Sabotage!

Hutch was one of those men who looked incredibly sexy all kerflummoxed. “Oh, come on. Implied promise. I never said, ‘I promise.’ Besides, I pulled over, didn’t I? It was just a joke, pal. Nothing to get all bent out of shape over.” He smiled. “And I think we established over the last couple of days how well we do when we trust each other.”

First published in 2008 in the zine Venice Place Chronicles Volume VIII.

“About damn time!” Starsky rolled to a stop behind the dented Ford and psyched himself up to rip Hutch a new one. If the fink didn’t want the best chili in Bay City, that was his problem, but driving off when he’d promised to follow, now that was a lousy stunt, and it was a partner’s sworn duty to call him on it.

Already out of his rattletrap, laughing, damn him, Hutch approached the Torino and casually propped his hip against the driver’s side front fender. “Got you,” he gloated through fading laughter.

Starsky glared at him. Hutch might be a fink at times like this, but Starsky had a weakness for tall, lean finks in worn cords and a butter-smooth leather blazer, and right now all the swear words in his vocabulary had vanished to make room for a potent reminder of how long it had been since he’d gotten his hands on a certain portion of the fink’s anatomy. They didn’t indulge all that often, and Starsky needed. He needed in a big way. Big enough to plan this special evening all around Hutch on a last minute’s notice in hopes he could score on two different levels: get himself good and laid, and cure Hutch of his recent affliction.

Veganism, f’God’s sake.

Soybean steaks and wheat germ pies.

Starsky fought his gag reflex. “Y’know, partner, how’m I s’posed to trust you when you go breaking a promise like that?”

He had Starsky there. Nothing like thinking somebody in their own department wanted them dead to reinforce their bond and shine a spotlight on how much they depended on each other. Starsky wanted to push the issue, save a little face-after all, Hutch didn’t often pull one over on him that good-but Hutch’s smile suddenly crossed the line between friendly and seductive, and Starsky’s vocal chords shrank along with his jeans.

“So, you’ll follow me to the chili joint?”

Hutch sighed. “Starsk, taking me somewhere I won’t find a damn thing to eat isn’t the way to get what you want tonight.”

Starsky tried for angelic innocence in his own smile, but Hutch’s raised eyebrows shot him down more effectively than anti-aircraft fire. “What? Who said I wanted anything?”

“Wasn’t the humidity that had you all choke-voiced in Tallman’s steam room yesterday.”

Great. All he needed was the memory of Hutch in that towel to tighten his jeans the rest of the way to downright painful. “Yeah? You sayin’ you’re not in the same boat?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’d be more inclined to soothe those urges with someone who respects my dietary choices.”

Starsky bit off a groan. He should toilet paper the gym to revenge himself on Frankie for leading a perfectly happy meat-eater astray. “Like who? Miss What’shername?”

One good roll of those baby blues could double as a palm smack across the back of Starsky’s head. “There isn’t a Miss What’shername at the moment, Starsk, you know that. Look, we could both use a night of more than just ‘acceptable,’ but there’s only so much I can do on an empty stomach.”

“Then you’re in luck, ’cause I got the owner of the joint to lay on something special just for you, buddy. You up for some vegan chili?”

Hutch stared at him, stroking his jaw. “Vegan chili? Vegan. Chili.”

“Yep. Ground soy beef, beans, tomatoes, the place’s trademark spices and seasonings. Now who’s respecting his partner’s food choices, huh?”

Hutch’s stare heated with a grin. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Lead the way. After that stair-climbing shootout this morning and the court appearance, I’m starving.”

Starsky got his first reward on arrival at the chili place. Hutch climbed out of his gourd-on-wheels and stood gaping hang-jawed at the restaurant’s tacky neon sign. Huge chili peppers blinked in the fading light of evening, book ending the name of the joint in silvery disco lettering outlined in curling neon fire: Flames Off Broadway. Hutch rubbed his eyes and stared again, his expression priceless. Starsky lost his battle with laughter, slapping his hip and busting a gut when Hutch turned a glare on him.

“Flames Off Broadway, Starsky?” He made a move toward his junk heap, and Starsky choked off the last few giggles, wondering aloud where Hutch thought he was going. “I’m radioing Memorial,” Hutch tossed back over his shoulder. “Warning them to have an exam bed waiting and every antacid they can put their hands on. If I don’t need a stomach pump.”

Starsky knew Hutch was teasing, but he feigned hurt nonetheless, because that’s how they played the game. “Aw, don’t be like that!” He hurried over and tugged on Hutch’s arm, clasping him just above the elbow where he could get a nice handful of lean muscle. “I do something all special and culinary for you, and y’act like I’m tryin’ to put you in the ground and collect your life insurance. How’s that s’posed to make a guy feel?”

Hutch looked ready to argue hotly, but his eyes settled on Starsky’s casual grip of his arm and brightened, his moist lips quirking in a give-in smile. “Okay. I’ll give this place a test drive. But if it lands me in the Johnny-Shirt Hilton, I’ll have your ass in a hot pink leather sling and make you march it into Dobey’s office.”

An idle threat if Starsky ever heard one. He grinned and steered his grumbling partner to the door festooned with a massive ristra of dried chili peppers. The interior didn’t match the gaudy exterior. Starsky figured the owner thought once he got people past the carnival barker display outside, he didn’t need to wow them with more décor. Clean and neat as a pin, the small, narrow restaurant only had room for a center row of four-seater wooden tables; chairs and mission-style booths lined each side wall hung with evenly spaced and simply framed poster-size snapshots of the American Southwest.

Starsky chose a booth by a picture of Taos, New Mexico. He caught Sim’s eye and flashed him a smile, confident in his plan. A towering, just shy of beefy man who barely fit in his jeans and suede-fringed shirt, Sim had always reminded Starsky of big Manny Birnbaum over at the Panama strip club. Sim smiled more often and had more hair than Manny, but, well, maybe that was why he smiled more often. The restaurateur eased over to their table and smacked Starsky on the shoulder.

“Starsky, good to see you, man. This your police department better half?”

Starsky nodded. “Partner and best friend in the world, Ken Hutchinson. Hutch, this is Sim Beaumont, a transplant from El Paso. He’s the king of chili, and his wife Betsy makes a Tex-Mex cornbread that’ll have you dreaming of the Lone Star state.”

Starsky saw evidence yet again that Hutch was good people. So classy and polite with the people Starsky felt worthy of meeting his solid gold treasure. That warm Hutchinson smile and flawless handshake could charm the socks off anybody. “Good to meet you, Sim, I’ve heard high praise for your work.”

“I’ve heard my fair share of lily-gilding when it comes to you, Mister. Way I see it, blessed is the cop who wouldn’t take a prize buckskin for his partner. Y’all need to see a menu?”

“Starsky told me you’d fixed up something ‘off menu’ for me, Sim. Is that right?”

Sim laughed. “Shore did, son. I hear tell you done gone meatless.”

“Meatless and dairyless,” Starsky elaborated with a grunt. Hutch eyed him and he gulped. “Uh, no, Sim, no need for that menu. I’ll have your four-alarm special with extra cheese, and my buddy here wants to try your experiment with vegan chili. And since we’ve been promised off-duty time, bring us a pitcher of your best draft.”

“Will do. Have it out here in a jiffy.”

Sim sidled off, his gait, as usual, the unhurried mosey of a cowboy at leisure. Hutch leaned across the table and whispered, “Buckskin? The horse? ‘A cop who wouldn’t take a prize buckskin for his partner.’ What did that mean?”

“Oh.” Starsky smiled. “Texanism, I think. Means I wouldn’t trade you for the world on a silver platter. Or that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Or something like that. Whichever, it all fits.”

That perked Hutch up faster than a wheat-germ soy shake with a side order of bean sprouts. Starsky lived for that shy, wish-we-were-alone smile and the gleam in those beautiful eyes. Hutch looked away after a prolonged few seconds of eye contact. “Ten-four on that and it’s mutual. So, the john’s in the back?”

Starsky jerked a thumb at the door in the back wall. “Yep. Straight on back.”

While Hutch was gone, Sim brought a large foam-capped pitcher and two frosted glasses capable of holding a gallon of beer between them. “Your partner’s a right nice fella,” Sim said, “but what got him on this anti-meat kick? He get some kinda newfangled religion?”

“Nah, nothing like that. He’s just into all that healthy living jazz, y’know? Working out, vitamins, the whole nine yards. In our line’a work we gotta stay fit, but, hey, I ain’t so bad off with my diet. So what if my four food groups are hot dogs, pizza, chili, and burritos? Way I figure, I’m gettin’ meat, dairy, grains, and veggies, so the nutrition police can’t bust me.”

Sim had a rich belly laugh that made him even more likeable. “You don’t look the worse for it. Must be doing something right.”

Starsky puffed out his chest. “Me, I got one of those low-maintenance physiques. Don’t take all those vitamin-and-diet gymnastics to keep me in tiptop shape.”

“Yeah, that’s what Betsy says. I swear, it’s a good thing you ain’t a wife-rustler. I’d be in deep shit and one lonely old cowboy.”

Starsky flushed. Betsy was a petite brunette with dark flashing eyes, and Starsky didn’t knock her appreciation, but he had no designs on the pretty Texan whose heart belonged to giant Sim. He had a vested interest in a certain Minnesota native. “No way. Betsy knows she roped the best steer in Texas. How’d the vegan chili turn out?”

Sim made a face. “Woo-ee. That’s some nasty stuff. ‘Fore I put the spices and seasonings in, I tried to feed some of the soy beef to my hound. Dog’ll eat nigh on anything, but he turned up his nose and left the room. Put a tad in the cat’s dish, and the critter all but called up the SPCA to turn me in for cruelty to animals. Why’re you puttin’ your partner through this?”

“Think of it as a drastic cure, Sim. Truth is, I think something’s been…I dunno…a little off with Hutch since he got on this kick. I did some reading on it, and I know vegans are supposedly able to replace all their protein with supplements and nuts and beans, and all, but still….”

“You think he’s gonna get a hitch in his giddy-up?”

“Yeah. And on the street, that could turn into a permanent hitch, you get me?”

“Hear you loud and clear. Why don’t you just sit him down and give him an ear-bending on all that?”

Starsky shook his head. “Nope, that doesn’t always work with Hutch. Sometimes he needs a little proactive nudge.”

“Makes sense to me. Well, one taste of that fake chili and he’ll be dipping his spoon in your bowl of the gen-u-wine article.” Sim glanced to the side. “Here he comes. I’ll get it on out here.”

Sim was true to his word. Not two minutes after Hutch reclaimed his seat, the chili master brought over two piping hot bowls on thick wooden slab plates, a thick wedge of cornbread on Starsky’s, and packages of saltine crackers arranged artfully on Hutch’s.

“Don’t know if the crackers make the cut as vegan,” Sim told Hutch. “But I know the cornbread is chockfull of eggs and butter and milk.”

“Thanks, Sim. This looks great. Smells even better.”

Starsky hid a smile. If everything went according to plan, the chili’s presentation and aroma were deceiving. Sim touched his forehead in salutary thanks and headed off to the kitchen. Hutch knocked back a hefty swallow of beer, his gaze locked on Starsky.

“What?” Starsky crumbled half of the cornbread wedge into his chili and began spooning the crumbles deeper into the thick, meaty sauce.

“This is big of you, Starsk. After all the shit you’ve been giving me about going vegan, I was starting to wonder if you could handle a partner who walks to the beat of a different dietary drum.”

“Is alliteration a side effect of veganism?”

Hutch’s eyes shot wide. Then he sputtered into his beer and spent an inordinate amount of time wiping the evidence from his chin with one of Sim’s pepper-bedecked napkins. Finally, he grinned and lifted his chili spoon, his intent obvious. Starsky smiled and clinked spoons with his partner.

“You know damn well our partnership is a lock. You could start carrying around monkey brain soufflé in a teacup on shift and I wouldn’t be signing any transfer request forms.”

Hutch nodded. “I know.”

“But I gotta admit, I got some questions. About the whole vegan thing, I mean. I get why some people don’t wanna eat meat. But, man, how can you give up some of the other finer things in life? Like ice cream. Fudge raspberry rippled ice cream? How’s a bowl of ice cream gonna hurt somebody?”

Hutch blew gently over a steaming spoonful of his chili and then sank his pretty mouth around the spoon. Starsky watched, anxious. Hutch’s eyes lit up, his mouth curling in clear appreciation. Starsky’s own mouthful of Sim’s four-alarm special suddenly tasted sour. Something was wrong. Hutch looked friggin’ infatuated with that spoonful of fake, soy-beef chili.

“This is incredible, Starsk.” Hutch dug another whopping spoonful from his bowl. “Now, what were you asking-oh, ice cream. Starsky, the thing is, ice cream is made from milk.”

“Yeah, so? What’s wrong with milk?”

“It’s not that milk’s the root of all evil, Starsky. But there are negatives. It adds calories, fat, and cholesterol and elevates blood sugar, and for many vegans, there’s a dislike for modern dairy production. Big business dairy farms with inhumane treatment of their dairy cows, machine milking, and production hormones….”

“They’re cows, Hutch. Y’know? Moo-ers and milk-shakers. Bessie on the Borden can don’t exactly look tortured within an inch of her life.”

“They’re living creatures, Starsky. And Bessie is a fictionalized animal. Agro-business propaganda.” Hutch took another bite of chili and washed it down with a sip of beer. “But that’s beside the point. The main point, I believe, is that cow’s milk is really only intended by nature to nurture infant calves. Not human beings. You wouldn’t dream of drinking a mother cat’s milk, would you? Or, for that matter, breast milk.”

Starsky halfway choked on his fiery swallow of cheesy goodness. “Jesus, Hutch, that’s nasty. And completely different.”

“Is it? Turn it around. If the roles were reversed, cows would be going around making milkshakes out of human females’ breast secretions.” Hutch smirked at him. “You still enjoying that cheese on your chili?”

Starsky slapped his spoon down. “That’s disgusting! Are you tryin’ to say eating an egg is like eating-”

“An unborn human fetus? No, no I don’t go that far with it. I’m not really trying the vegan lifestyle because of philosophical or moral concerns, Starsky. For me, it’s a question of what will give me the optimum health and fitness. Vitality. Longevity.” He eyed Starsky with a heated expression. “Virility. Stamina.”

Oh, shit. Starsky felt a sinking thud in his chest followed by a momentary qualm about his grand scheme. If Hutch was doing this vegan shit partly as some kind of sex thing…and for him… The sudden image of Hutch taking a split-second longer to dodge a bullet firmed Starsky’s resolve. Stick to the mission!

He pointed his spoon at his own bowl. “And it doesn’t bother you to watch me eating this? I mean, you used to pack away your fair share of cheese, and I’ve seen you glancing at this cornbread more’n once or twice.”

Hutch shrugged. “I won’t lie and say there aren’t some foods I miss.” He gestured at his half-empty bowl. “But it helps to have more than acceptable substitutes like this excellent example right here. I wonder if Sim would give me his recipe.”

Starsky had to bite off a groan of frustration. This was the dumbest idea he’d had in about forever and a week. He’d actually thought the man who enjoyed seaweed-avocado wraps and gobbled down non-dairy wheat germ donuts would throw in the towel after a bowl of fake meat? Maybe he’d been eating here too often, and Sim’s fire-hazard spices had gone to his brain and burned out a few millions cells.

Hutch reached over and clinked his spoon against the rim of Starsky’s bowl. “Hey. I’m still the same person, partner. Just because I have a new approach to food choices that you find quirky, doesn’t mean I’m suddenly a different person. We all have our quirks.”

The light press of Hutch’s boot tip on the top of Starsky’s foot told him exactly what Hutch meant but couldn’t say out loud in a public place. Ever since Hutch had discovered what a big old sucker Starsky was for having his toes kissed, he’d made it a special part of their foreplay. Quirk, hell! It’d become a full-blown obsession. Starsky had flashed awake in the middle of wet dreams about those two special lips caressing his bare feet.

With a sigh, Starsky surrendered the battle. Nowhere near ready to concede the war, he still knew when to make a strategic retreat and fall into re-grouping maneuvers. He would find some other way to get Hutch off the vegan bandwagon, but in the meantime maybe he could generate some sexual mileage out of this botched attempt. Shifting in the booth he craned his neck until he spotted Sim talking to patrons at a back table. He caught Sim’s eye and waved.

“What’s wrong?” Hutch asked.

“Nothing. You know what they say, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I’m gonna have Sim dish me up a bowl of your soy-beef chili there.”

Hutch’s smile had taken on a tenderness that Starsky felt like a warm teasing palm to his groin. “You don’t have to do that, Starsk. Really.”

“Hey, what’s good for you’s good for me.”

Yeah. He would come up with Plan B for derailing the vegan train, and soon, but tonight Starsky had every reason to believe his feet were getting the royal treatment.

~*~*~

Starsky emerged from Hutch’s cool blue bathroom in a state of near agony, clutching his roiling stomach and fighting yet another wave of dizzying nausea. Hutch greeted him with a robe in one hand and a bottle of Pepto in the other, concern radiating in the line of his body and shining from his eyes. The only thing out of place was the apologetic quirk to Hutch’s lips.

Grabbing the beautiful bottle of pink stomach-saver, Starsky grunted. “Sorry. Didn’t see the night playing out like this. Hardly rates an acceptable, much less more than. Guess I’m not cut out to do the vegan thing.”

Hutch folded his arms over the placket of his orange terry robe and watched Starsky guzzle down an outsized dose of the pink stuff. “Starsky, I hit the Pepto the second after you hit my bathroom.”

Starsky blinked at him. “Huh?”

“That chili was the most godawful concoction ever to pass between my lips, lover.”

“But you were plowing through it like a starving man, raving over it-” Then, through the misery of cramps in his gut, Starsky heard it. That sound he’d heard all through the Henderson case-the unmistakable noise of the crowd when the ball was in the air, and Starsky had been suckered. “You knew!”

“About your plan to sabotage my vegan diet by tempting me with real meat and cheese while I ate fake-beef hog slop?” Hutch’s frown had some bite to it. “Yes, I figured it out when I came out of the john tonight and saw you and Sim whispering like silent film conspirators. So, I thought I’d see how far you’d take it.”

“And you let me eat that shit! Hell, you manipulated me into it, using my own feet against me!”

“You’re not really in a position to indulge in righteous indignation, Starsky, when you were plenty happy to let me eat it. My gut’s on fire, too. Yeah, I wanted you to have a taste of your own medicine, but I didn’t know it’d make us sick.” He rubbed his stomach. “Tell me Sim’s not planning on adding that dish to his menu, because I think there’s something about those killer spices and the soybean beef that doesn’t mix.”

“Nah, this was a one-time thing. But I think I’ll call him tomorrow and warn him just in case.” Starsky re-capped the Pepto and handed it over to his fellow sufferer, certain he couldn’t look more sheepish if he had four legs and a wool coat. “Uh, Hutch….”

“It’s okay, Starsky. Maybe now that we’re not feeling like doing what we wanted to be doing tonight, we can quit playing games and talk like adults. I’m all ears as to what’s got you so against veganism that you’d resort to sabotage.”

Starsky stumbled over to the inviting bed and dropped down in the center, curling in on himself, wondering if he could strangle his stomach into submission by tightening his arms around his midsection until he couldn’t even breathe. Breathing was overrated anyway, and consciousness didn’t seem worth the effort either. He felt a dip in the bed behind him just before warm weight pressed against him, spooning to his shape, from shoulders to calves. Strong, gentle arms draped over him in the perfect position to hold him without inflicting pain.

“Hey,” Starsky murmured. “Aren’tcha hurting too?”

A warm chuff of breath tickled the nape of his neck. “I’ve got a lighter case, I think. My body’s more accustomed to exotic entrées in health food cuisine. And you had to go and gobble down a whole bowl of the stuff out of solidarity. That’s my partner. Loyal all the way down the line, come hell, high water, or fake chili.”

Starsky sighed in contentment at the delicate kisses dropped along his hair line. “Loyal, huh? Didn’t you just get through accusing me of sabotage?”

“Um-hm.” Hutch’s hands had found the exact spot of cramping in Starsky’s traitorous stomach and were busy rubbing, stroking, and caressing the tight clinching sensation away. “We were just about to address that issue, weren’t we? My guess is, you were on a protective kick. How did veganism land on your ‘no good for Hutch’ list?”

“That’s just it, babe. I don’t think it is good for you. Since you started doing the vegan thing, you’ve been…a little slower off the mark. Like your reaction time’s taken a hit. Not so’s anybody but me would notice, but what if it gets worse the longer you stay on the diet, huh?”

“That’s odd.” Hutch nibbled lightly at the outer shell of Starsky’s ear. “One of the more immediate results for new vegans is usually an increase in alertness and energy after removing dairy and animal fat from their diet.”

“Yeah, but according to what I read on the subject, they have to replace all those nutrients some kinda way, right? You sure you’re re-fueling, buddy boy? ‘Cause in our toilet bowl, we gotta be supercharged bugs to swim out and keep the sharks off our tails.”

“I see your point. Well, Starsk, I hate to break this to you now after you went to all that trouble roping Sim into your scheme and then got sick off your efforts, but I’d already decided yesterday that I can’t pursue the vegan lifestyle at this point in my life.”

Only Hutch’s lightly restraining embrace kept Starsky from sitting bolt upright in the bed. “What?! Why? You coulda let me on that little newsflash!”

“When? While Miss Legs was trying to get Tiger the Wonder Dog to take a leak on my tree? Or when we were in the apartment laundry washing the chlorine out of our clothes and coming right up against a killer in our own department?”

Starsky decided he could live without an intact stomach and risked rolling over in Hutch’s arms for some all-important eye communication. “You didn’t decide to give up on the vegan thing ’cause I was giving you shit about it?”

Hutch snuggled closer and cupped Starsky’s chin, bringing their lips nearer and nearer to moist, warm contact until Starsky could practically taste the kiss. Their mouths met, toyed with a battle for dominance, then slid wetly into a long, deep sharing.

“No,” Hutch said when they came up for air. “But I think you owe me the other reason you’ve been antsy about this diet.”

Starsky mumbled something that could’ve been Pig Latin or ancient Cantonese. Hutch waited with two evenly raised blond eyebrows. “Fine,” Starsky snarled, good and ashamed of himself and hating the evidence in the flush of heat to his cheeks. “I’m a selfish ass. I’ve been lookin’ for more things we could do together-common ground, y’know, that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with our job.”

“Including persuading me to share your rotgut cheese Danish breakfast?”

“Well, yeah. But this vegan thing threw me. Let’s face it, that’s where our paths diverge, Blondie. I mean, I’m a meat-and-potatoes guy. Meat-and-three when I’m tryin’ to be extra good. Gotta have the meat.”

Hutch trailed his fingers down Starsky’s chest and quested downward to tickle the wakening bulge below the robe belt. “Um. Oh, yeah. You’re all about the meat.”

“Hutch,” Starsky warned. He wanted the man in his arms more than all the meat in the world, but puking on his lover had never been his idea of good sex, and the Pepto hadn’t quite done its magic yet.

Hutch smirked. “Sorry. Potent temptation under there. Starsky, why didn’t you just tell me all that?”

“I’m not thrilled I told you now! Makes me sound like some kinda whiny kid. Christ knows, I got no real problem with your wheat-germ pies and bean sprout salad.”

“It was just the whole picture? One day vegan, the next out back of the house making old-fashioned lye soap and weaving my own shirts from goat fiber?” Hutch laughed. “I wasn’t headed that far down the road, believe me.”

“No kidding?”

“Nope. In fact, that’s the reason I’m not sticking with the vegan diet. It’s a lifestyle that takes real commitment, planning, and time. Hell, the lives we lead, with our work, we’re all the time grabbing meals on the go, with seconds to eat whatever we can find and long hours ahead of us with nothing else edible in sight. It’s not easy to keep true to strict food choices under those conditions. Just trying it has given me a whole new respect for people who really have to watch their step with food: diabetics, folks with food allergies, high blood pressure, or heart disease. And I don’t want to be a halfway vegan, eating anything while we’re on shift and then yo-yoing back to the diet on my days off. That wouldn’t be healthy, so I’ll just put it aside until way down the line. Maybe when I’m older, retired, and there’s more reason to focus on everything I eat.”

Starsky breathed deeply of the fresh air of relief. He didn’t have to worry about Hutch turning into a vitamin-protein-depleted wet rag out on the streets! “Y’know, that makes a helluva lot of sense, Einstein.”

“The key to life is balance, Starsky. Balance, harmony, and moderation. I’ll keep some of the recipes I’ve learned during this experiment and supplement them with healthy meat and dairy choices. Healthy as I can get out on the beat, anyway.”

“Balance, huh? All that balance, harmony, and moderation allow for us to do more of this,” he reached around Hutch to rub at his back and tangled their legs together, “more often? I promise I’ll lay off the soy beef so we won’t spend our next night off with me sucking down the Pepto insteada sucking you.”

Hutch kissed him again. Hard, swift, then slow and soft. “I’m in bed with my best friend. Pepto or not, this is way more than acceptable, Starsky. And, yes, I think we need to adjust the frequency of nights like this. I think the balancing act we have with work could stand up to more than a couple times in a month.”

“Sounds good to me.” Starsky yawned. “Just for that, if I live through the night without puking up my intestines, I’ll take you out to breakfast in the morning. Buy you some dairy-less buckwheat pancakes.”

Hutch chuckled and pulled Starsky tighter to him. “Yeah. Give me a few minutes to overcome the bends, and I’ll spend some quality time with your toes.”