“I just—”

“Keep him off me for at least a minute, ok?”

Without waiting for an answer, North yanked open the door and plunged into Brueckmann’s office.

Chapter 16

Shaw scrambled after North. A few things were different inside Brueckmann’s office: the wall of cabinets was open, exposing a bank of screens showing feed from security cameras; the chair that Shaw had fallen over had been moved back into place; and Jeremy’s big, bald head was moving away from them. North dropped into a full-on sprint, and for a guy in steel toe boots, he moved like a fucking bullet. The sound of his passage must have alerted Jeremy because he started to turn around, and North hit him at the waist, carrying both of them through the door and out into the hallway.

That was where Shaw lost sight of him, and he turned his attention to Brueckmann. Brueckmann had been standing at the bank of screens, watching a dark-haired boy perform fellatio on a middle-aged man, and now he was turning, his attention cutting first to the doorway where North and Jeremy had disappeared and then to Shaw.

“Hi,” Shaw said.

Brueckmann’s knife whicked open again.

Shaw shuffled forward, putting Brueckmann’s big, clunky desk between them. There was a fountain pen lying open on the desk—that might be good—and a ceramic mug that said World’s Best Dom and had a cartoon whip snaking off from the S, and a stack of manila folders, and a roll of Lifesavers and a banker’s lamp.

“Kid, when I’m done cutting you up, you might actually have a face interesting enough to look at. I might be doing you a favor.”

Shaw nodded. Then he picked up the mug and chucked it.

Shaw had never really played baseball. He’d never really gotten into anything like that. But spring and summer of junior year, North and Tucker and Rufus and Peter and Paul had insisted that they have a gays-only softball team, and because North had wanted to do it, Shaw had bought every single piece of softball-related sporting equipment that Johnny Mac’s had. And he’d spent God only knew how many hours practicing throwing with a guy who had been kicked off the Chouteau Water Moccasins’ baseball team for steroids and who had been eager to make a little extra cash. And all of it, all of it, had been worth it their first game when Shaw threw out some Alpha Phi Alpha asshole and North had picked him up in a hug and whirled him around.

Even though the years had put some rust on his arm, Shaw still remembered the basics, and the mug hit Brueckmann in the face. In the forehead actually. There was blood. But there was also coffee. And, judging by Brueckmann’s startled yell, the coffee had been hot. Very hot.

Brueckmann swiped at his face once—the skin where the coffee had sprayed him was already pinkening—and then he staggered, righted himself, and fixed on Shaw. With another yell, he blindly rushed the desk. He didn’t even seem to see the clunky wooden furniture in his way; he held the switchblade out, his elbow locked as though he were charging with a spear.