Free Left on St. Truth-Be-Well by Amy Lane

married a pretty girl, had lots of babies. They send me Christmas cards, it’s all good. You?”
    Carson looked straight ahead before closing his eyes. “Frat party hookup. He blew me behind the dorm building. Never did catch his name. Are we gonna drive this heap across the fricking street or not?”
    He kept his eyes closed when he felt Dale’s hand—long-fingered and warm—squeezing his thigh. “You’re gonna remember the holy fuck outta my name, okay, Carson?”
    Carson nodded and swallowed, then very deliberately returned the grip on that warm hand. “Yeah, I hear you.”
    “And I don’t plan to forget yours.”
    Carson managed enough self-possession to be irritated. “Thank the fucking gods, now are we gonna go?”
    But Dale didn’t take any of his shit. The comforting hand on his thigh became the strong fingers at his chin, and Dale turned Carson’s head and forced Carson to meet his gaze directly. “I mean it, Carson. I’m not going to hurt you, and I may change your life. Don’t be so stubborn about it. It’s going to happen. It was probably going to happen the minute you walked into the café this morning, but all the rest of it just makes things more exciting. I’m not going to ask if you can handle that, because I know you’ll give me all sorts of bullshit about being able to handle anything, but I am going to ask you to trust me to do it right. Can you do that?”
    How many people had he talked down from cliffs with that syrupy country-boy voice? Or did he just look at them with those heavy-lidded eyes and they jumped off the cliffs all by themselves? Carson breathed deeply through his nose and smelled a little bit of sweat and, reassuringly, brushed teeth.
    “I’m not a player,” Carson muttered, still stung.
    “That’s understood.”
    “I never woulda hit on Stassy if I knew it was gonna freak him out.”
    “I figured as much.”
    “I just don’t go home with random anyone.”
    “But when we’re done playing junior detectives, you’re going to go home with me.” Dale’s tone brooked no argument, and Carson was out of fight anyway.
    “Yeah, sure.”
    He closed his eyes and felt Dale’s breath puff quietly on his face, then a brush of lips. “Good boy. Let’s go be Columbo, you think?” Dale pulled back from the kiss and started the truck.
    Carson shrugged and tried to make like his heart wasn’t racing in his ears. “Columbo was old-school. Let’s make like that Don Flack guy on CSI: New York .”
    “Eddie Cahill? You got a thing for him?”
    Carson flushed. “He has nice eyes,” he muttered, because they were, in fact, a lot like Dale’s.
    Dale knew it too, the bastard, because his low laughter lasted until they’d pulled out of the hotel and crossed the street. He killed the motor, and in the near dark they walked toward the lobby entrance of the Bates Parrot Hotel.
    Carson had a sudden thought. “Hey, you’re gonna hafta be the one to talk to Beatrice behind the counter, okay? Man, I just took off last night, and Ivan’s the one who called and canceled the reservation. She is not going to think very kindly of me, right?”
    “Wow, Carson, way to pony up.”
    “So I should have slept in the bug-infested spooge, is that what you’re saying?”
    They both grimaced, and Dale shrugged. “Yeah, okay. Maybe not. Yeah, I’ll talk to Bea. What are you going to do?” He smirked. “Besides sit in the truck and beat off thinking about me.”
    “God, you’re an ass. I’m going to go try and find the bellboy, any bellboy. Stassy said someone was letting people into the rooms, the ones with broken locks like mine, and charging by the hour. You better believe the bellboy knows something about that, right?”
    Dale’s eyes widened and he nodded. He seemed impressed, and Carson had to keep himself from wagging his tail and panting in happiness. “Absolutely. Tell you what, you go wandering the corridors, I’ll call you—wait. Gimme your cell.”
    Carson pulled it