

Van nods. "What's the catch?"

"Product for person. Not so easy to split the check."

Deaq says, "We're talking slave trade? Because that shit is just --"

"Not slaves," Billie says. "Whores. Short-term. Usually more than a night, less than a month, and we're not talking a crackho out on the boulevard here, we're talking classy."

Van flips through the file. Lance is very blonde. "What's the problem with using market rate on the girls?" he asks.

Billie shakes her head. "Not girls," she says. "And a lot of these guys? There's no market."

"Bondage?" Deaq asks, so casually that Van shoots him a look. "What? I watch Law & Order, man, this kind of thing is always somebody getting tied up and 'the suspect had S&M pornography, Captain.'"

"This isn't Law & Order," Billie says. "But it's not exactly Pretty Woman either. It depends on the trade. Bondage, sure, whatever, but for that you might as well hit the Weekly's classifieds. Mostly it's real specific kinks. A very particular look. A smell. Whatever."

"A look?" Van asks.

"A smell?" Deaq asks.

"Think LA Confidential," Billie says. "But gay. Gayer."

"So it's a souped-up prostitution ring," Van says. "I don't get why it's our game."

"Whatever whores this guy Bass moves," Billie says, "I don't care. It's not a big part of his business, and it's too high-end to not be consensual. We don't want him. We want one of his clients --"

"Who wants a trade," Van finishes.

"We think. But we don't know. We don't know what he wants because we can't get anyone close enough to hear the negotiations."

"And that's where pretty man comes in," Deaq says, smiling.

"Shut up, dude," Van says. "Any minute now you're gonna be my pimp, so you best --"

"Oh, that's good," Billie says. "That's better than bodyguard. He's your pimp."

"Mother --"

"Deaq," Billie warns.

"So, um," Van says, "I'm the trade? We have to wait for, what? What exactly does somebody request that they end up with me, that's what I'd like to know."

"You're not the trade," Billie says.

Deaq nods like he gets it. "You're the boyfriend. To this Bass fella." Billie raises an eyebrow at Van like she expects him to back out, but he just shrugs and waits for someone to go on. Deaq says, "This where I'm 'sposed to ask what my bottom bitch's most valuable quality is? What's Bass' kink?"

Billie flicks the remote and two photos come up on the screen. One black and white and one in color, both highly professional, possibly published in some coffee-table book somewhere. The man in the photos is white, mid- to late-twenties. Strong cheekbones, curly hair, blue eyes. Thinly muscular, sparingly clothed.

Deaq looks at the photo, turns and squints at Van. "That's what I call a particular kink, man. You got a twin you forgot to tell me about, too?"

"Bass' boyfriend," Billie says. "Ex. His ex-boyfriend. JC."

Van looks down at the conference table and, jesus, what happened to good old solid oak furniture. He stares at his reflection and then the photos again. This JC guy is pretty good looking, in a creepy, familiar kind of way. Van wonders if he knows him.

Billie says, "The guy's all business, and he's just too good at it for us to get at him through there. But he plays as hard as he works, and he hasn't had a playmate since JC. The closest op we could get said he's stuck like a lovesick puppy, falls out of his chair looking at anyone with even the faintest resemblance."

Van cocks his chin and still doesn't see it, but whatever, it's not his job to choose the mark, it's his job to hit the mark. Hit it with the mark. Deaq is never going to let him live this down.

"Van, your cover's already set. You're an actor-slash-model who moonlights as a high-priced call boy. Deaq, we'll make the modifications so you're the broker instead of the bodyguard, which will give you more bargaining power and more room to keep him safe."

Deaq raps his knuckles on the table. "I prefer pimp, actually," he says, and Van laughs. "But whatever you say, Madam."

"You'll say what I tell you to say." Billie hands Deaq the Amex. "We'll start tonight. Meantime, take him out and buy him some proper clothes." She frowns at Van. "This is the big-time. You might have to wear a shirt with actual buttons on it for a few hours."

Van is wearing lace-up red leather pants and a tight black long-sleeved shirt that seems to have some kind of silver thread woven through it.

"I don't know," he'd said the day before, frowning as he came out of the dressing room, barefoot on plush department store carpet. "It doesn't seem kind of trashy to you?"

"Just enough trash," Deaq said, smacking his lips and slapping Van on the ass when he turned to inspect his profile.

Now Van's wearing steel-toed boots with a switchblade holster pressed to his ankle, and Deaq's resting his hand on the small of Van's back as they walk once around the perimeter of this club where Bass usually goes on Fridays.

Lance, not Bass, Van tells himself. Cover cover cover. He's Lance, you're the guy who looks like his ex. He's the mark, you're the whore. You're the cop.

The club's not bad, it took a thousand bucks to get through the door and they still have to pay for expensive drinks. They sit in a corner booth and case the room. "Makes you want to be a kept man," Deaq says, dropping his hand from the back of the booth to the base of Van's neck. And leaving it there. And now that Van thinks about it, Deaq's really been touching him a lot the last few days.

After Billie rejected half the clothes they'd picked out, she'd sicced some costume designer friend of hers on them. He had very plucked eyebrows. Van let Pierre's hairdresser friend add some highlights to his hair, but, "Keep your paws off my man's manly eyebrows," Deaq growled, his fingers kneading Van's neck like he could just tell that Van was sore from sitting under a dryer for what felt like hours and hours.

So they haven't actually talked about it, about Van and his cover and the things they never talked about before, but Deaq has been touching him a lot, and the only jokes he's made as they made the final arrangements have been garden-variety Shaft riffs. Van thinks that's probably a good sign.

Ten minutes after midnight and Lance shows up just like Billie said. It's good he's habitual. It doesn't make it easy, because no man of habit in this line of work gets very far without the occasional, pointed, permanent exception to the rule. But this whole operation rests on Lance having at least one reliable proclivity: men who look like his ex. Van can do that.

Lance settles with his crew against the far wall and Deaq flutters his hands like a drumroll on the table. "You ready?" he asks, and Van nods. Ready as he'll be. Like riding a bike. Like any other cover. Like any other mark. He stands up, pulls his shirt flush, and Deaq pats him once on the stomach. "Okay then," he says. "You know I got your back. Go work it."

Joe leans into Van. "You're supposed to say, 'What's my type?'"

"My type?" Van repeats. He shrugs and smiles at Joe, but not too brightly. Full wattage gets saved for the paying customer, not the personal shopper. "I guess you could say I'm flexible." Joe raises an eyebrow. "I mean. Versatile."

Joe laughs. "You can come with me," he says, and Van knows an order when he hears one. He follows a pace behind and accepts another glass of wine when a waiter in the velvet-walled back room puts it in front of him. "Wait here," Joe says.

Van waits, lounging on a long leather couch. Billie had three things to say about JC: He was clearly not as dumb as he looked, to keep up with a guy as smart as Lance for as long as he did. He liked beautiful and sensuous things -- men, wine, art, music. Especially music. And wherever he went, he's not coming back. Van doesn't know where or when or why, and all Billie said when he asked was, "Don't ask me, and don't even think of asking Bass. You're there to ease the pain, not remind him what he lost."

Van doesn't hear the door open, but he can smell this low, spicy scent, something between burnt orange groves and bourbon, and then Lance is standing in front of him. "You plannin' to drink that wine or just swirl it around your glass all night?" he asks, voice curved by the south. Mississippi. Van read the file. The parts Billie would let him read, anyway. She's always hiding something.

"I don't like to drink alone," Van says, tilting his head back against the high cushioned back and smiling up at Lance. A real one this time, full of what he hopes reads like promise and heat and sense memory.

"Me neither," Lance says, sitting on the low table that stretches down the length of the couch. A waiter appears with a glass of amber liquid and ice that knocks against the crystal, and Lance accepts it without looking away from Van. "What's your name?"

"Van."

"Van," he says. "Do you know who I am?"

"I know your name," Van says.

"You're one of Chris' boys," Lance says, not asking a question. Chris is the guy who gets Lance most of the whores he trades. Maybe sometimes he sends over a sample on the house, or maybe Lance just thinks Van is the latest product looking for a good trade. All Van knows about Chris is the guy's a friend of Lance's and totally unable to be flipped.

Van slides his heel along the floor so his leg is stretched out on one side of Lance. He tugs lightly at the laces on his pants, holding the leather taut. "No," he says, and Lance blinks slowly, tracking the movement of Van's hand. "There's a guy out there who's hoping you might want to diversify your supply."

"Out where?"

Van nods toward the main room. "Black guy, sitting in the corner. Not Chris. Name's Deaqon."

"And you?" Lance asks. "Who are you?"

Van grins and tucks one thumb next to his stomach. "I'm the signing bonus, baby," he says.

Lance stands up, pressing one knee to the inside of Van's thigh. "Stay," he says.

Van sits forward until he's eye-level with Lance's crotch. Lance is wearing tight-cut black leather pants and a black sheer shirt that falls straight from his shoulder to his waist, silhouetting a black muscle tank underneath. Van exhales through the fabric, onto Lance's stomach, and then cocks his head back.

Lance is staring down, mouth open. When Van licks his lips, Lance tugs him up with a hand in his hair and kisses him quick and hard. "Stay here," he says, voice already a little husky.

Van puts his hands up like he's surrendering and tilts his hips forward to meet Lance's. "You're the boss," he says.

There was one guy before Connor. Three after, all of them junior thugs, like Van hadn't grown up knowing something about good men who do bad things and the people who get too close and caught in the crossfire.

Okay, three and a half, if you counted the blow job he'd let this informant give him. Way back when, new on the job, and the guy'd thought it meant Van trusted him, to put his dick in his mouth like that. Van came with the loose ends of his wire cutting into his clenched hands and didn't so much as look at a guy for a good year after. Even then, it was all look but don't touch, because when you're in and out of covers as much as he's been ever since, the last thing you want a taste for is something someone thinks they can exploit.

A weakness. Van doesn't think of it as a weakness, not exactly, even if he's never cried like how he did when he held a dead beautiful strong man in his arms and felt blood soaking through his own jeans. It's not a weakness, but there's no point in having a taste for trouble and the men who follow it if there are other cards on the table worth playing.

Lance is back before Van can start counting just how many years it's been since he's sunk to his knees and blown a guy like his life depends on it. Either Deaq negotiated soft or Lance took the second good offer, both of which are pussy, transparent moves you make when you want something.

Or Lance didn't negotiate at all. Van tries not to worry about the unpredictability of predictable men made desperate with grief.

"Let's go," Lance says, grabbing Van by the wrist and hauling him up.

"Wait, wait, wait." Van catches himself before he pulls away and reaches for his blade, planting his feet firmly instead. He forces a smile. "Where we running away to so fast?"

Lance tugs once, testing, but Van holds his ground. He frowns and Van strokes Lance's chest lightly, placating.

"I have to tell my guy that I'm leaving, at least," Van says.

Lance raises a hand to Van's throat and traces the tendon there. "You're on a pretty tight leash for a whore," he says, lip quirked up.

"I just gotta make sure he's paid, not dead. After that you can tie me up wherever you want." Van turns his head and kisses the inside of Lance's wrist. "If, you know. That's your thing."

"Steve McQueen," Lance says, and Van relaxes.

"Steve McQueen's your thing?" Van says, grinning.

"Your guy said that 'Steve McQueen' and some new clothes would get me anything I wanted."

Van slides his arm around Lance's waist and torques his neck, because Steve McQueen is their "open sesame," and he can tell from the way Lance is nudging at his jaw that he wants access. Lance licks the same path his fingers traced and Van goes from zero to sixty like he's some remote-controlled kiddie car, like how hard he gets is totally out of his hands. "He, uh. He said I needed new clothes?"

Lance laughs against his skin, warm and rumbling. "I'm not complainin'," he says. "Far as I'm concerned, you don't have to wear anything at all."

Van steps back. "Then let's go already," he says.

They go out through the kitchen and in the alley there's a sweet little silver '69 Stingray parked against a brick wall. Joe is leaning against the hood, arms crossed on his chest. He nods once at Lance, probably some kind of signal that Deaq's been paid and split.

He looks Van up and down like he wants to strip-search him, and not in a good way. Van doesn't really blame him. He was picking out some ass and it turned out to be this big business deal, and there's his boss thinking with his cock again. Van wonders how much that's been happening lately.

Lance stops Van with a finger snagged in his waistband, right above his ass. "Hey," he says, like they just met or something. Van is still hard, still trying to maintain his footing. Cover. He's supposed to seem like he likes this. It's not like he hasn't gotten off on fucking marks before. And he's a whore this time, so he should be better than the average lay at faking like he likes it.

Lance palms his tailbone and Joe looks down to the asphalt. Van stares at his shoes and bites his lip for a second, then tosses his best come-hither look back at Lance. He likes it, it's okay to admit that much. It's just because he's good at his job. It's what makes him good at his job.

"You drive?" Lance asks, near his ear but not quietly, and Joe's head snaps up.

"That?" Van asks. Lance nods and his hips move behind Van's. "Absolutely. I absolutely drive."

Joe pushes off the car. "Lance --"

"Give him the keys, Joe."

"I don't think --"

"Keys," Lance says, and Joe knows an order when he hears one, too, it looks like. He digs in his pocket and comes up with two keys on a ring. He tosses them to Van. Van catches them one-handed. "Go ahead," Lance says, elbowing him towards the car with an indulgent smile. "Get in, I'll be right there."

Van slides down into the seat and pulls the door shut behind him. He should probably be really impressed, not just a little. Whores like the kind that guy Chris runs have probably never driven a car this hot. Van's been in high-speed chases in cars this hot, but it's one of the things about the job that just doesn't get less fun with repetition. He can fake being really excited. He won't have to try that hard.

Joe's arguing with Lance. Van can't really hear them, because they're whisper-fighting, but the body language is screaming. They're fighting about him, which could go two ways. It could make Lance trust him earlier than he should or otherwise would. Or it could make however long he's got there with Lance until Lance gets bored and looks for a new playmate the longest days of Van's life, Joe blocking and questioning him at every move.

Lance reaches out a hand and squeezes Joe's shoulder, nodding sympathetic-like. He gives him a quick hug, slaps his back and walks to the passenger door. "Me too," he says, muffled by the glass. "I do too." And then he's got one foot in the car and leather slides against leather with a soft squeak.

"You know how much this car's worth, Van?"

Yes, Van thinks. "No."

"More than you, honey. Don't go over eighty, you hear me?"

"Yes sir," Van says, turning the ignition.

"Lance," he says, and runs a hand up Van's thigh.

Van breathes in and puts the car in gear. "Where to, Lance?"

There's a road off the highway, and then another that branches away from there. The last part's unpaved, half sand and slippery, grassy weeds, and the car's wheels spin and strain against the big block engine. "Here," Lance says finally, nodding to a carved-out curve on a cliff. "This is good."

"Here?"

Lance nods. Van turns off the car, and suddenly they're just two guys parked at make-out point with the ocean roaring down below. The sky wears what looks like the first hint of blush but is really just the lights of LA.

Van keeps his left hand on the wheel and slides his right across the seat divider until it's nestled between Lance's thighs. "How about here?"

"There's good, too," Lance breathes.

Van pops open the button on Lance's pants and angles his wrist so the tension unzips the fly for him. Just like riding a bike. "Still good?"

"It's." Lance slouches a little, presses up into Van's hand. "Great, it's great."

"You really like this," Van says, leaning over and smiling into Lance's neck, biting at his ear. He kneads Lance's dick and Lance moans, low, almost sounding pissed off. Van jerks a little faster. A good hand job is pretty distracting, he remembers that much.

Lance stops him with a firm grip on his wrist. "Come over here," he says.

Van turns his head and looks back at Lance. "Not much to go," he says. His bathtub is bigger than the front seat of this car. "Where?"

Lance pulls Van's hand out of his pants, drops it like he's afraid of leaving a fingerprint, and leans over Van to pop open the driver-side door. Van flexes his ankle so he can feel the cold steel of his knife and tries to still his jackhammer pulse. "Come around," Lance says. As soon as Van's boot heel hits the ground, Lance gets his own door open, too.

Van feels his way around the back of the car, feet sinking in the sand. By the time he's come around, Lance is turned, one arm up on the dashboard, one over and around the headrest. He's still unzipped, unwrapped and waiting. Van knows what he's supposed to do.

The ground is soft and a little damp and when he puts one hand down to steady himself, his knuckles come back up dusted with sand. He kind of wishes that between the shopping and hairdresser's he'd thought to practice this part, too, but when he lowers his head, his lips fit around Lance's dick just like they should. He's just like a whore to remember it all so easily.

There are things that aren't in Lance's file. Like the grunt he makes, soft and aborted when Van pulls back a notch, adjusting his jaw, stretching. Like the way his knuckles pop when they grip Van's shoulder. Like how he lifts his hips clear off the bucket seat when Van's nose touches his thigh, or how he scrabbles to pull Van's hand until it's wrapped around his ass, holding him close.

Van loses time, loses place and if Lance pulled back right now and asked him his real name, he wouldn't blow cover but only because he can't remember for the life of him what people call him when they're not saying, "god, baby, fuck, like that, right there." Lance tangles fingers in the curls at the back of his neck and when Van hums a little and squeezes Lance's ass, he comes in a rush, hot and stinging against the chilled night air.

Some time, some place later, Lance lifts Van's head up by tugging at his hair. Van blinks and swallows and a grain of sand scratches across the roof of his mouth. He came in his pants and the leather creaks and tugs at his skin. He can't feel his calves and his thighs are fiery needles with every move. It's light enough that his profile casts a shadow on the door.

"Hey," Lance says, rubbing his thumb along Van's chin. "C'mon." He pushes up, hands under Van's arms and Van stands, one palm on the low-slung roof of the car. He leans down and in and presses his mouth to Lance's, because Lance's lips are open and he's maybe waiting. This part is hard enough to get right when you're both there for the right reasons. He remembers that now.

Lance touches one finger to Van's knee where the leather is wet and stained by grass and mud. "You're gonna need new clothes," Lance says.

Van musters a smile and says, "Thought that was part of the deal anyway." Lance kisses him again, slower and sweeter this time, and Van wakes up in the warmth and slick heat of Lance's mouth. "You want me to drive?" he asks.

Lance chuckles. "I wouldn't trust you to push this car, the state you're in."

"I can --"

Lance shakes his head. "I'll do it." Van steps back and Lance climbs out. "You're pretty when you fall to pieces," he says, and Van tries to swallow, to clear his throat and say something back. He can barely breathe. Lance kisses his cheek and walks around to the driver's side.

Lance drives like he's determined the perfect economy of motion required to shift gears, to turn the wheel. Even freshly-fucked, his posture is carefully balanced. No shift in weight is accidental. Van busted this movie mogul once who was dealing E off the back lot to Teamsters who brought in sets and took out a cool million's worth of drugs. That guy moved like Lance. Deliberately.

Lance catches Van staring, but Van thinks that's probably okay. He smiles, letting his mouth slacken like it had on its own when Lance was pouring him back into the car. Lance seems pretty smart, but Van knows from experience that if there's one scam that even the most ruthless con artist almost yearns to buy into, it's that a whore can fall in love if the sex is good enough.

"Where do you live?" Lance asks, not looking away from the road.

Van had assumed he'd be going home with Lance. "I thought, um --"

"Oh, you are," Lance says. "You got anything you want to pick up from your place on the way?"

Ray had this girlfriend he used to bring around sometimes, this stripper who sometimes hooked. Long after she'd found this old guy from the Valley who set her up in a nice apartment and kept her in new clothes, she'd looked hungry. She'd sit in Ray's shop, waving damp bills between long manicured nails, and she never stopped looking greedy and a little desperate, like she might pocket a few C-notes on her way out the door.

Van licks his lips and touches two fingers to Lance's thigh, tracing the outside seam. "You gonna take me shopping, right?" he says, and Lance nods like that's just about what he was expecting. "Then I expect you got me as long as you want me." He curves his hand over Lance's leg and Lance grins.

"I want you," he says, eyes darting from the road.

Van says, "Then I've got everything I need right now."

Now it's like any other cover. With more sex, Van expects. Lance certainly hasn't had to go without since JC split, but he's so fired up that Van guesses maybe he has. So Van's under for a month, maybe two, long enough for Lance to get comfortable, to talk shop in front of him. Long enough to case the real target and whatever it is that he gets from Lance.

Long enough to get attached.

 

 

(11)

 

Van sleeps through the day. He'd figured Lance would want to fuck again, but he'd just drawn the bedroom curtains and pushed Van towards the shower. Van was very carefully unlacing his pants when Lance stuck his head in the door. "You have to call your guy now or can you wait till later?"

Van shrugged. "Later works."

Lance smiled and tossed him a towel. "You need anything, just holler. I've got some things to take care of."

So Van showered and climbed into Lance's bed naked, skin clean and electric against soft, expensive sheets. They should seize bedding more often, he thinks. He should look around, see what he can find. He should wait up until Lance comes back.

He wakes up at five. His phone is ringing. It's being held out to him by Joe, who is sitting on the edge of the mattress. Van rubs his eyes. No Lance to be found.

Joe looks serious and pissed, his eyes dark. Van wonders what Joe thinks is adequate compensation for adding receptionist to his resume. "Your guy Deaqon's been calling every fifteen minutes for the last hour. Tell him you're not dead, okay?"

Van takes the phone. "Dude."

"Don't you ever pull an invisible act like that again, you hear me?"

"Good morning to you, too." Van pulls the sheet up around his waist a little more.

"Oh, man, Van. Van, what kind of pimp lets his bitch talk to him like that?"

Van sighs and tries not to roll his eyes. "Sorry."

"And it's not morning. You didn't get made already, did you?"

"I, uh. Was asleep, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you best be acting scared now."

"I'm really sorry," Van says.

"Oh, and Billie says I should ask if you're okay."

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"He sittin' right there?"

"Not exactly."

"The other guy?"

"Yup."

"Lemme talk to him."

"What?"

"Shut your mouth and do what you're told, pretty boy." Deaq is liking this way too much.

"Here," Van says, holding out the phone.

Joe takes it and stands, half-covering the mouthpiece like he wants Deaq to hear but wants plausible deniability. "There's clothes over there." He points at a chair across the room. "Get dressed."

He steps into the hall and Van pulls on 501s that fit like they're custom-built rims. There's no underwear and if that qualifies as a shirt, Van's been spending entirely too much for fabric to cover his stomach all these years. He can't even figure out which is the neck hole and which are the arms.

Joe opens the door and hands the phone back, leaning against the wall. Van holds the cell with his shoulder and zips his jeans. Joe watches. "Yeah?"

"Here's the deal," Deaq says, all business. "You call in every day. Billie or I don't hear from you for twenty-four, we come in full-court press. Joe knows that, so he'll probably remind you himself to keep the trains on time. He doesn't trust you, but that's his job, so don't waste much time trying to win him over. As long as Lance goes to bed and wakes up next to your fine ass, you'll have enough quiet time to get done whatever you need to."

Van sits down in the chair and fingers the upholstery.

"Say somethin', dude."

"What," Van says.

"Act like you're having a motherfucking conversation with your pimp, for starters."

"Okay, Jesus. Okay."

"You get Mondays off, and that's when you come in to debrief. You keep your phone on you, no matter what, and you don't leave the state, period."

"Yessir." Van looks up and Joe is staring at his chest. A lot. He's sitting on the bed, listening and staring. Hell. "I gotta go," he says. "I'll call tomorrow."

"Get in there and do us proud," Deaq crows, laughing.

Van claps the phone shut and tucks one bare foot up, settling into the leather upholstery. "Sorry about that," he says.

Joe nods, raises his eyes from Van’s abs long enough to say, "Don’t do it again."

"No," Van agrees. He’s a little pissed Billie never thought to assign him The Hustler’s Guide to the Galaxy as homework. It’s too early in the game to entirely sure what Joe’s allowed to sample and what he’s just supposed to protect.

Oh, what the hell. He’s supposed to be a whore here. Joe’s not bad looking. He’s even kind of hot, in a totally not his way kind of way. He’s a lot bigger than Lance, taller even than Van himself. But if he stays sitting on the edge of the bed, he seems pretty manageable.

Van pushes off the chair, biting his lip and stretching his jaw in anticipation. He hasn’t used his mouth this much in a long time, at least not for anything other than shooting the shit with Deaq.

Joe leans back on his elbows, waiting, and Van kneels. "I’m really sorry," he says, because even without a copy of The Joy of Paid Gay Sex stuffed in his back pocket, he knows that men with almost a lot of power like nothing more than people who let tell them again and again that they’re in charge. A blowjob’s just a little more direct way to make that point, and so Van tries to look contrite while unbuttoning Joe’s jeans.

This is officially the weirdest cover ever. Van really can’t believe that this is how he’s going to spend his next month, on his knees or on his back with some rotating cast of mid-rank mobsters, all to land some bigger fish who actually gets his hands dirty.

Van’s got his fingers inside Joe’s boxers when Joe pushes him away. "You really are a whore," he says, "aren’t you?"

"Well, sure," Van says, rocking back on his heels. "But I’m not gonna apologize for that part." He bares his teeth in a grin and Joe laughs, short and hard. "I’m just tryin’ to thank you here," he says.

Joe cups Van’s chin in his palm, but not gently, and he works his fingers across Van’s cheekbones like he thinks maybe he’s wearing a mask. Like he’s trying to rip it off bare-handed.

Van’s eyes water and he pulls back, reeling a little at his miscalculation. "It’s not like I wouldn’t just take no for an answer," he says, getting to his feet.

Joe stands and grabs Van’s wrist tightly, looking down and holding him close. "You do your job, nothing more," he says. "Your job is him, and we got that in common. But no one else here should get anywhere near this close, no matter how sorry you are or how much they’re expecting some gratitude."

"Fine," Van says, and he waits until Joe let go before he steps away and crosses his arms on his chest. He really wants some more clothes. He thinks it’s maybe possible to feel like less of a total sex object if he’s better than half-dressed. "What else?"

"You get Mondays. You keep your mouth shut. You do whatever he says."

"Okay," Van says. "I get it."

"And if you want out, you tell me first." Joe’s eyes are fierce and almost hurt with intensity. He looks through Van like he can see another man’s face underneath, and Van realizes that maybe Lance wasn't the only guy left with his pants around his ankles when JC bailed.

He nods and keeps his mouth shut. He’s not going anywhere soon. There’s plenty of time.

"Good," Joe says finally. "Good. He’s downstairs waiting for you. There’s some other clothes in that bureau. You might want to put on a shirt for a while."

 

 

(12)

Lance is the kind of guy who only works at night, so they go to bed sometime around when the sun is coming up and fall asleep a few hours later and wake up in time for dinner.

Van hasn't had this much sex since he was twenty. Lance likes it from behind. And from the front. And he likes it when Van straddles him, and he likes it when Van pins him to the bed and sucks him off without using his hands, and he likes it when Van is tied by the ankles to the footboard and wearing a blindfold.

Basically, he likes it. A lot. Van tries to stay aloft and watch for a pattern at first, thinking there's some clue to Lance's weakness by the way he fucks hard and deep or sweet and shallow. Eventually he stops trying to hold himself back, because Lance seems to be able to tell and only fucks him harder until he gives in, and because the only real pattern is that Lance absolutely loves to fuck.

To fuck him and only him, apparently. The one thing Lance doesn't appear to like so much is threesomes, based on his indifferent shrug the one time Van made a joke about calling in a relief pitcher. He doesn't even pretend that what Van wants matters. That's about all Van's been able to count on in the three days he's been stranded at Lance's estate in nothing but tight jeans and tiny shirts. He's still waiting for his wardrobe to arrive.

Van's been summarily dismissed from the downstairs while Lance yells about the price of African diamonds. The problem, of course, with being a whore who knows his place is that Van's place really needs to be a little closer to the top of the food chain if he's ever going to graduate past basic love slave duties.

The only solution Van's found so far is that Lance is even louder when he's doing business than he is when he's in bed.

If Van shoots hoops off the side of the main garage, he can usually catch at least half of Lance's side of the conversation. Lance likes keeping the windows open, says it reminds him of home to feel the hot air, and it's annoying as hell when they're trying to cool down and fuck again but Van's not going to complain now.

He's six for ten from the line when a limo swings into the driveway, hovering in front of the door just long enough for a young guy to hop out. He's maybe twenty, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.

Van holds the basketball in his hands and when the guy rings the bell, Lance stops screaming about diamonds. The guy's standing on the steps, licking his palms and running them through his curly hair, adjusting himself and licking his teeth. One of the housekeepers opens the door and the guy steps inside.

It's maybe forty-five seconds before he's been escorted back out again, and Van dribbles the ball slowly as he hears Lance start yelling about conflicting supplies and how Chris should know better. Chris the pimp?

"You'd think after all this time, Chris -- of anyone, Chris would know they're not fucking interchangeable," Lance shouts. Chris the pimp, yeah.

Van looks over his shoulder and puts up another jumper. The guy is watching him. The guy is tall and thin and now that he knows what he's looking for, Van thinks he does kind of look like a whore.

"Oh," the guy says, and Van lets the ball roll into the bushes. "I get it now."

Van shrugs. "Get what?" he says.

"I'm Justin." Justin steps forward, puts out his hand all politely, glimmers a little in the late-setting California twilight.

"Get what?" Van repeats. He'd put his hands in his pockets but they're too tight, so he settles for one on his waist and one behind his neck, wiping off the sweat.

"You look just like him," Justin says. He peers down the driveway and then turns back. "I think I'm gonna have to wait a while for my ride," he says, walking over to retrieve the ball. "One-on-one?"

"Like who?"

Justin slams the ball fast and hard and it shocks Van's wrists a little when he catches it. "Like the last guy," he says. "JC or whatever."

Van dribbles twice and makes a lay-up. "What about him?"

Justin shrugs. "I dunno. All Chris said was Lance was still all broken up about that guy he always used to be with. JC." Justin makes a beautiful, perfect arc of a shot and scratches his nose, like it wasn't any effort at all. "Looked like you," he says, stretching some. "I hope Chris isn't all pissed off now. If you're not what they're looking for, doesn't matter how good you are, y'know?"

Van passes the ball back and forth, thinking. "I heard JC's in South America," he says.

Justin wipes his forehead, bouncing on his toes. "I heard he was dead."

Van swallows hard, makes an easy shot. "Oh yeah?" he says, casually.

"Yup."

"How?"

Justin says, "Dunno. But Chris has been trying to cheer his ass up for months, man." He cocks his head at Van and smiles at the corner of his mouth. "You don't think he'd go for a three-way, do you? You'n me would look real sweet together, maybe he'd like that."

"Not his thing," Van says, as Justin nails another from just outside.

Headlights sweep across the house and Justin smiles like he actually did get laid. "You're cute," he says. "Even if your jump shot's weak as hell. You want my number?"

Van laughs a little, low and kind. "Kind of working here," he says.

Justin waves like a kid on his way to school and Van sort of waves back. When he turns around, Lance is standing in the open door.

"We're going out," Lance says.

Van smiles on cue and tries to look sweaty and hot. Sexy-hot, not lack-of-AC-hot. "Great," he says, flexible and versatile and Lance doesn't even pretend that what Van wants matters. He doesn't think Lance likes his look-alikes whiny, though, so he just presses himself against Lance as he passes through the doorway and goes up to take a shower.

 

 

(13)

Finally, after three days of sex and a very limited amount of snooping around during the twenty-minute catnaps that seem to be Lance's only rest, Van catches a break.

He comes out of the shower and there's a suit laid out on the bed for him. It's too nice to be off the rack, a deep rich blue that hangs so perfectly from his hips that Van rubs his hands over his chest like he'll find chalk marks.

"I sent your other clothes to the tailor for measuring," Lance says from the doorway, and Van slides the razor over one last patch of stubble.

"You could've just asked," Van says. "I would've gone in to be fit or something."

Lance passes him a towel and Van wets it and wipes his face. "I don't like other people's hands all over my stuff," Lance says, very deliberately.

Shit. Van really needs to remember that this whole possessive thing is to be expected from a guy who thinks he's bought a whore, not a spy. "We were just playing ball," he says. Contrite, apologetic whore. This is not a tone of voice they taught at the academy.

"Yeah," Lance says.

He steps back and turns to watch Van finish getting dressed. The shirt has a wide collar and a satin sheen, the color of water just under the curl of a wave. Seafoam. Van unbuttons his pants to tuck it in, moving fast and neat and trying to figure out if there's anything he can say that will make this conversation go better. "Thank you for the clothes," he says, because at least that's sincere.

Lance nods and comes forward to help Van put on the jacket.

"Really," Van says, tilting his head back to brush Lance's cheek. "We were just talking."

"Yeah," Lance says. "I heard." He buttons Van's jacket from behind, arms tight around Van's chest. "Who told you about JC?" Lance's hands close over Van's wrist, binding him.

The thing about open windows is how they work both ways. Fuck. Van closes his eyes and doesn't struggle in Lance's firm grip. "Deaq," he says finally. "Word was out you had an opening to fill. That's all I know." Lance inhales and Van can feel him holding his breath, like he's trying to decide. "I'm sorry," Van says, because no one likes having their own kinks thrown in their face. "I -- I won't say anything else about it, I swear."

Lance spins Van around and stares at him hard. "He wasn't a whore," Lance says, voice cold. His hands are still clenched on Van's arms but they're shaking now, quivering with something that's not quite rage. Sadness, maybe.

"Okay," Van says gently. "I'm sorry, I was just curious, I'm sorry."

Lance exhales shakily and backs away. "We're gonna be late," he says. Van nods. "I need you to sit there and look good and follow my lead. Just do what I say. You got it?"

"Yes."

"You're pretty smart," Lance says.

He doesn't have to add "for a whore" for Van to understand that's what he means. Which is good. If Van's still smart and pushy for a whore, that's better than being suspicious. He waits for Lance to touch him, and when he does, leans into the kiss and whispers "I'm sorry" one more time against Lance's lips.

"You got a good thing here, believe me," Lance says, putting on his own coat. "Don't go gettin' curious and fuck it all up."

 

 

(14)

The meeting is with an arms dealer, mostly street-level handguns, nothing too big or destructive. She's ex-military, a dishonorably discharged Navy SEAL whose brother ran East LA for a decade. She's wearing a nicer suit than Van.

She wants two rare-breed panda bears for her girlfriend and Lance knows a guy at a zoo willing to make the trade in exchange for outfitting his cousin's gang. It's nothing Billie would give a rat's ass about, but Van considers it progress that he's allowed stay in the room while it goes down. All he does is fetch drinks and nod and smile when Lance strokes his thigh.

"It's nice keeping these things in the family," she says, when she shakes Lance's hand and looks Van up and down.

After, Lance is by turns hungry and apologetic. When he kisses over bruises he's left an hour before like they've bloomed out of nowhere, Van's not sure what he's seeing, or who, and for the first time he feels this low stab of jealousy at whoever JC was, whatever place he held in Lance's life.

Lance never asks him how he wound up hustling, never asks where he came from or what he wants. It's like he doesn't want to know anything that will get in the way of his replacement fantasy, and Van knows that's the deal, that's what he signed up for. But still.

Still it feels kind of good when he comes downstairs for a snack and Lance looks up and smiles. He's sitting at the big dining room table with two thick books and a set of magnifying glasses in front of him.

Van drops a kiss on the back of his neck and pours himself a glass of orange juice. Lance doesn't speak, but when Van sits across the polished cherry expanse of wood and tucks his knees up to his chest, Lance says good afternoon like he means it, like they're comfortable with each other.

Van nods at the table and decides to run with it. The pretty thing in the corner of the meetings still has to know how to make conversation. "What are we learning about today?" he asks.

Lance studies Van for a minute, and then says. "Rubies."

"Real or fake?" Van asks, pulse beating. He could help with this. This could be his way in. It's Saturday and if he goes in Monday with nothing but a dime-store gun-slinger and scratches up his back, Billie's not gonna send him back. He has to come back.

Lance pauses. "You know the difference?" He sounds wary but interested.

"I come from a long line of hustlers," Van says.

Lance considers that, and then gets up without a word and walks out of the room. Van closes his eyes and counts backward from ten. He's got to have something to bring in. He just has to.

He's at three when Lance comes back. He unwraps a small black velvet pouch and lays two milky cranberry-colored rocks in front of Van. Van reaches a hand toward a magnifying glass and freezes, lifting an eyebrow, waiting for permission. Lance nods silently. Van doesn't really need it, he can tell they're both real already, but there's such a thing as overconfidence. He's just a whore, after all.

He makes a show of turning them over, squinting and looking again, and then he says, "Real."

"Which?" Lance is perched on the table, his knee brushing Van's side.

"Both," Van says. He puts the uncut jewels back in the bag and cinches the tie. Lance puts it in his jacket pocket and still doesn't say anything. Finally, Van asks, "Am I wrong?"

Lance looks down at him. "You know you aren't."

Van smiles, lets it shine a little cocky. Some things he doesn't misjudge, and rocks have always been easier to call than people. They are or they aren't, it's that simple.

"What's a guy with an eye that good doing making a living like this?" Lance asks, and Van stops smiling.

"Better money," he tries, but Lance shakes it off impatiently, like he's a little insulted Van thinks he's that dumb. Van thinks carefully. He won't get a third shot. He glances down, bites his lip, spreads his hands open on the table and speaks softly. "You ever try something just to prove to yourself you could?"

He feels Lance nod more than he sees it.

"My old man made paper, fenced jewels, ran scams. And he was good at it. When he wasn't locked up, he was the best anyone'd ever seen. But it was his thing, you know?"

He looks up and Lance nods almost imperceptibly. Van moves his arm until it's touching Lance's leg.

"I wanted to be good at something other than the family business. And I met this guy, at a party, and he just. He assumed, you know, that this is what I did. So I did it, what the hell. I was pretty sure I'd start laughing or something in the middle, but. It wasn't bad."

He looks up again and Lance is staring like he's seeing Van, really seeing him, for the first time.

Van smiles a little and says, "And the money is better, and I've never gotten busted. And I only do it when I want."

Lance cups Van's jaw.

"Also, it drives my father nuts," Van says, chuckling into the warmth of Lance's palm.

"Where's he now," Lance says, thumb pushing into Van's mouth.

"Twenty to life at Lompoc," Van mumbles. "Struck out." He sucks one of Lance's fingers between his lips and Lance moans, closing his eyes.

Diversion accomplished. Van puts his hands on Lance's hips and tugs him over, so he's sitting on the edge of the table. Van rests his forearms on Lance's thighs and Lance adds another finger, fucking his hand in and out of Van's mouth. This is better. He can't be expected to answer questions when his mouth is full.

He stands up and lifts Lance's legs from behind the knees, until his heels are propped up on the table. Van shucks Lance's shoes, pulls off his pants, drops his own boxers on the floor. Lance lies back and groans when Van guides Lance's wet fingers to himself.

When Van pushes inside, Lance arches and slides on the slick wood beneath him. Van yanks him back, thrusts again and again until Lance is revved so high it's like he's skipping heartbeats, breathing fast and shallow. Van puts a hand on Lance's back and pulls him up, wraps one of Lance's arms and then the other around his neck. They fuck like that until Van's legs ache and he can't help but come, kissing Lance's neck. "I do this because I like it," he says, low. Lance sighs, and Van whispers, "Like you."

 

 

(15)

 

Saturday night they go out and oversee a meth-for Uzi transfer, swap sitcom walk-on roles for the most discreet strippers ever hired by a group of female movie execs, and broker a face-to-face between a traffic court judge and the lawyer for a soap opera star who liked her commute with a white Russian in her son's Sippee cup. Van wears another perfectly tailored suit and speaks only when spoken to.

Sunday they rest.

Van wakes up when Lance comes in around noon, looking like something out of a Civil War epic in a cream-colored suit.

Van sits up and rubs his eyes. "Breakfast meeting?"

Lance shakes his head and perches on the edge of the mattress, leaning down to untie his shoes. "Church."

Van doesn't mean to laugh.

"What?" Lance says, laying back on the bed with his arms behind his head. There's no venom in his voice, no menace. They could be an old married couple.

They're not. Van bites the inside of his cheek and tries to remember that.

"You think 'cause I do this --" Lance waves a hand around. "That I'm not the kind of man who keeps a promise to his momma?"

Van absolutely should not find this endearing. Lance is the mark. Van is the whore. Van is the cop posing as a whore who tomorrow has to go tell his boss and partner exactly what he's been up to for the past week. What he's been up to and how to engineer this man's fall.

"I don't really know what kind of man you are," Van says, which is the truth.

Lance reaches blindly back and catches Van's ankle. He strokes it softly and sighs. "We don't really know each other at all," he says, eyes closed.

And this, this is the opening Van's needed, waited for. Not enough to be the pretty face in the corner. He has to be something Lance trusts at least a little, someone Lance will confess something to.

Van slides down the headboard so he's on his back, wraps a hand around Lance's arm and pulls him up the bed so they're lying on one pillow. "Ask me whatever you want," he says. All the money and power in the world and there's nothing a man like Lance wants as much as the satisfaction of being the exception to the rule.

Lance licks his lips and contemplates the offer. Van rests his hand on Lance's waist, right where his crisp white shirt is tucked into just barely wrinkled ivory pants. There's nothing he's not authorized to use to get inside this man. And this isn't even anything new, using touch, shaking his head a little until the curls settle on the back of his neck and Lance's mouth opens, his fingertips trailing across Van's neck.

"Anything," Van says.

Lance says, "Tell me about Connor."

Van holds perfectly still. No. If he's blown his cover that absolutely, he's just screwed. He hasn't called Deaq yet that day. He's got maybe three or four hours before he misses his curfew, but he could be so totally dead by then it wouldn't matter. "What?" he says, barely managing to keep his voice level.

Lance shrugs, one shoulder tight up against the mattress so it rocks the bed a little. "You were saying his name in your sleep."

"I was --"

"And also." Lance's mouth curves in a small smirk. "That first night. On the beach, you said his name."

"I." Van breathes out. Not busted. Except in the way that he was blowing one guy and saying another's name. "I did?"

"Yeah." Lance chuckles softly, the air blowing across Van's flushed cheeks. "I didn't think you'd caught that. Kind of an occupational hazard, wouldn't you say?"

Van lets himself grin. "I was a little out of practice," he says.

"Since Connor?" Lance says it easily, as if it wasn't carefully intended to bring the conversation back around.

It's so close to the truth that Van almost says yes. "Connor was my last...boyfriend." That's basically true.

"What happened?"

Van traces Lance's ribs through his shirt and takes a deep breath. He's talked more about Connor in the last week than the five years before. "He died," Van says. Lance doesn't offer sympathy, just nods. "Got shot," Van adds reluctantly. There's nothing he's not supposed to use to get what he needs here, but even if it was Connor in his file getting him into this whole mess in the first place, it feels like taking his name in vain to trade on it like a pair of tight pants.

"Who did it?" Lance asks, which is not at all the question Van expects. Why, or how, or were you there.

"Just some guy," he says. "Some dealer higher up the food chain."

"You don't know his name?"

"I wasn't gonna go after him with a shotgun," Van says. "It was. Connor was in deep. There aren't a lot of ways out of a situation like that."

Lance touches Van's chest then, just a warm press of skin to skin. "There's always a way out," he says. "It's just a question of what you're willing to leave behind."

Van puts his hand over Lance's. "Tell me about JC," he says, gently.

Lance's eyes flutter closed. "We were going to leave everything behind," he says, speaking so low that Van bends in to catch the words. He kisses Lance's forehead and smoothes his hands across Lance's arms. "This, all this."

"It's a lot to give up," Van says.

Lance shakes his head, opening his eyes. "I wouldn't have even looked back."

"You really loved him," he says, feeling wholly inadequate. Lance's voice holds eternities of pain, and Van doesn't want to play father-confessor. He wants five minutes with Connor in his arms, not bleeding, just sleeping. Van thinks Lance would still give up all this for the same.

"You don't find many people in this line of work worth loving," Lance says. "It makes everything around you seem. Dull." He looks up. "I don't mean boring. I mean, dull and flat, like it's sucking the light out of everything. He was so alive he made everything around him look like it was dying."

Van tightens his arm around Lance's back, pulling him close. Lance breathes in stutters against his collarbone, and Van says, "I'm sorry." He almost doesn't want to know the rest. If Lance never tells him the rest, Van can't use it against him. He doesn't know how to stop what he's started, but when Lance tilts back, Van kisses his forehead again, cups Lance's jaw in his hand.

"And none of it was his fault," Lance says, putting his face back to Van's chest like Van hadn't just given him a way out.

Van wonders if Lance has told anyone this before, if it's merely the oldest story in the book, the guy who hires the hooker but just wants to talk. Needs someone to tell him it's okay.

"It was -- he. All he did was get in the car first. He was waiting for me. We were going to." Lance's breath hitches and Van rubs his back. "It was meant for me," he says, voice harder. "I know I was the one they were trying to kill."

Van holds Lance very carefully, still massaging his shoulder blades, and says, "Who?"

"I don't know," Lance says.

Van pulls back so he can see Lance's face. Lance is telling the truth, or at least he's not sure, but the look in his eyes isn't resignation.

It's determination.

He doesn't know yet. Van has no doubt that he will, eventually. Lance is a man who can get things, and if what he wants is whoever killed JC, he'll find them. It makes Van feel like he just gave up Connor without a fight, that this is what true love and revenge is supposed to look like.

One round of show and tell feels like a lifetime of confession, and Lance's weight against his body is heavy, as if he's soaked in pain. His arms come around Van's waist, and he rocks their hips together like he's trying to change the subject.

Van is ready to let him. He leans forward and kisses Lance and they fuck slow and soft like the warmth of Sunday afternoon sun is enough to erase the past.

Erase the future, too, Van thinks as he drifts off, Lance spent and sleeping beside him. It's not the past they have to worry about now.

...

 

Read the wrap-up WIP amnesty outtakes and outline here.