Page 69 of Business vs. Pleasure

“August…” Ricardo’s voice was weak, thready. August imagined his husband’s heart, usually so strong and steady, mirroring his voice.

“Save it,” he snapped, then gritted his teeth and stood up.

No gunshot. Nothing but the rustle of too many leaves, rain, and the lap of the water on the dock behind them. Well, all that and the sirens, which were both a blessing and a curse. No way was August letting them get shoved into prison, no thank you. August hefted Ricardo a little higher and did his best to ignore the groan that ripped out of his husband’s throat as he headed for the boats. The dock was small but there were several boats there. Surely one of them was⁠—

Ah, perfect. He headed for the little fourteen-foot aluminum number at the end of the dock and stepped down into it long enough to lay Ricardo out on one of the benches, wooden and utilitarian but better than lying in the bilge, then quickly jumped out again and undid the rope holding the boat to the dock.

Ricardo’s eyes were closed when August got back into the boat. “Nope!” He patted his husband’s cheek. “No sleeping, no napping, no resting your eyes. Keep them open, do you hear me?”

The gaze Ricardo turned on him was bright with pain, but he managed a nod.

“Good.” Now, to get this fucking thing started… It had been a while since August had boated, but a little cheap outboard motor like this, he should be fine. Open the ventilation cap, just a little…tilt the motor down into the water…prime it, where’s the bulb, where’s the—ah good…now the choke…now the starter cord, and then we’re out of here!

The boat lurched forward almost violently, and August remembered too late that he should have started while the gear shift was in neutral. Ricardo almost slid off the bench, but August grabbed the side of his jacket and hauled him back even as he shifted the gear forward. They bumped the dock several times because hello, hard to steer when you didn’t have a hand free, but then they were far enough from obstacles that he could let go of Ricardo and actually work the tiller. They shot off into the lake at high speed, and August had just enough sense left to flip the switch that turned on the floodlight at the front of the boat as the darkness began to close in around them.

Beneath the clouds and the driving rain, the channel was a flat, empty wash of gray. Up ahead were a pair of bridges he’d have to go under. One was fairly high. The other—a train trestle, he thought—looked barely tall enough for them to get under without beheading themselves.

August focused on getting beneath the bridge first and foremost. Little things like finding another place to dock, communicating in comprehensible Spanish to whoever they found there, and keeping his husband alive through all of it—that would come next.

As soon as they were past the bridges, they were in the lake. In the channel where ships passed either before or after clearing the Miraflores Locks. And up ahead⁠—

Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. That was a cruise ship—an immense one, every level of it brightly lit with a series of waterslides jutting out over the decks. Far from a tiny canal or demure little lake, they’d come out into a body of water deep enough and big enough to hold one, two, three massive cruise ships and—was that a tanker?

Fuck docking, a ship was the way to go. They were closer than anything on land and they had the ability to radio for help. Ideally, the kind with rotors and a pilot who knew how to fly like the fucking wind.

Which vessel looked like it had more good Samaritans on board? August glanced at Ricardo…whose eyes were closed. “Honey?” He patted his cheek again. Nothing. “Ricardo?” Louder, closer, but still nothing. Was he even breathing? “Damn it, Ricardo—you’d better stay alive. Remember how you said I’d be the hospital’s problem? Well, now that’s you. Come on. Open your eyes.”

No response.

To hell with it. The closest one would have to do. August opened the throttle and sent the little boat roaring toward the floating palace, free arm raised in a desperate wave.

He’d get their attention, even if he had to run into them.

“Hold on, Ricardo,” he ordered. “Or there will be hell to pay.”

CHAPTER 19

Ricardo wasn’t going to survive this.

The pain. The struggle to breathe. The rising panic in August’s voice. This was worse than bad. It was the end. No way in hell it wasn’t.

He called out to August. He didn’t even know why. What he was saying. What he wanted to say. But his voice barely moved. Breathing at all was like pulling in molasses through a straw, and his chest hurt so bad his vision was turning white.

Except on the left. To his left, everything was… red. Dark red. Unnaturally red. Moving, bobbing red.

Then there were people. Two? Three? Or was it still just August, and Ricardo was seeing double or triple?

A face appeared in his blurry line of sight. Not August. Features too sharp. Hair too dark. Eyes the wrong shade of blue.

A scowl. The man turned his head and said something Ricardo couldn’t understand. At first, he thought it was because he was fading. Then he realized the man had spoken a different language. Something… Scandinavian?

Fuck, he really was losing it if he was hallucinating people speaking in languages he didn’t understand.

August appeared, soaked and muddy and bloody, and he cupped Ricardo’s jaw roughly in his cold, wet hand. “Ricardo. Stay with me. They’re going to put you on a stretcher and get you out of here.”

They? Stretcher? Here? What did any of that mean.

But then there was movement. Someone moved him, and he was aware of nothing but pain. He was… spinning. Swaying. Fuck, he was going to puke, which would hurt.