Chapter 9: Dive Bar
By the bottom of his second IPA, Drew had forgotten the stun gun resting in his jacket pocket.
Out on the back patio of El Rio, the night was clear. String lights cast a warm glow over the crowded picnic tables under the dark San Francisco sky. Despite himself, Drew was relaxed.
They had been sitting near the back for over an hour, clicking with a heady ease.
Connor leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table as he laughed at Drew’s story about a disastrous espresso machine malfunction. He wore a soft, grey thermal henley that stretched tight across his chest. The red-gold hair on his head and at his exposed collarbone caught the light of the overhead bulbs.
"Okay, so I survived the initial interrogation," Connor said, tracing the condensation on his pint glass. "Tell me something else. Tell me about the music. You're always playing something incredible at the cafe. Like, you had Town Called Malice on the other day and—”
“You know The Jam?” Drew asked, mouth open. It was like finding a talking dog.
“Yeah. Who doesn’t? They’re great.”
Drew leaned back. His usual defensive armor dropped a dizzying fraction, like missing a step on the way down. "Yeah. So… I dropped out of art school a few years ago. I wanted to paint, but the whole program just pushed us toward screens. Everyone staring at iPads, fighting over AI-generated art. I hated it. I want things to be real. Like… things you can touch."
He took a sip of his beer, noticing the mossy green of the cop’s eyes as he traced the rim of the glass. "Like record players. The eighties was like the last hurrah of the real album experience. Twelve-inch discs and everything. There's an intention to spinning an original press of a real record. You have to pick it, handle it, drop the needle by hand, and listen to the crackle of the vinyl. You can’t just skip it with a click. Even when you put it away, you have to treat it right. You just don't get that from an algorithm shoving a playlist at you."
"I get the intention part," Connor said. "You have to actively choose to sit and listen to it." He tilted his head, offering an easy shrug. "But I don't know if I agree about the iPads and digital stuff. A few years ago, when my gram couldn't get around anymore, my brothers and I bought her an iPad. It let her track down all these old favorites she hadn't heard in years. Songs she literally couldn't find on physical media anymore. Sometimes accessibility is just as important as intention."
Drew blinked, even more surprised.
It was a far cry from dinners with Danny. Danny never disagreed with him. Danny agreed with everything Drew said, even if he didn’t really. Drew could suggest they eat a handful of rocks for dinner, and Danny would just say, I like what you like. Connor was just an earnest giant of a man actually engaging with him.
"Okay, your turn," Drew said, conceding the point. He rested his chin on his hand. "How does a guy who bakes buckwheat banana bread end up wearing a badge and a gun in San Francisco?"
Connor rubbed the back of his neck. A flush crept up to his pale blonde eyebrows. "I grew up in Petaluma. Four older brothers, all of them loud. I’m the baby of the family—”
“You’re the baby?”
“I’m the baby. And I was homeschooled."
Drew physically recoiled, his nose wrinkling in a wince.
"By super granola hippies!" Connor added quickly, holding his hands up in defense with a booming laugh. "I promise. Not the weird compound kind. The 'we raise our own chickens and compost everything' kind. We didn't have much money, but my grandmother lived with us. She taught me how to bake."
His expression sobered. His gaze dropped to the table for a moment before meeting Drew's eyes directly. "As for the badge... I know what people think about the police. Believe me, my parents were horrified when I went to the academy. I know the system is broken. But I grew up wanting to protect people. I figured the only way to make the department better was to get inside it and try to be one of the good ones. Even if it's just on my specific beat, on my specific shift. You know?"
Drew stared at him. “You know how the saying actually goes, right? A few bad apples spoil the whole barrel.”
“I know,” Connor said, holding his gaze without flinching.
"You're ridiculous," Drew whispered, but there was no bite to it at all.
Connor smiled. He reached across the table, his hand covering Drew’s. His thumb brushed over Drew’s knuckles. "I'm really glad you said yes to this, Drew."
Drew sat back and inhaled deeply. “No offense, but me too.”
Inside the bar, someone fed a few quarters into the rusty jukebox, and the opening chords of Squeeze’s Tempted drifted faintly out over the patio speakers.
Two hours later, the temperature had dropped, leaving the clear night air crisp.
They walked side-by-side down Valencia Street. Their arms brushed with almost every step, Drew's shoulder bumping against Connor's bicep. When they reached the stoop of Drew’s apartment building, the conversation died down. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows against the brick.
Connor shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He looked down at his boots, suddenly looking like a shy giant again.
"Well," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I should let you get upstairs. I had a really, really great time, Drew."
He took a half-step back, preparing to say goodnight and retreat into the cold so he didn't overstep.
Drew looked at him.
He knew this was a terrible idea. He knew Carmen would murder him. She had spent all that time warning him about the danger of men, about how they always protected their own egos when things went sideways. But she had failed to warn him about the very real danger that he might actually like this giant, earnest cop.
"Hey, Gallagher," Drew said, stepping up onto the first step of the stoop so they were closer to eye level.
Connor stopped, his green eyes turning up in the dim light. "Yeah?"
"I've got an original UK 12-inch pressing of Tears for Fears’ Head Over Heels upstairs," Drew said, biting his bottom lip. "You can come up and listen to it. If you want."
Connor’s hands came out of his pockets and a small grin spread on his face.
"I would love that," he said.
Chapter 10: Tiny Stars
Connor’s charcoal henley hit the floor somewhere near the hanging pothos. Drew’s Siouxsie shirt landed on the turntable. Jeans, belt, and underwear scattered from the front door to the edge of the mattress, like evidence of a crime they were both desperate to commit.
By the time they hit the bed, they were mostly naked and breathing hard. Connor dropped back, making the old mattress groan. He tossed his last sock over his shoulder as he shifted backward and reached for the bedside lamp cord to pull it off.
Drew’s hand shot out and caught his thick wrist.
“Leave it on,” Drew said, breathless. “I want to see you.”
Connor swallowed and let his arm drop. He leaned back on his locked elbows, looking up.
The light showed everything. A broad chest dusted with soft red-gold hair, a few faded scars, veins standing out along his biceps and forearms. Lower down, his belly had a soft, grounding curve, just a little doughy. His cock stood straight up, thick and pale against his stomach, nested in that same red-gold hair.
Connor flushed deep red. “I’m going on a diet,” he mumbled. “Tomorrow. I swear.”
Drew reached down. His fingers grazed the soft curve of that belly before wrapping around Connor's cock. He gave it one slow, deliberate stroke.
“Don’t you dare,” Drew said.
Connor’s breath hitched against the dry friction. “Fuck. Your hand… fuck.”
When Drew reached over to the bedside table, Connor’s eyes dragged upward, taking him in. Drew was lithe in the amber light, all long lines and compact muscle. A faint dark trail of hair ran down the center of his abs, fanning into his dark pubes. His cock was smaller than Connor’s, cut, but a good handful. His golden-brown ringlets stuck to his forehead from the sweat and the kissing. Connor stared, as if trying to memorize every inch.
Drew caught him looking. His hand paused over the bottle of lube.
Connor swallowed, his massive hands resting nervously on the sheets. "I should tell you," he mumbled, his voice dropping to a shy rumble. "I haven't... done this a lot. I mean, hardly at all."
The confession was so vulnerable that it stripped the frantic energy from the room, leaving something warmer behind. A fierce, protective tug pulled at Drew's chest.
"Hey," he said, leaning down to press a reassuring kiss to the corner of Connor's mouth. "That's okay. Just follow my lead."
He grabbed the bottle, squirted the lube, and slicked Connor’s cock with messy, confident strokes.
“I want to ride you,” he said.
Connor’s eyes went wide. “Sure,” he answered casually, as if Drew had just asked if he wanted room for cream in his coffee.
Drew smirked, pushing against Connor’s chest until he collapsed back against the pillows. Drew rose up, swung a leg over to straddle those pale thighs, lined him up, and started to sink down.
The entry was thick and breathtaking. Drew had to pause halfway, laughing a little at how full he already felt. Connor stared up at him, mouth open, like he was unsure of what to do with his own luck.
“Okay?” Connor managed, voice strained.
“Very okay,” Drew choked out. He sank the rest of the way, and both made the exact same punched-out sound. “Fuck. You’re huge.”
Connor’s laugh came out broken. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize.”
Drew rolled his hips, testing to get the angle right. He watched Connor’s eyelids flutter and adjusted until the cockhead hit exactly right, then started to ride.
He braced his hands on Connor’s freckled shoulders for leverage, rising and dropping in a rolling rhythm that made the old bedframe creak. Beneath him, Connor’s core locked. He thrust upward in short strokes, meeting the downward slide. His big hands lifted from the mattress to slide up Drew’s sides, thumbs brushing his ribs, grazing his nipples, then dropping to grip his ass and pull him down harder.
Connor’s frame suddenly went rigid. His eyes flew open.
“Wait, wait, wait—” he croaked. His hands locked tight on Drew’s hips, stopping him mid-bounce. “Cramp! Cramp!”
Drew froze, awkwardly suspended above him. “What? Where?”
“Hamstring,” Connor groaned, as his face went full cardinal red. He straightened his leg out across the sheets, wincing. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry. Just, hnh, gimme two seconds.” He let out a shaky breath, rubbed the back of his thigh, then grabbed Drew’s ass and hauled him closer. “Yeah. Okay. Please continue.”
Drew laughed at the sheer absurdity, but the new angle put the head of his cock exactly where it needed to be to make Drew's eyelids fill with tiny stars.
“Oh my god,” he gasped.
With Danny, sex was beautiful but controlled, an assignment Danny already knew he would ace. This was loud and improvised and completely unchoreographed. Connor was vocal, present, and obsessed with how good Drew felt.
“Fuck, look at you—” Connor gasped. Sweat beaded at his hairline as Drew rode him harder.
Drew leaned down and kissed him, wet and messy, maintaining the rhythm. Connor kissed back like he was trying to breathe him in. One huge hand came up. Connor spat into his palm, slid it between them, and wrapped his thick fingers around Drew’s cock. He stroked in time with Drew's hips.
The dual sensation of being so full, worked by that big warm hand, pushed Drew to the edge.
The rattling bed slammed into the nightstand. A stack of books hit the floor. Neither of them stopped.
“I got you,” Connor said, his voice wrecked and joyful. His free hand steadied Drew’s lower back as the pace turned frantic. “Come on. Cum on me. I want to feel it.”
“Fuck me—fuck me—”
Connor thrust up hard. His green eyes squeezed shut as the orgasm caught him by surprise. He went even harder inside Drew, emptying in long, stuttering pulses with a low groan.
The sudden pressure tipped Drew over the edge. He made a harsh, croaking sound as his body locked up. He shot through Connor’s fist and all over that ruddy chest and stomach, catching in the red-gold hair.
Drew slowed and held on to Connor’s shoulders while the aftershocks shook through him. His hole clenched and released until he slumped forward, panting against the cop’s neck.
Connor’s arms wrapped around him, holding him close and tight against the hard thumps of his heart.
A long time later, the room was quiet except for a distant siren somewhere out in the Mission.
Drew pushed up and off. There was a loud, unsexy schlorck as they separated, followed by Drew freezing mid-movement with a wince.
“Ow—wait. I think I’m glued to your stomach hair.”
Connor blinked, looking down at the sticky disaster covering his torso. He let out a booming, chest-deep laugh.
“Well,” he grinned, eyes crinkling in the lamplight. “I did say I wanted to feel it.”
Chapter 11: The Blank Canvas
After an ungraceful, laughing trip to the cramped bathroom to unstick themselves with a warm washcloth, they climbed back into bed. A sleepy quiet fell over the studio.
Connor lay flat on his back, taking up more than half the mattress. His spent cock rested in a thick nest of red-gold hair. He reached down to absentmindedly cup his balls, a thoughtless gesture that made Drew’s chest ache with an unexpected fondness.
Drew shifted, curling against Connor’s broad side. He threw one bare leg over the giant’s thick thigh to anchor himself and began tracing patterns into the dusting of hair on Connor's chest.
Connor’s eyes wandered around the small room, taking in the crooked framed album covers, the chaotic mess of freecycled furniture Drew had dragged out of neighborhood dumpsters, and the milk crates filled with vinyl acting as makeshift end tables.
"Hey, you said you went to art school," Connor rumbled. His voice vibrated against Drew's cheek. "Where's all your art?"
Drew’s stomach tightened.
"It’s... beneath me," Drew said sarcastically, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"What?" Connor asked. He lifted his head from the pillow, his pale blonde eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
"I mean under me," Drew recovered quickly, his face flushing. "Under the bed."
He untangled himself from Connor's warmth, rolled to the edge of the mattress, and hung his head upside down. The space beneath the bed was a chaotic graveyard of old Doc Martens, a broken space heater, and tangled charging cords. He grabbed the handle of a battered black portfolio and dragged it out into the light.
"I haven't painted in a while," Drew mumbled, hauling the binder onto the mattress between them, unzipping it. He flipped past the first few protective sheets, suddenly feeling very exposed. "I don't really have the setup for it here. But I was thinking about buying some fresh canvases. Getting back into oils."
Connor shifted onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at the pages.
"This old stuff is mostly just bad rip-offs of the artists I actually liked," Drew rambled nervously. His fingers hovered over a textured canvas board, a moody, high-contrast portrait of a stranger he’d seen on the Muni, rendered in heavy impasto strokes. "I was trying way too hard to channel Francis Bacon. It came out all wrong."
Connor didn't say anything. He just stared at the canvas, his thick fingertips tracing the heavy ridges of oil paint.
"Drew, are you kidding me?" he breathed, looking up. "This is amazing. You can practically feel the texture just looking at it. It feels so alive."
Drew swallowed, his cheeks burning. "You think?"
"You're incredibly talented. You should get back into this," Connor said, turning his head to look Drew directly in the eyes. "Have you ever shown your stuff anywhere?"
Drew looked down at the portrait. "I asked Carmen if I could hang a few pieces in the cafe," he admitted, his voice quiet. He braced himself for the response. For the inevitable lecture about how it was a waste of time. "Just to see if they'd sell."
Connor’s face lit up with a massive, toothy smile. "That is a genius idea. Do you know how many of those tech bros come in every morning just because you and Carmen make the place so cool? They’d fight each other for the chance to bring a piece of that home."
Drew searched his face for any sign of mockery. "You don't think it's... beneath me? To hang my work above a pastry case for people who are mostly just standing around waiting for their oat milk?"
Connor’s brow furrowed. "Why would it be beneath you? Art is supposed to be seen, right? And the cafe gets, like, hundreds of people a day. That's a built-in audience."
Drew let out a slow, shaky breath. The suffocating knot sitting in his chest unspooled. There was no intense, smothering devotion here. Just a guy who liked him and thought he should share his talent with the world.
Drew closed the cover of the portfolio. He slid back into Connor’s space, throwing a leg over the giant’s thigh again, their skin still tacky in places.
"Okay, my turn," Drew said. A drowsy smile broke across his face as he propped his chin on Connor's broad chest. "You said your parents were off-the-grid granola hippies. How does a guy raised in the woods know every single synth-pop song I play at the cafe?"
Connor let out a booming laugh that shook the rickety bedframe.
"Because we didn't have cable or internet," Connor grinned. His mossy green eyes flicked up to the ceiling and then back down. "My parents had a woodstove, a massive vegetable garden, and a big old boombox. The only music we ever played was their old cassettes from the eighties. Mixtapes and movie soundtracks mostly. I did my chores to the Thompson Twins and A-ha—you know the one, with the really high note?"
"Take On Me," Drew laughed. "Yeah, I know."
"Right. That was basically the soundtrack to me feeding the chickens," Connor chuckled. His smile softened. "When I went to college, I had no idea what anyone was listening to. I felt out of place. Like an alien. Then, my first week on the beat, Stan brought me into the cafe. I walked through the door, and you were playing Smalltown Boy."
Connor reached up, his rough fingers pushing a golden-brown ringlet behind Drew's ear. "I don't know. It was like coming home."
Drew stared at the giant, earnest cop lying next to him. A breathless laugh escaped him. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
"What?" Connor asked, blushing under Drew's gaze. "I’m sorry. Did I say something dumb?"
"No," Drew whispered. He slid his body up against Connor's and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth. "You didn't say anything dumb at all."
Chapter 12: Holdback Evidence
The morning sun cut the studio in two, a slanting rectangle of light running across the floor and the rumpled bed. The steady drum of the shower echoed from the bathroom, accompanied by a warm cloud of steam rolling out the open door.
Connor stood in the middle of the studio, keeping a hand on a too-small white towel wrapped around his waist. He lumbered around the room, humming Walking on Sunshine around a borrowed bamboo toothbrush, his mouth frothy with Drew’s organic peppermint toothpaste.
He felt incredible. Like he had been hit by a pleasant, confusing, curly-haired freight train.
The only thing he needed to make the morning perfect was a clean shirt to wear under his Kevlar vest. His charcoal thermal from last night was wadded up somewhere in the hallway, smelling of a dive bar and sweat. If he wore it under his vest, he'd suffocate. Worse, Stan Prosky would roast him alive. The old man didn’t miss a thing.
He did a clumsy slide-step across the floorboards, his bare feet squeaking on the wood, mumbling a frothy, "I'm walking on sunshine, woo-ah!" around the bamboo handle. He punctuated the lyric with a celebratory hip-bump against the tall mid-century dresser and pulled open the top drawer.
The song died in his throat.
There were no faded band tees in this drawer. Just perfectly spaced, folded rows of dark wool socks, expensive undershirts, and boxers. It didn’t look like it belonged in the chaotic, beautiful studio.
Tucked into the far right corner, sitting flush against the wood, was a toiletry bag made of conditioned black leather.
Huh.
Connor frowned around his toothbrush. He reached in and lifted the bag. It was heavy. A dull, metallic clink sounded from inside.
His hand froze. Two years of police training didn't just turn off because of a morning-after glow.
He hooked a finger under the zipper and pulled it back an inch.
Sitting at the top of the bag was a coiled Kevlar cord garrote attached to two metal grips. Beneath it lay a custom suppressor with 9x19mm Subsonic laser-engraved on the base, resting next to a spare magazine loaded with the exact same hollow-points pulled from the penthouse drywall. Tucked against the side was a disposable burner phone.
Connor stopped breathing. He stared down into the drawer.
Tactical Kevlar cord, the coroner had said. Didn't wait to choke him out. Crushed the larynx and occluded the carotid arteries. Dead in seconds. Whoever did this is a professional. Homicide was already calling him The Ghost.
Connor’s massive hand trembled. The suppressor. The cord. The spare mag. And the disposable phone tucked beside them? That could be a forensic goldmine.
This was the holdback evidence from the Rincon Hill murder. Professional. Ruthlessly efficient. It was The Ghost's toolkit.
"Hey, Gallagher!" Drew’s voice called out over the hiss of the shower. "You okay out there?"
Connor flinched so hard his grip slipped. The towel dropped to his feet. Standing naked and defenseless in the middle of the room, he swallowed hard, choking down a mouthful of peppermint toothpaste. He cleared his throat, but his voice came out as a strangled croak. "Yeah! Great!"
He turned to face the steaming bathroom door. "Hey, quick question," Connor called back, forcing a casual tone. "You don't have a roommate or anything, do you?"
A long beat.
"What? No! In this place? Are you crazy?" Drew laughed over the running water. He raised his voice to make sure Connor heard him. "It's just me! I haven't even had anyone over here in months!"
Connor went still.
It's just me. I haven't had anyone over in months.
Connor stared blindly at the deadly arsenal sitting in the drawer. He thought about Drew’s lithe, compact build. How he had moved last night, the fluid grace, the deceptive, coiled core strength.
He’s a barista, Connor's brain screamed in sheer panic, and he crushes larynxes and kills security guards in seconds flat.
As a cop, he was legally obligated to call this in. He was standing two feet from the murder weapon of a high-profile case. He needed to grab his off-duty piece from his jeans, kick the bathroom door open, pull Drew out of the shower, and read him his rights.
But as he listened to Drew humming over the running water, all he could think was that he had finally found a guy he really liked.
Instead, moving in silence, Connor stepped back, grabbed his phone from his discarded jeans, and opened the camera. Careful not to touch the evidence, he snapped a series of high-resolution photos: the open drawer, the leather bag, the texture of the garrote, the matte finish of the suppressor, the loaded magazine. The holdback evidence.
With agonizing care, he zipped the bag, placed it back in its exact position, and eased the drawer shut.
He stood frozen in the quiet bedroom, naked and staring at the closed wood.
Get dressed, his police brain barked. Get dressed, get out, figure this out.
He forced his feet to move. He stepped away from the dresser and blindly grabbed a pile of dark denim off the armchair. He hoisted the jeans up, preparing to shove his legs into them, but stopped.
They were way too small. They were Drew's jeans from last night.
He was about to toss them back onto the chair when the weight of the pockets caught his attention. They sagged, clinking with a dull, metallic sound.
He hesitated, then reached a tentative hand into the right pocket. His thick fingers closed around cold, heavy metal. He pulled it out.
A set of matte-black brass knuckles.
He swallowed hard and reached into the other pocket. He pulled out a compact, rubber-gripped high-voltage stun gun.
He stared at the brutal, close-quarters weapons resting in his massive palms.
He's a literal weapon, Connor thought. He felt dizzy as he slipped the items back into Drew's pockets and set the jeans on the armchair.
"Gallagher!" Drew called out, shutting off the water. "I'm making pour-overs! You want one?"
Connor squeezed his eyes shut. He was a sworn officer of the law. He was legally obligated to arrest him.
"Yeah!" he yelled back, his voice cracking. "I'd love one!"
Chapter 13: Afterglow
Connor locked his phone and dropped it onto his jeans on the armchair. He stood bare, his heart hammering against his ribs, his mouth burning with frothy toothpaste.
He needed to spit.
He hurried into the cramped kitchenette. He ran the tap, gripped the edge of the sink, spat the foam down the drain, and splashed cold water on his face.
When he opened his eyes, he was staring directly at a gleaming, commercial-grade espresso machine. That had to be a five-thousand-dollar setup.
He turned around, looking at the studio with new eyes. Last night, the space felt like a cozy, chaotic explosion of analog art and thrift-store charm. Today, it was an active crime scene.
He crept into the living space. The vintage Macintosh tube amplifier wired to the record player. Three thousand, easy.
How did a part-time barista who complained about late-stage capitalism afford top-tier hardware? They weren't quirky hipster splurges. Not unless the barista gig was a cover.
Connor padded over to the bookshelf. A laminated gym membership card sat next to a stack of political theory paperbacks. The logo belonged to an exclusive, members-only training club in SoMa with private coaches and a monthly fee that could cover Connor’s rent.
Why did a barista need a body like that? Why did a barista need that gym?
This morning, it looked like a body trained for a reason beyond looking good in a crop top.
And the books. Connor stared at the spines he’d knocked over last night: Bullshit Jobs, Capitalist Realism, and a heavily tabbed copy of Wilkerson's Caste.
The picture snapped into place.
A wealthy venture capitalist had just been murdered in a Rincon Hill penthouse. After that healthcare executive was murdered in New York a few months back, who knew what kind of copycat ideas a radicalized ghost might have?
Drew wasn't just a hitman. He was a true believer taking out the one percent, funding his life through hits. He’d even mentioned the redistribution of wealth as a condition of their date. This was it in action.
“Gallagher?” Drew’s voice floated out of the bathroom. “You still out there?”
Connor jolted, his throat dry. “Yeah. Hey, do you have a t-shirt I could borrow? Something I can wear under my vest?”
Drew poked his head out, his ringlets dripping. There was a short pause as he took in the sight of the giant, panicked, naked cop.
“I don’t think anything of mine is going to fit you,” Drew called with a soft laugh. “But check the bottom drawer. There’s a couple of oversized shirts I sleep in. One might work.”
Connor crouched and pulled open the bottom drawer. Under a tangle of soft pants, he found a white tee emblazoned with rainbow block letters: BE GAY. DO CRIME.
“Oh fuck,” he muttered, shoving it aside.
He pulled out a black ribbed tank top with the cracked white lines of the Joy Division logo instead. He tugged it over his head. The ribbed cotton stretched tight over his broad chest and belly, but it was clean, and it would sit under his uniform without bunching.
He needed to leave. He needed to stay. He needed to figure this out before he did something irreversible.
Connor dropped to his knees, hunting for the rest of his clothes. He found his briefs half under the bed. He yanked the underwear on, then jammed his legs into the denim, awkwardly adjusting his junk to get the material pulled up and zipped. He numbly snatched his l henley from the floor and threw it on over the tight ribbed tank.
He kept searching for his socks. Only one turned up. He jammed it into his front pocket with his phone. He shoved his feet into the boots without lacing them.
Drew stepped out, wrapped in a faded blue towel, hair dripping. Last night, the V-taper from his shoulders to his waist had just been incredibly hot. Now, it looked lethal.
“Hey,” Drew said. His smile was easy, unguarded. “You okay? You look like you just saw a—”
“Nope,” Connor said, too fast. “Nope. No ghost. Just a—Prosky’s gonna give me shit if I’m late.”
“Aw, I was gonna make pour-overs. And eggs,” Drew said.
Drew’s smile flickered at Connor’s silence. He stepped closer and reached up, brushing a crust of dried toothpaste from the corner of Connor’s mouth with his thumb. “I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.”
Connor wanted to say me too. He wanted to ask, Are you a murderer? He wanted to push Drew against the wall and kiss him until neither of them could think. Instead, he just nodded.
“Yeah. It was… yeah.”
He moved toward the door before he could do anything worse. Drew followed him, still wearing that soft morning-after smile that made Connor’s chest ache.
At the door, Connor hesitated. One hand on the knob. The other shoved deep in his pocket, fingers clenched around the single sock.
“Hey,” Drew said. “Text me later?”
“I will,” Connor said. His voice came out rough. “Thanks.”
“It wasn’t a favor,” Drew laughed.
Connor looked at the lean shoulders, the dark trail of hair disappearing under the towel, the bright open face that had been over him last night making those soft, surprised sounds.
He tried to superimpose the image of a man who could torque a garrote hard enough to kill a man in seconds flat. The two pictures refused to line up.
He opened the door and stepped into the hallway before he could change his mind. The door clicked shut behind him. He stood there for three full seconds, breathing like he’d just sprinted uphill.
Then he forced himself to walk.
Down the stairs. Out onto the sidewalk. The morning was cold and clear. A Muni bus groaned past. He stopped under a bus shelter, pulled out his phone, and stared at the photos in his camera roll.
Garrote. Suppressor. 9mm hollow-points.
Was Drew an undercover hitman? An ideologically motivated vigilante? Or just the hottest guy Connor had ever seen? Or all three?
He was spiraling. He locked the phone, shoved it back in his pocket next to the single sock, and kept walking toward the station with his boots untied and his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
He would see Prosky in twenty minutes. He’d know what to do.
Chapter 14: The Confessional, Part One
After the first morning rush cleared, Carmen wiped down the bar with more force than necessary. The second baker that month had quit via text without notice, and the rage still sat on her shoulders.
At the other end of the counter, ABC’s "The Look of Love" played over the speakers. Drew was wiping down the chrome steam wand with a bright, goofy smile. He moved with a light energy, bobbing his head as he mumble-sang along.
Carmen threw the sponge into the sink and turned around.
“Alright,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “Spill it.”
Drew blinked. “Spill what?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been flitting around this place all morning like a hummingbird.”
Drew tried to suppress his smile and failed. He leaned over the counter, lowering his voice even though the cafe was empty. "Carmen... it was incredible."
Carmen stared at him. “The cop.”
“Connor.”
Carmen closed her eyes as if praying for strength. “You slept with him.”
Drew’s grin widened. “I did. It was incredible. I never laughed so much during sex in my whole life.”
Carmen's eyebrow shot up. “Are you sure you were doing it right?”
"Yes," Drew laughed. "He knocked a stack of books off the nightstand. And he got a cramp halfway through.” He shook his head at the memory. “It was ridiculous. It was so much fun.” He paused, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face as he gestured pointedly downward. “And... he's big, Carmen. Like, all over.”
Carmen’s expression flickered between a grimace and begrudging respect.
"Oh, and get this—he was homeschooled," Drew said. "Raised off the grid by granola hippies in Petaluma. The only music his parents ever played was eighties pop, so he thinks my record collection is the coolest thing in the world. It’s like his freak totally matches mine."
“That good, huh?”
Drew paused. “And then we talked for hours. I showed him my paintings. He liked them."
Carmen watched him. “And now?”
Drew shrugged, fiddling with a bottle of vanilla. “Now I don’t know. Danny gets back from Seattle today. And Connor is… Connor. And I was thinking—” He stopped, then let the half-formed thought out anyway. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be one or the other. Maybe there’s a version where it’s all three of us. Like… open. People do that, right?”
Carmen set down her ceramic mug. The clink was sharp and deliberate.
“No,” she said.
Drew looked up. “I’m just saying—”
“No,” she repeated. “Absolutely not. Do not finish that sentence.”
“Why not? People have arrangements. People—”
“Drew.” Carmen walked around the counter until she stood directly in front of him. Her voice stayed low and even, but there was no give in it. “You are currently sleeping with a man who looks at you like a dog looks at a bone. Does Danny look like a dog who wants to share that bone? Because I don’t see it. And now you want to bring a police officer into that situation and suggest they share?”
Drew opened his mouth, searching for a defense. “With Danny it’s… intense. I like it. A lot. But last night, I was laughing. I didn’t feel like I was being performed on. I felt like I was just… there. With another person who was also just there.”
Carmen held up one sharp nail, cutting him off.
“I don’t care how nice the cop’s smile is. I don’t care how hard he made you laugh. You are playing with two very different kinds of fire. One of them is possessive as hell. The other one has a badge and a gun. There is no cute little throuple version of this story.”
Drew’s face went pale, but he tried anyway. “You don’t know that Danny would—”
“I know enough,” Carmen said. "When I lived at the co-op, there was a throuple in the room right next door to mine. The only thing they had more of than sex was arguments. You can't have three, Drew. Someone is always going to feel left out. There is no universe where this ends in a cute arrangement."
The café was quiet. Outside, a Muni bus sighed to a stop and pulled away.
Drew looked down at the floor. “It was just a thought.”
“I know,” Carmen said, her tone softening. “And I’m glad you had fun. You look… happy. But fun is not a plan. And this—” she gestured at the space between them, at the whole tangled situation—“this is already dangerous enough without you trying to turn it into a group project.”
Drew was silent. He shrugged and nodded once. “I know.”
Carmen reached out and flicked the side of his head, not hard.
Drew’s bright smile finally vanished. The reality of Danny, and the suffocating devotion that came with him, settled over him like a weight.
"He's coming back from Seattle today," Drew muttered. He puffed up his cheeks and blew out, staring at the espresso grate. "I'm going to have to talk to him. I have to break it off."
Carmen froze. She turned to look at him, her sarcasm dropping away.
"Wait," she said, her voice quiet. "You're serious? You're actually going to end it with the guy who buys your groceries and your gym membership? For the agent of a repressive state?"
Drew swallowed and nodded. "He’s not like that. I don't care about the groceries, Carmen. I want the laughing. I haven’t laughed in so long. You can’t buy that."
Carmen stared at him, taking in the terror and resolve mixing on his face. She leaned back against the counter, seeing the situation in a new light.
"Wow," she breathed. "You really like the giant."
"I do," Drew admitted, his voice cracking a fraction. "I really, really do. Which means I have to end it with Danny. I have to be fair to him. It's just going to be really... complicated."
"Complicated is one word for it," Carmen said. Her tone shifted from snarky to protective as she crossed her arms as if she’d caught a chill. "Just keep your hands in your pockets today. And remember the brass knuckles."
Chapter 15: The Confessional, Part Two
Halfway across the city from the café, Connor’s right knee jumped like a piston against the cruiser’s glove compartment. His bare left foot rubbed a raw blister against the rough leather of his boot.
Stan Prosky finally spoke from behind the wheel, navigating the late-morning traffic with lazy, one-handed ease.
“Spill it,” he said, not looking over. “You look like you’re trying to pass a kidney stone.”
Connor swallowed. “It’s complicated.”
He had walked into the precinct that morning intending to ask for help. Now that the moment was here, the words refused to come out.
Prosky sighed like a man who already knew his day was about to get worse. He flicked the blinker, pulled the cruiser into an empty municipal parking lot, and threw it into park. He turned in his seat.
“Talk.”
Connor stared at the dashboard. “Hypothetically… if a civilian ended up with holdback evidence on a case that wasn’t theirs. Something that could destroy them if it got handled wrong. What would you do?”
Prosky’s face lost whatever grandfatherly warmth it usually carried.
“I’d turn it over to the detectives running the case,” he said flatly. “That’s the job.”
“And if turning it over might hurt someone who maybe doesn’t deserve it?”
Prosky studied him for a long second.
“What kind of evidence?”
Connor’s hands splayed on his thighs. He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and held it out across the console. The zoomed photo of the open toiletry bag filled the screen: the coiled garrote, the suppressor, the loaded magazine.
Prosky looked at it. His jaw tightened.
“Jesus,” he said. He pushed the phone back toward Connor. “Tell me the rest of it. Straight.”
Connor’s ears burned. He couldn’t get the words out.
Prosky’s voice stayed low. “I saw you in the locker room this morning. In two years I’ve never seen you wear a band tee under your vest. That one doesn’t even fit you. And that love bite—” he tapped two fingers against the side of his own neck—“is new.”
Connor’s hand twitched up toward the mark below his jaw before he could stop it.
Prosky exhaled hard through his nose. “It’s the barista.”
It wasn’t a question, but Connor’s silence answered for him.
“Christ, kid.”
“I stayed over. At Drew’s,” Connor said. The words came out rough. “I opened a drawer looking for a shirt and there was this bag. It was all there. The cord. The suppressor. The magazine. Exact match to the Rincon Hill holdback.”
Prosky closed his eyes for a second. "Did you touch it? Tell me you didn't touch anything in that bag, Gallagher."
"No," Connor said quickly. "I swear. I just saw it."
“And took pictures. And put on his shirt, and came to work.”
“I keep trying to make it make sense,” Connor said. “You know, the politics… I keep thinking maybe he targeted someone he thought deserved it. But I can’t—” His voice cracked. He shut his mouth, staring out the window.
Prosky was quiet for a long time. He turned to the massive kid in his passenger seat.
“You really like this kid,” he said quietly. It wasn't a question, but an assessment of the damage.
Connor looked down at his lap, then back up. "I do. I know it sounds crazy because it was just one date. But the sex was…” Connor blew out his lips, making a soft psshhh, boom, boom, boom sound like a fireworks finale, pantomiming a series of mind-blowing explosions with his fingers.
Prosky held up a flat palm. “Too much information.”
“We stayed awake talking for hours," Connor rushed on, blushing. "He’s an artist. Did you know that? His paintings are incredible. I mean he’s gorgeous, obviously. But he’s weird too, like, he hums these eighties songs that no one else our age knows, and he laughs at my jokes, and when he does..." Connor exhaled a shaky breath. "His laugh is like the best thing I've ever heard. He isn't a killer, Stan. He can't be."
Prosky leaned forward, resting his forearms on the steering wheel.
“Then listen to me very carefully,” he said in a harsh whisper. “If you take this to Major Crimes right now, they don't send a couple of polite detectives to ask him questions over coffee. They send a tactical team to kick his door down, and they drag your boy out into the street in zip-ties.”
Connor flinched, all the color draining from his face.
"If it’s not him, they charge him as an accessory," Prosky pressed on. "And you? The minute you opened that bag you were an off-duty rookie conducting an illegal, warrantless search after sleeping with a suspect. The DA throws the murder evidence out because it's tainted. Internal Affairs comes for you for obstruction, and Major Crimes ruins Drew's life trying to squeeze him for whatever else he knows. Is that what you want?"
"No," Connor choked out. "Stan, no."
"Then you don’t tell anyone," Prosky commanded. "Not a detective, not a sergeant, not your mother.” He threw his head back. “I’m going to look at this quietly. Give me what you have on him. Full name, address, phone number."
Connor pulled his phone back out. He quickly rattled off Drew’s last name, phone number, street number, and unit in the Mission.
Prosky jotted it down in the small notebook he took from his breast pocket. "I know a few people who can pull records without lighting up a board. I'll run him through CLEAR and the state databases. We'll look for aliases, property deeds, registered LLCs. Let's see if this barista is hiding assets or living above his means. You’re going to sit in the report room, keep your head down, and act like this is a normal day. Can you do that?"
Connor nodded, desperate for the lifeline his partner was throwing him.
Prosky shifted the car into drive.
“I’m going to radio dispatch and tell them the cruiser’s throwing an oil pressure warning. I’ll drop you for paperwork, take the car to the motor pool, and log a meal break while I wait. That buys me a couple hours. You stay put and you don’t talk to anyone.”
“Stan.” Connor’s voice was thin. “What if it is him? I can’t just throw him to the wolves.”
Prosky finally looked at him, weary and protective.
“Just give me some time to think this through. If it’s him, we still do this smart. You running in half-cocked helps no one. Not him, not you, not the case. Let me see what we’re actually looking at first.”
He reached across the console and gripped Connor’s shoulder once, hard enough to be felt.
“Not a soul, Gallagher. We clear?”
“Clear,” Connor whispered.
Prosky checked his mirrors and pulled back onto the street.
“About the barista—people aren’t always what they look like,” Prosky said, staring dead ahead at the road. “Remember that.”
Chapter 16: Something’s Off
The lock on the apartment door clicked with a metallic thud. Danny stepped inside the Mission District studio, bringing the chill of the San Francisco fog with him.
His suit draped over his compact frame, the tie loosened and the top button open. He carried a small, elegantly wrapped box of dark chocolate truffles from Pike Place Market.
He paused at the threshold, closing the door behind him. He took a slow, deep breath of the familiar scents of the apartment: toasted arborio rice, melting butter, and garlic. But cutting through the warmth was a faint, unfamiliar note. The sharp tang of generic body deodorant. It did not belong here.
He had spent forty-eight hours settling Mr. Rossi's messy dispute in the Pacific Northwest. The final piece of business had required a silenced pistol in a rain-soaked shipping yard, the fatal shots timed to the thunderous crescendo of Verdi’s Rigoletto playing in his earbuds, an aria he had carefully selected for this specific target.
After days surrounded by loud, ugly men in windowless warehouses, all he had wanted was to get back to this room and let the warmth of his boyfriend wash over him.
"Danny?"
Drew stepped out of the kitchenette. He wore a faded, cut-off band shirt and sweats. His ringlets framed his face.
A soft smile melted the lines of Danny’s face.
"Ciao, amore," Danny murmured. His baritone dropped into that intimate, private register he saved only for Drew. He took a step forward, expecting Drew to close the distance.
Usually, when Danny returned from a trip, Drew would drop whatever he was doing and throw his arms around Danny's neck.
Today, Drew stayed planted. His bare feet remained rooted to the floorboards. His toes twitched nervously.
"You're back!" Drew said.
The greeting was immediate. Loud. Accompanied by a bright smile. But to Danny, a man whose survival depended on reading microscopic shifts in a target's body language, it landed like a discordant note in a tuned symphony.
"I am," Danny said. His smile remained intact, though his feet stopped moving. "My flight landed an hour ago."
"How was Seattle? Did it rain? It’s been pouring here all morning." Drew spoke too fast. His hands pulled at the frayed hem of his shirt.
Danny’s icy blue eyes swept over him. The lethal part of his brain that usually slept in this room twitched awake.
"It was wet," Danny said. He crossed the small living space, sliding his hand around the small of Drew's back. He pulled him in and kissed him.
Drew met him halfway, his lips parting. The kiss was warm, but the moment Danny’s hand pressed against him, he felt the tension running through Drew's spine. Drew didn't sink into the touch. He endured it.
When they parted, Drew took a half-step back, creating a buffer of space between them.
"Sorry," Drew laughed, breathy and brittle. He turned away to the safety of the kitchenette, grabbing a wooden spoon and stirring the pot of risotto on the stove, talking rapidly over his shoulder. "It was a nightmare today. The baker quit by text thirty minutes before we opened, and Carmen has been threatening homicide all day."
Danny stood still in the center of the apartment. He slipped off his suit jacket, draped it over the back of the sofa, and unclipped his shoulder holster.
"Just sent a text and vanished," Drew kept rambling, his back turned as he stirred. "Just decided he was done. And, I mean... I get it. Sometimes it's just... time to move on, you know?"
Drew was hiding something. The thought was a dark drop of poison blooming in Danny's chest. Worse, Drew was testing the waters.
Danny stepped over to the mid-century dresser. He set the box of chocolates and his holster on the top, then pulled open the top drawer. His fingers brushed the rows of socks as he reached for his black leather toiletry bag.
He unzipped it and peered in.
Nothing was out of place. But the air in the room felt disrupted. Tainted.
Moving with the silent grace of a predator, he stepped into the kitchenette.
"I don't buy it," Danny murmured.
Drew jumped, his shoulder hitting Danny’s chest. He turned around, eyes wide. "What? That he quit?"
"That someone just walks away from a commitment," Danny said. He reached out, catching Drew's wrist, resting his thumb directly over the pulse point. "Just... moving on. Because things got a little difficult."
Drew swallowed hard. "Danny, people do it all the time. If it's not the right fit anymore, you have to just—"
"No," Danny interrupted. His free hand slid to the small of Drew's back, locking him in place. "Mio amore.” His touch was firm, but gentle, at odds with the cold of his icy blue eyes. "That is not how loyalty works. Not my kind of loyalty."
Danny stepped closer. He watched Drew's eyes dart down to the rough stubble on his jaw, knowing exactly how to use his physical presence to disarm him.
"When you commit to something, it does not change," Danny continued. "The world is chaotic and ugly. When you find love in that, it is an oasis. You do not quit that, amore."
Drew stared at him, drowning in the suffocating gravity of his devotion. It was crystal clear that leaving was not an option.
Faced with the sheer force of Danny's love, Drew's courage collapsed. He let out a shaky, broken exhale and yielded, dropping his forehead against Danny's.
"You're right," Drew whispered. His hands came up to grip Danny's shirt like a lifeline. "I'm sorry. I'm just so tired and confused today."
Danny’s eyes flashed with a cold, triumphant satisfaction. He wrapped his arms around Drew, encasing him in a cage of fine cotton and coiled muscle. He pressed his face into Drew's curls, breathing in the scent of him.
"I know, amore," Danny murmured, kissing the top of his head. "I have you."
Drew was safe in his arms, anchored by a man who would give him the world. But as Danny stared over Drew’s shoulder at the shadows stretching across the apartment floor, his blue eyes remained devoid of warmth.
Drew had backed down, but he was still lying.
Danny would just have to strip the rest of the secrets out of him in bed.
Chapter 17: The Tell
Danny didn't rush. He never did.
He guided Drew backward until the backs of Drew’s knees hit the mattress, letting him fall back against the rumpled sheets. The amber glow of the bedside lamp cast long, familiar shadows across the studio, but as Danny unbuttoned his crisp white shirt, his icy blue eyes never left Drew’s face.
Drew was trying. He was trying too hard.
Usually, there was a stubborn, bratty friction to Drew, a fiery independence that Danny loved to strip away until there was nothing left but absolute surrender. But tonight, Drew wasn't just yielding, he was eager. Frantic, even. He reached for Danny’s belt with rushed hands, pulling at the leather, his breath coming in shallow, anxious pulls. It was a performance. Drew was trying to use his body as a shield to hide whatever secret was inside his head.
Danny let him play the game.
"Così impaziente stanotte," Danny murmured, So eager tonight, as he stripped away Drew’s tee and sweatpants.
As Danny’s palm settled over the curve of Drew’s hip, his thumb passed a faint, lilac shadow blooming on the pale skin, a fading bruise, and another. Judging by the wide spread, it had been left by a hand much larger than Danny's own.
Careless, like leaving prints at a scene.
Danny's jaw tightened, but he didn't stop moving. Before he entered Drew, Danny reached up to the silver Madonna medal resting against the dark hair of his chest. He tossed the pendant over his shoulder to his back, so the Holy Mother did not have to see the next part.
He reached for the bottle on the nightstand, slicked himself, then pressed the thick, uncut head of his cock against Drew’s hole. He pushed in slow and steady, watching the way Drew’s body opened around him. The stretch was immediate—the way the foreskin pulled back as he sank deeper, the tight heat that swallowed him when he buried to the hilt, hips flush, the full length of him lodged deep.
“There,” Danny murmured against the back of his neck, letting the sandpaper whiskers of his jaw scrape against Drew’s nape like a cat’s tongue. “Feel that.”
He held still for a long moment, letting Drew feel every inch, before he began to move. Long, controlled strokes at first, the thick shaft dragging in and out. He kept one arm locked around Drew’s waist and used the other to angle his hips so the head of his cock rubbed the spot that made Drew’s spine arch.
“You were made for this,” Danny said, voice low and rough. “For this cock.”
Drew whimpered. His hand reached back blindly, fingers tangling in Danny’s thick, dark hair to pull him closer.
“That’s it,” Danny murmured, fucking him deeper. The wet sound of it filled the small apartment.
He shifted, pushing Drew face-down into the mattress, and braced his free hand against the headboard for leverage. That was when he spied a piece of fabric tucked between the mattress and the wood.
Without breaking the rhythm of his hips, Danny’s fingers dropped to curl around it and pulled it free.
It was a sock. Thick, cheap, ribbed cotton. Something ugly and utilitarian.
Danny wore only Italian wool. Drew wore bamboo athletic socks. The fabric in Danny’s fist was a faded grey work-boot sock. And it was massive.
Danny’s icy eyes went flat as his mind spun through the variables. A cheap, massive sock in a bed where it did not belong. Erratic panic from his boyfriend. A giant, bumbling police officer from the cafe. The wide spread of the handprint bruising Drew's hip.
His mind snagged on a single memory: the giant idiot in the uniform in the cafe, staring at Drew with too much reverence.
Danny let the grey sock fall loose to the floorboards behind him. He didn't have absolute proof yet, but the suspicion coiled in his chest, cold and venomous.
His heart hammered against Drew's skin. As he drove into him, his cock felt impossibly hard.
"Sei mio, amore," Danny whispered against his skin. "You are mine. Only mine."
He shifted the angle, the thick head of his cock hitting the place that made Drew gasp, the shaft dragging on the withdrawal. He reached down to stroke Drew in time with the thrusts, Drew’s hand clutching at his dark-haired forearm as Danny worked him.
Danny picked up his pace, fucking hard until Drew gasped loudly into his pillow, his cock stiffening and spilling over Danny’s hand and into the sheets, his hole clenching and fluttering around the steely length still buried inside him.
Danny followed a moment later, or made it look as if he did, burying his face in Drew’s neck and giving the ragged breaths of a man lost in it, while his control stayed intact.
When he finally pulled out, he turned onto his back and dragged the sheet up, hiding the evidence of how little he had actually given away. He let the thick pulse of precum pool in the dark hair of his stomach rather than finish inside, the medal of the Holy Mother pressed cold between his shoulder blades.
They ate the risotto shortly after. Danny sat in his boxers, his cock slow to soften, a dull, heavy ache throbbing in his balls.Drew affected his usual affable nature, chattering between bites, pretending the air between them wasn't thick with the unspoken.
Two hours later, the studio was dead silent.
Drew slept, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his limbs tangled in the sheets.
Danny lay flat on his back beside him, awake, staring up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. The pot in the kitchen and their bowls were set in the sink to soak. The amber lamp had been clicked off, plunging the room into darkness, but Danny’s mind was darker still.
His thoughts drifted to Verdi’s Otello. The mourning cellos of Act IV began to swell in his ears. It was the grand finale he had selected for the day his double life finally caught up with him, a beautiful tragedy in which he’d end Drew and himself.
He’d imagined it with the police closing in, not like this. Not a cheap betrayal in his own bed.
He could do it right now. Put on the record Drew had bought, and as the music swelled, he could wrap his hands around that beautiful throat, then turn his pistol on himself. He could end them both right now in this tainted bed.
His breath quivered in his throat, his eyelashes wet.
As Drew shifted in his sleep and sighed, the dark urge receded.
No. Not yet.
Drew had brought a badge into their bed. Drew had let law enforcement within three feet of a syndicate murder weapon.
But he loved Drew. He would forgive him for the indiscretion, eventually. As long as the betrayal was just a mess to be cleaned up. As long as Drew did not love the oaf.
He looked back at the bed, watching Drew sleep.
Tomorrow he would pay the cafe a visit. He needed to look the giant in the eye and see for himself.
Chapter 18: The Collision
The morning rush had thinned to a slow trickle by the time Officer Connor Gallagher placed his order. He stuffed his fists into his pockets to hide the shaking.
He stood near the espresso machine in his full uniform, the Kevlar vest pressing against his chest, staring at Drew.
If you’re the killer, just tell me, Connor thought. Tell me, and I will try to protect you. But looking at him now, it didn't add up.
Drew knocked a spent puck of espresso grounds into the trash bin. The sharp bang made Connor flinch.
"Here you go, Officer Gallagher. One large drip," Drew said, sliding the paper cup across the counter with a sly, playful smile. His golden-brown ringlets were loose over his Cure t-shirt. He looked beautiful.
"Thanks," Connor choked out, his pale eyebrows rising, pleading. When he reached for the cup, his fingers brushed against Drew's. Connor jerked his hand back, nearly knocking the coffee over.
Drew’s smile faltered, a flash of hurt crossing his face. "Hey. You okay?"
"Just—just tired!" Connor lied loudly. His voice boomed in the quiet space. "Long shift ahead. You know how it is."
Drew leaned over the counter, pulling himself in so close no one could hear. "Connor... can we talk about the other night? I should have told you some things."
Out on the foggy sidewalk, Danny paused. Through the plate-glass window, he watched the exchange. He couldn't hear the words, but he saw the way his boy leaned across the espresso machine, pulling himself inches away from the giant cop with a look Danny didn’t recognize.
He pushed the glass door open. The brass bell chimed. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
Connor’s head whipped around.
Carmen’s eyes widened.
"Danny!" Carmen shouted, her voice pitched high. "You're back! Let me get you an espresso. At the bar! Officer Gallagher, no charge today, your partner is waiting, time to go protect and serve—"
Danny sidestepped the cop without breaking stride, taking a seat at the bar. "Carmen," he said, dismissive. "Always a pleasure."
He turned on the stool. His icy eyes dragged over Connor’s uniform, assessing the outline of the Kevlar beneath the shirt, the badge, and the duty belt with the detachment of a predator. He ran his tongue over his front teeth. Then his eyes turned to Drew.
"Ciao, amore," he murmured in his dark baritone.
Drew stiffened. The chaotic brightness vanished from his posture in a split second, replaced by a rigid, hyper-aware stillness.
"Hi, Danny," Drew said, the bounce drained from his voice.
Danny offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He reached across the counter, opening his hand palm-up. Drew hesitated a fraction of a second before placing his hand inside it.
Only then did Danny turn to his right, giving his full attention to the giant police officer clutching the coffee cup.
"I don't believe we've met," Danny said. His voice was polite. "I’m Danny. Drew’s partner."
Connor stared at him. The word hit him like a physical blow.
Drew had a boyfriend?
"Connor," he managed to say, his voice cracking slightly. "Officer Gallagher."
Danny extended his free hand.
Connor stared at it, then set his drip coffee on the stainless steel counter to take it.
Danny’s grip was like iron. Not aggressive, but an immovable lock, his thumb measuring the span of the officer's knuckles, a perfect match for the bruises on Drew's hip. Danny used it to pull himself an inch closer, stepping well inside the boundary of normal social space. Eyes level, he looked at the uniform collar and the vein pressing against it in the officer’s ruddy neck.
"It is always good to know the people who watch over Drew’s neighborhood," Danny murmured, his thumb resting against the back of Connor's hand. "To know who is looking closely at what is mine."
Every golden hair on the back of Connor’s neck stood at attention. His pulse hammered against his collar. He knows.
"Just doing my job, sir."
But in the physical exchange of that grip, the final puzzle piece snapped into place. Connor looked down at the flawless tailoring of the Italian wool suit.
The holdback evidence. The dark wool socks in the top drawer. They hadn't belonged to Drew. Connor hadn’t slept with The Ghost. He had slept with The Ghost’s boyfriend.
And he was currently shaking his hand.
They released the handshake, stepping back, but neither man broke eye contact.
Danny’s hand slid toward the lapel of his suit, nearing the shoulder holster beneath. Connor’s right hand dropped, his thick fingers hovering a hair's breadth above the grip of the Glock on his hip.
For one breathless moment, the two men stood still. Time slowed. The only sound either could hear was their breathing.
"Everything okay over here, Gallagher?"
The gruff voice broke the tension. Stan Prosky stepped up behind Connor, his boots thudding against the tile.
Danny offered a ghost of a smile, fluidly redirecting his hand to adjust the Windsor knot of his silk tie.
Connor exhaled a shallow breath, moving his hand just enough to hook his thumb into his duty belt, inches from his firearm.
The veteran cop's eyes narrowed, taking in the tailored man and his junior officer's rigid posture. Prosky’s free hand drifted toward his own duty belt.
Danny blinked. He offered Prosky a flawless, polite nod.
"Everything is perfectly fine, Officer," Danny said smoothly. "Just thanking your partner for his service."
"Right. Let's move, kid," Prosky grunted. He grabbed Connor by the elbow, hauling the frozen cop toward the door.
Connor stumbled backward as Prosky pulled him away. His eyes finally broke from the hitman at the bar and sought out Drew.
In that split second, the mask of a police officer fell away. What remained was raw fear—not for his own life, but an agonizing, protective concern for Drew.
From behind the espresso machine, Drew looked back. His golden-brown eyes were filled with a quiet longing directed at Connor.
Danny sat still on his stool, his scrutiny flicking from the retreating cop to the barista. He didn't miss a single micro-expression. He saw the invisible thread pulling between them, and his jaw tightened.
As Connor was dragged out onto the foggy San Francisco sidewalk, the bell jingled in his wake. Drew stood frozen, pale as a sheet. Carmen gripped the edge of the bar.
Connor knew Danny was the killer. Danny knew Connor was the other man.
The stage was set.
Chapter 19: The Favor
The cruiser doors slammed shut, sealing them inside. The windows immediately began to fog with Connor’s rapid, shallow breathing.
Prosky took a sip of his coffee as he stared out the windshield at the cafe, letting the rookie hyperventilate.
The pieces of the puzzle had finally snapped into place.
"It wasn't Drew's drawer," Connor choked out. He turned to Prosky, overjoyed and terrified. "Stan. It wasn't his! The guy in the cafe... Danny. The holdback evidence—the garrote, the suppressor—it belongs to the boyfriend. Drew isn't the Ghost. He's sleeping with him."
Prosky took another sip. "I got eyes, kid. I told you my guys pulled the quiet records on your barista. He came back clean. No red flags, no sketchy assets. Now we know why. Did you know he had a boyfriend?"
Connor shook his head, his vest tight against his chest. "No. But Stan, did you see that guy? The way the air died when he walked in? Drew’s obviously not in love with him. If you were with a guy like that, would you feel safe telling anyone the truth? I don't care that he lied."
Prosky took that in. He stared at the agitated kid sitting in his passenger seat.
"You've got it bad, don't you?" Prosky asked.
Connor swallowed hard. "I do."
The immediate danger of the situation rushed back in. Connor lunged forward, reaching for the radio on the dash. "We have to call this in. We have to go back in there and arrest him."
Prosky’s hand shot out. His thick fingers clamped over Connor’s wrist with surprising strength, shoving his hand away from the radio.
"You better be damn sure you want to do that," Prosky hissed. "Think it through. You call this in, Major Crimes takes it. They send SWAT. They establish a plainclothes perimeter, try to isolate him, and maybe—maybe—they manage to take a guy like The Ghost alive without turning that cafe into a slaughterhouse."
Connor froze, his hand trembling against the dash.
"But assume the best," Prosky pressed on. "Assume they cuff him and nobody gets shot. Then what? The math doesn't change just because the target did. It's still an illegal search. Fruit of the poison tree. A judge throws the garrote and the rest out, and the Ghost walks free. And who do you think he goes after when he pieces together exactly how you saw his kit, standing bare-assed in his boyfriend’s apartment? What happens to Drew then? And all of that is before IA buries you for official misconduct."
"So what do we do?" Connor asked, his voice shaking. "I can't just leave Drew in there."
"We let the professionals handle it," Prosky said, resting a heavy hand on Connor’s shoulder. "I have a guy in Major Crimes who owes me. We talk off the books. I give him the name, explain you’re a good cop, made a rookie mistake. Explain… the situation. They build a clean case backward, pull traffic cams, subpoena cell towers. Parallel construction."
Connor blinked, desperate to grasp the lifeline.
"They find a legal reason to arrest him," Prosky pressed, letting the logic sink in. "Your name never goes on a report. IA stays off your back, and the Ghost never finds out the tip came from his own bedroom. Your boy stays safe."
Prosky wiped his face.
"But for that to work, you do not contact him. At all," Prosky ordered. "If you reach out, you spook the target and sign Drew's death warrant. You sit on your hands and wait. Do you understand?"
The rebellion gave way to a sinking helplessness. The image of Drew trapped alone with an executioner stole the air from Connor’s lungs.
He looked out the windshield at the cafe.
"I understand."
Prosky let out a long exhale and kicked the cruiser's footwell. "Fourteen months to my goddamn pension," he muttered. He shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the curb.
Just on the other side of the plate-glass window, Danny sat still at the bar. He watched the cruiser pull away.
He wasn't calculating whether the cop had seen the inside of the dresser drawer. He was playing back the last sixty seconds of human interaction.
He had seen the way the giant cop looked at Drew. The panic in Gallagher's eyes hadn't been fear for his own life. It had been a protective terror for Drew. And Danny had seen the way Drew looked back.
The glance had been tiny, but to a trained observer, it was undeniable proof.
It wasn't a cheap thrill. It wasn't just sex. It was real.
The giant loved him. And Drew loved the oaf back.
A cold finality settled over Danny's chest. He was losing Drew's heart. And that was a theft he could not allow. It demanded a beautiful, devastating conclusion.
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew his encrypted phone. His thumb moved across the screen, drafting a message directly to Rossi.
Mr. Rossi, he typed. Per favore, if your private box is unoccupied this Saturday, I would consider it a great personal honor to use it. I wish to celebrate the successful conclusion of the Seattle contract with my partner.
He set the phone face-up on the bartop.
The cafe was silent. Drew and Carmen stood frozen behind the espresso machine, watching him as the seconds ticked by, bracing for the fallout.
A moment later, the screen illuminated the dim bar with a reply.
It is yours, Danny. Enjoy the music.
Danny slipped the phone back into his pocket. He slowly rotated on his stool, turning his back to the window. He smoothed his features into a placid, perfectly calibrated mask.
"Amore," Danny said, giving no clue that he knew whose hand he had just shaken, or that anything had happened at all.
"Yeah?"
"Did you pick up the suit from the tailor? The navy one I bought you for your birthday?"
Drew blinked, thrown off by the question. "Um. Yes. It's in the closet. Why?"
Danny offered a soft, private smile that didn't reach his icy blue eyes.
"We are going out," Danny murmured. "Mr. Rossi has offered us the use of his private box seats on Saturday. It is time to see Otello."
Chapter 20: The Inside Man
The patrol cruiser idled at the far edge of a parking lot in the Richmond District. Inside the cab, Connor gripped his knees, staring blindly out the windshield.
Stan Prosky stood outside, leaning into the open window. "Sit tight," he grunted. "There’s a payphone by the laundromat. Secure line. Do not touch the radio, Gallagher. Do not get out of this car."
When Prosky was fifty yards away, he walked right past the rusted payphone attached to the brick wall of the laundromat. He reached into the deep pocket of his patrol jacket and pulled out a cheap burner phone.
He punched in the number from memory. It rang twice.
"Pronto," an older man’s voice answered.
"It’s Prosky. We have a problem with yesterday's leak. It's accelerating."
On the other end of the line, Mr. Rossi paused. "I pay you to ensure my operations remain contained, Stan."
"I am containing it," Prosky said, turning his back to the wind. "But my rookie just put a face to the holdback evidence. He saw your driver, Danny. Gallagher knows whose kit that was."
A long silence stretched over the line. Rossi let out a slow sigh—the sound of a disappointed father.
"Love," Rossi murmured. "It makes even the sharpest men sloppy. Danny brought his work home, and now the rot is spreading."
"Gallagher wanted to kick the doors in and arrest him on the spot," Prosky said, pushing damp hair back from his forehead. "I talked him down. Reminded him of the math. Told him I was taking it to Major Crimes for parallel construction. I've got the kid on a leash, but he's panicked. If we don't put a lid on this, he blows the whistle. The DA gets enough probable cause to start pulling threads that lead right to your front door."
"That will not happen," Rossi said. "The barista must be removed. The rookie must be removed."
"There's another loose end," Prosky said, pressing a knuckle into his closed eye. "The freak behind the counter. She saw them together, knows Danny is the boyfriend. She knows too much."
Rossi let out another weary sigh. "Take care of that afterward. Eliminate the primary threats first."
"And your driver?" Prosky asked.
"Danny is an investment," Rossi replied. "When a thoroughbred loses its focus on the track, you do not shoot it. You remove the distraction. Once the barista is gone, Danny will remember where his loyalties lie. We will clean up his mess for him, and he will return to the fold."
"Understood. Just give me a time and a—"
"Saturday evening," Rossi cut in. "Danny requested the use of my private box at the War Memorial Opera House for a special date with his boy."
Prosky frowned. "The Opera House? That's a public venue, Mr. Rossi. Too many witnesses."
"The private boxes are secluded," Rossi corrected. "During the crescendo, every eye will be glued to the stage. A full orchestra will drown out the sound of a suppressed weapon."
"What about Danny?" Prosky asked, his grip tightening on the plastic phone. "If I walk in there and draw down, your driver puts a bullet between my eyes before I can clear my weapon."
"Danny will not be there," Rossi said. "I will summon him to the lobby right before the climax. At precisely 9:30, you will have a ten-minute window where the barista will be alone. You will enter the box with your rookie. You will take care of him, and then you will take care of the barista. Once it is done, you walk away. My crew will come in later to sanitize the room and remove the bodies after the final curtain drops. No mess, no witnesses."
Prosky closed his eyes. "I'll have him there."
"Make sure you do, Stan," Rossi warned. "Or I will let Danny handle your retirement."
The line clicked dead.
Prosky pocketed the burner phone. He adjusted his patrol jacket, smoothed his hair back into place, and walked back out of the fog.
When he opened the driver's side door and slid into the seat, Connor jumped, turning to him with wide eyes. "Well? What did Major Crimes say? Are they going to help us?"
Prosky reached over and clapped a heavy hand onto Connor's shoulder.
"Take a breath, kid. They're going to help. But this thing is moving faster than I thought."
Connor's chest hitched. "What do you mean?"
"Major Crimes already had a flag on Danny for a RICO case. They’ve been surveilling him for weeks. You just handed them the missing piece that ties him to the Rincon Hill hit." Prosky looked his young partner dead in the eye. "They're accelerating the timeline. They're taking him down this Saturday."
Connor let out a shaky breath, the explanation locking into place in his panicked mind. "Okay. Okay, good. So what's the plan? Where are they doing it?"
"They're setting up a containment operation for Saturday night at the War Memorial Opera House."
"How do they know he'll be at the Opera House?"
"They have a wire on his dummy accounts," Prosky said. "He booked a private box."
Connor blinked, thrown. "Stan, you just said we don't corner him in a public place. What about crossfire?"
"They aren't hitting him in the seats," Prosky fired back. "Major Crimes isn't going to breach a confined space with a civilian inside. They're going to let us extract Drew first." Prosky squeezed his shoulder. "You might have just saved your boyfriend's life, Gallagher."
Connor swallowed hard, a wave of relief washing over him. "So what do we do?"
"We handle the extraction," Prosky said. "You and me. You’re the face the kid trusts. Your job is to walk into that box, grab Drew, and get him out."
Connor frowned, his mind snagging on the logistics. "If Danny is in there with him, how do I just walk in and grab him without..."
"Major Crimes is creating a window. Ten minutes where an undercover taps Danny to pull him into the lobby," Prosky lied. "Once we secure Drew during that window, Danny comes back to an empty box. When he leaves the building to look for him, the tactical boys tail him to an isolated location and take him down clean. You let me and Major Crimes worry about the logistics. The important thing is, we get your boy out alive. Understand?"
Connor swallowed the rest of his doubts. The only thing that mattered was that he would get to save him.
He let out a deep exhale. "Thank you for protecting him, Stan. And me too. Thank you."
"Don't mention it," Prosky said. He shifted into drive and pulled out of the lot, driving them both straight toward the slaughter.
END, PART TWO OF THREE
Next: The stage is set, but whether the final act will be a tragedy or a romance remains to be seen. I hope you return tomorrow for the finale.
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