Hotline Fling

19: P-Whipped

Damian's POV

Houndstooth Pub, an upscale Midtown bar, was Jason's taste more than mine. Under thirty-foot ceilings with mahogany soffits, a lofted upper area was separated by wrought iron railings and filled with mid-week yuppies. I walked past the desperate eyes lingering near the entrance. Jason picked a table near the horseshoe-shaped, wood-paneled bar with a light granite top.

"Hey, man..." I stopped at Celia cuddling with Jason. Her white-blonde hair and pale skin stuck out anywhere, including the dim lighting here, and their googly eyes rolled my stomach with discomfort.

What the fuck was she doing here? I forced my mouth into what I hoped was a polite smile, but I was pissed as hell. Thanks to June, my Saturday evening was still enjoyable, but Jason and I rescheduled for tonight. Guys-only. They lived together, for fuck's sake. Couldn't she give us one night?

Based on the sloppy look on my cousin's face, gazing at Celia like they were alone in the packed bar, he was pussy-whipped. Returning to my condo for a solo evening sounded like a better use of my time.

"You look better." Jason got straight to the point when I slid into the seat across from him. I offered only a grunted acknowledgment of his existence. "Bring the bike?" he asked as I pulled off my leather jacket and hung it on my chair back.

Having walked a couple of blocks from my place, I shook my head and fixed my eyes on who he came with. "I work tomorrow."

"Good." His black eyebrows furrowed, but a smile spread across his face. "Light drinking tonight for you, heavy for me."

"Yeah." I rolled my eyes at his unsubtle reminder of the last time we'd gotten together. In hindsight, I appreciated Jason's intervention more than his pulling me out of the bar that night. In return, I'd call him a ride. Drunk or sober, there was no way I'd let him ride drunk on the back of my bike despite the extra seat extension.

"Hi, Damian," the squeaky one greeted me.

I took a menu off the table and blocked Celia's face with it. "Celia."

"Personally?" She chirped behind my menu block. Her voice that sounded so high-pitched, it was hard not to picture a child. "I think those are dangerous."

"You've obviously never ridden one." I lowered the menu and winked. "Instant orgasm, from what I've been told."

"You're so lewd." Her light gray eyes flashed with disappointment, but she smiled too sweetly. The smug version of her squeaky voice made my shoulders wrench up. "And I have Jason for that, thank you."

I almost threw up on my saliva. Jason also looked smug as fuck. "Celia–"

"I'm not going to interrupt a guy's night." She paused, studying me for a reaction to an incoming loaded question. Setup, setup, setup. "I'm meeting some work friends of mine at the bar next door."

"Perfect," I snapped. "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."

"Damian." Jason glared, but she rubbed a hand on his chest.

In Celia's only defense, I was in a beyond horrible mood. Between overtime Patrol shifts, we had a breakthrough on Baker Row. One of the Gang Division's undercover detectives identified one suspect as Édgar Santino, a twenty-three-year-old Dominican male. Relatively speaking, his mostly clean records included two drug possession arrests and parking tickets. His name match came back with an address, which traced our detectives, warrant in hand, to an abandoned Inwood apartment.

Vanishing suspects and persons of interest were common. Gang members often fled the city until the heat on them cooled down, but Santino wasn't in NYPD's or even ICE's gang affiliation databases. That left us with a name but a faceless first suspect, no clue about the second one, and a shitpile of frustration.