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DeVoy’s relief was visible. “All right.”
“Ok,” Jem said. He was talking himself into it. He was a guy buying a bird, and he was telling himself it was ok. “Yes, God.” He gave a little laugh. “Let’s do this.”
“All right, man. All right. Now, you got the money—”
“I didn’t—” This was one of those times when blushing on command would have been really useful. “I didn’t bring it with me.”
DeVoy opened his mouth and snapped it shut again.
“I didn’t know—I mean, I thought—” Jem shrugged. “I can get it. Today. Tonight, I mean.”
“Unh-uh. You think I’m driving out here again? The deal was—”
“I could meet you.” That was the best and worst part about riffing; even Jem didn’t know what was going to come out of his mouth. “Later. With the money. Come on, man. I fucked up; what do you want me to say?”
For a long moment, the babble of voices from the hall rode over both of them. Then DeVoy said, “The Cottonmouth Club. Don’t fuck up again.”
Jem offered up a watery smile in thanks, and DeVoy snatched the photo back. Then he pushed his way out of the vestibule and disappeared into the crowd.
After a ten count, Jem left the vestibule and merged with the stream of people. Easy. Simple. In a few hours, it would all be over. And then, once he had what he needed, he’d take it all to Tean. Proof. And Jem would let Tean have all the credit, of course. There’d probably be a commendation from the city. Maybe even something from the association. Some kind of award. He could see Tean smiling already.
3
“Dr. Leon!”
The young man with the smartphone—dark hair, brown skin, remarkably good looking—was the conference’s official photographer. Or social media manager. Or something. And he refused to give up.
But Tean also refused to give up, so at the next intersection, he broke left and picked up the pace. Thanks to Santaland’s maze-like floor plan, another intersection immediately presented itself, and Tean turned again. He thought he heard distant swearing behind him.
As Tean hurried through the resort’s corridors, he kept an eye out for Jem. His husband had been surprisingly unresponsive to the check-in texts Tean had sent throughout the day, and he’d flat out ignored Tean’s invitation to dinner. Granted, the invitation had been last minute; that morning, Tean had thought Jem would prefer not to be dragged to an interminable meal with Tean’s colleagues, who would, in spite of Tean’s best efforts to steer the conversation to something Jem wanted to talk about, end up gossiping about other members of the association, or debating technical questions, or reliving grad school days. And although—or perhaps because—the first day of the conference had been enjoyable for Tean, he felt guilty at the thought of Jem spending more hours on his own. But when Tean had suggested Jem join them, and he promised to keep the dinner short, Jem simply hadn’t responded.
Which might be, a part of Tean’s brain observed, because he’s in trouble.
Tean squashed the voice and went back to scanning the faces streaming past him. The hallway he’d chosen led back to the lobby, with its plastic Santas and plastic reindeer and, today, a roboticized Mariah Carey singing through bursts of shrieking static. Not that anybody could hear anything, of course. Not with half the conference thronging the room, drinks in hand, shouting to be heard, everyone trying to find the group they were waiting for.
“Dr. Leon! Dr. Leon!”
Tean ducked, but not before he saw out of the corner of his eye the young man with the phone. He’d emerged from a different hallway, and now he started across the room, forcing a path through the crowd. He was short, which meant he disappeared in the crowd of bodies, but he seemed relentless, and Tean didn’t have much hope.
He did a quick glance for Missy, praying she’d be waiting and ready to leave for dinner. He didn’t spot her in the sea of faces. When he checked for the persistent young man, Tean realized he’d lost him. He swore under his breath (and not one of the nickel-and-dime ones that Jem liked to tease him about) and sought cover.
He found it, temporarily, behind a group of men, where he could watch the lobby for Missy and, he hoped, stay out of sight. One of the men was big, dark haired, and pale. The next had a golden tan and a swimmer’s build. The third had strawberry-blond hair worn longish, with a beard that he was currently scratching—probably, Tean guessed, as an excuse to cover his mouth.
“—not arguing with him, John.”
The one with the swimmer’s build nodded and looked like he was trying not to sigh.
“I’m simply pointing out that if he’s going to deduct points for the use of the passive voice—”
“In April,” the bearded man said.
The big man fixed him with a glare and continued, “—it would be prudent to remove that same construction from the assignment handout.”
“Would it help,” the bearded man asked, “if I told you I’m giving Colt those points back? He got an A for the semester. He’ll have a slightly higher A if I give those points back. There, presto chango. He has received those points back.”
“The points are immaterial,” the big man said.
“Bullshit,” the swimmer coughed.
