Page List


Font:  

Holy. Shit.

Had he—?

Had they—?

Well, yes. Because Jason distinctly—well, some of it was pretty fuzzy—but Jason definitely remembered…a lot. Too much. The size of Kennedy’s cock among other things. The feel of his hands digging into Jason’s ass, the rasp of his tongue on Jason’s nipples, the taste of his mouth.

Chriiiiiist.

Jason sat up and swung his legs off the mattress. The angry little man in his cerebellum pounded his cane against the ceiling. You young whippersnappers!

Jason felt around for his…what the hell was he searching for? He risked a quick look at Kennedy.

Kennedy’s face was impassive. He was combing his wet hair and watching Jason feebly paw the rug.

Jason found his shorts—and who didn’t enjoy having to pull up his pants in front of someone who looked like he was about to issue a citation. And not one for bravery. Although Jason must have been feeling pretty brave, if not actually foolhardy, to have done what he did.

Really, he would prefer not to think of all he had done. And at the top of his lungs if memory served.

“Uh, I think I’ll…” Jason dragged on his jeans. “Shower next door.”

“Suit yourself.” Kennedy turned back into the bathroom.

Jason grabbed his shirt, socks, shoes and departed Kennedy’s room. As he stepped into the hallway with its delirium tremens-themed carpeting and murky lighting, the door to #156 clicked shut behind him, and he realized he’d left his holster and weapon.

No small thing losing—leaving—your holster and gun.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he murmured in anguish.

He thumped briskly on the door.

Kennedy opened the door and handed him his holster, weapon still neatly fastened.

“Thanks.”

Highly unlikely the gleam in Kennedy’s eyes was amusement, but if Kennedy thought this was funny, good. That made one of them.

“I’m going downstairs to grab a bagel,” Kennedy said.

“Right. I’ll be down in ten.”

He was down in eight, not that anyone was counting. Kennedy was reading the newspaper as he enjoyed his continental breakfast in the corner of the dining room.

A cold shower had done Jason a world of good. He talked the girl at the reception desk into giving him a couple of aspirins while watching Kennedy out of the corner of his eye.

I tapped that. The unbidden memory startled him. Or maybe what startled him was that the memory made him feel sort of warm and tingly.

Because no. If he should be feeling anything, it was concern this didn’t confuse the issue. The issue being that he wasn’t just Kennedy’s partner—temporary partner—he had been brought on to make sure Kennedy didn’t cross any double lines or swerve into the wrong lane. He had to keep some kind of impartial distance here. For everyone’s sake.

Plus, he wasn’t even sure he liked Kennedy. And he made it a rule not to have sex with people he didn’t like.

He washed the aspirin down with scalding sips of black coffee and made his way over to Kennedy, who was folding up his newspaper.

“We’ve got time if you want to grab something to eat,” Kennedy said.

“I’m fine.”

Kennedy nodded and rose.


Tags: Josh Lanyon The Art of Murder Mystery