Brueckmann curled up inside it. North grabbed the hose, tied it through the crate’s door, and then gave the crate a good, whalloping shake.

“You look good in there, Lee. Hope the right person finds you.”

“I’m going to find you. I’m going to do things to you that—”

North spoke over him. “Things nobody can imagine, things nobody can dream of, blah, blah, blah. Night, Brueckmann.”

Then North opened the door onto the fire escape, leaning against the jamb while he waited for Shaw. The humid chill of the April night brushed Shaw’s cheek, and he tasted the rust from the fire escape and the animal smell of North’s Red Wings.

“You know,” Shaw said, still facing Brueckmann through the bars, “for most people, BDSM is an opportunity to explore their own issues with trust and power. I think finding a nice dom could do you a world of good.”

“Fuck you, you fucking—”

Shaw took out his phone and snapped a picture of Brueckmann. Brueckmann just about swallowed his tongue. Then Shaw took another picture. And another.

“Just in case,” Shaw told him.

“Shaw?” North said.

“Yeah?”

“You coming?”

“Yeah. Right now.”

Brueckmann’s howls followed them out onto the landing, and then North pulled the door shut, and there remained only the sounds of the city, and the warmth of North’s hand on Shaw’s back, guiding him down the steps, and the cool dampness of the spring night on the back of Shaw’s neck, where from time to time he could feel North’s breath close enough to be a kiss. They had won. Together, the two of them, always together, they had won. Suddenly, even after having his neck stomped, even after being shoved in a dog crate, even after the horror of facing Lee Brueckmann—even after all that, Shaw thought it had been pretty much a perfect night.

Chapter 17

Outside Pigs and Pups, Shaw wanted to go back to the office, rehash what they had learned, but North said he had to get home. He didn’t get in the car, though. He just stood there, fists balled up inside the Carhartt jacket so that they made big lumps in the pockets. He was pale in the gray surf from the sodium lamps; the goose egg on his head looked enormous, and blood from the split skin near his eye forked along his jaw and cheekbone.

“Are you sure you’re ok? Maybe I should drive you to an urgent care.”

“God, no.” But he didn’t get in the car.

“North, I really think—”

North surprised Shaw for the second time that night by embracing him again. The sudden rush of heat, of pressure from those strong arms, of the smell of American Crew and leather and Irish Spring and cigarette smoke—from the club, maybe?—hit harder than any punch, and Shaw couldn’t remember what he’d been about to say.

“That was fucked up in there,” North said, his face turned into Shaw’s neck.

Before Shaw could say anything, North released him, stepped back, and hurriedly got into the Dodge Caravan. The minivan clanked and clattered and gasped away from the curb. At the intersection, it died, and even through the Caravan’s closed windows, Shaw could hear North swearing.