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Shaw was still talking. “—and then you came, and I just need to give you one hug, but I’m caught on something, these tights—well, it might be a curse. Did you see any witches?”
“No way,” the shorter man said, grinning as he brought up his camera.
The one with the bro flow and beard groaned.
The one with the swimmer’s build was smirking. “Your soulmate is here, Ree.”
“In the first place,” the one with the straw-colored eyes said, “the concept of soulmates—”
Shaw was clawing at North’s hand and whimpering.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” North muttered and released him.
Shaw catapulted across the room and crashed into the man at what Jem guessed had to be close to Mach 1. Emery rocked back.
“I got a photo of it,” the shorter man said, training his camera on them. “Emery hugged Shaw back. It’s official.”
“We’re officially leaving,” the one with the bro flow said, taking the shorter man by the shoulder.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Tean asked.
Jem shook his head, but he was surprised to find he was smiling. Shaking, too, as the adrenaline left him cored out. But the men had a good vibe, and he could feel the edges of it.
The man with the straw-colored eyes was trying to get free of Shaw’s embrace, while Shaw was trying to wrap his legs around him, spider-monkey style.
“No, don’t worry about me,” North said, sprawling in the chair. “I almost got killed while this horse’s ass played with his doodle and watched.”
“Yeah, about that—” the one with the swimmer’s build gave Jem and Tean an assessing look. “What happened? We saw some guys—”
“Enough,” the big man growled, forcing Shaw off him. Shaw landed with a thud, caught himself, and rebalanced. The big man gave him a furious look. And then with a kind of helplessness in his expression, seemed to cast about for something to say. He settled on the shirt, the one with the stick figure humping the words. “That’s offensive. Telling people to fuck their feelings goes against all the work we’ve been doing as a society to escape the psychologically devastating effects of toxic—”
“Toxic masculinity!” Shaw said at the same time. Over his shoulder—to Jem, of all people—he said, “We finish each other’s sentences all the time.”
Jem’s smile slid into a grin. Most of it was the fresh helplessness on the big man’s face.
He was trying to build up steam again with “—and, at the same time—”
But Shaw spoke over him. “And it’s not telling people to fuck their feelings. It’s telling them to make sweet, gentle, nurturing love to their feelings. With their penises.”
Tean choked on his spit.
“With their penises,” North muttered. “What are they going to use, donkey brains? Their pinky fingers?”
“Oh, the pinky finger can be highly erotic, like that time you—”
Shaw cut off abruptly when North sat up in the chair.
“No, keep going,” the shorter man said. “I want to hear this.”
“Do you want to grow up to have pubic hair?” North asked. “Because if so, quit fucking encouraging him.”
A flash of anger, hot and serious, flashed across the younger man’s face. The guy with the bro flow tightened his grip on the younger man’s shoulder and said something in a low voice.
A voice from the hall broke the moment.
“What in the seven hells is—get out of my way!” In contrast to the words, the man’s voice had an easiness that, combined with the confidence in it, made the tone close enough to pass for friendly. Jem had heard that voice before. Guards used it. Some cops used it. People who liked bullying, who knew they could get away with it and the world would still smile on them, they used it.
Apparently, the big man knew it too. He was already pale, but as Jem watched, the color drained from his face. He turned, and the movements had a shuffling, zombielike quality, as though the signal from brain to body was coming from a long way off.
