"Where did you go?"

Rico spoke with the ragged, scraping voice of slow-cigarette burn. He never smoked cigarettes. Just sounded like he did.

He was pressed against the frame of his leaden Cadillac SUV, tall enough to stretch an elbow over the hood. Tall enough to peer over the driver side, make sure no one was watching. Tall enough to physically intimidate anyone who might be.

His single drab eye returned its gaze, lid sagged over the round, glass orb of the other.

Bailey preferred it when he wore a patch. Less of his face to suffer.

"I asked you a question."

Bailey slid his hands into his jacket pockets so he couldn't see them, might they still be trembling. The rain had set into his boots and he'd tied his hair back to keep the damp off of his neck.

This displeased Rico.

Which pleased Bailey.

"Nowhere," he said, rounding the exhaust. Gannon had left the front seat open and opted for the back, which meant Rico wanted him shotgun. To keep an eye on him, probably. To know he wasn't fastening a bomb or carving a shank in the back seat. Rico wanted him in arm's reach, always.

Which displeased Bailey.

He reached for the door handle, and the thoughts moved through him like firecrackers.

Run now.

Don't run, they'll find you. They always find you.

Not if you get to Bronx.

Doesn't matter.

Doesn't matter.

They've got their hands around your throat.

Nothing matters.

He shoved the door open and climbed into the leather, the seats warm and the high-tech touchscreen flashing with the ever-moving lyrics to a country song. He hunched against the door and brushed against his mouth with his own calloused fingers, the ghost of Cowboy's wrist still a wraith in the wakened nerves of his hand. Fast pulse fluttering against the edge of his thumb. He brushed it against his lips and shut his eyes.

Fuck country songs.

The SUV rocked faintly like a canoe when Rico slumped into the driver's seat. He brought a million smells with him—rich like incense and fine wood, sick like spoiled vomit. He smelled like sweat and old sex, and perfumed soap to wash it all away.

Bailey set his gaze to a middle distance. The cars sliding in from a green light. A woman with a sweater-clad dog in her arms. A family of four, crossing busy traffic toward a tea shop, hands entangled.

Middle distance. He'd trained himself over the years to keep his gaze on the horizon. Middle distance was the key to warding off Rico's large, hungry hands. But it didn't seem to be workinglately.

Rico snatched him by the chin and examined his face with one dark eye and one nothing.

"Your lips are swollen."

Middle distance was the scar at the dent of his chin.

"Can we get going?" Gannon asked from the back, looking bored as he flipped through a leather-bound book.

Bailey examined the gold-leaf title and the gilted pages—a beautiful thing in ugly hands. Something clawed into the back of his hair and ripped his head forward. Rico kissed him suddenly and roughly, tearing out the band that held up his ponytail. Several threads of hair went with it.

His mouth was bad medicine. A terrible taste, prescribed daily—meant to nauseate and fatigue. Meant to plug and devour all the fight that built in the back of Bailey's throat. The urge to bite the tongue in his mouth until it bled—the urge to take the knife he'd so slyly hid in the sole of his boot and send it slitting through arteries. The urge to run and leave him bleeding.

Rico had a way of making everything feel pointless with that terrible mouth.

When he had a satisfying taste, Rico let him go.

Bailey slumped away, into the cold glass of the window, wishing he could spit at the floor without warranting a backhand and another deep, wet hate-kiss. A phantom pain ached through his once-broken rib.

"Better not be lying to me," Rico said. Always said something like that when he couldn't rip the dishonesty out of a person and put it on public display.

Bailey knew what he was tasting for, but there were no fingerprints to dust. Cowboy was a ghost. Cowboy smelled of nothing and tasted of nothing. Nothing traceable, at least. Just the beer on his breath and the salt on his skin—but Bailey had drown himself in beer already today. And he hadn't kissed his flesh. Not since that night in the barn.

The sweet, fevered tint of his skin. The push of bare hips against teeth. Pale flesh and blue veins and goosebumps up a bare, shuddering stomach.

Everything since then felt like ice.

"These cigars smell like shit," Gannon said in the back seat. "No way they're Cubans. Let's stop somewhere else."

"No." Rico pulled to the side of the road, by the rusting bars of a pawn shop window. The neon open sign shimmered the rain glinting and green. "They're waiting for us. Get out. Our guy's here with the desert blood."

Bailey reached for the handle, but a hard hand dug into his knee. "Not you," Rico said. "You stay here."

Gannon sighed, dismayed to have to close his book, and shuffled out of of the SUV and toward the pawn shop dumpsters. The door snapped shut hard in Bailey's ears.

"My insurance claim came through," Rico said. "I was gonna cut you open for that, you know. But as it turns out, you earned me a pretty penny. Now I can relocate Black Hole out of the city—some place more private."

Bailey watched as Gannon met with a dark figure in the belly of the alley, took a black bag from him and shook his hand. Black Hole must've been worth a lot; Desert Blood was a pricey substance.

Large, rough fingers curled around Bailey's hand, pressing hard at the knuckles. Rico jerked his hand up stiff in the air and said, "Look at me." When Bailey didn't he said it louder, "Look at me."

Bailey did. He hated the way his fingers shook.

"Fuck up again and I'm taking them. All of them."

Bailey ripped his hand away, curling his fist against the leg of his jeans.

Rico's den existed on the hideous streets of South Tacoma, buried behind shady car dealerships and rundown tool shops, nestled within the dead-end of an abandoned culdesac where the only thing that existed now was the shell of an old hotel that'd been torn apart and rebuilt, burned and mended, knocked down and righted bigger and better.

It was a place that died and resurrected itself time and time again, and still, Bailey prayed upon a god he didn't believe in that they'd return to a building on the hinges of collapse—struck by lightning, smashed by a tree, engulfed in flames or drowning in a river of high-flooding waters.

But it was alive and well, just the way they'd left it.

He knew better than to open the SUV door before Rico allowed it. He waited, watching the dirty knuckles of his hands as the one-eyed rogue fetched the door for him. The moment Bailey's feet hit the gravel, Rico took him by the back of the neck like a dog by the scruff.

His fingers trilled a heavy, sick sensation down to his empty stomach.

"Get in the shower. We have guests coming." Then his cold hands grabbed at Bailey's jaw. "Take care of this," he said, giving it a shove.

Bailey couldn't escape the smells of Rico and the sounds of country music quickly enough. He stepped in through the front door to the sight of lounging wolves—only a handful, splayed on the couch or brooming the floor, trying to stay as small as possible at the sight of Rico's return. Gabe was the first to rise from the couch, slinking after him like a silent shadow.

"How'd it go?"

Bailey ignored him, clutching the hunger pangs in his stomach.

"Rico finally say how he's gonna punish you yet?"

Bailey cut through an unlit hallway and into the empty bathroom. Gabe, with no concern for his privacy, followed.

"He hasn't let you eat yet, has he? Is he starving you? Is that his punishment?"

"Get out."

Bailey's soaked shirt hit the floor with a fwapand he wrestled his way out of tight, skin-flush wet jeans. All the while he showered, Gabe stayed, slouched against the bathroom counter—a skinny shape through the thin shower curtain.

"You went and saw him didn't you? I told you that was a bad idea. Rico finds out about that, you may never eat again."

Bailey worked a bar of soap through his hair, the back of his neck where Rico had grabbed him. His jaw and his cheek and his chin and every other place he'd been touched and kissed in the last twenty-four hours.

"You may not want to after the shit he'd do," Gabe said. "If he found out you two fucked..."

An image flashed to mind. A shallow grave, a crumbled pale body. Neck twisted down into the dirt, leg bent the wrong way, brown hair drudged in soil.

"He'd end up like Danny." The water burned, but he refused to turn the heat down. Nothing Rico could do to him would punish him more than he wanted to punish himself.

"Yeah," Gabe said. "Like Danny. I just don't want to see you hurt."

Bailey cranked off the shower and threw the mildewed curtains open. Hot steam swelled in his lungs and created a fine veil between himself and Gabe. "Hurt?" He snatched a towel from the supply and wrapped it around his waist, cutting through the debilitating steam. "You don't want to see me hurt? Jesus Christ, just move." He shoved Gabe aside and took a naked razor blade from the drawer.

Gabe crossed his arms—always did when he was angry. A child, wanting to look big, but somehow only looking more like a child. "It's not like I don't know how you feel. I'm allowed to give a shit about you."

"Don't compare us." The circle Bailey wiped away in the mirror shown his sleepless face back at him. His cheek scabbed where Rico hit him with the sharp edge of his ring after Black Hole burned. He was nothing like Gabe. "You want to be here. It's a sick fucking kink for you."

"I have a roof over my head," Gabe said. Bailey cringed as he applied shaving cream. The smell was too strong—always dizzied him. "I used to do this shit for cash, I'm used to it. Only now my clients aren't trying to kill me."

"Not yet."

"Gannon wouldn't..."

Bailey was suddenly very aware of the metal blade beneath his fingers. Silverfox Shaving Co., it read. He thought for a moment about sending it through Gabe's neck—opening up his vocal cords so he could never again voice his opinion of this place and the things they did here. But nothing here went unpunished. Instead, he brought it to his face and scraped away at the shadowed scruff in the mirror. "You think you got lucky with Gannon? He's no different from Rico. Why do you think they share a circle?"

Gabe slid his hands in his jean pockets. "Always kinda assumed they fucked on the side."

"They're the same fucking person." The blade dragged down his jaw slowly, collecting a mound of cream on the tip. He rinsed it in the sink and started again. "Gannon hasn't hurt you yet. He will. He hasn't gotten so bored of fucking you that he has to resort to raping you just to get off. He will. One day you'll realize you've been sucking the cock of a monster and by then, it'll be too late to do shit about it. You're not a whore anymore, you're a slave."

"I'm not a slave."

"That was what Danny said."

"Since when were you so emotional?" Gabe asked. "Was it that redneck you went and mounted? Your whole purpose was to lead him to Rico. Are you forgetting that?"

The blade nicked his skin. Bailey ripped him close by the collar of his shirt and held the razor to his slender, pale throat. He pressed Gabe so hard against the edge of the counter, his hair brushed the mist on the mirror. "Tell anyone about him and I will cut your tongue out of your mouth. We'll see how Gannon treats you when you can't suck off that pixie prick of his."

"Rico's going to find out," Gabe said, throat bobbing against the blade. "And when he does he'll do worse to him than he's ever done to you and you know it."

Footsteps neared down the hall, but Bailey only pressed the blade deeper.

"You know I'm right," Gabe rasped.

The door opened and shut again and Bailey withdrew the blade at the sight of Violet's purple curls. She addressed the situation, looking stoned and unimpressed as always. A smile quirked her lips, and she strolled through the haze toward him, gesturing to the muscles of his stomach. "Look at you, handsome. If I liked boys I'd buy you right out from under Rico."

"If I liked girls, I'd let you."

She released a deep, hearty laugh and set her green eyes on Gabe. "Could I have a word with him privately?"

Begrudged and touching the impression on his throat, Gabe turned and left through the mist.

"What are you doing here?" Bailey asked.

Violet swept the blade up from the sink and took him by the side of his neck. Though the touch of women never usually left him as nauseated, he hadn't been expecting it. He recoiled.

"Calm down, Stallion. I just want to help."

Her fingers brushed and cradled and he shut his eyes as the blade touched his skin, grazing gently over the fresh cut. "You're not his type, you know that right? Rico likes them small—hairless like that sweet little blond friend of yours. That's why he makes you shave. Why he won't let you cut your hair."

He let her move his head back as the blade roamed down his jawline. "Why doesn't he just fuck women?"

"Because I snatch them before he can. You know that."

Bailey opened his eyes to watch her high-arched brows furrow as she severed the stubble on his neck.

"That's one reason I came today," she said. Her breath smelled faintly of mimosas. "Rico's recruiting a blonde—sweetest thing I've ever seen. I'm offering him a pretty penny for her."

"You're no better than them," Bailey said, though he knew it wasn't true.

"One day, I will be." She turned his head again and he hated himself for feeling so safe with a blade to his throat. "I can afford to steal them away, to house them and feed them. But I can't afford to let them go—not yet. I groom my girls well. They can clean a man's pockets with the brush of a shoulder. I risk their lives and safety for a decent living, yes. I'm a big bad rogue who steals girls away, yes. But I don't lay my hands on them." She set the blade aside and took his face in her palms. "I'd take you if I could. But you know what a commodity women are to these men. If I don't helpthem they'll get eaten alive. And I didn't exactly expect you to come back after that spat on Perigee. What happened, Bailey? Why are you here?"

He pulled out of her hands, washing the stink of shaving cream from his face. "I made a mistake."

"It must've been a terrible one," she said. "Several other rogue leaders are on their way. Rico's holding a little get together in a few days. Wants to discuss the burnings, which I'm sure will involve talk of you and your little accomplice.

"It was your conquest."

Violet flashed her green eyes in surprise. "The one I bit on Perigee? And he's already committing arson?" She shook her plum curls. "Poor idiot. Didn't I tell him to stay away from the dens?"

Bailey's throat stifled. He felt like the one with a blade to his neck. "What'll they do to him?"

"Don't know, sweetheart. Nothing good, I'm sure." She sighed deeply from her nose, heels clicking on the tile floor. "I'll let you change. It'd be good of you to behave for the next few days." Then she turned and stepped out through the cracked door. Clicking, clicking, clicking.

Bailey waited until the sounds of her footsteps met soft carpet, then he hunched over the sink and envisioned that pit again—broken body laid mangled inside. This time, it was Cowboy he saw in the hole. Cowboy broken and bent in all the wrong, sufferable ways.

Bailey sent a fist to the mirror, but it halted when his knuckles met the cold glass. Nothing here went unpunished. He pressed against it gently instead, anger damned to fester inside him.

They've got their hands around your throat.