Page 62 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

***

The badge is step one, just enough to get them into the building. For the executive floor, they will need Ken’s handprint and a recording of his voice, stating his full name. Joy for all.

Good thing he enjoys his after-work with a side of clubbing.

***

Fortunately, B&G isn’t packed on weeknights.

There are some guys getting their groove on to the throbbing bass, but most have chosen to linger around the bar, sit at one of the tables clustered around the space, or chill near the dancefloor, back against the wall, because nothing says ‘too cool for school’ like a guy who’s sipping a beer and tapping one foot to the beat because he’s too scared to dance.

Toby’s brain translates the flashing strobe light into an oncoming headache. While he won’t pass for Singaporean even in this lighting, he isn’t the only foreigner and blends right in with a loud group of Americans that have claimed several tables on one side of the room.

Clutching his damp beer bottle, Toby keeps a subtle eye on Ken while doing his best to radiate fuck-off vibes—sure, he’s pleased that his tight button-down earns him more than his fair share of interested glances, but that’s neither here nor there when he needs his mind on the job and his own attention keeps spiraling in on Mike, who’s further down, reclining against the bar in a black, sleeveless top that leaves just enough to the imagination. Toby would suspect Mike of taunting him on purpose, but they aren’t here for another round of tug-of-war.

The tank top is for Ken’s sake. Toby’s libido would do well to remember that.

Speaking of Ken: he’s been inching closer to Mike, much like a dry-land crab doing a sideways shuffle. If he thinks he’s being subtle, Toby would be happy to enlighten him. (Of course he won’t.) Mike’s gaze flickers over occasionally, body angled slightly in Ken’s direction in a way that is inviting without seeming desperate for action. It’s smart, forcing Ken to take the first step: he is good-looking, yes, but Mike is the top catch of tonight’s crowd. He would see no need to throw himself at Ken.

Toby redirects his attention long enough to bestow a dismissive look on a guy who has squeezed in right next to him at the bar even though there’s enough space to go around. That’s when he notices that the guy is tall and dark-haired, really quite hot under the right light—and fuck, but cheap replacements aren’t Toby’s style.

He glances back at Mike in time to see Ken touch Mike’s elbow with a smarmy smile that he probably mistakes for charming. Bastard. Ken’s boyish face is hopeful, and sure, whatever, some might consider him attractive, but Toby isn’t into the jailbait twink kind of look, and he doesn’t think Mike is either. Ken’s biceps are really nothing to write home about; Toby could take him blindfolded.

Which is irrelevant. Mind on the fucking job.

From underneath his lashes, Toby watches as Mike tilts his head with a dark grin, playing up the mysterious stranger persona. It seems to be working for Ken. Taking a long pull of his beer, Toby pushes away from the counter and circles a little closer. He’s careful to stay on the periphery of Ken’s vision as he leans against the bar and sets his beer down, studying the drinks menu while Ken gyrates closer to Mike. Every lost inch of space ratchets Toby’s pulse up by another beat.

He keeps his face impassive when Mike activates the communication link. They agreed that there’s no use in here; any recording would be ruined by the amount of background noise. It doesn’t make sense for Mike to switch on his transmitter. All it means is that Toby gets to hear Mike’s low, intentionally husky suggestion of, “Your place?”

“Yes,” Ken answers quickly, eagerly, his faint accent smoothing out the words. “Yes, good. I live very close.”

Oh, we know.

Casually, like someone scanning the crowd and finding it lacking, Toby turns his head. Mike is leaning into Ken, but just as Toby glances over, Mike’s gaze moves in his direction, eyes black in the flickering strobe lights. Something sharply unpleasant twists in Toby’s stomach, but he refuses to look away first.

Ken sets his drink aside—some fruity concoction that suits him just fine—and slides his hand up to Mike’s shoulder, then glances at the club as if to gloat about his good fortune. Toby angles his body away so as to shield his face from view. He still hears Mike’s soft chuckle. “Perfect.”

It sparks a dark echo in Toby’s gut. Out of the corner of his eye, while pretending to check the contents of his wallet, Toby tracks Mike and Ken as they proceed to the exit. With a regretful look, Toby closes his wallet and moves along, casually snatching up the glass that contains the remnants of Ken’s drink while he’s got Mike’s voice in his ear, deceptively close, drawling suggestions that make Toby swallow convulsively. God, yes, he would drop to his knees for Mike, would open his mouth and—fuck.

This is why he can’t keep working with Mike: he doesn’t trust himself to put the job first.

Ken’s eager reaction works like a bucket of cold water. Vision clearing, Toby tilts the cocktail glass so the green-tinged light of the bar bounces off it, confirming what he already suspected. “Mike,” Toby mutters, lips unmoving. “The glass is useless. Get your boytoy to press his hand against a clean, flat surface that I can swipe for prints. And don’t take all night, will you? I’m really not interested in how much you can make him moan.”

Mike’s tone takes on a sudden hint of warm amusement. “Trust me.” While he must be addressing Ken, Toby is sure he’s just as much on the receiving end. Possibly more. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“I know you know what you’re doing,” Toby says, moving toward the exit, and wow, talk about layers of meaning. Fresh air, yeah—that’s what Toby needs to clear his head. Also, there’s no way around the fact that Toby needs to get a visual if he wants that handprint. “My point is, do it faster.”

The cooler night air feels like a slap in the face. It helps.

Once the door falls shut behind Toby, the music is suddenly muted and leaves him feeling as though his ears are filled with water, his brain needing a moment to adjust. He walks a few steps before he leans against a wall, pulling his phone out as he draws in a couple of slow, measured breaths. Only then does he look for Mike.

And... well, fuck. Toby hates this op.

He should have told Liu to shove it. Send some other team—any other team.

Curling his free hand into a fist, Toby focuses on the sharp edge of his own nails cutting into his palm. His phone display is bright in the sparsely lit backroad, but it doesn’t blind him to how a little over to the side, Ken is pressed up against Mike, full body contact. Mike’s back is against the side of a car, his head tipped back so he’s presenting Toby with only his profile, blue-tinted streetlight illuminating him. When he shifts to grant Ken better access to the column of his throat, his half-choked gasp resonates in Toby’s bones, all sounds emphasized now that the music is reduced to a faint throb in the background. Toby shouldn’t be staring, but it’s hard to form a coherent thought past that... that thing clawing away at his stomach.

No one is allowed to press Mike back against any kind of surface.

---