Page 34 of The Evening Wolves

The rest of the jackasses cracked up even harder.

“What?”

John-Henry couldn’t help the disbelieving laugh that broke free. He swatted Emery’s arm. Then again. Emery warded him off, chuckling.

“What?” he asked again.

“What are you—how can you—shut up!”

Emery’s grin spread. Somehow, all that swatting turned into John-Henry tucked under Emery’s arm. Emery kissed his hair. John-Henry wasn’t sure the last time he’d blushed, but he felt fifteen years old all over again.

When the collective dumbasses had regained a semblance of control, John-Henry realized they were waiting for him to say something. He shot North a dirty look, and then said, “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. To any of you. I love you guys. This is my—”

“Five bucks he says responsibility,” Jem said.

Tean slapped his hand, and a grin exploded across Jem’s face.

“Five bucks Emery gets a stiffy,” North muttered.

John-Henry grappled for what he wanted to say, but finally he said, “I don’t know what I want to say.”

The words were meant for Emery, but of course, the peanut gallery had to chime in.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Theo said.

“We love you too,” Shaw said. “That’s why we’re here.”

“After,” Auggie said, “when this is all over, you can buy us a beer and say thanks. That’s all you’ve got to say.”

John-Henry shook his head. He was surprised how thick his voice felt, how difficult it was to say, “Thank you.”

Emery kissed his hair again, drawing John-Henry tight against him. Then he said, “This is all well and good, but it doesn’t address the fact that my grocery bill has quadrupled, or the fact that there’s not one fucking corner of this house where I can get five seconds of privacy.”

“What fucking grocery bill?” North said. “Buy some fucking tortilla chips. Buy some fucking cheese.” He turned to the other men. “You know what he’s got in the fridge? A bag of pre-shredded, store-brand cheddar.”

“No,” Jem murmured in what John-Henry hoped was mock outrage.

“Yeah,” North said. “It’s a fucking debacle.”

“I’m not sure now is the best time—” Tean began.

“I’ve been checking the local news all morning,” Auggie said, “but there’s nothing about anybody called Jace Vermilya—holy shit.” He sat up straight and turned his phone to show the others. “Is this him?”

The photo showed a blond, blue-eyed man receiving an award at some kind of ceremony. The suit didn’t hide the fact that he was a big guy, and he had the neck and shoulders of an action hero. When John-Henry had seen him the night before, his lips had been blue with the cold.

The room quieted.

“I know that dude,” Jem said. “I’ve seen him before.”

“He was at the Cottonmouth Club,” Auggie said. “I saw him arguing with Gid the night I went there. Him and Eric—remember, I told you I’d seen Eric there?”

“We remember, pint-size,” North said, but his voice was subdued. “You’re sure?”

Auggie nodded, but it was Jem who spoke: “It’s totally him. He was there the night I met up with DeVoy.”

“Well, that’s something,” Emery said. “Now we know there’s a connection. Whoever this guy is, he’s not a good citizen who’s made a terrible mistake, and he’s not a pawn who’s been coerced or manipulated into perjuring himself. He’s part of this.”

“So, what happened last night?” Tean asked.

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