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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Aisha Khan gets in touch later that week, and the news is… unexpected. “Russians.”

“Come again?”

“Our disappearing blogger, Hayden Beck? I managed to track down traces of his website, and from the metadata, it looks like it was designed by a Russian speaker.”

Rav takes a moment to digest this. Hacking is a cottage industry in Russia, but even so… “Why would a Russian hacker fabricate a story about the NYPD harassing Jack Vale? Complete with deepfake video, no less.”

“Couldn’t tell you. Arrest any Russian mobsters recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Is there any way you can find out more?”

“I’ll keep digging, but this isn’t exactly top of my priority list. You’ll just have to be patient.”

Patience is not Rav’s forte. Things have been quiet on the homicide beat lately, and since the Vanderford case is no longer active, Rav’s request to run facial recognition on the mob of Nicks fans has been punted to the back of the queue. On the plus side, that gives him extra time to do some digging on the missing PI, only he’s turned up nothing. Which is suspicious. Missing persons do not tend to leave squeaky-clean scenes behind, unless they don’t want to be found. So either Chris Novak has gone into hiding, or someone went to a lot of trouble to make him disappear without a trace.

Then there’s the whole Jack situation. Rav hasn’t heard from him in days. Which, fine, it’s not like they’re dating, but still. How long does it take to send a text? Hi, Rav, how are you? Or even just Thinking of u, xo. Though admittedly, Jack does not seem like the xo type. Heart emoji? Kiss emoji? No, Rav decides, Jack is not an emoji man.

This is the state of him—irritable, sexually frustrated, and speculating about emoji preferences—when he gets the text. Only it’s not from Jack, it’s from his PA. She sends a handful of them in rapid succession; Rav can practically hear the invisible question mark at the end of each one.

Hi this is Eloise

Mr. Vale’s assistant

He was wondering if you would be interested in meeting up tonight

RSVP

RSVP? To a text? From a personal assistant?

Then, about an hour later, he gets another one advising him that someone will meet him at the bar of the Palace Hotel. Someone. Not Jack, apparently. One of his minions. Someone for whom Rav will be just another task that needs doing, in between walking the boss’s dog and picking up his vitamin supplements.

He has half a mind to cancel, but of course he doesn’t. Pride only goes so far. Instead he dons a pair of dark blue trousers and his best Alexander McQueen button-down, telling himself it’s impossible to feel insecure when you look (and smell) this amazing.

He arrives at the hotel half an hour past the appointed time (he does have some pride) and orders a scotch at the bar. The place is full of beautiful people drinking eye-wateringly expensive cocktails with egg whites and little sprigs of thyme. The lighting is low, the tables impractically small, and the servers all have high-maintenance haircuts. Rav feels right at home.

He’s halfway through his drink when Eloise appears at his elbow, looking even more nervous than usual. An aversion to cops, or does she just find this whole situation painfully awkward? If so, that makes two of them. “Mr. Vale asked me to give this to you?” She hands him a key card. “He’s in the penthouse suite again, but um, he thought maybe you’d want to take the service elevator?”

“The service elevator,” Rav echoes dumbly.

Eloise gives him directions and flees, and a moment later Rav gets a text.

MESSAGES

Jack Vale????????????????????????????????????????????????????????Now

I’ll be out on the terrace

Rav stares at his screen. Is this a booty call? A booty text ? He looks at the key card in his hand, and the longer he stares at it, the stupider he feels. Is this what Vale does? Does he have a Rav in every port, some hot boy (or girl?) with just enough ego to imagine they’re special?

His glance strays to the lobby. It’s not too late to cut bait, to gather up the tatters of his dignity and leave.

You’re overreacting , he tells himself. He’ll go upstairs and see what’s what. If he’s not into it, he can always turn around and leave. He doesn’t own this moment, and he doesn’t own you. You’re Rav fucking Trivedi, and you bring men to their knees.

Literally.

No one gives him a second look as he cuts through the kitchen and presses the button for the service elevator. Apparently, this is a thing . The thought is not reassuring. He flips the key card over and over in his hand, resisting the urge to check his hair in the warped reflection of the scarred elevator doors.

He hesitates outside Jack’s door, giving himself one last chance to back out. Then he waves the card in front of the panel. “Hello?” he calls as he steps into the entryway. No answer, but there’s music beckoning from the terrace, so he heads out. He’d forgotten how beautiful it is out here after dark: low, romantic lighting, pool glowing invitingly. He finds Jack propped against the rail, gazing out over the city lights. “Quite a view.”

Jack turns, and the sight of him is like whiskey in Rav’s veins. He looks just like he did that first day: jeans and a plain knit shirt pushed up at the elbows, breeze toying with his hair. Effortlessly sexy. “Does it bring back memories?” he asks, smiling.

“It does, actually.”

“Sorry about the spy routine downstairs. I don’t know if you noticed the woman with the pink hair in the lobby, but she’s paparazzi. She’s been loitering down there for hours. There’s no camera in the service elevator, so she won’t be able to bribe someone for footage of you coming up to my room. Figured you’d had enough publicity for one week.”

Rav relaxes a little, but he keeps his distance. He still doesn’t know what this is.

Jack’s gaze sweeps him, and he shifts on his feet, as if he’s not sure whether to go in for a hug. He heads for the poolside bar instead. “Can I offer you a drink?” Rav tries not to stare at his backside as he follows, but it’s hard. Those jeans are perfection on him, slouching where they should slouch, hugging where they should hug. Jack is barefoot again, which is a turn-on for reasons Rav can’t understand, and if he springs a boner like a fucking teenager he is officially going to die . He tucks himself up close to the bar, just in case. It’s stocked with everything you’d need for craft cocktails, but Jack passes it all by in favor of a single malt scotch. Not just any single malt, mind, but Rav’s favorite. “You said you liked Macallan, right?”

He did say that, on that first marathon call. He’s impressed Jack remembers.

Jack opens it and pours out a generous measure. “Ice?”

“No, thank you.”

Jack pours himself a glass as well, and they make their way over to the lounge suite, where a veritable buffet awaits. Charcuterie. Cheese. Carefully tweezed canapés and darling little jars of terrine. “It’s a lot, I know,” Jack says with an embarrassed laugh. “I wasn’t sure what you liked. Or if you were vegan, or gluten-intolerant, or…” His eyes meet Rav’s, and there’s a flicker of uncertainty there. “Anyway, don’t feel obliged if you’re not hungry. You probably already ate.” He smiles awkwardly.

He’s on the back foot. Good. It levels the playing field. Rav feels more sure of himself now, maybe more than he has since that first meeting. He sets his drink down and closes the distance between them, but he doesn’t lean in—not yet. Instead he holds Jack’s gaze while he lifts the glass from his hands. He takes a sip of Jack’s scotch and sets that aside, too. Then he slips a hand around Jack’s waist and draws him into a kiss.

Jack sighs into it, as if he’s been waiting all week for this. Rav definitely has, but he takes his time. He prides himself on being a great kisser, holding back just enough to leave them wanting more. Jack wants more. He presses his body in close. Rav wants more too, and he knows he can only restrain himself for so long. His blood is already rushing south, but he savors the illusion of control while it lasts, forcing Jack to chase his kiss, to seek, to catch what he can.

They come up for air, and the slightly glazed look in those blue-green eyes is extremely satisfying. “Damn,” Jack whispers. “That is good scotch.” And now he’s backing Rav onto the chaise, straddling him; they’re all over each other, and it occurs to Rav, even as his fingers dive under the waistband of Jack’s jeans, that there might be decent sight lines to this terrace from some of the surrounding buildings and while he wouldn’t mind a video of this for his own personal use, he’d rather not see it on TikTok. He breaks off, but Jack just redirects, his mouth going to Rav’s throat instead. Rav can’t help tipping his head back, and he’s almost ready to forget the bloody sight lines, but he keeps it together just enough to manage a breathy “Wait.”

Jack sits back immediately. “Is this too fast? Do you want to stop?”

“It’s not that. I just feel like we’re a bit exposed out here.”

“Okay. We can go inside if you’re more comfortable.” They head into the sunroom. “If you’d rather just hang, that’s cool, too. No pressure, really.” Rav realizes the next move needs to be his, so he makes it, steering Jack toward the sofa. They kiss for a while, and Rav means to keep things on a low simmer, he really does, but his body has other ideas, and the next thing he knows he’s pulling Jack’s shirt over his head and guiding him back against the cushions, and there it is, the tattoo he’s been obsessing over. It covers the left side of that tight little torso, climbing from his hip to his collarbone, and Rav has a sudden and powerful need to kiss the entire length of it.

He does.

He’s drunk on the scent of Jack’s skin, the taste of it, the feel of those inked abs stirring beneath his lips. He bites softly, feeling the vibrations as Jack growls in response, but it’s not enough. He needs to feel Jack’s skin against his. He goes to take his own shirt off, but Jack isn’t having it; he sits up and dusts Rav’s hands away. “Don’t you dare. I’ve been fantasizing about doing this since we first met.” He starts unbuttoning Rav’s shirt, but slowly , careful not to crease the crisp fabric as one button after another slips free. He likes what he finds under there, and he pushes Rav onto his back to admire the view. His hands follow his eyes, and his mouth follows his hands. He leaves the shirt open as he kisses Rav’s chest, his throat, the tender spot beneath his ear. Any sense Rav had of being in control is burning away, leaving him in free fall. Jack is trailing open-mouthed kisses down his body now, and there’s a clink of belt buckle. “Yes?” Jack murmurs, pressing a kiss to his stomach.

Rav knows he should call time. He should have called time ages ago. But there’s a half-naked rock star on top of him, who also happens to be the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, and this magical creature wants to suck his dick and Rav would quite like that also and it’s almost impossible to think let alone make a rational decision. So he makes an irrational one, surrendering to the riptide, and he tries not to think about… to think about… god , he’s good at this… Rav’s fingers are twined in the dark waves of Jack Vale’s hair, and he’s staring at the ceiling of the penthouse suite of the Palace Hotel, and somehow this is actually his life, and Rav is… Rav is… he’s… shit…

It takes a solid two minutes for Rav to regain his faculties—and about five seconds to get Jack’s pants off.

As much as he enjoyed being on the receiving end, he gets off on this even more. Being back in control. Being the one that has Jack Vale gasping, arching, breathing a plaintive little “ fuck ” in the heartbeat before he comes.

Afterward, they head back out to the terrace and dangle their feet in the pool while they sip their whiskey. Jack’s playlist is still going; a moody voice croons about letting your fear fall away. “I like this,” Rav says. “Who is it?”

“Lana Del Rey.” He’s quiet for a minute, and when he looks at Rav again, there’s uncertainty in his eyes. “I hope this isn’t too weird for you.”

“The celebrity thing, or the fact that I was investigating you?”

“I was mostly thinking about the second part, but I guess the first part is pretty weird too, from your perspective.”

“It is strange,” Rav admits. “But I don’t think we’re doing anything wrong. Technically.”

“Uh-oh.” Jack laughs awkwardly. “Are we reduced to technicalities?”

If there was a time for this conversation, it’s passed. What’s done is done and there’s no going back. “What about you? Does this qualify as normal, as far as hookups go?”

“I don’t have a normal. Honestly, it feels like I hit pause on my love life when Alien Nation came out. It’s just so complicated. Between the media and the lawyers, it’s hard to find any privacy, and when you do, it doesn’t last.” His glance falls to the pool, and he swishes his feet in the water. “I’ll understand if this is too much for you. It’s too much for me sometimes.”

“I’m not sure what this is,” Rav answers honestly. “I realize it’s all very new, and you’re incredibly busy, but getting a text from your PA after days of radio silence…”

He winces. “I didn’t tell you, did I? They took my phone in Miami.”

“Who?”

“Mo and Erika. They wanted to make sure it wasn’t compromised. I only got it back a couple of hours ago. I haven’t even looked at all my missed messages. There’s too many.”

“They didn’t get you a replacement in the meantime?”

“I didn’t want one. It was kind of a relief to tune out for a bit. I ditch my phone a lot, actually. I don’t like the idea that someone can trace my movements with it.”

“Ditching phones and avoiding security cameras.” Rav lifts an eyebrow. “Are you secretly—”

“The point is…” Jack puts a hand over Rav’s. “This isn’t just some throwaway thing for me. I like you. A lot.”

Rav’s chest flutters. “I like you, too.”

Too much. He knew that already, but tonight sealed it. He’s in way over his head. Which, fuck . But how could he not be? How could anyone sit next to this gorgeous, insanely talented, beautiful human and not be completely, totally… He doesn’t even realize he’s leaning in until Jack meets him halfway, and they kiss to the echoing strains of dreamy watercolor guitars, the glimmer of the pool dancing along their skin. It’s so cinematic Rav is drowning in it; the music is taking over, bass drum thudding softly like a heartbeat; he’s shifting closer now, deepening the kiss, and Jack’s hand is sliding up his thigh, and Lana Del Rey is telling them to say yes to Heaven…

“Can you stay?” Jack murmurs.

“ Say yes to me…”

Rav’s whole body is begging him to say yes. But he knows, with a terrifying sort of clarity, that if he spends the night, he’s going to fall in love, and that can’t happen. “I shouldn’t.”

Jack nods, as if he was expecting that answer. “Can I see you before we leave?”

“Definitely,” Rav says, kissing him one last time.

He’s still humming “Say Yes to Heaven” when he walks through the door of his apartment, so caught up he doesn’t check his phone until he sees Jack’s little black notebook sitting there on the sideboard. He forgot to bring it. He goes to text Jack and finds that he has three missed calls from Will. There’s a text, too, from twenty minutes ago, a decidedly irritable-looking CALL ME. It’s almost two in the morning, so it must be important. Rav taps the missed call and puts it on speaker.

“Where are you?” his partner demands without preamble.

Something in his tone sinks like a stone to the bottom of Rav’s stomach. “At home. My phone was on silent. What—”

“We’ve got the sweatshirt. And a witness.”

“The sweatshirt?”

“From the security footage in Vanderford’s building. The one the shifty guy was wearing. You know, our probable perp?”

“Right, of course.” Rav is alert now, and pacing. “You have it? How?”

“A patrol spotted a homeless woman wearing it. She fished it out of the trash a block from Vanderford’s building.”

“Did she see who put it there?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She’s already identified him.” There’s a pause. Will’s voice is subdued as he adds, “I really hope you weren’t where I think you were tonight, Rav.”

“Why?” He knows the answer, knows with sickening certainty what his partner is about to say.

“It’s him,” Will says. “The guy in the security video is Jack Vale.”