Chapter Text
Chris studied the person sitting in front of his desk, thinking about the best way to go about this. He had read the substantial file that had accompanied his arrest. A rather prolific criminal, but not a particularly dangerous one. A short-tempered kid who got in a lot of fights. A young man whose parents had been murdered in front of him, a murder which had never been solved, who had spent most of his teen years in a group home for troubled children. He was wearing a brightly patterned shirt and jeans, a beaded necklace and sneakers, and he looked rather sullen to have been arrested. If he was curious about why he was in Chris’ office instead of a holding cell, he gave no sign of that.
“Look, Bison, you’re not a bad kid,” Chris said. “You’ve had a rough life and you’ve made some bad choices. So let’s make a deal. I’ll help you if you help me.”
Bison didn’t look up from where his hands were knotted in his lap. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got three cases against you right now,” Chris said, and laid the folders down one by one. He knew that Bison had committed a lot more crimes than that, but three was the number that they actually had enough evidence on to get him charged. “Assault. Assault and battery. Vandalism and destruction of property. So if you help me break three cases, I’ll make your three cases go away. Wipe your slate clean.”
“You want me to be a narc,” Bison said flatly.
Chris didn’t take offense at his words or his tone. “Yes, Bison, I want you to be a narc. You can go places I can’t, talk to people who would never talk to me.”
“I’d rather go to prison,” Bison said. “Thanks.”
“Bison, I don’t think you’d last a week in prison,” Chris said, “but if a clean slate isn’t enough, okay. I’ll throw in a bonus. Your parents’ case has been cold for a long time. There hasn’t been the resources to keep pushing it after nobody turned up any leads. I can have it prioritized. Put more people on it. Start fresh and see what we can turn up.”
Bison’s head had whipped up as soon as Chris mentioned his parents. “You mean it?”
“I can’t make you any promises, Bison,” Chris said. “It may be impossible to solve. But with someone who was willing to go undercover, make friends in certain circles . . . we’d have a better chance.”
Bison was already nodding. “I’ll do it, then. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Okay,” Chris said, “but we’re not going to start with that. Your parents’ murder was a professional hit. You’re going to need a little practice and a little training before we send you undercover in those circles. Let’s start with something simpler. Help me break three cases. I’ll wipe your slate clean and then give you what you need to find who killed your parents.”
Chris extended a hand, and Bison shook it. “Deal.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Fadel looked up as the bell over the door to the restaurant jingled, and he sighed as Bison slouched inside. The restaurant was empty, and he was just cleaning tables, so he greeted Bison with, “How many times do I have to fire you before you stop showing up to your shifts?”
“Aww, don’t be like that, Fadel,” Bison said, with his usual sunny smile. “You never mean it when you fire me.”
“I never meant it when I hired you, either,” Fadel replied.
This was marginally true. Fadel had owned the restaurant for two years, and when Bison had originally turned up looking for a job, he’d said no. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help Bison. They had grown up in the same group home and had bonded over the violent loss of their parents. He thought of Bison as a little brother. But the flip side of that was that he knew Bison. He knew Bison would never take a job seriously. He would always be goofing off and shirking his duties and even getting in fights with rude customers.
But he had allowed it, against his better judgment, because of the reason Bison wanted it. “I need a cover,” he had said, and Fadel had frowned at him. “A minimum wage job flipping burgers is perfect.”
“Cover for what?” Fadel had asked, and Bison had explained the deal that he had made with the police captain. He was making friends with some drug dealers and some prostitutes. They needed to know he was harmless, just a normal guy with a normal job. Once he got experience going undercover, he said, the police captain would help him infiltrate the circles of professional hitmen that had killed his parents - and Fadel’s.
Over the years, Fadel had tried to put the unsolved murder of his parents out of his mind. He couldn’t change it. He couldn’t solve it. He had to think about what life they would want for him, so he studied hard and opened the restaurant. It was doing moderately well, and he thought they would be proud of him.
But if giving Bison a job that was more fake than not and looking the other way while he slacked off would eventually get him to a place where he could see their murderer face justice - that was an easy calculation.
“I haven’t seen you in a few weeks,” he said, when Bison went behind the counter and got himself a soda.
“Yeah, been busy. That piece of shit at the massage parlor was running me ragged. But now he’s arrested so it’s all good.”
Fadel wiped down another table. “Did that piece of shit police captain count it this time?”
“He did, yeah,” Bison said. They had learned over the past year that Chris only considered certain criminals to be worthy of giving Bison credit for helping close the case. So even though at least a dozen drug dealers and pimps had been arrested with Bison’s help, this was only the second case that would be counted against his open charges.
It pissed Fadel off, but he hadn’t said much about it because he had a feeling he knew why Chris was doing it - and so did Bison. Bison didn’t care about his clean slate. Bison wanted the experience and training that infiltrating these groups would give him. The cases he had been taking had gradually become more dangerous. The boss of the massage parlor was involved in the Mafia; it was a major arrest and Bison had doubtlessly learned a lot while accomplishing it.
“Want to go out tonight?” Bison asked.
“I’m closing,” Fadel said.
“After that, then,” Bison said, and Fadel shook his head. “Come on, I closed a case, let’s celebrate! You need to have more fun. Tell you what - I’ll help you clean the kitchen if you’ll go out with me afterwards. Please?” He employed his puppy dog eyes. “Please, Fadel?”
Fadel knew that every time they went out, it would be barely an hour before Bison saw some hot guy and disappeared to a motel room. On the one hand, that annoyed him, but on the other, it meant he would be home by midnight. “Okay, okay. Now go get changed. If you’re going to show up for work, do some work.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Bison said, and bounced into the back. Fadel shook his head and went back to wiping down tables.
~ ~ ~ ~
Three days after the boss at the massage parlor was arrested, Bison got a text from Chris that just read ‘15:30, my office’. He rolled his eyes and texted back a saluting emoji. Chris had learned over the past year that there was no point in summoning Bison for morning meetings. Given his way, Bison would stay up until dawn and then sleep until early afternoon. He wouldn’t even see a text like that until long after the meeting time, and got surly if he was rousted out of bed.
It had been a good few days. He was proud of himself for helping take down the boss at the massage parlor, who’d been an enormous asshole in addition to being a criminal. The job had gotten him a lot of experience with more dangerous people than he had previously encountered. He was learning how to make himself look helpless and innocent, how to fade into the background, and - possibly most importantly - how to keep his temper when people provoked him. That was something that had been a liability on previous jobs and had nearly blown up the first case he had worked on.
“What’s up, Cap?” he asked, bouncing into Chris’ office. On a personal level, he intensely disliked Chris. The man was hypocritical, self-important, and an expert at moving goalposts. Bison still wasn’t sure he trusted him to follow through on any of his promises. But the experience he was getting was real, so for now, he would allow Chris to use him. Chris had also helped him in some other ways, getting him enrolled in self-defense classes and even teaching him how to use a firearm.
“I have a new job for you,” Chris said. “There’s a car theft ring that’s been causing a lot of problems lately.”
“Car thieves, really?” Bison asked. “Seems like a step down from mob boss.”
“Don’t underestimate them. We’re pretty sure that the car theft is one of their major sources of income, and that it’s used to fund other, more dangerous, ventures.”
“Sure, sure,” Bison said, annoyed regardless. Chris was always saying things like that. Every kid on the street corner selling pot by the ounce was involved in a major crime ring, in Chris’ opinion. But there was a chance that it was true. Chris probably wouldn’t be sending him on a mission at this point if he wasn’t fairly sure he would get results. “Who’s the target?”
Chris put down a folder, and Bison nearly choked on his own saliva. The man in the picture was in the process of unlocking the door to a tattoo studio. He was gorgeous, well-dressed, and very familiar. Bison had met him at the bowling alley only three nights previous, at which point they had adjourned to a motel and fucked each others’ brains out. Bison wasn’t really picky about his hookups, and because of that, they were rarely memorable. This one was memorable. Top three for sure. There was a part of him that had regretted his usual practice of not exchanging names or numbers, and leaving before the other man had woken the next morning. He did it to protect himself, but damn, the sex was almost never that good.
“This is Kant,” Chris said, oblivious to Bison’s reaction. Bison couldn’t help but note the unusual name, finding that he liked it. “He’s had some scrapes with law enforcement and got a slap on the wrist about a decade ago. For a while, he cleaned up his act, but lately it seems like he’s gotten back into it. He’s one of the few players that we can be sure is part of the active ring right now.”
“Sure,” Bison said, unable to tear his eyes away from the photograph. It should be illegal to be that hot, he thought. Why didn’t the cops arrest him for that? He forced himself to focus. “Address in the folder?”
“Yeah,” Chris said. “I’d start with - ”
Bison slapped the folder shut. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Cap. I’m getting good enough at it that you don’t need to tell me to pretend to be a customer at the tattoo shop and make friends with him.”
Chris lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. It’s your show, Bison. But I want the man in charge of the ring. Get close to Kant until you can find out who’s giving him orders.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bison said, and breezed out of the office. He took the rest of the afternoon to go through his sketches and do a little social media stalking. It looked like the tattoo shop had been opened about five years previous. Kant’s social media presence was minimal - mostly pictures of his work on Instagram, with the occasional selfie that made Bison’s mouth water. There were a few pictures of a younger man, who Bison figured out was Kant’s younger brother. The only other thing he posted about regularly was cars. Whether or not he was a car thief, Bison didn’t know, but he certainly loved classic cars, particularly the one he owned.
The next day, shortly after the lunch hour, Bison went into the tattoo shop with his sketchbook. A voice from the back called out a greeting, and then Kant, looking too good for words, came around the corner. His face changed from neutral to surprised and then to genuine pleasure in a way that made Bison’s stomach flutter. “Oh, hey!”
Taking care to look just as surprised, Bison said, “Wow, small world! I should’ve guessed you were a tattoo artist,” he added.
Kant smiled at him and said, “Did you look me up?”
“No,” Bison said, laughing. “I want to get a tattoo. How could I have looked you up? I still don’t know your name.”
“Oh - it’s Kant. Yours?”
“Bison.”
“You want a tattoo?”
“Yeah.” Bison pulled out his sketchbook, and Kant waved him back into the tattoo parlor and gestured for him to have a seat. “I have a lot of ideas, so I guess maybe I thought someone could help me pick the right one.”
“These are really nice,” Kant said, leafing through the sketches. “You’re talented.”
Bison couldn’t help but blush. He did love to sketch and draw, but had never thought of himself as particularly good at it. Honestly, he had never thought of himself as particularly good at anything. “I kind of like this one the best,” he said.
“Are these your cats?” Kant asked, looking at the sketch of two cats on a windowsill.
“Yeah. I love cats. That’s Honey and that’s Baby.”
Kant was laughing. “You named your cats Honey and Baby?”
“And what about it?” Bison asked.
“It’s adorable,” Kant said, grinning openly at him, and Bison fought the urge to melt. Kant really had a gorgeous smile. “What are you thinking for location? Arm, shoulder?”
“Arm, I guess,” Bison said. “Can it be in color?”
“Sure, but it takes longer,” Kant said. “Depending on how big you want it. It’s pretty detailed.”
Bison had figured that a tattoo that would take multiple sessions would be ideal. That would give him a chance to sit and chat with Kant, get to know him better, then find excuses to talk about his other work. “That’s okay.”
Kant started looking through his things. “I recommend you get a small tattoo first. It helps test your tolerance for it, and makes sure you don’t have any allergies to the ink that’s used. Something simple on your calf is where I would start; it’s one of the least sensitive areas and tattoos there aren’t very conspicuous. What do you think?”
Without much thought at all, Bison said, “Maybe my parents’ names? Wait, that’s cheesy . . .”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Kant said. “A lot of people get their parents’ names tattooed, actually, especially if they’ve passed away.”
“Oh, yeah, really?” Bison’s chest felt strangely tight. “Yeah, maybe just something small, then. They died when I was eight.”
“That’s rough,” Kant said. “What were their names?”
Bison told him, and Kant took out his own sketchbook and did a quick drawing. Bison watched him draw, admiring his hands, and then Kant held it out to show the way he had done both names twisting together to make a heart. Bison felt tears prickle at his eyes. “That’s really nice.”
“Yeah, you like it?” Kant said, and he seemed to be aware of Bison’s emotional reaction but not drawing attention to it. “If I use a few different colors, we can test most of the ink that you would need to get the cat tattoo.”
“Let’s do it,” Bison said.
“Now?” Kant asked, laughing again.
“Why not? I’m here. You’re here. I like the design. I’ve read reviews and people say your work is good. So let’s do it.”
“Okay,” Kant said. He produced some paperwork, and Bison signed it and then agreed to the price that Kant quoted him. The pain wasn’t too bad. He had certainly experienced worse. He distracted himself by asking Kant questions about how long he’d had the tattoo parlor and what the work was like.
It raised some interesting questions for him. From the looks of it, Kant was doing well on his own, a successful adult with his own business. He mentioned that he looked after his younger brother, who was in secondary school. Why would he be involved in a car theft ring? Was Chris’ information out of date? He had never been wrong before.
After finishing the tattoo and giving Bison the aftercare instructions, Kant said, “Are you free on Sunday? The shop’s closed for walk-ins and I don’t have any appointments already scheduled. You want to go out?”
“Are you asking me on a date?” Bison asked, smiling up at Kant.
“Yeah,” Kant said.
“I don’t normally do that,” Bison said. “I’m not really looking for something serious, and I can’t believe you are, either, considering how we met.”
Kant shrugged. “We can keep it casual. I just want to get to know you better, that’s all.”
This was going to be easy. Bison grinned and said, “Okay. For you, I’ll make an exception.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Kant was more excited than he would have admitted about his upcoming date. He hadn’t been serious about anyone in a long time, but there was something about Bison that had him hooked after only one encounter. He’d been gone when Kant had woken up, and that hadn’t surprised Kant, but it had disappointed him. How often did he meet someone who was so good in bed that he passed out afterwards?
“Got plans tomorrow?” Style asked, draping himself over Kant’s shoulder as Kant got them both drinks.
“Yeah, I’m going out with that guy I met at the bowling alley,” Kant said.
“You have an actual date?” Style laughed and accepted the beer. “He must have been good.”
“He was good,” Kant said, and waved this aside. “How’s your dad?”
“Oh, you know, same old, same old,” Style said. “Committed to setting me up with one of the other guys at the garage. He wants to see me settle down.”
“Does he have any trips coming up?”
“He’ll probably go fishing the weekend after next; I heard him talking about it. Why? Do you have work for me?”
“Maybe,” Kant said, glancing around. The bar was too crowded to talk business. “Bills are due, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Style said with a groan. “Okay, I’ll get my dad to nail down his plans so I can tell you when it’ll be safe to come by.”
It wasn’t that Kant wanted to be a car thief. Sure, he’d had some fun when he was younger. He’d been in it for the money, and a little bit for the thrill. But a couple close scrapes with the law and the growing knowledge that nobody would take care of Babe if he ended up in prison had made him give up that old life. It was only two years ago that both he and Style had gotten caught up in a scam that had left them in debt to a criminal. Kant said he would pay it back, but the mob boss wanted to be paid in something other than money. Kant was good at what he did, and he’d had a bit of a reputation before he left the game.
Occasionally, Kant would get a specific commission, a fancy car that somebody specifically wanted. But most of the time, he ran his own show. He had found a niche, stealing cars that were expensive, but older models that often needed repairs. Style helped him fix them up and turn them around to deliver to the fence.
They chatted and had a few drinks and Style said, “Have fun tomorrow. If he’s got any hot friends, call me.”
“Will do,” Kant said, laughing.
He got up the next morning and possibly spent too long deciding what to wear before leaving his room and finding Babe doing homework on the kitchen table. “What’s that you’re reading?”
“Shakespeare,” Babe said. “You’d like this one.”
“You going to read everything he wrote?”
“Probably not. He wrote a lot. Someday I’ll get to see one of his plays on stage in the UK.”
Kant ruffled his hair and said, “Go for it,” and then sprawled out on the sofa, thinking about Bison and the motel room.
When he drove to the address that Bison had given him, he found that it was a burger joint. That surprised him a little, but he supposed that maybe it was a little early in their relationship to know where Bison lived. He lived behind the tattoo studio, so it was easy to find his address, but Bison was a little more mysterious. Kant smiled as Bison bounced out of the restaurant and slid into the passenger seat of the car, looking absolutely too delicious for words.
“Is that where you work, or do you just hang out there?” Kant asked.
“Yeah, I work there as a waiter,” Bison said. “Not today, obviously, but my brother runs the place so I can crash there whenever.”
“You have a brother? Older or younger?”
“Two years older. He’s very responsible.”
“So nothing like you?” Kant asked, and Bison laughed. He had such a nice laugh, and a beautiful smile. Every time he smiled, Kant felt a little flutter in his stomach. “I know the feeling. My younger brother studies more than I ever did, that’s for sure.”
Bison relaxed into the seat. “This car is amazing.”
“My pride and joy,” Kant agreed.
“Yeah? You’re into cars?”
“I love them,” Kant said, “but I especially love this one. My dad left it to me,” he explained, then quickly realized that saying that might bring down the mood. “So have you worked at the restaurant long?”
“A couple years. I don’t really have any career aspirations. You don’t look like a typical tattoo artist, you know?” Bison added. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Oh, wow, really?” Bison laughed. “Should I address you differently? I’m only twenty-four.”
“Only if I get to call you ‘nong’,” Kant said, grinning. “It’s cute.”
Bison laughed. “I don’t think we know each other well enough for that yet.”
“Well, then let’s get to know each other better today,” Kant said.
~ ~ ~ ~
Bison enjoyed his date with Kant more than he probably should have. To a certain extent, this was familiar territory for him. He was used to meeting new people and getting to know them, feeling out the best way to present himself to get the results he wanted. But in another way, it was all new. None of his other targets had ever been interested in him romantically, and he certainly hadn’t been interested in them. He supposed that he shouldn’t get his hopes up about any theoretical future he and Kant might have, which would surely fall apart as soon as Kant figured out he was a narc.
But he couldn’t quite help it. Kant was gorgeous and charming and talented, and even though they didn’t know each other well yet, he was clearly into Bison in a way that nobody had been before. Bison had never had a serious boyfriend, and wasn’t sure he wanted one, but Kant was the first person he’d ever met who had made him think about it. He felt like he could get lost in Kant’s eyes for days.
And he couldn’t shake the feeling that Kant wasn’t like his other targets. It didn’t make sense for him to be a car thief. The people Bison cozied up to usually came in two categories - piece of shit criminals that he hated, and their victims. He had made friends with dozens of prostitutes and druggies and gambling addicts. They all had their own stories, and he was sympathetic to them.
Kant didn’t fit neatly into either category. The people Bison knew who had been forced into the criminal world through bad circumstances usually had a broken, defeated air about them. Kant didn’t have that. He seemed happy and successful. But he didn’t seem like a criminal mastermind, either. Bison couldn’t get a solid read on him that made sense in combination with the information Chris had given him, and he was intrigued.
He knew his business. He knew that in addition to presenting himself as a carefree, burger-flipping nobody, he had to also imply that he was comfortable and familiar with criminal enterprises. Otherwise, Kant would never open up to him about his own involvement with them. It was always a fine line to walk, but Bison thought he walked it well. So in between casual conversation about whether they preferred beaches or mountains, and the meanings behind their names, and places they knew around the neighborhood, Bison threw in a comment or two about some of his previous exploits. He mentioned growing up in the group home and being directionless as soon as he aged out of it, and getting caught up ‘with a rough crew’, but then quickly changed the subject like he didn’t want to dwell on it.
Kant dropped him off at the restaurant and flirted with him on the front steps for so long that Bison had trouble tearing himself away. Kant wasn’t subtle about the fact that he wanted to have sex with Bison again, and Bison would have happily indulged him but for some reason it felt like a bad idea. “Aren’t we getting to know each other better?” he teased. “Do you want to go on a date or do you just want to have a fuckbuddy? You’ve got to romance me a little, you know?”
That made Kant laugh. “Okay, if you want to slow play it, that’s fine by me. I haven’t really been serious about anyone in a long time.”
“I’ve never been serious about anyone,” Bison said, “but you’re pretty cute so I’m willing to give it a try.”
“Come by the studio tomorrow afternoon,” Kant said. “We’ll talk about your tattoo.”
“Sure,” Bison said, and went into the restaurant.
Fadel was prepping the grill, and he took one look at Bison and rolled his eyes. “You’re going to be useless tonight. I can already tell.”
“Yeah,” Bison said, leaning against the wall and thinking about Kant’s eyes.
“What is wrong with you,” Fadel said, and it wasn’t really a question. “Isn’t this guy your target? A criminal you’re supposed to be getting arrested? Why are you looking all moony-eyed about him?”
“Technically,” Bison said, “I’m not getting him arrested. I’m trying to figure out who his boss is and get the boss arrested.”
“Something which I’m sure will go over great with him,” Fadel said.
“You never know,” Bison said. “Maybe he hates his boss. Besides, he doesn’t have to ever know that I was involved.”
“Are you stupid?” Fadel asked, then waved this aside in an ‘I already know you are’ gesture. “Bison. Seriously. You’re setting yourself up for a world of hurt.”
“Whatever. You’re just jealous,” Bison said, and Fadel gave him a look that would have given him an instant aneurysm if looks could kill. “I know what I’m doing, okay? He asked me out. If I’d said no, things would’ve gotten incredibly awkward and then any attempts I made to get close to him would have fallen flat on their face. Nobody wants their one-night stand to turn them down for a date and then say ‘but let’s be friends’,” he added, and Fadel grimaced, indicating that he knew Bison was right about that. “So I’ll go on some dates, maybe get dicked down a few times, and figure out what he’s up to. If he’s a bad guy, I’ll get him arrested. If he’s not, I’ll figure out who his boss is and let the chips fall where they may.”
“Fine,” Fadel grunted, “but you’re not working tonight. Every time I see your face, I’m gonna be pissed off. Go home.”
“Okay, okay,” Bison said, laughing. “Be that way.”
The next day, he went to the tattoo studio around two o’clock, and Kant greeted him with his beautiful smile. “I made a few tweaks to your sketch,” he said, and took out a tablet. “I think it might be a little big for your arm. It risks losing a lot of detail that way.”
“I was thinking I might like it on my thigh,” Bison said. “I like the idea of it peeking out from the bottom of my shorts. Making people want to see more.”
“‘People’?” Kant asked, grinning. “Anyone specific?”
Bison shrugged. “You know, just people.”
Kant laughed. “Okay, I’ll print it out and we can see how it would fit.”
“Are you telling me to take my pants off?”
“If you want a tattoo on your thigh, that’s definitely going to happen at some point,” Kant said, and Bison chuckled and agreed. He sat down in the chair and watched Kant as he laid the drawing down on his thigh. “Here?”
“Maybe a little higher,” Bison said.
Kant slid the tattoo up an inch. “Here?”
“Higher . . .”
Kant laughed again. “Listen, if it goes any higher than that, suddenly we’re doing something that doesn’t involve ink. Besides, I thought you wanted to take it slow. It’s not nice to tease me like that.”
“I guess not,” Bison agreed. “Okay, where it is looks good, then.”
“I made two versions of it - one with more solid colors and another that would be more realistic, have a more gradient effect.” Kant took out his tablet again. “The second would take longer, which makes it more expensive. Which one do you like better?”
Bison first thought that since he and Kant had hit it off, he no longer needed the excuse of long hours in the tattoo artist’s chair, making conversation. Then he remembered that this was something that was going to be on his body for the rest of his life, and took a closer look. Baby was a black cat, so she would look fine either way, but Honey was an orange tabby. “I think I like the gradients better. I’ve been saving up for this for a while, so hit me with the quote and see if I pass out.”
Kant laughed and told him both how much it would cost and how long it was likely to take. Bison thought both numbers were reasonable. He hoped that he could get the tattoo finished before Kant found out he was a narc and stopped speaking to him. “I can’t start it today, sorry,” Kant said. “I have someone coming in for an appointment that’s going to take a few hours. Tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Bison said. “Will my leg be sore afterwards?”
“Somewhat. It can feel like a sunburn.”
Bison nodded. “So not the sort of pain that would prevent me from taking you out on a date?”
“Most likely not,” Kant said, “but you might be sick of my face after I’ve been stabbing you with a tattoo gun for a couple hours.”
“Seems unlikely,” Bison said. “Your face is pretty easy on the eyes.”
“Put your pants on if you’re gonna flirt with me like that,” Kant said, and they both laughed. “Three o’clock?”
“Sure. I’ll take you out to dinner afterwards.”
“Sounds good.”
~ ~ ~ ~