Epilogue
New Year’s Eve
Hatch
“What fresh fucking hell is this? How do you wear these monkey suits every day of your fucking life?” Ivan complained.
Suppressing a grin, Chris paused mid-unpacking and closet organizing to glance across the suite at his boyfriend.
“Quit twitching and fiddling, you look just fine.”
Unsurprisingly to Chris, Ivan Morrison did look fine. Better than fine. Remarkably fine. He filled out a suit extraordinarily well. Especially since Chris was more accustomed to the leathers and denim that Ivan normally wore.
They’d been invited and had obviously accepted an invitation from Andy Radisson to attend an exclusive New Year’s Eve party being held at a mansion on the Olympic Peninsula. This was their first formal event as a couple, and Ivan had been nervous since the envelope had arrived in the mail.
After reading the invite and the black-tie dress code, Ivan had announced that The Ugly Suit Warehouse would be fine for what he needed, thankyouverymuch. But Chris had put his foot down, and now he was experiencing firsthand just how good Ivan Morrison looked in a suit altered to fit him properly. Ivan had done something to his hair too, so it didn’t look like he’d recently stuck a knife into a light socket. He still preferred it to the cut from last winter. Luckily, Ivan’s current role on Radisson’s team did not require any undercover work, so overly short hairstyles were a thing of the past.
Ignoring Chris’s instructions, Morrison tugged the sleeves of his dress jacket down over his wrists again. The third time in forty seconds. This was followed by a roll of his shoulders and neck, as if the suit was actively strangling him.
“Haven’t you had to wear one of these sometime in your life?” Chris asked.
“At my dad’s funeral.”
Well.
There was a conversation stopper if Chris had ever heard one before. But… it wasn’t going to work on him. He’d known Morrison for years, and the one person he never had anything nice to say about was his father. His family, as a whole, was quite literally a dead topic.
“So what? Get over it. This time it’s for a good cause.” Plus, he’d wangled an invitation for Susie and Lance too, a fact Chris had managed to keep from his boyfriend. Their presence would be a surprise, and one Chris hoped would please Ivan.
It would, he knew it would.
Ivan shot him a scowl. “Fine.” The look might have made another man nervous, but Chris knew Ivan well, and he was really a big softy who would gladly watch Taylor Swift videos with scared teens and rescue bedraggled kittens from trees if that was what was needed.
“That’s right. Fine . It’s fine, and you’re not missing the fundraising part of this because you don’t like suits. Besides,” Chris added truthfully, “you look amazing.”
Ivan looked away and down the broad expanse of his chest all the way to his freshly shined leather shoes. At over six foot four inches, Morrison had a long way to look.
“I feel like an idiot. Next party, you have to wear leathers and combat boots,” Ivan grumbled. Chris managed not to point out that this was Ivan’s boss’s party and thus his rules, not McBride’s. Lifting his head again, Ivan shot Chris an appraising look. “You’d look pretty all right too, maybe even fool some old-timers. But”—he wrinkled his nose as he turned back to his reflection—“you’d have to do something about the Ken hair.”
“Ken hair?” Reflexively, Chris lifted a hand and touched his head. “What’s wrong with my style?”
Dark eyebrows rose toward his hairline as Morrison turned away from the floor-length mirror to move across the room toward Chris.
“Style? You never let your hair have any fun,” he said, reaching out to brush his fingers through Chris’s carefully coiffed hair.
“Knock it off.” Chris pushed Morrison’s hand away. “Now I have to fix it again.”
“You really don’t,” Morrison assured him. “Messy gives you a sort of devil-may-care look. Not the one you normally have. You know, the one that makes it look like you’re constipated. I dunno,” he added thoughtfully, “maybe you are? Do you eat enough fiber?”
“Jesus Christ. We are not having this conversation.” Ivan did most of the cooking, so he knew exactly what Chris ate.
“So, you are constipated?”
“No, Ivan, I am not constipated. Are you happy now?”
Ivan shot him a toothy grin, the one that told Chris he’d been teased and fallen for it. Ivan Fucking Morrison, whom Chris loved with all of his grinchy heart. Every last bit of it.
Chris glanced at his watch, a Rolex he’d bought himself a few years ago. Not top-of-the-line, but it pleased him and looked good with his suit, as if he was some kind of success and not just a DEA lifer. One who now had Ivan Morrison in his bed every night.
“It’s time to go downstairs for predinner drinks and appetizers.” Glancing up, he caught Ivan’s assessing gaze. The amusement that sparked in the dark brown depths had Chris clearing his throat. “Promise you’ll behave yourself,” he said in a firm tone. “No hard-ons.”
“Oohhh.” Morrison waggled his eyebrows this time in a manner that could only be understood as suggestive. “Going all daddy and stern on me now? You know I love it when you take a firm hand.”
Chris shut his eyes for a brief moment and bit his lips together in an effort not to laugh. He knew better than to respond. Whatever he said now, Ivan would absolutely take it the absolutely wrong way and twist his words into something that would one hundred percent give both of them semis. They’d argue and be late getting downstairs, and that couldn’t happen. He wanted to get down early and watch all the other guests as they arrived. He wanted to see Ivan’s expression when he spotted Susie and Lance waiting for them in the dining room.
“Ivan,” he muttered warningly.
Morrison snapped to attention, spine as straight as a soldier’s, and stuck his elbow out.
“What’s that for?” Chris asked, staring at the appendage.
“Why shouldn’t I offer you my arm?” Ivan demanded.
“Ivan, I am not an infirm senior citizen.”
“Yeah, I know that,” Morrison replied slowly as if Chris was a bit slow, “and we aren’t married either. But we could be married if we wanted to, so there.”
So there? Really?
“I’m not hanging on to your arm. I’m forty-four, not eighty-four.”
Taking one last look at himself in the mirror, Chris started toward the door and, more importantly, the stairs down to the lobby. He had a plan, and standing here debating random shit with Ivan would not keep him on track.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Chris opened their room door and motioned for Ivan to go first. But he knew Ivan would get the last word in, he always did.
As Ivan passed him, he leaned in close enough that Chris could feel the exhale of his words against his cheek.
“Not eighty-four, but aged like a fine whisky—just how I like you.”
With that parry, he swanned by Chris on his way to the landing. Resisting the almost overwhelming urge to drag Ivan back into the suite and throw him onto the bed, Chris followed his boyfriend down the staircase.
Ivan
Olympic Manor. What a fucking gig .
Upon arrival, Ivan had avoided looking around too much. He was still reeling from the invitation to the hoity-toity extravaganza and he didn’t want to look like a hick—even if he was one. The party was for a good cause, funding safe houses for sex trafficking survivors, but Ivan wasn’t used to rubbing shoulders with the brass.
Could a person reel for weeks?
He could and he had. Was still. Whatever. He glanced around again.
Olympic Manor had been built in the 1930s, supposedly by one of the set designers who’d worked on Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood . Once it was finished, Flynn had stayed there, too. Morrison was fairly sure the term “over the top” had been coined by the architect. It was all glitz and velvet. Rumor had it there was a Picasso around somewhere.
Slowly, Ivan descended the staircase with Chris right behind him—not holding his elbow.
“Hurry up. What the fuck are you doing?” Chris hissed.
“Making an entrance? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”
“Jebezzus, Morty, and the Hellish host,” Chris muttered so only Ivan could hear him.
“Excuse me?” Ivan paused on the last stair to look over his shoulder at the love of his life.
“Oh.” Chris looked a little sheepish. “Something my mom says. I’ve always thought it was hilarious, seemed appropriate here. Doesn’t it look like Charles Dickens might show up?”
“What does that have to do with me taking the stairs slowly? I need to know more about this. How did I not know about this saying until tonight?” Ivan demanded.
“Because,” Chris said firmly, “I don’t need Mom to give you any more encouragement.”
Ivan took the last step down into the red velvet hell that was the enormous lobby. “I’ll just call and ask her about it.”
He went to pull his cell phone out, but Chris stopped him before he entered the dining room.
“Do not call my mother tonight.”
Just then a posh-looking guy around Chris’s age emerged from the bar adjacent to the lobby. Skinny and with a pinched face, he looked like the kind of person who toadied for rich bastards. Fucking Paulter.
“Why is he here?” Ivan said under his breath, setting aside the don’t call Susie command for a moment. “Hasn’t he been banished?”
“Behave,” Chris growled. “Lots of people were invited, and you probably won’t like all of them. And no, Paulter has unfortunately not been banished.”
“Ooh. Bossy again. You know that just makes me want to be bad. Let’s go back upstairs.”
“Come on.” Chris tugged at him. “I’ll buy you a drink. Would you like a glass of champagne?”
The bar looked like what Ivan imagined a speakeasy might have. In fact, he’d read that there had been a speakeasy on the premises in the thirties, but surely it hadn’t been just off the lobby?
The walls were covered with red and gold-striped wallpaper and elaborate art nouveau-style sconces with bulbs that looked like candles, hung every few feet. The mahogany bar took up most of a wall, with liquor of all kinds displayed behind it and glassware hanging from racks set into the ceiling.
“Wow.”
“I thought you might think this was cool. Very Casablanca . Two glasses of champagne, please,” Chris said to the bartender.
“My favorite movie,” Ivan said.
Chris was fumbling around in his pocket, maybe looking for his wallet.
“We can just put this on our room.”
“Duh,” Chris responded. Instead of his wallet, he set a small velvet box on the dark bar top and pushed it toward Ivan with his index finger.
“What’s this?” Ivan asked, his heart pounding against his ribs. Where had all the oxygen gotten to? He needed some about now.
The pocket-sized bar suddenly seemed too small. And too quiet—as if he had cotton in his ears.
Chris half smiled at him. “You’re a smart guy, Ivan. What do you think it is?”
The bartender set two glasses of champagne down in front of them. Ivan resisted the urge to toss the bubbly back immediately and order another one.
“Ivan,” Chris said so quietly he almost couldn’t hear him.
“Um, yes?”
He raised his eyes from the tiny box to Chris’s face. Holding his gaze, Chris flipped the box open. Nestled inside was a simple silver band—surely it wasn’t platinum? Jesus Christ, what if he lost it?
“Ivan Morrison.” Chris drew his name out just how Ivan liked it. “Would you do the honor of marrying me?”
“Me?” Ivan squeaked.
Chris smiled and very much invaded Ivan’s personal space so they were only a few inches apart.
“Yes, Ivan. You.”
For once in his life, Ivan didn’t know what to say. No, not true. He knew what to say, and he very much wanted to say it, but the lump in his throat became a boulder and he had to force out the word.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
The world came rushing back and so did Ivan’s words. “Yes, boss, I will join you in an unholy union.” Surely, it wouldn’t be holy, that would be ridiculous.
“Hold your hand out.” Carefully, Chris removed the ring from the box and slid it onto Ivan’s ring finger.
“It fits,” he said, mildly surprised.
“Of course it fits,” Chris scoffed. “I can actually do secret stuff too, you know.”
“Oh, you can, can you?” Ivan looked down at the ring glittering on his finger. “I never thought I’d want to get married.”
“Yeah, me neither. That is, I never thought I’d want to get married,” Chris clarified. “But here we are, and I find myself wanting to make it legal—you and me. Besides, it gives Mom a new passion.”
“Your parents know?” Ivan loved Susie and Lance, but he still had a smidgeon of doubt that they would want him as a son-in-law. “They approve?”
“Why don’t you ask them yourself?”
Chris shifted and Ivan looked down the bar to the end of the narrow room. Susie and Lance were sitting at a round table tucked into the corner. Their enormous smiles said everything, but that didn’t stop Susie from calling out over the ragtime that was playing overhead, “Welcome to the family, Ivan!”
With yet another smile, Chris brushed his lips across Ivan’s, “I love you. Let’s go have champagne with Mom and Dad before we bid on that trip to Iceland.”
Chris went to move, but Ivan grabbed his arm to stop him. “I love you, Christopher Anthony Hatch, and I’m never going to let you forget it.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?” Chris asked, his sly grin tempting Ivan.
“Oh, that’s a promise and a threat.”