Clothes Make The Man

707

Starsky and Hutch are recruited to go undercover as a couple in San Francisco to catch a cop killer. Will their act go too far for them to recover?

 

Originally published in the Starsky & Hutch slash zine, Barely Legal, in 2005. This story was written by three collaborators: Kath Moonshine, Tiger Tyger, and Glow, writing as Chimera.

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“Wendy’s so sorry she couldn’t make it, Ken,” Carla giggled into Starsky’s ear, her body plastered between them, the three of them sharing the Torino’s front seat. The way the fiery redhead moved against them both was causing enough friction to start a five-alarm fire.

“I’m Dave, he’s Ken,” Starsky corrected with a grin. The woman who had started the evening as his date had wound up dating them both when her girlfriend, Hutch’s blind date, didn’t show. Hutch had offered to leave, but his partner had insisted he stay, Carla eagerly seconding the plan, their first indication of where this night was headed.

“Whoopsie,” Carla giggled again, leaning toward Hutch this time. “Wendy’s so sorry she couldn’t make it, Ken.”

They’d shared two bottles of wine with dinner and, while Hutch knew his partner was clearheaded enough to drive, he doubted either of them would pass a Breathalyzer test. Just as well we haven’t been pulled over, he thought, feeling the buzz in his own head. Wouldn’t want to hear Dobey’s patented lecture on the embarrassment of having his ‘best team’ pulled over for a sobriety test at one in the morning.

“That’s okay,” Starsky assured. “Isn’t it, buddy?” Hutch was able to discern the wry, Bogart-esque grin that creased Starsky’s features even in profile. “The three of us had enough fun for four.”

Like Carla, Wendy was also a stewardess, but her plane had been delayed in New York, therefore their foursome had become a trio. Starsky had met Carla a few days ago, eagerly extolling to his partner how his request for a date had netted Hutch one as well, Carla volunteering her as-yet-unseen friend for the job. The ease- with which Carla took to sharing herself between both of them tonight had Hutch wondering if there had ever been a friend at all.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Hutch added from his side of the car. “We sure drank enough for four.” As if by accident, he allowed his hand to rest on Starsky’s shoulder, managing to cuddle Carla, too.

“We’re here,” Starsky announced as he pulled into a spot across the street from Carla’s condo. Hutch was keenly aware of the way Starsky gently pumped the gas once, causing the engine to give a deep roar, before he cut the key to the off position. His partner was rarely subtle.

Something got your engine running, buddy?

“So… you boys are coming up for a nightcap, right?” Carla’s purr left little doubt as to her intent, but she placed one hand on each of their thighs and gave a squeeze just in case the message was missed.

Hutch watched, barely daring to breathe, as Starsky looked over Carla’s auburn head, deliberately catching his eye. There was enough illumination from the streetlight above for Hutch to make out his partner’s features in the dim front seat. He waited for his friend’s cue, feeling a surge of surprise strike him as the dark head nodded, indicating he wanted his partner to stay on for the remainder of the date, such as it was. Despite the cues Carla had been giving, Hutch hadn’t been sure until that moment whether Starsky was equally willing to share. He appreciated Starsky’s generosity: If the situations had been reversed, Hutch might have gently told him to buzz off so that he could get laid tonight, even if Starsky couldn’t.

The smile that graced his friend’s mobile lips told him better than any words that Starsky wanted him to stay … which wasn’t all that unusual, either. Sometimes you went out with a girl and the vibes just weren’t right, and you needed your partner to back you up on a graceful exit … “duty calls” and all that … but that wasn’t at all what Hutch was picking up from Starsk. In fact, just the opposite—the slightly olive flush on Starsky’s cheeks and the light film of perspiration on his upper lip told Hutch that his partner was hot and ready to trot.

Carla’s beautifully manicured hands were stroking along each of their thighs, letting them know she was trawling for a special treat. Hutch’s heart started to chatter in his chest at the memory of some previous ‘date-sharing.’ The erotic memories made an instantaneous sweat break out along his thighs, making his cream cords shift and rub against his skin. Still, something held Hutch back.

Starsky stroked the hand that was resting on his shoulder, telling Hutch silently that his partner wanted this little threesome as badly as the lovely stewardess did. The feeling hit them that way sometimes; it didn’t mean anything. But tonight… tonight something was different, but Hutch couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly why. With a shrug, despite a nagging feeling of uneasiness, he grasped Carla’s hand and raised it to his lips. “Sounds good to me.”

The seductive smile she gave him didn’t come close to the heated gaze he received from his partner. Pushing his uncertainty aside, Hutch finally slid out of the Torino, assisting the young lady with the long, tanned legs and tight blue miniskirt to wriggle out of the car. Starsky came around to the other side of the car and wrapped an arm around Carla’s waist; his hand came over Hutch’s to hold them both, as if to prevent his partner from escaping. Surprised, he realized that he might actually need that extra bit of persuasion.

Hutch mentally shook himself. We’ve never been shy about sharing a woman between us before; why am I so jumpy this time?

Starsky and Carla had their heads together, talking, whispering, and then his partner had the girl’s keys in his hand and was opening her door. Hutch glanced around the neat little one room apartment, looking to determine if elusive Wendy was actually lying in wait. Even after determining that they were the only inhabitants of the apartment, he continued to peruse the area. It was an ingrained habit—a cop’s need to make sure that his perimeter was safe and secure.

The space was large, divided into sections: a kitchen alcove, table and chairs, a stereo and a bar to one side, a large bed and nightstand on the other and in the middle, some large, stuffed chairs surrounding a television.

As Starsky moved to the bar, Hutch took off his jacket, holding it in his hand as he scrutinized everything in sight. It was to the warm scent of whiskey and the splash of the amber liquid hitting the bottom of a tumbler that Hutch completed his survey: green and gold shag carpet, beige walls displaying commercial art that could be found in any K-mart, and a tubular metal bookcase that held no books, only tchotchkes and an ashtray. The biggest splash of color came from the crimson beanbag chair in the corner. The curtains were thick and dark, the kind made to block sunlight completely—very useful to a girl who didn’t work a set schedule and wanted darkness at the pull of shade. And also good for keeping out prying eyes.

Hutch accepted the glass that Starsky handed him. Posing a silent toast, he watched as Starsky’s keen blue eyes met his, an equally silent question reflected in the dark blue depths. So, how ’bout it? his partner seemed to say. He shrugged and smiled crookedly, aware that Starsky was more fixed on him than on the lovely lady. Whether she noticed that or not, it didn’t seem to matter. She merely tossed her drink back before setting the glass on the edge of the coffee table. “I’ll be right back,” she told them with a saucy spin as she headed toward the bathroom. “Just going to … um, freshen up.”

The two men nodded, and Hutch took that moment to drop his jacket over Starsky’s on a beanbag chair, their guns tucked underneath, completely out of sight. While Carla knew they were cops and their lifestyle, on the surface, might seem exciting, few women really wanted to be near the tools of their profession. Well, the guns, at least, he thought with a sly grin. The handcuffs, properly cushioned for tender wrists, could be necessary toys for the more wild-minded women they met.

And those kinds of women were good for them both. Good-time girls who wanted no attachments, no promises of love … just an uncomplicated sexual romp. Carla certainly seemed to fit that description. She hadn’t even made the pretense of small talk or asking them to sit down over drinks. Even during their interlude at the restaurant, her conversation was laced with innuendo.

Of the two of them, Hutch knew that Starsky was the one who found these nights easier to explain the next morning. Just another type of workout. “Nobody gets hurt and everybody has fun,” was his partner’s motto, said with a licentious, uninhibited smile. But Hutch knew that his own feelings were different. Desperate … darker somehow. Tonight it felt even moreso, though he couldn’t explain why.

Sure, he fell completely into their nights of shared passion, passing the willing girl back and forth between them with the ease of a bottle of Coke shared on a blazing hot day, fucking till dawn, and often waking with an aching back and an equally aching emptiness under his breastbone. But afterwards, he had trouble squaring with his behavior and the ramifications.

Those nights were always different from the countless nights he spent alone in bed with some girl. He was different. There were times he didn’t recognize himself or his behavior. Something about Starsky’s presence seemed to urge Hutch to greater sexual feats in an effort to keep the evening from ending. He tended to lose all control. He knew it was one of the reasons that Starsky occasionally extended the invitation to share the same woman when she was amenable to the idea; he loved watching his partner let go. But one of Hutch’s small inner voices suspected Starsky also liked being there to pull him back from the edge. He had started to suspect that his partner might have harbored other reasons for inviting him to share the occasional menage a trois, but he hadn’t quite figured them out yet.

His musings were cut short by Carla’s entrance. She was clad in a curve-hugging peach teddy … and nothing else.

His partner was quick to take up the invitation to play, meeting the woman halfway as she walked toward the center of the room. His arms crept around the tan, lissome form and Hutch watched as their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss, which quickly turned into something deeper, hungrier.

Hutch watched appreciatively, not surprised when his partner pulled the girl up, off her toes. Her long legs quickly wrapped themselves around his waist. He moved until her butt rested on the thick back of a dark gray chair, their kiss never broken, his fingers gently stroking over her tanned shoulders, the soft golden shade marred only by the pale bikini-strap lines.

It was only when Starsky’s lips moved to her neck that the navy-blue eyes speared him, impatiently waiting for him to join in.

Hutch would have preferred watching a little longer, always enjoying the sight of his partner in action. He suspected Starsky liked an audience as well, which was well in keeping with his demonstrative personality. David Starsky was quite comfortable in his own skin and had no qualms about showing off his prowess in any number of arenas.

Drawn by his partner’s eyes, however, Hutch was beckoned to leave his spectator position and assume a more active role. He removed his shirt, tossing it onto the chair behind him without a second glance. Crossing the room, his stomach tightened, cock filling. He knelt into the cushions on the chair behind Carla. Gently, he pulled her back, away from Starsky, pillowing her against his chest. When she twisted her neck in an attempt to face him, Hutch kissed her. But even as he pressed his lips to hers, he kept his eyes riveted to Starsky’s. Or was it Starsky doing the riveting?

Undaunted by his play on Carla, Starsky grinned knowingly before ghosting his lips down the woman’s neck, over the silky fabric stretched tight across her tits, straight down her flat belly. Peering over the high back of the chair, Hutch watched the curl-covered head continue downward until Starsky’s face moved between her legs. His partner quickly worked his magic, Carla moaning into Hutch’s mouth as she shivered with excitement.

Eager to watch Starsky, Hutch broke the kiss, peering over Carla’s shoulder. His partner unsnapped the crotch of the flimsy garment—what Starsky always referred to as the “action gap” when they were shooting the shit during boring stakeouts. Hutch felt his cock tighten as Starsky looked up, gave him a wink that shot straight to his groin, then went down on the red-gold blonde muff. Carla gave a trilling moan.

She grasped one of Hutch’s hands and guided it to her breast and the rock-hard nipple there. But Carla’s nipples weren’t the only things rock hard in the room—they’d barely started their sexual romp and Hutch felt near to bursting.

He slid off the chair, pulling Carla down off the back of it, breaking Starsky’s contact. Carla’s rear landing in the center of the chair cushion, her legs draped over one arm. Going down to his knees on the floor in front of her, Hutch gripped her already sopping muff. He massaged her trigger to enthusiastic moans, then trailed his hand upward, pulling the teddy up and eventually over her head, leaving the nubile redhead completely naked beneath him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Hutch could see Starsky taking this opportunity to divest himself of his clothes too. Naked now, his partner came to stand beside him, blocking what little light had been streaming in from the entryway.

“Somebody’s wearing too many clothes,” Starsky murmured, the husky tone going straight to Hutch’s heart. With that, Starsky’s hands slid under his arms, pulling him upward until he was on his feet. Starsky moved behind him as Hutch felt warm hands ease around his waist, the fingertips seeking by feel for the zip on his corduroys.

Starsky slid his hands over Hutch’s hips and then cheated his fingers under the waistband of his cord’s. Hutch was surprised to feel his partner’s fingers stroke his erection-and he was equally surprised at how badly he wanted to buck into the heat of Starsky’s hands.

“Oh yeah,” Starsky mumbled, “way too many clothes.”

The talented fingers teased down Hutch’s zipper. Maddeningly slow, Starsky pulled his boxers and trousers down in one unit. Naked at last, Hutch shivered as Starsky’s hands stroked back up his thighs and reached under to brush against his cock. Hutch thought he would die when his partner nestled naked against his backside, the hard press of his cock digging into the cheek of Hutch’s ass. But then Carla rose from the chair, pressing her own warm nakedness against Hutch’s front. Her full, rounded breast pressed into his chest as she leaned in to kiss down his neck. Strong arms encircled his waist as Starsky reached around him and beneath Carla, cupping her ass, lifting her against Hutch’s groin. The sensation of all three of them grinding together, with Hutch in the middle like the cream filling in an Oreo, was exquisite.

And yet it wasn’t.

Carla’s inclusion felt like an unwanted intrusion. He found himself wishing she had just stayed in the chair … that Starsky’s hands were still stroking his thighs.

Christ, Hutchinson, what the hell is wrong with you? I can’t be that drunk.

Uncomfortable with his thoughts, Hutch slid his arms around Carla, dislodging his partner’s hold and taking her supple backside in his own hands. Carla wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, clinging to him like they had been stuck together with cement. He took two steps forward—away from Starsky—but that was as far as he got.

“C’mon, David,” Carla moaned, reaching back to grab for Starsky. Again, Hutch felt his partner close behind him, the palms of his hands lighting upon Hutch’s shoulders.

“Time to take this show to the bed,” he murmured seductively, a suggestion Carla immediately seconded.

It wasn’t until his partner’s hands slid down from his shoulders and smoothed over his ass, nudging him toward the large bed, that Hutch was able to make his legs move in that direction.

* * *

Hutch lay back, panting. Carla moaned softly between them, her fingers dancing upon the sweat-glistening flesh of his chest.

“That was incredible,” she purred, sounding both exhausted and satisfied.

And how not? If her screaming and body language were to be believed, she’d had one hell of time… or three.

“We aim to please,” Starsky answered smugly from the other side of her naked body. Hutch kept his eyes closed, not needing to look over at his partner to picture the look on his face. In fact, he had done far too much looking at his partner as it was the past few hours.

“Now you two stay right here,” Carla requested sweetly as she disentangled herself from between them. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Be right back.”

“We’ll be here,” Starsky assured.

Once she had moved, Hutch felt Starsky’s hand fall upon his naked thigh. Obviously, the hand had been resting upon Carla and was dislodged by her retreat. Still struggling to steady his breath, Hutch waited for his partner to move it.

Only he didn’t.

The sound of the shower was distant rainfall in his ears. The dimly lit room was but a blur when he opened his eyes. Between the booze and the wild romp, his head was spinning pretty good. What he needed to do was get some sleep. But the warmth of Starsky’s hand was heating his sensitized flesh in a manner that was too distracting to ignore.

Once their little threesome had made it to the bed, Carla became the main event, all contact between the men limited to incidental brushes of hands, legs, elbows. Which was how it always went … how it was supposed to be. That was what they had come here for … to share the pleasures of a beautiful, willing woman.

None of which explained why Starsky’s hand was now on his naked thigh.

He turned his head to look over at his partner, wondering if Starsky had just passed out. Wide- awake eyes of velvet blue stared back at him. He was surprised when Starsky rolled into him, his head nestling into the nape of his neck. The fingers on his thigh began to move, gently massing the lax muscles beneath the callused palm. His own arm was now pinned beneath the weight of Starsky’s body, bringing even more contact. It was odd like this. Usually there was a woman between them. But now they were alone together, their legs twining as though the long limbs had a will of their own. As if this was a perfectly natural position for them to be in.

The erotic heat scarcely diminished by orgasm began to intensify within Hutch. The torrid waves coming off Starsky were equally scalding. He was stunned when Starsky’s arm wrapped itself around his chest, their damp flesh seeming more than prepared to become one… in whatever way they could manage. He knew he should have been more alarmed than he was, but it felt so good… too good for his rational mind to overcome, no matter how much it screeched a warning.

And then he made the mistake of craning his neck, of bringing his face mere inches from where Starsky’s head lay upon his shoulder. Starsky’s full lips were so close to his own; damp, reddened and seemingly beckoning him to their destruction. He wanted them desperately, wanted to taste them, finally to know the pleasure that he had seen them give to so many, but never him. Even Starsky’s eyes, glittering in the darkness, dared him to do it.

The soft touch of their mouths scorched him, and he moaned softly, straining his neck further in an awkward attempt to bring them closer. Starsky’s mouth moved with him, as though they were sealed together in some magnetic hold. The fingers upon his thigh tightened painfully, possessively.

The sound of the bathroom door broke the breathless silence of the room, its effect like that of cold water being poured upon the forbidden flame that had nearly consumed them. They both sprung apart quickly, as if trying to flee from the scene of a crime. Hutch nearly fell off the bed, so frantic were their motions.

Carla gave no indication of noticing anything awry. She padded across the floor, closing the distance to the bed before climbing back in between them.

“See, now that didn’t take long, did it?” When her hand pressed upon Hutch’s thigh in same vicinity Starsky’s had just vacated, an icy chill coursed through him, making the touch almost repellant.

“Ready for more playtime?” she asked, sounding as if she were raring to go.

“Uh, you know what? You two go ahead and play without me.” Hutch slipped from the bed as if it were on fire, even as he tried to sound casual. “I’ll, um, catch up. I need to grab a shower.”

Hutch didn’t even wait to hear whether Starsky took her up on her offer or not. Uncomfortable in his own skin, unnerved by the arousal that had stung his flesh when he’d realized he’d been kissing his partner, he retreated to the bathroom and his shower. A very cold shower.

Thankfully, they were both asleep by the time he returned to the bed. He thought about just taking off and going home, but he would have had to lift Starsky’s keys and take his car to do it.

That would only make things more awkward come morning when he’d be forced to explain such a hasty departure.

Instead, he curled into himself upon the bed, putting as much distance as he could between his body and Starsky and Carla. He managed not to toss and turn, but he was glad enough when dawn came and Carla rose to start her day, letting them know she had an early flight.

Hutch was eager to start the new day, more than ready for things to get back to normal.

* * *

Hutch hadn’t said a word to him since they’d left Carla’s. Not that Hutch was the most talkative guy in the a.m., but Starsky knew there was more to the silence than the blond’s usual morning gloom.

Starsky hadn’t had any trouble holding up both their ends of the conversation as they took their leave from Carla. He was feeling pretty damned vitalized after last night’s frolic, just crackling with energy and good cheer. Carla appeared to be just as satisfied, even though she was late for work and rushing them out the door before they’d finished barely half their cups of coffee. She’d made him promise to call her when she got back in town next week so that they could set up another date and he’d quickly agreed.

Looking now across the car seat at his cheerless partner, Starsky wondered if that follow-up date was ever going to happen. Hutch was always the more antsy of the two of them following one of their little walk-on-the-wild-side nights. It was just his nature to be more pensive and introspective. Starsky was a lot more about living in the moment, enjoying the pleasures of today and looking forward to what awaited tomorrow.

But then that’s what made them such a good team-the fact that they were so different and yet meshed so perfectly.

“So what do you think?” he asked into the silence as he drove Hutch home. They would both need to change before heading into work to start the day. He’d purposefully left the question ambiguous, hoping to force Hutch into uttering at least some words.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“What do I think about what?”

“About Carla. Next week. Another date.”

“I think you two will have a great time.”

It wasn’t exactly the response Starsky was hoping for, yet it was pretty much what he expected.

“You didn’t have a good time,” he stated more than asked.

“I didn’t say that.” Hutch’s tone was clipped, guarded. “Carla’s a nice enough girl. You two should have a lot of fun together.”

“You pissed at me?” While it wasn’t unusual for Hutch to over-think their occasional threesomes, he’d never behaved so sullenly before. Something was wrong. And Starsky had the sinking feeling he knew what it was. He just wasn’t sure he was ready to face it.

I went too far last night. Probably freaked Hutch out good.

“Why would I be pissed at you?”

Biting the bullet, Starsky decided he didn’t feel like dancing around the issue. “Because of the kiss.”

“What!” Hutch swung around in his seat, his fair complexion going crimson, fire flashing in his blue eyes. “We didn’t kiss, Starsky.”

He would have preferred Hutch hadn’t said the word ‘kiss’ like it was tainted by some flesh-eating disease, but Starsky got the point. Hutch was not happy about the way they had crossed the line at Carla’s.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it then?”

Even out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hutch scowling at him. If he had any sense, he’d leave this alone and let it blow over. Putting a little time between them and the incident was probably all Hutch needed to get things back to normal between them.

Only Starsky wasn’t sure he wanted to keep things normal. He liked kissing Hutch. He liked it a helluva lot, actually. And what had happened hadn’t been an accident or a drunken mistake. He’d be lying to his partner and best friend if he pretended it was. So into the lion’s den he trod.

“Look, Hutch, you can growl at me all you want, but it won’t change the fact that we kissed each other.”

“Almost kissed,” Hutch corrected, his long index finger emphasizing the point. “Not the same thing. And what the hell difference does it make?”

“Maybe it makes a difference to me,” Starsky shrugged, readying himself for the next heated rebuttal, only it never came. Hutch went back to being silent, moodily staring out the car window until they pulled up in front of his place.

“So I guess we’ll talk about this later.” Hutch’s leg was already out of the car as Starsky called to him.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Starsk.” He slammed the door upon getting out but then leaned into the window to caution, “And don’t invite me on anymore of your dates. My social calendar is booked for the next decade.”

“Shit,” Starsky muttered as Hutch stormed up the walk toward his place.

What the hell did I expect? Of course he’s freaked. Probably thinks I’ve gone homo on him or something.

Which, of course, was not the case. But as Starsky shifted his car into drive and peeled out into the street, he did have to wonder again why it was that he had wanted to kiss Hutch so badly. Even more alarming was why he had liked it so much.

* * *

Hutch put down the file folder in his hand. “That’s about it, Cap’n,” Hutch announced, running through the notes on his clipboard. “Not a lot on our plates right now.”

Starsky nodded in agreement, his Adidas-clad feet casually resting on the edge of his captain’s desk. “Bad guys must be on vacation.” Strangely, the expected bark from Dobey did not occur.

“Then it sounds like you bozos can afford the time to go out to lunch,” Dobey growled, the briefing obviously over because of more critical issues—namely the captain’s appetite.

Eyebrows rising, Starsky shot a dubious look in his partner’s Hutch’s direction. He answered back with an equally befuddled expression. “Uhm, are you buying, Cap?”

“My grandmother was Dutch and so is this lunch,” Dobey blustered, then frowned. “Might as well give that reprobate some business. Meet you at Huggy’s in twenty.”

Hutch exchanged another look with his partner, knowing he was also wondering what this was about. It was a rare thing when Dobey willingly spent time with them during work hours. And why weren’t they just leaving together? Something was up.

They’d discussed it briefly in the car on the way to Huggy’s, but with so little information, they had to let it drop until the captain decided to tell them just what was going on.

Hutch studied his partner’s profile as he drove. Things weren’t quite back to normal between them, but it was better. Their silences didn’t feel nearly as strained as they had last week after what had happened at Carla’s.

Without a doubt, Hutch was still having difficulty with what had transpired that evening in the warm softness of Carla Conti’s bed. He wondered who had been in bed with him that night, because in retrospect, things had been different long before the aborted kiss. There had been an intimacy between them, a passion, desire … ostensibly for Carla, but Hutch knew, knew, that if she had stayed in the bathroom just a few minutes longer, he and his partner would have been in each other’s arms, the need so powerful that he could read it in Starsky’s wide-open gaze.

And that scared him.

Really scared him.

But when Starsky tried to talk about it the next morning, Hutch had shut him down. At first, he thought his partner was just joshing him, talking about their so-called kiss like that just to rile him. He was too frustrated and confused to let himself be dragged into one of Starsky’s childish games. He figured his partner was just trying to get him to say something about that kiss that he could mock later.

But Starsky was so quiet the rest of the day that Hutch started to wonder if he was the one who had done something hurtful. Was Starsky really trying to talk to him about what had happened between them? What had he meant when he said that it made a difference to him?

Things had remained tense between them for several days … and then they started to ease. They were pretty close to being back to normal now: only Hutch didn’t feel so normal inside. Night after night he had lain in bed wondering if somehow he had become attracted to his partner: The thought was pretty alarming. They weren’t that way, him and Starsky. It was ridiculous.

Maybe he should have faced up to it and talked it out with Starsky that morning when the topic was fresh. It was too late now, though. He wasn’t about to dredge it up again, especially since Starsky had obviously forgotten about it. His partner hadn’t so much as mentioned that night, even in jest, since it had happened.

And why should he? We were both drunk. We were hot and horny for Carla. Things got a little carried away.

They had successfully inched away from the edge of the precipice they had so precariously wavered near that night. It was over, right?

Of course, if it was over, why the hell was he looking at the curve of Starsky’s mouth as he drove, recalling the taste of his lips?

* * *

The bar smelled not-so-vaguely of beer, cigarettes, and old grease. It was fairly empty, the lunch crowd having departed and the early drinkers as yet to arrive.

“Hey, Huggy,” Starsky called to their friend behind the counter; Hutch stopped right behind his shoulder.

Huggy was by himself, serving the two customers at the bar, mumbling something about his waitress calling in sick. He barely acknowledged them before nodding toward one of the booths. Starsky looked over to find Dobey sitting there … along with some other guy they didn’t recognize.

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Hutch answered. “But I suspect we’re about to find out why Dobey’s so eager to have lunch with us.

Grabbing a handful of peanuts off the bar, Starsky rolled them in his hand as he and Hutch made their way over to the booth.

“You didn’t tell us we were bringing dates, Cap’n,” he stated drolly as he munched on a nut. The man beside Dobey didn’t look to have much of a sense of humor, his face fixed in a barely concealed scowl of disgust.

“Hutchinson, Starsky, this is Captain Adamson of the San Francisco P.D.—he’s here to talk with you.”

“Oh, then I guess he’s buying,” Hutch stated coolly as he slid into the booth beside Dobey, leaving it to Starsky to sit beside the stranger. He shot his partner a look that he knew was understood before carefully seating himself.

“Yeah, Huggy, get some food over here,” Starsky called, his instincts already cautioning him that this was not going to be a pleasant lunch.

If a mold existed for police captains, Adamson had been struck from it. Grizzled hair topped a massive head, which itself was directly attached to a paunchy torso without the benefit of a neck. A Sears & Roebuck belt held up a pair of K-Mart double-knit pants. The half-mast tie was decorated courtesy of IHOP. The man would have been a creditable clone for Dobey except for his pasty coloring.

Little in the way of small talk was exchanged. In fact, there wasn’t much talk at all for a time. Dobey had obviously ordered lunch before they’d arrived because Huggy was quick in filling the table with food. The four policemen lunched in relative privacy around the table; crumpled napkins and red plastic food baskets clogged the tabletop.

Starsky waited patiently for Dobey to drop the bomb, feeling the knock of Hutch’s knee against his beneath the table that indicated his partner was antsy as well. Exchanging a silent glance, Starsky knew they both felt the large stick of dynamite with their names on it looming close, ready to whistle at their unprotected heads at any moment. All the clues were right there: instead of tucking in with his usual gusto, Dobey was toying with his Huggerino special—a double mozzarella burger and fries topped with pizza sauce. In addition to their captain being off his feed, Hutch was playing with his fries rather than eating them, and the San Francisco cop had barely taken a bite.

Starsky, however, wasn’t going to let the subtle tension get in the way of a good meal, or even a bad one. He took his time finishing his burger before waggling his eyebrows by way of asking permission, then scooping up the uneaten half of Hutch’s sandwich.

Adamson was bristling beside him, no doubt growing impatient waiting for Starsky to finish eating, but he refused to be rushed.

“It seems you boys are in demand,” Dobey said by way of opening when the lunch had dragged on too long. He sat back and pushed away his uneaten food.

“Here it comes,” Hutch muttered, ignoring the glare his captain shot from beside him.

“Seems like your Las Vegas adventures have made the rounds,” Dobey continued. “And your success with the Hector Salinas case. Especially you, Hutchinson. Very impressive-at least to people who don’t know you like I do.” The harsh words were offset by the pleased grin that stretched his round face.

“Thanks, Cap’n. I think,” Hutch added suspiciously, looking as though he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Adamson’s patience looked to reach its limit then. Without preamble, he roughly pushed the remains of his lunch to the side of the table roughly. “Gentlemen, I’ve got a hijacking problem. One that involves the fashion industry.” Adamson’s voice didn’t match his beefy body, being soft and a little wheezy.

“What’s being targeted?” Hutch asked, all business, though Starsky could see the confusion in his eyes. What could they possibly do to assist the SFPD with such a minor case?

“Furs? Suits?” Starsky asked. Even in the warm climes of Bay City, hot furs and designer threads always sold well.

“Leather.”

For a moment, Hutch looked as puzzled as Starsky felt. Neither of them seemed to be able to connect what Adamson had said with any possible relevance to hijacking.

Obviously, the captain noticed their confusion, because he repeated himself, his voice even more impatient. “That’s right, detectives, I said leather.”

“You mean coats, right? Lambskin, Nappa, that sort of thing?” Hutch asked.

Adamson paused long enough to fish out and light an unfiltered Camel. No wonder he sounds breathless, Starsky thought as he waved away the cloud of smoke that floated across his face.

“Coats, caps, pants, the usual. But the big market is for custom leather goods—the kinky stuff’s not just for the porn trade these days. Everybody’s wearing leather!” he grumbled. “I got two hundred thousand guys in the Castro—that’s the homosexual district in ‘Frisco—and half of ’em get their rocks off dressing like outlaw bikers. The other half look like extras from Rawhide.”

Starsky rolled his shoulders a little self-consciously in his old brown bomber jacket. Hutch looked to be suppressing a laugh, wearing his worn plaid wool coat today.

“Sounds like a job for robbery, not homicide or vice, Cap’n,” Starsky said to Dobey, deliberately turning his head away from Hutch’s smile.

“I tell you what kind of job this is, Starsky!” Dobey snapped. “Now listen to the man.”

“I wouldn’t be asking for your help if it was that simple, Detective Starsky,” Adamson agreed.

“The man we think is behind these hijackings is a fag who owns a number of businesses in the Castro section as fronts for his real action, which we think is drugs going through his club, Kinetic.”

Both men nodded, though they both grimaced at Adamson’s description of the suspect. They had come up against their fair share of would-be crime-lords in their day.

“Unfortunately, this hijacking just graduated to murder.” Adamson sighed and shifted his ponderous bulk slightly. “Three nights ago, one of my best undercover cops was found dead in a hotel that is known to cater to homosexuals. The kind that rents in fifteen-minute increments.” He shifted again, letting that sink in. “Frank Tinscher’s throat was slashed and he had a—” The older cop paused again, sucking in a lungful of smoke. He breathed out twin jets of gray cloud through his nose before continuing. “The arm of a department store mannequin was shoved up his ass and left there.”

Adamson reached into his cheap-looking briefcase, producing a handful of pictures that he slapped down roughly upon the table. Starsky had seen his share of crime scene photos before, but it still hit close to home seeing what had been done to this fellow officer, stranger or no.

“He was a good cop,” Adamson stated, the statement hanging between them for what felt like quite a while, the grisly pictures souring the very air they breathed. For a moment, Starsky felt like his burger was going to make a hasty return to the table.

“Tinscher was undercover in this guy’s organization?” Hutch asked. “What’s his name?”

“Marvin Holbeck.”

“Where was his partner?” Starsky asked, knowing he’d have to be dead and buried before he’d let something like that happen to Hutch.

“Missing. He was under as well, but we haven’t heard word one from him since this happened. Shepherd’s his name. And either he was a bad cop somehow mixed up in this or Holbeck’s people got him too and we just haven’t found him yet. Either way, it’s bad.”

“Very bad,” Hutch commented dryly.

“And you want us to do what? Find out who killed your officer? Locate this Shepherd? Or prove that Holbeck’s dirty as mud?” Starsky asked sharply.

“All of the above. We need you to go under, infiltrate his organization, and take him down.”

Starsky looked at him, eyes narrowing, as the final shoe dropped. Dobey was looking down at his napkin as he methodically tore it to shreds.

“As gays,” the captain informed in a husky, rushed tone.

“Of course,” Hutch stated bitterly, shoving his plate hard across the table.

“Holbeck won’t let anyone else in his organization. He only hires his own kind,” Adamson explained in a clipped voice, eyeing them both with what looked like barely concealed distaste.

Starsky leaned closer to the older cop, doing nothing to hide his mounting distain. “I just wanna know one thing. Why’d you pick us? What makes you think we can do a better job of impersonation than your guys did?”

“Look, I don’t know you guys from Adam,” the captain blustered, scooping up his pictures and tucking them back in his briefcase. “I’m not making any judgment calls. All I know is what I’ve read.” Adamson shot another Camel from the deck and lit it off the stub hanging from the corner of his fleshy mouth. “Dobey let me see your records. You’re good, both of you, if a little on the wild side.”

“It’s so nice that you approve,” Hutch muttered.

Adamson shrugged. “You boys have got a rep—you take undercover jobs nobody else would touch. Everything from babushkas to buskers. And I know this won’t be the first time you’d done the fag act.”

“Better watch your pejorative language there, Captain,” Hutch warned softly, though his body language clearly stated he was tired of this man’s crap. “Wouldn’t want that kind of talk to get back to the citizen’s complaint board.”

Adamson regarded him with eyes gone suddenly piggy. Starsky tensed, ready to come to his partner’s defense despite Dobey’s staying hand. After two angry drags on his Camel, Adamson said, “I’m a cop in a city that has three-quarters of a million people to protect and serve, Hutchinson. A third of those citizens are flaming faggots. No matter what my personal opinion may be, these same fags have rights: they vote, they have businesses, and they spend money-like all good little taxpayers.” Two more puffs and the breathiness turned into a thick wheeze. “When the citizens obey the law, whose pole they’re smoking ain’t my problem. When they break the law—especially when they kill cops—they become my personal business.

“I got in touch with Dobey ’cause I’m pretty sure I’ve got a leak in my department. Maybe it was Shepherd, maybe it wasn’t. I don’t know. And if you think it didn’t hurt to say that,” Adamson growled through a shroud of smoke, “then you guys aren’t as smart as your press.”

That couldn’t have been an easy thing to admit, though even that didn’t endear them to the gruff captain. But Starsky knew that Hutch was thinking the same thing he was: they couldn’t stand by and do nothing if there was a chance of getting justice for that cop.

“I’d bet my life that it’s nobody on my squad,” Adamson continued. “Probably some fag-symp file clerk,” he snarled. “I’m handling the investigation, but in the meantime, I need someone to go under that isn’t local and won’t be recognized. I’m here because I need you guys to go under in the heavy-leather homo scene and catch a cop killer, which I’m betting is Holbeck. Rumors say he runs to the very hard stuff, but that’s street talk and we can’t be sure it’s reliable.”

Starsky leaned forward, speaking for both of them. “Yeah. We’ll catch your cop killer.”

Hutch nodded, backing his partner’s play despite the misgivings Starsky could feel emanating off him. Hell, Starsky had his own misgivings. None of this sounded in the least bit appealing, particularly the part about playing gay when he had so recently freaked Hutch out with his unwanted advance.

But they were cops and this was a case. A case involving a cop killer. That was all that really mattered.

* * *

The briefing that followed took up the better part of two hours, but Adamson had their full attention. Huggy had ushered out the last of the customers and locked the door to ensure their privacy. Adamson had brought copies of all the relevant case files, photos of the major players, even a map of the city to familiarize them with the layout of the town.

When he was finished, they closed the files and Hutch picked them all up, more than ready to end this little cloak-and-dagger style meeting and have a long conversation with his partner about their plan.

“You think you got all that?” Adamson asked doubtfully, his soft voice a little more wheezy than it had been at the start.

“Yeah, yeah, we got it,” Hutch told him. He wanted to get out of here, wanted to find a way to remove the picture of Frank Tinscher’s tortured body from his mind. He could tell that Starsky was just as itchy.

Dobey caught on. “Get out of here you two, and let me know what the plan is. I’ll keep Captain Adamson advised.”

With a relieved sigh, Hutch rose and, with a nod toward both captains, he followed Starsky’s speedy exit.

He sighed when they were finally moving in the Torino. Without direction, Starsky headed toward Venice Place. They didn’t speak much on the way, both in pre-case mode, their minds spitting out ideas, thoughts, and worries, trying to put them in some reasonable, coherent order. That was the way it always was for them.

They spilled into the apartment, dropping their guns over the hooks to the right of the door, covering them with their jackets, before making a beeline to the refrigerator and a few beers. Settling themselves around the kitchen table, they dropped the files there and took their time going over the details once again.

Starsky leaned back on the edge of the chair, balancing precariously on two legs. No matter how many times Hutch asked him not to do it, that it ruined the chairs, his partner ignored him. Tempted to swipe the chair out from under him, his eyes caught on the half-covered scene photo of Frank Tinscher.

“This is one seriously warped individual,” Starsky noted with that remarkable near-telepathy that was the core of their partnership. He had caught Hutch’s half-thought and said it out loud.

“And this was what you volunteered us for,” Hutch stated dryly before taking a sip of his beer.

“I just beat you to it,” Starsky responded confidently, for he knew Hutch well.

“I want to put this bastard down, Starsk. Hard.”

Starsky nodded, his voice confident and soothing at the same time. “We’ll get ‘im, babe. We always do. But the how is what we gotta work on now.”

“Yeah, look what happened to the last guy that tried to get him.”

”They must have found out he was an informant. The slashed throat… silencing the rat.”

“You think his partner set him up?” Hutch felt as disgusted by the thought as Starsky looked.

“He’d have to be the lowest form of scum if he did.”

There were alarming pieces of information in Jack Shepherd’s profile, though, and that couldn’t be ignored. The guy had been in trouble with the review board several times. He’d been suspected of being on the take, though it wasn’t proven. And he had debts out the whazoo. If he needed money bad enough, he might have been tempted to switch sides. Still, selling out a partner was hitting rock bottom.

“Best to keep an open mind until we know what we’re dealing with,” Hutch decided. “People have said plenty of nasty shit about us over the years that wasn’t true. Let’s give the guy the benefit of the doubt. This case is complicated enough as it is.”

It wasn’t going to be easy to infiltrate Holbeck’s organization so soon after a stoolie had been found in their midst. He and Starsky had their work cut out for them.

It took an hour for them to come up with a reasonable plan. Since they wanted to deal with both the hijacking of the leather goods and the drugs, Starsky would go under as David Stavros, a photographer, who would work his way into a position in one of Holbeck’s studios. Of the two of them, it was Hutch who was going to have the more difficult job. They’d tossed the idea of him going into Club Kinetic as a drug dealer, but since they needed to get another angle on the hijacking and the murder, they decided that Hutch would go under as the owner of a wholesale specialty leather boutique in Bay City.

A quick phone call to Huggy cemented the boutique idea, and another one took care of the details of Starsky’s photography background. It was a good thing he had taken a class with a girl he’d been seeing; the girl hadn’t stuck, but the skill had. Hutch had to admit that his partner was actually really good—not that he’d tell him that, but it was true.

“You know, if we’re going to do this right, Blintz, we need to get the right clothes. The clothes make the man after all.”

Reminded of Starsky’s affinity for ‘role-playing,’ he wondered at his partner’s meaning. “I think I’ve got enough leather to pass muster,” he offered. “I’ve got that vest and my boots.”

“You’re not gettin’ it, babe,” his partner chuckled, a wicked gleam in his indigo eyes. “This is hard-core leatherwear. You’ve gotta make an impression on Holbeck, be a walking advertisement of your goods. And if you want inside with him, then you’re going to have to find something that highlights your… assets. Remember, you’re trying to sell you, as much as leather pants.”

Hutch stood up; totally uncomfortable with the direction this discussion had taken. But Starsky was right behind him, hand on his shoulder, turning him. The dark blue eyes were dead serious.

“Hutch, you need to find a way to get comfortable with this fast because I’ll be damned if I let you end up like Tinscher.”

“I know, I know.” Starsky was right, but Hutch wasn’t at all sure he was going to be able to make this work. Hell, he couldn’t even handle a little petting from his own partner.

So maybe that’s exactly where I need to start.

Swallowing hard, determination rising, Hutch pushed all doubt aside and reached out, taking hold of Starsky’s wrists, twisting his partner’s arms around his waist until he had flattened Starsky’s palms upon his ass. “What do you think of my assets?” he asked, leaning so close to Starsky that their breath blew across each other’s faces.

Starsky gaped at the abrupt turn-around, his hands clinging unsteadily to Hutch’s rear. But then something changed, his eyes going all soft and liquidy.

Like that night in Carla’s bed.

“I like ’em fine,” Starsky responded in a smoky tone.

His hands became more assured, massaging the curve of Hutch’s buttocks, thumbs sliding over the crease that lay just beneath his cords.

The stirring in Hutch’s balls signaled quick that he was in trouble. Playing a part was one thing. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Starsky see him get hard over a simple touch. Having made his point that he could hold up his cover well enough, Hutch twisted free from Starsky’s hold, walking back to the table to grab his beer and take a long slug before turning to his partner, back to business. “So what’s next?”

For a minute, Starsky looked thrown, but Hutch decided he’d imagined it. Sauntering over to the chair he had been sitting upon, Starsky plopped down, rocking it back on two legs again as he took up his own beer before responding.

“We need to see Sugar.”

* * *

The dressing room had a new addition since the last time they’d been here: A pink plastic plaque, like the kind that junior high girls would mount over their beds or in their school lockers, hung front and center on the door. It said, in all its fuchsia-scrolled glory, The Diva. Tacked underneath the plaque, written in purple lipstick on a piece of yellow legal paper, was the sentiment, ‘And don’t you forget it, boy!’

“I see that Sugar is in fine form,” Hutch said dryly.

“C’mon,” Starsky grumbled, raising his hand to knock. “Let’s get this over with. It’s not like she’s gonna be glad to see us.” Besides, he wasn’t sure Hutch wasn’t about to bolt at any second. It had taken an awful lot of persuading to get him here in the first place.

“Ah-AH,” Hutch chided, intercepting Starsky’s fist before it could rap. “Why was it again that you didn’t want Huggy to take care of our undercover clothes for this case?”

“Aw, Hutch, you saw what happened the last time. We ended up in Las Vegas lookin’ like we was—what did Jack call it?—straight out of Guys and Dolls.”

“Well, there’s nothing ‘straight’ about this gig, Starsk.”

“Yeah … I know. I just figured it’d be better, you know, more authentic, if we went to a real homosexual for the gear we’re gonna need to pull this off, like that time you went undercover as a yogi and we got Swami Sammy Govinda to coach you.” Starsky was doing his best to sound like this was business as usual, just routine prep for an undercover gig. But inside, he was scared. Hutch was so damned white-bread. They needed all the help they could get if they were gonna convince Holbeck and his crew that he was the real article.

“Starsk,” Hutch said softly, barely discernible over the disco beat thumping the floorboards above their heads. “You’re afraid.” As always, his partner was on to him.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Starsky retorted. “The way Adamson’s detective died is enough to give anyone the creeps. We’re dealing with guys who use dime-store dummies to turn cops into Popsicles.”

“I hear you, partner,” Hutch said, quickly squeezing Starsky’s fist in support. “Which is why I let you drag me here in the first place.”

Starsky didn’t like the way Hutch’s reassuring touch—something his partner had done hundreds of times before—was suddenly making him all jittery inside. It was like yesterday at Hutch’s place when they were going over the plan for their undercover. For the briefest moment, he had actually thought Hutch was coming on to him, putting his hands on his ass like that. Worse still, Starsky was more than willing to go for it.

Slipping his hand from Hutch’s grip, Starsky turned back to the door, needing to get his mind back on the case where it belonged. He rapped on the door loud enough to be heard over the music, but not so loud as to sound like they were raiding the place. “Oh Sugar, it’s your friendly neighborhood policemen.”

The lavender door jerked open. “Have you come to collect for the policemen’s ball? I’ll donate five dollars to the cause.” The slim drag queen was dressed for the day in a silky lime-green catsuit, a gold-tone zipper running from barely concealed Adam’s Apple to crotch. Artfully made- up, the only thing missing was “her” blonde wig. The close-cropped red hair was Dippity-Do’ed to the shapely skull and ready to receive its crowning glory. She stopped dead at seeing them on her doorstop and her face became sultry and cynical at the same time. “They’ve got detectives out selling tickets these days? What is the city coming to?”

Hutch smiled his most dazzling smile, clearly trying to get on Sugar’s good side—and from the looks of it, succeeding. “Seeing as how we saved your life, we thought you might want to do us a favor.”

“Will this favor be a quickie,” she asked with a sensual tone that managed to sound like an invitation, “or should I call my stand-in to take tonight’s performance?”

Starsky leaned against the door jamb, his legs crossing slightly, making sure his package was displayed well enough to attract the drag queen’s eye. Hell, it was never too early to get into character. “That depends on a couple of things,” he said Slowly. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Honey, if you consider that I was able to keep this,” Sugar’s hands floated up and down, indicating his entire body, “in the closet for twenty-seven years, then I think I can manage to keep anything you have to tell me quiet.”

“She—I mean, he’s—got a point, Starsk.”

“She will do fine,” Sugar clarified, looking at them both, her eyes narrowing. Then she muttered in her best Bette Davis voice, “Come into my inner sanctum, boys, if we’re going to play Password.”

Once they were seated behind closed doors, Starsky got quickly to the point. “We need some information about a certain segment of the homosexual community.”

She stared and at him for a moment, the female softness in her face crushed by male determination. “You’ll get no names from me, gentlemen, unless we’re talking about a seriously major crime.”

“Nothing like that,” Hutch assured him quickly. “We need a crash course in the world of gay leather for an undercover operation.”

“You boys want to be leathermen, eh?” Sugar assessed them coolly, head tipped forward as though regarding them over bifocals.

“Yeah, if that’s what they’re called,” Starsky answered. “We need the right moves and the clothes to match.”

“What’s the job?”

“The job isn’t in Bay City, so your friends are safe from anything you tell us,” Hutch assured. “We’ll talk about that later.”

“Turn around,” Sugar ordered, hand gesturing for them to face away from her. Hutch looked at Starsky, who merely shrugged and went along. When both of their backs were toward her, Sugar gave a low, approving whistle before reaching out and patting their behinds.

“Oh, babies,” Sugar said with gleeful enthusiasm, clapping her hands together. “This might just work. Let me make some phone calls. We are going shopping.”

* * *

It turned out that Sugar had to make several phone calls and not just to her back-up entertainer. She called friends in the city, one in particular who actually specialized in tailoring custom leather clothing. “We can get most of the gear you’ll need off the rack,” Sugar assured them. “We’ll only need Marty for the more intimate wear.”

Hutch suppressed a shudder at the way Sugar’s voice seemed to caress the words intimate wear. He noticed that Starsky, on the other hand, seemed to be throwing himself into the project, a wide grin splitting his handsome face.

The first shop, smelling of new leather and Neetsfoot oil, hadn’t been all that bad, being just a high-end saddlery. Motorcycle cops as well as the rich and shameless polo crowd bought their riding boots in such stores. Starsky had been fascinated to learn it could take from three months to a year to have boots made from scratch by an artisan. Time constraints of the case prevented that kind of custom work, so Starsky regretfully caressed the display leathers one last time before turning to the rack of ready-made stock with the pout of a disappointed child.

In short order, they were both standing in a pair of glossy, knee-high riding boots.

“I feel like a Nazi,” Hutch complained.

“Yeah, you look like a member of a master race,” Starsky-smirked, his tone conveying that he thought no such thing.

“That could be an angle,” Sugar suggested ever-so-helpfully. “A lot of leathermen are into uniforms and discipline. Maybe you could go that route. I have a friend who runs a vintage clothing store. He has some Gestapo uniforms in the attic—”

“Not a chance in hell,” Hutch barked, already toeing off the boots, much to the consternation of the clerk across the room.

“Hey, buddy, if it’ll help the case, I don’t mind,” Starsky murmured.

“I said no.” Looking tired and annoyed, Hutch plopped onto a nearby bench and extended a leg in Starsky’s direction. “Help me pull these off. They hurt.” Together they wrestled off the offending boots without giving the salesclerk a heart attack.

“Well, what about you, curly?” Sugar asked, voice throaty and face droll.

A shy smile crept across his face. “I like ’em,” Starsky answered.

* * *

If only finding my clothes could be so easy! Hutch thought as the three of them went from front-room boutiques to the back-room kink clubs. In short order Starsky had selected two pairs of leather jeans, one in black and the second in red—”Scarlet Sin” the salesman called them. Starsky also picked a sleeveless shirt of some exceptionally soft leather, the front of which was bisected by a sturdy metal zipper, a biker-styled vest, gloves, and a Greek sailor’s cap, also in leather.

Hutch, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to settle on anything, hating every minute of this shopping expedition. Well, not every minute of it. Watching Starsky model the various skin-tight leather ensembles had definitely buoyed his spirits some.

Unfortunately, Hutch knew Sugar had more than once caught him eyeing his partner’s … assets. She hadn’t said a word about it, but the knowing look in her eye along with the conspiratory wink had made Hutch very uncomfortable. And even more surly, which wasn’t putting him in any better frame of mind to settle on his own attire.

Sugar had him come out in everything from basic black on up to silver lame leathers. “Really, darling,” she cooed, “I think you look wonderful in the silver pants with the chainmail shirt. It has that sort of… of—”

“Nordic look,” Starsky provided helpfully, completely ignoring his partner’s fierce scowl. Just as he had for most of that afternoon’s fashion parade.

“Why yes!” Sugar sighed dramatically, her tongue barely still in her mouth. “Like some blond demi-god stepping from a Viking longboat.”

“I don’t think so,” Hutch stated flatly, already stripping out of the shirt.

“Come on, buddy,” Starsky wheedled, well versed in how stubborn Hutch could be. “We gotta get you some clothes to wear on this case. Pick something and let’s go.”

Hutch stopped and turned slowly, feeling the tension that was in his face, locking the muscles of his arms and chest. “Whatever I’m gonna wear isn’t in this store,” he pronounced, his tone brooking no argument.

“My, aren’t we in a snit?” Sugar teased lightly as Hutch stomped off to a changing room.

“Yeah, we are,” Starsky answered, Hutch deliberately ignoring them both as he kept on moving. “Maybe my friend in the valley will have some inspiration for our new diva …. ”

“I’m not a DIVA!” Hutch stopped dead in his tracks and shouted loud enough for everyone in the store to hear, numerous heads turning to gape in his direction. Immediately embarrassed, he moved quickly toward the shelter of the dressing room.

This case was going to send him completely round the bend. And if he went, he was taking Starsky with him.

* * *

In desperation, Hutch agreed to Sugar’s last idea-a tailor who worked only in skins, specifically leather and suede. Hutch sighed; he was tired, his feet hurt, and he was sick of trying on clothes that made him look like a dessert plate.

He was sitting in the passenger seat of the car, listening to Starsky and Sugar discuss other contacts that she would be willing to provide. They were haggling over the ways and means of that information while Hutch lightly dozed, wishing he could fall completely asleep and wake up far away from this case and all mention of leather.

When he opened his eyes again, they were in a quiet street in the suburbs, Starsky having followed Sugar’s directions to an innocuous-looking ranch house. As they got out of the car near the garage, they peered inside to see a huge Harley, covered in chrome and leather. All Starsky needed was one look-and it was a full fifteen minutes before they could drag him away from the garage and toward the house.

Sugar led them in the front door, calling out, “James, darling.”

Hutch conjured a mental picture of a slim, ineffectual biker who liked to sew. The man who opened the door and lifted Sugar in a hug that took her right off her feet had no similarity whatsoever to his mental picture.

James stood six-foot-six, with a wide girth and a completely bald head; he was covered head to toe in black leather and deceptively light-looking boots. The man was surprisingly soft-spoken as he chatted with the lounge singer and Hutch couldn’t quite place the man’s age. Occasionally, he would glance at Hutch speculatively as Sugar explained their situation.

Starsky was busy walking through the place, exclaiming as he went. Every surface was covered in leather or suede. The kitchen table, the counters—Hutch was startled to find that even the walls were covered with what looked like a suede wallpaper.

“Talk about advertising,” his partner muttered and Hutch could only silently nod his head in agreement.

“Man has worn leather for thousands of years,” James said quietly, coming up behind them, so quietly and smoothly that neither of them heard him.

Starsky whirled, staring up at the big man with a smile on his face. “This place is great!” James nodded his large head, his amber-brown eyes smiling at the compliment. “I prefer the feel of natural materials around me. Now, what can I do for you? Sugar briefly explained your situation—apparently, you are not comfortable in the more blatant and cheap leather products on the market. You’d prefer something more classical, but impressive. Is that so?”

Hutch nodded. He liked the man, had liked him almost immediately upon their arrival. He had an air of calm certainty and utter implacability.

“Your coloring would support a number of shades; from what I can see, your body could support different fabrics as well. As Sugar would tell you, I consider myself an artist and men are my palette. Come.”

Starsky moved to follow, but James put out a hand. “No. Only him. We don’t need an audience.”

“He’s perfectly safe, hon,” Sugar told him, gently grasping Starsky’s sleeve. “James is as straight as a plank.”

Starsky frowned, shrugging out of Sugar’s grip. He looked to Hutch uncertainly. Hutch smiled, doing his best to reassure his partner that he would be fine.

“It’s okay, Starsk. I’ll be fine.”

Starsky still didn’t look pleased, but he nodded, his eyes telling Hutch he planned to stay on high alert, nonetheless.

“Make yourself comfortable,” James invited the others, and then grasped Hutch’s arm and led him to the back room.

* * *

Starsky wasn’t at all sure he cared for the idea of leaving Hutch alone. This whole case was making him itchy and he didn’t like it. All the shopping and trying on outlandish clothing had been benign enough. But the deeper they got into this world, the more Starsky worried about whether or not they’d be able to handle it. And this was only the beginning. If he was this antsy separating from Hutch for a brief time in James’ house, how was it going to be later?

Sugar sat next to him, pulling out a mirror and checking her makeup before snapping it closed and getting up to go to the bar in the corner to make a drink. She waggled a glass at Starsky and he shook his head.

“You’ve got to relax, honey,” she told him, her voice carrying a burr from too many cigarettes and even more alcohol. “Play the game.”

He blew out a breath. “I’m just not quite sure I know how to play this game, ya know?”

She looked him over, her gaze frankly assessing. “Yes, you do. And maybe that’s the problem, hmm? You don’t get picked for these jobs because you’re good, Starsky,” she growled. “You get picked because they fit, and the other guys aren’t comfortable dealing with fags.”

Starsky turned away, not wanting Sugar to see his reaction, because she was far too perceptive. He and Hutch had a pretty good idea of why Adamson picked them, and it had nothing to do with their reputation regarding high profile cases. They knew the rumors, the innuendos that surrounded their partnership, and they’d never given a damn about any of it other than to deliver a well-placed punch in the puss to the occasional loudmouth when needed. But somehow, it was different now.

It was different that night at Carla’s. Hell, it had been feeling different for Starsky long before that. But that night, he’d dared to act on it … at least a little. He had enjoyed touching Hutch way more than he had Carla, and he could still feel the damp taste of Hutch’s skin against his lips… his mouth. He’d even been dreaming about it, and in the dreams, Carla always disappeared, leaving only the two of them.

And it was good. Damned good.

He’d wake atop semen-soaked sheets, reaching out for Hutch. Just this brief memory of those dreams had his cock twitching. He leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes, desperately trying to think of anything that would distract him from his thoughts.

“You’ve got it bad for him, don’t you?” Sugar’s words were more statement than question. Rising abruptly, he prowled around the room, dodging both Sugar’s scrutiny and the question, changing the subject instead. “So, tell me about this person in ‘Frisco that you want me to contact.”

* * *

The workspace, in itself, was remarkable. It backed into the house, the walls made of glass from floor to ceiling, allowing in only natural light. There were half-finished odds and ends over an enormous area, in every color of the rainbow. A number of sewing machines were lined up on workbenches, in-progress projects on each one. It was an orderly mess, Hutch noted, following as the huge man led him toward a corner with nearly finished garments hanging carefully on racks or folded on large shelves.

“Strip,” James told him, turning away to pull some items out.

“What?”

With a sigh, the tailor repeated, “Strip. You don’t expect me to take measurements with your clothes on, do you?” He sounded impatient and focused entirely on his work.

Hutch hadn’t really thought about it, but now that he was here, he didn’t see many options. With a shrug, he took off his jacket and the rest of his clothes, keeping his gun close at hand.

James took a look at it, and him. “Hmm. I need to consider that. What side do you wear it on and how?”

“Shoulder holster, left side.”

If all went well, the character Hutch was playing would be someone considered far enough up the thug food chain that it wouldn’t be suspicious if he was carrying a piece. The same more than likely wouldn’t be the case for Starsky, a reality that didn’t sit very well with Hutch, despite his long experience with the danger of undercover work.

The big man nodded and started to take measurements with his tape, in different positions: standing, sitting, and even crouching. He was silent and intent, writing down his notes in a tiny scrawl that Hutch couldn’t make heads or tails of, even though he was staring right at them.

“How did you get into this?” he asked, curious.

“Prison.”

Hutch stiffened slightly. James gave a wry grin and looked down on him. “Take it easy, Detective. That was twenty years ago.”

Hutch nodded. “Ancient history, huh?”

“It is to me. My grandfather had a friend who was a tailor; when I got out, he gave me a job. Not many places that’ll give a former jarhead and jailbird a job, you know.”

“What were you in for?”

“Manslaughter. Man raped my little sister. The judge wasn’t a bad guy, and didn’t give me that hard a sentence. I worked in the prison, and I first learned how to use a sewing machine there, making uniforms.”

“So, why leather?”

James looked away. “I could give you dozens of reasons, but it’s the fabric I prefer to work with—it’s as simple as that. Now, let’s get back to business. I have just the right items for you over here….”

A half-hour later, Hutch finished donning the clothes he’d arrived in, very pleased with what James had selected. It would never be his wardrobe of choice, but it was far better than the hideous outfits he’d looked at while shopping with Sugar and Starsky. And it would do the job.

As they entered the living room again, the huge man smiled softly. “It’s been a pleasure, Detective. I’ll send the finished items to your home. With the bill.”

“Dobey’ll have a cow,” Starsky told the room, grinning and slapping his hands together.

“Serves him right,” Hutch told him, then turned to shake James’ hand. “Thanks for your help.”

“Any time, gentlemen.”

Satisfied that at least he would look the part, Hutch led the way out of the house and back to the car.

* * *

They spent the rest of the week getting into character, and making sure all their details were locked down. Starsky took to wearing his new leather gear around his apartment, making sure that he didn’t look stupid, or more stupid than he needed to-wearing it, getting used to the pull and stretch of it. He hoped that Hutch was doing the same.

The plan called for Starsky to fly into New York and solidify some photography contacts, references for his Stavros persona, before heading to Frisco. David Stavros had supposedly worked extensively in New York, but was now based in Houston with his boss Ken Hendrickson. If there was a leak in Adamson’s organization, they may well be aware that he’d made a trip to Bay City, so their cover had to insure that Starsky and Hutch were not based there solely.

Starsky would be going under first, getting the lay of the land, so to speak, before Hutch went in. While his main cover would be the photography angle, he was also going to be the front man for Hutch, acting as his agent in search of promising new leatherwear suppliers.

“How you doing with all this?” Starsky asked as they sat on the couch in his apartment, sharing a bottle of scotch. They had had a good meal together, though both were feeling the strain of their impending separation. Starsky would leave for New York tomorrow. It had become a habit, getting together before an involved undercover op, sort of getting used to the fact that they weren’t going to be each other’s backup again for a little while. At first, they’d done it to make sure they were clear on all the details, but as time passed-and they relied on each other more and more, it had become a way to remind themselves of what ‘home’ really was, who they really were, before putting that part away and taking on the persona of someone else, someone alien.

“I’m okay,” Hutch answered, his words not quite slurred, but carrying the tone of the alcoholic buzz that surrounded them both. “You? You’ve got the harder job, you know? You’ve got to fit in… get them to trust you.”

Starsky shrugged. “I can handle it.”

“And if somebody puts the moves on you?”

Something about the question didn’t ring right. On the surface, it sounded like Hutch was just quizzing him about his readiness to handle what was coming. But unless Starsky was drunker than he thought he was, Hutch sounded jealous. Possessive even.

Weirder yet, he kinda liked it.

Trying to lighten the mood, he shrugged. “I’ll smile and tell them my ‘partner’ will break them in half.”

The answer looked to satisfy Hutch, who nodded solemnly. “Good enough.”

“You sure you’re okay with all this?” Starsky took a sip of his drink, trying to block out the pictures of Tinscher’s body. “The stakes are high on this one.”

“I’ll handle it.” Hutch stood, stretching. “I should probably go. You have an early flight tomorrow. Say hello to your ma for me.”

“Sure.”

Starsky stood as well, but neither of them made a move toward the door. There was something in the air between them, though Starsky couldn’t place what. He didn’t want to part like this. “What is it?” he asked, looking directly at Hutch.

His partner’s eyes drew downward, then back up, as if he was trying to decide whether to say something or not. He shifted uncomfortably from one long leg to the other. Finally, after what looked to be an internal debate, Hutch spoke quickly, almost tersely. “That morning after we left Carla’s … you wanted to talk about something and I shut you down. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Surprised, Starsky nodded at the unexpected outpouring. He was certain Hutch had forgotten all about that, or at the very least didn’t ever want to talk about it again. But now, here it was on the table. Only this time, it was Starsky who was reluctant to broach the topic. There couldn’t have been a worse time for this discussion. He was already confused enough about what he had been feeling for Hutch. And now, with this case looming and their separation so close he could feel it, there was no way he wanted to get into anything like this.

Waving his hand dismissively, he responded gruffly, “Not a problem. It’s all water under the bridge anyway.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Right?”

Hutch’s response was a long time in coming. But in the end, he nodded. “Right.”

They both stood there stupidly for a few more minutes before Hutch declared again that he should go and this time he did. Only after he had departed did Starsky start to wonder if he’d just made a stupid mistake. They had no way of knowing what was going to happen to them after tomorrow. Maybe parting with so much unsaid between them was a mistake.

Just leave it alone, he ordered himself. They had enough to deal with. Besides, whatever happened at Carla’s was nothing anyway.

* * *

Well, at least I got to see Ma. And on Dobey’s dime, Starsky thought to himself as he made his way through the San Francisco Airport two days later. It was crowded and he was tired.

The hotel he had a reservation for was located in the outskirts of the Castro district, and the cabbie looked at him with a sneer when he gave the address. Though Starsky’s clothes weren’t outlandish, coupled with the address, they made a definitive impression on the cabbie.

In the course of duty, he’d been yelled at, cursed at, spit upon, and beaten with everything from glass bottles to rifle butts. He told himself he was used to being treated like something that was scraped off a better man’s shoe. Yet still, he wasn’t prepared for this—it was worse than being a second-class citizen; this was more like being an outcast, a leper. It pissed him off big time, something he clearly reflected in his tip.

“Fucking cheap cock-sucking faggot,” the cabbie growled as he pulled away from the curb, leaving Starsky in front of The Cosmopolitan. For a moment, he wished he’d had his gun so he could shoot out a tire or something, but it was probably best he didn’t. From the moment he left the cab, he felt eyes on him.

Showtime.

He took a deep breath, pasted on a smile, and turned on his sexiest saunter as he entered the building, doing his best to appear as if was enjoying the audience. He could overhear comments from the men both on the street and on either side of the stairway once inside, the overwhelming consensus being that he had a fine ass. Grinning proudly, he shook that fine ass harder as he moved to check-in.

Finally settled in his room, he dropped his bags and headed for the shower. Then, wrapped in only a towel, he dialed the pre-set number that would get him to Hutch, or rather, Ken Hendrickson, the owner of Leathers, Inc.

“Hendrickson,” Hutch answered, his voice sounding at once tough, yet businesslike. They had to keep things impersonal, having no idea who might be listening, but just the sound of Hutch’s voice set Starsky at ease inside this strange room in an even stranger town.

“I’m here, boss,” Starsky told him. “Did you get that appointment with Holbeck, yet?”

“Still working on it, Stavros,” Hutch told him, which meant that he hadn’t been successful in getting an audience with their target directly. It would be up to Starsky to manage their in.

“Right. I’m going to see that friend of Sugar’s today.”

Hutch was silent for a moment before asking with concern, “Now?” His partner obviously didn’t like him going in alone but there wasn’t much choice.

“Why wait? We need to make connections, or we won’t be selling anything.”

“Let me know how it goes,” which meant in Hutch-speak, “Call me when you get in.”

“Right.”

I miss you, Hutch.

He hung up and dressed for action: Black leather jeans, black tee shirt, biker vest and cap. The boots were a tight fit after the flight, but he finally got them on and buffed them a little to make them shine. Even in clothing that wasn’t his style, Starsky liked looking good. Besides, the whole point was to attract attention.

He closed his eyes and tried to get himself into the persona he needed to work this op, and found it was far harder than he had expected, though he couldn’t figure out why.

With determination, he shook off the discomfort and reluctance and finally, he was David Stavros, photographer, homosexual, and trade-agent for Leathers, Inc.

Action.

* * *

He decided to walk to the Blue Lagoon Bar and Grill to find Sugar’s contact, especially since he needed to get a feel for his surroundings in order to better fit in. He tried not to stare at the behavior displayed on the streets, but it was difficult to ignore.

Men with their arms around other men, kissing, fondling… in some cases, even fucking in the alley. Some wore more makeup than Sugar did, and others were dressed as women, too … or some women, men. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, but it was so open, so overt here. His programming, his upbringing, everything inside him wanted to view this as perverse or, at the very least, weird.

Yet for a quick minute, he wondered what it would be like to stand under a streetlight and kiss Hutch right out in the open on a city street.

Shaking off the unbidden thought, Starsky kept moving. Four blocks into his walk, he came upon more men, this time in deep, dark leathers, wearing chrome chains and tattoos in unusual places. They looked at him, making sucking noises, or other sounds that he ignored.

At the Blue Lagoon, he asked for Doris and was directed to the end of the bar on the right-hand side. Deciding that he’d use himself as a lure, he settled himself on the edge of the bar near her, but not next to her, and asked for a beer.

Doris was talking to someone who seemed to be arguing with her. “I’m the biggest fish in this pond, baby, and don’t let anyone ever tell you different!” Doris declared proudly. Clearly chastised, the other man wandered off, mumbling apologies as Starsky sipped his beer.

“Don’t you agree, handsome?” Doris had turned to him now, her dark eyes clearly pleased with the look of him.

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Starsky politely answered, though clearly this was a man. The huge hands and prominent Adam’s apple announced the original gender of the barstool’s gaudy occupant despite the polyester sheathe dress and miles of spangled bridal-veil netting at neck and hem.

“Hmm, you’re a polite one,” Doris purred, sounding more like a tank engine than a kitty cat.  “Don’t get many of those in here. You must be new in town.”

“Just arrived from New York,” Starsky told her, beginning to set up his cover. “But I’ve been living down in Houston for a while.”

“So Mr. I-just-arrived-from-New-York-but-been-livin’-in-Houston, you got a name?” Doris asked, sliding her bulk off the barstool. Moving as slinkily as her five-foot-four 300-pound plus frame would allow-and it was pretty damned slinky-the drag queen engulfed the seat next to Starsky.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Stavros. David Stavros.”

Oh, honey. I guess, I don’t have to ask if you speak Greek.”

“Maybe two generations back, when my people got off the boat,” Starsky answered, purposefully playing dumb, sensing it would amuse this harmless but potentially useful barfly. “But we’re all Americans now.”

A raucous caw filled the little bar, loud enough for Starsky to wince in response, but he noticed that the other patrons-probably regulars-ignored the big “woman’s” outburst.

“That’s right, baby! We’re all Americans now. So why don’t you buy mama a martini, little Davie Stavros. Buy mama a drink and she’ll set you on the straight and narrow now that you’ve arrived in Sodom.”

Starsky signaled the bartender, a pimply young man in too-tight jeans and a tuxedo shirt, to set them both up with another round. “I don’t know about the straight, but I’ll take the narrow part, ma’am.”

“Oh, yeah, baby. I just bet you will….”

Doris Trout proved to be a good source of general information as she seemed to know every gay man in town—statistical impossibility Starsky realized, but very useful nonetheless. She quickly took Dave Stavros under her large wing and, once confirming his interest in leather, gave him a rundown of all the leatherbars in town: the bartenders on the take, dealing drugs, pimping waiters; the best DJs, the best amyl nitrate; the after-hours clubs that specialized in scat, blood, fisting, discipline, or just good old-fashioned orgies; the baths; the ERs that treated gays fairly and those that didn’t; a short history of the town and its major landmarks and the best place to rent a room, by the hour, day, or week. It was a lot to absorb, but Starsky did his best to pay attention. It was like visiting a foreign country and trying to learn all the cultures and mores of the land in one conversation; mind-boggling, yet fascinating.

It turned out he was in one of the better hotels on her list. By the time he’d drank six beers in a futile effort to keep up with Doris, his head was spinning from both the brews and the intro to the San Francisco gay scene, and he was ready to head back and crash in his bed.

“Thanks for the hotel tip. I’ll need a room for a couple of weeks,” Starsky announced hoarsely, not having to feign the tiredness that infused his voice. He didn’t want to give away the fact that he’d already checked into a place because Doris was enjoying too much guiding him in the proper direction.

“Baby is sleepy. I guess this is early for you leathermen,” Doris said with a nod to the wall clock-it said two in the afternoon. “Got to get your beauty sleep for tonight, right?”

“No matter how long I sleep, I’ll never be as beautiful as you, ma’am,” Starsky answered. Doris cawed again even as her meaty hand scrabbled a matchbook out of the bowl on the bar.

She pulled a pen from her sequined clutch and scribbled an address. “You go to this address and tell Oscar that Doris sent you. The greedy bastard will only charge you double what the room’s worth instead of triple.”

“Thank you, Miss Doris,” Starsky said, clutching the matchbook. He gave Doris a goodbye pat on the carrot-red bouffant with the back of his hand. The big drag queen leaned in close and Starsky stiffened, sure of an unwanted kiss, but was pleasantly surprised when Doris merely whispered in his ear:

“I wrote down my recipe for anti-wrinkle cream, too. If you ever want me to come over some night and whip up a batch, you just let o1′ Doris know. Right, baby?”

Shooting a glance down at the matchbook, Starsky snorted with laughter at the particular cream Doris was suggesting, and answered, “Yes, ma’am. If I ever need some beauty cream, you’ll be the first to know.”

* * *

He had scoped out Holbeck’s modeling and photography studio the night before, and after dressing and having a good breakfast, Starsky walked over there, carrying an album with him. The front window was quite classy, with a number of glossy photos on display. Some were headshots for actors and models, others were family photos, though these families were unusual, to say the least. The other side contained a large advertisement for models, both male and female, looking for work. What kind of work was not specified.

He stepped inside to find an atmosphere that he’d last felt in that glorified barber shop where Hutch had been undercover as a stylist. Light rock music played over speakers that were embedded in the ceiling.

There was a reception area with stylish chairs in chrome and leather, and to their left was a small desk where an amazingly handsome blond sat, his hair perfectly made up, his clothes resting on his body with only one required result: to show off his incredible physique and his remarkable tan, which only highlighted the vacuous expression in his stunning lime-green eyes.

Beautiful, but dumb, was Starsky’s immediate opinion, which wasn’t dispelled by listening to Adonis on the phone after he’d introduced himself.

“There’s a Mr. Stavros here, sir. He says that Junie Green in New York recommended him.” Adonis cracked his gum in a bored fashion and buffed his nails.

Hard to believe he could do more than one thing at a time.

The man that came out from behind a large burgundy curtain in the back of the room was the epitome of ‘swishiness.’ Albert Donet held his thin hands in front of him in a remarkably affected mannerism, and sashayed like some Southern belle to the desk. His brown-gold hair was tied behind his neck with a bow, his shirt a multi-colored rayon slashed with orange stripes, atop knit pants meticulously color-coordinated in an olive green that managed not to be drab. A number of gold necklaces hung around his narrow neck, and he wore sunglasses that hid his eyes.

“What’s this? Junie Green sent you?”

Starsky nodded. “Yes, sir. I was looking for a new place to work when I came to San Francisco and she suggested you. Donet is well known as the finest photographer in California.”

Donet preened slightly, running his fingers over his head in an attention-getting manner. Starsky smiled and canted his hips slightly. The photographer smiled back and gestured him to follow.

Bingo!

The lean fingers snapped as the photographer settled himself into what looked like a director’s chair. A number of models waited impatiently for him to begin work, but none of them dared to say anything. “Your book?”

Starsky handed over his photos wordlessly, taking in the group of models silently. They stared back at him, bored, tired, too thin or too drugged for their own good. They were in various stages of dress, but leather was the overall uniform of the day.

Behind another curtain, two men came out, talking softly.

And one of these men definitely caught his attention and made him stand up straight.

Marvin Holbeck, his mind supplied. He wasn’t at all tall—maybe 5’6″, and was blandly handsome, his skin perfectly highlighted by a golden tan. His dark hair was combed straight back, silvered at the temples. Holbeck’s clothes were meticulous, his outfit a perfect, Italian-cut three-piece suit executed in supple black suede. Expensive cufflinks in the shape of handcuffs sparkled on each wrist cuff. The reptilian eyes were intense and unnerving, like some kind of exotic lizard that didn’t need to blink too often. Starsky couldn’t believe that the man was nearly sixty; he didn’t appear to be more than 38 or 39.

“Who’s this?” the man next to Holbeck asked irritably, walking toward Starsky as though he were something dirty. He stalked in a circle around him, as if he wanted to warn Starsky that he was the tough guy here and to make no mistake about it. Domingo, his memory supplied from the files they had poured over. Holbeck’s bodyguard.

“A photographer, from Junie Green,” Donet answered absently.

“A shutterbug, huh?” the bodyguard sneered. His body brushed Starsky, but Starsky let it go, aware of Holbeck’s eyes on him. Well, not on his face. He seemed to be focused on his groin, outlined by the red leather jeans he wore. He had successfully attracted the attention of their leather target with his choice of form fitting attire.

And then Domingo brushed by him again, only this time it was more of a push. Again, Starsky didn’t react, doing his best to play it cool. It wasn’t until Domingo brushed his groin across Starsky’s ass that he responded.

Violently.

Domingo was face down on the nearest table three seconds later, his left arm twisted viciously in Starsky’s hand, completely useless, the body on top of him making it impossible for him to respond to the attack. Slowly, Starsky ground his cock into the crease of Domingo’s pants, outlining his ass slowly, warningly. “You don’t want to mess with me, handsome. You aren’t man enough to take me on and live.” His other hand reached around and grabbed Domingo’s family jewels, lifting him off his feet, causing him to utter a shocked cry of pain. “Understand?”

“Enough,” Holbeck murmured, but Starsky accepted it as the order Holbeck obviously meant it to be. The silver-gray lizard eyes were staring unblinkingly at him as Holbeck’s tongue slipped slowly over his bottom lip. The S&M guru was clearly spurred by the rough display of physicality before him.

Score one for the home team.

Starsky released Domingo, wiping his hand on his pants as if it were dirty. Domingo straightened and would have gone for him if not for Holbeck’s soft, “No.”

The bodyguard glowered, but he stalked off, rubbing his wrist and groin simultaneously, snarling at the models, “What’re you looking at?”

They snickered, and Domingo’s face reddened, but he didn’t say another word, looking to be held in place by his boss’s steely glare. Then Holbeck turned his attention to Starsky, his glare so lewd it made Starsky feel dirty.

“So, who is it that can take you on, Mister… ?”

“Stavros. David Stavros. And the answer to your question would be my boss, Ken Hendrickson.”

“Hendrickson. Can’t say I’ve heard of him before.”

“He’s heard of you.”

Holbeck looked immediately suspicious. “And how is it you know who I am?”

“You’re well known in the circles I travel in, Mr. Holbeck. I daresay, even legendary.”

“Is that so?” Holbeck eyed him from the tips of his leather boots up to the leather cap on his head. “And what is it you’re doing here?”

“I’m in town for a bit and looking to pick up a little something freelance. I just gave my book to Mr. Donet.”

Donet looked over to Holbeck, clearly willing to do whatever the older man wanted. Holbeck left Starsky to sweat several long minutes before finally nodding to Donet.

“Looks like you’re hired, Stavros,” Donet informed him.

“Great,” Starsky grinned, trying to appear appreciative. “I look forward to working with you.”

“And I look forward to hearing more about these circles you travel in,” Holbeck stated, again looking at Starsky as if he were the meat on the buffet platter.

“Anytime, anyplace,” Starsky responded with as much innuendo as he could muster.

“Perhaps we could have dinner tonight, Mr. Stavros?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Like looking forward to root canal.

* * *

That night, he went to meet Hutch at their pre-arranged contact spot.

To the casual observer, the two men on the BART platform were, if not exactly nondescript, unremarkable in a city known for its plethora of handsome men in provocative costumes. Starsky, dressed rather conservatively in comparison to some of his other eveningwear, wore the skin-tight black leather jeans that hugged and defined the curves of his ass and the bulge in his crotch. An equally tight blue tee shirt and the Greek sailor’s cap completed the outfit. Hutch—obviously in one of his “purloined letter” phases-hiding in plain sight mode—wore one of his more fantastical Marlene costumes.

Starsky had to stifle a smile … Hutch acted entirely too comfortable in the platform boots, Oompa-Loompa jumpsuit, and apple-shaped glasses. Looks like the Dutch Boy Paint mascot on acid.

Hutch, of course, was saving the fine leather clothes that James had made for him for when he assumed his Ken Hendrickson persona. For tonight, they were just two guys meeting on a train platform. If anyone was watching him closely, Starsky intended to give the impression they were cruising each other. He slid up behind his tall partner and pressed his crotch into Hutch’s backside. Swinging around, Hutch’s expression went from surprised to sour.

“I see you’re fitting well into your new habitat,” Hutch groused.

“Look who’s talking.” Starsky smiled, nodding toward Hutch’s get-up. “And you complained about the clothes Sugar and I picked out for you.”

“Well, I can’t exactly come off looking like Hendrickson tonight in case one of your new friends is watching you, now can I?”

“I think you’re coming off more like a bargain basement Elton John impersonator actually.” Moving in front of Hutch and seeming to look him over, Starsky enjoyed his laugh at Hutch’s expense. But then he sobered, realizing how good it felt to be face to face with his partner, even if that face was camouflaged by those ridiculous glasses. “Good to see you, buddy.”

“Same here,” Hutch answered, no longer sounding pissy. “How’s it going? Did you find your in?”

“I’m so in you’d need pliers to pull me out.”

Starsky went on to explain the day’s events. Hutch seemed pleased with the progress until Starsky got to the part about having dinner with Holbeck.

“I don’t like it,” Hutch stated, shaking his head. “I don’t like the idea of you alone with this guy without back-up. Odds are, he killed Tinscher or gave the order to have it done. And we still don’t know what happened to Shepherd.”

“And we’re not going to know unless we get in there.”

“Why couldn’t you wait until I’m established as well?”

“Because Holbeck is warm for my form,” Starsky stated without humility. “That’s the only reason I got the job to start with. If I don’t play along, I’m outta there faster than I got in.”

“And just what do you plan to do to play along?” Hutch demanded, taking hold of the lapels of Starsky’s vest and yanking him closer.

Looking around, Starsky noticed there were eyes upon them, which had to be the reason for Hutch getting so physical. If they were acting like they were making a connection, they had to look the part. Still, Hutch seemed vehement, his voice taking on a possessive tone, like that night at home right before Starsky left for New York.

“Have a meal with him. Flirt a little. Keep him interested. That’s it.” Starsky flattened his hands on Hutch’s chest, smoothing there in a manner that was flirtatious as well as soothing. “Not to worry. I already made it clear to them that I’m taken.”

“All right.” Hutch let go of his vest, looking to chill out some, though Starsky knew his partner still was uneasy.

“Believe me, Hutch, I plan to be careful. There’s something about this Holbeck. I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s got an aura about him. Every one of my cop instincts is screaming bad news.”

“Mine, too,” Hutch nodded. “I ran a separate check on Holbeck, outside of what Adamson gave us. I’m going to look into some of the properties he’s leasing—warehouses, that kinda thing. By the way, Holbeck started as a Chicago entrepreneur; been in business almost twenty-five years.”

“He must have a picture rotting in his attic, babe. He’s preserved his looks, that’s for sure.” Starsky twitched as Hutch moved closer and pressed him against a wall at his back. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“I’m getting into character,” Hutch said, one hand clamped to Starsky’s butt, rubbing circles into the tense muscles. A stab of fire burned intensely against Starsky’s ass as if Hutch had touched him with a branding iron, so hot was the touch. Instinctively, Starsky looked around, some part of him worried about being seen with his partner’s hand on his butt. But then he was reminded where he was. Suddenly, he had the freedom to respond that he generally didn’t allow himself. After all, they did have to maintain their characters, right?

Hutch’s jumpsuit left nothing to the imagination: Starsky let his hand drift to the front; firm flesh met his questing fingers. Starsky enjoyed the way Hutch squirmed when his fingers ghosted over the taut outline of nipples. He told himself this was only a game; that Hutch was pretending. To Starsky’s body, though, it was all too real. Already, his too-tight pants were feeling the strain of the erection that was fast-forming.

“Maybe you should find out what kind of cream he uses at night,” Hutch ground out, his teeth clenched together, but not moving away from Starsky.

It took Starsky’s brain a minute to kick in and clarify what Hutch was referring to. “Doris Trout told me a little something about magic nighttime cream.” Leaning over, he whispered in Hutch’s ear. “Want me to tell you about it?” Starsky’s fingers had just traced down the full front of the jumpsuit, leading him to the growing bulge between Hutch’s legs.

Abruptly, Hutch pushed Starsky back and slapped his face, cupping his hand to produce a noticeable clap, but pulling the blow at the last moment so that it wouldn’t truly hurt—at least, not for long.

“I’m not that kind a girl!” Hutch declared loudly, his proclamation met with a few sniggers and guffaws from the other gay men gathered on the platform.

Starsky was stunned, sputtering, “Wh-what was that all about?”

“Just getting into character, darling,” Hutch simpered. Then his partner blew him a kiss and sauntered away, apparently moving on to find someone better.

Shaking himself, Starsky stood still until he could get his cock to deflate enough to walk. He reminded himself this was all an act, an elaborate plan.

Though he sure as hell hadn’t expected Hutch’s wood to make a cameo appearance in their little play.

* * *

Hutch could barely lay still in the bed, let alone sleep. The hotel room was grubby, his feet hurt from those damned platform boots he’d had to walk around with this evening, and he was worried as hell about his partner.

Why the hell hasn’t he called to check in for the night? he asked himself for the fifth time that hour. It was close to three a.m. and Starsky had not called to say he’d made it back to his hotel after his dinner date with Holbeck, the leather-clad pervert.

Something’s wrong.

Hutch got up to pace the room again. There was a part of him that was ready to just head out and track Starsky down. But if he did that, he’d blow their whole cover. Thinking about the pictures of Tinscher’s murdered body made it hard to worry much about the case or their cover, though.

Is that what you’re really worried about?

Stopping mid-pace, Hutch started to wonder what truly had him so twisted. Did he really believe Holbeck would murder a near stranger? Or was he more concerned about the creep putting the moves on his partner?

His partner.

Starsky looked hot as hell tonight, no doubt about it. Hutch had no trouble understanding how he had attracted the lewd attentions of someone like Holbeck … and he didn’t like it one bit.

When he was working to get into character for this, trying to make sure he was ready to handle the role he would be forced to play in this undercover op, he hadn’t counted on the nearly insane jealousy that was going to crop up whenever he thought about Starsky playing his part too well. He didn’t like the idea of other men looking at Starsky, thinking about him that way, touching him. Part or no part, Hutch didn’t know how to handle what this was doing to him.

And tonight … tonight was the worst. It was one thing to put on a little touchy-feely act to throw off the onlookers and help them to fit in. But Starsky’s touches had gotten him hard and that was no act. It was one thing to get aroused in some sexual romp with Starsky and a woman, but to get a boner just from his partner’s caresses was way out of line.

Only it didn’t feel out of line to Hutch.

Even before the night at Carla’s, he had been aware that his feelings for Starsky were changing. Why the hell he didn’t talk about it when he’d had that chance the morning after Carla, he still wasn’t sure. Fear, probably.

He tried to bring it up again the night before Starsky left for New York, but his partner had shot him down as fast as Hutch had shot down Starsky on the topic the week before.

The ringing phone startled him from his musings, and he dove across the bed to answer it. Only at the last second did he remember to say, “Hendrickson.”

“Hey, boss, it’s me.”

Christ, it’s about time.

“Where’ve you been, Stavros? You’re late calling.”

“I had dinner with Marvin Holbeck,” Starsky stated in a business-like manner, though something in his voice told Hutch the dinner had been anything but pleasurable.

“I better not find out someone’s had their fucking hands on my merchandise,” Hutch threatened, having no trouble sounding like the possessive Hendrickson would in this situation.

“Nothing like that,” Starsky assured. “I made it clear who I work for. But I was able to facilitate things for the business. I told Mr. Holbeck about your various stores that deal in special leatherwear. He appears interested in setting up a meeting to discuss matters further.”

He did it. He’s set us up perfectly.

Hutch refused to allow himself to think about what Starsky had to do to get Holbeck interested in their wares. He was just grateful his partner was all right.

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow then. I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

I miss you, Starsk.

He set the phone back in the cradle, hating this assignment more by the minute. Tomorrow he was going to check out those warehouses and hopefully find something they could pin to Holbeck so he and Starsky could go home and get back to normal.

If he even knew what normal was for them anymore.

* * *

As Starsky approached Club Kinetic, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had agreed to come to Holbeck’s club tonight during their dinner last night, but he knew the place was going to be bad news. If he wanted to keep stringing Holbeck along, though, he didn’t have a lot of choice.

He’d met up with Hutch briefly this afternoon near the docks. So long as they made the pretense of being on a ‘date,’ they were able to talk freely and exchange information, which was more than they could do in their clipped phone conversations. Of course, it was difficult to concentrate on anything pertaining to the case when they kept having to purposefully grope and fondle each other every now and again to keep up their charade.

Charade.

Starsky snickered to himself over the word. It was getting to a place where he was having trouble discerning what was real and what was acting. Dave Stavros was for sure the guy he had to be last night having dinner with that sick pig. Everything about Holbeck—from how he eyed him to the sick pleasures he talked about—nauseated Starsky, yet he had to continue to flirt shamelessly and allow the occasional gropes and fondles to keep the man interested.

Yet with Hutch, he didn’t feel like Stavros at all. It sure as hell didn’t feel like a character craving Hutch’s touches… getting turned on by them.

Get your mind back on the damned case, he warned himself as he stood outside the door of the club readying to go in. Doris had given him the scoop on the place when he’d asked about it. The club was located in the former ballroom of the historic Parker Mansion, a 120-year-old three- story monstrosity that had been converted to a guesthouse in 1972 when the last Parker died at the advanced age of 103.

A couple of gay emigres from New York had spent years lovingly restoring the gardens and mansion to the sumptuous grandeur reminiscent of a Cecil B. DeMille film. Unfortunately, they had more design than business sense: the bank foreclosed before they hosted a single guest. Despite the serious press for housing in the area, the mansion remained in receivership, too gaudy to attract traditional conservative businesses, too expensive for a “mom & pop” proprietor. The white elephant had acted as the bank’s upscale rental property until Holbeck had moved in, using it for both Club Kinetic and Kinetic Leatherwear’s home base.

Previous to that, the local Gay Pride coalition had held their Spring dance on the mansion’s tongue-and-groove ballroom floor; six foot drag queens, made even taller by their stack heels, loved to sway from the surrounding galleries. Doris had been thrilled to give him the information over cocktails; she’d been last year’s Grand Marshall of the Halloween Parade.

Even with all its colorful history, Starsky would have preferred not to have come here tonight. Hutch had had some luck with the warehouses, slipping inside several until he found one that contained boxes of stolen leather goods that were packed with packages of heroin. That alone would have been enough to get Holbeck at least busted for drugs. They weren’t sure it was enough to make it stick, though. He could have feigned innocence, pinning the rap on some of his underlings. Even more important, they hadn’t found any evidence that would enable them to pin the murder of Frank Tinscher on Holbeck, nor anything that would lead them to Shepherd’s whereabouts.

So for now, their best plan was to continue to get closer to Holbeck and hope to obtain more evidence and to that end, Starsky had to keep playing his leather-clad stud.

He’d wondered how he was going to get inside Club Kinetic; apparently the bouncer out front was particular about what clientele he let inside. When Starsky had gone round to see Doris earlier tonight, the drag queen had just laughed when he asked what he’d need to get inside. She’d looked him up and down suggestively and told him, “You’ll do just fine, Davey. When are you going to come visiting me for a little one-on-one instruction?”

“Oh, ma’am, you’re far too good for me,” he’d demurred softly. He didn’t move when Doris’ large hand made contact with his leather-covered ass. Instead he just gritted his teeth and stayed still until it slipped away, a disappointed sigh slipping from the drag queen.

Doris was too good an informant for Starsky to risk blowing their bond. He was glad that their relationship had formed so quickly and easily. That Doris was sexually attracted to him hadn’t hurt, and he played it to the hilt. But even more important, Starsky realized, was the fact that he truly listened to what Doris had to say. She was, in short, flattered-and that was better “pay” than any amount of drinks or cash he might have laid on her.

And, as usual, she had been right. The beefy doorman took one look at his black leather pants, black shirt and his leather vest, along with the cap that he felt “made” his undercover personae, and gestured him ahead of the line that was snaking into the gardens at the back of the mansion.

The club wasn’t as loud as he had expected. It also wasn’t pitch black as so many were. As he entered, there was a huge foyer, then a horseshoe-shaped bar that took up the entire rear; people were packed three deep around it. Upon entering, he saw men dancing, gyrating against one another to the beat of the piped-in music. Small tables lined the walls with a single lamp on each one, giving a semblance of privacy in a place that had none. Above it all, taking up some of the gallery space, was a glass-enclosed room. Starsky guessed that it was Holbeck’s office, though he couldn’t see in since the glass looked smoked from this side of it, probably only see-through from inside.

Doing his best to fit in, Starsky staked out a stool at the bar. He allowed two different guys to buy him drinks, keeping it casual so that he didn’t have to get into anything deeper than a few minutes of conversation. The more he sat there, the more the place made him uncomfortable. Everything around him felt lewd and degrading. He was just one of many pieces of meat supposedly here for just one purpose: to find someone to fuck.

Yet this was where men who were attracted to men belonged. The thought made Starsky sick inside. As much as he had been longing for Hutch, he sure as hell didn’t want to be a part of this lifestyle permanently. It was one thing to want to press closer to Hutch during a threesome or even to think about the taste of his lips or the feel of his ass. But when he tried to picture them in a place like this, off in a corner somewhere gyrating against each other like everyone else around them, he could barely stand the image. He watched as some of the men sashayed toward the doors at the rear of the bar, and had a pained certainty of what went on there.

Is this the fucking life I want with Hutch? No wonder he was so pissed that morning after Carla. A few bouncers made their way around the bar, checking out the patrons, their eyes alert for any trouble. And there well could be trouble. These men were the rougher, darker and stronger of than the average gay crowd. He straightened his shoulders, secure in the fact that his own aura of strength and power, subdued though it needed to be while he was undercover, was unable to be hidden fully.

He did his best to get comfortable and bide his time. Sooner or later, Holbeck would notice him and then he would be back to work. He tried not to think about what Holbeck was thinking about whenever he approached him.

He sat and listened to guys who wanted to talk to him, even listening to the ones who obviously wanted to do more than that. A few got pissed when he wouldn’t leave with them, but he shrugged, and sent them on their way. It was the touching that made him tense; the way they’d attempt to stroke his thighs or his arms, moving into his personal space.

“I better not find out someone’s had their fucking hands on my merchandise.”

He smiled to himself as he thought about Hutch’s rant, finding the words comforting somehow as he sat in this debauched cesspool. He would be glad when his partner’s cover was fully established and he didn’t have to deal with this solo anymore.

A young blond man sat down next to him and smiled. He was the third guy to sit there tonight, and undoubtedly would be the third guy to leave on his own, though immediately Starsky sensed something different about this one. He was handsome, but not in a rough way. More the blond god type that reminded Starsky poignantly of his much-missed partner. His eyes were a sharp green and his face narrow and sculpted. His voice was soft and low, and he called himself Matt. They talked for a while of nothing important, Matt just trying to make some kind of connection. Starsky recognized loneliness when he saw it, and didn’t object when the guy bought him a beer. When the guy grasped his hand and rubbed invitingly along the palm and wrist, he almost regretfully pulled away, feeling sorrow for Matt. He started to wonder if being attracted to guys was one day going to lead this sweet, simple kid to become just like the rest of the predators around them.

“Sorry,” Matt murmured, confirming for Starsky that this was too gentle a soul for this place.

“It’s okay. It’s just that I’m taken,” Starsky replied, and was shocked at how easily that sentence had escaped his lips.

“Oh. I kinda thought you must be,” the young man replied. “Guys like you always are.” Though he knew it was meant to be a compliment, Starsky stiffened anyway, though why he couldn’t quite figure. After all, hadn’t he told this kid that he was involved? Unbidden, the vision of Hutch laughing caught in his mind’s eye. Hutch looked like an angel when he laughed like that.

“So what’s he like?” Matt inquired with keen interest.

Nobody had asked that before; they usually walked off to find better game elsewhere. “He’s tall, blond … gorgeous,” he admitted softly.

“No. What’s he like?”

Again, Matt proved to be a totally different animal from those around them. The yearning in his eyes was a sad sight to behold.

“He’s my best friend,” Starsky replied, surprising himself with his honesty. “He’s tough, smart, and he’s got an odd sense of humor. He loves plants, music … ”

“And you.”

“Yeah. And me,” Starsky whispered, aware that- he had said far more than he usually even let himself think about.

“You’re lucky. It’s hard to find someone like that.”

“You won’t find him here, that’s for sure, Matt. This isn’t the place for you; these guys’ll just chew you up and spit you out.”

“Well, there aren’t exactly a lot of places to meet beautiful guys who like plants and music,” Matt countered, his tone far too hopeless for someone so young.

An unexpected burst of anger thrummed through Starsky, something akin to what he felt during the cab ride from the airport. It was all mixed up in his head, but it had a lot to do with second-class citizens and outcasts and injustice.

The blond kid smiled and slid off the stool. “Take care, Dave.”

Starsky nodded and watched the slim figure move through the crowd. But then he saw a predator quickly shadowing the kid’s steps and his ire rose another notch. Grinning a salacious, feral smile, the over-muscled leather-clad oaf reached out and took hold of Matt’s arm, pulling him like he was a possession, not a person.

Starsky was out of his seat so fast, the bar stool tipped over and hit the floor.

“Hands off,” he said with menace, infusing his words with what he knew was his most fierce, deadly glare.

Matt looked completely stunned, but he nodded when the leatherneck growled, “You with him?” Practically tossing the kid at Starsky, the scum cautioned coarsely, “You should take better care of your property, mister.”

“Fuck off,” Starsky spat, leading Matt away from the gorilla and on to the dance floor.

And then, there he was. David Starsky. In the middle of a gay club. Slow dancing with another man. And it wasn’t even all that horrible.

“Why’d you do that?” Matt asked, pulling back to look at Starsky as they danced.

“Because you don’t belong here.”

“Look, I told you—”

“And I’m telling you,” Starsky interrupted, realizing quickly that he sounded like a lecturing dad. Softening his tone, he rubbed his hand gently over Matt’s back as he said, “Matt, I know you’re looking at how I’m dressed and where I am. But let me tell you something. My guy. The one I told you about? I didn’t meet him in a place like this. Nothing like this.”

“Yeah, sure,” the kid responded, disbelief writ clear in his pretty eyes.

“I’m telling you the truth,” Starsky said earnestly.

“Then why are you here now?”

“That’s a long, damned story. Just do me a favor, please? Get out of here. Go search on the outside for what you’re looking for. Do it before places like this and guys like that eat you alive.”

Matt grew quiet, pressing his head into Starsky’s shoulder as they continued to dance. It was weird: Starsky wasn’t used to touching any man this intimately. Except for Hutch. But that was different. Yet nothing felt dirty about this. In fact, it was the first time since he’d started playing Dave Stavros that he felt okay with himself.

When the song ended and a new one began, Matt pulled back and looked at him. The tired sense of hopelessness was still lingering in the depths of his eyes. But he smiled softly and said,

“Okay, you win. I’ll leave.”

Starsky felt the wideness of his own smile. “Good choice, kid.”

“I hope so.” As Matt slowly disengaged himself from Starsky’s arms, he leaned in to give him a quick, tentative kiss on the cheek. “I sure hope your music-plant-man knows how good he’s got it.”

Startled by the unexpected kiss, Starsky could only nod. “Yeah, I hope so, too. Good luck, Matt.”

“Thanks.”

Starsky watched carefully to make sure the kid made it safely out the door.

I hope he’ll be okay.

Easing his way through the crowd, Starsky got back to the bar to find Domingo waiting for him—his wrist wrapped in a bandage, his fingers noticeably swollen.

“What?” Starsky snapped.

“Mr. Holbeck wants you. Now.”

Starsky nodded, taking care of his bar tab and tip before following Domingo up the metal spiral staircase to the office above.

Domingo gestured him through the open door, but he didn’t like the idea of the bodyguard behind him and waited for him to go through first. Holbeck eyed this little exchange with a measuring smile in his eyes and stood up when Starsky came in.

The office was handsomely decorated: Leather couches rested against both side walls; a television and large radio sat to one side and an eight-track and turntable rested next to it. Above that was a peculiarly erotic painting; both of the men in the painting appeared to be having sex but seemed to be in pain rather than enjoying any pleasure; the piece was echoed by a bronze statuette of a chained, grimacing man on the table between the couches.

The whole place gave Starsky the creeps.

“Stavros. Do you like my home?”

Home? “It’s, uh, very lively.”

“It makes it simpler to do both business and pleasure in the same place,” Holbeck told him, his eyes caressing the place where Starsky’s tight pants clung to his crotch. Like last night, Holbeck’s eyes took on a peculiar sheen when he looked at Starsky. “Perhaps you’d like a tour.”

While the man himself made Starsky’s skin crawl, the detective knew he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get inside his personal space. He forced himself to smile. “That sounds great.”

With Domingo trailing behind, Holbeck proceeded to leave the office and turn left, taking a set of keys from his pocket to open one of the gallery doors. The men lounging around, talking, moved aside quickly for him to pass, their faces slightly pale when he did. It made Starsky very uncomfortable to witness the way others reacted to Holbeck. He hadn’t come across anyone yet that didn’t appear to be intimidated by the man.

The mansion was a remarkable place. The floors were marble; the walls were antiqued plaster covered with artwork. Each room had been returned to its original grandeur, and Starsky couldn’t find anything distasteful in any of the public rooms. The upper floors contained the mansion’s many bedrooms and Starsky admired them, swallowing when they came to the master bedroom.

“This is my room,” Holbeck said, hand on the gold-plated doorknob, grinning in a way that disgusted Starsky.

“As much as I’m enjoying the tour,” Starsky stated, rubbing his hands over his own hips and then his backside, “I don’t think Mr. Hendrickson would approve of me getting such a personal look at your bedroom.”

“Even if we weren’t alone?” Holbeck opened the door. Even rooted to the floor outside the entryway, Starsky was able to get a good peek inside. The large bed was circular, covered in richly ostentatious blood-red velvet. Floor-to-ceiling French windows on the east side looked to lead outward, probably down to the garden. There was a lot of artwork on the walls, but Starsky was distracted from looking at any of it by the figure that caught his eyes. His body froze, barely breathing, his heart racing in his chest.

A young man knelt on the black carpet. His arms were bound in leather behind his back and he was completely naked. A thick collar encircled his neck. His dark hair was damp with sweat and there were welts all over his body, some still damp with blood. He was terribly still, but alive.

Holbeck didn’t even seem to notice the blood, stepping inside the room to pet and stroke the man’s shoulders gently as if he were some sort of pet. Then Holbeck’s pewter eyes seemed to dare Starsky to say something, to react in any way.

“Interesting decoration,” Starsky drawled, doing his best to appear bored, though he was anything but. He was glad that Hutch was not here; it would have taken all that his partner had not to strangle Holbeck, as Starsky so wanted to do. He’d given him the tour, but the main focus was to show him this—that he had this young man in his complete control. He wondered whether the kid had any idea of what this freak was like before he got involved with him. It got him to thinking about Matt. The kid could easily end up in a room just like this and the idea disgusted Starsky.

“Does your Mr. Hendrickson have similar décor?” the pervert asked with a leering grin as he continued to stroke his boy toy.

Calling up every ounce of his inner fortitude, Starsky continued to play the game. “Mr. Hendrickson is interested in a wide variety of decor. But he wouldn’t appreciate my discussing that with you. You’d do better to ask him yourself.”

“Mr. Holbeck,” Domingo interrupted from behind Starsky. The bodyguard had stepped away when they’d approached the master bedroom, no doubt having been given some sort of silent signal from his boss to give them some privacy.

Did he actually think I’d go in there with him?

“What is it?” Holbeck’s voice was icy, clearly unhappy with the interruption.

“There’s a small problem, sir. We need a moment.”

The boss exited his bedroom, directing Starsky to remain where he was as he followed Domingo down the hall. When they had gone off out of sight, Starsky took a quick look around, trying to detect cameras or prying eyes. The fact that he didn’t see any didn’t mean there weren’t any. Still, he took the chance, leaning into the bedroom to whisper “Are you all right?”

The young boy ignored him completely, something about his demeanor leading Starsky to believe he was strung out. He wanted to do something to help, but what could he do?

Nail this fucker, that’s what I need to do.

Taking another quick look around, Starsky tiptoed down the hall in the direction the two men had taken off in. As he got closer to the point where two hallways intersected, he heard hushed voices.

Starsky got down low before peering around the corner wall. He was able to make out Domingo and Holbeck down the far end of the corridor, two other more burly men beside them. And between them, knelt another one of Holbeck’s conquests, completely bound in leather and chains.

Starsky was unable to hear what was being discussed, but the conversation looked to be heated. And then, one of the bigger men took a step to the side and Starsky caught a brief glimpse of the face of the kneeling man.

Christ, is that Shepherd?

He thought back to the pictures he’d seen in the files, but it was hard to tell from this distance.

He squinted, trying to see better, but then a ruckus started. The imprisoned man was not docile like the one in the bedroom. He started to put up a fight and was quickly struck by one of the taller men. Then a leather hood was snugged over his head, and he was dragged roughly into a room at the far end of the hall.

Starsky ducked back, making it back to the master bedroom before Holbeck and Domingo returned. “I’m sorry, David, but it looks like I’ll have to cut short our tour. Business matters need my attention.” Holbeck looked rattled, something obviously upsetting the balance of his little world.

“That’s too bad.”

Starsky followed as Holbeck turned around on his heel and moved quickly down the halls back to his office. Once there, the man seemed to have gotten himself back under control. “Before you leave, I wanted to tell you that I checked out your friend, Mr. Hendrickson,” Holbeck told him, as the man settled himself into his upholstered chair behind a too-large desk, obviously a method of overcompensating for his lack in height. “He has a number of specialty boutiques in Los Angeles, Houston, Austin, and Dallas. Expensive merchandise only.”

“Hendrickson wants to bring in some of your Kinetic Leatherwear line to Houston and send his top of the line stuff here. He thought since this is your town he should contact you.”

Knowing that Holbeck was using the leather goods to export his drugs, Starsky hoped Holbeck would consider this a useful contact to make to expand into Texas.

“I’ve heard his goods are fairly exotic, isn’t that right, Mr. Stavros?”

Starsky gave him a smile, using all his charm. “You could say that.”

“Perhaps I should meet with Mr. Hendrickson.”

Starsky’s smile widened. “That could be arranged.”

“Good. Then we’ll speak again tomorrow. Domingo will show you out.”

“I can find my own way,” Starsky countered, glaring at the man who was scowling back at him. Heart diving into his stomach, Starsky forced himself toward the desk. “I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow,” he stated with as much sauce as he could muster, forcing himself to reach over and stroke Holbeck’s arm.

“I’ll look forward to it myself.”

* * *

Hutch had been surprised when Starsky sounded so flustered during his check-in call. What surprised him even more had been Starsky’s use of their code words that meant they needed to meet… NOW.

Donning his outlandish attire—Starsky was right in assessing him as a sad Elton John wannabe—Hutch made his way to the bus station where they met and talked in a bathroom stall while feigning sex for any prying eyes that might have been peeking under the potty door.

Back now in his hotel room, Hutch once again found himself pacing around the small expanse. If Starsky was right and that was Shepherd he saw tonight, then that would confirm Holbeck had had a hand in what had happened to the two cops. But they still didn’t have enough to go on. Hell, Shepherd could have been into that kinky shit and there voluntarily.

But what if he wasn’t?

The only good news in all of this was that Hutch would finally be able to back Starsky up. The way had been paved for Hendrickson to make his appearance and none too soon. Hutch nearly lost it when he found out that scumbag Holbeck had tried to lure Starsky into his bedroom. He didn’t want his partner alone with those people one more minute.

Telling himself he had to try and get some sleep so that he’d be well rested for tomorrow, Hutch finally climbed into the bed, but only after wearing a hole in the carpet with his pacing. He lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes, his mind focused on his partner. But still, sleep wouldn’t come.

An hour later Hutch found himself caught between sleep and consciousness, his finger stroking his cock through his boxers. Aroused, it stretched out along his thigh, slowly oozing drops that soaked the cotton and dampened his fingertips.

His mind was caught in the memory of Starsky’s hands stroking him, their legs brushing together, his partner’s hair against his neck, his deep breath dampening Hutch’s skin….

Without warning, Hutch’s body tensed then jerked hard as a moan tore from deep within his throat. His cock erupted in his grasp and he orgasmed with his partner’s name upon his lips, tears leaking from beneath his closed eyelids.

He gasped for air, angry with himself, sick that he was using Starsky this way. He wiped his hand on his thigh and unsteadily threw his legs over the side of the bed. He stumbled into the shower, furious with himself and sick at heart.

He didn’t move when the water turned cold, letting it punish his betraying body until his shivers forced him out. But it couldn’t wash the sickness from his soul.

* * *

The work at the photography studio wasn’t difficult and at least it kept Starsky busy all day so that he didn’t have to think too much about their impending meeting with Holbeck that evening. Donet used him as an assistant on their shoots and, whatever else the effeminate studio manager was, he knew his job. He made some of those Twiggy-like models look beautiful, a feat Starsky would have thought impossible.

As he was getting ready to leave the studio for the day, he got an unexpected visit from Domingo. The sour bodyguard thrust a package in his hands with what was meant to be an intimidating warning. “Mr. Holbeck expects to see you in his generous gifts this evening.”

Taking a quick look inside, Starsky shrugged. “I got my own clothes.” Starsky took a good deal of pleasure in pissing Domingo off.

“Is that what you want me to tell him?” The lackey looked miffed.

“You can tell him whatever you want,” Starsky said snidely. “Of course, you’ll look pretty stupid if I do show up wearing this.”

With that, Starsky took the package and left the studio, leaving Domingo to simmer in his obviously steamed juices.

* * *

Time to dress.

Completely naked, Starsky looked down at the array of “clothing” spread across his bed, most of which had come out of the package Holbeck sent for him. Trying to figure out the pervert’s motivations, the best Starsky could figure-other than the obvious, which was Holbeck had the hots for him—was that the man was trying to assert his control. Holbeck was looking to gain the upper hand before he even met Hendrickson and what better way to do that than have Hendrickson’s man dressed to Holbeck’s particular tastes. Starsky was being used as some sort of kinky leather pawn and he didn’t much like it, but he knew he had to go along. No sense raising Holbeck’s hackles just when he and Hutch were going to get their feet fully within the leather-king’s doors.

With a resigned sigh and a few stray thoughts about how a good Jewish boy from Brooklyn ended up in a situation like this, he picked up the first article of his evening attire.

The weight of the steel ring cupped in his palm was negligible; more noticeable was the cold that seemed to radiate from the innocuous object. The chrome finish added a touch of class, rescuing it from the realm of the completely utilitarian. Perfectly smooth, the glittering ring looked like something you’d find in an auto customizing shop or perhaps an upscale home-fixtures store. Starsky rubbed the cockring against his thigh, briefly warming it, before sliding it over the head of his penis.

Starsky carefully pushed it down to the end of his shaft and turned to the full-length mirror. Legs spread comfortably wide, he used his left hand to gather up his scrotum and his right to steady the cockring. Gently, so as not to accidentally snag any hairs, he first pulled his scrotum through then, one at a time, gently eased his balls into place as well. The fit was… snug. But after all, it was supposed to be, wasn’t it?

After so much attention, Starsky’s cock was awake and stirring. But that was to be expected. He supposed any guy’s dick—gay, straight, or in between—would stand up and take notice, especially when you started handling your balls like Wilt Chamberlain during the playoffs.

Next came the leather pouch meant to serve as underwear. Starsky handled his balls yet again, adjusting the fit of his cockring before centering the scrap of black leather over his definitely interested penis. His erection pushed against the soft constraint, blindly seeking freedom, but settling for a surrogate caress as his body’s heat molded the flexible leather directly to his straining shaft. If the garment were any smaller, his balls would hang from either side and his cock would poke from the top. As it was, the pouch looked obscenely like a leather condom, outlining his prick’s every curve. He snapped shut the thin strap of leather that served as a waistband and then, with some difficulty, brought the last strap up between his ass cheeks. By feel alone, Starsky passed the strap over the waistband. A sharp click marked the sound of the last snap closing.

Jeezus.

Starsky dared a peek in the mirror, gaping at what he saw there. He couldn’t help but preen a bit—after all, he did justice to this kinky outfit—but still, he was uncomfortable. It was one thing to play around with stuff like this in the privacy of his own bedroom. It was another to know he was going to head out in public trussed up like a leather birthday gift for any number of debauched eyes to feast upon.

Thanks. for the damn outfit, Holbeck, you scumbag.

He picked up the black leather vest. Thin and soft, the riveted buttons gleamed silvery, made brighter by contrast with the jet-colored leather. Heaving a deep sigh, he threaded his arms into the armholes and buttoned the vest, the garment adhering to him like a second skin. Tufts of hair spilled out at his throat and armpits, accentuating the dark line of hair than ran from his navel to his groin. His reflection in the mirror was at once sexy and silly: all women looked good half-dressed; men, Starsky thought, always looked interrupted, caught in the act of changing from their daytime personas to night.

The chaps were the easiest part of the costume, and he tied the cross ties easily. He shook his head in the mirror; they only accentuated both his cock encased in the black leather and his bare ass. He sighed; he’d have to try and keep in character tonight. It wouldn’t do for him to deck somebody who groped his ass, considering how it was displayed.

The only items of clothing for tonight’s little party not supplied by Holbeck were Starsky’s jacket and boots. The jacket was a leftover from a stint of motocross after high school graduation, but before he entered the police academy. The use-worn jacket had saved him from several bad cases of road rash. He hadn’t worn the thing in years because it didn’t fit today nearly as well as it had at twenty. But the form-fitting tightness was a bonus in this case-it would give the locals a thrill and serve as a last hurrah for a coat he’d been too sentimental to donate to AmVets. The boots, on the other hand, were the ones he had bought when they’d gone shopping with Sugar.

Somehow that shopping spree with Hutch and Sugar felt light years away from where he was now. Thinking of Hutch, he wondered what his partner was going to say about this get-up. Since he would arrive completely in Ken Hendrickson mode, there probably wasn’t going to be much he could say. Hutch was a pro. He’d play along.

Starsky just hoped he’d be able to keep up his own end.

Taking one last glance in the mirror, he thought acerbically, My end actually looks to be holding up quite nicely.

* * *

As Hutch entered Club Kinetic for the first time, he was a little overwhelmed. Starsky’s descriptions had prepared him somewhat, but still, the place was quite a sight to behold. But he was completely in character now: Kenneth Hendrickson, owner of a number of specialty boutiques in Texas and one in Bay City, looking to expand his line, and export some of the racier pieces from Kinetic Leatherwear to his stores. Keeping his cool, Hutch continued to make his way through the throng of male bodies, many of whom stopped to leer at him appreciatively. Thankfully, the aura he was giving off must have been the exact air of deadly menace he was going for since there was much looking in his direction but definitely no touching.

Thursday was apparently orgy night at Club Kinetic, leaving Hutch to only wonder what Friday would be like. The interior of the room was dim, darker than the bar itself, which could be seen through the double doors at the right of the entrance. There were men, boys actually, go-go dancing on raised platforms, wearing outrageous costumes, though there was more flesh showing than there was covered.

Pillows were scattered on the floor and the couches and tables were pushed to the side. While there were many men there already, casually touching one another or hanging on to each other, most of the people still had their clothes on.

Ah, the night is young.

Hutch had just begun to sip the drink he ordered at the bar when a hulking lug who had to be Domingo if Starsky’s description was accurate, approached him.

“Mr. Hendrickson?”

“Who wants to know?” Hutch asked suspiciously, taking a slow sip from his glass as he assessed the bodyguard with a long, thoughtful gaze.

“Mr. Holbeck would like to meet with you in his office.”

Hutch did not acknowledge the request, instead turning his eyes from Domingo to look about the place again as he took another sip of his drink. The lunkhead obviously didn’t appreciate being kept waiting, his huffing and shuffling starting to grate on Hutch’s nerves.

“Do you have some sort of itch in a bad place?” Hutch asked him sourly.

Domingo looked primed to respond, but apparently thought better of it. Whatever instruction he had been given by Holbeck, it was clear he wasn’t supposed to piss off their prospective new business partner. After taking his sweet time finishing his drink, Hutch paid his bar tab and finally rose. With a nod, he indicated that Domingo could lead the way.

And now the fun begins.

* * *

“You wore the clothes I left for you. Thank you.”

The feral grin Holbeck leveled at him made Starsky very uncomfortable, but he took it in stride. They were alone in Holbeck’s office, but there were all sorts of thugs lurking about just outside the glass doors, no doubt more of Holbeck’s bodyguard staff. Domingo had been dispatched to wait for Hutch—or rather Hendrickson. Starsky was anxious for his partner’s arrival, especially since Holbeck was moving in closer, reaching a hand around toward his exposed rear.

“I don’t think Mr. Hendrickson would like that,” he cautioned, side-stepping. “I’m not even sure he’ll be happy about the clothes.”

The other man raised his eyebrow, and his pewter eyes were hard, with a warning light in them. This was a man that didn’t like to be thwarted.

“Certainly he’ll have no problem accepting a gift? A small sample of my leather wares. And I must say, you wear them well, David.”

“I’m glad you like,” he answered with a flirtatious grin even when what he really wanted to do was spit on the weasel.

“I’m a very powerful man,” Holbeck informed immodestly, again stepping closer, pressing his groin into Starsky’s hip this time.

The bastard was hard as a hammer.

“I can see you are,” Starsky purred, forcing himself to wiggle slowly against the bulge. “But I’m not a free agent.”

“We’ll just have to see about that.”

The hell we will.

Their discourse was interrupted by a rap on the door. Holbeck stepped away from Starsky, moving behind his desk before calling, “Come in.”

Here comes the Cavalry… the blond Cavalry.

The doors opened at the other end of the room, and Starsky’s head turned, eyes searching. Domingo entered, followed closely behind by Ken Hendrickson himself.

The man that entered was tall, made even taller by the leather Stetson that was quickly swept off his head. The bright, shiny strands beneath couldn’t belong to anyone else but his partner, and a quick sense of anticipation and relief swept through him. The problem was that wasn’t all that swept through Starsky.

The crowd outside the office had parted like some mythical sea in order to grant “Hendrickson” free passage. Inside, the room tensed, and electricity seemed to arc out to every square foot, emanating from the man who seemed to own the entire place without trying.

Hutch drew nearer and Starsky could see the grim expression on his face, the dominant set to his wide shoulders. The leather Stetson and creamy pale three-piece leather suit was a sharp contrast to the sea of ubiquitous black. Starsky felt like a clone, an aging version of the go-go boys gyrating on the tables downstairs, compared to the elegance-masterly, even-radiated by his partner. Starsky’s leather encased cock took full notice as well, making the outfit he was wearing all the more snug and uncomfortable.

Get it together, David.

Hutch made his way towards him, their eyes meeting across the room. Starsky shifted uncomfortably; he’d never felt more like he was the center of his partner’s attention. There was a look deep in Hutch’s crystal eyes that spoke of desire, of ownership. If it was an act—which, of course it had to be—it was a damned good one. In comparison, Starsky felt like a kid in his first high school play, fearful he’d bungle his lines or drop his props at any moment.

It was alarming, how unsettled he felt under his partner’s gaze. He shivered, every nerve ending sending waves down to his already too-aroused cock. Reminding himself that it was actually in-character to be deferential to this man, he shifted the sheath in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner, but he was sure that Holbeck had caught it, nonetheless. The pig’s eyes always seemed to be watching him in one manner or another.

And then Hutch was in front of him, one hand resting on Starsky’s waist in a possessive manner that couldn’t be interpreted any other way. He shivered beneath it, making his partner smile in greeting, as Hutch bent slightly and pressed a swift, dry kiss to his lips.

Starsky nearly swallowed his tongue. He thought sure he’d climb out of his leather skin. His cock was swollen for all to see. He had to move, but Hutch’s hand was heavy on his hip and kept him pinned in place. Then Hendrickson—or was it Hutch?—leaned into him, pressing their groins tight against each other.

“Where did you get the outfit, David?”

Starsky had to locate some saliva before he could finally answer. “Uh… Mr. Holbeck… a gift.”

Hutch turned with the icy resolve of a shark as he glared at Holbeck. “Do you usually take such liberties with other people’s property, Mr. Holbeck?”

All his years being a detective had honed Starsky’s observational skills. Despite his front of calm bravado, Holbeck was squirming, clearly cowed by Hutch’s masterful demeanor. The guy was surely not used to being topped on his own turf. Still, to his credit, he kept his composure and answered simply, “What better way for you to sample our product?” And then, with a slow lick of his dry lips, he added, “You can’t argue the fact that he looks good.”

Domingo nodded, eagerly backing up his boss, moving beside Starsky, his angled hand moving toward his exposed ass with clear intent. Starsky would have gladly torn Domingo’s hand off and fed it to him, but it turned out he didn’t have to. Like an eagle swooping down on choice prey, Hutch intercepted Domingo’s one good hand and bent it back sharply.

“You know what to do,” Hutch hissed softly, “or I can break your wrist. Your choice. But your other hand doesn’t look like it’s working too good either.” Slowly, he forced the big man to kneel, his face coming into direct proximity of Hutch’s leather-clad groin.

“I’d make you suck that hog leg,” Hutch drawled, using his best shitkicker’s accent and giving a little roll of his hips, bringing his leather covered cock within a hair’s breadth of the kneeling man’s lips, “but you haven’t earned it.” With that he pushed Domingo back, knocking him off-balance and onto his side. The bodyguard gave the impression that he might come up fighting, but a quelling look and the Hutchinson finger put Domingo in his place. Hutch’s final insult was turning his back on Domingo, telling him that he was someone beneath his notice.

“That will be all for now, Domi,” Holbeck said, sending his inept man off with a wave of his hand. Once Domingo had skulked from the room, Holbeck sat down in his overlarge chair. “David told me you were impressive, Mr. Hendrickson. I can see he was right. Won’t you sit down?”

Hutch did indeed take a seat in front of the desk, snapping his fingers to indicate that he wanted Stavros to stand directly beside him. “Sorry about your man,” Henrickson said, sounding not the least bit remorseful.

“I found him driving a truck, gentlemen. What can you expect?” Holbeck said by way of an apology. “Perhaps it would be best if we started over. Welcome to Club Kinetic.”

“Glad to be here. Stavros has spoken highly of you… though maybe a little too highly.”

“I’m a simple businessman.” Holbeck stood, moving around his desk, leaning on the edge of it. “So what do you think of my place, Mr. Hendrickson?”

“It’s a little much for a country boy like me, Mr. Holbeck,” Hutch drawled softly, clasping his hat in both hands. His voice was like fine whiskey, soft and yet harsh. “You throw a mean party, though.”

Holbeck smiled. “I like to have young, energetic people around me. I have very specific tastes, though.”

“Leather being one we share,” Hutch countered smoothly, his hand brushing over the fine leather stretched across his thigh. “I have a leather goods business; I’d like to become one of Kinetic Leatherwear’s vendors.”

“That could be arranged,” Holbeck nodded, his gaze narrowing. “But I suspect that’s not all that you came here for.”

“Not sure I’m following you?”

Holbeck smiled, and it made Starsky nauseous. The man’s face just wasn’t put together right somehow. He wondered about the plastic surgery that the man must have gone for. “It just seems to me that leather is only one of the tastes we share.”

Hedging, Hutch nodded. “That’s a possibility. I’m willing to talk other business.”

“Pleasure always before business,” Holbeck corrected, pushing a button on the side of his desk. In the next moment, the door opened and several of his big, burly bruisers entered, taking up station along the glass window, their presence clearly meant to intimidate.

Not even twitching, Hutch leaned back cooly in his chair, meeting Holbeck’s gaze. “What did you have in mind?”

“Business associates are a dime a dozen, even in leather goods. If I’m going to establish a partnership with someone, I expect them to have more in common with me than a shared interest in merchandise. I like to surround myself with … shall we say, like-minded individuals? It’s the only I do business.”

Starsky tried not to show it, but his danger button was going off full blast inside him. Something was telling him it was time to cut their losses and go, because this business meeting wasn’t going nearly as smoothly as he’d hoped it would. But Hutch remained unruffled, rising from his seat and standing tall.

“Well then, the only way to find out what we have in common is to get to know each other better, now isn’t that so, Mr. Holbeck?”

“Exactly what I had in mind.” Moving toward the door, Holbeck motioned for them to follow him. “I have a more private party going on in my mansion and I’d like very much for you both to join me.”

“C’mon, Stavros.” What a snap of his fingers, Hutch called Starsky to heel, like some dog. Searching his partner’s face for some silent sign of what their next move was going to be, all Starsky found there was the stony visage of Ken Hendrickson.

Jeezus, Hutch. I hope you know what you’re doing.

For a moment, Starsky’s first, most natural inclination was to rebel. But when Hutch followed after Holbeck, not looking back, leaving Starsky adrift amidst the menacing looking throng of Holbeck’s guards, Starsky ordered his rooted feet to move. He actually scurried to catch up with Hutch and Holbeck, hating that he looked like some fairy scampering to the side of his “big daddy.” Sadly, in this arena, that was exactly what he was.

* * *

The stench of drugs, leather, booze, and sex permeated the loud, music-filled room. It was a large living room of sorts, filled with couches and thick shag rugs and enough S&M equipment to start a kink museum. Hutch had to basically shut down inside, using skills hones after years on the street to help him get through the day when the days were filled with rapes, murders, and other assorted heinous activities. He’d thrown himself fully into the character of Hendrickson, which meant that he wasn’t allowed to be surprised or bothered by the goings-on.

He could feel Starsky’s discomfort emanating off the man pressed on the couch close beside him, but his partner was doing a great job keeping it under control. How Starsky could even function trussed up in that debauched leather ensemble was beyond Hutch. It had to be uncomfortable and humiliating as hell.

But he also looked so fucking hot that Hutch had already gotten two hard-ons from just looking at him this evening. He felt guilty as hell for that, trying to convince himself that he was just staying in character, going with the flow. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

“Another drink?” Holbeck asked from his position on Hutch’s left. There were several other slimy business looking men beside him, all having been introduced as other ‘guests’ of Mr. Holbeck. He looked to be enjoying showing off his stable of perversion for his associates.

“I’m good,” Hutch deferred, being careful to only drink enough to keep suspicion at bay. Drugs flowed freely as well, but Hutch had no intention of taking part in that. In all their storied careers, there was no undercover op where they’d had to take drugs to cement their covers; he hoped they never had to cross that line. But Hutch knew he would snort enough coke to reduce Bolivia’s national debt if by such he could preserve his partner’s life. Thankfully, Holbeck looked to have accepted his tersely issued refusal when he had made it clear earlier that he wasn’t ready to trust his new acquaintance as yet either, preferring only to partake with people he knew well.

The sex show appeared to be far more important to Holbeck than the drugs anyway. He’d had his rough leather men parade out, body after body, from his stable of ‘slaves,’ all brought there for the express purpose of being flogged, fucked, fellated, or otherwise humiliated in increasingly perverse ways.

Observing had been disgusting enough, but the worst part of it all was that Hendrickson was expected to partake in the commentary after each ‘performance.’ Holbeck wanted feedback from his new associates, all of whom seemed eager to give it. Hutch relied upon his years as a cop to provide him with enough hard-core lingo to hold up -his end of the discourse.

“And how are you fairing, David?” Holbeck asked Starsky. “I take it it’s not often your boss allows you to attend these kinds of parties?”

“I go where he tells me to go,” Starsky replied succinctly, his tone tough and disimpassioned despite the fine tremors Hutch had felt coming from him since they’d arrived.

Holbeck’s grin was pure depravity, the way he was looking at Starsky threatening to undo all of Hutch’s well-fought for composure. “What a good boy you are. I like good boys.”

Hutch’s arm went around his partner’s shoulder, tugging him closer against his side. He didn’t need to play-act his butch reaction. “Then find one of your own,” he warned fiercely.

“I like you, Hendrickson,” Holbeck sneered. Raising his voice to speak above the loud screams of the latest leather-bound subject who was getting roughly used by three bigger men, Holbeck continued, “But I can’t be too careful. I’m not looking for any more unfortunate incidents.”

Intuition peaked, Hutch asked casually, “Someone making problems for you?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

By killing a cop, maybe?

“Well, that’s good to know because I sure as hell don’t need to be doing business with someone who can’t keep his house in order.” The other guests of Holbeck were nodding their heads, apparently agreeing with Hutch and making no bones about the admiring glances they threw his way.

Hutch was fully aware of the button he had been pushing in Holbeck all evening. It was intentional. The big leather dog did not like being showed up on his own turf, but Ken Hendrickson had come in and upset his little fiefdom, doing everything from besting his bodyguard to refusing to be cowed into anything.

“Maybe you need to see for yourself just how neatly I keep order in my house.” It wasn’t an invitation. No, the words were spoken more ominously than that. Holbeck had something to prove, and he was ready to show some of his cards in order to do just that.

Hutch wasn’t certain whether he should be satisfied with having goaded Holbeck to a place where he might possibly reveal something vital to their case … or worried about what he might have just gotten them into.

In reality, he felt a little bit of both.

“How far are we going to take this?” Starsky whispered to his partner as they followed Holbeck down a long corridor. He was relieved as hell to get out of the House of S&M Horrors they had just been trapped in for the last two hours, but he wasn’t at all sure that what was next on the menu was going to be any more appetizing.

He’d been quick enough to pick up on what Hutch was doing and felt his partner was doing a masterful job. While Hendrickson hadn’t exactly earned Holbeck’s trust, what he had done was push the man into a position of insecurity. Guys like that always had to prove they were on top. It might well prove easier to push Holbeck into slipping up when he was busy playing whose-dick-is- bigger games with Hutch than it would have been to gain his trust as an associate.

But none of that made Starsky’s feeling of foreboding quiet any.

The hall was full of Holbeck’s goons, many of them with weapons in plain sight. And there were plenty more throughout the mansion where those came from. If they blew their cover now, they sure as hell weren’t getting out of here. The odds were too stacked against them. But Starsky was starting to sweat, wondering what exactly they were going to have to do in order to maintain their cover and save their asses.

“Just play along,” Hutch whispered back, still maintaining his Hendrickson bad ass façade. Starsky was starting to wonder if Hutch had maybe gone too deep into his role.

Fuck, no! He’s just doing his job.

Doing his best to remain as unflappable as his partner, Starsky kept pace with the procession, only stopping when they did in front of an ornate door. It took Starsky a minute to get his bearings, but then he realized this looked to be the same room where they had shoved the guy who looked like Shepherd the last time he was here.

Shit. This can’t be good.

“Mr. Hendrickson, Mr. Stavros, I’d like to show you both my latest conquest. I think you’ll find it even more compelling than anything you saw down in the playroom.”

Dread tightened Starsky’s stomach as Holbeck opened the door. It was a large room, full of paintings and antiques, but Starsky noticed none of them, his eyes instead fixing upon the large bed in the center. It was made up with black leather sheets with long chains coming down from the ceiling. Fastened upon the bed, held by those very chains, was the nude body of a man, his head covered with a leather hood, his cock brutally bound in what looked like a leather tourniquet.

And something long and large and dark was shoved up his splayed asshole.

Christ, I’m gonna puke.

Struggling to hold his gorge, Starsky leaned closer to Hutch, grateful that his partner was the one who would be expected to speak for them.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Hendrickson asked, as if he’d just been shown a rerun of Gilligan’s Island. “No offense, but he’s only average. Hell, he’s nowhere near as attractive as Stavros.”

“That point, I’ll concede,” Holbeck responded, looking at Starsky in a way that made him damned pissed Hutch had brought him into this conversation. “But his value isn’t in his looks. It’s in what he represents.”

“Looks like he represents another two-bit slave that you’ve fucked raw,” Hutch shot back, so totally cool Starsky expected glaciers to start forming on his extremities. “And this is different from your stable of meat downstairs, how exactly? Because if there’s not a point here, I don’t see why you’re wasting my time. Maybe I had you figured all wrong. Maybe there’s nothing to you but an over-the-hill dungeon master making a desperate bid to stay in the game.”

Hutch had finally managed to rattle Holbeck to the point of eruption, the cool, reptilian manner cracking as his entire face went red with rage. “You fucking cocksure hillbilly, just who the hell do you think you’re dealing with?”

“I thought I was dealing with someone at my level, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Oh, really?” Holbeck stormed to the bed and ripped the hood off his victim. The guy was bruised and battered, and he had a ball gag stuffed in his mouth, but there was no doubt in Starsky’s mind that they were looking at Jack Shepherd.

Fuck, no.

“Do you know what this is?” Holbeck shouted, enraged. Before Hutch could respond, he answered his own question. “This is one of San Francisco P.D.’s finest. Or at least he was. He belongs to me now.”

Starsky’s head was reeling, sweat breaking out all over his body, making the leather garments stick to him even more uncomfortably. But Hutch remained cool as a cucumber. “So, you’re fucking a cop? Is that a big deal in these parts?”

“What you’re seeing here,” Holbeck hissed, “is what happens to people who fuck with me! This bastard thought he could play me, but he found out he was wrong.”

Holbeck went to the end of the bed and yanked the hard leather dildo from Shepherd’s ass. Then he reached into a case of items on the floor at the foot of the bed and pulled out something even larger and more painful looking. He shoved the knobby butt-plug hard into the cop’s ass, eliciting a muffled, baleful moan from his victim.

Starsky freaked. He couldn’t stand still for this-not for this.

“You’re fucking crazy!” he screamed, his fingers curling into fists. The line of guards outside the open door placed their hands on their pieces, making Starsky think twice about ripping Holbeck’s head off. Instead, hanging onto his cover by bare threads, he yelled wildly. “This is a fucking cop. How the hell could you get us involved in this? We’re all going to go down.” Looking at Hutch, he beseeched, “We need to just cut our losses and get the hell out of here.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Holbeck stated coolly as he left the bed and stalked toward them. “Especially not you, David.”

Reaching out, Hutch snagged Starsky by the hair and yanked him back, pressing his back to his chest before Holbeck could lay a hand on him. “Keep your hands off,” he warned.

“Now what kind of Southern hospitality is that?” Holbeck asked wickedly. “If you want something from me, then you’re going to have to give something in return.”

Starsky attempted to pull out of Hutch’s grasp, ready to rip Holbeck’s sick leering face right off his fucking body, but his partner arms came around him, pinning him in place with a force that was not going to let go.

With a cool, menacing calm that made Holbeck look like a raving lunatic in comparison, Hendrickson responded, “I’m a businessman. More than willing to give as good as I get. But you don’t get to name the price. Some things belong to me, just like that poor bastard over there belongs to you. You want to talk money, trade, goods, that’s fine. But you don’t touch Stavros.” The last was said with such malicious intent that the tone even shook Starsky to the core.

Once again, Holbeck looked flustered and pissed at Hendrickson’s far superior comportment. While he surely had the advantage in manpower on his side, he certainly wouldn’t want to come off looking like he had to kill them because Hendrickson was better than him. There were too many of his men around gawking at the standoff that Holbeck was so obviously losing.

Working to regain his composure, the toad-faced man took several deep breaths. When he spoke again, he was collected, back in charge of himself. “Do you want to know how I found out he was a cop?”

“Should I care?”

“Maybe you should. You see, he wasn’t alone. He-had a partner.” Holbeck’s eyes clearly lit upon Starsky, whom Hutch still had firm hold of. “But he couldn’t seem to bring himself to fuck that partner.” Snickering, Holbeck threw a quick glance back at Shepherd. “Cops. They like to play dress up, but they have no idea that it’s not only the clothes that make the man.”

Starsky was struggling to wrap his mind around what Holbeck was saying, trying to piece together what might have happened to both Tinscher and Shepherd, when Hutch shoved him hard to the side, nearly sending him toppling to the floor. As Starsky righted himself, he saw his partner go toe to toe with Holbeck, Hutch towering over the little man in a way that made him look like the toad that he was.

“Are you accusing me of being a cop, little man?”

“Did I say that?” Holbeck’s tone was all false charm.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, you demented little rodent. But fine. We’re in your house. We’ll play your game. And you can get your shrunken little rocks off by watching something you’ll never have. And when it’s done, you’re going to pay for it through the teeth when we’re negotiate pricing.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

* * *

“Me n’ thee time, partner,” Hutch whispered into his ear.

Starsky nodded, trying to convey with his eyes that he understood … that he was okay with this. At least they Hutch had managed to get the festivities moved out of that awful bedroom. Starsky couldn’t bear to look at Shepherd another minute.

That’s going to be me if we don’t pull this off.

Or worse. We could both end up like Tinscher.

The room they were in now was a smaller version of the hellhole where they had spent the early part of the evening. But this room wasn’t filled with people. They were the only main attraction in this forum.

Not that Holbeck and his goons weren’t right outside, looking in through the windows.

Starsky shook his head, having to get that thought out of his mind. They had to make this work and, for that to happen, he could focus only on Hutch. As long as he was with Hutch, everything would be okay.

There was no way of telling if the room was bugged for Holbeck’s further viewing pleasure, but a man who deals in heavy narcotics has to make sure he doesn’t leave any sort of record behind, so Starsky doubted he had hidden cameras. Nevertheless, they had to be careful what they said. He sighed, looking at his friend, trying to find the Hutch he knew behind the leather and the attitude. Hutch’s sky-blue eyes looked into his, caught and held him. Through their unspoken connection, Starsky knew that Hutch was appalled by this situation … but it wasn’t his fault. It was only Hutch’s quick thinking and his incredible ability to maintain his cover under the worst of circumstances that had kept them from getting killed already. There was no mistaking the undercurrent of Holbeck’s comments about cops. They either proved they weren’t cops in a way that Tinscher and Shepherd couldn’t do, or….

Starsky didn’t want to think about the or.

Keeping the connection of their gaze, Starsky was able to take a deep breath and relax. Then, they were in each other’s arms without a word having to be said. The touch, the very solidity of Hutch’s heart beating against his own, calmed him better than a thousand words ever could. This he could believe in; this he could trust

Starsky hugged hard for a moment, gathering his courage, his strength, for what was undoubtedly going to be the most difficult undercover operation of their careers. If they could come out on the other side, they would have not only saved themselves but hopefully be in a position to get Shepherd out of here as well. And Tinscher’s killer has to pay. The memory of those pictures stiffened his resolve. When he finally let go, his spine was straight and he looked into Hutch’s eyes, ready for whatever happened.

Hutch nodded, the shadows clearing from his face, as Hendrickson once more took over. Cold sweat coalesced down Starsky’s back as Hutch led him toward the middle of the room.

I can’t do this! Starsky’s mind screamed. Not here. Not like this. Not as the main attraction in Holbeck’s latest kink fantasy. Though it was extremely unlikely, given his criminal profession, Starsky couldn’t shake the fear that the bastard may well be taping this.

Deep down, though, Starsky knew he would do what needed to be done. If he had to go into the club and get on that bar and take it up the ass from the goon squad itself, he would—if it kept him and Hutch from ending up like Tinscher and Shepherd. Hell, if Hutch hadn’t gone all primeval on Holbeck in the room where they were holding Shepherd, the son of a bitch might well be using Starsky as his new scum receptacle right now.

They stopped and Hutch looked around. Their eyes met again and Starsky knew his partner was weighing their options—what few there were. Hutch had to be able to feel the tension in the hand he enfolded within his own, just as Starsky could tell a lot from Hutch’s grip: it was hard and cold.

Nerves.

He felt a little better knowing that his cool partner was just as scared as he was.

There was nothing violent in the way Hutch—or was it Hendrickson?—took hold of him. The big hand curled around his waist, cinching him close. It was a possessive touch, no doubt about it. Then that same large hand crept downward. It paused at his hip, caressing the arch of bone tucked in among muscle, before skinning down the soft leather to trace the outline of his cock hidden behind the pouch.

As sensitized as his cock was with all the paraphernalia around it, Starsky tried not to press up into that caress—and failed miserably. He could have sworn he heard snide laughter from somewhere nearby, causing him to simultaneously blush furiously and tense angrily.

Hutch’s hand came up to pat his stomach gently, a gesture that somehow made everything not just more endurable, but all right. Still, it was difficult to ignore the fact that his partner was going to need to realistically maintain his undercover role as an ass-fucking hardcase, and that Starsky’s ass was going to have to be his target.

He trusted Hutch. Trusted him with his life. And now he was going to have to trust him to do what needed to be done to get them out of this freak show alive. Closing his eyes, Starsky did his best to imagine they were in some apartment with a girl, like they had been many times before. He knew what a gentle, considerate lover his partner was. He was a first-hand witness to that.

What he also knew was how hot Hutch could make him. That was knowledge he had done his best to block from his mind, at least until the night with Carla. Until then, he told himself it was the erotic tease of a threesome that got his motor so rewed. Those times with Hutch had sure as hell been some of the best sex he’d ever had in his life, and that was no lie.

They weren’t gay; they knew that-right? They just loved each other and were hip enough to have a fully rounded sex life. Starsky had been wrong to try and take them out of that comfort zone that night at Carla’s. He had thought he wanted more with Hutch.

Be careful what you wish for.

He was sure as hell going to get more now, but he was no longer sure he wanted it. Having lived this gay life, even for so short a time, had made Starsky keenly aware of everything he did not want to be. He felt pretty certain Hutch wouldn’t want a life like that either. But this was just a role, just an undercover gone too far. It wouldn’t mean anything to their normal lives.

Then, before he could move back or away, Hutch’s lips were on his.

There was no denying that this was a man kissing him; even the smoothest shave rasped an hour later. His fingers knotted into Hutch’s Jacket, needing something to hold onto. The world was swaying, tilting crazily, but here he was safe. Their lips worked frantically against one another, and it felt … like something they’d been missing for a long time; something good, something wonderful. Hutch must have agreed because his hands left Starsky’s arms to knot themselves in his hair, holding him still. He had to tilt his head to continue the kiss as Hutch moved impossibly closer, their tongues now part of it, too.

It was too damned good. Starsky felt himself forgetting where they were, who they were supposed to be. This was Hutch kissing him. His Hutch, who was hot, heavy with desire; there was a fierceness to his mouth that Starsky had never seen him use on a woman. But he wasn’t a woman and Hutch could use his full strength on him; there wasn’t a fragile bone in his body. Thinking about the kind of power that Hutch could unleash upon him both frightened and aroused Starsky.

And then Hutch’s big hands moved to his shoulders, pressing him downwards. He panicked for a moment and resisted. Pale blue eyes captured his, a flame of lust seeming to light them from within. It scalded Starsky, leaving him weak under the hands that continued to push him to his knees.

He could do this, he kept telling himself. It was Hutch; he’d been a bed with Hutch before, sharing the woman, touching Hutch as often as he could manage. He’d even used his own hands to position that long rod his partner’s, right before he impaled some girl on it.

Without knowing why, he resisted again, but Hutch’s strength was inexorable. He could only imagine what they looked like: him on his knees, dark hair, dark clothing, and above him all that blond beauty. Clumsily, he hung on to his partner’s legs, his heart pounding so hard it was faster than the beat around them. Hutch’s fingers were in his hair then, carding his curls. He made the mistake looking up.

There was unmistakable hunger in Hutch’s eyes now and Starsky fumbled for his partner’s button and zipper. The steely buzz made him tremble, but he didn’t hesitate, pushing the butter-soft leather aside. He was startled that Hutch wasn’t wearing any underwear.

There was no doubt about it; Hutch was hung. The Norse gods had been plenty generous, and Starsky seriously doubted whether he would be able to do the deed now clearly expected of him. Hutch’s cock seemed to rise up own, the dark tip wet and flaring, begging him, as Hutch’s hands encouraged his head closer. Vague murmurs emerged from his partner’s tightly pressed lips, calling him like a siren.

He’d wanted to touch Hutch so long time. The threesomes had only taken the edge off, but never sated the need. Now he could stroke and explore to his heart’s content. His first tentative lick had Hutch moaning, which encouraged him to more. Slowly, hesitantly, he lapped the long length of it, holding it tightly in his hand, his slowly jacking grip obviously adding to pleasure. Here he was, on his knees, licking and touching a guy’s cock. It was crazy. It was surreal. But it was Hutch. It felt right somehow, right deep down in places Starsky hadn’t even known existed.

He closed his mouth over the head Hutch’s cock, delighting in the groan that followed. Starsky felt Hutch’s long fingers outline his lips, caressing the place where they joined—and then Hutch’s head fell back with a soft cry.

Starsky’s own cock and balls were aching inside their confines, his juice welling on the head of his cock. He could never remember being this aroused before, this crazy thrum of lust burning through his veins.

Starsky knew what he liked himself; hell, he’d taught girls how to do it to him. But now, he had the chance to turn that experience on Hutch … Ah, god, he was losing it, losing himself to the pounding beat and the smell of sex. He grasped Hutch’s ass and used it to control the blond’s hesitant thrusts. Hutch’s thighs trembled as Starsky lengthened the stroking movements his mouth, taking in a little more of the thick rod each time. Hutch started to swear, softly, quietly, but with intensity; he was losing it, coming apart on him, and Starsky had never felt such power before.

Power.

Shit.

They’d fallen out their roles here, and he had to get them back on track. He pinched Hutch’s ass, which brought the blond’s eyes open with a jolt. They looked wildly around until they finally focused on Starsky. Starsky glared up at Hutch, fairly certain the anxiety he was feeling was in his own gaze. Thankfully, Hutch took the hint and started to thrust harder, careful not to choke him, but clearly slipping back into a dominant mind frame.

Hutch’s -fingers took powerful hold of his hair, letting him know who was in charge. Hutch held his head and pushed his cock deeper and deeper inside his mouth, fucking it now. Using it, using him.

He nearly gagged, but fought it down, closing his eyes, accepting, some part him even eager for it. He widened his throat as best he could and held on, clutching Hutch’s hips like they were a leather-bound lifesaver.

“Stavros,” Hutch cried, his cock possessing Starsky, the length it sliding across his tongue, twitching as it occasionally brushed his teeth in its progress to his throat. He breathed through his nose and endured, until he heard Hutch’s command of, “Swallow it!”

Starsky tried to push back he wouldn’t choke, but it was too late. What felt like a gallon of semen drenched his mouth and throat. He swallowed; there was little else he could do, and he refused to think of what it tasted like. He sucked still, wanting to hear more of the moans that were torn from Hutch’s chest, the mumbled words of pleasure and satisfaction.

Finished at last, he rested his head against his partner’s thigh for a moment—fighting to regain his equilibrium as well as struggling not to vomit—before he stood up.

Hutch stared at him as though he’d never seen him before, and then his eyes shifted slightly to the left. Whatever he saw brought the mask of Hendrickson crashing down, and Starsky was suddenly swung about. He was roughly shoved across the floor until his face made contact with the wall.

Starsky was hard as steel, gasping, anxious, fearful, aroused. It was all so hot, so fast, he couldn’t think, couldn’t ready himself. Hutch’s fingers found the thin leather pouch that held his cock, as well as the ring that bound him so tightly. Hot breath gusted over his neck and he felt Hutch’s teeth against his skin. He shivered; Hutch’s cock was already recovering, hardening rapidly against his ass, and it rode the strap there that concealed the entrance to his body. He lifted one leg slightly, liking the feeling of Hutch so close to him.

Hutch plucked his nipples, pulling on the achingly erect paints, eliciting the moan that he couldn’t manage to stifle. He heard Hutch chuckle as he pulled harder; his other hand managed to strip off the leather pouch, leaving Starsky to swing naked in the air. He was so rigid he felt like his cock could pound holes in the walls. It had taken Hutch a lot less time to take it off than it took Starsky to put it on, Hutch’s natural skill leaving him breathless.

Oh my god!

Starsky’s hands scrabbled against the wall for purchase as one of Hutch’s fingers gently stroked his opening, leaving something cold and wet behind. The room was full of sex equipment, so he shouldn’t have been surprised that Hutch had gotten hold of some lube. He was just thrown by the fact that he didn’t know when that had happened. Was he that far gone?

One hand remained wrapped around his cock, stroking it, pumping it, leaving him heavy and wanting. And the wild heat of Hutch’s cock, which now rode his crease, was driving him crazy. He changed his angle, canting his hips, craving more, and suddenly the tip of the thick spear was inside him.

Hutch groaned; Starsky let out a howl. They froze, both of them shocked by how easily it had happened. And then Starsky shifted back, silently asking for more, ignoring the questions, the worries, the fears, wanting Hutch now more than he’d ever wanted anything.

Two very strong arms wound around him, crushing his ribs so hard he couldn’t breathe, and then they released him. Both hands rested on his hips and slowly Hutch moved deeper inside of him. Too slowly. Starsky pushed back, expecting pain, expecting agony, but there was none. He was coming apart; he felt it happen… something snapping in his head. And then there was nothing but the need for it, the craving, the rush, the desire he had never known. Had he always been this empty? He was screaming, making all kinds of crazy noise, though he didn’t even know what he was saying. It didn’t matter. So long as Hutch stayed with him, didn’t let him go.

One hand lifted his leg a little higher, giving them both a better angle and then Hutch was all the way inside him, his balls pressed flat against the crack of Starsky’s ass. “Yes,” he almost sobbed, and then there was no more speech, only gasping breaths as Hutch fucked him, driving that piston of a cock so deeply into him that Starsky could only hold onto the wall and take it.

Hutch’s fingers were at his cockring now, working it off. Seconds turned into torturous minutes before the damned thing pulled free, stripping off more than a few hairs with it, that pain part of his pleasure.

He was lifted off his feet with the force of Hutch’s thrust, but Starsky countered by dropping his weight, willingly pinning himself, loving the feel of Hutch’s head resting on his neck. Hutch’s strength was everywhere, around him, inside him, touching him so deeply in a place nobody else could reach.

It was too good. Too good.

Thrust after thrust after thrust of Hutch’s thick, hard meat slammed into his body and still he wanted more… wanted it never to stop. He was getting tucked. Fucked by Hutch. The thought alone sent his cock into spasms.

And then he was flying, his ass spasming around Hutch’s cock, his own rod shooting like a cannon. His partner’s grunting gasp pressed to his ear as he felt an orgasmic rush of hot fluid jetting inside him, against his now-tender inner walls.

It took a moment before they started a downward slide, their knees unable to keep them standing any longer. On the way down, Hutch stayed with him, for which Starsky was grateful. Even after a second orgasm, his partner was not diminishing quickly and Starsky was grateful, loving the feel of Hutch in his ass.

They hit their knees, breathing deeply, shuddering against each other as the world spun for a time. Starsky was barely aware of anything. There was only Hutch. Tender hands squeezed him, cradled him for a few precious moments. But then the touches became rougher, Hutch pulling out of Starsky, leaving him empty and alone.

He was still on the floor when Hutch rose, dropping a handkerchief down to him as he issued the directive, “Clean yourself up.”

It was then that their surroundings came back to him and Starsky grew cold inside. He was shaking as he tried to cover himself with the flimsy clothing. Starsky’s fingers were fumbling wildly, but he finally managed to get the damned pouch back on. The strap riding his cleft was a subtle torment, reminding him of what they’d just done.

And then he heard the voices. He didn’t look up, couldn’t look up.

Holbeck was saying something to Hutch … something piggish. His partner sounded downright deadly in his response, but Starsky was too busy trying to get to his feet upon his unsteady legs. Domingo was there, leering at him. The other faces he couldn’t put names to, but they were all there now. They had all seen.

Starsky did his best to pull himself together. He didn’t want to be this shaky and vulnerable in front of them. Letting Hutch screw him before an audience like some nameless leather clone picked up with a snap of the fingers at The Crank or The Chainsaw and as easily dropped, was the price he’d had to pay to get the bad guys … to get out safely. He did his best to concentrate on that and not on the soreness in his ass or the cum seeping from him, running down his thighs and into his chaps.

“Why don’t we go to my office and discuss that business now,” Holbeck was offering.

“Fuck you and your office,” Hendrickson snapped back. “We’re out of here. And if I decide to do business with you after this, I’ll call you.” Domingo took a step forward, but Hutch cut him off before he could take another. “Don’t even think about putting your hands on me.”

“Leave them alone, Domi,” Holbeck drawled, sounding almost fuzzy to Starsky’s ears. The fucker had no doubt had himself quite an orgasm—hell, maybe even more than one—watching their show.

Was that all it was? Just a show? An act?

Of course it was, Jackass. Hutch protected our cover. It’s over now.

Yet when Hutch’s hand took firm hold of his shoulder, he couldn’t stop from shaking, couldn’t quell the aching need that still cried out within his body.

“Let’s go, Stavros.”

He dutifully followed where Hutch led, letting his partner steer him through the gaping throng and out through the crowded club. They got only as far as the pay phone on the corner, Hutch quickly calling Adamson to get him to send in the troops.

“Just fucking move fast,” Hutch said sharply, practically yelling into the phone. “Before they have a chance to move your man.”

Starsky leaned against the alley wall, shivering from the cold even though it wasn’t a particularly cool night. The slam of the receiver jolted him. And then Hutch was there, slipping his jacket around Starsky’s shoulders.

“Hey, buddy, how you doing?”

It was Hutch’s voice this time, soft, caring. Fingers slipped beneath Starsky’s chin, raising it until he was looking into the concerned, lovely eyes of his partner. Hendrickson was gone, hopefully for good. All that was left of Hutch. His Hutch.

Starsky fell forward, everything inside him giving way. His forehead hit Hutch’s shoulder as strong arms engulfed him in the warmest hug he had ever felt. He climbed into it, needing it more than he needed breath. He could feel the dampness of Hutch’s tears grazing his cheek and it was then that he became aware that his partner was trembling.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Hutch murmured into his curls even as he held him fast.

“No sorries,” Starsky muttered into the shoulder his face was still pressed to. “You saved us.” It was true. That much Starsky knew. It was just going to take some time dealing with the rest.

But it was okay now. Hutch was with him. He’d be okay.

* * *

Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson had been a cop for a lot of years. He knew protocol, even if at times he and his partner chose to bypass it. But tonight, he made sure to play by the rules, because the sooner this case was closed, the better he’d like it.

Adamson had made it to the club in a matter of minutes, bringing enough uniforms with him to scoop up most of Holbeck’s goons. They’d gotten Shepherd out of there and into an ambulance fairly quickly. The guy was pretty messed up and obviously drugged as well. But from what he was rambling, it was clear he had witnessed Holbeck murder his partner and Domingo deface the dead body with the mannequin arm. That, combined with what Hutch had from the warehouse and what the search turned up in the mansion—having probable cause to enter once it was confirmed a cop was being held hostage in there—would no doubt be enough to send Holbeck and his crew to jail for a long time.

Poor guy, Hutch had thought as he watched them wheel Shepherd past him. Having watched his partner get murdered in front of him, and then gone through the ordeal he had, Hutch wasn’t sure if the guy would ever be okay again. But they had done all they could in getting him out of there.

Right now, Hutch had to concentrate the lion’s share of his worry on his own partner.

Like the pro that he was, Starsky was hanging in, but it was clear that he wasn’t okay. Hutch had thankfully been able to get him some clothes to change into from the sporting goods store on the corner. It was only sweats and a tee shirt, but he knew Starsky would feel better about dealing with all his cop duties if he wasn’t dressed like a sleazy, used male hooker.

“Turns out Shepherd wasn’t the leak after all,” Adamson said gruffly as he lit up a cigarette in Hutch’s face.

“Who was?”

“We found some interesting entries in Holbeck’s address book in his desk drawer. One of the numbers is the direct line to the desk sergeant at our precinct. There’s some other numbers in there that might help us make a few more good collars, too.”

“You’re welcome,” Hutch stated, even though he hadn’t been thanked.

Adamson merely blew out a fresh cloud of smoke before asking, “Your partner okay?”

Hutch looked over to where Starsky was sitting on the curb, going over his statements with one of the detectives. “He’s fine,” he answered defensively even though it wasn’t the-truth.

“Doesn’t look all that fine. Looks a little green, actually.”

“It was a fucking horror show in there, what with Shepherd and all. He’s taking it hard. What do you expect?”

“I’m just wondering why Holbeck let you two walk out of there after everything you saw. He sure as hell didn’t let Tinscher and Shepherd walk out.”

“Maybe he just liked my eyes,” Hutch answered in his best ‘Fuck you’ tone. The captain was never going to get any more out of them then the party line they’d been giving all night: They were in character, undercover. They spied Shepherd while Holbeck was busy in his office. Got the hell out and called for back-up.

Adamson’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t pursue it anymore. Instead he advised, “Don’t head back to Bay City too quickly. We’ll need you guys at the station in the morning for more paperwork.”

“Yeah? Well then you better plan to set us up in the best hotel you can find tonight, because we’re not staying in anymore fleabags.”

“I don’t have the authority to—”

“Do it, Adamson. And make it a suite. Or you can clean up the rest of this mess, including the paperwork, yourself.”

* * *

An hour later, he and Starsky were sitting in the back of a black and white getting a ride to the Marriot By the Bay. Hutch looked beside him, seeing his partner’s head sagging against the seat, Starsky half dozing. Thankfully, they’d be somewhere soon where he could give his partner the tender care he needed. If he had had to go through the cop motions anymore tonight, he thought he’d go crazy. Just like Hendrickson, it was a persona, an act. Inside, the real Hutch was in misery, just trying to hang on.

He’d fucked Starsky. No, actually, that wasn’t the truth either. He’d made love to Starsky while trying to make it look like a careless fuck.

And that makes a difference?

Wiping his hands over his face, Hutch tried his best to battle down the guilt that wanted to swamp him. He had to hold it together for Starsky’s sake. His partner had been through enough. Hutch sure as hell couldn’t be the one to fall apart.

The problem was, Hutch was having a hard time getting what happened out of his mind. Yeah, he’d fucked Starsky.

And he wanted to do it again.

A rampant desire sang in his blood, worse than any addiction. It had simmered within him long before this, but tonight the lid was taken off that smoldering pot and it had boiled over in an unstoppable, rapid gush.

He closed his eyes, but that didn’t help. He was right back there again, humping, thrusting, needing so badly that he wanted to scream. He kept telling himself he did it to save them, to preserve their cover, to get them out of there. And he did do it for those reasons.

But he had enjoyed it for entirely different ones.

* * *

Starsky started peeling clothes off the moment they entered the room and made a beeline for the shower. Knowing that Hutch had to feel equally as dirty, he tried not to take long, but it was hard to leave the sanctity of the clean, hot water. His thigh-muscles ached, his lips cracked, and his ass felt sore, but there was no blood. Though it would probably be uncomfortable sitting down for a few days, it was the least of his worries.

Hutch said nothing as they switched places in the bathroom. For his part, Starsky wasn’t ready to talk about anything they’d done to cement this arrest; he turned on the television and ordered room service for them both.

Hutch looked more like himself somehow when he’d gotten out of the shower, his hair dripping water, and a towel wrapped gracelessly around his hips. Starsky had taken the terrycloth robe that hung behind the door. Hutch quickly dressed in a pair of police sweats the SFPD had sent over with them along with some other items—toothbrushes, razors, underwear, that sort of thing—to keep them going until they could get their own stuff.

When the food came, they sat at the table that was wheeled into the suite and tried to eat.

“Fancy digs,” Starsky offered, picking at his food before taking a sip of his beer. It was a pretty swanky place now that he took the time to look at it.

“Courtesy of Adamson and the SFPD.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet … at least about the courtesy part.” Starsky didn’t believe for a minute that Adamson would have agreed of his own accord to foot the bill for this. Hutch must have had something to do with it.

“Hey, we’re worth it.”

Nodding, Starsky stared down at his plate; the filet mignon looked good. He just didn’t have much appetite for it. Still, he felt kind of shaky, so he did his best to get some of it down, grateful when it didn’t make a return appearance.

The phone rang and Hutch jumped up to get it. A moment later, the blond pulled the receiver from his ear and Starsky could hear Adamson’s hacking wheeze. The guy needed to quit those cigarettes before they killed him.

When the coughing fit ceased, Hutch pressed the phone back to his ear. Starsky heard enough of the conversation to get the gist. Domingo was singing like a canary. His statements would back up Shepherd’s story and should be enough to get Holbeck on murder.

Hope they fry the bastard.

Hanging up, Hutch came back to the table. “He actually thanked us that time … in between wheezing fits.”

“How touching.”

Looking down at his uneaten food, Hutch asked, “Is there something wrong with the steak? I can call down and get you another one.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just not real hungry. I think I’ll just turn in.” He got up, his legs wobbling when he stood on them.

“Hold up.” Hutch got up too and came around the table. He took gentle hold of Starsky’s shoulders, his eyes soft and moist with care. “We need to talk.”

“Hutch, I told you before, you don’t have anything to be sorry about. You saved us. You sure as hell saved me. You saved Shepherd … the case. You got the bad guys.”

“We got the bad guys,” Hutch corrected. “But none of that is the point and we both know it.”

“Hutch, you don’t—”

“Come on.” Taking his hand, Hutch led him over to the couch to sit down, which was probably a good thing because Starsky’s tank was so close to empty he wasn’t sure he could have stood upright much longer. Once they were seated, though, all Starsky wanted to do was flee. He hadn’t had a chance to get any of this squared in his head and he sure as hell didn’t want to say or do anything to mess up his partnership with Hutch.

Like say how much I liked getting fucked by him… how much I want it again.

Waving a dismissive hand at both the thought and his partner, Starsky shook his head. “This is not a good idea. We’re both beat. Let’s just get some sleep.”

“We’re not going anywhere until things are okay between us.”

“Why would you think things weren’t okay with us?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Starsk,” Hutch said drolly. “Maybe because of what I did to you tonight for starters.”

“That was all part of the cover … the job.” Even as he said the words, Starsky’s stomach roiled. Getting himself to accept that that’s all it was would be the hardest thing about this, but he knew it had to be done.

“Is that all it was?” Hutch’s face was solemn, his tone pained. “That morning after we left Carla’s—”

“I was being an idiot then. I don’t know where my head was, but it doesn’t matter. Just like this case doesn’t matter.”

“What if… what if it matters to me?”

Starsky’s own words from that morning in the car came back to him. “Maybe it makes a difference to me.” Had Hutch meant to invoke that memory? “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that maybe it’s about time we stop not talking. Things are changing between us, Starsk. Yeah, I was all for ignoring it and hoping it would go away too, but that was a bad plan. That’s not us. We don’t hide from shit, not when it comes to each other, anyway.”

Unsteady as he was, Starsky had to get up. But he rose too fast and everything started spinning. Hutch was up in a shot, arms around him, just like in the alley by the pay phone, and Starsky let himself hold on until he could get right. Before he could stop himself, he heard his voice cracking as he asked, “Just who was that with me tonight? Was that Hendrickson fucking me—or was it you?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Hutch’s voice was so poignant and wounded that Starsky felt like a shit for needing to hear the answer. But he did need it.

“Yes.”

Starsky got his answer then, but it wasn’t the one he expected. Hutch’s hand cupped his chin and lifted it, tilting his head back as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Starsky’s gaping mouth.

There was no woman in the other room that they could use as an excuse. There was no case to pretend for, no prying eyes watching, no cover that needed to be maintained. This kiss was theirs and theirs alone and Starsky responded to it like a desert-dry man finding an oasis.

Their lips moved softly, slowly. Starsky’s hands came around Hutch’s back, palms rubbing over the curve of shoulder blades, fingertips admiring the strength in the lean back. Hutch’s palms were pressed against the sides of his face, holding him still, while his mouth was tenderly plundered with cherishing reverence. He’d never seen Hutch kiss anybody the way he was kissing him now. Like so many things between them, a wealth of thoughts and feelings were communicated without the need for words. It all felt so easy, so right.

Yet Starsky knew it would be anything but easy if they let things get out of hand this way. He eased himself back from Hutch, breaking the kiss that he never wanted to end. “Hutch, wait. We can’t do this.”

“We both want this, I can feel your need, too, Starsk.”

“Yeah, and before this case, that need was all I could think about.” Shivering now, he rubbed his hands over his robe-covered arms. “But I’ve been one of these guys now. I’ve been in their bars, I’ve seen their world. It … it disgusted me. I don’t want that life. Not for me … and I don’t want it for you.” He felt himself growing more agitated, thoughts racing through him faster than he could focus on them. Drag queens, men fucking in public, the disgusting S&M he been forced to witness at Holbeck’s, the clothes, the leering, guys like Holbeck and Domingo, the way he was looked at on the street, the way his skin crawled when he looked at himself … he couldn’t live like that, he couldn’t.

“Starsk, we’re not like that,” Hutch argued vehemently. “This world wave been in, it’s not us. It doesn’t have to be us. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

The image of Matt’s face came back to Starsky, the stuff he said to him. It was all so confusing, Starsky’s head aching and whirling as he struggled to make sense of all the conflicting thoughts. “I don’t know what to think… I don’t know what to believe.”

“You believe in us, same as always.”

Hutch’s words brought some measure of calm to his chaos. Starsky hadn’t realized how hard he had started shaking until Hutch guided him to the bed and laid him down. It felt so natural when Hutch climbed in beside him and spooned around him, Hutch’s front to his back.

Nestling into the hold, Starsky closed his eyes and tried to stop shaking. Hutch’s cock, quiet now, rested against Starsky’s sore ass, reminding him of how it had been to be connected in the deepest of ways to this extraordinary man. Tired as he was, confused as he was, he knew he would have gladly agreed to let Hutch slip inside him again if his partner asked it of him.

“Shhhhh,” Hutch whispered softly, long fingers carding through his hair. “We’re going to take this slow. We’re going to figure it all out. Me n’ thee. I promise.”

Starsky managed to nod. Hutch had always been his anchor even when his world flipped upside down. It didn’t matter that there were more questions than answers between them right now. The most important thing in the world hadn’t changed.

“I love ya, Hutch.”

“I love you, too. Always will.”

“I’m not sorry,” Starsky muttered groggily, so very tired.

“Not sorry about what?” Hutch asked softly, pressing a sweet kiss against the back of Starsky’s neck.

“About what we had to… do… tonight.”

The arms around him squeezed tighter-protective, possessive. “Neither am I. I mean, I don’t like the way it went down or what you had to go through. There was a lot to not like. But the you and me part… that was separate. That was special. Nobody’s ever going to take that from us, babe.”

Starsky turned within Hutch’s arms, needing to face him, needing to kiss him. And kiss they did… over and over… tender kisses… clean… sweet… loving, so far removed from places like Club Kinetic and the Marvin Holbeck’s of the world. Already Hutch was helping him feel pristine again, far cleaner than even the shower had. Already he was coming back to who he was, where he belonged.

His anxiety lessening, Starsky tucked his head beneath Hutch’s chin, pressing his face against the hard chest, his partner’s steady heartbeat a comforting drumbeat.

Tomorrow… we’ll figure out all this stuff tomorrow.

“I guess I am already taken,” Starsky whispered as he shut down the noise in his mind and heart and let himself fall toward oblivion.

“You bet your ass you are,” Hutch whispered warmly, the protective hands of his own personal white knight easing him into sleep.