Reasonable Doubt ✔ | Open Novella Contest 2020 | Complete

Twenty-Seven - Colt

The shop is an insipid buzz of whispers and side-long glances. Names like 'Blue Blood' and 'Hollywood' follow like a dark cloud. I ignore them, focus on my work. I've been called worse.

The media circus I predicted is in full force. Sharron and Finch glitter in the limelight, impressive credentials flaunted. Meanwhile my murder case festers, wounds carefully sewed shut bursting.

Never mind than an innocent kid got put in prison because someone was too overworked, lazy, or stupid to dig. Who cares? There's an honest-to-God soap opera happening.

My phone rings as I'm walking back to the apartment. Alex's excited voice greets me. "It's Friday!"

I chuckle. "That it is."

"Got big plans?"

This question catches me off guard. Since the opening arguments, we've shared dozens of kisses and continued lunchtime dates. Fridays are our days. Morning workout, afternoon spent enjoying a world without fences. Evenings on the couch with a beer, talking, touching, using telenovelas to learn Spanish.

Before his herd of cousins and mother crash the party every Saturday morning, staying through Sunday. The past three weeks he's offered to let me join in the livery. Every time, I've declined. If the guys at work have seen the trial, his family has too. They know what I'm capable of.

"No?" I key the apartment, toe off my Timberlands.

"I have a surprise for you."

Old panic clenches my stomach. I suddenly feel naked without my heavy boots. "Oh?"

"Don't sound so scared, querido."

Heat curls up my neck at pet name, how readily he understood the inflection. I give him one word and it's all he needs to hear my soul.

When did I get so easy to read?

"What's the surprise?"

Of course, he doesn't tell me. Because 'then it won't be a surprise'. Little prick.

I hoof it to the convention center, give Alex enough time to drive from Mystery Ink. He's waiting for me in front of the revolving doors, shoots me a disarming smile.

Goddamn.

I have no idea how I resisted him so long.

Those tight jeans leave a very evident dick-print I'll be trying to censor for the rest of the night. Combined with the way his dark gray shirt hugs his pecs and showcase his guns, my brain pings a disconnect tone.

This is how Alex was meant to exist. Just like this. All animal magnetism and fiery sex appeal.

Alex plants a supple kiss against my mouth. "Hola, Papi."

"Hey." Is my stunned response.

I ain't sure I'll ever get used to that.

Seven years of no outward physical contact. Especially not between two men. Now on a crowded downtown street in broad daylight? Nobody bats an eyelash. Not even as we hold hands, fingers knit, and walk into the massive building.

It's some sort of tattoo convention. Artists from all over the contiguous US in one place. Some shoot on site. Others hawk prints, paintings, and all manner of eclectic media showcasing their talent.

I ain't been around this many people in so small a place since Lebanon. Only there's no control to their movement. People idle, turn too quickly, slow for no reason whatsoever. Conversations become overbearing. I can hear everyone, try and process too much input at once.