He called him that in reference to his first name, not because Hogan was built anything like a ripped, green monster. In truth, Hogan was a little chubby, all shoulders and spread legs and thumbs tucked into his belt. He even had the mustache to complete the picture.

John observed Richie’s bashful expression, his eyes looking everywhere but at Hogan. A gay defense attorney with the hots for a straight cop. What a hopeless situation. It wasn’t the first time that John had felt bad for the predicament Richie had found himself in.

Hogan Trencher wasn’t a crooked detective by any means, but he had a healthy disdain for the defense attorneys he felt put his collars back on the street. And John had seen too many detectives bend the truth on the stand to ever truly want to break bread with Hogan Trencher. And so had Richie. Maybe, John reflected as he polished off his beer, that was part of the appeal. People often had feelings for those on the opposite end of the opinions spectrum. It probably made the sex more combative.

Either way, this bar, only five blocks from the Brooklyn Supreme Court, had become a sort of neutral ground for defense attorneys and ADAs, and, occasionally, Hogan Trencher. Who seemed to almost get a power-trippy charge out of prodding at defense attorneys in his off time.

“Haven’t seen you around recently, John,” Hogan said after sending Marissa a wink and pointing at John’s beer to indicate he wanted one for himself. “Keeping busy?”

“Yup,” John grumbled. Talking to cops always made him feel like he was being interrogated. “Those meth labs don’t start themselves.”

Richie laughed into his beer, inhaling half of it and looking utterly mortified to be snotting foam in front of his crush.

“Just making conversation,” Hogan replied easily. “Thanks, darlin’.”

The big man slid money into Marissa’s palm and held her eye contact as he took the beer from her. Marissa tucked her lips into her mouth and ducked her chin, looking up at Hogan through her eyelashes, a slight flush on her pretty brown skin.

Hogan reached forward, stole a few of John’s fries and tipped his chin down at the two lawyers, a smirk firmly in place beneath his mustache. He sauntered away to a far corner of the bar.

“What the hell is it about that guy?” John wondered aloud.

“What?” Richie asked, his cheeks still pink, peeling the label from his beer bottle.

“Why is everyone so into him? From where I’m sitting, he’s just a cocky asshole.”