Page 68 of Business vs. Pleasure

“No.”

“August.” His voice was wet, and when August finally looked at Ricardo’s face and saw the blood he spit to the ground, it felt like every hair on his body stood on end.

His husband’s lungs were compromised. He was drowning in his own blood. August was going to have to watch him die, just like⁠—

No.

“He’s still up there,” he said briskly, looking Ricardo over for any other injuries. He cursed the makeup he’d applied to him earlier; though it was melting away in the rain despite the weapons-grade setting spray, August still couldn’t tell how much of the pallor of Ricardo’s face was real and how much was fake anymore. “We can’t go up the hill on foot or by car.”

“Good thing we’re by a dock,” Ricardo croaked. “If you can get to one of the boats, they’re pretty easy to drive.”

August scoffed. “And how am I supposed to drag your ass to a boat while under fire, hmm?”

“You’re not.”

Oh, he wasn’t…

“Leave me here,” Ricardo said. “I can cover you long enough for you to get clear.”

It was rare for August to actually feel himself dissociate, to feel reality slide out from under him. He’d spent a long time in very expensive therapy trying to make sure this didn’t happen, but every now and then his subconscious mind got the better of him. And right now…

White noise filled his ears, keeping time with the rapid beating of his heart. His vision went spotty, flaring with tiny crawling silver specks at the edges, like glowing maggots trying to cover his eyes. His hand flared with pain as he gripped his gun hard enough to hurt, but it was a distant thing. He stared at Ricardo but he wasn’t alone anymore, Laurence was with him, his sweet older brother who’d died so August wouldn’t, they were both here, together, and Laurence was smiling for him even though he was missing the back half of his head and Ricardo was bleeding through the bandage and he heard the sound of the hammer hitting his foot and crack, crack, crack the bones inside, and⁠—

“August!”

He hissed as a sharp pain between his index and middle fingers flared bright enough to break through his fugue. August blinked and looked down as Ricardo let go of his hand. “The pencil trick?” August said hoarsely. “Really?”

“It worked.” He spit another mouthful of blood to the side. “You have to go.”

Oh, was he still on about that? “Mm, no.”

“August, it’s the only way we’re going to get out of this.”

How sweet and utterly despicable of his husband to phrase this like he wasn’t asking August to run away and leave him to die. “I’m not getting on a boat without you.”

“It’s not safe.” As if to make his point, a few more bullets hit the car, the tink of metal on metal even louder than it had been before. Was he creeping up on them? Probably trying to get a better angle. “Honey. You can’t help me if you stay pinned down here. Go now, then you can double back when you find another dock close by.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

There was so much genuine heat in Ricardo’s gaze it should have set August on fire. It was fueled by anger but, more intensely, by fear.

Well, join the fucking club. August leaned in and gripped his husband’s shoulder tight. “I would sooner slit my wrists and go swimming in that piranha-infested lake with you on my back than leave you here alone. Do you understand me? I don’t care if that makes me the Juliet in our star-crossed romance, I am not doing this without you. I’m not going anywhere, I’m not making some grand escape, I’m not doing anything except sticking to you like fucking glue, Ricky, so either come up with a better idea or shut your damn mouth and stop distracting me. Got it?”

Ricardo stared at him for a long moment in complete silence before finally saying, “There are no piranhas in this lake.”

“Oh, that’s your takeaway?” August snarked. “Rude.” Whatever, he would just⁠—

All of a sudden, the most incredible sound August could imagine began to filter in through the trees and thunder and the patter of rain that was starting up again. It was the siren song of… well, of sirens. Not ambulance sirens, either. Those were from cop cars.

That kid had been good for something after all.

August lifted up just enough to get a shot off toward NightPigeon’s last known location. Three bullets came back. He waited another thirty seconds, then followed it up with two more.

Nothing.

Good enough.

“Come on.” August lay down beside Ricardo, dragged his upper body across his chest and right shoulder, then rolled onto his front and dragged his husband into a fireman’s carry as he did so. “I can’t believe that stupid TikTok worked,” he muttered as he pressed up to his knees. They’d be vulnerable to return fire the second he stood all the way up, but August knew the reason the side of his neck was warmer than everything else was from Ricardo’s blood. Every other place his husband touched was cold, too cold.