Chapter Text
-
When Pete gingerly steps through the doorway, he notices Porsche on the couch. He’s piled in blankets, phone still in his hand. Pete quietly slips off his shoes by the door, then makes his way through the room, careful not to wake him.
Like on autopilot, Pete goes to his room, collects a change of clothes, and enters the bathroom. As he strips, he observes himself in the mirror. All he can do is stare. There is that sense of something already seen, followed by the sense that he is on a precipice, just about to come crashing down.
Pete, transformed in the aftermath of violence. Familiar.
Pete, transformed in the aftermath of sexualized (?) violence. Entirely new.
A constellation of scratches and forming bruises all over his body. A bite (again), deep enough to leave the reddened imprint of Vegas’s teeth. A particularly nasty discolored splotch at the bridge of his nose.
Pete catalogues these new additions with detachment. The marks on his arms can be hidden by clothes, but the bruise on his face, not so much. Only impacts or blows cause blood vessel leakage under the skin like that. Ironically enough, the on-the-fly boxing accident excuse he gave Macau is good cover. That is what he will use, then.
Pete brings his hands up to his shoulder and winces. The skin is hot to the touch, the shoulder starting to swell. As the context flashes into Pete’s mind – the image of Vegas leaning over him, considering eyes watching him, seeing him, those hands turning Pete into a new version of himself – Pete’s face goes hot.
Pete debrides the wounds that broke skin.
Pete showers, trying to drown out his thoughts with a shock of cold water.
It doesn’t work.
Even after donning his sleepwear, bandaging wounds, drying his hair, washing his face, brushing his teeth, climbing into bed, after everything that has happened today, he can’t sleep.
Compelled by something he can’t quite understand, Pete reaches for his headphones on the bedside table. Taps on his phone, spools something up, then lays the phone at his side. He listens intently: The ambient background noise of pulsing music. Then, two voices. Furniture crashing. Repetitive and loud, wet, muffled choking sounds. Muted talking. Then, ambient music again.
Sleep eludes him for a long while.
-
When Pete wakes the next day, he feels like garbage. He oversleeps until noon, far past his usual wake-up time.
Porsche is still out. Pete brushes his teeth, checks on his wounds and re-dresses them. The bruise on his face has now graduated to a dark purple-pink. How wonderful.
Pete starts his day. He eats some fruit, pours coffee from the pot Porsche left for him, and prints out all the file photos he took on their small home printer. But only after an hour or so, he grows tired. He decides to exercise to wake himself up. Usually, Pete would chalk up and lift weights in the living room, or maybe go out to the boxing gym, but Pete doesn't feel like encountering other people and having to explain why he’s so busted up today. Pete opts to blast music in his headphones and do sets of exercises in his room until he drops.
By the time Pete emerges from his room, limbs trembling in the aftermath of pushups and squats until failure, Porsche is back. Something seems off, though. Porsche is shirtless, leaning over the sink in the bathroom. He didn’t turn on the bathroom light. He looks deep in thought, zoning out, so much so that he does not even notice Pete until he stands at the doorway.
“Porsche? Are you okay?”
Now that he’s closer, Pete does a small double-take. Porsche looks battered, his chest covered in what looks like friction burns.
“You look like garbage, man. Physical training did a number on you, huh?” Pete whistles. “What happened?”
“Kinn happened,” Porsche says wearily, adjusting his jaw as he stands up straight.
It’s not often that people direct from the precinct come to supervise the academy rookies, and rarer Kinn or Tankhun does. But whenever they do, it’s always brutal.
“I know exactly how you feel,” Pete says sympathetically, leaning against the doorway. He sucks air between his teeth. “Those Ayutthayas are something else… There was one time… That day… Mr. Tankhun… He had us do air chair squats for an entire day. Damn!”
“Kinn has something against me, I swear,” Porsche grumbles. “I make one joke about his Angry Birds eyebrows and he–”
Porsche finally turns to look at Pete, and then he’s the one doing a double-take.
“Fucking hell, Pete. Are you okay?!” Porsche looks Pete up and down, cringing.
“Is it really that bad?” Pete frowns.
“Wait, wait, wait a damn minute, hold on,” Porsche says, all the exhaustion melting off him. “What happened last night? When did you get back? Did you find Vegas’s office? Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?!”
Then, Porsche wrinkles up his nose, gaze moving down to the middle of Pete’s face. Probably where that ugly bruise is. Porsche’s face starts to get that analytical lean to it again. “And what happened to your face?”
For a second, Pete is nervous. It’s obvious Pete got into a fight. If Porsche starts asking about all his wounds, sees that second bite on his shoulder, puts together the dots… Pete doesn’t know if he’s thick-faced enough to talk about the situation as if he’s the victim here. His body has responded in such a shameless way to pain not once, but twice. Pete is disturbed by his autonomic response to the situation. Normal people aren’t attracted to psychopaths who bite them.
But Pete has free will. He can lie.
Porsche doesn’t know what happened. Doesn’t know that Vegas was the one who caught him red-handed. Can’t see the bite, because Pete is wearing a t-shirt.
“You were sleeping so peacefully. How could I wake you?”
“Dude,” Porsche raises an eyebrow at him, “This sort of thing warrants waking me up. I was worried about you, idiot. Tell me what happened.”
“Fine, but you’re gonna need to sit for this one,” Pete says, beckoning Porsche to follow him as he heads over to the couch. “It’s a lot.”
-
Surrounded by papers organized in haphazard piles, Pete and Porsche sit cross-legged on the living room floor. Even though it is evening, the two of them still have not finished looking through even half of all the printed papers. Half-eaten plates with sticky rice and spicy curry sit off to the side. They have been at it for hours, conversation ebbing and flowing. Pete has a translator app pulled up on his phone, which they have been utilizing frequently. It turns out that neither he nor Porsche paid much attention during English class growing up.
“The TK Group really does have their fingers in everything. Look at this,” Porsche marvels, flipping through one paper, then another, then another. “Rolls-Royce imports. A bar. A hotel. A massage parlor. Another bar.”
“And this is only what I got photos of,” Pete adds. “I didn’t get through all the files.”
“What do we even do with all of this information?” Porsche sighs. “There’s so many people involved in all this. Who even are these guys? Arthur? Dada? Giuseppe?”
Pete shrugs. “There’s nothing we can do. Whatever this is, it’s much bigger than us.”
Porsche leans back on his arms. “This is crazy.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Pete suddenly says. “I’ve got something else crazy for you. Wanna see?”
“Yes, duh. What kind of question is that?”
“Watch this,” Pete says, pulling out his phone. He loads up an app, pulling up a simple interface with timed and dated logs. Pete considers the screen before tapping a log, and a screen with a simple interface pops up. Pete clicks the ‘play’ button, placing the phone face-up on the living room table. A flickering waveform starts to move on the screen, rising and dipping with the volume, as a voice crackles to life.
“I don’t care what his excuses are,” a clipped and irritated voice says. “If he can’t handle a simple shipment schedule, he’s useless to me.”
Porsche’s eyes widen.
“Is that…?”
“Yup,” Pete confirms.
“—and tell him to call me the second it’s done,” the recording continues. “No sooner, no lighter. I don’t have the fucking time to babysit every idiot on Pa’s payroll.”
Pete pauses the transmission, smiling.
Porsche gestures at the phone. “You did this? How? When?”
“Last night,” Pete says. He can’t help smiling. “Borrowed a listening device from Arm. Planted it in Vegas’s office. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” Porsche echoes, flashing Pete a pointed look.
“Maybe a medium deal.”
Porsche’s expression sits somewhere between admiring and afraid. “This is awesome, but… What about Vegas? He’s gonna be pissed, dude. You snuck into his house and choked out one of his bodyguards.”
In the end, Pete didn’t tell Porsche that Vegas found him outright. What Porsche doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“What happens if he sees you again?” Porsche hesitantly asks. “You’ll be screwed.”
‘I might actually get screwed,’ Pete thinks to himself, feeling a pang of hot-cold fear. He smothers the emerging memories of hand-to-hand combat and hands and guns as much as he can manage.
“Say he sees me,” Pete says with much more confidence than he feels. “What could he do to me?”
Porsche gestures at Pete’s face. “More of that, probably.”
If Porsche only knew the half of it. Pete will be careful to hide his injuries until they heal.
“But he won’t,” Pete says, trying to convince himself at this point. “Think about it. If Vegas did anything to me, and it got back to Kinn… Kinn’s got more pride than a lion. Do you really think he’d let Vegas take me out without consequences? There’s got to be a reason Vegas hasn’t ratted us out yet. The two sides of that family don’t trust each another.”
“Just because Vegas hasn’t said anything doesn’t mean he can’t hurt you,” Porsche points out. “We don’t know these people. Their family is powerful, man. They’ve got their weird little hands everywhere, like weird little raccoons. They could be dangerous.”
“It’ll be fine,” Pete says dismissively, pursing his lips. “I’m careful. Plus, it’s not like I’m ever going to be alone with Vegas.”
-
Damn it. Pete forgot. This whole surveillance thing has been the lead-up to Pete directly tailing Vegas. He will, quite literally, be alone near Vegas, for at least a week.
Over cups of coffee, Pete shares his findings from his mailman infiltration with Chan, though he has omitted a few details. Pete can’t imagine much of the information he’s omitting is anything Chan and Kinn don’t know already. Sure, Vegas seems to treat his workers well. Vegas has a hedgehog. Vegas’s room is the most dramatic place in the whole damn compound. Vegas doesn’t like people up in his business. At least Pete’s generally-sketched-out map of the compound’s layout will make a pretty decoration for Kinn’s wall or desk or trashcan or something.
And if Pete has happened to find out more information about Vegas and his activities, say, from a small listening device? Well, that’s none of Kinn’s business, thank you very much. Liars don’t get to reap the benefits of his hard work. It’s Pete’s small form of rebellion.
After Pete’s recap, Chan politely introduces Pete’s personal hell for the next few weeks: “Now, about tailing Vegas… We’ll start with two weeks. Of course, depending on his activities, surveillance might go on longer than that. How does that sound?”
“Good,” Pete lies.
“Great. As you’re aware, Vegas is private about his personal life,” Chan continues. “He always has bodyguards with him. However, even if his bodyguards notice you, even if you observe them doing something unsavory, they’re not likely to pull anything out in public. That said, always assume caution while you’re tailing them anyways. Wear plainclothes. Switch up your mode of following him. You know this already. You’re free to borrow any of the precinct vehicles, so long as you check out with Arm first.”
Pete nods. “Yes, Sir. I will.”
“Good luck, Pete,” Chan says. “I look forward to hearing from you next Monday.”
-
Pete decides on one of the unmarked sedans. It feels safer to be hidden inside a car.
Like clockwork, Vegas comes out from the front of the compound in the early hours of the night. He looks as handsome as ever, wearing an expensive-looking tailored suit that pinches his waist in all the right places. Seeing him is enough to make Pete’s imagination run wild. A couple of worst-case scenarios pop into Pete’s head, one after the next: Vegas pulling out a gun and pointing it right at Pete. A swarm of bodyguards pouring out the front door and surrounding the car. Getting kidnapped at gunpoint. Being tied to a chair while Vegas circles him and figures out how to deal with him. Because Pete knocked Vegas out. In his own home. Dug through his office. And planted a bug, but Pete isn’t sure if Vegas has figured that out yet. Oh, man. What would Vegas do if he found out about that too? Vegas might truly kill him. The progressing thoughts send Pete’s heart pounding, a sickening rush of adrenaline that has him wanting to get out of the car and run for the hills.
But Pete doesn’t run, and Vegas doesn’t come to assassinate him. Though Pete swears he sees Vegas’s eyes dart over to the car, Vegas climbs into the passenger side of a van with tinted windows, just as he had those first two weeks. Once again, the bodyguard Nop is driving.
As Pete tails the van, all he can think about is how this entire situation is laughable. Surely Vegas knows that Pete is there, and Pete knows that Vegas probably knows that Pete knows. The game is already rigged, and they both know it.
The first place Vegas goes is a fancy nightclub near a business district. Pete parks down the street from the van. While sitting in the car, Pete occupies himself. Checks public property records online and finds that this particular venue belongs to Gun. Pete pins the location on his phone, jots the address down on the notepad he brought with him.
After about half an hour, Vegas returns to the waiting car. It drives off, and Pete follows. Then, they arrive at a bar, also in the business district. The next few hours go in this same fashion. Throughout the night, Vegas flits from place to place: A few more places in the business district, some fancy hotels, and a few places in Bang Rak. Pete saves the locations in his phone, prepared to go through them later.
During Pete’s downtime in the car, he occupies himself with a second activity: Listening to the wiretap recordings on cloud.
It’s not until mid-morning that Vegas and his bodyguard return to the compound. The whole time, Pete dutifully trails behind their car. A thought occurs to him, after a few hours: Why is it that Vegas is not acknowledging Pete outright? Given how infuriated Vegas seemed to be their last encounter, it seems strange.
‘Because I’m not important enough,’ Pete realizes. In the first place, this entire assignment is probably bunk. Kinn has no real intention of doing anything to Vegas. Why would he? The two halves of the family need one another to survive. The logical conclusion, then, is that Kinn has sicced Pete on Vegas for the sole purpose of irritating him. Proving some sort of point, maybe. Given Kinn’s personality, it makes sense. Kinn is the sort of petty where he’d do something at his own expense just to annoy the shit out of an enemy. Which means that Pete’s sole purpose right now, his precinct-assigned job, is just to irritate Vegas. Pete is the equivalent of a glitter bomb. Sure, annoying and somewhat disruptive, but not enough to do any substantial damage.
Then there’s the fact that, if Pete’s hunch is correct, Vegas knows exactly when and where Pete is supposed to be.
Pete is literally not worth Vegas’s time of day.
He doesn’t know why, but that fact bothers him.
-
The subsequent days of the week go by in much the same way. Vegas leaves in the evenings, with Pete following from a distance. Then, from dusk to dawn, Pete sits inside whatever car he’s driving that given day for hours at a time. He feels like a dog tied to a fence. It’s so incredibly boring.
But even if this assignment is ultimately pointless, at least there are still things to learn. Why not? So Pete spends his time in the car sleuthing on the Internet and catching up on the hours of recordings caught by the bug.
When Pete looks into it, he finds that each and every property Vegas visits is owned by the TK Group or by Gun himself. All of them are listed somewhere on the briefing pamphlet. Vegas looks every part the normal businessman, checking in on his properties. Out of curiosity, Pete looks up in public records whether Vegas has any property that belongs to him as an individual, but comes up empty-handed. Pete wonders how that works. Does anything belong to Vegas? Will everything that belongs to his dad one day belong to him?
The recordings yield more interesting findings. It turns out Vegas is less lazy than Pete thought. True, he does wake up late, but he also spends the entirety of his afternoons working. Occasional visitors to the office laying out what Vegas’s schedule for the day will be. Business calls sprinkled with verbal posturing and vague threats. Typing on a computer. Pete spends a lot of time listening to a whole lot of nothing on 2x speed, bored out of his mind.
But buried within the hours of audio are a few gems.
One includes someone entering Vegas’s office sometime in the mid-afternoon, presumably a subordinate. “Khun Vegas, the Triad rep got back to me about the merger. They’re interested, but they want something from you first.”
“What more could they possibly want?” Vegas says, clearly annoyed. “This deal benefits both of us. I’d be providing the ground-level cover they need to scale in the first place.”
“Intel. They want to know how much Kinn’s got on their street-level distribution before deciding whether to proceed with the deal. They also expressed interest in a sit-down with you as soon as possible.”
A dry chuckle. “So they want insurance. Typical.”
“They’re just eager to get an advantage, sir. Same as us.”
“Everyone’s always looking for an advantage, ha? Fine. I’ll give them intel, but remind them that this isn’t a charity. I expect a larger cut of the digital sweeps if I’m the one sticking my neck out. Once we go digital, there’s no walking back.”
“Understood. When should I schedule the meeting?”
“This Sunday. Any time. The mutt is off duty then, so we won’t have to worry about anyone sniffing around.”
“Sure, boss. I’ll finalize the location and send it to your secure line.”
The details of the meeting solidify over the next few days, confirmed over several scattered conversations. It turns out Vegas has a habit of talking to himself and Khun Spikes. Pete notes down the information he gathers: An address, a time, details on where Vegas is meeting people.
And then, there’s a particular call that haunts Pete:
“Hey, baby.”
Pete’s eyes widen at the tone of Vegas’s voice. It’s flirtatious as hell. This confuses Pete, because Vegas doesn’t have a partner. At least, not one that’s publicly known. A hookup, maybe? Pete wouldn’t be shocked if Vegas slept around. But stranger than the sudden term of endearment is the pivot in conversation after.
“Have you reached out to Kinn yet?”
Pete can’t clearly make out clear details about the voice on the other line of the phone, only the vague mumble of a voice.
“Wonderful. You’re so smart, sweetheart. Did he suspect anything?”
Pete grimaces at the pet names, and especially at the way Vegas talks. It’s so unlike how Vegas normally speaks, almost performative. However, the person on the other end seems to not notice.
“It would be impossible for him not to trust someone as cute as you. Of course you’d charm him, you little minx. When do you start?”
A reply from the other person.
“I see. Keep me filled in, won’t you?”
More conversation ensues, all boring flirtatious talk, so tooth-rottingly corny that Pete is getting secondhand embarrassment. By this point, Pete has the sense that whatever this is, it’s not just a hookup. Most men with any sense of dignity would have to hit rock bottom before saying shit like this. Either Vegas is faking it, or he is astronomically down bad for whoever the person on the other end of the line is.
And then it gets really bad. Pete zones back into the conversation with horror as Vegas says in a low purr, “Oh, yes. You’ll get what you deserve.”
The ensuing details of that conversation are so painfully uncomfortable and cringey that Pete has to turn down the recording, but like watching a live trainwreck, he just can’t stop himself from listening in. He didn’t want to have a Bingo sheet, but now “listening in to horrible cringe phone sex” is crossed out.
For crying out loud, Vegas even says, “I love you too, babe,” at the end of the call.
Who the hell is this person???
-
Pete and Porsche walk in the park together, following along the running path. They stroll past other walkers, runners, and old people doing Tai-Chi, and are jumpscared by the occasional monitor lizard. The topic of discussion so far has mainly been about Porsche’s academy life. Namely, how Porsche is so much of a menace that Kinn has been personally supervising the rookies at the precinct.
“Anyways, enough about me. What other recordings came in this week?” Porsche asks.
“Nothing too crazy,” Pete replies. “But I think I get why Vegas has such a stick up his ass. He might be a Hi-So, but he’s a hard worker.”
“Wow. Your week must have been bad if you’ve become a Vegas apologist.”
Pete laughs. “I wouldn’t say an apologist. It’s just, I think I’d be insane if I had to deal with so many phone calls each day. No wonder Vegas hates Kinn so much. Kinn’s job probably seems cushy as hell compared to all the running around Vegas is doing. Maybe that’s why he’s doing so much 4-D chess to screw Kinn over.”
“What sorts of things?” Porsche asks curiously.
“No, I can’t believe you reminded me!” Pete suddenly groans, doubling over and holding his head.
“What?”
“Why would you make me relive this…”
“What?!”
Pete straightens up and starts to walk again. “Vegas took this one call, and… he... It was so painful, Porsche. He was flirting with somebody, and it sounded like he was re-enacting one of those NSFW roleplay ASMR audios.”
“Huh?”
“He called them kitten, Porsche,” Pete says tiredly. “You can’t make this shit up.”
Porsche erupts into laughter. “Dude. What was her name?!”
“I think it was... Tawan?”
“Wait, Tawan? As in Kinn’s evil ex?!”
Pete shakes his head, confused. “Kinn’s what?”
“Pol talked about her once,” Porsche recalls. “He was asking me for dating advice, and at some point he mentioned Kinn’s evil ex Tawan. I don’t think he meant to bring it up, because I tried asking for more information, and he refused to say anything else about it... I tried asking Arm too, but he also refused to say anything. Even Tankhun wouldn’t say a word, and you know how much Tankhun loves gossip…”
“Okay. How do we know this is the same Tawan?” Pete asks, tilting his head.
“We don’t. But I’m something of an internet stalking expert. I’m gonna Google this right now,” Porsche announces. He takes out his phone and types the terms ‘Tawan’ and ‘Kinn’ into Google’s search bar.
“There’s no way that’s going to work,” Pete comments.
Porsche searches, then goes to the images. He examines the grid of photo results, then clicks on one.
A Facebook photo of a smiling Kinn Ayutthaya fills the screen, visibly a few years younger, standing beside a taller man with lightly dyed hair and piercings. They are leaned up against one another. The posture could be written off as platonic, but as Porsche thumbs through the comments, a smattering of comments wax on about how ‘cute they are together’ and feature hearts and other emojis. Porsche and Pete turn to stare at each other, both of their jaws dropping in unison.
“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Pete says, just as Porsche says, “Kinn likes dudes?!”
Pete turns to face Porsche, confused. “What? You didn’t know that?”
Porsche gawks. “You did?!”
“Yeah. Everyone knows that.”
It’s true. Over the past few years, there have been a few times where workplace gossip would center around Kinn and his sexuality, not just because Tankhun would sometimes openly chalk up Kinn’s bad moods being related to his “boy problems,” but because of the scandals. Kinn is notorious for his impulsiveness and horniness. More than once, people have come into the precinct after-hours and been traumatized by coming across Kinn and one of his trysts. At least he doesn’t get involved with guys in the precinct. Usually.
“Plus, isn’t Tawan a masculine name?” Pete follows with.
“It’s gender neutral,” Porsche argues. “You heard of Tawan Kedkong?”
Pete raises an eyebrow.
“The model, Pete! A woman!” Exasperated, Porsche sneers at him. “Ugh, whatever. What were you acting all surprised for then? You know Kinn’s gay, but not about his evil ex?!”
“Because I didn’t know Kinn ever had a steady relationship!” Pete says defensively. “I just thought he was more of a one-night stand kind of guy.”
Porsche gets a strange, somewhat frightened look on his face. “Did you and Kinn…?”
Pete makes a noise of disgust. “At this point I’d rather you just call me a slur. Just because I like men doesn’t mean I like every man, Porsche. ”
“It’s not like that!” Porsche protests defensively. ”You were the one who brought up one-night stands!” Plus, Kinn’s, like, super attractive.”
“... He is?”
“Yeah!” Porsche says confidently, looking genuinely confused when Pete doesn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. “Have you seen him? Dude’s a chick magnet... Dude magnet. Whatever.”
“Are you sure you’re not bisexual, Porsche?”
“What? No! I– he– Kinn’s just objectively hot!” Porsche argues. “And he’s loaded. And if he’s landed as many one night stands as you say, he’s probably good at sex or something.”
There’s way too much to unpack in that statement, so Pete doesn’t. “His personality, though… I don’t know if all that other stuff makes up for that. Let’s be real. Kinn would argue with his own reflection in the mirror.”
“But that’s, like, peak masculinity, you know?” Porsche argues. “People are into that! It’s admirable.”
“Literally the guy who blackmailed you into joining the police, by the way,” Pete says, shrugging and resuming walking. “Whatever. He’s all yours. Go get him, tiger.”
“I’m not bisexual, Pete! I’m not! I like women!”
“Anyways,” Pete ignores him, “It seems like Vegas is getting this Tawan guy to contact Kinn about something, but I couldn’t figure out what for. ”
“Can’t be anything good, that’s for sure,” Porsche contemplates. “Exes are bad enough. Imagine that on top of the weird family rivalry stuff. You think we should warn Kinn?”
Pete snorts. “And tell him what? That we internet stalked him? That actually we’ve known Vegas the whole time, but not in a mole way? No way. There’s nothing we can do but watch.”
-
The rest of his Saturday is boring. Pete spends his time relaxing for once, working out, and continuing to go through the files.
When he gets a moment to himself, Pete finally gets around to looking at the file page Vegas had on him. He didn’t print it out. For some reason, he didn’t want Porsche to see it. As Pete reads through the auto-translated text on the screen hanging above Vegas’s cursive English scrawling on the page, he discovers that was the right call. The notes are simple, at first.
‘Lives with Porsche Kittisawasd.’
‘Frequents boxing gym Punch It. Observed to be competent fighter with above average skills.’
‘Indebted to Major Family, but not sharing relevant information about encounters?’
‘Goes goes against official police orders?’
‘Either aware of the mole or incredibly nosy off-the-clock’
Then, one sentence that hits him like a window to a bird:
‘Masochistic tendencies. Would make a good dog with some training. Red or black collar would look nice.’
Face flaming, Pete deletes the file off his phone.
-
When Sunday rolls around, Pete tells Porsche he’ll be out because he’s got plans. And he does.
In the late afternoon, he gets going. Dressed in dark plain clothes and bringing a small backpack with a camera, binoculars, and notepad, Pete gets on his bike and punches an address into his phone. His journey brings him to one of the industrial zones on the outskirts of the city, a quiet, semi-urban stretch of land with factories, dirt lots, and various machinery and debris lying around the street. Pete slows down along the wide, worn road as he nears the destination. The blocks adjacent to the location include low-rise buildings, small shops, and street vendors. Tuk-tuks, bikes, and delivery vans are parked haphazardly along the roads, and a nearby factory hums quietly in the background, machinery clanging intermittently. Pete receives a few barks from some stray dogs, but besides that, nobody pays him any attention.
Next, Pete rides along the block the address is on. The destination is a giant single-story industrial warehouse that takes up the whole block. Delivery trucks are parked along the side of the building, with a few workers unloading crates and taking their smoke breaks. It doesn’t look super busy. Pete takes a second to search up the company name plastered along one wall of the building. It is a perfectly reputable, relatively small local company that imports industrial machinery. Pete doesn’t get it. What would Vegas want with industrial machinery imports?
Pete loops back around to one of the busier streets to park his motorbike. To account for the time to find a good vantage point, he got here an hour before the scheduled meeting. By the time he scopes out a good vantage point for observing the meeting, long and dark shadows are thrown across the ground. The vantage point in question is behind a dumpster in a narrow through-alley. He’ll take what he can get. If he looks from behind the dumpster, it gives him a perfect view of the loading docks.
Pete feels neutral about today. He doesn’t expect to get a ton of information out of this. How could he? He’s only observing everything from a distance. It’s not like he’s able to bug Vegas directly. It wasn’t even worth telling Porsche about. All he’d do is insist on tagging along, and the more people, the bigger chance of getting caught. Pete didn’t want the headache of more variables. As much as he loves Porsche, the idiot is not known for thinking things through.
So why is Pete doing any of this in the first place?
Pete’s not sure himself.
When Pete heard about the Triad meeting, he just couldn’t help himself. The concept of sneaking around just under Vegas’s nose was intoxicating to him. Up until now, Vegas has had tabs on Pete’s every official move – except for the times that Pete did some off-the-record sneaking around, because there’s probably a mole in the police. It’s not like Pete has to get involved with this, and he’s not. It’s more a Pandora’s box situation. The burden of knowledge has left him with an insatiable curiosity about who the Theerapanyakuls are, especially the activities of Vegas’s branch of the family. Up to no good, certainly. But doing what? Even if Pete learns nothing from watching people from a distance, if he can identify who Vegas is meeting with, maybe he can learn more about what sorts of crimes the Theerapanyakuls are involved in. Or maybe this is all just to remind himself that he has free will, some sliver of basic control over his own life.
Soon, things start to happen. One of the garage doors pulls up with a whir, and four men emerge from the building. They are all well-dressed, high-end smart-casual wear, anachronistic against the industrial backdrop. They mill about the loading dock, puffing on cigarettes. Pete inches out from behind his vantage point enough to photograph their faces.
A few minutes later, he arrives. A familiar van with tinted windows pulls up, and out steps Vegas Theerapanyakul, followed by Nop. The van idles in the docking area before driving away. It strikes Pete as weird, because Nop and Vegas are outnumbered four-to-two, and a mafia meeting about creating what sounded an awful lot like a large-scale illegal online gambling ring seems sort of high stakes, but maybe there’s mutual trust between the two groups, or Vegas sent his bodyguards on an errand or something. Pete is soon distracted by people-watching: Vegas and Nop greet the men, exchanging greetings and diplomatic handshakes; one of the warehouse men pulls out an expensive-looking wooden box; cigars are distributed among the men; Vegas and Nop are offered cigars, which are accepted; another of the men offers everyone a light. Pete doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen a cigar outside of movies. Don’t cigarettes do basically the same thing at a fraction of the price? But of course, Vegas just has to look stupidly sophisticated while smoking one, with his stupid pretty hands and pretty face. Pete feels like paparazzi, secretly taking photos of beautiful rich people. A stalker might be more apt, actually, considering he’s here because of Vegas.
Then, something strange happens. Out of nowhere, Vegas pulls out his phone. One hand holding a cigar, the other scrolling, Vegas appears to be reading something. Whatever he sees must be funny, because the corner of his mouth is turning up into a smile. What could he possibly be doing?
‘That’s rude,’ Pete thinks. ‘Can’t you scroll TikTok some other time? Won’t the Triad people be offended?’
No, apparently. The Triad people don’t seem to be angry, or to even particularly notice. In fact, it seems like they all are waiting for something. For what, Pete is not entirely sure.
That’s when Vegas leaves. Literally, he just starts walking away from the group of people, Nop included. It feels really dumb, considering this is a mafia meeting and he’s leaving behind his personal bodyguard. Dumber, Vegas puts his back to them. He walks up to the main road, all the while staring at his phone, then stops. He puffs on his cigar again. Vegas looks up a few times, as if taking in his surroundings, then peers back down at the screen. ‘Does he have amnesia or something?’ Pete thinks as he peeks at Vegas, crouching on the ground, half-concealed by the dumpster. He has to crane his neck to keep him in his line of sight. ‘It’s not like he’s lost. He was literally dropped off at the meeting point,’ Pete thinks. Then, Vegas pockets the device, and starts walking. Unfortunately, Pete then realizes where Vegas is headed. Suddenly, he has a lot less mental energy to be judgemental.
Vegas is walking in the direction of the freaking alleyway. Specifically, the one Pete is currently hiding in.
Pete ducks behind the dumpster. He quickly shoves the camera back into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and he’s debating whether to make a run for it when Vegas loudly announces, “There you are!” It’s said at a volume loud enough that the menagerie of people gathered in front of the warehouse absolutely heard. “We’ve been waiting for you,” Vegas says again. His voice is closer than Pete was anticipating. In a different circumstance, Pete may find this funny, because Vegas must be speedwalking or something, and that is a funny mental image. Unfortunately, it is also not funny, because Vegas is nearing the alley. Vegas, the guy who pulled a gun and was seconds away from shooting Pete literally in the mouth the last time he saw him. Vegas, the guy who’s literally in the starting stages of a mafia business deal, with all his mafia friends. They probably won’t be happy to have an uninvited guest, especially one with a police identification card front-and-center in his wallet.
Panicked, Pete stands up to flee, but as he turns to face the other end of the alley, he notices a particular sound coming from that direction, a particular low humming noise. The sound of an idling car engine. Pete stops short.
Well, that solves the mystery of where the van was headed to.
“Don’t think about running,” Vegas calls. Although he speaks in a quieter tone than before, the words are loud and clear, because from what it sounds like, he is in the alley now. Pete can hear the approaching footsteps, the clack of hard-heeled shoes on concrete. “I’d hate for my men to have to put you down, doggy." As if on cue, two bodyguards emerge from the end of the alleyway. It’s no question they’re with Vegas. Not only are they also dressed smart-casually, but they have guns drawn. Unfortunately, there is no second dumpster or convenient pile of boxes to hide behind. Pete freezes like a deer caught in headlights.
“Hands where we can see them,” barks one of the men. While Pete does have his gun with him, as he often does while off-duty, he genuinely had no intention of using it. He wonders if the very fact he has it will cause issues. Maybe if he’s obedient, they will be nicer to him. Pete complies, presenting his empty palms in front of him. As the bodyguards approach, Pete remains stiffly facing them, slowly raising his arms above his head. One of the bodyguards immediately pats him down, immediately confiscating his holster and gun from his waist. His phone and wallet go next.
That’s when Vegas shows himself. He steps around the corner of the dumpster and stops to consider Pete, shifting his weight onto one leg in a relaxed posture, contrapposto, cocking his head in consideration. Vegas takes a deep drag of his cigar, the paper crumbling in cherry-red sparks as he exhales. Pete resolutely avoids looking at him, following the rising curls of smoke with his eyes.
“You’ve got a habit of turning up in interesting places, don’t you, Pete?”
Well, this is awkward. Pete isn’t sure what to say. Honestly, his mouth is so dry right now that he isn’t sure he can speak. While deliberating over how to reply, Vegas takes a few steps closer, until he is a close distance away, beyond what is normally considered socially appropriate. Close enough that Pete can smell the woody cologne he’s wearing under the nutty stench of smoke. Close enough that Pete can see the pores on his skin, the stubble along his jawline. It’s weird. How is it that Vegas, someone shorter than Pete, can feel so freaking tall?
“I’d be careful if I were you,” Vegas says, bringing his cigar to his mouth. “People might get the wrong idea.”
It would be rude at such close proximity to not at least make eye contact, so Pete does. It’s a mistake. Pete is reminded of how terribly handsome Vegas is. Dark hair, dark eyebrows, dark eyelashes. Those sharp eyes that glint with knife-like intellect, dark like tar. There is a long moment where they rake over him, as if picking him apart like a frog pinned to a dissection tray. Pete can’t suppress a shiver.
Vegas then blows a puff of thick smoke directly in Pete’s face. Pete flinches, blinking tearfully at the acrid smoke, valiantly trying (and failing) to suppress a sputtering cough. By this time, the two bodyguards have walked over. They stand back a few meters like menacing shadows, observing the spectacle of Pete hacking up his lungs with curiosity and amusement evident in their faces. It’s all a bit humiliating. To make it worse, one of them comments, “Hands back up, buddy,” which is when Pete realizes he’s clutching at his throat and face. This is so embarrassing. Pete raises his hands up by his head again.
“You’ve got balls, pulling this after last time,” Vegas continues airily. “What did I tell you about interfering with my business?” The fact that his tone is light right now, as if the situation isn’t a big deal, has the hairs prickling on the back of Pete’s neck. This is Vegas we’re talking about. It’s obvious nothing good is going to come out of this, but Pete can’t predict what’s going to happen, and that makes him nervous. Very nervous.
“I wasn’t trying to interfere, How did you even know I was here anyway?” Pete hoarsely rasps, swallowing thickly around the irritation in his lungs. Vegas doesn’t reply right away. Like a cat feigning ignorance to a nearby mouse, Vegas occupies himself with his cigar. He rotates it, observing the foot and checking for an even, orange glow. Then, satisfied, he takes another puff, after which he blows another puff of smoke in Pete’s face. This time, Pete doesn’t flinch; he just breathes shallowly, ignoring the burn along the back of his throat and sting in his eyes.
“I threw you a bone, and you took it. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t show up.”
“Threw me a bone?” Pete echoes.
Vegas smiles. “That’s right. I checked for bugs the moment I woke up. Just thought it would be fun enrichment for you. I’ve got to say, I’m pleasantly surprised by your diligence. What a good boy you are. I wasn’t sure whether you’d actually show today, but it turns out you were listening attentively all week.”
Pete doesn’t even know what to say. There are a lot of feelings in him right now, and most of them put into action would result in Vegas being strangled by that stupid silver chain around his neck. Vegas is evidently amused by whatever he sees on Pete’s face, or maybe it’s the fact Pete’s watery eyes are twitching in annoyance by now. Either way, the shit-eating smirk Vegas wears is genuine. He coolly draws on his cigar again, and Pete decides at that moment that he hates cigars.
“Now, give me that backpack.”
Pete feels seriously wronged right now. He feels like a kid being bullied into giving away his lunchmoney.
He hands it over.
“Attaboy,” Vegas says. Then: “Handcuff him.”
The bodyguards advance. It’s around now that Pete starts to realize that this situation is actually kinda sorta bad. Remembers that he needs to be trying to get out of this situation. Pete manages to hold his composure as his hands are strong-armed behind his back by one of the bodyguards, but the snick of metal handcuffs locking around Pete’s wrists prompts an irrational wave of nervous agitation.
“Are the handcuffs really necessary?”
Vegas is showing absolutely no sign of listening to Pete’s words whatsoever, sifting through Pete’s bag with interest. It calls to mind a nature documentary Pete once watched of a sunbear flipping rocks to find food. Pete tries to make eye contact with each of the bodyguards, but one shrugs at him, and the other avoids eye contact.
Pete tries appealing to the source of authority again. “Again, I wasn’t… Uh, I wasn’t intending to interfere with your business, Mr. Vegas–”
“Candid shots of me? I’m flattered,” Vegas interrupts. The words are so random that it confuses Pete out of his train of thought. Vegas is holding up the camera and examining it, the chunky cigar neatly pinched between the fingers of one hand. At some point, he handed the backpack off to a bodyguard. Pete is honestly impressed. Vegas is apparently great at multitasking. How has he managed to not drop the cigar? How has it not managed to go out? “I almost feel bad deleting these. You could’ve been a photographer. Too bad.” Saying that does not stop Vegas from presumably erasing the photos with a few deft clicks of buttons.
Pete watches him blankly for a few seconds before continuing to talk: “I admit that I was being nosy by coming here, and it was a mistake. A mistake that I am sorry for. If you please let me go, I promise I won’t do this again–”
Vegas puffs on that damned cigar one last time before discarding it with a dismissive flick. Pete watches it fall to the ground, and as Vegas grinds it under the heel of his Santoni oxfords. Pete briefly wonders if doing so damaged the shoe, and how much money that damage would cost. What if he burned the sole? Hell, how much did that cigar even cost? Why are rich people so uneconomical? Not to mention, that cigar was a gift from his hosts! Won’t the Triad also be offended by him just throwing it away like garbage? Even worse, Vegas’s crunching of the cigar under his foot unleashes a very strong, unpleasantly sharp stench. Pete wonders why in the world anyone would choose a cigar over a cigarette, because this smell is something else, an amalgam of cloying tobacco and burning chemicals and manure. A weird, burning, acrid, vegetal rot that hangs in the air. Pete fights to control his expression, or maybe to not gag.
“Let you go?” Vegas grins wryly. “But we need you. After all, you’re our police representative.”
“What,” Pete says dumbly.
“That’s right, Win.” Vegas pats Pete’s shoulder and raises an eyebrow expectantly, as if expecting Pete to understand whatever the hell he’s going on about. Pete does not. Also, what does he mean by Win? That’s obviously not Pete’s name. Vegas must take pity on Pete or something, because next he prompts, “What did the Triad want, in return for this meeting?”
“Intel,” Pete says. His throat burns.
“Right. Well, the Triad wanted to meet our inside man. You know, the one who got intel from the precinct. And that’s you. Win. Right?”
It clicks. “Oh,” Pete says dumbly. Win, as in the alias he went by a few weeks ago. “But I didn’t do that.”
“Maybe not. But you’re going to play the part, aren’t you? Or is there somewhere else you’d like to go? To go talk to mango tree roots, perhaps?”
So that was a lightly veiled death threat. Okay. Point taken. Pete nods.
“Good boy,” Vegas praises, firmly patting Pete on the cheek. The touch is like how someone would pat a dog, and Pete blinks at the contact. It feels weirdly nice. Vegas’s skin is smooth and dry, slightly cool compared to the balmy summer air. “Sorry about the cuffs. That was the Triad’s request. Trust building and whatnot. I’m sure you understand, a smart policeman like you.”
Then, Vegas turns and begins striding away. “Come along now,”
“I don’t think this is a very good idea,” Pete warns. That sure doesn’t stop Vegas, or his bodyguards, who herd Pete out of the alley with jabs to the back. Their procession walks across the street, up the concrete stairs by the side of the loading dock, and finally Pete is brought to heel. All the while, the only thing Pete can think about is how absolutely unnecessary all this is. They confiscated his firearm. Do they really think he’d fight back, 1v8, against a bunch of presumably armed mafia members? Pete is good at fighting but not suicidal. Though, to be fair, being a mafia member who has brought a handcuffed policeman as a willing guest definitely has to be a powermove of some kind. Pete guesses he can let Vegas have this. It’s smart, and at this point, the smoother this goes for Vegas, the quicker Pete can go home and lick his wounds.
Pete’s presentation definitely seems to have an effect on the Triad members. They all but gawk at Pete, staring at how his hands are handcuffed behind his back, and one of them says, “Oh, you cuffed him? You didn’t need to do that.”
This motherfucker. Pete refuses to give Vegas the benefit of the doubt ever again. The Triad didn’t ask for Pete to be cuffed at all, apparently. Vegas is actually just evil.
“This one’s mine,” Vegas explains. “He likes it this way.”
It takes Pete a second to process the words, and even longer to figure out how to react. Feeling his pride shatter and face become so hot it probably turns visibly red, Pete goes through all the stages of grief once, maybe twice. Vegas actually goes to stand behind Pete, tugging at the chain of his handcuffs. The motion brings Pete stumbling back against the line of Vegas’s body, metal cuffs biting into the meat of Pete’s wrists. Horrifyingly, the action elicits a horrible flip in the pit of Pete’s belly. This evil, demonic sociopath.
“Don’t you, Win?” The words come right by Pete’s ear, spoken in a low and honeyed voice.
Pete never does figure out how to react. From the expressions on not just the Triad members’ faces but Vegas’s bodyguards’ faces as well, Pete’s not the only one. The emotion on their faces is one that can’t be described, but it’s not disgust, exactly. More just confusion. Mild concern. Maybe surprise that Pete is going along with this, but even then, their level of surprise seems lower than what this sort of situation would normally warrant in public. Is Vegas being gay and/or a freak just some well known thing in mafia circles?
Pete regrets not just nodding or something, because what Vegas says next is even worse, if that were possible: “Be a good boy and tell everyone, yeah, doggy?”
Pete wishes he’d taken the mango tree offer.
“Yes, I do,” Pete bites out. Unfortunately, his voice sounds much less composed than he’d like, coming out in a waver. His whole body feels hot. Some of the other people in the room even look as red as Pete feels.
“Very good, pet,” Vegas whispers, seeming pleased, loud enough for only him to hear. He squeezes one of Pete’s arms above the wrist, and Pete almost stumbles. He may or may not have lost proper functioning of his legs because all his brain power was diverted into feeling humiliation.
“I apologize for him being late,” Vegas adds. “He’ll be punished accordingly later.”
Oh. So it could get even worse. Fantastic.
It seems like Vegas’s dick-swinging has done a phenomenal job, because one of the Triad men immediately shifts the conversation. “Let’s get started,” he says, quickly gesturing towards the open garage door. “Everyone, come inside.” Everyone is eager to follow suit, and Pete is amazed they’ve gotten this far without the Triad leader mandating that Vegas pay for everyone’s therapy.
Vegas doesn’t let go of Pete’s handcuffs. He just walks in line with Pete, maybe a little behind him, as if walking a dog on a lead. Pete stares at the floor, taking in his surroundings with furtive looks. He doesn’t want to look too nosy, but he does want to keep track of what’s happening. They walk through a giant distribution floor, one half filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves taken up by large crates, cardboard boxes, and miscellaneous machinery, the other largely empty, save for some forklifts and tables scattered with papers, shipping labels, and writing instruments. They enter a hallway, take a few winding turns, then enter a small room.
“Before we proceed, your guest will need to be checked for bugs,” that same Triad man says again. Pete realizes that he must be the leader. So far, he is the only one that has spoken. This surprises Pete, because he is as young or younger than Vegas. Stranger still is that this man doesn’t look like your prototypical mafioso. He has a mop of unkempt dark hair and round wire-framed glasses and speaks in a gentle voice. On the street, Pete would think this guy to be a younger academic or something, like a professor. The cigar in his hands looks like it does belong there, but the way the boss confidently handles it says otherwise.
“Sure,” Vegas says, finally unhanding Pete. Vegas rattles off a few commands. Pete is freed by one of the two alley bodyguards, but only has a few seconds to rub at his wrists before Vegas rattles off the command for Nop to give Pete a body search. If Pete’d known Vegas was going to pull this shit, he would’ve just worn normal clothes instead of this all-black spy ensemble.
Pete would have anticipated a hierarchy system coming into play – you know, the head honchos going into a separate room and leaving the whole undressing thing to the bodyguards – but no. For whatever reason, every single person stays put as Pete is ordered to strip. It’s one thing to be the one doing a body search to someone, another to be the one whose body is being searched, and another entirely to be searched with eight gun-weidling mafiosos present. It’s a little weird, but Pete supposes it makes sense. Vegas already made sure Pete has nothing on him, but the Triad needs to independently check Vegas isn’t lying. A show of good faith, one that makes sense given the hinted pretext of he and Vegas’s relationship. Pete doesn’t want to think much more into it.
Pete’s long-sleeved black shirt goes first. Then his left shoe. Then his right. Then the socks, left to right. Then his black pants. Pete is left just standing there in his plain white cotton boxers as Nop systematically checks each nook and cranny of his clothes, then hands each item to a Triad bodyguard for a second opinion. After each item is cleared, Nop orders Pete to fold his clothes and put them on the side table.
It’s fine at first. Pete has never been very self-conscious. He doesn’t think about himself a lot. But Vegas keeps looking at him, and it makes him feel weird. Vegas and the Triad leader are seated in the corner of the room in two ornate lounging chairs. Though Vegas is quietly talking to the Triad leader, the whole time, he is watching Pete. Watching him strip, garment by garment. Pete can see his eyes, dark and beady, looking Pete up and down. The look sends goosebumps erupting down Pete’s arms, and Pete breaks eye contact to look at literally anything else.
All the other bodyguards are gathered in the corner, rummaging through the spoils of war collected from the conquest of Pete’s dignity in the alley. He sees them examine his gun, then his wallet. Look at his phone lockscreen. Pete wonders if his ID will bring up a point of alarm. After all, he’s being called Win, not Pete. For whatever reason, the discrepancy goes unnoticed. Pete sure as hell won’t bring attention to it. Part of him wants to change his name and identity after this whole saga anyways.
“All clear, boss,” the Triad bodyguard says, nodding at Nop.
“Alright. Good. We can start our meeting, then. Go ahead and get dressed, Win,” the Triad boss says, giving Pete a bored glance before standing up and addressing one of his bodyguards. “Bring him in to join us when he’s ready.” The Triad leader then opens a door connecting to a large, windowless meeting room. The bodyguards begin filing one-by-one into the room, save for the Triad one asked to stay behind. Last to enter the room are the Triad leader and Vegas.
By now, Pete has gratefully walked over to the sidetable his clothes were put onto. He has already put on his socks, and is in the middle of fighting his pants onto his legs when Vegas tuts at him.
“Hey,” Vegas tuts. Both the Triad bodyguard and Pete turn to look at him in unison. “You, cuff him when he’s done. Win, keep your shirt off. Sit by me when you’re done.”
Pete gives the demon a look that hopefully telegraphs the absolute hatred he feels, but Vegas has already turned away to enter the room. The blatantly curious stare the Triad bodyguard subsequently gives Pete burns a hole into his skull and sanity, but Pete doesn’t meet the man’s eyes, and thankfully, the guy doesn’t say anything, even as he cinches the cuffs shut around Pete’s wrists. At least this guy lets Pete keep his hands out in front of him.
If you’d asked Pete if this could get any worse, he would have said no. It turns out Pete just lacks imagination. There are only eight chairs at the table, a fact made horribly apparent when Pete and the Triad bodyguard walk into the room. The only available seat is on the far end of the table, on the opposite side of Vegas and by the door. For the first time, Pete and the Triad bodyguard make eye contact. It seems like everyone else also does this mental arithmetic at the same time, because there is a brief awkward pause in conversation at the table. For what it’s worth, the Triad bodyguard actually gives Pete a genuinely apologetic glance before he takes the chair. Conversation almost immediately resumes, a desperate attempt by everyone in the room except Vegas to ignore the world’s most human-shaped elephant in the world as he stiffly walks across the room. It’s not an easy task. The table is large, and it feels like forever to cross the room. When Pete reaches the wall, he leans his bodyweight into it. Maybe if he leans hard enough, he’ll disappear.
“No, Win,” Vegas says boredly, not bothering to look back. “I asked you to sit.”
Pete blinks. He is so damn confused right now. “There’s no chair, sir,” he says, speaking the obvious in an appraisingly careful tone, as if he’s doubting Vegas’s ability to see objects. Because he really is. There is very obviously no chair for him to sit at.
“I have eyes,” Vegas says sarcastically. Pete genuinely is starting to wonder if maybe he’s going crazy, because every other person at the table is collectively silent on this insanity, just staring at Pete. Pete would already feel vulnerable enough with a shirt on in this situation. Without one, every bit of exposed skin prickles. It seems that Vegas finally reaches patience’s end, because Vegas finally deigns to tilt his lithe neck back. “The floor. Sit. Now.”
Oh.
Pete flushes. It takes him a moment to kick his legs into motion, but Pete goes down to the floor. Vegas gives him one last backwards glance, crooking a finger at him, beckoning him to come closer to the table, before looking forward again.
Official conversation at the table starts almost immediately after that. Pete is pretty sure everyone else at the table is as eager to move on from focusing on whatever the fuck just happened as Pete is. Vegas, however, seems more than happy to dwell on it. Pete shuffles over to the table on his hands and knees, then sits cross-legged on the floor by Vegas.
Even though dialogue flows, Pete can’t hear anything because his ears are rushing with the sound of blood. This is horrifying. He doesn’t know how to sit. Doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He feels the sting of tears in his eyes and tightness in his throat, which makes him angry, because the situation is just as stupid as it is humiliating. Technically speaking, Pete got himself into this situation. Technically, he is also willingly putting up with this situation. Yes, he was coerced, but he could have also chosen to just, like, die, or something. Instead, he chose public humiliation. Which is worse?
Deciding what exactly to look at is an even harder task. If Pete wanted, he could straighten up his back to be level with the tabletop, but he obviously doesn’t want other people looking at him, or to even be perceived right now, so he doesn’t. From his station on the floor, Pete can see everyone’s legs under the table. Does he look at their pants? Their shoes? The floor? Does everyone here think Pete is some weird pervert on the same astronomical scale Vegas is apparently on? Pete stares up at the wood of the table next. He stares at the straight woodgrain – teak – and questions how much negative karma he must have accumulated in his past life for this to be his present reality.
By the time Pete zones back into the conversation, Vegas is in the middle of introducing a thick manila folder, which he is actively crediting Pete (Win) for. It takes everything in Pete to stifle a yelp as one of Vegas’s hands lands heavily in his hair, ruffling it. “Win has been working for days at the precinct organizing all this information for you. What a good boy he is, ha?” The final nail driven into Pete’s pride is when the hand doesn’t leaves. It stays there, scratching at his scalp. As much as Pete flinches and twitches, it won’t leave.
Over the duration of the meeting, Pete realizes how little Vegas actually mentioned over the wiretap. The intel covers two things: (1) to what extent Kinn knows about their everyday operational networks (largely illegal imports of technology such as signal jammers, counterfeit electronics, and more, an activity the Ayutthayas largely regulate by ‘helping’ the authorities turn a blind eye to it) and (2) the fact that some particular informants spilled the beans that the Triad was interested in expanding into Bangkok’s illegal gambling enterprises (which is apparently a large moneymaker for the Theerapanyakuls and whose profits largely funnel back into swaying political advocacy groups.) This being the Ayutthaya’s bread and butter, Kinn was displeased. The intel includes the fact that Kinn is soon planning a raid on one of the Triad’s most heavily used ports to prove a point.
That is when Vegas returns full-circle, back to the merger offer. All the while they negotiate over various aspects of the deal – how much funding, how much legal protection, how much of a cut each party gets, verbal sparring and business jargon that makes Pete’s head spin – Vegas is stroking Pete’s head. Nails along the scalp, back and forth. As the diplomacy ensues, Pete’s brain goes somewhere strange. True, he’s half-naked in a room full of strangers. True, it was horrifying and humiliating and awful at first. However, having his head scratched isn’t so bad. It’s nice. It feels good. Despite the initial indignity of the situation, it becomes clear that Pete is not expected to have any stake in this conversation. No more unexpected one-liners meant to dehumanize him in front of everyone. No more unexpected variables. His job right now is to sit, listen if he wants to, and be still. That’s it. It’s a good task to focus on. When Vegas gets heated and tugs on the roots of Pete’s hair mid-argument, or when Pete’s legs start going pins-and-needles numb, the goal of being still and quiet gives Pete something to latch onto.
Pete doesn’t know when he starts leaning on Vegas’s thigh, or how he got there. Did he move, or did Vegas drag him there? One second, he is sitting up, and the next, his head is horizontal. Vegas does not outwardly acknowledge this change in any verbal way, too engrossed in negotiation, but at some point, one hand becomes two. The warmth of Vegas’s thigh is perceptible through his slacks, and his hands are warm and dry. It’s nice. The room is on the colder side of ambient, so the heat is welcome.
Even when Vegas gestures or bangs his hand empathically on the table to make points, he never moves the hand in Pete’s hair, or stops petting. And whenever Vegas finishes gesturing, he rests his palm over Pete’s cheek. If not the palm, then it’s the weight of his forearm. Vegas using Pete, as if Pete is furniture, not really there. It’s nice, not to think. Not needing to think. During calmer periods of the meeting, Vegas’s hands wander, as if needing something to do. They touch Pete. Gently stroking over the face. Over the ears. Over his neck and throat. The softness is a bizarre contrast from the reality of the series of events that led to Pete getting here.
Eventually, they strike a deal, closing out on it. There are too many details for Pete to process in the whirlwind of banal corporate speak, but the clacking of computer keys seems to imply someone is keeping up in their notetaking.
Eventually, Vegas tugs on Pete’s scalp insistently, graduating to giving his head a shake. Blearily, Pete opens his eyes. When had he closed his eyes? “Back on the floor, pet,” Vegas murmurs to him. Pete complies slowly, slides his head off Vegas’s leg. Had he fallen asleep? He’s able to sit upright, but parts of his leg are asleep, and his arms are slack.
“I’m glad we came to an understanding,” Vegas says. He stands, walking over to give the Triad leader a handshake. “I’ll report back to my Pa with the good news. A pleasure doing business with you. I’ll be in touch.”
Eventually, Vegas makes his way back over to where Pete sits on the floor. By now, Pete is a little more awake, but still out of it. He feels disoriented, much like the feeling when you fall asleep in the mid-afternoon and wake up to darkness. Vegas crouches so that he’s eye-level with Pete. “Time to get up. Follow me.”
It’s not poetry, but the words are direct and grounding. Pete is still processing everything, but he can put off thinking about it a little more, so long as Vegas just tells him what to do. Vegas does, so Pete obeys.
-