Chapter Text
-
Oddly enough, going through paperwork is one of Pete’s favorite things to do as an officer. While it’s not as exciting as on-the-ground fieldwork, the time spent poring through stacks of paperwork gives Pete time to digest his thoughts.
But today, as Pete grips the stack of paperwork handed to him and stares down at a column of headshot photos, among them featuring an objectively beautiful man, he has the sense that peace will be escaping him for a while.
Pete had not even finished his usual morning cup of coffee in Chan’s company before Tankhun loudly flounced into the precinct and informed everyone of an emergency meeting. Usually, nobody takes Tankhun’s “emergency meetings” very seriously: Tankhun calls them several times a week, from topics ranging anywhere from his thoughts on a TV drama to his clothes getting a rip in it. But when Kinn walked through the door behind him and informs Chan that his unit is expected in auditorium in an hour, it was clear things would be more serious today. While Tankhun and Kinn are both technically Deputy Commissioners in name, Kinn is the one who really does the work that comes with the title. Nepotism was most certainly involved in their careers—they are both sons of Korn Ayutthaya, the Police Lieutenant General of the Royal Thai Police’s Crime Suppression Division—but Kinn wholeheartedly has earned his title. Even though Kinn is still in his twenties, he has already overseen some of the most high-profile investigations into organized crime in the entire kingdom.
Which brings them here. Tankhun and Kinn are standing side-by-side behind the podium onstage, and a few relevant units of the precinct are seated at the rows of tables, several hundred officers in total. Chan’s unit is among them, and so Pete and his coworkers are there.
“We are gathered here today to talk about,” Tankhun says into the microphone with a melodramatic flourish, brandishing a thick stack of case papers above his head and pointing at the row of photos, “These people right here!” He smacks the papers down onto the podium with a thunk. The sound drags Pete out of his consideration of the photo of the handsome man—Vegas Theerapanyakul, 28, the caption reads, the same age as Pete—and he looks up only to be dazzled by a glare of light reflecting off the sequins of Tankhun’s gaudy, multi-colored pantsuit. No one is really sure why Tankhun is on the stage, but he seems to be having fun. “Truly some rotten eggs! Truly despicable! A—“
“Tankhun is taking a few liberties, ha, ha,” Kinn says dryly, cutting Tankhun off. “Yes, we are here to discuss the Theerayankapuls. You might know them—they are a famous and influential business family, best known for running the TK Group. The TK Group operates an assortment of businesses, mainly luxury car imports and real estate. Details of their known business listings start on page fifteen, and known associates on page twenty.”
Kinn pauses. The sound of simultaneous page-turning fills the air. Pete looks back down at his stack of papers, taking in the sight of the headshots again for another long minute, before finally flipping through the stack of papers.
“We’ve been notified of patterns of suspicious activity in Bangkok’s entertainment districts as of late,” Kinn continues. “Gambling, drug trafficking, narcotics, fraud, organized crime activity, extortion… you name it. Coincidentally, many of these crimes have taken place in or around the TK Group's properties. Though they deny any involvement, we suspect that this family knows more than they let on. The Theerapanyakuls are certainly wealthy enough that if they are involved in organized crime, they likely have a whole criminal ecosystem propped up by them. We have called your units here today to enlist your help in systematically investigating this family, to see if we can find any evidence of wrongdoing.” A small, smug smile comes to Kinn’s face, like the thought brings him righteous satisfaction.
“Now, Tankhun, can you explain what we’d like each unit to do?”
-
“Pete, I have a job for you.”
Oh, brother.
After the briefing, Chan had asked their whole (admittedly small) unit to meet in the conference room in an hour, and he would report back with their agenda for the next few weeks. Their unit has been tasked with directly tracking the movements of the heir of the TK Group, Vegas Theerapanyakul, and apparently, their first job has arrived already.
“It’s short notice, but we have information that Vegas will be at a lounge bar in Thong Lo tonight,” Chan explains. “I’d like you, Arm, and Porsche to check it out.”
Porsche, the new recruit, looks dumb-founded. He turns to Pete, mouthing, ‘Me?’ Pete shrugs back at him.
“According to our intel, he is meeting someone, a guy named Virak. Virak's got a record. We think this conversation might give us some leads. Your task, Pete, is to place this on Vegas without him noticing, before that meeting. ”
Chan walks over and hands him… a coin?
“10 baht?” Pete says, perplexed. Porsche crowds around him to join in staring at it.
“A listening device,” Arm corrects from the corner of the room. “It’s range is shit, though, so we'll have to stand by until they’re done. I’ll be outside listening to the recording in real-time, and you and Porsche will be on standby inside the place.”
Pete fingers it, feeling the ridges of the surface. It really does look and feel just like a coin. He hands it to Porsche, who also observes it with great interest. “And we have a warrant? Already?” Pete asks.
“Nothing gets past you, eh?” Chan smiles. “Not quite. We don’t have enough for a warrant yet, but knowing what they’re saying in that meeting tonight could very well be our smoking gun.”
Pete thinks briefly about the ethical implications, but his job is to investigate crimes, not ask questions.
He plasters on a vacant smile and nods.
—
“Wow. You two dress up nice,” Arm compliments from behind the driver’s seat as Porsche and Pete climb into the back seats of an S-Class Mercedes Benz. Pete has no idea where the precinct acquired such a fancy car, but again, his job is to investigate crimes, not ask questions.
“Thank you, nerd, but I’ll have you know I always look this good,” Porsche says with a wink, preening in the rear-view mirror. He flexes a few times for good measure.
“Never mind. Pete, you look very nice,” Arm says.
“Hey!" Porsche frowns.
The bar they’re headed to, Stratum, is an upscale cocktail lounge. Tankhun, never one to shy away from a means of procrastination, had barreled into their unit’s office a few hours after Chan’s briefing and whisked Porsche and Pete away to curate their outfits for the night. Pete briefly wonders if them being assigned to this spontaneous mission was Tankhun wanting an excuse to dress people up.
“Tankhun made us his pet project of the day,” Pete shudders. “It took us three hours to escape the precinct walk-in closet. Three.”
“Oh, yeah,” Arm says casually. “You know, all of those clothes are his, I think.”
Porsche laughs in amazement. “That explains that glittery purple jacket!” He pauses for a beat. “Pete, I can’t believe you left it behind. Tankhun even offered it to you. I really think you should’ve taken it.”
The glittery purple jacket in question was not just sparkly but bedazzled too, with fur lining the collar and sleeves. Tankhun forced Pete to try it on at least twice.
“Hypocrite. You didn’t even try on the mermaid costume,” Pete counters.
“Mermaid costume?” Arm prompts.
Porsche quickly changes the subject.
“Tankhun and I had to bully Pete into wearing this,” Porsche says. “We did a good job, right? Doesn’t he look nice?”
For what it's worth, Pete does look nice. That said, he personally thinks it has more to do with Tankhun styling his hair and giving him designer clothes, neither of which are things he does often. Tankhun does have a good eye. For example, Porsche looks stunning. Porsche is objectively hot and confident already, so his Tankhun-curated outfit -- an open vee-necked black shirt and white slacks -- just accentuates his dewy golden skin and long legs. It's not like Porsche owns designer either, and he certainly doesn't, based on the things Pete has seen in that man's closet. But Porsche pulls off the suave look effortlessly, fitting into designer as if he did it everyday. No matter how great Pete looks, that confidence is not something that comes easily to Pete. While Pete is similarly wearing a patterned silk dress shirt and black slacks, he feels more like a child playing dress-up in an adult’s clothing. Wearing clothes this nice feels foreign to him.
“Even if I look nice, who wears silk in Thailand,” Pete complains.
“Sexy people, Pete,” Porsche replies. “Now stop whining. Harness your inner sexy club rat. We’re two sexy guys going to the club! Life is good!”
“What if I sweated to death in my stupid sexy silk shirt? Would you even care?” Pete says.
“So you admit it’s sexy!” Porsche says gleefully.
“Kids these days," Pete sighs. "Arm, can you believe this. Rookies have no respect anymore. He wouldn't even care if I died.”
“Going back to sexy club rats, who does this Vegas guy think he is?” Arm says. “Did you see how he was dressed in that photo? Can you imagine just stumbling into that on LinkedIn?”
“You know what? Who are we to get in the way of his thirst-trapping?” Porsche says philosophically. “As a sexy guy, we need to normalize hyping up other sexy guys. We’ve got to support each other, not tear each other down.”
“I hate you,” Arm groans.
Pete might be laughing, but as he thinks about Vegas’s photo again, it is less funny. Unfortunately, Pete actually did think Vegas was attractive. Not necessarily in a 'sexy' sort of way (at least, that specific word hadn't popped into his brain), but Pete stared at that photo for longer than he’d like to admit. Long enough that can remember exactly what Vegas was wearing in that specific photo in the pamphlet: An expensive-looking burgundy silk shirt, open enough at the top to showcase a silver chain-link necklace sitting at his collarbone. Pete had Googled him out of curiosity. Out of all the publicly available photos Pete could find, Vegas appears to always be dressed like that, wearing what Pete assumes is probably designer.
As they get closer to their destination, they inevitably have to talk about the expectations for the night. Pete's job is to find an opening to intercept and bug Vegas, with Porsche potentially needing to act as a distraction if Vegas and Virak arrive at the same time. Divide and conquer. Pete is fairly sure he can identify Vegas at this point, but Tankhun had also shared alleged facts about Vegas during their dress-up session. Allegedly, Tankhun had met him at some government gala or other, Vegas there on account of his father’s local wealth and connections to various politicians, and Tankhun also there on account of his father's local wealth and connections to various politicians. Hi-so families really are something else. Apparently, Vegas is a bit shorter than Pete, always wears “slutty silk shirts,” and is noticeable by his “bad aura” alone, whatever that means. They were also provided a photo of who Vegas is meeting tonight, some guy named Virak who has been associated with Cambodian drug traffickers. The fact Vegas is meeting such a guy is already lowkey suspicious, in the grand scheme of things. But presumed innocence, and all that.
Porsche’s duty as a rookie is to shadow Pete and be a second line of backup in case anything goes awry. Pete would never admit it, but he's sort of worried. Porsche is many things -- the human equivalent of a Labrador retriever, handsome, really good at making drinks -- but he is not known for being the most reliable person. The last time Pete was on a mission with Porsche, it ended with Porsche narrowly avoiding getting stabbed and a shootout that needed several backup squad cars. At least this time, the mission is much simpler than some of the others they've been on. All that needs to happen is Pete places the bug, and he and Porsche stay on-site in the bar the duration of the meeting. That's it. The whole while, Pol will be stationed outside the building to listen to the audio as it comes. And if anything goes wrong, Pete and Porsche will have an easy getaway, Pol just a line away.
How does Pete feel about it? Kind of mediocre, to be honest. Most likely, the conversation might point to some leads, but Pete is not really expecting the night to pan out into anything actionable. They are playing by the fruit of the poisonous tree doctrine here—since they don’t have any actionable leads yet, they are using a method of dubious legality, but a lead is a lead. Maybe some crumb Vegas leaves in the conversation will direct them to a cornucopia.
They have been informed to be careful. Not much is publicly known about Vegas Theerapanyakul, except for the fact that he is very wealthy, owns a lot of property, and is very secretive. Not much is known about him and he keeps a low profile. If for any reason Pete and Porsche make Vegas paranoid, it might compromise their efforts to find out more about the Theerapanyakuls.
--
STRATUM.
Pete squints up at the bright, blocky, white neon letters. Even though it is early in the evening on a weekday, the sidewalk is already filled with chattering people, and bright signs of every possible color blink distractingly.
Pete and Porsche wade their way through the crowd to the entrance. Pete hands his precinct-provided fake ID to the bouncer at the door. After being scrutinized with a judgmental head-to-toe glance and handing over a 500 BHT bill, Pete crosses the club’s threshold. He pauses for a second while Porsche catches up, immediately cataloguing his surroundings.
The lobby opens up into a large square-shaped room. It is a very cozy yet sophisticated space, with dim, warm lighting, neutral-to-dark furniture, and dark wooden walls, floors, and ceilings. It reminds Pete of an old library. Plush couches flanked by tables line the periphery of the room, and other cozy lounging furniture adorns the room. There are no windows. There is a large bar-space at the back wall, behind which shelves displaying hundreds of different types of alcohol glint expensively. Two grand stairwells are on each side of the room, leading up to an indoor balcony, along which there are doors. Presumably, these are private rooms. Pete assumes one of such rooms is where Virak and Vegas are meeting.
Porsche steps beside Pete to join him. “It looks like a library in here,” Porsche says.
“Really? That’s what you’re thinking about?” Pete says, not wanting to admit he was thinking the same thing.
“Liar. What are you thinking about then?” Porsche says defensively.
“The fact that besides the main entrance, there’s two possible exits at each of the hallway by that bar over there, and we should probably see if there are more,” Pete makes up on the spot. To be fair, he is fairly sure these assumptions are correct.
“Oh,” Porsche says, sheepish.
Pete immediately feels bad. “I lied. I have no idea where the exits are. I also thought it looks like a library.”
“I trusted you!” Porsche says accusingly, lightly punching Pete's shoulder with a laugh. “But yeah, you make a good point. Let's go see where those exits are.”
It turns out that Pete’s guess on how many exits there are was right. The exit down the hall to the left leads to a narrow side alley, and one to the right leads to a busier and wider alley with a dumpster and the backdoors of other venues.
Even after scouting the place, they still have half an hour to kill. This place is definitely outside of Pete’s comfort zone—he feels out of place in a place so beautiful. A comfortable stream of local urban elites and foreigners filter in, wearing sleek dresses and tailored suits. At least half of the couches are already occupied, and more people coming in each minute.
“Come on, let’s get a drink,” Porsche suggests.
When Pete levels him with a stare and raised eyebrows, Porsche clarifies, “Mocktails, Pete. Who do you think I am? Do you really think I’d drink on the job?”
Pete literally remembers the last time he did, and it was less than three months ago. He does not bother pointing this out, because Porsche definitely remembers and his disapproving stare speaks volumes.
“Dude, I’ll literally pay. I will die of boredom if we just stand here.”
“Fine,” Pete relents.
It turns out Porsche does not even have to pay. Within two minutes, Porsche has managed to somehow charm the bartender into giving them free mocktails. ‘Well, he was a bartender,’ Pete reminds himself. While Porsche beams a brilliant grin and compliments the bartender’s tin spin, Pete becomes increasingly vigilant as the minutes tick by. He chews his lips as he sits on the stool beside Porsche. Even after he’s been slipped an Arnold Palmer (which is unfortunately very refreshing, and he can’t help but thank the bartender graciously and deeply appreciate Porsche’s whim), Pete remains relatively unengaged in the conversation. Luckily, this is fine, because Porsche has enough presence for two people. Pete sits sideways facing Porsche, his body twisted so he can keep the lounge entrance in his line of vision.
Virak is the first to arrive. He’s a plain-looking middle-aged man with short-buzzed hair wearing a tan two-piece suit. Upon seeing him, Pete gives Porsche a nudge with his foot and pointedly flicks his eyes towards the door. Porsche does not move his head sideways to look, but minutely bobs his head in a nod. Within a minute, Porsche finishes his drink, politely extricated himself from the conversation, and melted into the crowd. Soon after, he catches sight of Porsche and Virak chatting in a remote corner of the room, far from the main entrance. One down, one to go.
Pete makes polite small talk with the bartender, nursing his mocktail until Vegas arrives.
Pete can tell the exact moment Vegas walks in.
There’s a slight lull in conversations, the sort of momentary lurch of quiet in a forest when a predator is nearby. People pause to look at the door, then look away. Although the hum of conversation continues just as quickly as it had halted, Pete feels a prickle of unease at the back of his neck.
If he thought Vegas looked good in photos, he looks better in person. Seeing him in reality is disorienting. He’s very pretty. It seems other people think so too, given the way peoples' eyes dart to him. His good looks are complimented by the way he carries himself: He walks with the sinewy poise of a cat, graceful and confident. Pete’s eyes dip to the silver chain at his collarbone, then to the rippling sheen of light dancing across his silk shirt. Unfortunately, it happens to be the very same burgundy silk shirt as the one in that photo in the pamphlet, and he has what at least three buttons undone at the collar.
‘Slutty,’ Pete’s brain unhelpfully supplies.
Pete thanks to the bartender, then gets to his feet. Vegas disappears into the crowd. Pete weaves his way in the direction he last saw him, scanning the room for him as he fingers the coin in his pocket. Soon, he spots Vegas again, at closer distance. Now, Pete is able to note potential places he can slip the coin. Pants pockets. Breast pocket. It feels like a rocket countdown the closer he gets, heart thumping like a countdown. Within a few meters of Vegas, Pete allows himself to sink into the role he has constructed for tonight: Clumsy and drunk idiot. Pete is so nervous that he kind of wishes he actually had an alcoholic drink. He really hates that he is sober right now. But the show must go on. Fisting the coin in his right hand and his phone in his left, Pete sways on his feet as he walks. Before he knows it, he’s a few people away.
Game time.
As Pete is about to walk past Vegas, he pretends to trip on his feet. Pete shoulder-checks Vegas, letting his phone fly out of his left hand. It clatters on the floor. Pete makes a loud noise of shock, swaying into Vegas with his full body-weight. They both stumble. Pete clasps at Vegas's hips, practically hugging him. On the way down, his fingers dip into one of Vegas’s pant pockets and deposit the coin. Pete clings to Vegas as he re-stabilizes himself.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Pete blusters, gripping Vegas’s shoulder tightly as he stands back up. “I had a bit too much to drink, and—“
Pete makes the mistake of eye contact. The rest of the words he was going to bullshit die in his throat. Up close, Vegas is even more beautiful. It feels unfair. His eyes are dark and bottomless. What Pete notices, however, is the expression on Vegas's face: For a split second, his eyes are wide with a feral wildness and his lip is curled unconsciously into an irritated snarl. Just as quickly, though, Vegas fixes his face. The way that feral anger morphs into an affable look is amazing. If Pete was not better trained, he might have thought his mind was playing tricks on him.
“I'm sorry. I didn't see you," Vegas says, still maintaining eye contact. Oh, no. Even his voice is pretty. "Are you alright?”
Even if this was calculated, the situation is still embarrassing. A few people around him have paused to stare at the spectacle of the drunk man and his phone, and Pete feels his face flush. Standing up, Pete rips his eyes away from Vegas to stare at his phone on the floor. He hopes his phenomenal acting skills didn't do any permanent damage. “Fine! Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry for being so careless,” Pete says lamely. He realizes he's still holding onto Vegas, and his hands fly off Vegas as if he's been burned. "Is your phone okay?" Vegas tilts his head. Despite his initially annoyed expression, he seems unfazed by the collision. Pete takes a step back, awkwardly stepping over to his phone and picking it up. "It looks fine," Pete says quickly. “Sorry about that again, haha. I think I need to sit down. Have a nice night, Khun Vegas!"
Pete makes his escape, retreating back to the area around the bar. Maybe he really is drunk. His face is hot, his knees feel weak, and is suddenly very aware of how much his stupid silk shirt itches. His entire back is wet with sweat. He also feels an impending sense of doom. Probably all side effects of the fatal spike of adrenaline that encounter induced. What a sensory nightmare.
Pete leans up against the wall, collecting himself. Hey, he pulled it off though, right?
Pete takes a moment to check his phone. Thankfully, it’s not cracked from his A-plus acting. Truly a miracle. He shoots Arm and Porsche a text.
Pete:
Coin in the piggy bank!
Pete scans the room and catches sight of Vegas sauntering up to Virak and Porsche. The three appear to have a pleasant surface-level conversation with Porsche, and then the two break away to ascend the stairs. They disappear into one of the VIP rooms, the door closing behind them.
Pete looks down at his phone again.
Arm:
The cicada is chirping.
Pete watches as Porsche stands there for another minute or two, glancing up at the balcony. Porsche then pulls out his phone. Two more messages pop up in their Line group chat, in quick succession:
Porsche:
wat
Porsche:
OHHH lmao bug hahaha
When Pete looks back up, Porsche is looking around the room like a lost child. Eventually, they make eye contact. Porsche gives a grin and a wave, and Pete beckons him over.
“Dude.”
Porsche looks mildly concerned as he walks up to him.
“Are you… okay? Why are you so… damp?”
“It’s the silk,” Pete says tiredly. “I don’t feel very sexy right now. That was horrible.”
“Well, it worked,” Porsche offers. “Success is pretty sexy. Booyah. Real spy shit. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”
“Shut up and actually buy me a mocktail this time,” Pete replies miserably.
“That can be arranged,” Porsche says conspiratorially. “Get over here!” Pete is helplessly pulled along to the bar. As Porsche calls the bartender over with a grin, Pete briefly eyes the private room Vegas and Virak went to. He continues to prickle with unease, especially when he recalls Vegas’s face.
Oh well. For now, he drowns his worries in mocktails.
—
Vegas and Virak sure are taking their time with their meeting.
It’s been about half an hour, and no movement. To be fair, meetings do normally range from half an hour to an hour. Pete is just going insane waiting.
At least Porsche is enjoying himself. He is having the time of his life, the smooth talker. He’s currently right in the middle of telling a story about a wild bar fight he’d gotten into some years ago, to the small crowd of people that has gathered around them. For the first half of the conversation, Pete had been more engaged. However, the more time drags on, the more on edge Pete becomes. He keeps glancing at the door. Nothing, yet.
He decides that he is entitled to a break. It’s not like Vegas is going anywhere, and he could really use a smoke.
Taking one last glance at the door, Pete excuses himself. He dips down the left hallway, then steps out into that narrow alleyway. It’s more quiet here than it is in the other alley. Pete wants a moment to himself.
Pete just stands in the center of the alleyway for a minute or two. He takes measured breaths to ground himself, listening to the sounds of city nightlife echoing off buildings, the hum of mopeds and loud raucous laughter and conversations.
After he feels decently relaxed, Pete fishes into his pocket to pull out a Wonder brand cigarette, then digs for a lighter.
Click.
Pete lets out an embarrassing yelp, spinning around.
“Pete, is it?”
Pete’s blood runs cold.
Vegas’s face is illuminated by the flame from the lighter he has just flicked on. He is smiling, all teeth, and casually leaning up against the wall by the exit door. His arm is extended out to Pete, offering to light his cigarette.
Pete takes a step back. The cigarette in his hand falls and lands forgotten on the ground. A simpering smile instinctually takes shape on Pete’s face as he feels an icy panic so intense it has him sweating. His mind races.
How is Vegas here? Why is Vegas here?
... And how the fuck does Vegas know Pete’s name?
“What’s with the cold reception? We’re already acquainted, aren’t we? You said my name earlier?” Vegas says as he takes a step forward. They are not questions. They are statements. Pete’s smile falters slightly.
‘Shit, I said his name?! I had one job! Fuck!’
Pete can’t stop himself from actually physically wincing. Literally a rookie mistake. Pete thinks furiously about how to get himself out from this situation as he takes another step back, resolutely avoiding eye contact.
Vegas seems amused. Pete feels a pang of fear as his eyes fall on the sharp glint of Vegas’s teeth. Pete thinks about how in most of the animal kingdom, baring teeth is a sign of aggression.
“Oh, no, I’m afraid not, haha. I just heard your name. Around. Before I bumped into you. You’re—“
Vegas takes another step closer.
“—quite famous around here, you know?”
Pete takes another step back.
Vegas outright laughs at him. It’s a mean laugh that has the hairs on the back of Pete’s neck standing up.
”Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”
Vegas says the words quietly, but it booms loudly in the isolation of the alleyway. Vegas’s smile has disappeared.
Pete swallows nervously. His throat is dry, too dry to speak, so he shakes his head.
Vegas speaks again: "Right… You know, I’ve been meaning to ask this since earlier, but what’s up with that coin you gave me?”
Fuck my life.
Pete tries to look as confused as possible. “Coin? What coin?”
Vegas narrows his eyes and takes another step closer. Pete takes another step back. His back thuds unpleasantly against a brick wall. Pete thinks about that feeling when you’re walking down stairs in the dark, thinking there is one extra step than there is. Your foot falls down, and there’s a sickly moment of dark surprise as you reorient yourself, foot aching.
Vegas is in his space now. Pete’s mind races.
“What coin?” Vegas repeats with faux surprise. “Surely you know,” he drawls, “considering you snuck it into my pocket, yes?”
Pete doesn’t know what to say, but he knows what he feels, physically and mentally. His body acts on somatic impulse. Pete jerks to the side in an attempt to sprint out of the alley.
Within seconds, Vegas has slammed him up against the wall, scruffed by the collar of his silk shirt. This damned silk shirt. It is soaked with sweat. Pete struggles furiously. He manages to stomp on Vegas’s foot, hard, clock one of his shins with one of his heeled dress shoes, and viciously jab the point of his elbow into Vegas’s ribs. He feels vindicated at the litany of muted curses behind him.
He goes dead still when he hears the click of a gun safety behind his head. Pete feels a hot-cold panicky haze of adrenaline that makes him go weak.
“Hands up,” Vegas snarls, mask off. “On the wall. Now.”
Pete shakily raises his hands from his sides, placing them flat against the wall in front of him. The blunt edge of a gun’s muzzle presses up against the back of his head. Vegas takes his time, patting down Pete’s pockets. His gun is confiscated.
“Well?” Vegas prompts. His voice is now closer than it was before, somewhere behind his head. "Care to explain yourself?"
Pete pants, at a loss for words.
Out of nowhere, a warm hand curls around the back of Pete’s neck. He flinches, and the hand… just sits there. Pete thinks about how wet the back of his neck is, from all the sweat. Then, he thinks about how Vegas’s hand is wet, too.
“Go on. Talk to me.”
A choked exhale rattles out of Pete as the barrel of the gun skates from the back of his head to the back of his shoulder, then down the line of his spine. Pete feels a flicker of heat in his lower stomach, and his heart sickeningly skips a beat.
“I— uh, I...,” Pete begins, swallowing tightly before trailing off.
His mind is racing, yet empty.
An aggravated sigh whistles in Pete’s ear. Vegas has moved even closer to him. Vegas must be looking right at him.
Vegas repositions his entire arm. The hand at the back of his neck slides to the side of his neck, a wet slide, then curls around to grip him by the throat. Pete’s throat bobs in a nervous swallow. Vegas’s fingers tighten at the movement.
“And you had so much to say earlier! Let’s try this again,” Vegas says again. His voice rumbles by Pete’s ear. He has the audacity to sound amused. “Speak.”
Vegas’s thumb and forefinger apply light pressure over his carotid arteries. Then, Vegas squeezes, hard. Five pinpricks of nail press into the soft meat of his throat.
Pete wills his voice to not crack as he finally gets some words out.
“Some random guy approached me and said he’d pay me if I snuck it into your pocket,” Pete lies. “Generously,” Pete adds, hoping to really hit it home.
Vegas remains quiet. Hearing him out. The hand at Pete’s throat loosens, as if encouraging him to talk.
Somehow, the silence goads Pete into talking more, even though he knows he’s just digging a grave for himself.
“I don’t even remember his name.”
Then, to really amp up his act of an unsuspecting, innocent, random person dragged into this mess, he leans his head back and tries to look at Vegas. It’s an awkward angle, but he keeps his eyes big, polite, frowns and knits his eyebrows together in a concerned look. He can’t see much of Vegas’s face, but can hear him breathing, right by his ear.
“This is all just a big misunderstanding. I wish I could be more helpful. I’m sorry, Khun Vegas,” Pete stammers out.
Then, Pete puts on one of his empty, wide, ingratiating smiles. Makes it as hesitant and apologetic as he can muster.
Vegas is silent behind him for a few beats. The silence itches at Pete’s psyche like a scabbing wound. He can feel that Vegas is watching him, considering him.
“Hmm,” Vegas hums, contemplative. His pointer finger gently skates along Pete’s throat, then to behind his ears. Pete involuntarily shudders. He feels like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. Vegas looks amused, alongside something else Pete can’t place.
The gun at Pete’s back disappears, but is replaced with an insistent hand that presses him forward. Pete’s heart jackrabbits in his chest as his torso and face are pushed flush with the wall. A foot steps between Pete’s legs as Vegas leans even closer to him, if that was possible. Pete feels like a butterfly pinned to a board.
“You know what I think?”
The hand at Pete’s back slides to his waist and grabs, hard, his hand clawing into the meat of his hip.
“I think you’re a liar.”
”What? No. Why would I lie to you?” Pete tries to play dumb, a last ditch effort to regain some semblance of control situation.
Vegas scoffs, then sneers.
"Kinn just loves sicking his pathetic dogs on me. You idiots are all the same. But, I’ve got to say, him sending precinct men after me is new. You’re not even one of his, and he has you doing this,” he sneers.
His voice has taken a distinctly threatening edge.
“Even Porsche? Come on. He’s a rookie. He can’t have been working for more than a few weeks now.”
Pete feels like an ice bath has been dunked over his head. How the hell does Vegas know they’re police? What does he mean, ’one of his’?
Pete tries to jerk around so he can fight Vegas, because what other option is there? They grapple for a second, Pete landing a powerful jab back into Vegas’s ribs. But with the advantage of already being behind him, Vegas wins out, seizing Pete’s wrists and crushing them against his back. Incensed, Vegas slams him up and against the wall. Pete’s skull slams into the bricks. He groans out in pain.
“Nice try,” Vegas grits out.
“You crazy bastard,” Pete curses. “Why are you so close to me?! Get off!”
Vegas ignores him.
Pete continues bucking in his grip, but loses vigor as that hand reappears at his throat with a harsh squeeze. The line of Vegas’s torso presses against Pete’s back, applying extra crushing weight to pin Pete to the wall. Vegas’s leg knocks apart Pete’s own.
“This is going too far,” Vegas continues, and his voice sounds different now. Like he’s discussing business matters over lunch. Pleasant. Friendly. Perhaps even a little playful. This tone of voice scares Pete even more than his angry one does.
“It’s about time I send my dear cousins a message,” Vegas says. “Don’t you think so, Pete?”
Cousins?
The gears in Pete’s head start turning. Too much is going on. He turns his head to look at Vegas with an uncomprehending look. The implications are severe. He couldn’t possibly mean that…?
A puff of mean laughter against his ear. “Haha, you had no idea, did you? And how many years has it been now? You poor thing.”
And that’s when the atmosphere changes.
“Too bad. I’ve still got to make an example of you,” Vegas laments, voice now warm and syrupy in his ear.
Suddenly, Vegas is nuzzling at his neck. Pete shudders as a hot wetness slides down the shell of his ear, and he freezes like a deer in headlights.
What.
“Don’t worry,” Vegas murmurs, much too close, again. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
With dawning horror, Pete realizes that this situation is rapidly spiraling out of his control. Not that he had any control in the first place, apparently.
“What are you talking abou—“
Teeth scrape against the side of his neck, and Pete’s brain short circuits. His head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton.
“You— uh—“
Vegas’s tongue laves down the side of his neck, and the hand at his throat starts to unbutton the top part of his shirt before yanking it to the side, revealing the expanse of Pete’s shoulder. That hand then fastens at the root of Pete’s hair, tightening hard and pulling it away to provide access.
And then Vegas bites. Hard.
Pete spasms, involuntarily letting out a pained yelp. The pain is sharp in his shoulder, then radiates out, and the hot-cold numbness he’s been feeling transforms into a blazing and oppressive heat. His whole body feels hot. “Ouch! Ow! Stop it! Why are you biting me?!” Pete yells. But Vegas does not relent, or reply. Vegas bites like he’s trying to eat him, teeth digging hard into his shoulder. By the time Vegas releases his bite, laves with his tongue, Pete is breathing hard, twitching. “That hurt,” Pete gasps out. But then Vegas digs his teeth in again, harder. Strangled whines keep spilling out of Pete’s mouth uncontrolled. He feels the pierce of teeth breaking his skin, his shoulder numbly burning.
The onslaught of mauling continues for what has to be at least one whole minute, complete silence except for Pete’s low whines and the wet noises of Vegas’s mouth on his skin. Finally, Vegas’s mouth releases him, tongue skating over the broken surface of the skin. Pete registers a wetness sliding from his shoulder. When Vegas raises his head, making eye contact with him, Pete sees a smear of blood around his mouth, his teeth stained pink.
A puff of laughter escapes Vegas.
The hand fisted in Pete’s hair releases its grip, comes down to gently pet Pete’s cheek, down to gently slide over the bite. Pete twitches. It feels like sparks are scattering across his whole shoulder, the area raw and oversensitized.
Pete’s hands are still behind his back, fastened down by Vegas’s other hand and the press of body.
“Wow,” Vegas says. His chin hooks over Pete’s raw shoulder, the sensation sending him into another fit of twitching. “Are you enjoying this?” His voice is mean, mocking, pleased.
Pete genuinely has no clue what he’s talking about. “What are you talking about? Are you stupid?” Pete chokes out. Who the hell would enjoy being bitten by a complete fucking psychopath?
Until Vegas’s hand, which has moved down from Pete’s shoulder, ghosts over the front of his pants. With horror, Pete realizes that he is fully hard, his erection pushed up against the wall in front of him. He goes dead still.
Oh, god.
He would.
What the fuck?
Pete is so mortified that he snaps out of whatever paralyzed stupor he has been in.
Like he’s been electrocuted, Pete jerks, hard, slamming the back of his skull into Vegas’s head. Pete swears, distantly wonders if he’ll be concussed. Vegas swears too and stumbles away from Pete. He loosens his grip enough for Pete to regain agency of his hands. Shoving Vegas, hard, Pete takes off back into the building. Running, he beelines towards the bar. Porsche is still chatting, happy as a clam.
When Porsche sees him, his eyes widen in alarm as he takes in Pete’s expression, and then his bloodied shoulder.
“He’s onto us,” he gasps out. The other patrons must think he is insane. “We need to go.”
Pete’s head whips around to take a look back at the exit door. It is being held open, and Vegas’s silhouette framed by the alleyway light stands in the doorway. Standing, still, looking right back at him. Porsche follows his gaze, and immediately jumps to his feet.
Porsche grabs Pete and drags him into a run. They stumble through the crowd, past the bouncer, and onto the street.
—