Chapter 9 Boone
BOONE
“You gonna take me back to my condo, Officer Booney?” Maverick asks, leaning against me.
Jesus, he’s a solid guy. And he’s wearing smudged eyeliner, a personal weakness of mine.
He’s also sniffing my shirt.
“Are you a smoker?”
My jaw tightens. “Occasionally. When the day requires it.”
“Oh.” He presses his nose to the divot at the base of my neck and takes another deep inhale. “Mm. Why does that smell so good?”
I dunno. Why the fuck does Maverick Bash have to be exactly my type?
Bigger than me.
More muscular.
In touch with his feminine side and cuddly as fuck.
No, he’s just drunk.
Setting those thoughts aside, I pull the silver case from my side pocket. “I use pipe tobacco and roll my own.”
“How does that even work?”
I open my mouth, a little thrown by the question. Most people would assume pipe tobacco and cigarette tobacco are interchangeable, but they generally aren’t. I doubt he wants to hear all of that.
“It’s…uh. It’s a process.”
“You should tell me about it sometime,” he says, his smile coy. Humming, he leans in for another sniff. “I’m sorry you had a bad day.”
I’ve already been a font of really bad ideas this evening, so I let him lean against me for a few more seconds.
Long enough to remember that I’m the responsible adult in this scenario.
“To answer your earlier question, I’ll make sure you get home. First, though, I need to find out how much of that flask you had to drink.”
Mav scratches his jaw, as if trying to remember. “Not mush.”
Ooof. He’s slurring.
He’s also…spinning in place?
Brushing against my stomach, he completes the circuit. I’m slow to pick up that he’s spun because he’s handcuffed. Because I handcuffed him.
He’s holding two digits against his—fucking hell—perfect juicy peach of an ass.
His pretty white underwear is wet and perfectly see-through. My mouth waters.
I bet his ass jiggles beautifully when he’s getting fucked.
I’m assuming, but Rune is the epitome of a golden retriever bottom. So effortlessly, beautifully queer, as if he’s never even thought of a closet.
“I’ve had this many swallows.”
I blink, not following.
“Huh?”
He taps his fingers against that delicious ass again. “I only had two swallows of alcohol, Booney.”
Oh.
I look away from his distracting ass, alarm bells going off.
That Pierce guy acted super possessive and then got cheesed when Maverick rebuffed him.
Pierce, Pierce, Pierce.
That name sounds…familiar.
“Just to clarify, Pierce was the one who brought the flask, right?” I ask, thumbing open my phone to the app that houses the sex offenders database.
Maverick spins around, and I forget what I was trying to look up. Somehow, I’d forgotten that the front of his underwear is just as wet and see-through as the back, made filthy by the fact that his hands are still handcuffed behind him, pulling back his shoulders, displaying his perfect body…
I might not be able to make out every detail, but the man is uncircumcised, and the way his cock nestles against his balls is practically art.
Jesus, Boone. Focus.
“Yes.”
“Huh?”
I look up and catch Maverick’s smirk.
“I said yes, Detective. Pierce is the one who brought the flask.”
I rub my palm along my chin. “That because he’s the only one of legal drinking age?” I ask, knowing the question will elicit a big response.
“Dude.” His eye roll is epic. “I’m twenty-two.”
I grin. “I know. I’m just fucking with you.”
Opening the offender app, I start typing Pierce’s first name. I can’t remember why I know his name or why his face is so familiar, but the offender app is a solid first choice.
Pierce’s last name auto-populates in the search field.
“Fuck.”
Maverick’s eyes widen. “Something wrong?”
“How well do you know Pierce?”
“Just the one blowjob,” he says, looking regretful as his lip curls. “Did you have an equally unsatisfying hookup with him?”
“Uh, no.” God, I am such an ass. Practically drooling over the guy I put in handcuffs when he’d been in the arms of a predator. “I remember him because I’ve seen his mug shots.”
“Are you sure those were mug shots?” Maverick pops his brows, like he knows something I don’t. “Are you sure you didn’t see him on the hook-up apps, CanyonCityBoy_19?”
Uh.
His eyes flare, and he grins. “Glistening post-workout abs are a little old school, Detective. But they are a classic for a reason.” His expression morphs as if maybe my words finally landed. “Wait. Mug shots? As in plural?”
Maverick’s listing to the side, so I ignore his question and grab his shoulder, looking into his eyes. “How much did you pre-game before y’all got here?” I ask, hoping I’m wrong.
He shakes his head. “No pre-graming. Just landed an hour ago, and no drinky while fly-ee.”
“Will two shots of alcohol usually get you this intoxicated?” I ask, clicking on Pierce’s profile.
“I’m not inflated.” He waves his hand. “You know what I mean.”
Pierce’s history fills the screen, and I wonder if I can nominate him to go on that list of assholes Joni was telling me about earlier.
I show Maverick the screen. “Your buddy Pierce has at least two priors for drug-facilitated sexual assault.”
Maverick’s eyes widen and his Adam’s apple bobs once, then twice. “Shit.”
I hesitate, not wanting his answer to this next question. “Has he ever put his hands on you in an unwanted way?”
He shakes his head, no hesitation. Relief floods my chest. Thank God.
“Nah. He wanted more than a blowjob, but I don’t do surprise anal, and…” Maverick’s voice is wobbly, and he pauses to take a breath. “He is so not douche-worthy.”
I take him by the shoulders, hoping to convey how serious this is. “Don’t ever hang out with that guy again.”
“Oookay.”
“I need you to promise me, Mav. Don’t let your friends hang out with him either.” I rub my hand over my face. “The girl—the one with the bra. Where is she now?”
“Taylor. Her condo’s just ’round the corner.”
“Can you call her?”
He turns around and wiggles his fingers at me.
Jesus Christ, he’s still cuffed.
I quickly release him and ignore his sex groan as he rotates and stretches his wrists.
“I think you should rethink your stance on kink, Booney,” he teases. “You’ve got the bondage part down patsy.” He closes one eye. “Down pat.”
Fuck me sideways. I don’t even like bondage.
I just want sunshine.
While I’m having an existential crisis, Maverick manages to fumble his way to his shorts—a surprisingly dangerous venture that almost ends with him on his ass—and grabs his phone.
I step in beside him, far too aware of his near-nudity, and he pulls up his friend in the purple bra on video chat.
“‘Sup, Mav?” Her eyes widen. “Still hanging out with the good detective, I see.”
“Taylor, are you with Pierce right now?” I ask.
She makes a face. “Ugh. No.” She looks at Maverick with wide eyes. “Sorry, Mav. I know I introduced him to the group, but the way he was tonight? It gave me the heebie jeebies.”
“Go with that instant. Instinct.” He grimaces at the word mix-up. “But you’re safe now?”
She smiles and sets down her phone, reaching for something off camera. Seconds later, her answer comes in the form of the distinct ka-chuk of a round being chambered.
I’m relieved but tempted to make sure she’s well-versed in gun safety.
Taylor comes back into frame and sends us a wink.
“Damn, I love you,” Maverick says with a smile.
“I love you more,” she responds, and he ends the call.
“See? You don’t have to worry about Ms. Tay-Tay.” He tries to pocket his phone, seeming to finally remember that he’s only wearing underwear.
Looking around for his shorts, he continues, “Also? She’s the president of Kappa Kappa Something, and she is fucking ruthless when it comes to exposing shitty guys on campus.”
Good.
“If she has any contacts in the fraternities, she should share his information with them as well.”
“Will do.” He stops, spinning in place. “Where the fuck did my shorts go? I just had them.”
Not exactly proud of how I’ve handled things tonight, I let him look for a few more seconds before grabbing them from the lip of the fountain.
“Here,” I say, handing them to him. “I need to get you home.”
“You know where I live?” he asks, leaning forward, probably dizzy from all the spinning.
“Yeah.” I place my arm around him, steadying him. “You okay?” I ask, worried. “Maybe we should go to the hospital.”
“Nope. This is not how I wanna go viral.”
“Maverick…”
He holds up his hand, taking a few shallow breaths. Finally, he seems to steady himself.
“I’m fine, really. Besides, my cousin is home, and she’s a world-class doctor, even if she is a liar.” Not sure where he’s going with that line of thought, but he points to a sporty number across the street. “Also, we can take my car, if you don’t mind driving.”
“Yeah, that’ll work,” I answer, scanning the area, grateful we’re alone. “Let’s get you dressed and then head out.”
Maverick gestures at his gorgeous body with his tiny micro shorts in hand. “You sure you wanna cover all this up?”
I raise a brow. “Yes.”
No.
“Ugh. Why are you such a prude, Defective?”
I raise my brows again. Another word misfire?
“Detective,” he grumbles, annoyed with himself.
“I’m not a prude,” I insist. Not sure why I sound so defensive. “I just don’t take advantage of guys in an altered state.”
He circles his hips, his soft cock lewd with the movement. “Do you need to cuff me again? I don’t want you to be imitated by my package.”
I lower my chin and my shoulders shake with the effort it takes to not laugh outright.
“Cry do not,” he says, imitating the little green dude from that old movie as he pats my shoulder. “Damn, those are some nice muscles.”
I shake my head. “I’m not crying. I’m laughing because I think you meant to say intimidated by your package.”
He shoots me the finger, then nearly busts ass trying to put on his shorts.
“Words suck, even when I’m sober,” he explains, still fighting the fabric. “Stupid dyslexicon.”
I let him lean against me, helping him figure out the holes and slip the expensive fabric over his perfect fucking ass.
“These barely cover more than your underwear,” I mutter, zipping him up.
“They’re designer.” He gestures at himself with a silly, pretentious air. “And at least they’re not see-through.”
I snort, finally working the button through the hole before slipping his phone into his pocket.
“Go to UT. Get a criminal justice degree,” I say, mocking myself. “What the fuck am I doing with my life?”
Maverick starts to laugh, then loses his balance again.
“Where are your shoes?” I ask, catching him just in time.
“I dunno.” He looks around, and I wonder if he can focus at all. “Where’s my designer shirt-shirt?”
I grab it from a nearby bush and help him put it on.
“Oof. That made me dizzierish,” he says, attempting to fix my stretched-out collar. “I wish we were doing this in reverse.”
Honestly, I’m glad he’s inebriated. I might otherwise have a hard time disagreeing with him.
He starts scanning the ground, a prelude to another disaster.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for my flip-flops,” he says as one floats by.
I make Mav sit on the edge of the fountain while I stretch out over the water and grab it. The other is stuck under one of the bronze horses, and I fish that out as well.
“I feel like you wearing wet flip-flops would be a mistake,” I say, flicking the water off them.
Maverick waves me off, then windmills, off balance. I drop the flips and grab his shoulder just before he falls backward into the water.
“Seriously, let me take you to the hospital.”
“No, thank you.” He shudders. “It’ll be bad enough with Maya. She’s gonna insist on IV fluids, and her bedside manner sucks.”
I examine him a little more carefully than before, unsure whether I should force the issue.
“And you’re sure she’s home? I can’t leave you alone like this.”
He holds up his hands. “Don’t worry. Homes is holme too.” He scrunches his nose, as if rethinking his words. “Holmes…is home.”
Yeah, that’s the one.
“He’s your twin, right?” I ask, wrapping my arm around his waist. “The one who went into the military?”
Leaning into my hold, he nuzzles my neck. “Stalker.” Snort. “Mm. I need to find out what brand of pipe tobacco you smoke and buy several pounds of the stuff so I can roll around in it.”
I ignore the spike in heat, as well as the delicate drift of his nose across my neck, desperately needing to focus on the situation at hand. I don’t want him wearing those death traps on his feet, but the asphalt between here and his car is glittering with broken glass.
“Look, don’t make this into something it’s not, but I’m going to have to carry you across the street. There’s glass everywhere.”
“You can’t pick me up, Booney,” he insists. “I’m, like, two inches taller and a bunch of muscles heavier than you.”
Rolling my eyes, I hand him his flip-flops, bend at the knees, and swoop him into a bridal carry. He’s heavier than he looks, but I never skip leg day. Still, I’m quick to get him across the street and to the relative safety of the sidewalk.
“Dude. What do you bench?” he asks, breathless as I gently set him down in front of his passenger door.
“More than you,” I retort, my arm still around his waist.
He dips his chin, bussing my temple. “God, you are so fucking sexy.”
Doesn’t mean anything. He’s just drunk.
Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.