I’m Strumming On My Gay Guitar

Ilya blinks at Shane, narrowing his eyes. It’s dark, even with the flashing light spilling behind them and the tiny light in Shane’s hand. If he gets through this quickly, maybe Ilya won’t even get a good look at his face.

“Can I help you, Officer?” Ilya asks, tapping the steering wheel once, twice, with his pointer finger. Hearing his voice sends twin lines of heat and ice down Shane’s spine. 

“Sorry, ah,” Shane clears his throat. “You have…you were going a little fast.” 

“I am not from around here.”

“Right, well, just don’t do it again,” Shane says. “Um, and get that tail light fixed. Have a good night.” 

He turns on his heel, forcing his legs to move fast despite the fact they feel wobbly. He just needs to get to his car and it’ll be fine. 

He hears the door of the other car open behind him, heavy boots settling on the ground.  

“Officer,” Ilya calls behind him. 

He keeps walking, but the feet behind him are walking, too, faster. 

Shane makes it to the squad car, grabs the door handle like a lifeline, but before he can get it open, a heavy body is pinning him down.

“Too slow,” Ilya says behind him, pulling his hand away from the door handle so he could hold Shane’s arms behind his back.

“Sir,” Shane whispers. Tears prick at his eyes, the animal fear rising in his body. “Please just…go back to your car.”

“But I wanted to tell you something, Officer,” Ilya says. “It’s very funny. Do you want to hear it?” 

Shane hears Ilya unclip something from his belt, feels cool metal press into his side. Ilya leans in so close he can feel his breath along the shell of his ear. 

 “You look just like my dead husband.” 

Shane’s body goes limp, the memories rushing back to him at once. 

He used to be very, very good at his job. So good he was once entrusted to lead an undercover sting of one of the country’s most deeply rooted bratva families. He was meant to find all he could on the family’s young and newly minted pakhan, find a weakness in the newly shaken power structure. He had succeeded more than anyone could imagine, including himself. 

But he was not meant to get attached. And in that aspect he had failed horribly.

Ilya’s lips press to his neck, over his jumping pulse point. 

“Did you think I would not find you, Зайчик?” 

Shane has not heard that name in four years, and it undoes him. 

“Ilya,” he whispers, the less scrap of self preservation leaving his body. “Please.” 

He doesn’t know what he’s even asking for. To not die? To die quickly and painlessly? 

Ilya tugs on his arm. It’s pathetic, really, the way Shane peels away easily from the car and collapses into Ilya’s waiting body. The barrel of the gun is still stuck between his ribs, but he knows he would move even without it.

“Come on,” Ilya says, nodding towards the beater. Shane can see now how obvious this whole thing was, a series of petty traffic infractions laid out of him like he’s a rat in a trap. A bunny hopping blindly to the wolves. 

“At least tell me where you’re taking me,” Shane says. He doesn’t know where he finds the strength to say it, to make any request at all. Ilya looks at him like Shane has asked the color of the sky. 

“You do not know?” he asks. “I am taking you home.”