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“Yes, they do. But not white t-shirts with jeans.”
“If I had a belt, it would look fine.”
“Untuck it, please.”
“It’s more respectable this way.”
“Respectable really isn’t the vibe of this evening.”
“I look stupid!”
“Teangelus Mahina Leon!”
“This is ridiculous!” But he untucked the shirt, yanking it out in big, dramatic movements. “Nobody cares whether I tuck in my shirt at work!”
“Holy Jesus, you’ve been tucking in your polos?” And then a realization struck. “After you leave the house?”
Tean must have sensed the trap because he hesitated. “No.”
“I’m calling Hannah.”
“You misheard me.”
“I’m waking her up. This is a national emergency.”
It was stupid stuff. But by the time they reached the Cottonmouth Club—when Tean was arguing his Constitutional right to tuck in or out any article of clothing he wanted, whenever he wanted—the high-wire tension in his body had loosened, and he looked more like Tean and less like a stressed-out crazy man who had jumped behind the wheel of the Jetta. Which was, after all, the whole point. Sometimes, stupid worked.
The Cottonmouth Club didn’t look any different from the night before: the rambling building of corrugated steel panels, the quilted layers of paint, the empty sign holder, the missing letters with their patina of dirt spelling out the name of the club. Lights made dirty yellow blocks behind the tinted windows, and music pulsed, giving the club its own heartbeat. It was hard to tell, with the melody distorted by the volume and the rattling bass, but Jem thought the song might be “Milkshake,” by Kelis. It had certainly brought plenty of boys tonight; the gravel lot was full.
When Jem slid out of the car, Tean said, “Please be careful.”
Jem nodded.
“But my level of careful. Not your level of careful.”
Jem nodded again.
“Do you have your tools?”
“I’m going to close the door now.”
“Don’t eat any of the food. Hold on, I can send you a link aboutStaphylococcus aureus—”
“I love you,” Jem sang softly and then bumped the door shut with his hip.
As he left Tean behind him, though, his phone buzzed. Jem pretended to check it and gave his husband a thumbs-up for confirmation.
John-Henry and Emery were already waiting for him when he reached their Mustang.
“Ready?” John-Henry asked.
“As we discussed in the car—” Emery began.
“Great.” John-Henry hesitated, and for a moment, the cop eyes looked out at Jem again, as though he might say something else. A warning, probably. Cops loved warnings. But then he just jogged off toward the side of the club.
For a moment, Jem and Emery traded looks. Then a truck rolled into the lot, headlights bouncing, and Emery shifted his weight.
“I guess we’d better split up—” Jem said.
