Orientation

Gregory Ashe

Contents ( 43)

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Triangulation
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Acknowledgments
About the Author

Orientation

A Borealis Investigation

Gregory Ashe

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Orientation, noun: the act of determining your relative position.

Shaw’s note: From the word orient, finding the east, toward the rising sun. Appropriated as a stand-in for which gender, or genders, someone is sexually attracted to.

North’s note: Cf. Shaw staring at my junk when I wear those jeans Tucker got me.

Chapter 1

IN THE CRAMPED GALLEY kitchen of Borealis Investigations, Shaw crouched with his hands and feet braced shoulder width apart, shot his hips up, and flattened his back to hold the pose. His elbows bent suddenly, and he bumped his nose against the floorboards. It came away covered in grit and dust. Then he sneezed.

His Lululemon shirt slid down and bunched under his arms. Sweat beaded, following his backbone toward his neck. His arms trembled and his hamstrings burned the longer he held on. He focused on the trembling. What he didn’t need to think about was his date last night. He didn’t need to think about candlelight. The yellow wick of reflected heat in the other man’s eyes—Harry? Henry? Shaw certainly didn’t need to think about his own performance: Kingsley Shaw Wilder Aldrich sputtering like a teakettle on the outside steps at the end of the night.

Harold? Had his name been Harold?

The tremor in Shaw’s arms was getting seismic now. He nose bumped the floor again and gathered more dust. He gritted his teeth and pressed all thought out of his head, bracing his hands against the floor.

Footsteps came across the front office. The floorboards creaked under familiar weight until the steps stopped in the open doorway of the kitchen. Shaw could smell his own sweat. He could smell the dust mountained on the tip of his nose. He could smell the Pine Sol that Pari had, maybe a week ago, dumped into the sink (as close as Pari ever came to cleaning). And under all those smells, Shaw could smell North.

North McKinney smelled like he always did: an attractive animal smell, probably the leather of the huge Red Wing boots he insisted on wearing; the fresh scrub of Irish Spring bar soap; and whatever he put in that stiff shock of blond hair. Shaw sighed. His arms almost gave out, and his nose dipped toward the floor. Don’t think about North, he told himself. Don’t think about Harold—if that was even his name. Just focus on yourself. On your body. Don’t think about the fact that you know perfectly well what North is wearing in his hair because he’s worn American Crew since the first day of freshman year and you know it, and it makes him smell like catalogue boys.

Smack. The abrupt crack of North’s hand against Shaw’s butt was so shocking that Shaw’s arms gave out, and he crashed down on the floor.