“Did she know you were bi?”
“Yeah.” Benito shifted to face Mickey. “I know it was different for you and your missus, but I couldn’t be with someone that long and them not know who I was. Road life is... fuck, you know what it’s like, but the crew I ran with was different to most.”
“How so?”
Benito shrugged. “There were some top boys who used to roll together. Everyone knew it and no one cared. They were too fucking fierce, you know? Like, if you’d tried to queer bash Luis Pope, you’d have fucking died before anyone else did.”
Luis Pope. Mickey didn’t know the name and he didn’t want to. And despite a deep-rooted itch to learn every inch of Benito, inside and out, he didn’t want to think about the past, not tonight. “I’m glad you had someone you could be yourself with. She taught you well, in case you’re wondering. You blew my fucking mind so bad I’m going to need ten cigarettes to calm myself down.”
Benito laughed. “I left mine in the car because I thought you were trying to quit.”
“That’s cute. I didn’t buy any because I thoughtyouwere trying to quit.”
“You want me to get them?”
Benito had his face pillowed on his bicep, eyes lidded and heavy, the perfect picture of sated relaxation. Mickey considered him leaving the bed, even for a moment, and shook his head. “Nah. I’ll go. You want a drink?”
“Water?”
“Where are your car keys?”
Benito pointed at the floor. “Wherever you tossed my clothes, fam. You sure you don’t want me to go?”
“Iwantyou to stay right there.”
Benito nodded and pulled Mickey down for a goodbye kiss.
Mickey slipped out of bed and padded downstairs, naked. On the way, he scooped up items of clothing and deposited them on the kitchen counter. Most were Benito’s—Mickey hadn’t been wearing much when he’d arrived. Track pants, T-shirt, socks. Underwear he’d found on the stairs.
Benito’s keys were in his jacket pocket. Mickey searched out his own clothes and threw them on. Then he tramped out in the looming dawn to Benito’s SUV.
He clicked the locks and opened the driver door, scanning the spotless car interior for any sign of the Mayfair Lights Benito usually smoked but came up blank. He stretched over the seats and opened the glove box.Empty. Damn it. Why didn’t you, I don’t know, ask him where they were?
No sensible answer was forthcoming. Mickey checked both doors, then peered under the passenger seat.
White dust greeted him.
Glittery, chalky white dust. Mangled gaffer tape.
An elastic band.
Mickey froze. Bile rose in his throat, and he jerked upright so fast he smacked his head on the console behind him.
Seeing stars, he shook his head to clear it.Fucking idiot. It’s probably protein powder. Or flour he bought for his mum. Or make-up for Gianna.
A hundred other possibilities crowded Mickey’s brain. Each one, however outlandish, mademore sense than a burst brick of coke because Benito wasn’t moving that shit anymore. Mickey knew it because Benito had fuckingtoldhim so.
It’s not coke. Wind your neck in, son.
Mickey took a deep breath and shut the passenger door, forcing himself to open the back door instead. He crouched, unseeing, dread still hot and shaky in his chest. It took a moment to focus.
To see the dull red streak on the black leather.
Nausea returned, and he hated himself a little bit more.
No.
Stop.