Lassiter sat in his Crown Vic, enjoying the recently repaired air conditioning. At least now he didn't feel as if he were being boiled in a bag. He looked at the witness summonses on the passenger seat and then to the nondescript door of the Bodyboys escort agency. It was the last task of a long day in what had been a stressful week. Part of the stress came from the fact that the week had been entirely Spencer–free. A few months ago he would have described such a week as blissful, and thought happily of the many hours of work he could do uninterrupted by Shawn's attention-seeking visions, obscure film references, or inappropriate touching. Now every moment without Shawn's shenanigans reminded him of how wrong things had gone.

Since the Shapiro sting a deep well of guilt had sprung up within him. He felt guilty about having put Shawn in danger. Yes, he'd opposed the sting in the first place, but when it came right down to it, Shawn had been his responsibility, and he'd almost died. The man was a civilian, regardless of how closely he worked with the department. He couldn't just be used that way. He felt guilty about having caved to pressure from Vick and the mayor's office to close the Shapiro case as quickly as possible. If he'd had more time he could have placed a cop undercover at the agency and Shawn wouldn't have been involved.

Of course when have I ever been able to prevent Shawn from involving himself? That was no excuse, of course. Butting in was just what Shawn did. He knew that, and should have been ready for it. His fault again.

Most of all he felt guilty that he'd enjoyed holding Shawn, despite the horrible circumstances. This acknowledgement was especially humiliating, and Lassiter kept pushing it to the back of his mind.

What kind of a sick freak gets off on holding someone who's having a heroin overdose? He asked himself.

Yet some other part of his mind insisted on dwelling on the memory. After the third day he began to wonder if he had imagined the kiss.

None of this was something he could talk to anyone about. O'Hara was already looking daggers at him because he hadn't visited Shawn in the hospital. Instead he'd buried himself in processing Shapiro and in tying up the loose ends that would ensure a secure conviction and a punitive sentence. It was no surprise that Shawn hadn't been by the station all week. Lassiter couldn't blame him. How do you confront someone whose carelessness almost got you killed?

Lassiter pulled out his cell and punched in the first four numbers of Shawn's phone number before hanging up again. He'd done that a dozen times throughout the week, but hadn't been able to bring himself to actually let it ring. Even if he hung up before Shawn answered, he would see that Lassiter had called. And then he might call back. And despite all his soul searching, Lassiter still didn't know what to say.

I may as well get this over with, he thought, looking at the summonses. Then this horrible day can end with a scotch. Or two. Or three.

Serving the papers to the witnesses in the Shapiro case was his last task on the case, save for actually testifying in court himself. He shuffled through them. One for Trevor Dacosta, one for Claude White, the telephone operator who had taken the calls that has sent Lamar Valdez and Ryan Tran to their doom, and one for Shawn Spencer. He supposed he could always mail that last one if he had to. He grabbed the documents, shut off the car and stepped out, locking it behind him just to be safe.

Although most people think of escort agencies as a night-time business, Bodyboys actually ran from noon until four a.m., and did most of its business between four and eight in the evening. Arriving at the end of his shift, at 6 p.m., Lassiter was walking into the escort equivalent of happy hour.

Lassiter walked through the door and waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The room was filled with men, most of them paired off in couples, drinking and talking. He scanned the room for the burly form of Trevor Dacosta and finally spotted him at the bar.

A guy in an open necked dress shirt and chinos approached him, flashed a welcoming smile and asked if he'd like to get a drink.

"No thanks," Lassiter said, flashing his badge. "I'm here to see Mr. Dacosta. On business." The young man shrugged and smiled, and Lassiter walked past him and headed for the bar.

Lassiter placed a hand lightly on Dacosta's shoulder and he turned around. He was dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt and drinking a pale ale. He looked up at Lassiter with bright, alert eyes.

"Mr. Dacosta," he said, "it's Head Detective Carlton Lassiter."

"Right." Dacosta smiled and his gaze darted quickly down Lassiter's tall frame and back to his face again. "I remember you. What can I do for you, detective?"

"I brought the witness notices for the Shapiro case." He handed Dacosta the stack of papers.

"Claude won't be in until tomorrow," Trevor said, leafing through the sheets, "but I can give it to him then." Trevor looked at Lassiter quizzically. "How'd you know Shawn Spencer was here?"

Lassiter started. In his haste to get the task over with he must have just scooped up all three summonses.

"Is he?" he looked around the room in what he hoped was a casual manner, expecting to see Shawn secreted in some dark corner making out with a tight-bodied twenty-something.

"He's in the back," Trevor said. "I'll let you through." He grabbed his beer and walked over to a curtained entryway that was even darker than the lounge. Lassiter felt his way along the wall, through a heavy curtain and around a corner. Suddenly the hall was filled with light as Dacosta opened a door at the end and waved Lassiter through.

After the darkness of the lounge, the light of the back room was blinding, and he could hear before he could see. He could hear laughter.

"And he cleaned my toilet!" a young voice said over the din. "For like, an hour. And all I had to do was go in there every few minutes and call him names."

Lassiter's eyes adjusted to the light and he saw four men sitting around a desk, smiling and drinking coffee. Three of them were wearing telephone headsets, waiting for calls to come in to the switchboard. The fourth was Shawn Spencer.

"That's crazy," Shawn said. "Does toilet guy do apartments or is he bathrooms only?"

Lassiter cleared his throat and the four of them looked up.

"Hey, Lassie!" Shawn smile widened, but there was something tentative behind his eyes.

Probably resentment and blame, Lassiter thought.

"This is that friend I was telling you about earlier," Shawn explained. The three men gave Lassiter a knowing smile. It was unnerving.

What had Shawn been saying about him? Did Shawn see him as some kind of funny character to be described for entertainment, like the toilet guy?

Part of him couldn't blame Shawn if he did.

"Is there somewhere we could talk?" Shawn asked the man who'd just told the toilet guy story. "Alone?"

"Of course," he said. "Use one of the VIP rooms." He pointed down a hall.

Shawn took Lassiter by the wrist and pulled him down the hall and into what looked like a small hotel suite, complete with sofa, coffee table, television and DVD player, and queen sized bed. One wall was entirely mirrored, reflecting the room back to itself.

Lassiter's gaze took in the bowl of condoms on the nightstand. This was where escorts brought men for sex. Just being alone there with Shawn made him feel as if he were doing something illicit.

Since Shawn's trip to the hospital Lassiter had been thinking about what he would say when he finally saw him again. I'm sorry I put you in danger? I'm sorry you almost died and I was helpless to stop it? Nothing seemed adequate. He wanted to tell him how gutting it felt to almost lose something he'd never had. Now that Shawn was standing in front of him, he didn't know where to begin.

"Listen," Shawn began, "I know you're probably angrier than B.A Baracus on a fifteen hour coach flight to Australia, but I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"You're sorry," Lassiter frowned.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. Our sting was supposed to be all My Own Private Idaho and instead it went all River Phoenix. My bad."

"You think it was your fault?" he asked, the creases on his forehead deepening. It hadn't occurred to him that Shawn might take it this way. He should have called earlier and made it clear. Another thing to add to his pile of guilt.

"I know it was, and I'm sorry I almost screwed up your collar. I know what the Shapiro murder meant to you guys. I know it was a big deal. You didn't want me on the case, and you didn't want me in the sting and you were right. I fucked it up."

"What on earth," Lassiter said slowly, "makes you think I blame any of that on you?"

"Well," Shawn's ears blushed red and he glanced down at his shoes. "When you didn't come by the hospital or the office, or call or anything, I knew you were mad. And I talked it over with Gus and he agreed that I pretty much stuck my face in the fail fan on this one And I'd like to make it up to you."

"I wasn't mad," Lassiter said. He ran a hand over his face. "I thought you were going to die, Shawn. Do you have any idea how terrified that made me?"

"It made me realize something too." Shawn reached out and turned the lock on the door.

"What are you doing?" Lassiter searched Shawn's face for any sign of deception or indication that this was the start of some joke.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

Shawn walked forward until he was inches away and then stood there, waiting for Lassiter to close the space between them. The sexual energy between them had always been latent and deniable—a background noise to their professional relationship. Suddenly it was open and explicit. Lassiter felt naked.

Their eyes locked. Shawn's were a dark hazel, and slightly glassy. Lassiter detected no smell of drink on Shawn's breath, only coffee. It was lust then, not alcohol. The thought sent a wave of heat moving through his veins like a venom.

Spencer actually wants me.

"We can't," Lassiter said. But he was already reaching forward to place a hand tentatively on Shawn's hip, fighting the urge to pull him forward.

"Of course we can," Shawn said. "You're a man and I'm a…guy." He put a palm on Lassiter's back, pressing him forward ever so gently.

Lassiter ran a hand along Shawn's jaw line, feeling the stubble bristle against his fingers. Shawn turned his head into the caress, and Lassiter wiped his thumb across Shawn's lower lip, soft and wet.

Lassiter swallowed.

"Not here," he said, glancing at the bed. "Not in," he paused, "this kind of a place."

"The place isn't important," Shawn said. "Although if it makes you feel better you can put some money on the dresser."

"We should wait," Lassiter said, but his fingers were already raking into Shawn's tousled hair, and cupping the back of his head.

"I'm tired of waiting," Shawn said, running a tongue quickly across his lower lip. "I could die waiting. We both could."

"It should be special," Lassiter said, his resolve melting in the heat radiating off of Shawn's body.

"We are special."

Lassiter felt a flush run up his spine at Shawn's words. We, Lassiter thought, his mind reeling. He'd said we.

His mouth descended to Shawn's, tentative at first and then more aggressive, wet, and eager. Shawn gripped his dress shirt with his fists and clung to him, as if he might try to escape. He could felt Shawn's desperate moans reverberate through his chest. Lassiter pulled back, inhaling Shawn's scent as deeply as he could.

One more hurdle to leap.

"What if," Lassiter asked, his voice raw and his breath ragged now, "I'm looking for more than just sex?"

Shawn grasped Lassiter's tie and slowly let it slide through his fingers. Then he loosened the knot and pulled it open, leaving it dangling down his shirtfront.

"I really like you Lassie," Shawn said, looking up at him with shining eyes. "For you, everything is negotiable."

Shawn pushed his thigh forward and Lassiter's legs parted without him even thinking to do so. He could feel Shawn's erection hard against his leg. Shawn's hips rocked forward and he ground against him.

"Have you done this before?" Shawn whispered against his neck.

"Yes," Lassiter lied. There was no way he could admit crossing that line for Shawn. He'd had chances—offers even—but he'd always turned them down. No man had gotten under his skin the way Shawn had. He was willing to cross that line now, but he that didn't mean he was ready to reveal everything that doing so would mean to him.

Shawn pulled his t-shirt up and off, tossing it onto the bed. Lassiter ran a hand across Shawn's bare chest and down his smooth, flat stomach. His body was impossibly soft skin over hard muscle. The combination was intoxicating. His fingertips teased over the trail of tiny brown hairs leading into his jeans. Lassiter grabbed the waistband and twisted Shawn's jeans open, relieving the pressure on his erection.

Shawn surged forward and kissed him hard, and Lassiter stepped backward until the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. Shawn tried to push him down onto it, but he resisted.

No, he told himself firmly. Whatever else I do in here, I will not use that bed.

Lassiter kissed his way down Shawn's neck and then across his collarbone to his flat brown nipples. He licked one into a point and then gently sucked and pulled on it with his teeth. Shawn groaned and pushed forward again. Lassiter pushed back and repeated the action on the other nipple.

Shawn whimpered and then spoke through gritted teeth, "Please."

"Turn around." Lassiter said. Shawn complied and Lassiter pulled him against him, pressing his own hardness against Shawn's ass. His lips latched onto Shawn's neck, sucking and biting him as he pushed Shawn's pants and boxers down to his knees. Shawn's knees buckled slightly and Lassiter wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him up. The pressure and heat of Shawn's naked ass against him was exhilarating. He forced himself to ride the edge of arousal without giving in and taking Shawn here on the bed, like God-only-knew how many other men had done to the escorts who worked here.

Lassiter watched in the mirror as he wrapped his fist around Shawn's erection and began to stroke him slowly. He couldn't take his eyes off of Shawn—his mouth was open in a wordless gasp, his lids were closed in pleasure. Even in this place, debasing as it was, he was beautiful. Lassiter's erection strained against his pants. Shawn's hands reached back and groped for his belt, but Lassiter pressed forward, trapping them immobile between their bodies.

"That can wait," he whispered into Shawn's ear. "Just enjoy it."

Lassiter released his grip on Shawn's erection and he whimpered a protest. He brought his hand to his mouth and quickly wet it, then grasped him in his slick palm and stroked with renewed force. If the sounds Shawn was making were any indication, it was working. He was mumbling incoherently, his hips bucking forward in jerky thrusts as his orgasm built up inside his balls. Shawn was gasping for breath now and he was trembling, as if he might shake apart at any moment. His legs were jelly and if it weren't for Lassiter's arm gripping him firmly around his waist he'd have crumpled to the floor.

I'm doing this to him, Lassiter thought, flushing with pleasure. He's coming for me.

"Lassie," Shawn moaned his name and arched forward, spraying into Lassiter's fist, onto the hardwood floor and across his own stomach and chest. Lassiter held him tightly as the rush of orgasm washed over Shawn's body. Shawn's breathing slowed to normal. Only then did he move, lowering Shawn to the bed and sitting beside him, staring at his own semen-covered hand. He raised it slowly to his mouth and tentatively licked one of his fingers. Shawn tasted sweet.

"That was amazing," Shawn said, leaning forward, arms resting on his legs. "I feel like I'm supposed to pay you."

Lassiter laughed, licking his hand again. "You can owe me."