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“Yeah, sure.”

  Miguel shut the car door, stumbling a bit on the uneven sidewalk. Maybe he was still a little drunk. He’d made it about halfway to the front door when he stopped in his tracks, realizing he didn’t have any keys. Or his ID. Because he’d left them in his favorite pair of jeans when he’d put on the monkey suit. His jeans, which were somewhere in Maureen James’s house.

  “Fucking fuck.”

  “You’re locked out, aren’t you?” Nate’s voice startled the crap out of him.

  Miguel spun around and would have fallen if Nate hadn’t grabbed his arm.

  “Wha-?” His vision swam, and his forehead hurt where he’d smacked into Nate.

  “I’m a pretty smart guy. Also, I know how to break into places. Unless you want to head back to the wedding?”

  “No! Break in all you want.” He gestured at Buck’s two-story bungalow.

  Ten minutes later they were standing in Buck’s kitchen. Nate was insisting Miguel drink a gallon of water before he tumbled into bed. He wasn’t that drunk, but he could feel the residual alcohol in his system. Nate disappeared for a minute before returning with a bottle of ibuprofen.

  “I rummaged through the medicine cabinet. I think you may want this.”

  “Oh hell yeah. You are my knight in shining armor tonight. What did I do to deserve you?”

  Nate blushed. Miguel couldn’t avert his eyes. When Nate blushed he went big; there was no hiding the tide of red that swept across his face.

  “Aw, it’s okay, baby. I needed a hero.”

  “I’m pretty sure you need some more water and to go to bed.”

  “Yeah, probably, but you know I’m gonna try and get you to join me.” Yep. Vow of chastity out the window.

  Nate blushed harder, but he grinned too. “I don’t think we play in the same league. As in I’m an amateur and you must have several gold medals under your belt. So to speak.” Even more blush. He was cute. And way too good for Miguel.

  “Is this your place?” Nate asked, while refilling the water glass. He tapped two ibuprofen into Miguel’s palm and watched as he swallowed them.

  “Nah.” Miguel waved a hand at the kitchen walls. “It’s Buck and Joey’s. Buck—who, before I start sounding truly ungrateful, is my best friend and possibly the nicest person in the world—got all high-handed when he found out where I was living and basically made me move in with him.”

  Nate glanced around, and Miguel was struck by how much he’d miss this place. He felt sick and didn’t think it was the alcohol. The kitchen was homey and comfortable, with little touches like a goofy black cat clock with a swinging tail and a vintage tin Mobil gas sign with a red Pegasus leaping into flight taking up most of the wall behind the breakfast nook. The back door they had come through led out to a small deck with potted flowers and a two-person table-and-chairs set.

  “I gotta find my own place before they get back.” Miguel tried not to let on how depressing he found that idea.

  “They asked you to move out?”

  “No.” He let out a heavy sigh. “But it’s time this little bird left the nest. I can’t keep letting Buck take care of me. Joey is enough of a handful.”

  Miguel made his way upstairs to his bedroom, and Nate followed him.

  “Are you gonna tuck me in? Isn’t that below your pay grade, Fed?” He threw himself dramatically onto his bed. The covers were a tragic mess, as usual, and Miguel didn’t care enough to try and straighten them.

  “Are you going to sleep in your tuxedo? Let’s at least get the jacket off.”

  “Fucking tuxedo,” Miguel muttered, but he sat up so Nate could help him take the jacket off, his own fingers fumbling helplessly with the various parts that needed unbuttoning or unsnapping. How’d he managed to get the cummerbund back on—and why? Nate carefully folded it, along with the jacket, laying them across the back of a chair in the corner. Then he returned to unbutton the stupid shirt. Miguel just sat there, a dress-shop dummy, and watched while Nate took care of most of his clothes.

  “What about your slacks?”

  “What about my slacks? You wanna see what’s underneath? I gotta secret…” Miguel waggled his eyebrows. “I don’t like underwear.”

  “I think you can sleep with the slacks on.”

  “Fine.” He pouted. He’d take them off as soon as Mr. Straitlaced left the room.

  “That’s enough, Romeo,” Nate chuckled after a stray hand ran down the inside of his trouser-covered leg. It was Miguel’s hand. Huh.

  “I’m just being friendly.”

  Nate rolled his eyes. “You have the hands of an octopus.”

  “Octopus have tantacula, tentacles. Right.” Amused blue eyes stared down at him. “Wow.”

  “Wow, what?”

  “Your face… mmm.” Miguel lifted a hand, trying to reach Nate’s cheek. His freckles fascinated Miguel. He had the most ridiculous thought that he wanted to trace them and see if the constellations he was imagining led anywhere. Exhaustion and alcohol finally overwhelmed Miguel; he shut his eyes and swirling images of galaxies and red-haired men with eyes like the night sky beckoned him toward sleep.

  A hand touched his calf, startling him. Nate—right—pulled the duvet up over his shoulders. Miguel loved the weight of covers despite the early-summer heat. His pillow was cool under his cheek, and the last thing he was conscious of was the bedroom light blinking off.

  “There you are, you jerk.”

  A bright light shone directly into Miguel’s eyes. He rolled over, fumbling to pull his pillow over his head and eyes. The pillow was pulled ruthlessly from his head.

  “You are such an asshole. Did you ever think for one minute that people were worried about you? You couldn’t have left a note or told someone you were leaving?”

  Miguel tried to blink the sleep from his eyes while he processed and deciphered what was being said. “Please turn the light off?”

  Buck huffed but did as Miguel asked. The dark was a blessing. Miguel wondered what time it was and how long he had been asleep. Buck came over and sat on the edge of his bed, a serious expression on his face. Oh, great, it was daddy-chat time.

  Miguel rolled over onto his stomach, his head resting in the crook of his elbow. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to get home, and Nate Richardson offered me a ride. I didn’t want to barge in and interrupt anything.”

  “You mean you wanted to sneak off without a lecture.”

  “Yeah, that too.” He turned his head so he could see Buck. He was still wearing his wedding tux. The man looked incredibly hot. Miguel could hear noises coming from downstairs, where Buck’s new husband was probably plotting Miguel’s death. “What time is it?”

  “Late. But I was worried about you.” Buck ran a hand through his thick blond hair. He sighed. “Look, are you going to be okay while we’re gone?”

  Shit. He must have really messed up if Buck was this worried about him. Miguel cast around for a way to reassure his best friend that he would not careen off the tracks while Buck and Joey were off enjoying Disneyland, or World, or wherever it was they were going.

  “I was blowing off some steam, all right? Please don’t worry. It’s all good. I got this, the boys and I have the shop under control, and you are going to go off and enjoy your honeymoon with your man, all right?”

  He must have said the right things, because Buck looked relieved. “Okay. If you need anything, call, okay? We can come home.”

  Right. Miguel was going to interrupt his best friend’s honeymoon by calling him home. No fucking way. “I’ve got this. I promise. You go keep Joey out of trouble—if that’s possible.”

  An indignant “Hey!” floated up from the first floor.

  Buck grinned and dragged Miguel into a huge hug, which he didn’t protest against, because who wouldn’t like a great big hug from a handsome bear of a man?

  Four hours later, the airport shuttle arrived to whisk his friends off on their three-week honeymoon. Miguel said goodbye and watched as the van drove away from the
little bungalow. It settled into an odd silence, like it knew Miguel was alone. He could hear the creaks and groans of the old house, the tick of the kitchen clock, the slow hiss of the toilet tank filling back up.

  He wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Hitching up the sweats he’d dragged on, he headed to the living room. Buck had set up an old desktop computer system in the corner, and Miguel booted it up. He needed to start looking for his own place; he might as well start now.

  Chapter Two: Nate

  Nate mulled over the events of the night before as he drove slowly to the diner–slash–truck stop where he was meeting Natalia Gomez, his partner and self-appointed spare big sister. The Sunday traffic was lazy, and he allowed himself to be pulled along while keeping half an eye on the other drivers.

  He felt unsettled, like something intrinsic and unnameable had shifted and now he was walking slightly off-kilter. Nate didn’t think he’d imagined a spark of something between him and Miguel. Heck, he was pretty sure he’d been propositioned before they even pulled up at the house—something that had had happened to him exactly zero times before. He chided himself; based on his experience, or lack thereof, he wouldn’t recognize interest (sexual or otherwise) if it jumped up and bit him in the face.

  What about his face? Why did Miguel seem to be fascinated by it? And not the way people usually reacted, as if Nate was a zoo animal to point and stare at. His skin so blanketed with freckles strangers stopped to stare, and his fiery red hair had been a topic of jokes as far back as he could remember. And, no, of course he hadn’t heard sarcastic references to the ‘soulless’ ginger more times than he could count. It had stopped being funny the first time.

  He’d peeked around Buck’s house on his way out – excusing the trespass as the natural curiosity of a Federal Agent. Everything Nate had seen spoke of belonging, of years of molding a space so it became one’s own. By contrast, Miguel’s room was spare. Not empty, but not stuffed full of personal belongings either. There were a few tattered paperbacks stacked next to the bed. A pretty painted wooden box on a nightstand. It’d shone brightly in the general blandness of the room, glowing with glossy red paint and shimmering gold accents.

  Once he’d herded Miguel to bed, Nate had covered him with a faded blue comforter that had been wadded at the foot of the mattress. After making sure the house was secure—thankfully he’d found a spare key under the mat on the back deck, so he hadn’t had to break in after all—Nate had left for his own bed and a long night of wondering what the hell had happened.

  The truck stop was on the outskirts of Skagit. It wasn’t anything special, but it was somewhat easy for Gomez to get to and filled twenty-four hours a day with truckers needing a break from the mind-numbing traffic on I-5. Skagit sat smack in the middle of the I-5 corridor between Seattle and Vancouver, making it the middle ground for everything criminal between the two countries: drug running, gang activity, prostitution rings, trafficking (child and adult), and anything someone with a criminal bent could think of. For a small town it had a supersize capacity for crime.

  Gomez had been tapped for undercover work as a farm laborer. They were hunting for ties to a human smuggling ring. Like everything she did, she did it well and had managed to get work through the network migrant workers used in the area. Gomez topped out at about 5’1” and had a baby face. Put her in torn jeans and a hoodie, and she looked like the fifteen-year-old girl she was pretending to be. It was a little frightening.

  Scanning the diner, Nate spotted an empty booth toward the back on the way to the restrooms. He’d been nursing his watery, yet remarkably high in caffeine, cup of coffee for ten minutes when someone slid onto the seat across from him. Gomez had her hood pulled up over her wild curls and a forty-four-ounce soda clutched in her hands.

  “I fucking hate this,” she spat before he could say anything. She looked worn and had dark circles under her eyes.

  “We could pull you off—”

  “Don’t,” Gomez growled. “Don’t even go there.” She took a long slurp of her soda. “It’s just that it’s like living my own recurring nightmare—except it’s not a nightmare, it’s real. I’m really out in the fields picking, and it’s as terrible as I ever thought it would be. The conditions are awful, half the time the water truck doesn’t make it to where we’re working… and I hate that I can’t care about that. That I can’t be outraged, because we’re investigating something even worse than mistreatment of migrant workers.”

  Nate wanted to put his hand over hers, but he couldn’t on the off chance someone might see. They had to be so careful. Meeting at the truck stop was a risk, but even more of a risk was Gomez carrying around a smartphone that no migrant worker could afford. She carried a cheap pay-as-you-go, and they met when she sent the right code.

  “Anything?” Nate asked.

  “Maybe. I’ve only been there three weeks; this group isn’t super friendly. I did hear a rumor that one of the Marias is going to be having a visitor.”

  The two Marias were, according to Gomez, the de facto leaders of this particular community of workers. They were the gatekeepers. All information, placements, even sleeping arrangements on the farm went through them. Gomez disliked both of them and suspected they had a part in bringing trafficking victims to the region and specifically their farm, but hadn’t managed to gain either’s trust yet.

  “Which one?”

  She shot him a droll look. “You think I wouldn’t tell you if I knew? Gimme some money; make it look good.”

  Nate did his best to look like the kind of sleazebag who would hit up an underage girl for sexual favors at a truck stop. To look like the idea of sleeping with a woman turned him on.

  “God, stop. You look constipated,” Gomez said, snatching the two twenty-dollar bills he slid across the greasy table. “And, my friend, if you think forty bucks will get you much, you are more naïve than I thought.”

  Nate blushed. Gomez shook her head to hide the smile threatening to form on her face. Without a goodbye, she tucked the two bills into her pocket and sauntered out the door into the June sunshine. Nate waited about thirty seconds before following, trying to look like a John, but sure he looked like an errant schoolboy instead. He hated this assignment. Gomez was swinging without a net. If anything happened while she was out there, he wouldn’t be around to have her back.

  Chapter Three: Miguel

  A wedding hangover wasn’t fun. Just another unpleasant experience to check off his bucket list. Bucket list, what a stupid term. After spending an hour or so applying for studio apartments reasonably close to Buck’s shop, the click of the keyboard and glare of the computer screen like needles piercing his brain, Miguel collapsed back into bed. Hopefully he’d managed to hit “Submit.”

  He drifted in and out of waking dreams, oddly patched retakes of the sheet session with Owen Addison, dancing, and Buck and Joey’s poignant exchange of vows. Owen’s hair kept inexplicably turning a deep red, and Miguel wanted to count his freckles. In another dream Justin stood over Miguel, a menacing faceless shadow, except Miguel knew exactly who it was. Justin berated him about his life choices and criticized his job; when was he coming home? The dream was exhausting.

  He gave up trying to sleep, but he stayed in bed brooding over Joey’s words and Buck’s worry. Maybe he did need to pull himself together. Act like a grownup, or whatever. Although where the fun in that was, he had no idea. Miguel had a “Rules are for people who can’t make their own decisions” philosophy. He saw something he liked, he pursued and accepted the consequences. That simple. Yes–No. Why did everyone else make it difficult?

  The rest of the day was as much of a loss as the beginning. Miguel spent most of it tucked up in the living room on Buck’s couch watching bad TV. Four hours of a cooking show, a reality cop show (why were criminals so stupid?), a show about queer life and drag queens. And he was ready to try to sleep again. He was in charge while Buck was gone; he needed to be well rested.

  By the Wednesday af
ter the wedding, Miguel was ready to pull his hair out. Hell, he was surprised he wasn’t bald already. Monday morning he, Dom, and Kevin arrived at the shop to find a line of unscheduled people waiting with car emergencies. This was on top of the regular customers who’d dropped their cars off already for scheduled repairs or were planning on dropping them off for a “trip ready” inspection. Summer vacation was hell.

  The Fourth of July holiday, less than seven days away, was going to kill them all. Because he was going to kill Kevin. Normally the kid was sharp, but the past couple of days he had been a left foot and all thumbs, all at the same time. His head was somewhere else, and neither Dom nor Miguel knew where.

  “Kevin.” Miguel watched as Kevin scrolled aimlessly through the appointment page on Buck’s website. He was supposed to be preparing for tomorrow’s appointments, making sure they had the parts on hand or close, and confirming appointments. He’d been scrolling back and forth for about ten minutes. “Kevin!” Miguel repeated louder.

  “Huh?”

  Miguel rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, grasping for patience. This was why Buck was the shop owner. Miguel hated being in charge. It was way more fun to be last in line than first. When you were last you could run and catch up, but first meant you always had to be on your toes.

  “Have you run the report for tomorrow? One of you—” he cast around for an appropriate description of the brothers. Nothing. He walked over to the counter where Kevin was standing, grabbed the mouse, and clicked the “Update” button. “There, done.”

  “Oh.” Kevin gave Miguel a vacant glance.

  “Are you high?”

  Kevin started. “What? No! Why would you ask that?”

  “It’s worse than that. I think,” Dom interjected. He had what could only be categorized as a shit-eating grin on his face.

  Miguel turned to him. “What?” Worse than drugs? He couldn’t imagine the phone call he was going to have to make to Buck.