Page 47 of A Friend in the Glass

“Dude,” Shane said in that weirdly delusional whisper. “She told us to find out!”

“How ’bout a show of good faith?” Rufus interjected. “I got one of them on me. But only the one. I’ll give it to you. It’s in my pocket.”

“Nice try—” Chad began. And then he barked, “No!”

The sound of movement. The crunch of bone hitting bone.

Sam launched himself to his feet. The only luck of the day was that Chad had turned to face Rufus and Shane. Shane had both hands pressed to his face. Blood bloomed between his fingers. Rufus staggered away from him. A mark on his forehead—red turning to white—suggested what had happened.

Then Chad started to bring his gun up.

Sam charged into him. He caught Chad’s arm in one hand. With the other, he gripped the man’s belt. Adrenaline made Sam’s vision contract. He was only distantly aware of Chad’s weight as he lifted the man off his feet, spun, and slammed him face first into the panel of the elevator car—he thought he heard Chad’s already broken nose crumple again.

Chad’s gun went off. The clap deafened Sam. Chad twisted, trying to get free. His head wobbled on his neck.

Sam slammed him against the panel again. Chad’s struggles grew more disoriented. Shifting his focus, Sam hammered Chad’s hand—the one holding the gun—against the chrome safety rail. On the third blow, he felt something break, and Chad’s hand opened. The gun made a muffled thud when it hit the floor.

Sam dropped Chad and scooped up the gun. The elevator was tiny, but it felt like an eternity before he found Rufus. He was rubbing his forehead, a gun in his hand, scowling down. Shane lay on the floor, one hand over his broken nose, the other cupping his ’nads, moaning.

The elevator slowed. Stopped. Settled.

The doors opened with a ding. On the other side, bare concrete met them, and the smell of oil, and lights spaced far apart. A long way off, Sam thought he could hear traffic.

He grabbed Rufus, and they ran.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hotel 10 was actually located on East Eleventh Street, not Tenth, but it was several neighborhoods north of the Financial District—which was, in Rufus’s opinion, the fact to focus on. Tourists would probably refer to Hotel 10 as a “classy hostel,” but it was more like an upscale YMCA. The two-star joint had existed for as long as Rufus could remember. He’d always assumed it had once been a rich family’s home during the nineteenth century, surviving the test of time only because it’d been successfully chopped up into two dozen rentable rooms. Such extreme changes to its interior had left the public hallways of each floor almost maze-like in their appearances, with some so crooked and narrow that a grown man’s shoulders would rub either wall as he made for his room. And the low wattage bulbs—which made it easier to hide torn wallpaper and hundred-year-old scuffed floors—cast such an ethereal glow Rufus felt almost certain he’d turn a corner and see Alice chasing after a white rabbit, and it’d turn out that he was in Wonderland this whole time.

But no. This wasn’t Wonderland.

This was New York.

And Hotel 10 might have been trippy, but it was also cheap, short-staffed, with no questions asked.

Opening the door to room 7 on the fourth floor, Rufus made a sound in the back of his throat. The flowery green wallpaper across the six-sided room, the threadbare, pink paisley bedspread, and the maroon shade on the lone window was really an assault on the senses. A cheap shelving unit had been installed on the wall opposite the foot of the bed, allowing for barely enough space to squeeze between the two. It was loaded with a small television, microwave, and desktop telephone. Sitting atop the microwave was a pile of folded towels and two tiny complimentary bars of soap. Beside the furniture was a sink. The actual bathroom was back the way they’d come and shared with the rest of the fourth-floor guests.

Rufus pulled his beanie off and turned around as Sam closed the door behind them. “I like it,” he started, trying his hardest for a smile. “It’s… very colorful.”

“It’s definitely that.”

Rufus caught his reflection in the small mirror above the sink. He leaned down for a better look, then straightened and asked, “Does my forehead have a bruise, or is that just the lighting in here?”

Sam reached up. His thumb traced a line of sensitive skin, and then he bent and kissed Rufus’s forehead. “It’s a bruise, baby. You knocked his block off.”

“I don’t think I did it right.”

“You did it right. It hurts like a bitch any way you do it.”

Rufus stared up at his boyfriend’s deep brown eyes. So hard, so soft, so critical, so beautiful. “They were gonna kill us, Sam.”

Sam let out a shaky breath and nodded.

Rufus shrugged out of his jacket and sweatshirt before dropping onto the foot of the bed. Tiredly, he gave the mattress a light inviting pat.

Sam turned himself out of his coat more slowly. When he sat, the bed sank under his weight, and Rufus rocked into him. He ran a hand over Rufus’s head, brushing his fingers through Rufus’s hair.

“I’m not naïve,” Rufus said as he put his head on Sam’s shoulder. “I know most politicians don’t give a damn about the people they represent. But until now, the closest I’ve gotten to actual ‘government conspiracy’ was a few dirty cops.”

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