Page 72 of By Any Means

“Show me, newsman, undercover man. If you’re speaking truly, for once, do it. Do you really want to go on your knees? Do it. Not for show, nor anyone else.”

Laurie stared at him, and for a split-second flash, Chary worried he’d pushed too far. But then Laurie’s shallow-charm smirk was back.

“Sure, I want it. Wanted it from the start. Do you get mean in your desperation, Chary Wright?”

“I—”

“No, I like it. You got your hands dirty,” Laurie said, very close. “Hopped a train to get to a bathhouse and rescue your brother. Now this?” He reached around Chary and threw shut the curtain. “You’ll let me do this here? Now? As urgent as you are to find August?” He laughed. Gently he shoved Chary downward; Chary sat with a jolt.

“Let you?” he said, incredulous.

Laurie sank to his knees. And oh, Lord, what if it was all talk, and he had demanded something Laurie didn’t want—wouldn’t somebody stop it? Wouldn’t Chary?

Apparently, he wouldn’t.

Laurie could walk away, a voice reminded him, like he has before.

But—hell and damnation—he didn’t.

Laurie leaned and put his mouth to Chary’s shorts. It was the same as he had done to Chary’s neck except through thin cotton weave. Against his prick. Hot breath, a hot mouth, against his length, up and down. And nothing felt like it—nothing.

“Lord.” Chary shook so badly, was so blisteringly stiff, he couldn’t do anything with his hands except hang on to the bench.

Laurie drew back.

Chary whimpered. Was that it? Was it over?

“Damn your brother,” Laurie whispered. “For approximately the next ten minutes. Ask me what’s next, Chary.”

“I— You—” He’d quite forgotten he had a brother. Why couldn’t Chary be the reckless one for once? August had Brasher with him—he’d decided to flee instead of stay in Maine— “What’s⁠—”

The curtain ripped open.

Chary gasped.

In the alcove entrance stood a completely unfamiliar, completely naked man. He was dripping wet.

“Jesus.” Laurie lurched up. “What the hell, man; curtain’s shut—” Then, turning, he seemed to recognize the intruder; he said incredulously, “Hiram?”

“Don’t curse at me, L,” the man said dryly, “I crossed the pool as fast as I could. You work as quickly as ever.”

“Excuse me,” Chary said, covering himself with hands (or attempting to), “but who are you?”

The man was short, slim, sleek, and serious. (The best description Chary could come up with was that on a whole, he was suited to sibilants.) Other men might’ve called him pretty, like they called August, but Chary didn’t quite like his expression. It was pale, cold, and detached, except for a pinkish-rouge blush across his cheekbones, obviously painted on.

Laurie sighed. “Chary, meet Hiram Sumner. He’s a reporter too; we share an office. Don’t worry; he can’t see for shit in this light.” Despite this, he shifted his towel discreetly.

“Depends on the …scale… of the indiscretion, really,” Sumner murmured, eyeing Chary. Chary, grateful for the shorts, did his best not to return the perusal; it seemed unfair somehow, given the man was nude.

To Laurie, Sumner said, “Sidney Brasher’s just outside the alcoves. You’re lucky he was looking your way just as you made a scene. Once upon a time, you could work a room, you know.” His voice, in contrast, was neither cold nor detached but fond. Teasing.

Feeling rather left out, Chary said sharply, “Brasher? Where’s August?”

“Where the hell was that behemoth?” Laurie asked, at the same time. “Crouched behind a potted plant?”

“Not here,” Sumner said to Chary, as though it were obvious. “Your brother’s safe. Elsewhere in the city.”

“Brasher left him alone? Then what are we⁠—”