Chapter Sixteen

The waiting was the worst part.

“Tell me again why I’m not there in person?” Graves barked, pacing back and forth behind his desk. The horsemen didn’t even bother answering. They had said it a dozen times already. Said it while they planned, said it when they were setting the pieces in motion, said it with every new decision. That didn’t stop Joe though.

“You cannot waltz into the most surveilled city in the world and lead an op!” he snapped. He was chewing his thumb nail, as worried as the rest of them. “Louis Tang, Mac, the Chinese—it would be a toss-up as to who would get to you first.”

“You mind your tone, Joe,” Graves said. But he had to acknowledge Stinton was right. Singapore was a risk, but it was their turf. The op in Timor had been a warning. This was the show of force. And Graves was not used to having force happen without him. It felt wrong. It felt like cowardice. It felt—

“Four minutes,” Tony said softly. He had three screens in front of him, two with street views from CCTV cameras and one with code scrolling as he typed.

“Where is he?” Graves said, leaning forward. “Shouldn’t we see him by now? Christ, this is why I should be there.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Sonny,” Bishop said. “You are being an—”

“There he is,” Tony said. They all leaned forward. A police SUV had pulled up to the intersection. They watched as three men got out. Two went into the building.

“One minute,” Tony said. They leaned forward again, huddling close. The CCTV footage had no sound but they were silent anyway. Graves was practically holding his breath. Doubt was snaking around his back, up his belly, down his arms.

Everything in the left-hand screen went white. The right stayed on, but it was hard to see through the smoke and flying debris. Stinton gave a low whistle.

“Get me another view, Tony! Now!”

“Yes, Boss,” Tony was already typing away, the white screen switched to a view down the street—people running, an overturned car. Graves slapped his hand on the desk.

“I can’t fucking see, Tony!”

“I’m trying, Boss!”

“Don’t shout at him,” Charlotte snapped. Graves chewed his lip and then kissed Tony on the temple.

“I’m sorry, our Tony,” he said. “How soon until it hits the news outlets?”

“Right about now, Boss,” Tony said, turning and nuzzling briefly into Graves’s neck.

“All right. Let’s see if we got the son of a bitch.”

They scrolled through their monitors, Bishop and Russ sharing low exchanges as they texted their contacts. Rook had the news on mute on the other side of the state room.

“We didn’t!” Joe Stinton had one phone tucked under his chin, another in his hands texting away. Graves spun on his heel.

“What do you mean?”

“Damn it!” Joe threw the phone from under his ear out the window. “Tang’s in an ambulance.”

“News says the same,” Rook said. “We missed.”

*

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Nick said, looking around. Unlike most of the food pavilions he was familiar with, this one had only a handful of stalls, and the tables were even flimsier than usual. One of them was an honest-to-God pile of shipping pallets with boards on top.

“It is,” Roger said. “I promise. I hope I’m right—but I have heard there is a young chef here cutting her teeth, and she may be someone we want to showcase at our event.”

Nick let the we and our event roll over him, closing his eyes a moment to savor the idea. Me and my…boyfriend? are picking food for the hottest event in Singapore this month. Me. Some idiot who gets into bar fights and doesn’t know a… He couldn’t even think of names of artists to say he didn’t know. Which made him laugh, a sudden delighted bark that made Roger jump.

“What?” Roger asked, smiling wide.

“I’m the luckiest guy in Singapore,” Nick said and kissed Roger right on the mouth with a loud smack. Roger drew back with a puzzled smile, a blush rising up the back of his neck.

“Stop,” Roger said. “I need to be cool when we meet your friends. Now sit here and look pretty while I find this chef and let her know she better bring her A game.”

Nick did as he was told, sitting back and watching whatever cricket was on the dusty TV hanging in the corner. Cricket was beyond his understanding, but he loved the sound of the announcers and the nonsense language of the sport.

The first person he saw was Morris. Or rather, Morris saw him and grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard.

“Swear to me we won’t get into a fight this time, asshole,” he said.

“Dude, stop,” Nick hissed. “I’m on a date. Don’t fucking tell him.”

“Tell him what? That you’d fight a street sign for a single corn chip?”

“Please?”

“A date?” Lena had arrived. She glanced over where Roger was deep in conversation with the awestruck chef. “And here I thought you were having some fling with Nelson fucking Graves.”

“That guy?” Nick gave a weak smile. I wish. No I don’t. Do I? “Nah. I mean. I’m just some guy from Minnesota who hands Jeanne Kyaw things— What’s a guy like him going to do with a guy like me?”

“Well this one…” Lena gave Roger a considering look. “God, he looks like a movie star. You sure he isn’t too pretty for you?”

“I knew you were gay,” Morris said. “I knew it.”

“I’m not, though,” Nick said. They both rolled their eyes.

“No, I mean…” Nick wasn’t sure he even wanted to talk about this. “I mean, I didn’t know. And I guess I like men and women? I don’t know yet. I’ll send a memo when I figure it out.”

“Put it in your Weekly Updates.” Lena said dryly. They all groaned.

“I do not miss writing those,” Nick said.

Roger came up to them with the chef in tow. She looked impossibly young, her wide face flushed with pleasure, her hands tucking stray hair behind her ears. She gave the group a stuttering half bow, clearly unsure what to say or do. Nick empathized. Roger had that effect.

“Could she be any cuter?” Morris muttered. The chef turned crimson and laughed.

“Thank you,” she said. “But I hope you like the food.”

There was a general uproar at this with everyone patting poor Morris on the back as he buried his face in his arms. Introductions were made and the chef, whose name was Latipah, was invited to sit with them. Morris was sent in disgrace to fetch the beers. After a decent conversation, during which Nick decided they were hiring the sharp-witted and funny Latipah and also maybe taking her home to live with them, Latipah went to prepare the food. Other vendors came to talk as well, and Roger ordered something from each of them, urging them in a mix of Singlish and Malay to pull out all the stops.

The group ended up at the pile of pallets under the TV. There was so much food they had to pause a moment and admire it. Lena posted everything to her Instagram, she and Roger getting into detailed arguments about social media that eluded Nick entirely.

Morris leaned over and spoke into Nick’s ear.

“I like him,” he said. “If he’s mean to you, I’ll have him erased. But I like him.”

Nick tried not to choke on his beer. He was turning to answer, feeling a swell of love for his buddy when he saw everyone staring up at the TV. The game was cut and instead a news bulletin appeared.

POLICE STATION BOMBING

In-between aerial shots of a burning building and dust-covered men picking through rubble were clips of an earnest-looking police officer in front of a podium giving a press conference. “Police Chief Louis Tang is in the hospital but in good spirits—statement forthcoming.”

The headline was scrawling across the bottom in a mix of English, Mandarin, and Malay. Nick couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

“That’s home!” Roger said, surging to his feet. “I live right down the street from there!” He shouted to the man who ran the nearest booth who clambered onto a box to adjust the TV, turn up the sound, and wipe off a little dust.

Hong Kong Police Station Bombed—Crime Syndicates Suspected Reprisals For Record-Breaking Drug Bust—Death Count Is Believed To Be Above 20—Mostly Senior Police Officials

The scroll ran along the bottom. They ate their food and watched in silence as the death count climbed, finally settling on forty-six. Latipah seemed unsure what to say to them. Nick shook himself and pulled her down to sit, asking her about each dish, writing what she said in his phone as he always did. It seemed to settle the table a little, drag Roger back into the present. Lena and Morris were having a quiet conversation off to the side, but even they made themselves come back to the food, to something present and happy.

“I say we hire everyone here,” Nick said to Roger. He gestured to the table. “I mean. Look how well it all goes together.”

“This would mean so much for us,” Latipah said seriously. “We are a small hawker center, all new.”

Roger was already nodding, squeezing Nick’s knee under the table.

“I love this idea,” he said. “I will come tomorrow morning when its quiet, and we can draw up the lists of equipment and ingredients.” He swung into Singlish with an apologetic glance at Nick, writing down information as he talked to the chefs. Nick waved him off. He had no idea about the logistics anyway. Instead, he scooted his plastic chair closer to Lena.

“It has to be. The word was most of that shipment was relaying between Myanmar and the Philippines,” Lena was saying. “That’s all Red Sky. The heroin moves east west and the meth moves north south.”

“That’s what the DEA guys think.”

“You think Red Sky blew the police station?” Nick asked.

“Probably,” Lena said. “But it could be that’s what the Chinese want us to think. So we don’t look too close at the pro-democracy people either.”

“Those guys are idealist college kids—they aren’t going to kill cops,” Morris said dismissively.

“Unless the Chinese decide they want them to,” Lena sighed. “It’s hard to know what the real deal is in Hong Kong. But Louis Tang is the police chief, and he was riding high on that bust at the port so…”

“Jesus,” Roger said, done with his negotiations. “I’m going home to a real mess.”

He held up his phone to show the stream of text messages piling in.

“I better call in; Energen just opened three new platforms off Rakhine state. If this is linked to Myanmar, investors will get crazy jittery. I dread what my schedule will look like when I get back.”

“Don’t remind me,” Nick sighed. “I can’t believe we have less than a month.”

“Oh stop,” Roger said. “You’ll be in Hong Kong for New Year’s, and then you’ll love it so much you’ll move there, and we will spend all our time eating delicious food and shopping.”

Lena and Morris protested this, and the group got up to leave in a more cheerful mood than they had been. Roger got on his phone after saying his goodbyes, leaving Nick to walk his friends to the train.

“I like him,” Lena said. “He’s charming, kind of a dork, and pretty. Exactly like you.”

“Aw, gee, thanks,” Nick snorted, elbowing her. “That’s terrific. Just the best.”

“Really, I mean it.” She doubled down. “You two are a good match. Much better than you and Daddy Warbucks.”

“Him again,” Nick sighed. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“That the richest man in Asia was staring at you like a field he wanted to plow? No. Never. I will never let it go.”

“Oh my God,” Nick said. “He isn’t like that.”

“Yes he is! You should see the women he gets for Ambassador Young!”

“Yes, okay, but it doesn’t matter. He and his Bugatti and his yacht and his bodyguards and his fancy cigarette case full of perfect little joints and his gun and his supermodels… Who wants all that anyway?”

“Me,” Morris said, leaning over their shoulders. “Sign me the fuck up.”

“I’d give you his number, but David Bishop would kill us all.”

“Who?”

“The old guy with the crew cut,” Nick said. He felt a sudden pang. Yes, he missed Graves. But his feelings about the boss were too complicated to think about. But he also missed Bishop and Russ and Charlotte and Tony. His heart gave a little twist, and he rubbed his sternum. Those guys were fun. I miss them. I wonder what they are up to?

*

Roger picked Nick up once Morris and Lena were gone, clearly distracted by what was happening back home. But he was excited about their evening anyway. They sat huddled together in the back of the car, talking as the city lights slid by out the windows.

“Those little mochi in the cold ginger soup?” Roger said. They were recapping their favorites. “I could eat a thousand of those.”

“I liked the pork belly with the nuts,” Nick said. “Give me a pile of those and some coconut rice and leave me alone.”

“I had a good time,” Roger said. They stood in front of his hotel, neither ready to end the night. “Do you want to come up?”

Once in Roger’s hotel, they settled in the big sitting room, Nick pouring drinks and talking about introducing Latipah to Jeanne.

“It was so good,” Roger said. “I’m sorry that events kind of overshadowed the whole thing. God, look, my phone is still blowing up!”

“It’s fine. We’ll hang out with them again,” Nick said. “Morris and Lena will both probably have to work on the bombing too. We can all hang out when things settle.”

“With Lena sure, but Owen Morris needs to up his game if he wants to hang out with us. Where on earth did he get that shirt?”

“Hey!”

“I’m only teasing,” Roger said. “I’ll buy him a shirt so we can be seen with him.”

“Stop it,” Nick snapped. “What people wear doesn’t matter.”

Roger let out a mock gasp, hand over his heart.

“You wound me!”

They laughed, and Nick felt a shift between them. Something…

“I want to kiss you,” Roger said. He touched Nick’s face with his fingertips, tracing down his cheek to his jaw. His palm against Nick’s cheek was smooth and soft.

“Okay.”

Roger leaned in and placed his warm lips against Nick’s. The kiss was gentle, soft as a cloud. The smell of ice cream and aftershave seemed to wrap Nick up as Roger trailed his lips over his. Nick felt part of himself melt at the sweetness of it, being treated like something delicate and fragile. But after the first sigh, Nick’s traitorous brain remembered that other kiss. Kissed me hard. Like we were the last people on earth. I bit him. Nick forced the thought away angrily. Roger stroked his cheeks, planting light kisses along his eyelids and lips before kissing him again.

Coherent thoughts weren’t exactly at the top of Nick’s mind. But he understood intuitively that with Roger it would always be like this, gentle and soft. His heart was beating fast, nervous and happy all at once. More. He wanted more. Roger was being soft and sweet, and Nick was fighting the urge to push, unsure what to do with his hands or…

“You okay?” Roger asked, pulling back. Nick nodded.

“That was…” Nick didn’t know what to say.

“Have you ever been with a man?”

Nick shook his head. It was easier to lie. He didn’t want Graves in his head, never mind in the room here with Roger.

“I’m not sure what to do,” he confessed.

“Kiss me back,” Roger said. “Show me what you like.”

Nick did, holding Roger’s face, asserting himself a little. He kissed a little harder, pushing their chests together. He wanted more contact, more pressure, more touch…

Roger pulled back, a wicked little smile on his face.

“You like it a little rough?” he asked.

“Maybe I do…or not. I don’t know,” Nick said. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Okay, okay. Settle down. Don’t come across as a lunatic.

“Lean back,” Roger said. Nick did, his stomach doing slow summersaults. He was painfully aroused, confused, as unsure of himself as he had ever been. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Roger’s hands pushed up his shirt and tangled in the top of his pants, tugging at them.

“Wait, wait,” Nick said, as Roger tugged his cock free, his hands wrapping around the shaft. Nick was achingly hard, the head of his prick flushed pink and leaking. Roger stroked featherlight trails of fire that made Nick’s hips stutter.

“Trust me,” Roger said. Nick squirmed, shuddering as Roger caressed him, planting little kisses on his navel. His clever fingers skimmed over Nick’s balls, sliding up to his head and back.

“Roger,” Nick said. “Seriously, stop.”

Whatever Roger saw in Nick’s face he stopped moving and scooted up to cup his cheek.

“What is it?” he asked. Nick dragged his thoughts together. He licked his lips, breathing through his nose. Did he want this? His stomach clenched. Yes, he did. He really did. But…

“Please, go slow. It’s been a long time,” he said. Roger curled against him, kissing him on the lips, back to the sweet, gentle kisses of before. His hand cupped Nick’s prick again, fingers dragging slowly up and down.

“Oh, Jesus,” Nick gasped. “You won’t laugh if I don’t last?”

“Never,” Roger said. “Relax. Let me make you feel good.”

It felt better than good, almost torture. Nick’s thoughts scattered, his body twisting as Roger stroked him. Gentle. So gentle. The word kept repeating itself in Nick’s head. Roger was kissing down Nick’s throat, mouthing above his collarbone. It was a dream, like flying, like— The memory of Graves intruded again, his mouth, hot and demanding, the size of his shoulders, his hands pulling Nick’s crotch into his—

Nick lost his fight and came, between one breath and the next, his back arching. Roger’s mouth caught the end of his cock, slurping and lapping at his slit until he sat up with a shout. Overstimulated, he pushed Roger hard, sending him tumbling off the couch. They laughed, and Roger clambered back up. Nick’s hands were shaking. He tucked himself away hastily, flustered and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, kissing Roger haphazardly on the face, neck, shoulders, everything he could reach. “That was intense. I’m sorry.”

“Next time, you can be on the outside of the couch,” Roger laughed. He pushed Nick over and retrieved his drink, miraculously preserved despite the two men nearly kicking the side table over. They sat comfortably together, Roger checking his vlog while Nick tried to wrap his mind around what had happened. Dimly he wondered if he was supposed to return the favor, but Roger seemed content with his head on Nick’s shoulder. They watched a little TV, finished their drinks, and then Roger called the car to take Nick back to Jeanne’s.

Nick curled in his bed and stared out the window. His body gave the occasional shiver, caught out by the whole experience. I’m gay? Or bi, I guess? It’s like Jeanne said. A whole new life.

*

Nelson Graves was in Jeanne’s kitchen, foul tempered, trying to work the coffee machine, when Nick came in the next morning. Nick was in nothing but underwear, wearing headphones and dancing to himself. His steps stumbled when he saw Graves, and the two stared a moment before nodding to each other, trying to be polite.

“So you’re back,” Nick said, pulling his headphones off and setting them on the counter. I wonder if he just got back or if he’s been avoiding me.

“I am,” Graves said.

“How are you?” Nick asked. He had forgotten how damn big Graves was, the way his presence filled whatever room he was in, the gravitational pull he exerted. It was infuriating. Despite his red-rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders, Graves was dressed, his clothes obviously pressed by his valet sometime in the night. The elegance of his appearance didn’t hide that he was clearly angry and badly needed coffee.

“I’ll be better when I’ve had a cup,” Graves said, looking him up and down. “How are you, Nick?”

This last came out in a low purr that made Nick wish he was wearing…well anything…more than he had on.

“I’m good,” he said. “Wondered when you guys would show up again.”

Nick took over the coffee machine and soon enough he had it working, the smell of coffee filling the room. Nick felt Graves watching him, his gaze like a hand on his neck. He shivered.

“I see you had a good time last night,” Graves said. Nick glanced in the reflective surface of the espresso machine and saw the purple kiss mark above his clavicle. It wasn’t large, but there was no mistaking it for anything but what it was.

“I did,” Nick said. He wanted to project defiance, pride, anger. But last night had been too confusing for that. So instead, he made a cup of coffee and handed it over, his gaze firmly on the floor. Graves took a long swallow and sighed.

“You know exactly how I like my coffee,” he said. “How is that?” Nick shook his head. There was something about being caught out by him like this, barefoot and undressed in Jeanne’s kitchen while Graves was put together, down to the heavy gold watch on his wrist and polished glasses. It made Nick feel vulnerable and uncertain, made it hard to think.

“Come here,” Graves said. His voice never rose but the absolute expectation of obedience made Nick flinch and shuffle over. Nick stood so he was right in the lee of his body. He could feel the heat from his skin and smell his cologne, tangled with the smell of Jeanne, the coffee, opium. Graves.

“Was he good to you?” Graves asked softly, his lips close enough to Nick’s ear to make him shudder. He put his hands on the counter on either side of Nick, boxing him in, still without touching him.

“Did you like having a man’s mouth on you?”

“Yes, Graves,” Nick said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Tell me the truth,” Graves asked, his fists clenching the counters hard to keep from touching. “Did you think about me?”

Nick hung his head. He felt the heat under his skin slowly climbing from his sternum, up his throat and across his ears and cheeks. Remembering Roger’s soft and delicate touch, and how he had thought of Graves when he came.

“Yes, Graves,” he whispered.

“I’ve missed you,” he said and turned his head so his lips grazed over Nick’s temple. Nick swallowed. Fuck. Fuck. No. Come on.

“Fuck,” he said. He cleared his throat. “No. Fuck you.” Nick straightened and pushed on his chest. He stepped back and Nick shook himself. “You! You, fucking… Goddamn it!” Anger shot up his spine, out his arms, making him shove the big man again. This time he didn’t move at all. It was like shoving a wall.

“You!” Nick said. “You are the one who said you were too…what? busy? Too important?”

“Maybe I was wrong,” the big man said. “It’s been known to happen.”

He was trying to be funny? Nick threw his hands up.

“Then you should have called! Or come back. Or done anything but…but this!” Graves seemed about to speak, but Nick stormed off, not even bothering to make his coffee. He would swim for an hour instead—clear his fucking head.

*

Oh, Graves loved men like this. His Royal Highness Mahmoud bin Rashid ibn Salman was a young lion, handsome, confident, had sense of humor for miles. Graves sprawled at the back of his booth, watching him. The prince sat opposite, making them howl with laughter. Macassar’s was hopping. Through the screens that separated the VIP section, Graves could hear the music and laughter in the rest of the club. It was a good night. Mahmoud was laying on the charm, as well brought up as they come. His English was Oxford, his manners true to his father’s house. A second son, but a young lion anyway. Graves wanted him, assuming what he had heard about the prince’s more…interesting tastes were true.

As the prince’s friends got up to leave, Graves winked at Mahmoud, who flushed straight down to the collar of his shirt. It’s a nice shirt too. Italian tailor I’d wager, but René’s are better. Mahmoud bit his lip and gave Graves a small nod from under his long lashes. So the rumors were true then. Graves purred internally. It had been a long time since he had been with a man.

An image of blue eyes and a crooked grin, pale flushing skin—Damn it, no! He was absolutely not going to think about the fucking American tonight. Nick had made his choice. And Graves wanted more right now. He wanted someone he didn’t have to be careful with. He wanted to indulge himself. He blinked a few times, as though Nick’s face were something in his eye, easily brushed away. It didn’t work.

If you had done anything but this. Nick’s words came back to him. Along with the image of the bruise on his neck. Graves closed his eyes, anger surging. I could have had him. That’s what he means. But I didn’t and he moved on. Now I need to. Mahmoud would be just the thing to get Nick out of his system once and for all. Someone with manners, a pedigree. Someone Graves could fuck all damn night… He shot to his feet.

Mahmoud was looking at him, his arms on the back of the couch. He raised one perfectly groomed brow.

“Shall we leave, little lion?” Graves said. Mahmoud leaned forward, his dark eyes wide. His brilliant white teeth flashed as he smiled.

“I was hoping you would say that,” he said.

Graves leaned down and grabbed the prince by the chin.

“Tell me something,” he continued, leaning over to speak in Mahmoud’s ear.

“Is it true you like it rough, boy?”

In response, Mahmoud twisted and took Graves’s thumb in his mouth. He sucked it slowly, then bit down, hard. Graves hissed and pulled his hand back.

“Good,” he said and gestured for Russ. “Why don’t we go to my ship, and see how rough you like it.”

*

His Royal Highness liked it very rough indeed. They had barely even made it into his suite before Graves had ripped off Mahmoud’s Italian shirt. He had decided he didn’t want the prince to see his legs, and so had simply bent him over the couch, fumbling on a condom and barely doing any prep. He said he liked it rough. I suppose he meant it. He was plowing Mahmoud hard and steady, and he could hear the Prince’s little cock slapping against his belly under his sobs.

“You like that?” he said. Mahmoud gave a garbled shout in the affirmative, his hips trying to buck.

“I thought so.” Graves shifted so he was fucking down, twisting his hips, feeling his cock sawing over Mahmoud’s prostate. Even through the condom that little rough patch under the head of Graves’s cock felt out of this world. Everything smelled like musk and sweat. Nothing like fucking a woman, Graves thought. Why have I waited so long to do this?

The image of Nick returned, nearly bowling him over. Wasn’t that long ago you were kissing a man. And then you blew it, and Roger fucking Yeung put his unworthy fucking mouth on my…

He forced the jealousy away, but Nick stayed in his mind. Graves gave his head a rough shake, scattering drops of sweat everywhere. He couldn’t make the image of Nick go away. He’d be cursing me, kissing me. I could be myself. All that pale skin, flushing red and shining with sweat. Graves would spoil him, take him slow, face-to-face. He wanted to see Nick’s eyes widen when Graves breached him, opened him on his cock, kissed him and—

Graves came between one thrust and the next, barking out a curse in surprise. He felt Mahmoud come a moment later, flexing and squeezing Graves’s cock impossibly tight. He rubbed his face on Mahmoud’s back, letting the shudders and shivers of pleasure roll up and down his spine. For a split second he felt his right toes, a glimpse of the long lost limb.

Graves staggered backward and over to the bar to throw away the condom. His guts were roiling. Now that he had come, his mood came crashing down. He wanted out of this suit. He wanted to be alone. But manners…

“Was that rough enough for you?” he teased, forcing a smile for the prince. Mahmoud was pulling up his pants, stumbling a little. He accepted the bar towel Graves handed him.

“Incredible,” Mahmoud said. Graves allowed the boost to his ego, but it didn’t help. He was glad to see Mahmoud buckling his belt though.

“Leaving?” Graves asked, relieved. He slept alone. That was his rule.

You slept with Nick, though, didn’t you? Slept like the dead with him lying on your chest like a cat. The thought was not helpful. Not after he had only now come to the image of Nick’s face. Graves went and kissed Mahmoud’s cheek.

“Yes,” the prince said. “Better not to spend the night here—too obvious.”

“Will I see you again?” Graves asked.

“Absolutely,” Mahmoud said. “Take me shopping in that car of yours the day after tomorrow?”

“I’d love to,” Graves said. Mahmoud yawned wide and patted Graves’s cheek. They didn’t say much as Graves walked him to his car, parting with a brief kiss that felt hollow, no matter how well meant.

*

Walking down Orchard Road, looking at Christmas lights with Roger Yeung was like a dream. Orchard Road was famous, the “Rodeo Drive of Asia” was how Nick always heard it described. And for Christmas, the street was decked out end to end in dazzling displays. Each shop and mall trying to outdo its neighbors. There were lights and music and real snow and treats available everywhere.

The usual sunset cacophony of birds turned the Christmas carols into a jumble of nonsense. Nick and Roger ignored the birds and walked in the long shadows of the flame trees, admiring the displays in the windows. There was barely enough breeze to move the humid air. Nick and Roger could pause and admire each window, taking in the displays without having to dart inside to escape the heat.

They couldn’t hold hands openly, but Nick still felt the connection between them, warm and vital. Roger was kind, polite, a real gentleman. His manners were impeccable. And he is a normal person, not some dope-slinging shipping magnate who can’t even decide if he wants to threaten me or kiss me.

As though the thought were a summoning spell, he heard Roger give a low whistle and saw a red-and-black Bugatti parked in the spaces in front of the Rolex store. They had been strolling beside the big-name designer stores and supercars were not uncommon. But this one had diplomatic tags and was parked over two spaces, at an angle that made it impossible for anyone else to park near it. Nick went stiff as a board. Almost three weeks without a word. And now suddenly he is back, and I gotta run into him everywhere.

“That is a hell of a car,” Roger said. “I tell you what, if a man rolled up to me in that—it would get my attention pretty quick.” Nick cringed but Roger continued, taking out his phone and snapping a selfie with the car. “I mean, it might make me shallow, but a car like this…wow.” He was only half joking but Nick couldn’t stand it. “It’s custom too. Man they only made a few of these. God, it must be worth millions.”

“I know who owns this car,” Nick said dryly as they came alongside it. He glanced up and saw the black Range Rover on the corner. Bishop was leaning against it. He gave Nick a two-finger salute. Roger didn’t notice. He had paused to take another picture. “You do not want to meet him,” Nick continued.

“Is he good-looking?” Roger laughed. “Should I worry?”

“He is very good-looking, for a certain type,” Nick said. “But he is an egotistical, entitled asshole.” He wasn’t sure why he was so angry to see the Bugatti. The race, the night at Leon’s—he suddenly remembered the feel of Graves’s wrist under his palm as he shifted gears. Then he blew me off, kissed me, blew me off again. So why can’t I get him the fuck out of my head?

“How do you know someone like that?” Roger asked.

The words he’s my friend died on Nick’s lips. He caught a reflection in the car’s mirror shine: the unmistakable shape of Nelson Graves standing more or less directly behind them. Nick turned and saw Graves’s face was closed tight with anger. He was in a beautiful gray suit and a deep-blue tie. He was tapping his cane on the ground and looked absolutely murderous. He had clearly heard the whole thing.

Nick held the amber eyes with his chin up, refusing to acknowledge the swoop in his stomach.

“I’m sorry for making you wait, my lord!” came a voice over Graves’s shoulder, and a man appeared, carrying a shopping bag.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Your Highness,” Graves said. “I was merely waiting for these lads to move away from the car.” He reached out casually and cupped the young man’s cheek. “His Highness” was beautiful, in his midthirties with golden skin and jet-black eyes. He had a neat black beard and a long aristocratic nose. He was wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans but a glance was enough to tell how pricey they were. Graves’s thumb dragged over his cheek, and Nick had to unclench his jaw. Your Highness? Of fucking course, an actual prince.

Roger was practically vibrating at his side. Before he could say anything, Nick raised his chin and turned his back, taking Roger by the arm and guiding him away without a word.

“That was the guy?” Roger asked once they had walked a little down the block. They heard the high-pitched roar of the car peeling off. “Oh my God, Nick, you weren’t kidding. A certain type? The ‘daddy’ type you mean. Gorgeous, but I wouldn’t want to cross him!”

“No, you would not,” Nick muttered.

“How do you know him? Jesus, did you see his watch? I think it was a Maître Du Temps— Do you think it was real?” Roger’s admiration was grinding on Nick’s nerves. Graves was the last thing he wanted to think about. Who the fuck cares what kind of watch he has?

“I know him through Jeanne, and yes—if he’s wearing it, then its real. But can we please change the topic?”

“Did you see who was with him?” Roger said, shaking Nick’s arm. Nick didn’t know, didn’t want to know.

“Some royal, I guess,” Nick said. He rubbed his temples.

“Not just some royal! He’s fucking Prince Mahmoud bin Rashid. Huge influencer! He plays polo— Oh my God, I should have taken a selfie!”

“Please,” Nick said, fighting the churning in his gut. “Please, for the love of God, Roger. Can we stop fucking talking about him?”

“Okay, sorry,” Roger said. He was clearly dying to talk about it, already pulling out his phone. “Do you want to get jelly ice?” Nick did not. He wanted to go home.

“I think I’d like to go back to Jeanne’s and sleep early tonight. She’s having a dinner tomorrow, and I’m exhausted.” His heart was still pounding. He had not been ready, had not even had it in his mind to run into Graves like that. The size of him had dragged him back to the morning he woke up lying on his chest. And the prince! The way Graves had cupped his cheek. Nick shook his head to clear it.

Lying in bed, listening to the rain fall, Nick couldn’t let it go. He hadn’t seen Graves in weeks, had been perfectly happy not to. And now he had seen him twice in three days, and it felt like Nick’s whole life was flipped over. And the party was coming at the end of the week. Graves would be there to see all of Nick’s hard work. How would he react? Would he say anything to Roger? Say anything to Nick? He fell asleep worrying about it.