Page 165 of First Shift

Bell stepped out of the house and onto the porch wearing cream-colored jeans and a maroon sweater, his blond hair pulled up into a messy bun on top of his head. His eyes lined with dark kohl, and each of his ears sported a giant, gleaming diamond.

He held his hands out to his sides in welcome. “Whaddya think?” he asked with a wink as we climbed up the steps to encounter two stone statues flanking the front door, their hands extended in a “stop” position. Each were draped in rainbow-colored garland.

“It’s very … festive.”

“I went all out this year.” He chuckled, gesturing for us to step inside. “Really wanted to lean into the gay of it all.”

“The unicorns really sold it,” Mikey said with a smirk, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a hook by the front door.

I draped my scarf over Mikey’s coat, noting the two other ones already there.

“How did Morrison beat us here?” I asked, the smell of roasted garlic wafting in from the kitchen, where I assumed Ethan was hard at work.

“He didn’t stop to gawk at all the decorations.” Bell turned, leading us deeper into the house where Morrison and Sebastian were lounging on the big u-shaped sectional in front of the fireplace.

“Only because I helped him set them all up,” Morrison said as Bell disappeared around the corner.

“The skeletons were a nice touch,” Sebastian remarked, pushing to his feet and stepping forward, his hand extended. “Good to see you both again.”

“Yeah, you too. How’s it going?” Mikey asked, the question coming out automatically, the same way he’d ask anyone.

They each winced.

Shit.

It was an innocent question—the same thing Mikey would have asked anyone—but how it was going was decidedly not good.

They’d gone public with their relationship a few weeks ago, but only after Sebastian’s vindictive ex had outed him. Now, they were embroiled in a political scandal that had rocked the whole country.

I didn’t pay attention to politics probably as much as I should, but even I’d heard some of the things that were being said about Sebastian, and none of it was good. Pundits on both sides of the aisle were taking pot shots at the man who’d been the secret lover of the front runner for the Democratic nomination for President. The fact that Sebastian had been his political advisor was even more fuel for the fire. Depending on who was saying it, Sebastian Carruthers was either the type of man who would fuck anyone to get ahead or he had always been the brains behind Wyatt Hastings, and now that they were on the outs, the man’s political ambitions were doomed.

Things had gotten bad enough that Silas had called an emergency meeting to provide the entire organization with a PR-approved statement in case we found ourselves cornered by the press.

Surprisingly, it had only taken a week or so for the hockey world to lose interest in Morrison’s coming out. Unfortunately, that was only because three assholes from Florida had been accused of sexually assaulting a waitress during a roadie.

“It’s nice to get snow for Christmas,” Sebastian remarked, taking a sip of his wine.

“I hope the guy actually comes to do the driveway,” Morrison said. Adding for our benefit, “My plow is broken.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding as if I knew anything about plows and how they could break. “We live in a condo. Someone takes care of that for us.”

“I used to shovel sidewalks as a kid to make some extra cash,” Mikey offered.

“Yeah? Me too,” Morrison said. “I hate shoveling that shit now.”

The weather fully exhausted, conversation died out, the four of us standing in a loose circle, not quite looking at each other—not that I did much of that anyway.

I rocked back and forth on my heels while Morrison shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Mikey hooked his thumbs into his pockets, his fingers tapping a beat against his pelvis. Sebastian swirled the wine in his glass, looking around expectantly as if waiting for one of the three people who worked together to take the lead on striking up a conversation.

I considered myself somewhat of an expert on awkward interactions, and this was right up there with the worst of them.

Thankfully, we were saved by Bell sweeping back into the room, Ethan trailing a step behind.

I’d probably never be entirely comfortable around Ethan Harrison, but I was getting there. It was hard to be too intimidated by someone who openly adored an agent of chaos like Stryker Bell. There was also the not-so-small fact that he’d help squash the gossip about me among his players. I owed him my gratitude if nothing else.

“Hey Callahan. Porter.” Ethan tilted his chin up in greeting from the opposite side of the couch. “Thanks for coming. I’m afraid we’re all out of bourbon, but we’ve got wine or beer. Soda, too. Or sparkling water, if you prefer.”

As far as I was concerned, I’d never drink bourbon again. Whatever had been on that cart at Thanksgiving had put me off it for good.