Page 56 of By Any Means

“Then I wouldn’t stop,” Laurie said recklessly, “if I were you.”

Chary surged down, pausing just before contact. His inhales were shaky against Laurie’s lips, sucking at his breath. Laurie moved his lips side to side, not pressing forward but barely touching. Encouragement. Slow and sure.

Chary made a noise in his throat like surprise. He put an arm across Laurie, hand palm-flat on the blanket beside his hip. Possessive, showy. Fearless.

Or maybe just necessary balance. The next kiss wasn’t pressing, but devouring, leaned-in, leaving Laurie as breathless and teetering as he would’ve been if they’d been standing. Chary pushed in close but not too far, sucked Laurie’s upper lip in and bit it lightly, gasping. Then did it again. Or maybe Laurie had done it; he had his right hand on Chary’s neck and was pulling him closer, opening his mouth⁠—

Mr. Herbert’s steps crunched.

Chary stiffened. Laurie glanced over.

They watched the man make his retreat: a straight-shouldered, lowered-hat kind, all the way to the end of the sloping field and out of sight. He’d left the row-marking undone, stakes and rope fallen right where he’d been.

“It’s done,” Chary whispered, brow furrowed. He looked conflicted. His breath was short. “Yes?”

“Yeah.” Laurie let him go, and there was another retreat: Chary straightened and put his shaking hands in his lap. “I’ll say.”

Laurie sat up, too. I’ve done more dangerous things than this. He had—but also, he’d never actually kissed a man in front of someone before. Not outside of like company, or in the daylight, not for any story. Not a kiss like that.

And Mr. Herbert had walked away, stiff with anger. Probably to report to the man who’d hired him: August.

Laurie suddenly understood, though, why Chary had had that gun at 2nd Street.

“Uh.” He needed something to say. “You’re good at kissing.”

Not that! Not with surprise in his voice.

Chary pressed his cheek into his shoulder. “Well,” he muttered, “I am not a naïve.”

“Hey, no. I didn’t say that.” He paused. “Are you?”

Chary didn’t look over. “Good Lord.” He pulled his book back into his reach and faced pointedly forward. Then spoke primly: “It didn’t work, you know.”

Laurie, despite himself, laughed. “Yeah, sure. And you killed your brother, Chary Wright. C’mon.”

From behind his book, he thought he saw Chary smile.

18

CHARY

The whisper came disembodied through the hush of swaying willows, across the stream.

“You kissed him!”

Chary’s startle was so severe, he dropped his book—nearly into the water—and yelped. “What— August.” He picked up the book and brushed it off, peering anxiously at the spine for crushed green stain. “You can’t be here.”

It was later in the evening, nearing dusk; Laurie had not been in the northwest balcony room when he’d knocked for an early nightcap. Chary had taken himself out to the bench by the willow stream in order to take his mind off worry. Laurie could not feasibly snoop in the dark. If August stayed away, he’d be safe. Chary would remain at the house a couple more days in recovery, then head back to New York, bringing Laurie with him, and the man would likely never know.

But there his brother was.

August cackled. “Don’t look like that. Your journalist’s gone to the telegraph office. Got a wire just now and went.”

“Oh.” That was more ominous. Did reporters send expensive telegrams to inform their editors of breaking news and scandal? Scandal such as brothers who were supposed to be dead but weren’t? “It’s late for a telegram. I hope everything’s all right.”

“It must be important if he is risking his kissing cover to run answer.” He waded into the stream, making smacking noises as he went.

“Please cease.”