To say Rylan was nervous about taking the postcards to the police was an understatement. He held a different shirt in each hand, looking from one to the other before poking at the black jeans on the floor with his toe.
“What are you doing?” Brett asked. He stood near the bathroom door, hair still glistening from his shower and his skin a ruddy pink from being recently scrubbed and shaved.
Rylan was a mere few feet from him and watched every bit of moisture trickle through the hair on Brett’s chest. “I can’t decide what to wear,” he grumbled.
Brett arched an eyebrow and tilted his head before looking down at himself and running one hand over his chest. “Do I have bugs or something?”
“What if we’re arrested?” Rylan blurted out.
“For what?”
“Didn’t we withhold evidence or something?”
B
