“Here, stop,” Vin said. He untangled the knot that Beau had made of his tie. “Let me.” Vin stood behind his lover, arms around Beau’s chest, and did the tie up for him.
“Thanks. Hate those things,” Beau said, tilting his head to one side and releasing a popcorn machine of tension in audible pops and snaps.
“It’ll be fine,” Vin said. “Too bad all your bruises have recovered, but here—” He pulled a manila folder out of his backpack. “I got these for you.”
Inside were several 8x10 photographs: Beau’s battered face, the bruises on his ribs, the IV line stuck in his elbow, his smashed truck. Beau flipped through them quickly, shuddered, and put them away. “Um, thanks?”
“They should see what they’re deciding about. I wanted to get pics of Contreras’ face, but I didn’t think it was safe to se
