Chapter 6

Perry set his bag down at the end of Deckard's couch and checked out the decor. "Nice place. Got something against colors?" The couch was black, as were the recliner and the coffee table. The walls were uninterrupted white, the carpet a bland beige that seemed to be aiming for the so-neutral-it's-invisible spectrum. Perry might not intend to be an interior decorator, but he liked to think he had an eye for color. Of which this house had zero unless you counted the chocolate brown parts of Nix's coat.

"I bought the place furnished." Deckard shrugged. "Well, me and the bank. Make yourself at home. I need to stow my weapon and check something." He ducked into a room down the hall, closing the door behind him.

"Okaaay." Perry turned to Nix, gesturing at the blank, white walls. "Tell me, what does this guy do for fun when he's home? Calculate prime numbers?" Nix wagged her tail and trotted into the kitchen for a drink.

Perry perched on the edge of the couch and kicked off his sneakers so he could curl his feet up under him. A decent-sized TV hung on the wall opposite the couch, but the remote was nowhere in sight, so he got out his phone. He felt sticky and gross under the fresh T-shirt he'd pulled on when he'd packed up his stuff, but knocking on the door and asking to use Deckard's shower would take more nerve than Perry possessed.

Time to figure out what the hell is going on. Starting with that note. His laptop was somewhere in the duffel he'd brought, but he'd bet Deckard didn't let his Wi-Fi run around unlocked, so his phone browser would have to do.

SPAM? Supervillain Prevention And Monitoring? Super Power Assholes Meeting? He typed in a few dozen possible options for the acronym and didn't hit any promising leads.

Deckard appeared in the doorway still in uniform but without his holster, a laptop in hand. "I'm going to make some coffee and then work on reports. You want anything?"

"A better brain? New ideas for what SPAM stands for?"

"I used to be good at acronyms. Let me finish work and we can both give it a go." Deckard grinned and that smile changed his whole appearance from severe and professional to something much more approachable.

Ooh, yeah, I want to approach that. Perry was finding his unfortunate yen for all things Deckard much more difficult to squash down since he'd heard the man say he was bi. "Sure." Perry waved toward Deckard's kitchen. "You go do all the cop things. I'll be here chanting ‘Super Predators Are Malevolent' and ‘Slutty Perfect Ass Men.'"

He was delighted to see Deckard suppress a laugh before suggesting, "Keep trying."

Deckard went into the kitchen, nicely visible over the half-wall divider as he made a cup of coffee and then sat at the kitchen table typing away on his laptop. His frown of concentration reemerged, throwing him back into professional mode. Perry noted that was hot as fuck too. I'm in so much trouble. He should never have accepted an invitation to stay, except that invitation had been more of a strong suggestion. An order, even.

He watched the sexy cop work. Deckard took a sip of coffee and peered closer at his screen, damp, full lips parted.

Ooh, do me now, Officer Hotness. Perry reminded himself he was here in this house because someone had tried to blow him up. Well, blow someone or something up with Perry in the line of fire. Probably.

"That was a real bomb in the package, wasn't it?" he called to Deckard. He didn't think Deckard would be this worked up about a fake.

"Huh?" Deckard looked up. "Yes, it was."

"Do you think it was meant to kill Justice Carpenter?"

Deckard waved at his house. "What part of you being here says I understand who the target was? And if I did, I wouldn't tell you. That's all the details you get."

"Oh, right." For a second, he'd forgotten that Deckard bossing him around wasn't actually foreplay. Deckard was the cop, Perry was the suspect. Or peon, anyhow. He'd do well to remember that. "Can Nix get up on the couch?"

"No."

Sulkily, Perry turned back to his phone. Some People Are Mannoying. "Sorry, Nixy," he murmured to the dog. "Your daddy's a tight-ass."

"Don't talk to my dog about my ass," Deckard told him without turning.

"Do you have super hearing?" Perry asked. "Are you just pretending to be ordinary?"

"I wish. No, I take that back, I don't. Superpowers don't seem like all they're cracked up to be."

"Well, not for subpar specimens like me."

Deckard turned at that. "You're not subpar. A little underpowered, maybe, compared to Man-Moves-Mountains or The Legendary Flame."

"You know The Legendary Flame burned down a whole building by accident and killed people?" Perry pointed out. "And 3M put his back out and had to retire for two whole years."

"You're making my point for me."

"I crashed your cruiser and caused a major traffic accident."

"Lack of forethought, not lack of power."

That forethought line stung a bit. "Yeah? What would you have done, smart guy?"

Deckard cocked his head. "Turned the guy's light red before he got there? Two reds are a lot safer than two greens. Or maybe turned his windshield black."

"Fuck. I totally could've done that." Perry slumped against the back of the couch. "I didn't think of it."

"He might've crashed into someone and killed them if you tried it, though." Deckard tapped a few keys, then closed the laptop and came to sit beside Perry. "Making vital decisions on the fly is hard. I've made some bad choices in my day."

"In your day? Grandpa?" Having Deckard sitting that close was messing with Perry's thought processes. "Thirty-four isn't that old. Not even a dozen years older than me."

"Eleven years." When Perry frowned, Deckard reminded him, "I've seen your ID."

"Oh, right. So you know my everything. What's your first name?"

"I don't use it. Even my friends call me Deck."

"Does your mother too?"

Deckard's expression shuttered. "My mother passed away three years ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Perry laid a hand on Deckard's knee, meaning to be comforting, but they both stared at the point where the warmth of his palm met the heat of Deckard's thigh muscle through his black uniform pants. Perry pulled back hastily. "I'd share my mother with you, but no one needs that kind of aggravation in their life."

That lightened Deckard's eyes. "You're not close, I take it."

"Not even slightly. The day I save the planet and become the hero she thinks my dad would've been, if he hadn't died, is the day she'll be interested in me again." Perry tried to make the comment sound light and casual, but Nix came over and put her head on his knee.

"That sucks. I'm sorry." Deckard didn't seem amused either.

Perry petted Nix's ears. "I wish I could have a dog. Maybe someday."

"I hope you can. Do you want to watch me feed her?"

"Why would I? Do you hold the bowl in your teeth or something?"

"Smartass. She's work-fed, which means she gets all her kibble bit by bit as rewards. She had a good morning feed when we were on duty, but only half her afternoon meal."

"So what, you go out and find a bomb so you can feed her?"

"No, we use the practice room."

Something about Deckard's tone made Perry think this invitation was more special than it sounded. "Sure. That sounds cool."

Deckard bounced to his feet and fetched Nix's vest from the hook by the front door. "Work time, baby." He snapped the buckles around the dog's body, then walked her at heel down the hallway.

Perry followed, wondering which of the three closed doors was Deckard's bedroom. Is it all white and black too, or does he have a little color? Red silk sheets, maybe? A naked Deckard sprawled on red satin was a nice picture, but not a likely one.

Deckard opened the first door to reveal an empty bedroom with an array of metal buckets set out in rows. Nix sat at the threshold, her head tilted.

"Seek, Nix," Deckard told her.

The dog trotted along the first row, sniffing at each bucket. At the fifth one, she sat and looked back at Deckard. He made a click sound with his tongue and called, "Good find. Come." The dog trotted over to him and he handed her a few kibbles from a pouch on his belt. When she was done chewing, he repeated, "Seek, Nix," and pointed to the second row. She snuffed her way down to the last one, then sat.

"Why does she just sit down?" Perry asked.

"That's her signal. If your dog just found a bomb, you want them to hold really still with their nose off the target. It's a safe way to point out explosives."

"Ah. Makes sense."

When Nix had found four target buckets and been fed a good handful of kibble, Deckard took off her vest and sent her back to the living room. Walking through the bedroom, he picked up the four she'd indicated. "I'll throw out the liners, wash, and de-scent these and change the targets for next time."

"She's pretty smart, isn't she?"

"She's not bad." Deckard carried the buckets to the bathroom.

Perry blinked after him. Wow, if he ever tells me I'm not bad, I guess I'll know that's the equivalent of a bouquet of balloons.

As Perry turned for the living room, the sound of a ringtone echoed from the bathroom. Deckard came out, phone to his ear, his expression tense. "Yes, sir… When? Can do…" He lowered the phone to glance at the time. "Fifteen minutes, sir." With a tap, he hung up and stuffed the phone in his pocket. "Damn." He brushed past Perry to duck into the room that must be his own and emerged buckling on his gun belt.

Perry bit his lip. "Something wrong?"

Deckard blinked at Perry as if he'd forgotten he was there. "I have to go in. I'll…" He hesitated, looking around, then hurried to the kitchen with Perry trailing behind him. "Here." Deckard grabbed a notepad and scribbled on it. "That's your temporary visitor code for the alarm system. You shouldn't need it, though. Stay here, don't let anyone in or out. You should be safe. No one knows where you are, not even my boss." He flinched. "Forget I said that."

Perry wanted to ask questions, but Deckard's urgency was unmistakable. "Is there another bomb?"

"Maybe." Deckard whistled and Nix jumped up from a plush bed in the corner to join him. He knelt to replace her vest, speaking to Perry. "I don't know when I'll be back. Eat whatever you want from the fridge. You might as well take the bed. I changed the sheets last night. That way I won't wake you up when I come in. I'll grab the couch."

"You expect to be that late?" Perry's chest had gone tight.

"No clue, but I wouldn't be surprised." Deckard straightened and paused, eyeing him. "Don't worry. You should be safe here. There's a panic button on the alarm if you need it, rings straight through to the station."

"And what about you?"

"Huh?"

"Will you be safe?"

"Oh." For a second their eyes met. Deckard reached out but aborted the gesture before he touched Perry's forearm. "Don't worry. I've been doing this job for years and I haven't been blown up yet." He unsnapped the open food pouch at his waist and tossed it onto the counter, grabbed a fresh one out of a drawer and snapped it on. A bump of his hip shut the drawer. While Perry stood there like a silent lump, Deckard jogged to the door with Nix at his heels, punched a code into the panel, let himself out, and shut the door.

The car's engine started up outside, then pulled away.

Silence, broken only by the beep of the alarm resetting, filled in the small white house with the black furniture.

Perry turned in a slow circle. "Okay, that wasn't where I saw this evening going." Not that he knew where it'd been going before that call, either. Was he mistaken about the heat he thought he'd seen in Deckard's eyes? Maybe Perry had a completely one-sided crush. Maybe when Deckard said, "I'll grab the couch," he really meant it.

"I'm so confused." Perry wanted to dig his fingers in his hair and pull, but he'd cut it short at his boss's request when he got the mailroom job. He took off his glasses, polished them on the hem of his shirt, and put them back on. Deckard's little house wasn't any more homey or inviting with clean lenses.

"Even the dog bed is black." That at least he could fix. He held out a hand, said, "Royal," and turned the plush flattened-tribble bed a friendly shade of blue. While he was at it, he turned one wall of the living room a nice aquamarine, and the others a warm cream with a hint of gold. "Better." Dropping onto the couch, he stared at the blank TV screen. "Make yourself at home, Perry. Except you didn't give me the Wi-Fi password or tell me where the damned remote is."

He supposed he could dig into the cabinets or even turn the doors transparent, if he wanted to be able to say he didn't open anything. The remote would be a good excuse for snooping. But the last time he used his power to invade someone's privacy, he'd found dynamite, and he didn't want to unearth some secret of Deckard's that might send him out screaming into the night. He sighed.

"I could eat, I suppose." Except getting up to find food felt like too much of an effort.

"Or shower." Ditto.

Maybe later. Swinging up his feet, he stretched out on the couch. Despite its blackness, the cushions were plushy stuffed perfection. Plumping an accessory pillow under his head, he got out his phone. "Shiny Pickles Are Marvelous. Some People Are Masochists." Somehow, acronym hunting wasn't half as much fun with Deckard gone off in the night, chasing a crazy bomber.