Page 60 of Out of Control

“You make me feel like an irresponsible asshole,” he mumbled.

Spencer’s hand moved toward his, probably involuntarily. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize to me. You’ll only make me feel like a bigger asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole,” Spencer sighed. “It’s me. I can’t keep a clear head around you.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?” he asked tightly.

Another sigh from Spencer. “Yeah. I guess so. You’re so fascinating, so overwhelming, that I can’t concentrate on anything but you. And that’s the truth.”

“If I were only mildly interesting, then you’d let me screw your brains out?”

Spencer threw him a quelling look.

“Just asking.”

“Our cops are leaving,” Spencer murmured.

Bastard was changing the subject on purpose. Didn’t want to talk about them, did he? Honestly, that struck him as a good sign for them—

Whoa. Wait. Rewind.

Was he contemplating trying to enter into an actual relationship with Spencer? As in a long-term, romantic real deal? Since when did such thoughts even enter his mind, let alone take root? He was the Teflon man. Nothing and no one stuck to him.

“C’mon,” Spencer muttered from behind unmoving lips as he stood and dropped some cash on the table.

Drago moved outside with Spencer, who’d already spotted which direction the cops were moving off in. They gave the pair a minute to turn a corner, and then they left the cover of the café doorway.

“Where to now?” Spencer asked.

“Nearest grocery. Everyone needs food.”

It actually turned out to be a boulangerie—a bread store—where they caught a break. Apparently Fayez Khoury lived in the building directly across the street. It was an old apartment block, newer than World War II but not by much. Inside the narrow front hall, the plaster was flaking off, and the stairwell smelled of urine.

They loitered for about two minutes until a young man reeking of pot slouched inside. Drago asked the kid where they might find Monsieur Khoury.

“Top floor,” the kid mumbled. “If he’s around.”

“How many other people live here?” Spencer asked casually.

The young man looked suspicious. “Are you cops?”

“Nah. Just looking to score some weed,” Spencer answered, surprising Drago. He reassessed the guy in front of them. Spencer was right. The kid read as a drug addict coming to a crack den for a hit.

Well done, Spence.

The kid disappeared into a ground-floor apartment and left the two of them to explore the building. It appeared that various drug dealers held court in different parts of the decrepit building, although the place was mostly deserted now. Only a few opium addicts were sleeping off last night’s drugs.

Drago led Spencer back out the front door, and they walked casually around to the back side of the tenement. An iron fire escape rusted against its back wall.

“It would be a bitch to get up that quietly,” Spencer commented.

“Come back tonight?”

“With a big can of oil for lubrication.”

Except when they returned around midnight and examined the fire escape closely, it turned out the thing looked like crap but was solid and in perfect repair. Which sent off warning bells in Drago’s head.