Page 32 of Business vs. Pleasure

“To be fair,” Ricardo muttered under his breath.

August shot him a glare. To Rachel, he said, “We didn’t even know he had allergies. It was—what even set it off?”

“I…” She sighed heavily. “It must’ve been sesame oil. He’s deathly allergic to it. And he was very secretive about that, which was why I didn’t want to use it for this.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t tell us about it, so how the hell would we know?”

There was silence on the other end. Then, “I’m not paying you. You didn’t get the job done, so I’m not paying you. And do not expect a positive review.”

With that, the call ended.

August swore in French as he put his phone down on his leg. Turning to Ricardo, he asked, “What the fuck is happening? How do two jobs in a row go that wrong?”

Ricardo gnawed the inside of his cheek. That was a damn good question, wasn’t it? Hits could be messy, and few things ever went according to plan, but the way these two jobs had gone awry was… unsettling. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“It is.” August thumped his head back against the headrest. “It’s like we’re in some really bad Final Destination knockoff where all the shit’s happening to our careers instead of to us.”

That prompted a snort from Ricardo. “Well, I think I’d rather our careers be the victims of the Final Destination shit than us.”

“Me too.” August peered at him with unnerving seriousness. “But how long before it starts coming our way?”

Fuck. That was a thought.

And suddenly Ricardo really didn’t like being out in the open. Sure, it was a parking garage with cameras all around, but he’d executed a few jobs in places like this, so… time to go upstairs.

Safely in their suite, August paced furiously while Ricardo sat on the bed, turning his phone between his fingers. He was trained for this, for Christ’s sake. Both this job and his previous life in spec ops had trained him well to constantly adapt on the fly. Every op started going to shit as soon as it began, whether in tiny ways or catastrophic ones, and the name of the game was adapt, adapt, adapt.

But this time, he couldn’t figure out what they needed to adapt to. If these two jobs ending in disaster were coincidence, sabotage, or some higher power with a fucked-up sense of humor. During his period of being bored and wishing he could go back to being a hired gun, had he accidentally wished on a monkey’s paw or something? Because that was as good an explanation as any.

August paused in his pacing, and the wince that flickered across his face had Ricardo nearly leaping off the bed.

“Jesus Christ, August.” He took his husband’s shoulders and steered him toward the bed. “Give your feet a rest. What are you doing?”

August made an irritated sound, but he didn’t resist being manhandled onto mattress, even though it wasn’t the way he usually enjoyed Ricardo manhandling him in bed.

Ricardo knelt and started undoing the laces on August’s dress shoes. “You’re not going to be able to walk.”

“I can’t sit still.” The protest was weak. Frustrated but resigned. Ricardo got it; August wasn’t one for lying around with his feet up, especially when he was stressed out.

Unfortunately for him, that wasn’t optional right now. Not for a man who was missing three toes and had various pins in his metatarsals He could handle standing and walking for longer periods of time than most people would think—the incredibly expensive orthotics and supportive socks were worth their weight in gold—but sometimes, they got to him. And when he was so far up into his own head that he started pacing like that, well, he could aggravate the shit out of his feet.

Ricardo just removed August’s shoes and socks, and he rolled on another pair of extra supportive socks. These were the ones August wore when he was home and not going out any time soon, and as far as Ricardo was concerned, August wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

With the socks in place, Ricardo ordered him to sit against the headboard, and he propped some pillows under August’s feet. Then he sat beside him and rested a hand on August’s thigh. “Whatever’s going on—we’ll figure it out.”

August scowled, watching his fingers run along a scar on the back of Ricardo’s hand. “I know we will. It’s just fucking with my head.” He met Ricardo’s gaze. “I can’t tell if someone’s trying to sabotage us, or if this is just a heinous run of bad luck.” He paused. “You said you saved all the footage from the party, right?”

Ricardo nodded.

“Can I look through it?” August put the back of his hand to his forehead and added a melodramatic, “It’ll keep me occupied now that I’ve taken to my bed.”

“It’ll keep you out of trouble,” Ricardo corrected, and he got up to get his laptop. In no time, he had the files open so August could peruse the footage, and he handed over the computer. “If you install anything else on this again,” he warned, “I will toss you out the window.”

August batted his eyelashes. “What? It was just one game! I was bored!”

“One game with a million pieces of malware.” Ricardo pointed sharply at the laptop. “Watch the videos. Nothing else.”

“Can I watch videos of⁠—”