Chapter 6 #3
They were on their way out, relieved to finally wash their hands of the whole fucked up mess and get the hell out of there, when Hayes was approached by the police officer who’d helped Beckett climb out of the coffin in the crypt.
The young cop looked around nervously and then cleared his throat.
“Officer Lavigne?” Hayes asked politely, one brow raised curiously.
Lavigne, huh? Beckett looked him over, noting his good looks, muscular build, and square jaw that rivaled that of any movie star.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his were mesmerizing.
Windows to the soul, or not, they were otherworldly.
He curbed his urge to growl possessively as those eyes raked up and down Hayes’ body appraisingly.
“I just—” Lavigne stuttered to a halt, sounding as nervous as he looked.
He squared his shoulders, and began again, speaking more confidently this time.
“I just wanted to say that I really admired the way you handled the situation earlier. I wrote this in my eh—report, and eh—” he hesitated, suddenly noticing that Beckett was standing right there next to Hayes.
Up to this point, apparently he’d had eyes only for Hayes.
Beckett really couldn’t blame the guy for that. He’d been in the same boat many, many times. Feeling highly amused at Lavigne’s fumbling attempt to hit on Hayes, Beckett took pity on the hunky officer, whose panicked gaze was now darting back and forth between them.
“My bad! J’vous laisse!” Beckett raised his hands and stepped back in apology.
Stifling his urge to laugh out loud, he headed towards the main entrance to give them some privacy.
When he stopped to look back, he saw Lavigne hand a piece of paper to Hayes, who took it with a confused expression and said something in response. Then they shook hands and parted ways.
As soon as Hayes had reached him, Beckett fell into step next to him. With a snort, he snatched the piece of paper out of Hayes’ hand and scanned it.
“Wrote it by hand, too. Old school—ya gotta respect that!” Beckett smiled and noted that Lavigne gave Hayes a Montreal phone number.
“Did he just—” Hayes stuttered, looking at Beckett and then at the number like he was having trouble understanding exactly what Lavigne wanted.
“Think about it, Daisy-doo. These aren’t the first digits you’ve been given.
Not by a long shot. There was that waitress with the killer ass, the pretty girl at Costco—oh, yeah, and the redhead at Quantico,” Beckett recited quickly from memory.
Truthfully, he didn’t blame any of them for hitting on Hayes.
His boyfriend had a spectacular body and an elegance in his mannerisms that were marvelous to behold.
And that British accent didn’t hurt anything either.
“I’ve just—never—I mean—from a man!” His expression of shocked amazement was priceless.
Beckett snorted and shook his head. He wrapped an arm around his man’s shoulders and hugged him briefly.
“Sure you have. Remember that time I showed up at your place and convinced you to blow me on your couch?” he declared with a laugh, not bothering to lower his voice.
“Besides, Officer Lavigne is hot as hell. Although, I may have to start looking more menacing, ‘cause either he didn’t get that you’re spoken for, or he wasn’t afraid of me, which is most definitely a problem that I’ll have to—”
“He’s too young,” Hayes said, shaking his head, interrupting his rant and ignoring most of it.
“He’s legal—” Beckett said.
Hayes shook his head again.
“Oh, come on, let’s get real! Are you gonna stand there and tell me that you wouldn’t want to bend the rules at least a little for those baby blues?” Beckett asked Hayes seriously, both eyebrows raised in challenge.
Hayes opened his mouth to respond but was too confused by the situation to think straight.
So, in typical Hayes fashion, he decided to avoid the question.
Snapping his jaw shut, he silently pushed open the front door of the police station and stepped out into a typical mid-November day.
It was beautiful, with the sun high and bright, light bouncing off the few inches of snow covering the ground, nearly blinding them.
Despite the full sun, the frigid breeze snapped at their exposed hands and faces like a whip.
Hayes zipped up his jacket and Beckett did the same. Walking side by side, they headed towards their car.
“Is this your way of asking for a rerun of Paris?” Hayes finally asked, his tone cool and formal, which was a clear indication of his discomfort with the topic.
“Paris?” Beckett asked, suddenly hit with the memory of French policemen with bald heads and sticks-up-their-asses personalities. But then, he recalled what happened in their Paris apartment late one night. Catching onto what Hayes was really asking, he almost tripped over his own two feet.
“Uh, well—”
Hayes looked over at him, one eyebrow hitched inquiringly.
“Actually, no, I wasn’t thinking about that.” Beckett stopped to give him a considering look. “Unless you—” he turned back towards the station, and then turned to look back at Hayes. “Hold up! Is that something you’d like to do?”
Beckett wasn’t a prude by any means, and he’d had his fair share of sexual escapades.
On a scale ranging from vanilla to beat-me-daddy kink, he was a little past yessir, and not quite at the whips-and-chains stage.
He’d been with many women, sometimes two or three at the same time, and had even attended a sex party in Berlin one night.
But he didn’t really remember much of that particular night due to an unwise combination of poppers, alcohol, and something green he hadn’t asked the name of.
The threesome they’d had in Paris hadn’t shocked him.
But he had shelved it under the “once-in-a-blue-moon” kind of experience rather than the “Monday-night-post-dinner-fun” category.
And to be even more specific, he’d never thought about having another threesome with Hayes, and certainly not with another guy.
Yet—he wasn’t really opposed to the idea either, now that it was on the table.
Nonetheless, it was an intriguing suggestion and appeared to be worth due consideration since it took Hayes a minute to answer Beckett’s question. All the while they just stood there, like two morons, in the middle of the police station parking lot, just staring at each other.
“No,” Hayes finally responded, shaking his head. “I’m not saying I’d never want to do that, but—certainly not with a guy that young.”
Beckett gave a nod of agreement as they resumed walking. Then, because he felt like it, he grabbed Hayes’ hand.
“Good—'cause I’ve just barely figured out what to do with one cock—I feel like two might be tempting fate. Those things are dangerous. What if someone gets their eye poked out?” he speculated in mock seriousness.
Good God, was it ever fun to watch the play of emotions on Hayes’ face as he did his absolute best not to reward Beckett’s nonsense with a smile, or worse, an honest-to-God laugh. Some shit just never gets old . . .