Black Mustard: Justice Read Online Free Page A

everything. Smell the flowers from a foot away from his head, their perfume heady and perfect and belonging nowhere on earth but right here.
    He took another shot of his bourbon.
    It wasn’t a normal night, though.
    It wasn’t at all.
    He hadn’t even bothered to take off his slacks, his button-down, even his shoes when he’d locked up for the weekend, stumbled upstairs with a pounding head and tear-blurred eyes and grabbed a bottle and a low ball glass. His tie was off, but it had been off downstairs, before he ever got the call.
    Jesus, life wasn’t fair.
    He heard the knock like it was from a million miles away, then he heard the scrape of the deadbolt scratching along. He didn’t look.
    He didn’t have to.
    There was one man in this city with a key to his place; one man who’d have seen the locked office and thought to worry.
    Loic’s worried, pinched face appeared in the door. “Justice?”
    “You ever find it ironic that the only word you can say is my name, cher?”
    Loic scribbled. “You ever find it ironic that your name is the only legal term that makes sense? What the fuck is wrong?”
    “Modette.”
    Loic’s head tilted, eyebrows lowering, and one of those long hands made a curious motion.
    “Heart attack. This morning. Massive. She didn’t even make it to the infirmary.”
    Loic stumbled forward. “Justice!”
    Justice was fairly sure Loic meant ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’, maybe ‘goddamn’, since that was the right amount of syllables.
    He nodded, the tears coming close again. “She just died, cher. I was there with her, not twelve hours earlier, and she was singing to me, telling me some of her bullshit stories.” And he wasn’t ever going to be able to help her.
    Loic sat next to him, one hand on his thigh, and Justice reached down, needing to hold onto something. Loic was solid, warm, just what he needed.
    “God damn it, ain’t I ever going to make a difference? To anyone? We keep fighting and fighting and, if some asshole with money and delusions of grandeur don’t get in our way, then the good Lord does.”
    It wasn’t fair.
    It wasn’t. Modette had deserved her story to be out there, to teach her classes.
    Loic didn’t say a word -- like Loic could, for fuck’s sake -- but that hand stayed on him, holding on. Touching him. Like a rock.
    “I mean it.” He poured another couple of fingers, offered Loic the glass, pleased when the man took it. “We fight and fight, and shit still happens. I just... fuck, I’m mad. I can’t believe we’re not going to run up to the prison and go see her Monday.”
    That hand shifted, rubbing his thigh, and Justice took it as a sign to keep going, keep talking.
    “We do this and do this -- nobody fucking respects us, how hard we work, how we’re trying to make things fair and decent and good in the world. Assholes are making a fortune being assholes and you and me? Shit.” He wasn’t starving -- hell, if he was honest, he wasn’t even close to hurting -- but it wasn’t fair, damn it.
    Loic shot his drink, hand still right there.
    “She wasn’t perfect, cher, I know this, but she was my friend.” Somehow or the other, they all became his friends. He leaned down, put his head in his hands, let himself wallow in it a minute.
    They were off work hours, weren’t they?
    Shit yes.
    Off work and mourning and drinking.
    ***
    Loic watched and listened, the rambles a familiar song, something he had in his bones, now.
    Justice rang in him, balls deep.
    He hummed and let Justice rant and reminisce while he luxuriated in the feel of that rock-hard thigh against his palm. The way the muscles jumped and jerked made him a little stupid, really, a little dry-mouthed.
    A lot hard.
    His thumb was on the seam of Justice’s jeans, rubbing in the slowest line, touching and feeling all at once. This close Justice smelled like Ivory soap and tobacco, whiskey and leather.
    He licked his lips, swallowed his moan and the need to lean down and rest his head in