Orientation (Borealis Investigations Book 1) Read online

  Orientation

  A Borealis Investigation

  Gregory Ashe

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2019 Gregory Ashe

  All Rights Reserved

  Orientation, noun: the act of determining your relative position.

  Shaw’s note: From the word orient, finding the east, toward the rising sun. Appropriated as a stand-in for which gender, or genders, someone is sexually attracted to.

  North’s note: Cf. Shaw staring at my junk when I wear those jeans Tucker got me.

  Chapter 1

  IN THE CRAMPED GALLEY kitchen of Borealis Investigations, Shaw crouched with his hands and feet braced shoulder width apart, shot his hips up, and flattened his back to hold the pose. His elbows bent suddenly, and he bumped his nose against the floorboards. It came away covered in grit and dust. Then he sneezed.

  His Lululemon shirt slid down and bunched under his arms. Sweat beaded, following his backbone toward his neck. His arms trembled and his hamstrings burned the longer he held on. He focused on the trembling. What he didn’t need to think about was his date last night. He didn’t need to think about candlelight. The yellow wick of reflected heat in the other man’s eyes—Harry? Henry? Shaw certainly didn’t need to think about his own performance: Kingsley Shaw Wilder Aldrich sputtering like a teakettle on the outside steps at the end of the night.

  Harold? Had his name been Harold?

  The tremor in Shaw’s arms was getting seismic now. He nose bumped the floor again and gathered more dust. He gritted his teeth and pressed all thought out of his head, bracing his hands against the floor.

  Footsteps came across the front office. The floorboards creaked under familiar weight until the steps stopped in the open doorway of the kitchen. Shaw could smell his own sweat. He could smell the dust mountained on the tip of his nose. He could smell the Pine Sol that Pari had, maybe a week ago, dumped into the sink (as close as Pari ever came to cleaning). And under all those smells, Shaw could smell North.

  North McKinney smelled like he always did: an attractive animal smell, probably the leather of the huge Red Wing boots he insisted on wearing; the fresh scrub of Irish Spring bar soap; and whatever he put in that stiff shock of blond hair. Shaw sighed. His arms almost gave out, and his nose dipped toward the floor. Don’t think about North, he told himself. Don’t think about Harold—if that was even his name. Just focus on yourself. On your body. Don’t think about the fact that you know perfectly well what North is wearing in his hair because he’s worn American Crew since the first day of freshman year and you know it, and it makes him smell like catalogue boys.

  Smack. The abrupt crack of North’s hand against Shaw’s butt was so shocking that Shaw’s arms gave out, and he crashed down on the floor.

  “Downward dog?” North said. His voice was always like a bonfire ready to catch. Once, when Shaw was drunk, he had told North he liked his voice. North said it was an ugly voice, from too much whiskey; Shaw pointed out that North never drank whiskey. North then said it was too many cigarettes. Shaw pointed out that North had stopped smoking. North then told him to fuck off. Shaw had.

  “You’re into yoga now,” North said.

  Shaw lay on the floor, considering the dust bunnies hiding under the cabinets. “It’s spiritually and physically cleansing.”

  “Uh huh.” North stepped over him.

  “It helps you live in the present.”

  North grunted.

  “They had a special about it on the Today show, and I’m really trying to work on being here. Present. Mindfulness, you know?

  The big Red Wing boots rattled the floor; a few dried, forgotten leaves of cilantro tumbled like Godzilla was crossing the room. Shaw stayed where he was and admired the view: North in his Carhartt jacket, leaning against the fridge as he rifled the produce drawers. As usual, North’s hands were taped, the busted knuckles swollen. Two freshly blackened eyes—those incredible light blue eyes, like the rim of light on an icefield or fresh snowfall—cut toward Shaw.

  “Where’s the smoked cheddar?”

  “Oh.”

  “What do you mean, oh? Where the fuck is my cheese?”

  “We’re starting a new diet today.”

  “We are?”

  “I was reading on Mother Jones the other day about dairy.”

  “You were.”

  “Dairy, the silent killer.”

  “That wasn’t the title.”

  “It was something like that. And then I saw another article on Huffpost—”

  “No.”

  “I did. It was about inflammatory—”

  “Where is my cheese, Shaw?”

  “I threw out all the unhealthy stuff.” Then Shaw dragged himself up, bumped past North, and reached into the fridge. “I bought these tofu bars.”

  “So help me Christ and His holy mother,” North said, pressing the door closed on Shaw, who was still reaching into the fridge, “I will crush your bony body inside this refrigerator if you don’t get me a fucking wheel of cheese in the next five fucking minutes. A wheel, Shaw. The size of my fucking head.”

  Grunting, Shaw abandoned the tofu bars and tried to extricate himself before North crushed his ribcage; the door pinned him in place. “Uh. Right. Cheese. Big as your head. Just, I’m kind of stuck . . .”

  North flashed him a huge smile, but he didn’t ease back on the door. “While I’ve got you here.”

  Shaw gulped.

  “About last night.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “How was your date?”

  “Oh.”

  “What does that mean? Oh. What does that mean?”

  “He seemed really nice.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he said something really funny. We were talking about why people need to recognize proto-vegetable rights—well, I guess I was talking about that, and he was listening, and then he said—”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “It was my date. I can talk about proto-vegetable rights—”

  “Don’t give me one example of something that went well and then no explanation about the rest of the fucking night. What happened?” North’s eyebrows shot up. He pulled back six inches—not letting up on the fridge door—and took in Shaw’s appearance. “You got laid.”

  “Um.”

  “You dog. You did. Christ, once a decade. Wait until I tell Tuck, he won’t believe—”

  “Not exactly.”

  For a moment, the only noise was the ancient refrigerator’s glug-glug as the fan tried to spin. “Shaw, Tucker and I spent a lot of time convincing Hank—”

  “Hank,” Shaw breathed. Not Harold. Definitely not Harry. Or Henry.

  North frowned. “—convincing Hank that he should give dating a try. His husband died six months ago. He’s still pretty fragile. Don’t tell me this was another typical Shaw date.”

  That mental image came back to Shaw: standing on the outside steps, sputtering like he was about to boil over. Shaw let his gaze drop to the massive boots.

  “Aw, fuck.” North let go of the door, and Shaw slithered out, massaging his chest. “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s ok. It just wasn’t the right fit. We didn’t click.”

  North seemed to consider this for a moment. “Was he an asshole? Because he’s really Tuck’s friend, and I don’t know him that well. If we set you up with an asshole—”


  “No, no. He seemed great.”

  No expression on North’s face. He was good at that sometimes, that blankness. But Shaw could read the question in the air between them: Great, but . . . ?

  “Hey.” North slapped Shaw’s shoulder. “He’s just some jerk-off lawyer, right? Definitely not good enough for you.”

  “He’s got a pulse. He’s got a job. He walks and talks.”

  “Yeah, but you need somebody smart.”

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “Legitimately smart.”

  “He’s a Harvard-trained lawyer.”

  “But like, about books.”

  Shaw nodded. In his experience, that was the best way to end this kind of conversation.

  “And smoking hot.”

  “Of course.”

  “And rich.”

  Shaw managed a smile. “I won’t stay pretty forever.”

  “And he can’t eat dairy.”

  I wouldn’t mind, thought Shaw as he met North’s snowfall-blue eyes for a dangerous heartbeat. Not even if he wanted a wheel of smoked cheddar the size of his head.

  “There’s Regina. She’s always trying to get into your pants.”

  “Not Regina.”

  “I think Tony could be actually pretty cool. He only gets bitchy when he’s in character as Regina Rex.”

  Shaw sighed. “Definitely not Regina. Or Tony. Neither of them.”

  “All right. There’s this guy at Left Bank Books who is always drooling over you,” North said. “Next time we go there, I’m going to—”

  The bell on the front door jangled, and North and Shaw shared a shocked look.

  Borealis Investigations might have a client again.

  Chapter 2

  North strode the length of the kitchen. Shaw was doing something with the sink, and North left him behind. Walk with purpose, he told himself. Walk with force. Walk with speed, like you’re on a job site and somebody’s about to drop an I-beam. But not too fast.

  North wished he didn’t feel so desperate. About the prospect of a client, sure—the way his heart jumped, fucking leaped, when the bell rang. The way he was practically scurrying toward the front office. But about Shaw too. And the desperation about Shaw didn’t have an easy name or shape to it. It was just there, eating away at North. If Shaw could just hook up with somebody. If Shaw could just get boned. Like, crazy boned. The kind that would leave Shaw crawling for a week. That was the only part of it that North could articulate to himself. If Shaw could just hook up with anybody. But North scratched out that last part. He wasn’t quite that desperate for Shaw, not for just anybody. Not yet.

  For a client, though—yes, for a client, he was that desperate. Things had been bad. North and Shaw had been licking their wounds. But now they were ready to work again, so please God, let it be a client.

  He paused in the front office. The boy—he looked barely eighteen—stood in the doorway, his hand still on the knob, his gaze moving over Pari’s desk, the empty chair, the row of filing cabinets with a terracotta pot and ivy trailing down almost to the floor. Something about the way the boy looked at everything made North aware of the dust, aware of Pari’s dirty plate sticking out of one desk drawer, aware of the chewing gum some dickwad had thumbed onto the outside jamb of the front door.

  “I’m looking for Kingsley.”

  North studied him a minute longer. Pretty. Beautiful. The unruly wave of blond hair tumbling into eyes that would have given Liz Taylor envy. The faintest blush in smooth, white cheeks. Soot—or was it dirt—on his jaw, in the dark shadow under one eye, and on his surprisingly boyish hands gave him a truant look. A choirboy that had just finished wrestling on the playground. Shaw was probably going to fall out of his fucking Lululemons for this guy; North hated him on sight. He eyed the street and wondered, if he timed things right, if he could toss their client out there and get him hit by a passing garbage truck before Shaw made it out of the kitchen.

  But they needed work. So. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you—are you Mr. Aldrich? Kingsley Aldrich?”

  From the galley kitchen came an enormous clatter, like a mountain of dishes avalanching. North squeezed his eyes shut. They had like three plates total, but that had sounded like a dinner service for twenty.

  “Aldrich.” Shaw came panting out of the kitchen. “Did somebody—North, did you—”

  “Shaw, he’s looking for you.”

  “Oh. Hi.” He was wiping his hands on those outrageously expensive yoga pants—North wasn’t sure when Shaw had purchased them; clothes came and went pretty easily for Shaw—and then he jogged forward, shooting out for a handshake. “Shaw Aldrich.”

  “Kingsley?”

  The back of Shaw’s head was to North, but he didn’t need to see Shaw’s face to know the look that was there. It had been there since their first year together at Chouteau College.

  “Just Shaw will be all right.”

  “I’m Matty. Matthew. Fennmore.” He pumped Shaw’s hand without managing to look at him.

  North of the building, on Gravois, the sound of traffic washed in and out steadily. Matty shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet. Shaw smelled like pine sap for some reason, and he kept looking at North and then looking back at Fennmore as though waiting for North to do something.

  North crossed his arms and watched.

  “Can I—” Shaw began. Then, “Do you want some coffee? Mr. Fennmore, do you—”

  “I really need to talk to you. I—I want to hire you.”

  North didn’t like it, didn’t want to admit it, but the words sent a frisson up his spine. Hire. Hire meant a client. A client meant a job. And North McKinney lived for this kind of work. He was good at it, too. Had been good at it. Had been very good at it until he was six blocks deep in Clayton and been forced to make a tough decision. He had shot a man; he had done it to protect Shaw. After that, it had been a long, hard road to this: North McKinney, the private dick with a suspended license. Only suspended, though. And with an appeal in the works. But for now, North McKinney, the private dick who had to let his partner run the show.

  “Yeah, of course. Come here. Step into our office.” Shaw bumped the inner door with his hip, beckoning Fennmore to follow. North followed Fennmore a step.

  Fennmore shot him a glance and then, to Shaw, said, “Maybe your—your secretary, or whatever, maybe he could get us some coffee.”

  A cat yowled outside, followed by the clatter of trash cans toppling. North managed to keep his arms across his chest, but he couldn’t keep his fingers from curling into fists.

  “Oh no,” Shaw said.

  “Coffee,” North said. And he almost said, Cream and sugar?

  Fennmore nodded. “Two creams, please.”

  North felt the smile growing on his face. This time, he said out loud, “Sugar?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Fennmore,” Shaw said, “he’s not—”

  “Thanks, though,” Fennmore said.

  Shaw groaned.

  “Two creams. No sugar. Anything else?”

  “I’d just like to talk to Mr. Aldrich, please.”

  Shaw was practically melting down the door.

  “Sure,” North said. The smile stretched his lips to splitting. “Talk to the detective.”

  With another groan, Shaw slunk into the office, and Fennmore trailed after him. North made his way back to the galley kitchen, and he found the coffee pot, and he poured a cup and found a container of hazelnut Coffee-Mate, and he eyeballed two creams worth of it. Then he took the back stairs to the second floor.

  The old house had originally been a duplex, and Shaw’s remodeling had been half-hearted at best. The stairs from the kitchen led directly to Shaw’s bedroom. A second entrance on the front of the building, with a separate staircase, led to a living room on the second floor at the front of the house, connected to Shaw’s bedroom by a hallway. North couldn’t remember anyone using the f
ront door or stairs; Shaw always used the kitchen stairs, and North followed his example.

  North passed through Shaw’s bedroom, with the comforter and sheets balled at the foot of the bed and a sock hanging off the standing mirror and two translations of Goethe’s Faust propped up on the dresser, where for all North knew Shaw had been comparing them or composing a prose poem about them or brainstorming an article that he wanted to mail off to Newsweek about the contemporary influence of Goethe on theories of elemental genesis. For all North knew, Shaw had read some motherfucking article on the motherfucking Huffpost about the nutritional value of books and he was deciding which one to cut into strips and boil into tea. North took in the chaos in one glance and dismissed it just as readily; this was standard Shaw chaos; Shaw’s desk downstairs made the bedroom look like the pinnacle of order and organization. North had even caught Shaw tossing the leftover silly string from his birthday into the same drawer as his pepper spray, and that thought made North smile.

  Two creams. No sugar.

  That wiped the smile off his face. North found the bathroom. Toothpaste smeared a crescent smile along the mirror, and the sink looked like it was beyond cleaning—it was entombed in calcified spit and petrified dental floss and long, shiny reddish-brown strands of hair. North jiggled the medicine cabinet open, keeping the remaining hinge on the broken door from creaking, and found the bottle of Miralax and measured out a triple dose into the cap and carried it downstairs. He mixed it into the coffee. He even found a saucer. And he carried it into the office.

  Shaw was sitting behind his desk, a tower of books threatening to collapse on him at any moment. He rested his chin on both hands, watching Fennmore, who was crying softly.

  “Two creams. No sugar.”

  Fennmore accepted the coffee, sipped at it, and set it aside. “Oh, I don’t like hazelnut.”

  “You don’t like hazelnut.”

  “That’s ok,” Shaw said, shooting out of his seat. “Mr. Fennmore—”

  “Matty,” the boy whispered.