Junk Shop Blues (Criminal Intentions, #2)

by Cole McCade

Malcolm didn’t need a full-on case of hives just because their hands brushed in passing. Hands, or anything else. Not that he was thinking about that kiss. That kiss had meant nothing. Felt like nothing. Nothing at all.

Yeah, sure Malcom😉

Because you’re a stubborn asshole who won’t bend enough to admit that maybe, just maybe, that last case was too much for us.

Calm, implacable Seong-Jae, standing tall and unflappable in the doorway, his head cocked in that curiously inquisitive tilt that could mean I have no idea what you mean or I do not understand why you are so emotional, human, but I find the phenomenon quite fascinating.

“No.” Seong-Jae shrugged lightly. “He does not know me. He does not know my background, or what culture or privilege I have experienced, or my tastes, or my education. That he judges based on my occupation and clothing is his problem, not mine.”

“Sometimes your ice queen act can be useful.” “Why are you under the impression that my behavior is an act?” Malcolm sighed. “Wishful thinking, I suppose,” he said,

“You need only ask.” Snapping on the gloves, Malcolm fought the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s better than ‘as you say.’”

“Referring to the victims in the present tense even while handling their dead bodies.” Black irritation flashed through Malcolm. He growled. “If you don’t stop psychoanalyzing me, you can take the fucking bus back to the office.” “I would prefer a taxicab,” Seong-Jae retorted mildly.

Seong-Jae sighed. He really rather wasn’t overly fond of human interaction. They were much easier to deal with when they were dead.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he demanded in a droning voice with a thick New England accent. You could try not being such a fucking cartoon stereotype of yourself, Malcolm snarled mentally.

Seong-Jae gave him one of those too-bland looks. “So am I your good luck now?” “I don’t need your mouth right now, Seong-Jae,” Malcolm muttered—then flushed, a touch of heat creeping over his cheeks, down his throat, as he thought of Seong-Jae’s ripe, soft mouth, hot and needy and— He bit off a few more curses in Persian, and glowered at Seong-Jae.

you want to come do prelim before we cut garvey open Be there in a few, he tapped with his thumb. Thanks, Sten. i save all the best dead bodies for you

Sometimes, Seong-Jae thought Malcolm needed more looking after than the man would be comfortable admitting.

Is he melting your stone, then, Seong-Jae?

This close, Malcolm’s beard brushed Seong-Jae’s jaw, teased against his cheek and throat. “Deep scrapes.” Malcolm made a soft sound, rumbling low in his throat, deep enough for Seong-Jae to feel the vibrations. He pressed closer, his entire body against Seong-Jae’s side, all heat and firmness and hard-sculpted granite. His hand covered Seong-Jae’s without so much as an if-you-please, massive and enveloping him in warmth. Seong-Jae stiffened with an odd jolt in the pit of his stomach, jerking his head up, glaring at Malcolm, but the man didn’t even notice. He was completely and utterly engrossed, and used Seong-Jae’s hand and grip on the forceps to pry the wound wider, his gaze dark and searching.

But he felt like Malcolm was pretending he wasn’t there, avoiding eye contact, avoiding even looking in his direction. That shouldn’t sting. And it didn’t, he told himself. It didn’t.

Seong-Jae wrinkled his nose. “I do not like—” Malcolm’s elbow bit into his side. Seong-Jae closed his eyes, biting back a curse, clenching his jaw, then opened his eyes and forced out, “I would appreciate a glass as well.”

It still tasted better than the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Or the bitter annoyance that he even gave half a damn about Malcolm Khalaji and his irritating observations.

before George squinted one eye. “Usual for both of you?” “I’m good with that,” Malcolm said. “Marginally acceptable,” Seong-Jae added. “Marginally acce—” George broke off, glowering at Seong-Jae. “One of these days I’m going to poison your food.” “You say this as if said food is not an invitation to food poisoning at the onset.”

Seong-Jae was uncomfortable with his own body. That compact, efficient body language and those tight, controlled movements weren’t born of combat training or even some internal mental discipline. They were a reflection of a quiet, deep-seated insecurity that had probably lived in Seong-Jae since childhood, driving him to an economy of movement that was as unobtrusive as possible.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t find you oversized, awkward, uncomfortable, obtrusive, or vulgar.” “But I do take up too much space,” Seong-Jae observed. Malcolm sighed. He wasn’t going to lie, but that was a wholly different matter and Seong-Jae couldn’t be that damned oblivious.

“Transfer,” Malcolm said. “He’s actually my boss.” “Yeah?” Vasquez swept Seong-Jae with a slow once-over, then whistled low. “I wouldn’t mind being bossed around by someone that pretty, eh?” Seong-Jae recoiled. “Excuse me?” Malcolm dragged a hand over his face. “He’s straight and just trying to fuck with you. Don’t give him the attention he wants.”

Seong-Jae clenched his teeth, but made himself hold still while the strange man patted over him. Glock first, then the second Glock against his spine, then the Colt at his hip, the dagger against his calf, the second dagger up his left sleeve, the brass knuckles in his coat pocket—until the man was having trouble juggling everything. “What the fuck, Seong-Jae,” Malcolm said.

The grace in his movements was captivating; Malcolm had never seen anyone he liked to simply watch walk, but watching Seong-Jae move was like watching an elegant, slim blade in motion, wielded by a practiced hand. No one Malcolm had ever met married fey, foxlike beauty with cold-edged, killing strength with such smooth simplicity, and—

HE WOKE EYE TO BLACK, cool eye with Seong-Jae Yoon. Malcolm’s eyes drifted open to the painful glare of morning sunlight—blocked by the outline of a tall, angular body leaning over him. He blinked dully up at Seong-Jae, muddled thoughts registering only that he was sleepy and for some reason Seong-Jae was there, bent over the bed and looking down at him dispassionately.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” “You left your door unlatched,” Seong-Jae retorted smoothly. “And you did not answer when I called.” “I muted my phone for a reason.” Malcolm sighed and elbowed the pianist. “You. Wake up.”

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, is that your boyfriend?” “No,” Seong-Jae answered vehemently, just as Malcolm said, “No. He’s my partner.” When the pianist went pale, horror washing his expression blank, Malcolm swore. “For fuck’s sake, not like that. For work.”

Seong-Jae’s gaze dipped down Malcolm’s naked chest, and for a moment lingered at the line where the duvet covered his lap, and Malcolm couldn’t help the heated surge of interest

“You have my apologies,” he said, and pivoted on his heel to stride toward the door. “Hey,” Malcolm barked after him. Seong-Jae paused, poised mid-stride, and glanced back. “Yes?” “Don’t apologize if you don’t fucking mean it.” “Very well, then. You do not have my apologies,” Seong-Jae retorted. “And I will not be pleased if you are hung over and as foul today as you were yesterday.” “I already told him you’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to nag like one.” Malcolm snorted. If this wasn’t fucking déjà vu all over again. “Out, Seong-Jae.” Seong-Jae only made that soft tch sound under his breath, walked out, and closed the apartment door in his wake.

“No. You can’t have my number.” The pianist laughed. “Damn.” Then he cocked his head toward the door. “What about your partner’s?” “Get out,” Malcolm snarled, struggling not to laugh. “I’m surrounded by insolent wretches.”

That was the only reason. The only reason.

Once again that tie irritated Seong-Jae no end and for no reason, and he could very easily see himself curling it around his fist and choking Malcolm with it.

“You were late for you.” Malcolm just stared at him, then burst into soft, almost whispered curses in that musical language he occasionally switched into when Seong-Jae had particularly annoyed him—Persian,

He made a thoughtful sound, trailing Malcolm down the stairs. “It is not overwhelmingly terrible.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I’m too hungover to deal with traffic yet,” Malcolm said, rubbing his fingers against his temples. “And whose fault is that?” “Shove it, Seong-Jae.” “I think,” Seong-Jae said, flicking the Camaro’s alarm and rounding to the driver’s side, “you have done quite enough of that for both of us.” “Fuck off.” “You seem to have done quite a bit of that, as well.”

Fuck a stranger to stop thinking about Seong-Jae, and wake up with Seong-Jae standing over his bed, watching him with the same analytical impassivity with which he might watch a crime scene. For fuck’s sake.

“As you say,” he muttered. “As I goddamn well say.”

“No need,” Seong-Jae said, and reached up to grip the edge of the fence. He fit the toes of his boots into the cracks of the brick, then hefted himself up neatly, effortlessly, pulling himself onto the wall to rest on one knee at Malcolm’s side, the crow perched there lightly and on the verge of taking flight. “Showoff,” Malcolm muttered. “My height does have its advantages,” Seong-Jae replied, then vaulted lithely over the side and dropped down into the grass. Straightening smoothly, he held his arms up. “Would you like me to catch you?” “I hate you.” “Do you?”

If Wellington was ice, Seong-Jae was subzero glacial, his gaze as hard as black diamonds as he flicked Wellington over with an assessing look that said he saw nothing worth noting, before fixing on his face again as he spoke softly, a subtle undercurrent of menace in his dispassionate, husky voice. “If you would like, Mr. Wellington, you may have my badge number before I arrest you for attempted obstruction of justice.”

“I am aware that, at thirty-three, I am ten years your junior, and likely not the portrait of American masculinity that most are inclined to submit to.” Those swollen strawberry lips shaped each word so clinically, so dispassionately, that their very emptiness almost dripped with scorn.

“But I earned my rank as your superior, and I am tired of dancing around your sulking masculine ego.”

“You do know that in my culture, being allowed to use one’s given name is something of a privilege?” Malcolm eyed him, then sighed

“So why do you let me?” “Partially because I have grown accustomed to American ways, and very few Americans will even stop to question if they should use my given name upon learning of it. One adapts, or one spends a great deal of time perpetually angry. I only have so much energy to spare for that.” Seong-Jae shrugged. “Yet partially because I was attempting a…peace offering, I suppose. Even if I was not certain if you would recognize the significance of it.”

“It seemed like something. And it seemed like something when you started calling me Malcolm.” “Yes. ‘Something.’”

“No, Malcolm. It does not make me uncomfortable to permit you to use my name. Nor does it make me uncomfortable to use your name. We are partners.”

So it felt strange to know the taste of the soft, sighing sounds of Seong-Jae on his tongue, and know that every time he called the man’s name he was speaking to him with an intimacy that only Seong-Jae himself fully understood.

“As you say,” Seong-Jae replied, implacably as ever. “So then you have been irritable because—” “Stop right there,” Malcolm said. “You need to learn to quit while you’re ahead.” “I stop when I find the answers I seek.”

“Is this a relationship, then?” “Every partnership is.” Seong-Jae lofted one black dash of a brow. “You hardly seem the expert on partnerships.” “Ha fucking ha.” Malcolm snorted. “I’ve had partners in the past.” “Did something happen, to make you so vehemently against them?” “Seong-Jae?” “Yes?” Malcolm leaned over enough to nudge him with his elbow. “Remember what I said about knowing when to stop?” “Yes.”

“This is one of those moments when you should stop.” “As you say, then.” Seong-Jae inclined his head. “But Malcolm?” “Yeah?” “Either I am your partner or I am not.” That cool voice took on a touch of firmness. “I am not conveniently invisible when you do not want me there, or do not want to listen to me. I am aware that I have a tendency to self-efface, but if anything you seem determined to push me to the fringes.”

Seong-Jae looked over his shoulder, his expression almost too bland. “I am not particularly disinclined to my current assignment.” “If you shoot him,” she said, “I’ll look the other way.” “Anjulie!” Malcolm protested. Seong-Jae’s expression didn’t change. “I do not find that particularly humorous.”

“You wouldn’t,” Anjulie muttered. “Get out. Fix this,” she snarled. “Or I’ll shoot you myself.”