Page 50 of Dirty Tricks

As it often does on Halloween, my thoughts return to the night when Xander and I first connected and the chaotic year that followed. After months of using their private investigators and getting nowhere, Finn’s parents finally reported him missing to the police.

They called me into a station, asking questions but not seeming to mind when I pointed out my memory was hazy, that the death of my father had overshadowed everything else. The little I said just reinforced the same story we’d gossiped into existence in the student common room.

By that time, I’d left school. My dad’s estate hit a few road bumps before it came fully into my possession, but the banks were happy to extend credit to tide me over, their eyes trained on the grand prize.

Xander stayed on at Kingswood for a year or so after, supporting his mother into yet another new rental, one we bought the instant the estate money came through.

He had some lingering entanglements to sort out at the school; contacts he’d made with figures on the wrong side of the law. His exit required gentle handling, but he got out and stayed out.

There’s just one lingering strand left between them; a line back in case anyone ever notices his stepfather’s missing. A concern that luckily hasn’t arisen at all in the past five years.

The car tyres crunch on gravel when we turn off the main road into our driveway. Once we’re through the tall gates, I breathe a sigh of relief. No matter how much fun we have in the great outdoors, it’s always a pleasure to return to the controlled safety of home.

After we’ve showered, after making love with slow tenderness while we examine the bruises and scrapes from the night’s adventures, I sit at the table, pulling the accounts folder close while my eyes scan the figures.

“Never a night off,” Xander murmurs but there’s no reproach in the words.

Since my dad’s inheritance came through, we’ve run a refuge, one that operates by word-of-mouth referrals. We care for those who trust us enough to find their way to our door, but we go one better when we need to.

A large chunk of our expenditure is dedicated to surveillance equipment, to investigators, to running down clues and gathering evidence; the goal for it to be presentable in court.

For those assailants who can’t be prosecuted, we make sure our suspicions are verified, that punishment is warranted, and then we serve the appropriate sentence outside of the law.

Tonight, once I finish reconciling the statements that need attention, I settle on the sofa with Xander’s arms wrapped around me. The forefinger I took from our latest target sits in the garage, its flesh dissolving away until, in a few days’ time, I’ll be left with nothing but bone.

Another addition to my necklace. A prized possession that almost never sees the light of day, but when it makes an appearance, the effort is worth it.

“Do you want to watch a movie or go to bed?”

I turn, letting my fingers wander along Xander’s chin, tracing his scars. “Bed. I’m too exhausted to keep my eyes open.”

“Lucky me,” he murmurs while my eyes narrow.

“And what exactly does that mean?”

He gifts me with a breathtaking smile. “It means when you’re really tired, you’re more likely to sleepwalk. And when you’re sleepwalking, it’s always a fantastic time.”

His honesty cracks me up and I succumb to a bout of giggles, turning within the circle of his arms so we’re facing each other.

“Guess I should give my subconscious a round of applause.”

Xander arches an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“It’s far better at picking boyfriends than my conscious mind ever was.”

“Yeah, it is.”

He kisses me and somewhere in there, I discover I’m not nearly as tired as I thought.

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