Chapter Forty-One
The Inferno pressed at Ash’s spine, its deep percussion following him along the pavement and across the street. He cut across the slick blacktop, boots splashing through puddles left after the rain, and slid into the shadows where Rick’s car crouched at the corner, half-buried in the night.
The door creaked as he swung it open and folded himself inside, the seat taking his weight with a supple groan of leather.
Rick didn’t look up at first, eyes fixed on the club’s entrance where revelers spilled in and out, the streetlight carving the hard planes of his face into stark chiaroscuro.
Ash liked the ritual of it, the way the car seemed suspended outside of time, two men hiding from the world in their own little box of shadow.
“Hank says Griffin’s still inside,” he said, unable to keep the glint of triumph from his voice. “He’s on shift another half an hour or so.”
Rick’s gaze slid to him at last, wolfish in the dark. “You seemed awfully chummy with that bouncer.”
Ash smiled, a crooked flash of lips. “Hank? He and I are… old pals.”
Rick obviously understood what that meant. With an exasperated sigh, he pinched the root of his nose, then rubbed his temple as though warding off a headache. “You’ll be the death of me, kid.”
Ash settled in his seat, the smirk deepening, savoring every frown of Rick’s brow, every tick of his jaw. “You don’t look like you mind,” he purred.
The line landed the way he knew it would. Rick turned toward him, glaring with those stormy eyes that glistened in the gloom. Then Rick’s hand was on him, dragging him close across the bench seat, and their mouths collided in a kiss teetering on the knife-edge between fury and devotion.
Ash yielded into him, the seats groaning beneath the shift of their bodies.
Rick’s arm locked around his shoulders, drawing him deeper into that bruising heat, the faint rasp of stubble scraping his chin.
For all the shadows pressing in around the car, Ash felt lit from within, a flare of excitement he couldn’t quite smother; he was a child sneaking into the grown-up world of stakeouts and danger, except this time it came with the taste of Rick’s lips and the promise of something even more powerful coiling between them.
Rick’s mouth left him breathless, and for a moment, Ash only leaned there, folded against the heat of him, listening to the steady hammer of a heart that wasn’t his own.
The world outside—the cracked neon, the hiss of passing tires, the sour stench of the street—it all seemed to fade, thinned out by the simple fact of those arms holding him.
Rick pulled back enough to look at him, eyes hooded but intent, his breath rough against Ash’s cheek. Broad palms cradled Ash’s face, bracketing his jaw as if he couldn’t quite bear to let go. “Stakeouts weren’t supposed to come with distractions like you.”
Ash gave him a crooked smile, more armor than mirth, his arms looped loosely around Rick’s neck. “Guess you should’ve read the fine print when you took me on instead of Frank.”
The silence stretched, taut but unbroken.
Rick’s gaze didn’t wander, didn’t falter the way so many men’s did, dazzled and ensnared by the surface.
It lingered instead with that unblinking detective’s focus, as though he meant to slip past the sheen Ash had honed, to press at the edges and glimpse what lay guarded beneath, certain it was there, waiting, if only he was patient enough to reach it.
It unsettled him. It thrilled him.
“You keep me on my toes more than this whole damn city,” Rick muttered, low, as though the words had slipped free before he could catch them.
Ash felt something flutter in his chest. He smoothed Rick’s collar with lazy fingers, feigning indifference, then reclined in his seat, masking the sharp pull inside him.
He fished out a crumpled Camel pack from his jacket pocket and lit a cigarette, letting the smoke veil him when the moment threatened to cut too close.
“Big city, detective. Six million souls trying to find their way through the night. Must be slipping.”
Rick’s chuckle was brief, more breath than sound, and he reached over the seat, rough fingers catching Ash’s and holding fast. A subtle claiming, quiet but inescapable.
His thumb traced circles over Ash’s knuckles, absent yet tender.
That unreadable expression returned to his face as he studied Ash, before murmuring, “You ever think about tomorrow?”
Ash lifted one shoulder, trying for nonchalance. He dragged hard on his cigarette, exhaled a ribbon of smoke, and pulled his grin back into place, practiced and bright, even as his throat tightened. “Tomorrow’s overrated. I’d rather live in the now.”
“Yeah, well, I was never one to dream about the future.” Rick’s gaze strayed into the dark, his voice flat as asphalt. “Never thought I’d have any.”
The words struck deeper than Ash expected, sharp as glass under the skin.
He looked away quickly, to the rain-slick street beyond the windshield, tapping ash out the cracked window as though the sting in his chest was just the smoke biting back.
If he spoke, if he let it show, the moment would tilt into something he wasn’t ready for.
So he held his smile, flimsy as paper, while Rick’s thumb kept stroking his hand in quiet reassurance.
The silence thickened, heavy with the truth Ash didn’t dare utter: that for all his bravado and masks, deep down he wanted something that might stretch past the night, past this case, past the shadows he called home.
Rick’s expression softened, unguarded for a flash, then he let his head fall against the headrest, his thumb still worrying gentle circles over Ash’s knuckles. “How about, when this is all over, you and I go on a proper date?”
Ash grimaced instinctively, covering the rush of heat beneath his ribs. “What, you mean like a dinner and a movie?”
“Whatever you want it to be,” Rick said, his words roughened at the edges. “Could be martinis by moonlight, could be burgers and bowling, could be nothing more than a walk by the ocean in Beaconstone. Doesn’t matter where, kid. Just that it’s you and me.”
Ash’s breath snagged. He stared at their hands—Rick’s big, sturdy one covering his—and slowly turned his palm up until their fingers laced together, each interlock a small surrender.
Smoke coiled between them as his cigarette burned down to the filter, forgotten.
He crushed it into the tray and stared at Rick.
When he spoke again, his words came out quieter than he’d intended.
“I’ve never been on a date. With anyone. ”
Rick’s grip tightened. “Maybe it’s time you see what all the fuss is about.”
Ash’s throat worked as he nodded, the guard slipping for a second. “Okay,” he said slowly.
Rick smiled and leaned toward him again, the kiss hovering inevitable in the scant inches between them, when a shift in the streetlight’s glare caught Ash’s eye.
He turned his head to the club just as two figures slipped out of the Inferno’s brass-framed doors: Griffin, his bleached hair pale under the lamps, an arm draped around a boy in his early twenties.
They lingered in the glow, unhurried, heads bent close in conspiratorial rhythm.
The boy laughed at something Griffin whispered, shoulders shaking, and pressed a clumsy kiss on his mouth.
Griffin spoke again, pleased with himself, one arm sliding low around the boy’s waist as though he owned him already.
Ash nodded toward him. “That’s our guy.”
Rick didn’t shift; he was already watching, the set of his shoulders gone rigid, that wolfish stillness radiating from him.
They stayed like that, tailing him from the safety of the car, watching the tableau unfold beneath the streetlamp, both thinking the same thing: was this the Sculptor grooming his next victim?
Griffin leaned against the wall, murmured into the boy’s ear, coaxed another smile.
The kid’s fingers fumbled clumsily near Griffin’s belt, and Griffin reached into his back pocket.
Ash felt the prickle before the glint even showed.
Then he saw it—the unmistakable flare of metal in Griffin’s palm.
“He’s got a knife!” Rick barked and jumped.
Before Ash could blink, Rick was out of the car, leaping the gutter like it wasn’t there, his body a blur across the street, the gun already drawn.
“Drop it!” Rick’s shout cracked through the night. “Hands where I can see them!”
Both men froze, eyes going wide at the sight of the gun. Griffin’s hands shot to the air, wrists trembling. The boy beside him turned and bolted, shoes hammering frantic echoes down the alley’s dark throat.
Ash sat stunned by how quickly it happened, by the inhuman precision of muscle and intent, before he flung open the passenger door and rushed outside.
Rick had Griffin pinned against the wall in the next instant, the Colt leveled at his temple. “Down! On the ground, now!”
“Take it easy, big man,” Griffin said, voice thin with forced calm.
“I’ll do what you say. No need to get trigger-happy.
” His knees bent, shoulders dipping in reluctant surrender, until Rick wrenched him sideways with a brutal efficiency that knocked the air out of him.
“What the fuck? I said I’d do it!” He bucked against the pavement, cheek grinding into filthy water, panic flaring where compliance had just been.
The street clattered with the scuffle of bodies, cuffs snapping shut with a metallic bite. Rick’s growl carried low, ragged, as his knee dug into Griffin’s back. “Stay down, bastard. You’re not going anywhere.”
Ash strode over, breath fogging in the air.
He caught the ripple of reaction along the sidewalk: a pair of women hurrying past, eyes dropping to the ground as though the scene had nothing to do with them; a man lingering at the corner, watching, then turning away, collar up against the cold.
Calgrave reflex—see nothing, hear nothing, move along before the night swallows you too.
Something winked at the gutter’s edge, a scrap of silver lying in the runoff beside Griffin’s head. Ash crouched, snatched it up before it could vanish in the muck. Cold weight settled in his palm. Straightening, he held it up.
A lighter. Just a goddamn lighter, nickel-bright, harmless. The little wheel still smelled of fuel.
“Rick,” he called, flicking the lid open, the flame trembling gold in the air before he snapped it shut again.
Rick’s jaw clenched as he saw it, gun still trained on Griffin even with the cuffs secure. His breath steamed.
Griffin twisted his head, cheek pressed to the street, words spilling out ragged and fast. “Jesus Christ, what do you want from me? I’m just a bartender!” His gaze found Ash, desperate and betrayed. “Ash? What the hell, man? You with him?”
Rick’s voice was a rasp of steel. “Doesn’t change the fact you knew two of our stiffs. You’re coming in.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!
” Griffin thrashed against the cuffs, breath coming hard.
“You’ve got the wrong guy! Ash, tell him!
I didn’t do shit!” He fought against Rick’s grip, stumbling when Rick hauled him upright in one smooth yank.
“You’ve got the wrong guy! I swear to God! ”
“Save it,” Rick barked, dragging him toward the car.
Ash trailed behind, the lighter clutched in his fist. He watched Griffin’s face in the spill of the streetlight—the wide-eyed look that swung between fear and bluster, not quite sure which would serve him better.
It wasn’t the face of a killer, he thought, but of someone used to bluffing, to surviving on charm and quick talk.
He recognized that rhythm too well, the way a mask could harden over panic, not to hide guilt but to keep the world from eating you alive.
Rick shoved Griffin into the backseat. He collapsed against the leather with a grunt, cuffs rattling when he shifted, muttering curses under his breath. Rick slid behind the wheel. Ash climbed back into the passenger seat, the ghost of the kiss stolen away still hanging like heat in the air.
Rick exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed ahead. “You don’t need to sit through another round at the station. I’ll drop you home. Get some sleep.”
Ash stretched out his legs, letting a crooked grin play at his lips. “Nice try, Wolf-Man. You’re not ditching me that easy. Besides, you might still need me.”
Rick gave a rough snort, the corner of his mouth betraying the faintest quirk. “Kid, I was cuffing scumbags when you were still learning your ABCs. I can manage this one without a babysitter.”
“With your people skills?” Ash countered. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Rick cut him a look, sharp as a blade. “What’s wrong with my people skills?”
“Nothing,” Ash drawled, tilting his head against the seat, letting the smirk linger. “If your role model’s a wrecking ball.”
Rick stared a moment too long before turning back to the wheel. “Smartass,” he muttered, starting the engine.
The car pulled out, tires hissing over wet asphalt as the city drew them back into its arms. Calgrave slid by in fragments of neon and rain-streaked glass, the buildings mirrored in gutters and puddles, fractured and trembling.
Ash slouched into the seat, pulse still buzzing from the chaos, watching the night smear by in kaleidoscopic reflections.
The smile tugged at his lips, faint and private.
The man beside him may have been a wrecking ball—but one already crashing deeper into him than he’d ever meant to let anyone go.