Ethan waited in silence, each passing second deepening his uncertainty. At last, the distant sound of an engine broke the stillness. A car was approaching the house slowly. As it drew closer, the pressure in his chest increased, an uneasy feeling creeping over him.
The heavy footsteps that followed after the engine stopped only heightened his concern.
His body reacted before he could think. In one smooth, precise movement, he brought both hands behind his back, concealing what he was doing. The familiar cold steel of his Beretta touched his skin, and his fingers closed naturally around the grip. The pistol caught the dim light, offering reassurance—or the promise of an impending confrontation.
Keeping his breathing steady, Ethan adjusted his position and listened closely.
The door opened, and Hood appeared in the doorway.
At the sight of Ethan's tense expression, he burst out laughing. Ethan returned the gun to his storage space, grabbed a pillow, and hurled it at him.
Hood caught it, lowered it, and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes.
—I'll get going. Looks like you two have things to discuss. I'll leave you to it.
Siobhan appeared behind him, holding a pillow, and spoke apologetically.
—Sorry. He saw your car outside and insisted on coming in to take a look.
Under Ethan's murderous glare, Hood suppressed another smile, turned, and left. A moment later, the door closed behind him.
The room fell silent.
Clutching the pillow, Siobhan sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Ethan timidly, nothing like the determined woman who had stormed out earlier. Her clothes were dusty, the corners of her mouth were swollen, and her knuckles were bruised. She looked as though she had been through a vicious fight.
—Are you okay? Tell me you smashed that asshole's face in —Ethan said, clearing his throat and breaking the silence.
Siobhan clenched her fist and winced, but beneath the pain, she felt an immense sense of relief.
—He'll never come looking for me again —she said with a slight smile, determination in her eyes.
Brice's abuse had cast a shadow over her life for years, and the large scar on her shoulder constantly reminded her of what she had endured.
That was why she had joined the Banshee Police Department: she had wanted to change her life. Now that she had confronted her demons and put the past behind her, she felt happier than she had in a long time.
—Where's Brice? I hope you didn't go too far. I don't want you losing your job over that piece of trash —Ethan said, leaning against the headboard.
—Don't worry. I knew what I was doing. I only broke the arm he hit me with —Siobhan replied, taking a deep, relieved breath.
Ethan nodded without asking for details. Hood bringing her home meant the situation was under control. A sheriff's authority and resourcefulness weren't to be underestimated. Even an agency like the FBI could be pushed back against if necessary.
—You're not too angry with me, are you? —Siobhan asked anxiously.
Ethan shook his head. He understood that she had needed to handle this herself. Otherwise, she might never have escaped the shadow it had left over her.
He moved his arm, making the handcuffs clink against the bedpost.
—Hurry up and uncuff me. I need the bathroom.
Siobhan stuck out her tongue, quickly retrieved the key from her pocket, and released him.
—By the way, how did you manage to contact Hood? —she asked curiously.
Ready for the question, Ethan took the phone from his trouser pocket and showed it to her, a gleam in his eyes.
Siobhan noticed his expression and immediately sensed trouble. She got up quickly, intending to escape.
—You really think you're getting away?
Ethan caught her arm and pulled her back onto the bed.
She tried to rise, but he held her down with his free arm.
Siobhan let out a theatrical squeal and, after a brief, playful struggle, stopped resisting. Looking up at him with a teasing smile, she asked:
—What are you planning to do?
Ethan gritted his teeth.
—Just returning the favor.
He held up the handcuffs still in his hand.
—I hold grudges, you know. You left me trapped here for over half an hour, so now you're staying put for an hour. Seems fair, doesn't it?
Siobhan pursed her lips, considered it for a moment, then obediently brought her hands together.
Ethan smiled in satisfaction and cuffed her to the bedpost without hesitation.
After flexing his wrist, he left the room.
Ignoring Siobhan's calls, he found the remaining bottle of red wine from the night before. He removed the cork, drank straight from the bottle, and lit a cigarette, finally feeling himself relax.
He returned to the bedroom and settled into the chair at the foot of the bed, crossing his legs as the cigarette glowed between his fingers.
With a defiant look, Siobhan kicked off her shoes, sending them against the wall near Ethan.
—Well? Are you just going to leave me handcuffed?
Ethan stood and took her by the ankles.
—Of course not. But this will do for now.
Siobhan bit her lip, her breathing quickening.
An hour later, Ethan emerged into the living room in a good mood and took a can of beer from the refrigerator. It hissed as he opened it, and he took a long drink.
—Bring me one too, you bastard.
Siobhan's voice drifted from the bedroom, husky and languid.
—Give me a minute.
Ethan grabbed another can and closed the refrigerator.
As he turned to head back to the bedroom, something hanging on the wall caught his attention.
Siobhan's police uniform hung neatly beside the coats. Ethan paused, looking at it as a slow smile spread across his face.
Without another thought, he took the uniform and walked toward the bedroom, his steps quiet and assured. Through the half-open door, he saw Siobhan standing with her back to him, letting down her hair after the long day. Her movements were weary, but the atmosphere shifted when he entered with the uniform in his hand.
—Look what I found —Ethan said playfully, holding it up and raising an eyebrow.
Siobhan turned slowly, curiosity and restrained desire in her dark eyes. A spark passed between them, a silent understanding that had lingered for weeks, waiting for the right moment.
—And what are you planning to do with that? —she asked, her voice measured and teasing as she leaned against the dresser and folded her arms.
Ethan approached without looking away, setting the uniform on the bed. He stopped only inches from her, close enough to feel her warmth.
—Maybe you should put it on… —he whispered, slipping one hand around her waist while the other traced her neck and moved slowly toward her cheek.
Siobhan gave a quiet laugh, the air charged with an anticipation they had both been holding back. Their lips met suddenly, releasing the desire that had built between them. The kiss began with restrained passion, then quickly grew deeper and more urgent.
Ethan slid his hands beneath Siobhan's shirt, her warm skin prickling under his touch. She drew him closer, abandoning whatever restraint she had tried to maintain. The uniform lay forgotten on the bed, a symbol of the boundary they both knew they were about to cross.
Ethan gently lifted her and carried her toward the bed without breaking the kiss. Siobhan stopped him for a moment, searching his face with emotion-filled eyes, as though she needed to know they wanted the same thing.
—Are you sure? —she asked, her voice serious, with a vulnerability she rarely showed.
She needed no further answer. The way he drew her close and whispered in her ear, his voice carrying both desire and tenderness, told her everything.
What followed was an intimate exchange of touch and emotion, each caress and kiss releasing something they had kept beneath the surface.
The next morning, Ethan woke full of energy. With Siobhan's thigh draped over him, it was hardly surprising.
—You awake? —Siobhan whispered, shifting her leg slightly.
Ethan turned toward her and saw her blinking sleepily, still wearing the same shirt from the night before.
—Smoking is bad for you —he said, taking the cigarette from her lips and shaking his head before exhaling a mouthful of smoke.
—What time is it? —Siobhan asked, glancing at the clock on the bedside table.
—Still early. How about a little more exercise? —she suggested with a mischievous smile.
Ethan stubbed out the cigarette and nodded.
—Exercise is good for you.
After another sweaty round of "exercise," they headed to the bathroom. While they showered, Siobhan noticed the scar on the back of Ethan's thigh and bent down to examine it.
—Is this from last time? It's not very big. You could have it treated. A friend of mine is a doctor in New York. Want me to contact her?
The wound Martin had inflicted had healed, but the scar remained. Ethan hadn't given it much thought, though after hearing her suggestion, he nodded.
—If it's not too much trouble, I'd appreciate that —he said quietly.
After taking a breather in the bathroom, they left for the station.
A week later, Siobhan handed Ethan a business card.
—I spoke to my friend. She's expecting you, so you can go whenever you're ready.
Ethan looked over the card. "Marie Sebastian" was printed in black on the white surface, with a phone number and an address on the back. Something about the name stirred his curiosity. He decided to use his day off to visit New York. If he left immediately, he could make the trip, see what awaited him at that address, and be back for his morning shift in two days.
New York wasn't far from Banshee, and Ethan was no stranger to long drives. Without wasting time, he packed a backpack with a few changes of clothes, his gun, and some cash. His shift was over, and the sunset still painted the sky orange and purple as he climbed into his Dodge Challenger. The engine roared to life, and he drove out of town.
He followed Banshee's quiet roads toward the interstate, leaving the town lights behind as darkness settled over the landscape. With every mile, the stillness of the countryside gave way to highway signs, passing headlights, and the steady hum of traffic.
For the first few hours, familiar scenery surrounded him: dense forests, gentle hills, and the occasional glimpse of an animal crossing the road. As night deepened, lights grew more numerous and the landscape changed. Fields and hills gave way to large, illuminated buildings rising against the dark sky. The highways became busier, crowded with trucks and cars converging on New York.
Finally, after several hours behind the wheel, fatigue beginning to weigh on his shoulders, Ethan saw the imposing towers of the vast international metropolis. The glittering skyscrapers rose like guardians of steel and glass as traffic thickened and the city's restless rhythm enveloped him.
Looking at the stylish men and women on the sidewalks, Ethan glanced down at his shoes, jeans, and white shirt. He smiled and shook his head. No wonder Job kept saying Banshee was a backwater that smelled of cow shit.
After half an hour of navigating traffic, he reached a quieter neighborhood. Fortunately, there were no homeless people on the streets, and a patrol car passed as he stepped out. Without those reassuring signs, Ethan would have worried about whether his car would still be there the next morning.
He closed the door and called Job. The line disconnected after a few seconds. As he tried again, a voice called from above.
—Hey! Up here!
Ethan looked up. Job was leaning out of a fifth-floor window, waving at him.
—How do I get in? —Ethan called, spreading his hands.
Job pointed to one side.
—Through the front door, then take the elevator. If you're too stupid to find the entrance, you can fly up!
He shut the window before Ethan could reply. Ethan locked the car and soon reached the fifth floor. After checking the apartment number, he knocked several times and heard movement inside. One lock clicked, then another, then a third, before Job opened the door.
—Is it dangerous around here?
Ethan bumped fists with him and stepped inside. Job secured the doors behind them.
—Sit wherever you want. You don't get it—you can never be too careful, especially in this city.
Ethan knew Job was comfortably off, but he hadn't expected such an unusual apartment. It was remarkably bare, with almost no decoration. Several beanbag chairs surrounded a glass table in the living room, and an unusual-looking hookah stood in the center.
The apartment had an unfinished feel, with a concrete floor and a display cabinet and refrigerator against the wall. Job opened the refrigerator and tossed him a bottle of mineral water.
—How long are you staying?
—Not sure. Probably a couple of nights.
Ethan didn't explain exactly why he had come. How long he stayed would depend on how things went.
—Fine. You can sleep in here —Job said, opening a door to reveal a new mattress and two duvets on the floor. —Bought all of it today. Make yourself comfortable.
—Thanks —Ethan said, raising the water bottle.
—Fuck you. Of course you should thank me. I haven't forgotten my first night at your place, sleeping on the floor next to Sugar.
Job folded his arms, feigning annoyance. He would never understand how this guy's mind worked. Ethan chuckled, returned to the living room, and dropped into a blue beanbag chair.
—I'm trying to be polite, but this place really doesn't suit you. Honestly, I expected something more luxurious.
Job settled into another beanbag and answered casually.
—I rent more than a dozen places in New York and move every week. Any idea what it would cost to decorate all of them? I'm not rich.
—By the way, I only have one rule —he added, adjusting the hookah in front of him.
—Let's hear it —Ethan said casually.
—Don't tell anyone about my personal life. Actually, forget it. You're a bastard anyway. Probably even messier than I am.
Job took several draws from the hookah, exhaling smoke scented with mixed fruit.
—Fuck you. I'm not that kind of person.
—Really? —Ethan scoffed. —How sweet is the mayor's wife?
Without flinching, Job gestured for him to take the hose.
—She's a friend. I keep her company now and then.
—Sure. And Clinton was just giving his secretary editorial advice at midnight. Got any other stories?
Accustomed to Job's complaints, Ethan picked up a disposable mouthpiece from the table. He removed the wrapper, fitted it onto the red hose, and inhaled deeply. Fruity smoke filled his lungs, then billowed into the room as he exhaled.
—Any plans tonight? —Job asked.
—Yeah —Ethan replied with a nod.
—Such as? —Job asked, crossing his legs.
—Following you wherever you go —Ethan said with a shrug.
Job briefly choked, then looked at him with a gleam in his eyes.
—I've had something planned for a while. Shower first and put on something decent. I can still smell cow shit on your clothes. We're going to a club I know.
Satisfied, Ethan went to the window and looked out over New York at night.
By midnight, while ordinary people were asleep, the night owls were preparing to head out.
Job wore a striking outfit: a black leather skirt, a white shirt, a towering wig, and vivid purple eyeshadow. Seeing Ethan in the same clothes he had worn all day, he swore.
—Goddamn it. If you're going dressed like that, stay away from me.
—Come on. We're going out to have fun, not walk a runway —Ethan said, slipping on a leather jacket without concern.
—Style. Do you understand the word?
—With a face like mine, the girls won't care what I'm wearing.
Ethan laughed and left the apartment first. Job shut the door irritably and followed him into the elevator.
Since they were going out to enjoy themselves, they left the car behind and took a taxi to Brooklyn. Watching the nighttime scenery change around him, Ethan soon lost all sense of direction.
Before long, they arrived in another out-of-the-way neighborhood. As Ethan stepped out, he saw a long line of people eagerly waiting to get inside. He followed Job past them, enjoying the sight of attractive women in eye-catching outfits.
—Fuck off. Move, bitch! —Job snapped as they passed, drawing irritated looks from several people.
Ethan glanced at him with a wry smile.
Job ignored the looks and kept walking as though he were on a red carpet, clearly enjoying the reactions he provoked.
Ethan quickened his pace and caught up.
—We're just walking in?
Job gave him a haughty look.
—Relax. You're with me. Let me show you how things work on my turf —he said with a sly smile.
Without stopping, Job approached the entrance. Two enormous men in dark suits, looking as though they had stepped out of a gangster film, stood behind a velvet rope.
At many of America's most exclusive clubs, this kind of entry control was standard. Occupancy rules limited the number of people allowed inside, and exceeding capacity could bring serious penalties.
Bouncers therefore kept watch at the door, admitting more guests only when others left. On busy nights, only a few people got in at a time. If you wanted to know whether a club was popular, you only had to look at the line outside.
Job reached the front, raised his hand, and greeted one of the bouncers with a handshake. The man immediately unhooked the rope and let them through.
Protests erupted behind them. Job raised his middle finger without looking back and walked inside.
—You come here a lot? —Ethan asked, looking around curiously.
—No —Job replied with a smirk. —But here, I'm a super VIP.
Ethan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He followed Job through a pair of thick, soundproof doors, and a wave of noise struck him. Electronic music thundered through the club, vibrating in his bones as his heartbeat seemed to fall into rhythm with it.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, spilled alcohol, and expensive perfume. Beneath the strobe lights, the dance floor was a sea of bodies moving together. Men and women danced without inhibition, lost in the chaotic energy of the room.
Flashing lights washed the crowd in shifting colors, adding to the charged atmosphere. Ethan followed Job to a secluded booth with an ideal view. It was discreet, yet overlooked both the dance floor and the stage.
Recognizing Job, a waiter removed the rope and let them into the seating area. Once they had settled onto the cushioned sofa, he handed them a drinks menu. Job glanced at it without interest and set it aside. The elaborate names were enough to give anyone a headache.
Ethan lit a cigarette and looked toward the dance floor, where a woman in a tight outfit was dancing energetically. He looked more closely, then turned to Job in disbelief.
—Is that woman a man?
Job looked delighted, which reassured Ethan. He knew he wasn't going to get drunk enough to go home with two men at the end of the night.
Soon, several drinks covered the table. They were clearly there to flirt, and before long, the booth filled with company. Provocatively dressed women gathered on Ethan's side, while men in extravagant outfits with feminine mannerisms gathered around Job.
As Ethan chatted with a woman in a close-fitting dress, Job tapped his arm.
—I've got something to take care of. Be right back.
—Sure, no problem —Ethan replied with a casual wave, barely looking away from his conversation.
After a while, the music slowed, the lights dimmed, and the dancing stopped.
—What's happening? —Ethan asked a man in gothic clothing sitting beside him.
—Tonight's show is about to start —the man replied excitedly, clapping.
—A show?
—Yeah. It's amazing. Just wait.
With growing curiosity, Ethan lit another cigarette. The lights went out, then two spotlights illuminated the stage. A man in an elaborate gown and heavy makeup stood with his back to the audience.
Upbeat music suddenly filled the room. The performer began moving to the rhythm, raised one hand, and snapped his fingers. At his signal, dancers in revealing ballet costumes bounded onto the stage, lining up behind him with nimble, sensual movements.
Drink in hand, Ethan watched with narrowed eyes. The music swelled, the lights brightened, and the blond performer turned gracefully, lifting a microphone to sing.
Ethan stopped drinking. Despite the costume and makeup, the person onstage was unmistakably Job.
Completely absorbed in his performance, Job jumped onto a sofa with a bottle in his hand and encouraged everyone to dance. Under his direction, the club erupted with energy, men and women alike joining the party.
Seeing the audience's enthusiasm, Job winked at Ethan and came down from the stage toward his booth. The dancers followed, their long legs surrounding him as Ethan's corner became the center of attention.
Just as the party reached its peak, a shrill voice cut through the music.
—Hey, freak! Nice outfit. Did your daddy buy it before or after he caught you?
Job froze for an instant, then scratched his neck with the microphone. The music stopped immediately.
—Sorry, the music was too loud. Could you repeat that?
He pointed the microphone toward a nearby table occupied by three middle-aged men. The club fell silent, and everyone turned to look.
One of the bald men leaned back in his chair with a provocative smile.
—Didn't hear me? I'll say it again. I said someone gave you those clothes for letting them catch you.
The crowd began to boo, but the bald man seemed to enjoy the attention. When security approached, Job raised a hand to stop them.
—This is a place where everyone can express themselves freely. That includes these three gentlemen.
The crowd quieted. Job returned to the stage and pointed toward their table as a spotlight settled on them.
—Actually, I admire them. It must have taken a lot of courage to come here, especially while struggling with their repressed homosexuality. Imagine having to drink that much just to forget what they do to each other.
Laughter exploded throughout the club. The three men's faces flushed with embarrassment and anger. One of them suddenly stood and charged onto the stage.
—Sorry, honey. You're not my type —Job said, shaking his head before lifting the hem of his skirt and kicking him off the stage.
Security moved in immediately and dragged the men out of the club.