Title: Gentlemen, Start Your Engines
Author: Dana Austin Marsh
Type: Slash
Summary: While working a case, Detective Hutchinson has to accept the help of a race car driver named David Starsky.
Notes: This story first appeared in the zine, "Timeless" edited and published by Flamingo.
Format: Story
Categories: AU, First Time Story, Zine Story
Rating: NC-17
Size: 409K
Date Added: 2004-12-30

Gentlemen, Start Your Engines
by Dana Austin Marsh

Sunday

"Ah, Mister . . ." Monk began as the figure of a man emerged into the alley through a nondescript door.

"I do not think names are necessary," the newcomer broke in briskly. "You are my contact?"

"That's right, Mr. X," Monk said with an ingratiating smile. "You've got the sample?"

"That is the purpose of this meeting, is it not?" The man who refused to be named extracted a small plastic packet from his pocket and handed it over.

Monk accepted the packet and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket. "If your product is as pure as you've claimed, my employer will be happy to do business. He's offering three million for the quantity already agreed between you."

"That will be fine to start, but what of future shipments?" Mr. No-name demanded.

"As much as you can bring in," Monk assured him. "Just as long as it's pure."

"And you will collect the shipment at the track as I requested? During the race next Sunday?" Suspicious eyes flickered around the alley.

"Ah, now, that might be a problem," Monk hedged. "We'll have to let you know in a couple of days."

"Very well; I must leave now."

In a moment, Monk was alone in the alley. Trying to avoid the worst of the filth underfoot, he made his way to the end of the alley where he paused, cautiously checking out the street beyond before leaving cover.

After Monk's footsteps had receded, a long slab of stained cardboard began to quiver, sliding slowly sideways until it came to rest amidst the rest of the garbage. An arm holding an empty pint bottle emerged, followed by the hollow-eyed countenance of a career alcoholic. Mickey looked around carefully before climbing to his feet. It was a lucky thing he had chosen to sleep off his drunk in this particular alley tonight. He now had something worth a least the price of a dozen bottles of booze. Perhaps lady luck was still prepared to smile on him after all.

Staggering up the alley and into the street, Mickey had no way of knowing that he was being observed just as he had observed.

* * *

"Hutchinson."

"That you, Hutch?"

The handsome, blond detective shifted the phone to his left shoulder and reached for his coffee cup with his right hand. "That's right," he said into the receiver, bringing the cup to his lips and pouring some of the tepid fluid into his mouth. He swallowed, grimaced and continued talking. "Who's this?"

"This is Mickey, Hutch. I got somethin' for ya. It's worth at least a hundred."

Putting down the cup, the cop picked up a pencil and pulled a scratch pad toward him. "What is it, Mickey?"

"Not on the phone, Hutch. Gotta see ya."

Hutch rolled his eyes and tossed the pencil back on the desk. He leaned back in his chair, trying to ease the crick in his back. "You know I'll get it to you, Mickey."

"Not on the phone. Gotta see you."

"All right, Mickey," Hutch conceded wearily. He glanced at his watch, resigning himself to the fact that his shift was going to be extended yet again. "When and where?"

"Half an hour. The usual place."

"Okay, Mickey. I'll be there," Hutch confirmed. He cradled the phone and reached for his jacket.

"Anything interesting?" Captain Dobey asked from where he stood in his office doorway.

Hutch shrugged. "Dunno, Captain. Mickey says he's got something for me worth a hundred."

The big black man grunted in disbelief. "The day that weasel has something worth a hundred dollars is the day I turn in my . . ."

"Careful, Captain," Hutch interrupted with a grin. "Stranger things have been known to happen."

"True. Like you might get your daily reports in every day."

Zipping his jacket, Hutch headed for the door. "Not today, Cap. Gotta see the man."

"Or we might even find you a partner!" Dobey bellowed at the closing door.

* * *

Hutch coasted his battered LTD to a stop in a parking space around the corner from the bar that was Mickey's favored meeting place. Cutting the engine, he slipped out of the car and closed the door behind him. He did not bother to lock it. Firstly, except for the police radio, the only thing of value about his car was that it ran, occasionally. Secondly, and more to the point in this neighborhood, if somebody wanted the damned thing, a flimsy lock would slow them down for no more than about half a minute.

A bit early for the meet, Hutch strolled along leisurely, looking through dirty storefront windows. At the mouth of the alley that ran behind the bar, he paused automatically, senses alert. He was about to continue on his way when the faintest of sounds reached his ears. It might have been only the breeze stirring the haphazardly stacked castoffs filling the alley, or it might have been the groaning of a human voice. Despite being technically off duty, Hutch's conscience would never let him just walk on by.

Drawing his gun and moving so that he was pressed against the wall within the shadows, Hutch cautiously made his way deeper into the dark alley. A dozen steps in, his foot struck something soft and Hutch slowly squatted, reaching out with his free hand and encountering the warmth of a human body. A second weak moan escaped the unknown person as Hutch grasped a bony shoulder and eased the body over onto its back. When Hutch slid his hand down the barely visible chest, it came away warm and sticky with a substance experience told him could only be blood.

"Hutch?"

The young cop started at the sound of his name being spoken by the near-corpse.

"Mickey?" he asked, straining his eyes to try to make out his informant's features. A weak hand grasped his sleeve, trying to pull him nearer and Hutch let himself be dragged down close enough to smell the pungent aroma of unwashed male.

"Hadda . . . hadda big score," Mickey choked out, his voice sounding unsurprised that somehow his good fortune should turn out to be one more cosmic joke at his expense.

Hutch heard the telltale rattle of a man drowning in his own blood as Mickey struggled for breath. "Who did this to you?"

"Big score," Mickey repeated, voice weaker still. "Three mil. Lotsa coke."

"Three million? Christ Almighty, Mickey. When? Where?" Hutch nearly shouted, his fingers twisting into the blood-soaked front of Mickey's shirt.

"Racetrack. Sunday," Mickey gurgled, his breath bubbling out of his mouth in a red froth.

Feeling the last of life leave the body in his grasp, Hutch gently eased it to the ground. His fingers moved softly down the face, lowering the lids over eyes whose last sight had been one more disappointment.

"You were right, Mickey," Hutch murmured as he knelt in the filth. "It would've been worth a hundred."

* * *

Not waiting to be assigned to the case, Hutch left a verbal report for Dobey, providing what little information he had and the direction he intended to start investigating. Mickey had said racetrack and the first thing that came to Hutch's mind was the race at the Bay City Speedway scheduled to be run next Sunday. The informant could just as easily have meant the horses, or dogs, or little old ladies in wheelchairs, but the instincts Hutch had honed over years on the force were telling him to go with his first impression.

Well into his second shift of the day, Hutch decided to cruise by the Pits. He was way overdue for the comfort of a little food in his belly. Maybe, if Hutch's luck was running a little better than Mickey's, Huggy might have gleaned a few bits and pieces that could be added to the meager scraps the dead informant had passed along.

Squeezing his car into the limited parking in the rear of the restaurant/bar, Hutch let himself in the back way, passing through the busy kitchen on his way into the main room. What had been a dull roar became a solid wall of sound as he pushed open the swinging door and stepped through. He paused and let his gaze run over the mob of people that crowded the place, looking for the flamboyant owner. It took him only a moment to pick out the peacock figure resplendent in purple pants, an orange and black check jacket and hot pink shirt. Only Huggy could have carried off such a combination without so much as an embarrassed wince.

After catching the black man's eye, Hutch moved to the sole empty table at the very back of the room, empty only by virtue of the fact that it was the very worst table in the place. He slid into the chair and waited with what patience he could muster. He knew Huggy would join him as soon as he was able. In the meantime, Hutch ordered a beer and a Huggy Bear special and leaned back to wait.

When the beer and the food arrived along with the man he had been waiting for, Hutch grabbed a quick swallow of the cold brew but ignored the food in favor of talk.

"You know my food don't improve much with age, my man. Eat up," Huggy advised as he appropriated a chair from a nearby table and planted his skinny butt in it. "I'm takin' a break. Ya got time."

"Your breaks are like mine, heading for the top of the endangered list," Hutch observed, nevertheless picking up the hamburger and taking a large bite. "Need your help, Hug."

"Didn't your mama teach you no manners? It ain't polite to talk with your mouth full," Huggy scolded, tossing a napkin Hutch's way. "And chew, man. You want heartburn that'd light up N'Orleans?"

Hutch mopped up the escaped ketchup/mayo combination and took another huge bite.

"Whatever happened to the health food fanatic we all knew and loathed?" Huggy asked the bar at large. "You must be in a hurry."

Swallowing his half-chewed mouthful with difficulty, Hutch chased it down with another gulp of beer. "You're right, I am in a hurry," he said, completely ignoring the mother-henning.

"Shoot," Huggy invited, propping his chin on the tall back of the chair he straddled.

"Mickey Conforti is dead," Hutch announced baldly.

"Now there's a surprise," Huggy observed cynically. "That man drank himself to death years ago. He just ain't had the sense to fall down 'til now."

"Not from the booze. He was murdered," Hutch clarified.

"Who'd go to the trouble of killing that worthless old drunk?" Huggy wondered.

"Mickey knew something he wanted to sell me," Hutch explained, continuing to talk and chew as he worked on the hamburger.

"But he had the bad manners to buy it before he could tell you," Huggy guessed.

"Let's just say there wasn't time for too many details. You heard anything about a big cocaine sale at the Bay City Speedway racetrack? Maybe next Sunday?" Hutch asked. He popped the last bite of his hamburger into his mouth and, eschewing the fries that remained, pushed the plate away. He leaned back in his chair, already feeling the hastily eaten food's revenge beginning to burn in his belly. He chewed a couple of antacids and tried to get his body to relax if only for five minutes.

"Not a whisper, tho' I can ask around if you want," Huggy offered.

"No," Hutch decided after a moment's thought. "We don't want the parties catching wind and taking flight. It's got to be big for someone to burn Mickey for what he might know."

Huggy fell silent, letting his mind run over the myriad of seemingly unconnected snippets of information it collected each day. "Sorry, man."

Hutch shrugged. "You can't hear everything, Huggy, my friend." He laid both hands on the table preparatory to heaving himself to his feet.

"Wait a minute, Hutch," Huggy delayed his friend's departure. "If you're plannin' on nosin' around down there, I might be able to help with that."

"Let me guess. Your cousin's best friend is married to the woman who cleans the johns," Hutch hypothesized with a grin to take the edge off the sarcasm.

Huggy matched the grin with an expanse of white that bisected his dark face. "Naw. I know one of the drivers. Really," he avowed at the expression of disbelief on the weary face. He placed his left hand on his heart and raised his right. "And not just any driver either, only the best bit of honky talent to hit the circuit in many a year. What that man can't make four wheels and an engine do, just can't be done."

Still skeptical, Hutch shrugged away the irrelevancy. "How good a friend, Huggy? Would he be willing to do you a favor?"

"I can but ask the man. Listen, it's ten now. I'll see if I can get him here for a meet before closin'. Why don't you go home and cop a few zees, man, and I'll call you?" Huggy suggested.

"Too far to drive all the way out to Venice just to come back. I'll grab a catnap in the car."

"No way, Hutch, old buddy. You'd make the parkin' lot look untidy. That car of yours is bad enough." Huggy got to his feet and pulled a key from his pocket. "Go on up and use my place," he invited.

Gratefully, Hutch accepted the key and pushed to his feet. "Remind me someday to recommend you for a commendation. Service to tired cops above and beyond the call of duty."

"Don't mention it, Officer Hutchinson," Huggy commanded, planting a hand between the wide shoulders and giving a gentle push toward the stairs. "You'd ruin my reputation.”

* * *

"Hutch?"

Hutch swam up abruptly from the deepest depths of dreamless sleep. He had learned long ago to make himself sleep any time, any place, whenever he had the chance, especially when he knew himself to be safe from harm.

"Hutch?"

Since Huggy was one of the reasons he knew himself to be safe at the moment and it was Huggy's voice calling him, Hutch went from sleep to full awareness between one heartbeat and the next. He sat up straight in the chair he had been dozing in, eyes reconnoitering the room automatically.

"Easy, big boy," Huggy soothed, standing well clear of the long reach of the other man until he knew Hutch was fully awake. He did not need to find his skinny carcass bouncing off the wall for want of a little prudent caution.

Hutch ran a hand through his hair, and then shook his head, straightening the fine blond strands into place. He glanced at his watch. The two-hour nap had done him a world of good, taking the edge off the tiredness that might cloud his thinking.

"I got Starsk. Said he'd cruise by here about 12:30. Thought you might want a chance to get yourself together before the meet," Huggy explained. "Why didn't you use the bed, man? That chair ain't never done any man's back any good."

"Starsk?" Hutch echoed the name, once again ignoring the mother-henning. It was not that he minded his friend's carping, just that he usually had no more time for it than any other young, healthy bachelor.

"Yeah, Dave Starsky," Huggy confirmed. He handed over the coffee he had brought and eased himself onto his fur-covered bed. "I met Starsk, oh, gotta be ten years ago now."

"Where?" Hutch asked, leaning back in the chair and taking a sip of the piping hot coffee. Silently he promised his body that if his job ever gave him a chance, he would get back to a healthy lifestyle.

"New York, the first time."

"What were you doin' there?"

"Freezin' my black ass off, mostly."

Hutch chuckled obligingly.

"A little of this, a little of that," Huggy elaborated vaguely.

"Any of it legal?" Hutch asked, proving how well he knew his friend.

Now it was Huggy's turn to laugh. "I'll never tell."

"So what's the best approach to use with this Starsky?" Hutch asked, returning to the business at hand.

"He's always favored the bulldozer approach," Huggy said, smiling reminiscently.

"Not the brightest bulb in the string, I take it."

"Nah. Starsky's got plenty of smarts. What I mean, man, is no bullshit. Tell him like it is and ask him what you want straight out. I've seen him tell whoppers with the best of 'em, but that ain't his preferred modus operandi."

"What's he look like?"

Huggy widened his eyes. "Don't you know all you honkies look alike to us brothers, blondie?" he teased, then sobered. "Seriously. He's a well setup dude. Fit, ya know? Good-lookin'. Dark. You two'd look like night and day together. And he's got eyes about ten shades darker than your baby blues."

Hutch eased himself out of the chair, automatically tucking his shirt in neater and settling jacket and holster more comfortably on his shoulders. "Come on, Huggy. I want to be on-site when he comes in."

"Of course you do," Huggy muttered, following along behind.

* * *

Hutch had heard it said a thousand times that first impressions were always the truest. At 12:30 a.m., when Dave Starsky came strutting into the Pits, Hutch had cause to pray that the truism was a crock of shit. The man was everything that Huggy had said he was, along with filthy and ragged, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket so worn even Goodwill would have been embarrassed to give them away. Despite appearances to the contrary, he also moved as if he knew exactly who he was and fitted his own skin to his complete satisfaction. It was that dichotomy that made Hutch feel he should dismiss the man out of hand, if only he could take his eyes off him.

Once more seated at the worst table in the house, Hutch watched as Starsky sauntered across the room. He noticed how the man seemed to be totally unconscious of the attention he garnered from both men and women alike. When Huggy turned and saw Starsky leaning casually at the end of the bar, he dropped what he was doing and got himself around to his friend. Amid much backslapping and grinning, the two men embraced like brothers.

With an arm still wrapped around Starsky's shoulders, Huggy led the newcomer back to Hutch's table. Hutch rose to his feet. He was never one to waste any weapon at his disposal, and he judged himself to be at least a couple of inches taller than Huggy's friend. It never hurt to have that advantage while being introduced.

"Dave Starsky meet Ken Hutchinson," Huggy introduced succinctly.

At closer range, it became apparent to Hutch that Starsky was not filthy after all, but that his clothes, as well as the finely formed hand he offered, were permanently stained with grease. Obviously Starsky was a driver who refused to let the mechanics alone tend his machine for him.

The two men shook hands and Hutch waved an invitation to join him. Huggy stayed with them, keeping an eye on the end-of-night crowd while the two men he had just introduced sized each other up like a couple of stray dogs.

"So, Hug, whadja want from me?" Starsky broke the silence around the table.

"Not me. Him," Huggy nodded toward the blond. "He's a friend with a problem and I thought you might be able to help him out."

Starsky turned his vivid blue eyes on Hutch and waited.

"I'm a cop, Mr. Starsky . . ." Hutch stumbled to a halt as he watched the handsome face before him instantly harden, the warmth in the eyes bleeding away into an icy cold glare.

"What the fuck are you playin' at, Hug?" Starsky ground out between clenched teeth, half out of his chair before Huggy's hand on his arm restrained him.

"Hear the man out, Starsk. Huh?" Huggy requested. "It's important."

Slowly Starsky reseated himself and turned his attention back to Hutch. It was apparent, however, that the mind behind the glacial expression was already made up.

"You don't like cops, Mr. Starsky?" Hutch asked.

"Nope," Starsky replied in a surprisingly mild tone, leaning back in the chair in a calculatedly challenging sprawl.

Hutch felt his spine straighten reflexively in response. "Then perhaps you aren't the man for the job after all."

"Hutch!" This an outraged exclamation from Huggy.

"Unless all ya want is a good fuck, you're probably right," Starsky drawled lazily, widening his legs even more to emphasize the bulge at their juncture.

"Starsky!" Again this was from Huggy. "I don't believe you two. You may not know each other, but you both know me and if I say he's okay," a long black finger nearly poked Hutch in the nose as Huggy pointed at him, "then he is. And vice versa," he added with a glare for Starsky.

Hutch squeezed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the image Starsky had evoked with his crude offer; an image that both repelled and fascinated at the same moment. When he opened his eyes, Starsky had straightened in his seat and crossed his legs but looked only the slightest bit contrite.

Hutch took a calming breath. "I apologize. However, since I intended to request your help with a police related matter, your antipathy toward police officers would be detrimental."

Starsky cocked his head to the side. "You swallow a dictionary or somethin'?" He put up a hand to halt the reprimand sitting on Huggy's lips. "Why doncha just tell me what's goin' down?"

Hanging on to the tattered remnants of his patience, Hutch gave him the bare bones of the situation, which was just about all he had in any case.

"And you want me to . . . ?" Starsky prompted when the short recital ended, his expression of disinterest not promising in the least.

"He wants you to get him into the scene, Starsk," Huggy answered when it became apparent that Hutch intended to remain silent.

"Not my concern," Starsky stated flatly.

"Well, I guess that's plain enough," Hutch growled, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. "Hug, thanks for the effort. Mr. Starsky, I'd like to say it was a pleasure, however . . ." Hutch let the insult remain implied, turned his back and walked away.

Both men remaining at the table watched the stiff-backed exit.

"Nice ass," Starsky commented mildly.

Shock and temper warring on his homely face, it took Huggy a few moments to regain control of his tongue. "I can't believe you turned him down." A look of horror slowly etched itself on mobile features. "You ain't involved?"

Now it was Starsky's turn to glare. "You know better than that."

"Do I?" Huggy challenged. "The last half hour makes me wonder who the hell you are. What happened to you?"

Sorrow tried to battle its way into the glacial gaze, gaining enough of a foothold to soften the glare to weary bitterness. "You know that as well as I do."

"I know you ain't had a fair shake, Starsk, but I never thought you'd let it change the man you are."

Muscular shoulders moved beneath the battered jacket, making the ancient leather creak. "That man don't exist anymore, Huggy. All I want is to be left alone to deal with what I got left."

Starsky climbed to his feet, dropping a hand on Huggy's shoulder and squeezing once. "Come on out to the race next week, Hug, but do us all a favor and leave your cop friend at home."

* * *

Hutch sat in the parking lot, slumped behind the wheel of his car while he tried to get his temper under sufficient control to drive safely. His own reaction both startled and disturbed him. His passionate nature had been the bane of his younger years. It seemed back then that it took only the tiniest of sparks to ignite his ever ready temper into a conflagration of heated, usually regretted, words that he could never take back. He had learned to control that part of himself long ago, even before becoming a cop had required him to possess a cool, level head at all times. It had been years since anyone had been able to inflame him as Starsky had tonight.

If he had to be completely honest, Hutch had to admit that it was not only the other man's abrasive manner that had raised his hackles. It was the more disturbing knowledge that from the moment their eyes and hands had met across the table, for Hutch at least, it had been lust at first sight. In the past, he had experienced an occasional attraction to another man, but never anything that had hit him with the force of his reaction to Starsky.

Thinking about the obnoxious New Yorker was not helping him get his equilibrium back and Hutch returned his attention to the case. He still needed a way onto the track and a chance to check out the situation. Hutch's thoughts froze as a previously unconsidered problem occurred to him. What if Starsky was part of the deal? Huggy had said he had known the man ten years ago, but had mentioned nothing more recent. What if Starsky had changed?

Hutch's hand was reaching for the mike before he even completed the thought.

"Zebra three to Central."

"Central."

"Patch me through to RandI."

Hutch shifted impatiently as he listened to the call being transferred.

"RandI."

"This is Sgt. Hutchinson. I need a background check on a David Starsky. That's S-T-A-R-S-K-Y. The only information I have is that he was in New York ten years ago, and he's here for the Bay City Speedway race. You got that?"

"Got it, Sergeant. You want priors?"

"I want anything you can get on him, just as fast as you can get it."

"New York? Could take a couple of days."

"Not good enough. I need it tomorrow morning. No later. Zebra 3 out."

Actually, he had needed the information an hour ago, Hutch thought as he replaced the mike. He could only hope he had not blown the case before it had even really begun.

The engine sputtered to reluctant life as Hutch turned the key and put the car in gear. It was time he called it a night and went home. Maybe he would come up with something brilliant by morning.

* * *

Monday

Inspiration had failed to strike by the time the sun put in an appearance the next morning, so Hutch went into Metro Station, hoping RandI would have something on Starsky to at least put that fear to rest.

The manila folder was waiting on his desk and Hutch never even sat down before he flipped it open. His eyes ran down the page of typewritten information as he shrugged out of his jacket. By the time he was free of the smooth black leather, Hutch was too engrossed to notice when it dropped on the floor beside his chair instead of on it. With sick dread roiling in his gut, he picked up the file and went immediately to Dobey's office.

"Hutchinson," Dobey acknowledged.

"Captain, I need to talk to you." Already recovering from the first shock, Hutch gave his superior no chance to refuse. He simply entered the room, closed the door and parked himself in the visitor's chair. "I think I made the biggest mistake of my career last night," he stated fatalistically and handed over the file.

Dobey opened the cover, speed-reading the single sheet inside before raising a questioning countenance to Hutch for clarification. "What does a crooked New York cop . . . correction, former cop, have to do with your career?"

"Last night at the Pits, I told that man everything we know so far about the drug connection at the Speedway track."

Sighing in resignation, Dobey leaned back in his chair until it creaked in protest. "You better tell me the whole story."

Hutch started with his discovery of Mickey's almost dead body and ended with his own call to RandI.

Dobey sat in thought for a few minutes before closing the file and laying it on his desk. "I don't see how you could have done any differently. Huggy's information has always been reliable before and his contacts dependable. You had no reason to believe otherwise this time."

"I should have . . ."

"Hindsight's always twenty-twenty, Hutchinson. You're a cop. A good one, but still just a cop. You aren't Superman, and you can't read minds. All you can do now is try to mitigate the damage."

"Christ, how?"

"Get out there and hustle. You'll turn something. You always do."

"And if Starsky is up to his neck in it?"

"Then you'll find a way to nail his corrupt ass to the wall. In the meantime, I've got men checking out the dog races, the horse races, and every damned race except the intercollegiate 100 yard dash!"

* * *

"Zebra 3."

Hutch picked up the mike, grateful for the distraction after hours of fruitlessly chasing his own tail. "Zebra 3," he acknowledged.

"This is Dobey. I just had a call from your friend, Starsky. He wanted a meeting. I told him to come right in so you better get your tail back here now."

"On my way."

* * *

Monk entered the beautifully appointed office, crossed the room and handed over the folded newspaper to the man who sat behind the antique desk.

The man who accepted the offering was good-looking, well dressed and had that aura of power easily wielded that made other, lesser men automatically submit to his will. His eyes scanned the page until he located the tiny six-line article that was of interest to him personally.

"Mickey Conforti, unemployed, of no fixed address," he read in cultured tones, "was found stabbed to death in the alley off Pine Avenue. The police have no leads."

"I told you I'd take care of it, Mr. Forest," Monk offered hesitantly as his employer laid the newspaper aside.

"Yes, I see you have," Mr. Forest agreed. "However, it would not have been necessary to 'take care of it' had you been more careful to begin with. You know, Monk, that I require both care and efficiency from all my employees. There are a great many men who would be happy to take your place should your performance not improve."

"Yes, sir," Monk agreed, grinding his teeth over the condescending lecture but keeping all traces of emotion off his face.

Forest nodded, satisfied for the time being that his lieutenant would be doubly cautious, at least for the immediate future. "I will want you to handle all contacts with our new friend personally, Monk. No delegation, however minor the communication may be. We want to continue this relationship in the future and I don't want any . . . cultural misunderstandings. Do you understand me, Monk?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I'm very glad to hear that."

* * *

Having pushed his reluctant engine to its aged limits and taken the stairs three at a leap, Hutch arrived in Dobey's office just as the captain handed Starsky a familiar file. Hutch had spent the speedy trip firmly locking down his temper and was, therefore, able to comply without protest when Dobey pointed at a chair with a look that told him to shut up and sit down. He slid into the chair beside Starsky and waited.

Showing no emotion except perhaps a shadow of resignation, Starsky flipped open the file. He scanned the first few lines, closed the cover and slid the folder back onto Dobey's desk.

"I guess comin' down here was a waste of my time," he said quietly.

"That depends on what you came down here for, Mr. Starsky." Dobey might give the men under his command the rough side of his tongue on a regular basis, but he could be reasonableness personified with an outsider.

"Just a bad joke, Captain Dobey. A good friend . . ." Starsky glanced at Hutch as if to be sure the young cop was under no misconception that he was responsible for the driver's change of heart. ". . . gave me a good swift kick in what remains of my social conscience. I was going to agree to help. An offer I'm sure you won't accept now," he concluded, waving a hand toward the abandoned file.

"You got that right," Hutch muttered.

"Hutch," Dobey cautioned softly.

"You don't think I'd trust him now, do you, Captain?" Hutch asked in a much louder tone.

"I was accused, Hutchinson, not convicted," Starsky pointed out, the fire in his eyes making a mockery of his soft tone.

"You resigned," Hutch countered much more heatedly.

"You're right, I did. I forgot that for a little while. Thanks for reminding me." Starsky got to his feet and moved toward the door. "I better get back to minding my own business." He paused, mockingly innocent eyes traveling from one man to the other. "Unless you're going to arrest me."

"Mr. Starsky, wait a minute. Please," Dobey requested despite the shock that widened baby blue eyes.

"Hutch, have you come up with a way to get onto that track?" Dobey asked, putting his detective in the hot seat.

Hutch had come up with a dozen different ways to get himself past the gates—deliveryman or maintenance worker, among others. None of those covers, however, would give him the freedom of movement he needed. Despite his antipathy for the former cop, Hutch had no option but to be honest. "No," he admitted reluctantly.

"Detective, this is Monday. We've got less than a week to crack this case. Three million in cocaine could cause a lot of grief in Bay City. We've got to make use of whatever assets come our way," Dobey reminded him from the even hotter seat of command.

"Easy for you to say, Captain. It won't be you who washes up on the beach one fine morning," Hutch growled bitterly.

Dobey neither yelled nor blustered. He just held the blue eyes with his own dark gaze until his officer had no choice but to accept the unspoken truth and back down. Dobey spent most of his time behind a desk now, but he had been a damned good street cop at one time. All his men knew he would never forget what it was like to have his exposed ass waving in the breeze.

Rebellion radiating from every pore, Hutch nevertheless allowed the tension to ease from his body.

"What about you?" Dobey asked the man still poised to exit. "You willing to help someone who doesn't trust you as far as he can throw you?"

Starsky turned and sauntered a few steps deeper into the room. "To tell you the truth, I ought to just let you deal with your own problems. But, you know what, it's been a while since a captain of police called me an asset. Yeah, I'll help, if you can figure out a cover that doesn't put me in the line of fire."

Hutch opened his mouth to comment, but Dobey overrode him.

"What about it, Hutchinson? How can Starsky help you get in? What cover could you use?"

"A reporter," Hutch offered, reluctantly deferring to his superior.

Starsky snorted. Ignoring the chair he had previously occupied, he moved to lean his back against the file cabinet in the corner, arms crossed over his chest. "Brilliant. Just what a drug runner wants to see snoopin' around, a nosy reporter."

"A mechanic then?" Hutch snapped. He already knew his ideas were not the best and having to present them for derision was making him do a slow burn that was threatening to flare into forest-fire proportions at any moment.

The suggestion was met with a second inelegant snort followed by a derisive chuckle. Starsky pushed himself away from the cabinet, moving toward the seated cop with an exaggerated sway to his hips that drew the eye unavoidably to the heavy bulge at his groin. Stopping close enough for Hutch to feel his body heat, Starsky took the blond's right hand in both of his. Looking directly into uncomprehending eyes, Starsky let his thumb run over the tips of Hutch's fingers. "Too clean," he murmured in a husky growl. The impudent thumb brushed down the inside of the captured index finger, then slid caressingly over the palm. "Too soft."

Mesmerized by the heavy-lidded eyes, Hutch shivered, feeling the caressing brush of skin on skin all the way to his toes.

Starsky smiled a predator's toothy grin, abruptly dropping the hand he held back into Hutch's lap. He stepped back, shaking his head. "From the look of ya, you're lucky if ya know where the gas goes."

Snapped rudely from a sensual place he had had no wish to visit in the first place, Hutch did not notice that his hand curled in upon itself as if to trap the memory of the fleeting touches.

"If you've got such bright ideas, why not just save us all some time and trot 'em out," he challenged.

Starsky shrugged. "Given your limitations and your . . ." The impudent indigo gaze slipped from soft blond hair to scuffed boots, not missing a single feature in between and leaving Hutch feeling as if he had been stripped naked. "... assets, the only way I'm gonna get you onto the track without suspicion is as my sweet California boy toy."

Two jaws dropped, but Hutch recovered first. "You're out of your mind. Stark raving mad. If you think for one minute I'd put myself in a position like that. Talk about conspicuous . . ."

"Hutchinson! Close your mouth for a minute and let the man explain," Dobey bellowed.

Hutch turned his wrath on his captain, but the habit to obey when it really counted was deeply ingrained. He shut his mouth so hard his teeth snapped together.

"What makes you think a cover like that would work?" Dobey asked Starsky at a much-reduced volume. "As Sgt. Hutchinson pointed out, a homosexual . . . liaison would only make the two of you more conspicuous."

Starsky threw back his head and laughed. "Maybe in your squad room, Captain, but not in my world. People know I don't give a fuck what they think, and there're only a few that'd bother anyway. Mostly, we mind our own business on the circuit. It's known that I got a weakness for leggy blonds." Once again the leering gaze touched on all of Hutch's visible assets. "If Officer Hutchinson doesn't think he's up to a little play-actin' for the sake of duty, maybe you could assign someone who isn't such a tight ass."

"Mickey was my informant. This is my case," Hutch protested vehemently, jumping to his feet and leaning over Dobey's desk.

"If ya got any better ideas, trot 'em out," Starsky echoed Hutch's challenge.

Hutch looked into Dobey's eyes, but found no solution there.

"Well, Hutch, are you in or not?" Dobey unintentionally punned. What he himself thought of the idea did not show on his broad face.

Hutch let his head drop while he considered his nonexistent options. He was backed firmly into a corner, and he knew it. He had no doubt that Starsky would use their respective roles to torment him no end. That did not change the fact that it was the only plan they had come up with that had, if Starsky was to be believed, a chance of success. He could accept with what good grace he could muster, or find himself off the case. Slowly, he straightened and turned to face his nemesis.

"Mr. Starsky, it looks like you have yourself a boy toy," he said, nearly choking on the words.

Starsky grinned. "In that case, maybe you better call me Dave."

* * *

Hutch appropriated a tiny office down the hall for himself and his temporary partner to do some preliminary planning in private. He poured two cups of coffee before leaving the squad room and escorted Starsky to the office.

"Christ."

"Something wrong?" Hutch asked as he seated himself behind the table. He had his temper back under control and was determined not to let Starsky make him slip the reins again.

"You could clean a carburetor with this stuff," Starsky observed mildly, taking a second sip before setting his cup on the desk.

Hutch almost commented that he had always thought squad room coffee to be the same all over, but held it back. If he did not want to be offended, he was going to have to curb the urge to offend.

"Can we get down to it?" Starsky requested. "I got a cranky engine waitin' for me."

"Tell me about the set up," Hutch responded promptly.

"You mind?" Starsky asked, indicating the pad of paper and pen sitting on the desk.

Hutch slid the items over and watched as an amazing transformation took place in this man that he wanted to despise wholeheartedly.

Taking up the pen in his left hand, Starsky leaned over the pad and began to sketch, talking as he drew. "Parking, garages, stands, pits, track, and median," he said as the mentioned items quickly gained perspective on the page. "Every team has their own garage. There're doors at both ends of each bay—one out to the track and the pits and one to the parking lot. The garages are all under the stands. One giant circular building, really, with walls to separate 'em into private spaces. There's a half dozen or so entrances to the stands like this." A few slashes of the pen demonstrated. Starsky paused, chewing on the end of the pen as he considered, then tossed the pad toward Hutch. "It's a giant maze under the stands. The access passages, exits from garages, narrow alleyways into the pits."

"How many teams are involved in the race?" Hutch asked, impressed by the attention to detail and the no-nonsense manner in which Starsky had briefed him.

"Twenty is the official count. There'll be a few no-shows. Busted up cars or somethin'. You got a more international crowd than usually shows up for this small a prize. They're probably testin' out new cars, modifications, or maybe cherry drivers."

"International?" Hutch prompted.

"Yeah. Better than half a dozen out-of-country. Teams are already in from Germany, England and South America."

Hutch's head came up from the notes he was taking.

"Thought that would get your attention. One comin' in from Mexico, too. I got a list here," Starsky said, pulling the paper from his inside pocket and handing it over. "Ya can run it by your RandI guys, but that'll only give you the drivers."

Hutch unfolded the paper and scanned the handwritten list. None of the names meant anything to him. "Do you know anything about any of these people? Financial troubles? Stuff like that."

Starsky shrugged. "Money's tight for most independents at this level. Say half the men on that list. Prizes aren't that big and costs can be. Crack up a car, blow an engine, and you're not only outta the race but looking at big bucks to get back on the track. Some teams have official backers. Firestone, STP, like that. Gives ya a bit of an edge, but then ya gotta answer to the man all the time."

"I take it you're an independent," Hutch guessed.

"Sorta."

"Sorta?"

"My team are my partners."

"I see. Good friends, are they?"

Starsky offered a knowing look that said he saw right through the question. "You wanna know if I got any suspicions about my own team?"

Hutch nodded again, surprised when Starsky failed to offer immediate assurances. He could almost see the driver mentally reviewing each one of his partners.

"No," Starsky finally replied.

Hutch nodded, finding himself accepting the assurance more readily for the careful consideration Starsky had given it.

"To quote your captain, you don't trust me as far as you could throw me. Why trust my judgment?" Starsky asked curiously.

"Frankly, I don't know," Hutch admitted with a wry little smile.

"Cop's instinct?"

Hutch shrugged.

"Okay," Starsky accepted with an identical gesture. "There'll be more teams coming in for the next couple of days. Usually throw a party or three at night. Up to Thursday, maybe Friday. Give you a chance to listen and learn. You know, play dumb, keep your mouth shut and your ears open."

"I have been under cover a few times," Hutch objected, forgetting that he was not going to rise to Starsky's bait anymore.

Starsky raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Old habits," he assured.

Hutch scanned his notes. "I think there's enough here to give us a start," he said and looked up to find bitter disdain written all over Starsky's face.

"I hope you're usin' the royal plural there, blondie, 'cause there ain't no us," Starsky reminded him coldly. "I don't mind introducin' you around in the mornin', but I'm doin' it for Huggy. I ain't your partner and I ain't your backup. I don't get paid to stick my neck out."

Hutch wondered how he had forgotten that for even one minute let alone the entire hour that they had been talking.

"Like I said, I got a cranky engine waitin' for me," Starsky said, getting to his feet. If his pointed reminder had not already defused the tentative rapport between the two men, his icy manner would have achieved it handily.

"Don't forget to pack your toothbrush, Hutchie," he tossed back over his shoulder.

By the time Hutch thought of a comeback, Starsky was gone.

* * *

"What do you want?" Hutch asked ungraciously that evening when he opened his door to find Starsky leaning indolently against the jamb. Wearing an expression that said he had seen more attractive specimens in the gutter, he looked the shabby figure over from stained t-shirt to grubby sneakers.

"The question's just fine, but ya really gotta work on the tone, baby," Starsky responded with a lazy smile. "That just ain't no way to talk to your sugar daddy." Pushing away from the jamb, he shouldered past the sputtering blond and sauntered into the cottage.

Watching Starsky invade his home, Hutch found himself forgetting his low opinion of the former cop again, if only momentarily. There was something about the coiled strut that announced to the world that this man believed himself responsible for the moon and the stars, and maybe even for the placement of the sun. Arrogance it might be, but it was arrogance that refused to be ignored.

Starsky had made himself comfortable on the couch before Hutch could gather the presence of mind to protest.

"What are you doing here?" he paraphrased his own question, then added suspiciously. "And how did you find out where I live?"

"Huggy," Starsky replied succinctly, looking around and quite obviously finding his surroundings lacking.

Hutch almost apologized automatically for the untidiness of his little house but snapped his teeth over the words. There was no way he was going to excuse himself to someone who looked like he dressed out of a rag bag, and, moreover, was proud of it.

"Huggy?" Hutch echoed instead, thinking of the choice words he would have to say the next time he saw the jaunty entrepreneur. "Would you just tell me what you want?"

Deep blue eyes ran an insulting inspection from Hutch's white socks, over loose-fitting cords, and up to the neat, collarless blue shirt. "Practice."

"Practice?" Hutch echoed again, disgusted with himself that he could seem to come up with nothing more intelligent than parroting back every one of Starsky's one-word replies.

"Yeah," Starsky said, drawing the syllable out into a sentence. "Didn't get the impression ya had much experience playin' a bimbo."

"And you have, I suppose," Hutch snapped, cursing silently as he felt the blush climb up his neck into his face. Even he would have been unable to say if his heightened color was caused by embarrassment or fury.

"Nah, not the type. Ya really need that sweet angel face and golden blond hair to pull it off."

"I don't need you to tell me how to do my job," Hutch protested vehemently. He flung an arm toward the door. "Get out."

Starsky came off the couch so fast the two of them were standing nearly toe-to-toe before Hutch even realized that the other man had moved. A rigid finger poked into his chest as Starsky spoke.

"Grow up. Ya wanna risk your own ass bumbling around not knowing what you're doing, you go right ahead. But I'm the one bringin' ya into this scene and if there really is somethin' heavy goin' down, you ain't riskin' mine."

Swatting the hand away, Hutch took a step back, his body automatically preparing to defend against attack, while he noted that the wiry frame before him was doing the same. Standoff. Taking a deep breath, Hutch forced himself to calm down. He took another step back, letting the tension ease out of adrenaline-pumped muscles. Loath as he was to admit it, Starsky was right. He had some knowledge, to be sure, from contact with the hookers and hustlers on his beat, and had actually been preparing to hit the street and see what more he could glean from the people who worked them. However, he would be stupid to turn down help, whatever he might think of the source.

Like a dog offered the underbelly of a submitting opponent, Starsky also backed off, aggression draining away until only his usual cockiness remained.

"There ain't that many hustlers make it to your age as green as grass," he observed. "Not that you can't pass for younger. Mess up your hair, dress ya right . . ." He paused to grin. ". . . wipe the scowl off your face."

"You must work at it," Hutch growled, wanting to be furious all over again but only managing an annoyed amusement. "Nobody could be born this obnoxious."

"Natural talent, I assure you," Starsky bragged, then moved once more with unexpected speed to grab the bigger man and force him back against the door. Making his body one demanding caress from shoulders to knees, he cupped Hutch's head between both hands and held it still as his mouth sought surprise-parted lips.

Shock sapping away the advantage of his greater size and strength, Hutch squirmed ineffectually as his mouth was taken in one of the most devastating kisses he had ever experienced. The lips offered no quarter, ravishing his, while an agile tongue sought out and claimed for its own every sensitive crevice of his mouth. His will suborned by the attraction he had been battling since first laying eyes on Starsky, it was only the feeling of impudent fingers pulling the back of his shirt from the waistband of his cords that brought Hutch back to earth with a thud. Forcing his hands up between their two tightly pressed bodies, he straight-armed the insolent New Yorker away.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded, pausing to scrub at his lips with the back of one hand which did nothing to erase the other man's kiss from his memory.

"Makin' sure that the first time I kiss you for an audience, you don't puke," Starsky sneered. "Whadja think you'd be doin', simpering and batting your eyelashes? I'm gonna treat you the same way I would any other bimbo I picked up to keep me amused. The same way the other drivers'll be treatin' their groupies."

"You wouldn't dare act like that in public," Hutch breathed, his lips still tingling from the brutal kiss while the taste of Starsky's tongue lingered in his mouth.

"You know what," Starsky snarled, shaking off the big hand that held him at bay and stalking closer, "when somebody takes away the most important thing in your life, you just don't give a fuck anymore. I was a good cop." The statement came out as a strangled lament, but the rough voice strengthened again immediately. "I ate, slept and goddamned well breathed bein' a cop and it was tight-assed, narrow-minded bastards just like you that took it away from me."

"And you think you can make me pay for that?" Hutch counter-accused, realizing that they were once again squared off against each other. This was going to descend into a knockdown, drag-out fight if one of them did not back down soon. He recognized the danger and tried to make himself empathize with Starsky, to think of how he would feel if he could no longer be a cop. It was useless. With the imprint of that muscular body still sensitizing his own flesh, he just could not make himself take that one step away.

Surprisingly, it was Starsky who backed off. Watching him, Hutch could almost see the furious racer bundle up his bitter emotions and shove them back beneath the surface guise of cocky self-confidence. Starsky spun on his heel and strode away as that facade began to crumble, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans as if to make them behave.

"You're right," Starsky finally admitted softly. There was a long pause filled with nothing but the ordinary sounds of a quiet street that filtered through the door. "They couldn't prove anything, ya know," he finally said as if the words had a will of their own and insisted on being spoken.

Hutch could not tell if the quiet statement was an accusation or self-defense. "Why didn't you fight it?"

The muscular shoulders lifted and dropped, one hand rising to run through already mussed curls. "I couldn't disprove it either."

"You want to tell me about it?" Hutch offered hesitantly. Did he want to know? Did he care? His doubts must have been apparent in his tone for, as he watched, the slumped shoulders straightened and the bowed head came up. It was no surprise, when Starsky turned around, to find no trace of whatever emotional wounds he bore upon the long face.

"No," Starsky replied bluntly. "I wanna show ya what you need to know to keep both our asses out of a sling, then I wanna go back to people who don't judge me."

Hutch spread his hands before him, palms up in a gesture of truce. "Fair enough. What do I need to know?"

"Ya need to know that I'm gonna touch you. I'm gonna kiss you. And you’re gonna love it. That's the role. If you can't handle it, then for chrissake, bail now. If you freeze up or back off, people are gonna notice. Ya gotta keep in mind that as far as anyone knows, you're costin' me a bundle and I ain't payin' for coy evasions."

"You make it sound so crude," Hutch observed softly.

"There ya go, makin' judgments again," Starsky countered mildly but with an edge to his voice that warned that the confrontation averted a few moments ago could still erupt. "Can you do it?"

Hutch opened his mouth to state that he could do anything he had to do, then closed it. Blithe, unconsidered assurances were of absolutely no use here. Starsky was right. If he was unable to play his role convincingly, then it could cost both himself and the former cop their lives.

"Now, that's the smartest thing I've seen you do since I met ya," Starsky acknowledged and sat back down on the couch. Once again he stretched his arms out across the back of it, emphasizing the breadth and musculature of his chest through the thin material of his t-shirt. "Well, ya didn't puke when I kissed ya. That's somethin', I guess."

"Neither did you," Hutch pointed out. Despite an edginess that prodded him to stay on his feet and prowl, he moved to the chair across from the couch and eased himself down.

"Big difference, baby blue," Starsky purred, looking directly into Hutch's eyes. "Ya see, I'd be happy to take all your blond beauty to bed any time." He paused to offer the outrageously cocky grin again. "I don't expect to have any problems playin' my part."

"Are you trying to tell me you're going to . . ."

"Jump you?" Starsky finished for him. "Nah, rape's not my scene." The invasive gaze once again tracked down Hutch's body, this time dismissing the outward trappings in favor of a glowing appreciation for what lay beneath. "Which don't mean I might not try and seduce you."

"Don't bother," Hutch snapped. He cast about for something to steer them away from the much too personal trend their conversation had taken. "You said I needed to dress differently . . ."

Starsky nodded. "Not that you don't look good like that, but ya need to go for a . . . sexier look. More skin." He got to his feet and moved to stand in front of Hutch. He slipped his hand into the blond hair, lifted and let the strands run through his fingers like liquid gold. "And mess this up," he advised, his voice huskier, eyes entranced as he repeated the caress.

Hutch pulled away abruptly. "I get the idea."

Starsky's gaze hardened. "I doubt it." Abruptly, he turned his back and headed for the door. "I'll pick you up at 7:00 tomorrow morning. Be ready," he tossed over his shoulder before he departed as abruptly as he had appeared.

Hutch was left shaking his head over the mercurial moodiness of his temporary partner. One thing Hutch had to give the man, he had more gall than Ulysses S. Grant.

* * *

Dressed casually in cords and a windbreaker jacket, Hutch received more than one come-on during the hour he spent cruising Hustlers' Alley on foot. He had patrolled this same four-block strip a thousand times in his nondescript LTD, could single out a prospective john at a glance, and knew more than a few of the hookers by reputation if not by name. He had seen it all before, but now he was looking with different eyes.

Now he saw the pounds of makeup, the studiedly casual hair, the acres of skin as the tools of the trade that they were. In particular, he noted the young men flaunting their wares and accepted that Starsky was right; he could pass if he put his mind to it. These men were in no better shape than he was, and they filled their jeans no more impressively than he could. His "costume" could easily be had by sacrificing worn jeans and a few shirts to the tender mercies of a sharp pair of scissors.

As for the scowl, Hutch thought as he caught a glimpse of himself in a storefront window, Starsky was right about that, too. That was going to be the hardest of all, especially with the aggravation that Starsky promised to be. He would have to work on that tonight when he got home, but first he had some unfinished business to clear up with a certain enterprising peacock.

* * *

The Pits was always a much quieter place by midnight on a weekday, so when Hutch came into the bar through the kitchen he had no trouble spotting Huggy Bear right away. The hour cruising the streets consciously absorbing what went on around him had provided him with a wealth of material. He felt much more confident now over how he should dress and act to fulfill his role. The problem of his instinctive distrust for a crooked cop was a hurdle that was much harder to vault. Leaps of faith were not exactly his business. He needed more information and since Starsky obviously had no intention of providing it, Hutch needed to go to the next best source.

Rather than going to a table, Hutch chose a seat at the empty end of the bar. He watched as Huggy served two other customers, filled an order for his waitress, swabbed down the bar and stacked some dirty glasses in a tub before condescending to notice Hutch's presence. It looked like his informant was mad at him. At the moment, Hutch was quite prepared to return the favor with interest.

"You come around to insult some more of my friends," Huggy demanded belligerently when he finally made his way to the end of the bar.

"As I recall, the insults were going both ways," Hutch said mildly. "You wanna tell me why you gave him my address?"

"I didn't know it was some kind of state secret," Huggy drawled. Deliberately, he turned his back and went to serve another customer. When he returned, he placed a tall draft in front of Hutch.

"He said he changed his mind and you were working together," he explained with the liquid peace offering.

Hutch picked up the glass and took a long swallow, watching his friend over the brim. He returned the glass to the bar, focusing on placing it exactly back in the wet ring, then looked up into Huggy's guarded face.

"Why didn't you tell me he used to be a cop?" he asked softly, letting the minor offense of the breach of his personal privacy slide.

Huggy shrugged but offered no excuse.

"Did you know he left the force because of corruption charges? Did you know you were encouraging me to include a crooked cop in a major drug investigation?" The softness of Hutch's tone did nothing to disguise the seriousness of it.

"Dave Starsky ain't no crooked cop," Huggy said with finality. "I tried to tell you both last night, but neither one of you were listenin'. I ain't never seen you go off the rails like that before, or Starsk neither. You were like a couple of stray Toms, hissin' and spittin'. I couldn't believe my ears."

"Did you know?" Hutch insisted, ignoring the counter-accusation for the time being.

Huggy sighed, looked away, then looked back. "Dave Starsky ain't no crooked cop," he reiterated. "Somethin' happened back east that it ain't no business of mine to be noisin' around, and he got a raw deal. The rawest, man."

"Are you saying he was falsely accused? Why didn't he fight it?"

"I'm sorry, Hutch, but that has gotta come from Starsk." Huggy swiped at the bar a few times with a rag, his expressive face reflecting his serious thoughts. "But this ain't really about Starsky. This comes down to you trustin' me."

"You've never given me reason not to," Hutch admitted cautiously.

"That's right. I never have. And you know me pretty well. You know how I feel about a lotta things."

"You can still surprise me occasionally," Hutch qualified.

"Yeah, well, everybody's gotta have a little mystery to 'em." Huggy watched his hand moving the bar rag around in circles for a minute. "You know that I've lived a lot of places, done a lotta things, known a lotta people. In all the years I've lived by my wits, there ain't but one form of life I truly believe don't deserve the air he breathes and that's a crooked cop. You live like I do, you get so's you can smell 'em. Dave Starsky never had that smell to him. Never will."

"And you know what it's all about, but you won't tell me?"

Huggy looked up sharply. "That's right," he answered bluntly.

"You know, Hug, for an informant, you're not very informing."

"That so?" Huggy challenged, head up, back straight and arms held out stiffly behind him so that he looked like an outraged rooster. "Then maybe I shouldn't tell ya about the little bird I heard whisperin' today."

Hutch picked up his glass, took another sip and waited.

Huggy relaxed the exaggerated posture. "No names or nothin', but I think you're on the right track. If ya get my meanin'."

"Then I better get home and get some sleep. I told Dobey if he needed to get anything to me to call you and you'd pass it along and I'd do the same if I couldn't call him directly. All right?"

Huggy rolled his eyes. "So now I'm your answerin' service, too?"

* * *

Tuesday

By the time the big, red Torino pulled up in front of his home the next morning, Hutch had come to terms with the role he had to play and had drawn his professionalism around himself like a cloak.

Taking one last look in the mirror before answering the door, he wondered if that would be enough to protect him if the weather failed to warm up. It seemed to him there were acres of his bare skin exposed by the cut-off shorts and abbreviated shirt he had chosen as his costume. With effort, he replaced the scowl with a vapid smile and went to answer the door.

It was almost worth suffering the chill morning air that kissed his exposed flesh just to see the expression on Starsky's face when the portal swung open between them. Hutch's glee quickly faded when Starsky, as if enthralled, reached out a hand to touch.

"You'll pull back a stump," he warned without changing expressions.

"Still the tight ass, I see," Starsky complained but prudently withdrew his hand. Aplomb regained, he sauntered through the door and turned to appreciate the view as Hutch closed it. "Maybe it's a good thing your ass is so tight or it'd be hangin' outta those shorts."

"Let's get one thing clear right now, Mr. Starsky. When we've got an audience, I'm prepared to put up with whatever it takes to maintain my cover. Otherwise, you keep your comments and your hands to yourself."

"Can I just say one more thing?"

Hutch sighed as yet another facet of his temporary partner was revealed. He bet the man could charm the birds right out of the trees with that smile if he set his mind to it. It annoyed him that he found himself wondering just who this man really was beneath the bitter, arrogant facade he wore like a suit of armor.

"No!"

"Okay, okay," Starsky agreed. "But I was just gonna say ya did a good job on the look."

Hutch allowed his ruffled feathers to be smoothed, reminding himself that he had a job to do. "I'll get my bag," he excused himself to go to the bedroom for the suitcase he had packed, very aware of the eyes that followed his every move.

Starsky held the door for him and, somewhat self-consciously, Hutch stepped out into the street, fervently hoping that none of his neighbors were out and about this early Tuesday morning. For once, his luck held and within a few moments they were seated in the flamboyantly striped car.

To Hutch's surprise, Starsky pulled away from the curb and drove along sedately. His surprise must have shown on his face because Starsky laughed lightly. It was the first time Hutch had heard the sound free of the shadings of bitterness that seemed to color all of Starsky's life. Unencumbered, Starsky's laughter was a joyous sound that made Hutch want to join in.

"I get all the speed I can handle on the track," Starsky replied to the unvoiced question. "Not that I wouldn't open her up on a nice stretch of clear highway."

"No such thing around here, even this early," Hutch said, watching the easy confidence with which Starsky shifted through the gears.

"So I've noticed," Starsky agreed with heavy irony, smoothly moving into traffic from the on-ramp. "Same as most big cities." He covered a yawn with the back of his hand.

"Little early for you, is it?" Hutch asked.

"Yeah. 'Specially when I haven't seen my bed yet."

Hutch was not going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. He reminded himself that where, why, and with whom this man slept was of no concern to him. David Starsky was a means to an end. Nothing more. He would feel a lot better about his own self-assurances, however, if another part of him would stop standing back and grinning at his self-delusion.

Starsky reached over then and turned on the radio, effectively putting an end to further conversation. The morning news carried them to the side road leading to the track where Starsky turned in. He killed the radio and glanced over at his passenger.

"Show time, Officer. Ya ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be," Hutch confirmed, taking in every detail he could as Starsky drove around the parking lot to his team's designated garage and concluding that Starsky's description and diagram of the facility had been uncannily accurate.

As they pulled up and parked outside the open doors, a young man in well-worn coveralls spotted them and waved.

Taking a deep breath, Hutch let himself out of the car, hearing Starsky's door close on the other side. He waited while the other man orbited the car, psyching himself up for the role he was about to play. Still, he automatically tensed in reaction when Starsky's arm slipped around him and pulled him in close, surprised to feel a reassuring squeeze.

"The masquerade has started, Cinderella," Starsky reminded him, disguising his words by nuzzling the blond hair curling around Hutch's ear.

Hutch forced himself to relax and act as if he enjoyed the possessive embrace, letting himself be led into the garage.

"Merle," Starsky called out as they approached a broad behind bent over the open hood of a sleek red and white car.

The bent figure straightened, talking before he turned around to reveal a grease-smudged black face. "Well if it ain't Mr. Midnight Auto Repair himself. Man, you musta been at this car all . . ." The older man trailed off as he completed the turn and saw Hutch. "Then again, maybe you wasn't. Musta been the engine fairies got this car hummin' along like a heavenly choir." The dark gaze traveled over Hutch with a flick.

"Merle meet Hutch," Starsky introduced perfunctorily. "Hutch, this here is Merle the Earl. The magician of mechanics. The greatest of the grease monkeys. This man could teach Henry Ford a thing or three about cars."

"And don't ya forget it either," Merle growled, still assessing what was, Hutch could only assume by the man's unsurprised manner, the latest of Starsky's long-legged blonds. After a minute, the mechanic stuck out a greasy hand. "Where'd ya come across this no-account white trash?"

It took a moment for Hutch to realize that the mechanic was talking to him and not Starsky. Despite Starsky's assurances, he had expected surprise at their apparent relationship, if not open censure. Certainly not this unconcerned welcome. But he had been asked a direct question and dumb blond act or no, he needed to answer. Since they had failed to discuss it, he decided to stick with the truth.

"We met at the Pits . . ."

"You know that jive-talkin', overdressed string bean, too? Don't think there's a soul, white or black, who ain't had the pleasure, or misery, of old Huggy Bear's acquaintance."

Hutch made no attempt to hold back the grin provoked by the accurate description of his friend.

"You say Gena's purrin' like a kitten?" Starsky asked.

Half a second later, Hutch was abruptly abandoned as Starsky released him and the two men became engrossed in the racecar. Was this what Starsky considered getting him into the scene—one introduction?

"Hi. I'm Mike."

Hutch found himself shaking hands with a red-haired, slim young man who also wore coveralls. Hutch was beginning to think of the ubiquitous grey-green garment as some sort of uniform. Even Starsky was climbing into a pair as he and the mechanic talked.

"Hi. I'm Hutch," he said, remembering that Starsky had introduced him by the diminutive of his surname.

"Nice to meet you, Hutch. Listen . . ." Mike paused, glancing over to where two rear ends now bent over the car. "Don't get mad at him. Dave's a little single-minded when it comes to the cars. Why don't you let me show you around."

Hutch almost asked if Mike's designated title was babysitter but remembered in time that he was not supposed to be that perceptive. "That'll be great. I've never been to a racecar track before." That, at least, was the truth. Fast machines had never been one of his passions.

Once again taking in every detail he could while appearing only mildly curious, Hutch followed the younger man around on a brief tour of the garage. He was introduced to Juan, a young Hispanic who was training to be a mechanic under the auspices of the great Merle the Earl. A third coverall-clad man turned out to be an Italiano named Vince who was the Pit Crew boss. He was also told that there were four other men who filled out the crew who would be around later. Thinking that Starsky had a pretty international team himself, Hutch accepted a cup of coffee and then was abandoned a second time when Mike returned to his work.

One glance in the direction of the red and white car Hutch assumed was Gena revealed that Starsky was still completely engrossed. Left to his own devices for the moment, Hutch decided to make the best use of his time and learn the layout of the garage in the hope that any others he had to search might be similar. It was a good hour later that Hutch, bent over a pile of boxes with the mystifying labels of manifold, alternator, regulator, etc., felt a hand slide up his spine beneath the altered sweat shirt. Just in time he remembered not to react negatively and, instead, turned to face Starsky with a warm smile of greeting. Over the other man's shoulder, he saw that though they were busy with their work, the three team members were still present.

"Miss me?" Starsky asked, reaching out and taking Hutch's hand while with the other he brushed at the blond wisps falling over the high forehead.

Suppressing the temptation to give the hand holding his a demonstration of his strength, Hutch remained in character. "Yeah, I did, Dave. But Mike was really nice. I was just looking around." He manufactured a doubtful expression and pasted it on his face. "That's okay, isn't it?"

"Sure thing, babe. You can be my big, golden, curious cat," Starsky reassured him, pulling Hutch into a hug.

To Hutch's surprise, the hug was brief and friendly and the strength of the other man's arms felt oddly comforting. He had no time to consider this startling revelation because Starsky was taking his hand once again and leading him out of the building.

"I'm just gonna show Hutch around, Merle, and grab something to eat at the truck," Starsky called over his shoulder as they left.

"Truck?" Hutch echoed as they walked, acutely conscious of the warm, masculine hand enfolding his.

"Yeah. Catering truck. We passed 'em setting up when we came in. Bad coffee and soggy sandwiches, but better than nothing."

"Sounds like a cop's diet," Hutch said, then bit his tongue.

"You ain't wrong there. I didn't have to adjust hardly at all," Starsky agreed, swinging their hands between them as they walked.

"You're in a good mood," Hutch observed cautiously.

"Damn right. I spent mosta the night on that car and even Merle thinks she's ready for the trial run. She's gonna fly around that track," Starsky declared with a self-satisfied grin.

Hutch looked away from still another facet of the man he was trusting with his life. He never would have dreamed that the embittered, abrasive man he had been dealing with could be capable of such boyish delight. He was beginning to think of Starsky as some kind of multiple personality and, disconcertingly, realized he wanted to get to know all of the parts.

"Shit!"

Snapped back from his thoughts by the expletive, Hutch followed Starsky's gaze to the next garage. "What's wrong?"

"Yves LaFleur," Starsky spat the name. "And wouldn't ya know he's squattin' right next door."

"Who's he?"

"French. Yves's okay. Kinda arrogant." A scapegrace grin acknowledged the irony of the pot calling the kettle black. "But that goes with the territory."

"So what's the problem?" Hutch asked curiously.

Before Starsky could offer a reply, he was hailed by a heavily accented voice.

"Davey, mon ami."

"Him," Starsky muttered under his breath, but smiled insincerely as they greeted the slight, blond man approaching them.

"Hutch, this is Guy Giroux," Starsky said when Hutch had caught up. "The Flower's mechanic. He's almost as good as Merle." He slipped a possessive arm around Hutch's bare midriff. "And he's mine, Giroux. Ain't that right, Hutch?" he prompted as Hutch belatedly completed the embrace.

Hutch found himself the subject of one of the most blatantly sexual appraisals he had ever endured. The green-eyed stare made him want to squirm and, absurdly, cover the mound of his genitals protectively with both hands. Instinctively, he moved in closer to Starsky. "Yes," he confirmed, his reaction making the one word emphatic.

The light went out in the Frenchman's eyes and he smiled benignly. "When have I ever succeeded in stealing a conquest away from you, Davey?"

"And you ain't startin' now," Starsky growled. His hand slid up inside Hutch's shirt, zeroing in on a small nipple.

Hutch nearly jumped in surprise as a callused fingertip circled his sensitive flesh gently. He shivered as the traitorous bud responded, drawing up into a tight peak. Fighting not to fling away the brazen fingers, fighting harder not to enjoy the knowing caress, Hutch closed his eyes and let his lips part slightly in only partially simulated arousal.

"Not this one."

Hutch's eyes popped open in surprise at the openly menacing tone of Starsky's voice.

"As you say," Giroux conceded.

"See ya later," Starsky said, abruptly steering Hutch back out into the open in the direction of the next garage.

"Didn't you come on a little strong there?" Hutch asked, lengthening his stride. "Was it really necessary to . . . handle me like that?"

"Yes," Starsky answered grimly. "I needed to be sure he got the message."

"Why?"

"He's a sicko. A real predator. Steer clear of him, Hutch." Mobile eyebrows waggled over serious blue eyes. "Unless you wanna find yourself chewed up and spit out by a dude that's got more kinks than my hair."

"Get real. I'm six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than he is," Hutch protested despite his own reaction to the man.

"Which won't count for nothin' if he ever gets you alone," Starsky growled warningly.

Hutch stopped, forcing Starsky to do so as well. He waited until the former cop turned to face him. "Did he ever get you alone?"

Starsky snorted. "No way. I spent too many years on the street not to have his number five minutes after I met him. And before you try and lay a guilt trip on me, no one'll testify against him. All I can do is make sure people get warned."

Having dealt with the frustration of victims and witnesses too frightened to stand up for themselves, Hutch could sympathize with Starsky's predicament. It must have shown in his face because suddenly Starsky metamorphosed into the cocky persona that Hutch loathed.

Slipping both hands up the front of Hutch's cut off shirt, Starsky's fingers found Hutch's nipples once again, giving each one a delicate pinch before his palms flattened to cup the swell of pectoral muscle. "Ah, ah, ah," he warned around a seductive smile when Hutch tried to pull away. "Don't forget we're on stage here. Gimme a kiss," he demanded.

Seeing numerous people moving around out of the corner of his eye, Hutch had no choice but to comply. He lowered his head, locking his teeth in determination that Starsky would have to work at it to take their role-playing too far. To his surprise, his lips were barely brushed before Starsky was pulling away, reestablishing the possessive grip around his waist and leading him along.

"Come on. Merle and I gotta hit the auto supply and I'm starved," Starsky announced, rubbing his flat belly.

"Who the hell are you?" Hutch exclaimed.

The bitterness was blazing from behind thick lashes as Starsky replied. "What the fuck do you care?"

Put back in his place effectively, Hutch could do nothing but maintain his own role as Starsky lead him from garage to garage, talking shop and incidentally introducing him to drivers, mechanics and whoever else happened to be hanging around, including a couple of underdressed, overly made-up women whose knowing looks welcomed him to their ranks. The feel of Starsky's hands upon his body became familiar as did the occasional brush of soft lips and bristly stubble upon his shoulder or neck as Starsky projected his affectionate ownership to everyone they met. It was disconcerting to feel his body responding to the blatant manhandling while his mind urged him to deck the arrogant bastard.

At last, the final occupied garage had been visited and Starsky turned them toward one of the entrances leading into the track itself. They could skirt the track and come out through another exit where the catering truck was parked.

"You enjoyed humiliating me," Hutch accused as soon as they were out of earshot of anyone else. He was very conscious of the fingers in his back pocket that were not still but very, very busy mapping the contours of the cheek of his ass.

"What was your first clue, Sherlock?" Starsky countered.

Hutch fumed as Starsky's fingers pushed down deeper into his pocket until they caressed the sensitive under-curve of his asscheek.

"Anybody ever tell ya ya got a nice ass?" Starsky added, the suppressed laughter in his voice letting Hutch know the former cop was well aware of Hutch's reaction.

Entering the relative privacy of the enclosed entranceway, Hutch pulled away. "You should talk," he snapped, flustered by his body's reaction to the other man's touch.

Starsky just grinned wider. "So you noticed, huh?"

Thoroughly agitated, Hutch continued to let his mouth run away with him. "In those jeans? The Pope would notice."

Eyebrows waggling, Starsky's gaze traveled over Hutch's body, lingering on the prominent bulge in the brief shorts. Without a word, he turned his back and continued on the way they had been going, deliberately swaying his hips in their tight denim covering. To preserve his cover, Hutch had no option but to follow. That did not mean he had to feed the bastard's ego. A dozen paces further on, when Starsky glanced back over his shoulder, he found Hutch following obediently. His blue eyes, however, were focused on the back of Starsky's head.

Starsky just grinned unrepentantly.

* * *

It was several hours later before it became apparent to Hutch just how good a job Starsky had done that morning. After the driver and mechanic had left, Hutch had spent an hour chomping at the bit while cooling his heels in Starsky's garage. He was accomplishing worse than nothing sitting on his butt here. Finally, likely noticing the blond's restlessness, Mike had suggested that Hutch go have a look around.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon, Hutch was amazed to find his movements virtually unrestricted. He went where he wished, encountering nothing more than the occasional delay when someone wanted to chat. Otherwise, he was greeted with a wave and a friendly smile. He had worked undercover often enough to know how unusual this openness with strangers was. Starsky obviously knew the character of the people he dealt with very well and how to use it. With little more than an hour of friendly talk and affectionate gestures, he had established Hutch's cover as solid as a rock. Hutch was now one of the crowd and his presence and questions aroused no more suspicion than any other companion's might have. It helped that this society itself appeared to be a bohemian one, accepting each other without censure for race, creed, color, or, it appeared, sexual orientation.

Hutch had worked his way to the track itself, having gleaned little of use besides knowledge of the layout, when Starsky tracked him down. Leaning on the rail and watching with interest as one of the American drivers took his vehicle through her paces, the first Hutch was aware of Starsky's presence was when a now familiar hand patted him on the ass. He straightened reflexively, and, as if he had anticipated the move, Starsky planted a bristly kiss on the side of his neck.

"You're back," Hutch observed, making his tone welcoming and his expression pleased for the sake of the people around them.

"Couple of hours now," Starsky confirmed, most of his attention on the track. He whistled appreciatively. "Looks like Roy's old man did him proud this season. Uh. No. Wait a minute. Hear that?" he asked, head cocked to the side, expression intent.

Hutch could hear nothing unusual in the growl of the oversized engine.

Starsky shook his head as the car on the track suddenly lost speed and coasted into a pit. "Guess he caught it."

"Caught what?" Hutch asked curiously.

"She's whinin' like a sick puppy by the time he cranks her up to 200." Starsky dismissed the other man's troubles with a shrug of his shoulders.

"What does that mean?" Hutch asked, finding himself more curious now that he was actually immersed in the scene.

"It means he's gotta find it and fix it, lover," Starsky explained patiently, slipping his arm around Hutch's waist.

Hutch went with the pull that brought him in closer to Starsky, surprised to find the mixed aromas of oil and gas and male sweat not at all unpleasant.

"What if he can't, Dave? Does that mean he can't race?" He had already guessed the answer but asked the question for appearance's sake. He really hated playing dumb.

"He won't if he's smart. At least not that car," Starsky confirmed. "But Roy'll find it. He's second generation." Seeing the genuine lack of understanding in Hutch's face, the New Yorker went on. "His dad raced. Hit the wall when Roy was 19 or so and busted up his legs. Roy took over." He turned them away from the track. "Come on, Hutch. I want to get back to the house."

"House?" Hutch echoed.

"Yeah. We're rentin' a place on Borden Street," Starsky explained. "Not too far away and cheaper in the long run than hotel rooms. Come on, baby blue. I'm starved and Vince's cookin' tonight."

* * *

Starsky was naked within thirty seconds of the bedroom door closing behind them. Worn sneakers were toed off while the filthy t-shirt was being pulled over the tousled head. The crumpled material had barely hit the floor before faded jeans and tiny briefs joined it. Still wearing grimy white socks, Starsky reached for the ceiling, stretching every muscle from his toes to his fingertips.

Two steps behind, Hutch stopped in his tracks, a little stunned by the sudden and rapid disrobing. He gulped, tried to drag his eyes away from the display and failed.

"Christ, I'm tired," Starsky declared, bringing his hands down to run through his hair, wincing when his fingers caught in the tousled curls.

"Put your stuff wherever ya want," he instructed over his shoulder. "I travel light so there's lotsa room. I'm gonna shower for about an hour."

Hutch had long ago grown accustomed to male nudity. Despite the occasional stirring of interest in other men, community showers at the academy and various stations had inured him to the sight of male bodies. He could certainly recall no time when another man's naked body had so enthralled him that he had been literally incapable of turning his gaze away. He had even seen bodies far more perfect than Starsky's. The furry torso bore several old, white scars and the muscular legs were more than a little bowed. Nevertheless, a full minute after the lithe figure had sauntered into the bathroom, Hutch was still motionless. Abruptly, he shook his head as if coming out of a trance and looked around the room.

Chest of drawers, one exceedingly uncomfortable looking wicker chair, closet door, bathroom door, two bedside tables, and one large bed. Hutch did a double take. One bed. He sighed.

Slowly, Hutch approached the spread-draped mattress and lifted his suitcase onto it. He snapped the lock and lifted the lid, staring down at the contents. Scooping out a handful of socks and briefs, he moved the few steps to the dresser. The second drawer he opened was empty so he dropped the clothing into it. Opening the closet doors proved that Starsky was a man of his word. One sweater, three shirts and four pairs of jeans. The man certainly did travel light.

One bed.

"Oh, come off it, Hutchinson," he chastised himself quietly. "You're acting like the heroine in a bad romance."

He was not a silly girl; he was a man. A hard-nosed cop. Sharing a bed with another man was no threat to him. Especially a man he didn't even like. Besides, Starsky was smaller than he was, and the bed was huge. As a last resort, there was always the floor, even if his bad back would be screaming bloody murder in the morning.

Neatly hanging his clothes in the closet consumed a whole ten minutes. If Starsky really meant to shower for an hour then Hutch had another fifty minutes before his own turn with the facilities. Since the water was still running full blast and the strains of some indecipherable melody were rising above the muted thunder, he had no reason to think Starsky would be done soon.

You could always join him.

Hutch looked around the room guiltily even though he knew he had made the suggestion only within the confines of his own mind. Angrily, he retrieved his notebook from the case and slammed the lid. He bent to slide the case under the bed, then circumnavigating the pile of Starsky's crumpled clothing, made himself as comfortable as possible on the wicker chair.

Flipping the notebook open, he began comparing the list Starsky had given him with the people he had been introduced to that day. Recalling and jotting down every detail he could remember, Hutch soon became involved in his work. As usual, any and all personal considerations slunk into the back of his mind as he concentrated completely on the case. It was always that way, which was one of the reasons his brief marriage and relationship after relationship ended in bitter recriminations. It was a curse, and a salvation.

"All yours."

Hutch looked up to find a still naked Starsky coming out of the bathroom, a towel draped over his dripping head. If Hutch had found the retreat enthralling, in advance Starsky was riveting. Dark hair curled over the curve of pectoral muscles, narrowing as it arrowed down the rippling abdomen, thickening again as it reached the groin, providing both frame and cushion for the dark, plump genitals swinging gently between thickly-muscled thighs.

Hutch forced his gaze back to his notes but the vision of the naked body remained imprinted upon his retinas. With effort, he forced himself to see the writing on the page, focusing fiercely until the random squiggles became intelligible once again. This . . . distraction had to stop. Hutch looked up and was again treated to the view of a long back and delightfully rounded buttocks as Starsky stood before the closet.

"Whachya gonna wear to the party?" Starsky asked.

"What party?" Hutch countered, realizing belatedly that Starsky was studying Hutch's meager choices rather than his own.

"There's a party just about every night. A lot of these dudes start the day with a hair of the dog, if you get my drift." Obviously deciding to leave Hutch's choice to him, Starsky pulled out a pair of faded jeans, looked at the shirts before rejecting them all and crossed to the dresser for a t-shirt and briefs.

When Hutch realized he was following every move with his fascinated gaze, he snapped his notebook closed, laid it aside and went to contemplate his own limited selection of clothing. Jeans and perhaps the mauve silk shirt someone had bought him and which he had never worn. "You spend all night, every night, partying?" he asked.

"Not me." The bed protested quietly as Starsky's weight settled on it. "Managed not to end up an alky during nine years on the force. Don't plan on crawlin' into a bottle now and doin' the backstroke down to skid row."

Hutch agreed silently. The police force had one of the largest proportions of alcoholics of any profession in the country. Maybe even the world. It was neither very surprising, nor difficult to fall into, Hutch had discovered early in his career. A few beers after work with the guys to take the edge off the day, a few, or more than a few, more to make the mindless drivel on television seem less insulting to his intelligence, a bottle of wine with dinner, and a drink or three or five at a disco. Luckily, he had discovered healthy living in time to save him from the fate of too many of his brother officers.

"I hear you," he agreed emphatically, forgetting that this brother officer had, according to Hutch's code of conduct, committed a far worse offense. It was difficult to hold the fact in front of him after his discussion with Huggy and the more he got to know Starsky. So many of the people he had spoken to today seemed to hold Starsky in respect at the very least. Could that many people really be afflicted with poor judgment? Even his own instincts kept leading him into trust despite the initial animosity between them and his discomfort with the blatant sexuality of their interaction.

"Richardson's party tonight. Expensive booze, good food, plenty of women."

The bed creaked again and Hutch turned to see that Starsky had propped himself against the pillows, rubbing the towel over his dripping curls.

"I might be able to pick up something useful . . ." Hutch trailed off as a toothy grin appeared beneath the towel. ". . . which is why you're breaking tradition and going."

"I go to the parties, Hutch, I just don't guzzle the booze," Starsky corrected. "Tonight won't be the first time it's paid to be the only teetotler in a room full of drunks."

The athletic body came off the bed in one smooth bounce. As quickly as the dirty clothes had been discarded, Starsky began tugging on his fresh clothing, much to Hutch's relief.

"I got a great big empty pit where my belly's supposed to be. I'm gonna go down and see what I can scrounge before dinner. Come on down as soon as you're ready and I'll give ya the cook's tour."

Before Hutch could offer a comment, Starsky was gone, having scooped up his dirty clothes on the way.

"Well, at least he doesn't expect me to clean up after him," he told the empty room and went to take his own shower.

* * *

It was unnecessary for Hutch to feign a total lack of comprehension during the conversation during dinner. Once the nine men that made up Starsky's team were seated around the big kitchen table and generous helpings secured from the pots and pans loaded on it, the talk immediately turned to cars. Although he never would have admitted it, Starsky's estimation of his mechanical knowledge had been fairly accurate. He did know where the gas went in, but beyond that his knowledge was sketchy and his interest even less. When his car ran, he drove it; when it didn't, he called the auto club.

A half-hearted attempt was made once or twice throughout the meal to include him in the talk, but, for the most part, he was left alone to indulge in his appreciation for the excellent meal. When he had consumed every morsel his tight pants would allow, he leaned back and, staying in character, offered a shy smile for tonight's cook.

"That's the best meal I've had in years," he complimented sincerely.

"Vince learned to cook in his Papa's restaurant," Starsky informed him, heaping his plate with a third helping.

"His grandma lived over our place and he was always down in the kitchen helping himself like one of the family," Vince said, providing a little snippet of Starsky's background.

"Too bad he didn't pick up a pointer or two," Merle grumbled. He pointed his laden fork at Hutch. "You just wait'll it's Dave's turn. Take my advice and make him take you out that night."

"You just ain't got no taste," Starsky defended his culinary honor.

"Yes we do," Mike chimed in. "That's why we eat out when you cook."

"He might be hot stuff behind the wheel, but he's a dud in the kitchen," Merle pronounced. "Hey, maybe you can take his turn. Can you cook?"

"Didn't ya just hear him say this is the best meal he's had in years," Starsky reminded him.

Before Hutch could voice a comeback, the phone rang. Vince got up to answer it.

"Hello," the pit boss said. "Yeah. Just a minute." He waved the receiver in Starsky's direction. "For you."

Starsky looked at his watch and pushed up from the table. Instead of accepting the instrument held out to him, he shook his head. "I'll take it upstairs," he said and left the room.

Hutch offered his help with clean up, but with so many doing their part, it consumed only a short time. When Starsky failed to reappear, Hutch remembered that he had said he was tired and wondered if he had opted for a quick forty winks. Since he needed to call Huggy to see if Dobey had passed on anything from RandI, he asked about the location of a phone and was directed to the den down the hall. Closing the door behind him, he sat down in a chair and picked up the phone receiver beside it. Realizing the phone was in use, he was about to hang up again when he heard a woman crying. With no better excuse than curiosity, Hutch continued to listen.

"Ah, Ma, don't cry."

"I'm sorry, Davey. I'm just so worried. I don't know what to do with him. He's so angry with your father."

"I know. Listen, Ma, if I win on Sunday, I'll let the guys move on to Phoenix and I'll fly home for a few days."

"Oh, Davey, no. You can't afford that."

"What I can't afford is for you to be so upset and worried. Never mind what I said about winning, I'll be home on Monday."

"Don't, Davey. I'm just being a silly old woman."

"You ain't silly and you ain't old. Dad just left you with more than you can handle, and Nicky's bein' a prick."

"David Michael Starsky, your language!"

"Sorry, Ma. I meant to say jerk. You can wash my mouth out with soap when I get home. Okay?"

There was a shaky laugh. "You're picking up bad habits hanging around those racetrack bums. If only your father ..."

"Now don't start worryin' about me, Ma. I'm doin' okay."

"Ah, Davey, you're such a good son."

"We gotta get off the line now, Ma. You need anything? I can go to Western Union and send some money."

"No. No. I think I just needed to talk to you, Davey."

"I'll call tomorrow night, okay?"

"If you can. Good-bye, Davey. Be careful."

"I will be, Ma. Good-bye."

There was a short silence, but before Hutch had a chance to replace the receiver, he heard Starsky's voice in his ear once again.

"Ain't anybody ever told ya it's not nice to eavesdrop on other people's telephone conversations, Hutch. At least not without a court order."

Hutch stared at the dead phone in his hand, feeling like an eavesdropping heel. It hardly helped that that was exactly what he was. He had just invaded a man's privacy for no better excuse than curiosity. Thoroughly disgusted with himself, Hutch made his call to Huggy.

* * *

Once they were alone in the car on the way to Richardson's hotel, Hutch offered an apology.

Starsky made no pretence of not understanding. He shrugged, lifted a hand off the steering wheel and then replaced it. "Nature of the beast, ain't it? You're a cop on a case. Gotta do your job."

"I didn't intend to eavesdrop on you. I was going to call Huggy. I heard a woman crying and . . . well . . . I should have hung up then," Hutch apologized.

Once again the broad shoulders moved beneath the worn brown leather. "So why didn't you?"

Hutch remained silent as another mile slipped by under the wheels of the Torino. "Because I was curious," he finally admitted.

"You got any orders for me tonight, Officer?" Starsky asked, obviously intending to drop the previous subject right there.

Reluctantly, Hutch let the matter drop as well. "Just introduce me to anyone I haven't met yet. Otherwise, act like you always do, I guess."

Starsky nodded acceptance of the instructions. "Okay. There'll be a lot of shoptalk going on. This group is pretty single-minded most of the time. There ain't no rules saying you gotta stick with me all night and you probably won't hear much if you do. Roam around if you want. We can just meet back at the car around midnight if we do separate."

That made sense to Hutch. "Midnight?" he echoed.

"Yeah. Around then, if you can. The party could go on all night, but I gotta get some sleep," Starsky said.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, Starsky concentrating on his driving while Hutch focused on immersing himself in his role once again.

When they arrived at the beachfront hotel, the party was already in full swing. It looked to Hutch as if the entire hotel was involved as people were spilling out into the hallways and balconies from dozens of rooms. There were also groups scattered here and there around the pool. Everywhere they looked there were people, consuming food and drink, and, in a few of cases, each other. At least it seemed so from the passionate necking they saw going on in a few of the rooms they stuck their heads into in their search for their host. They finally located Nigel Richardson holding court in the largest suite.

Snagging a couple of beers from the bar as he went by, Starsky gave one to Hutch and then slipped his free hand around Hutch's waist and insinuated them into the group surrounding the Englishman.

"David. Good of you to drop by, old man," Richardson exclaimed when he noticed them.

"Would I miss one of your parties, Nigel," Starsky replied, all traces of ill humor gone. He hitched one buttock up on the back of the couch Richardson sat on and drew Hutch toward him until the blond's ass nestled between his parted thighs. He slipped both arms around the trim waist. "Nigel, this is Ken Hutchinson. Hutch, this is Nigel Richardson."

The Englishman reached across the woman cuddled against his side to offer his hand. "Nice to meet you, Kenneth."

Hutch replied in kind and accepted the handshake, knowing the minute his hand touched the other's that this man was not a Starsky. He could not imagine this natty, debonair type clad in coveralls and up to his elbows in grease and his soft hand bore out that assumption.

"How was your trip over?" Starsky asked.

"Oh, splendid. Simply splendid. I've hired a new captain, you know. He's quite up on all things nautical. Had quite the pleasant little voyage," Nigel enthused.

"Nigel. You've got a call," someone bellowed above the music and chatter.

"You'll excuse me, won't you. There's good chaps," Nigel said as he reached for the phone at his side.

Starsky used the opportunity to get them away. Sliding off his perch, he bumped his groin into Hutch's ass to get him moving, steering the taller man from behind until they were out on the balcony in the fresher air.

"So, ya ever meet a duke before?" Starsky asked as they strolled along the narrow walkway, weaving in and around clustered groups of people.

"He's a duke?" Hutch echoed.

"Yeah. Or he will be when his old man croaks. Filthy rich, spoiled rotten and bored to tears. He's slumming it this year."

They carefully stepped over an entwined couple as they made their way down the staircase to the pool area.

"Won't the management or the other guests have something to say about all this?" Hutch asked, waving his bottle to indicate the widespread celebrations.

Starsky shrugged. "Nigel's probably rented the whole place. Might even have bought it. He travels with an entourage. Only half these people have anything to do with racing, the rest are hangers on." He glanced around to see if anyone was nearby, then leaned in close to Hutch's ear. "I wouldn't cross Nigel off your list of suspects just yet if I were you. The money wouldn't mean anything to him, but he might just be crazy enough to try it for fun," he whispered, but the laughter in his voice let Hutch know the former cop was not serious.

Hutch shivered as Starsky finished his whisper off with an ear nuzzle. He tried to suppress his reaction when the devil did it again for good measure.

"Sensitive ears, huh?" Starsky murmured, testing his theory by licking behind the right one then latching onto the soft lobe with strong white teeth.

Hutch felt his sex stirring, seeking room to grow in the already restricted crotch of his tight jeans. He refused to acknowledge the incipient arousal of his traitorous body or dignify Starsky's teasing with a reply. Instead, he tipped his head back as if to give Starsky more access and reached up and back to slide his fingers into the dark curls. If he had expected to surprise Starsky with his actions, he was disappointed. All Starsky did was take advantage of the invitation and push the limits one step further by plunging his tongue into the tender opening of Hutch's ear.

"If you refuse to share him, mon ami, must you flaunt him so?"

Two pairs of blue eyes popped open to stare at the speaker. Hutch, despite only a moment ago wanting to escape, found himself moving closer to Starsky, while the arms around his waist tightened obligingly.

"Giroux," Starsky acknowledged in a threatening growl.

The Frenchman threw his hands up in self-defense. "No need for unpleasantness," he protested and moved on to the stairs.

"That man makes my skin crawl," Hutch said softly as they watched the mechanic climb to the second floor.

"Go with your instincts," Starsky agreed seriously. Releasing one arm, he began steering Hutch toward a large group of people lounging beside the pool. "Come on. Let's see if we can get you some interesting information."

A chorus of greetings welcomed them to the mixed group of men and women. Pleasantries were exchanged and then the talk turned inevitably back to cars and races, leaving Hutch free to keep his mouth shut and observe. He had met most of the men this afternoon at the track, but only one of the women. He felt the appraising eyes of the rest of the women on him now. He was used to women sizing him up, but had never before had them look upon him as competition. It was an odd feeling.

Over the next 20 minutes, Hutch watched as one after another of the women got bored, their eyes glazing over. He caught the eye of one particularly beautiful brunette who nodded toward a second group of empty loungers a few feet away. He looked at Starsky who was totally engrossed in a conversation that might as well have been Mongolian for all Hutch understood of it. If he were lucky, maybe the brunette and her friends would at least speak English. As if on a pre-arranged signal, half the group, all women except for Hutch and one other young man, rose and moved. If their defection was even noticed, nothing was said.

"Cars and races. Cars and races. That's all they ever talk about," a bleached blonde honey complained as she curled up on one of the loungers and lit a cigarette.

"Like we've got such a broad range of intellectual discussion going for us, right?" the brunette who had attracted Hutch's attention asked the group at large. She once again caught Hutch's eye and patted the foot of her lounger in invitation. Cautiously, Hutch accepted, wondering if he was setting himself up for a nasty scene with a jealous boyfriend, forgetting for a moment that these men would consider him safe.

"Sure we do," the unnatural blonde insisted. "By the way, I'm Cindy." she said to Hutch. "You're sitting with Tina. That's Cathy, Linda, Tracy, Jason and Maria."

"I'm Hutch," the cop introduced himself. "So what intellectual subjects does everyone want to discuss?"

"Clothes," Tina suggested.

"Makeup," was Linda's vote, which seemed appropriate to Hutch since she had about a pound of it on her face.

"Jewelry," Tracy piped in.

"Money," Jason suggested.

"Now there's a boy with his priorities in order," Tina chortled. She reached over and tapped a rather morose-looking Maria on the arm. "What's up with you tonight, honey? Why the long face?"

"It's Carlos. Sponsor trouble, you know," the Latino woman responded promptly. "No win, no sponsor. No sponsor, it's back to tending goats in Argentina. And where does that leave Maria? No wedding ring, no visa. Not that I want to live in a jungle."

"You think sponsors are a pain in the ass, try independent," Cathy joined in. "Every cent goes into the damned cars and expenses. We had to live with his mother off season and, believe me, that was no fun at all."

For the first time, Hutch noted the plain wedding band on Cathy's manicured hand, and surreptitiously scanned the others. There was no one in this particular group other than Cathy who appeared to be married.

"If you had a house, you couldn't travel the circuit with Mark," Linda pointed out.

Cathy shrugged eloquently. "So. Long as the house is in my name and he doesn't bring home the clap."

Quite obviously Cathy, like Jason, was someone with her priorities in order.

"Enough with the gloom and doom. This is a party," Tracy reminded the group. "Let's talk about something important."

"Like what?" Jason prompted.

"Like," Tracy leaned forward, intent dark eyes resting on Hutch, "is Dave as good in bed as he thinks?"

Hutch, caught totally flat-footed by the question, sat and stared and stammered as he tried to think of something to say. Somehow "a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell" didn't seem an appropriate response.

"Now ain't that cute," Tina drawled, reaching over to pat Hutch's flaming cheek. "Give the poor guy a break."

But Tracy wasn't listening. "I mean, what is it with him anyway? His girls blush like that, too. Come on, Hutch, tell us. Is he really kinky or something?"

"Tracy, for Pete's sake, leave it alone. You're just jealous 'cause Dave only ever goes for blondes," Cindy accused, running her fingers through her hair.

"Natural blondes," Tracy snapped back.

"Meeeeooooow," Jason interjected, which made all of the women giggle and turned the talk to other things.

When everyone decided it was time for another round, Hutch volunteered to go for it. He took his time, wandering from room to room, catching bits of conversation here and there. Most of it was mechanical, but a snippet here and a remark there were all adding to the overall picture of this society that he was creating in his head.

Finally filling the order and piling it on a tray, he headed back out to the pool. When he cleared the stairs, he looked over at the group of men where Starsky had last been, checking momentarily when he realized that the curly head was no longer in evidence. Continuing on, scoping out the area for any sign of Starsky, he brought the tray to the group of women and bent to deposit it on the low table.

"Anybody see where Dave went," he asked casually as he resumed his seat at Tina's feet.

"Probably out to the parking lot to look at somebody's engine," was Cathy's somewhat inebriated and disinterested opinion.

Hutch stayed around for a few more minutes to be polite, then excused himself, ostensibly to look for Starsky. He assumed a little show of jealousy/insecurity would not go amiss for someone in the position he was supposed to be in. In actual fact, since he and Starsky had agreed to meet at the car at midnight should they separate, Hutch spent the hour until then once again cruising from room to room. As Starsky had said, there were certain advantages to being sober when those around you were well into their cups. Loose lips not only sank ships, they often provided cops with some of their best leads.

As midnight approached, Hutch arrived back at the car first and stood leaning against the passenger door waiting for Starsky to show up. He spotted the jaunty figure headed his way and watched as he was waylaid by a pretty redhead in a skirt so short it almost qualified as a belt. A hug was exchanged. From where Hutch stood, it looked like the woman would have been happy to carry on to a much more intimate conclusion, but Starsky broke away and continued on toward the car. The woman stood where she had been left, watching, so Hutch was unsurprised to be immediately taken into strong arms when Starsky reached him and kissed lightly.

The soft lips, tasting of beer and chocolate and the lingering traces of garlic from dinner, moved a hair's breath away.

"Is she still watching?" Starsky whispered, each movement of his lips brushing their softness against Hutch's.

Hutch looked up through his lashes. "No," he replied, dropping his arms. He reminded himself fiercely that he was playing a role, nothing more. His body clamored to express its own opinion, but he ignored it.

"Too bad," Starsky muttered and released him with that cheeky grin. "Come on, Cinderella, your pumpkin awaits."

"More like a tomato," Hutch shot back, earning himself a glare but proving that he, too, was capable of getting in the last word.

* * *

"So, did you pick up anything interesting?" Starsky asked around a yawn when they were once again behind the closed door of his bedroom. He stretched mightily, then began pulling off his t-shirt.

"I thought it was none of your business," Hutch reminded him mildly, kneeling to retrieve his notebook from where it was locked in his suitcase. He was trying to ignore the masculine torso as it came into view but was, once again, failing.

"Guess my curiosity's aroused," Starsky admitted, appearing unconcerned by his change of heart. He sat down on the bed to discard shoes and socks, then stood to start on his jeans.

Hutch concentrated on his notebook as he sat on the wicker chair, acknowledging to himself that Starsky's curiosity was not the only thing in the room that was aroused. His libido had certainly picked a hell of a time to exchange the occasional vague attraction for focused lust. He tried to remember what they were talking about.

"Waste of time then, was it?" Starsky asked, giving his jeans a halfhearted fold and tossing them over the foot of the bed.

Right. The case. "No," Hutch replied. If he kept his eyes off the nearly naked man, he could concentrate. After a fashion. "Carlos Montoya is having sponsor troubles. Mark Leland's wife isn't happy. The Mexican team got stopped at the border and thoroughly searched," he said as he made his notes.

"Dobey?" Starsky called through the open bathroom door.

"I don't know. I'll have to call Huggy tomorrow," Hutch replied, raising his voice to be heard above the sound of running water.

Starsky reappeared and leaned against the doorway, a loaded toothbrush in one hand. "Did you notice who wasn't there tonight?"

Hutch searched his memory but could come up with no specific face that had been glaringly absent.

"Wait. That wasn't a fair question," Starsky admitted before Hutch could answer. "You haven't met Martin Werner yet."

"The German?" Hutch remembered the name from the list. "The only one who isn't using track facilities, right?"

"Right. He's got those oversized trailers parked on the north side of the lot." Stuffing his toothbrush into his mouth, Starsky disappeared back into the bathroom.

Out of sight, out of mind, Hutch reminded his mind's eye. At least, so far, Starsky had retained his briefs and however brief they might be they were still some covering. The case. Right. "Is that unusual?"

"Huh?" came through as a muffled grunt from the bathroom.

Realizing the water was running again, Hutch raised his voice and repeated the question. He was beginning to wonder if Starsky still had not heard him when the smaller man once again appeared in the doorway.

"It is at this level," Starsky confirmed. "He's new on the circuit this year, and this is only the third race of the season. Only met him once. He didn't like me." The situation did not seem to disturb him overly much.

"How do you know that?"

Starsky shrugged. "Can't you usually tell right away when someone doesn't like you?"

Hutch offered no response but the fact that he was thinking about a particular recent meeting was obvious on his face.

Starsky smiled. Not a smirk, not a leer, just a smile with perhaps a bit of irony and even a trace of wistfulness to it. Silently, he crossed the room to the bed, pulled back the covers and climbed in. "Put it away for tonight, Hutch. I'm gonna be hauling your tail outta bed in about five hours, so you better get some sleep. Sometimes that helps it all come together in your head."

There was sense in that. Hutch was hoping to have a chance to do a little prowling by night tomorrow night and he would need to be alert. He had to talk to Starsky about that but morning would do. In the meantime, he needed to sleep. Reluctant though he was to climb into bed with a man who had come to represent the epitome of temptation, the alternatives were nil.

Secluded in the bathroom while he performed his own bedtime routine, Hutch gave his body a good talking to, finally convincing it to bow to the dictates of his mind. Clad in pajama bottoms, he entered the darkened bedroom. In the light from the bathroom, he could see that Starsky was stretched out on his side facing the unoccupied side of the bed that was closest to the bathroom. The blue eyes were closed at the moment, but Hutch was sure the other man was still awake. He put out the light, then quietly laid his clothes on the chair and climbed into bed with his back to Starsky.

"Hutch?" The husky voice seemed disembodied in the darkness.

Hutch tensed, sure that Starsky was going to try to seduce him, much less sure whether he wanted to resist.

"I wanna apologize."

"Huh?" Hutch would have been less surprised if Starsky had suddenly confessed to being the drug smuggler himself. He heard a soft chuckle and felt Starsky reach out unerringly in the dark to ruffle his hair.

"Surprised you, huh? I've been watchin' you today and, you know what, you're okay. Doin' your job no matter what I threw at you, and I've been actin' like a real bastard. Believe it or not, I ain't usually like that."

Hutch could believe it. He had seen small glimpses himself and too many people, especially their mutual friend Huggy Bear, thought too highly of Starsky for the abrasive, arrogant prick he had been dealing with to be Starsky's true personality.

"I've got a belly full of anger, Hutch, and you bein' a cop kinda made me start spewin' that."

"Picturesque," Hutch commented dryly.

Again the soft laughter caressed the darkness. "Sorry. You kinda walked into all that. It don't help that I've gotten used to gettin' pretty well what I want since I left the force, and I started wantin' you the minute I laid eyes on you."

Hutch bit his lip over a similar confession.

"All of that made me forget what it's like to be where you are right now. You're in just about the worst place a cop can be—undercover and backup a long way off."

Once again Hutch felt the strong fingers in his hair, but now he recognized that the gesture was a friendly one. The hand slipped down to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"I know I made a lot of noise about not stickin' my neck out, but I was just bein' a jerk. If you think you can trust me, I want to, well, back you up all I can," Starsky offered hesitantly.

A small, unacknowledged place buried deep inside Hutch that had been wound tight with fear slowly relaxed. No man, except maybe one who was nine parts fool, liked to know he was out on a limb and any minute someone could come along with a chain saw. It was nice to know he could have a safety net if he wanted one.

"I'd be glad of the help," Hutch admitted softly.

"It's only fair to tell you that none of this means I don't still want you. You're a lotta temptation to resist, blondie. I'd still like to sleep with you," Starsky admitted.

"If you'd shut up," Hutch replied, suppressed laughter in his voice, "you would be sleeping with me," he pointed out.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Starsky let loose with that sunny, contagious laughter. This time, Hutch felt free to join in.

* * *

Wednesday

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty, rise and shine."

Hutch groaned as the blinds were suddenly raised and the full glory of the early morning California sun hit him in the face. He groped for the pillow and pulled it over his head, only to have it yanked away. He reluctantly slitted his eyes and found a fully clothed Starsky standing over him looking disgustingly alert. And why shouldn't he? The former cop had gone out like a light last night while Hutch had lain sleepless trying to come to grips with his growing feelings. It was hard for him to believe that only a few days ago he could make himself go to sleep no matter what was on his mind.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned and rolled over to bury his head in the pillow.

"Don't tempt me," Starsky purred right next to Hutch's ear.

Hutch yelped and leaped out of the bed as a hard hand connected with his ass in a stinging slap. He stood glaring at a grinning, unrepentant Starsky as he tried to rub the heat out of his offended anatomy.

"What are you glarin' at me for. I let you sleep in, didn't I?" Starsky inquired innocently.

Hutch glanced at his watch. "It's 7:00 AM! We didn't even get to bed 'til after one."

"Got work to do," Starsky said. He gestured to where Hutch was vigorously rubbing. "Want me to kiss that better for you?"

"What work?" Hutch groused, ignoring the prurient offer. "You said, and I quote, that Gena was purring like a kitten." Nevertheless, he went to the closet to select an outfit for the day. He was already tired of running around feeling so exposed, but nevertheless pulled out yet another pair of cut off shorts and yet another shirt someone with extremely bad taste had given him. This one was a sleeveless, fishnet excuse for a shirt that Hutch found particularly annoying since the open weave tended to snag his nipples.

"Yeah, now we gotta make sure Marcy's doin' the same. I'll see ya downstairs. I'm starved," Starsky announced and bounced out of the room.

"I don't know where the hell you put it," Hutch muttered resentfully and headed for the shower.

* * *

To Hutch's surprise, only Starsky was seated at the kitchen table when Hutch made his way down the stairs.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, making a beeline for the coffee pot and pouring himself a mug full. He still felt groggy despite the shower, but then two hours of sleep tended to do that to a man.

"I told you I let you sleep in," Starsky mumbled around a mouthful of waffles.

"They're at the track already?" Hutch asked incredulously. He had never really thought about the lifestyle of a race team, but if he had, getting up at the crack of dawn certainly would never have been his first guess.

"They weren't out prowlin' 'til all hours last night," Starsky reminded him.

Hutch slumped in a chair and fed himself the coffee.

"If ya need to make any calls, Huggy or Dobey, now's the time," Starsky prompted him.

Hutch snorted. "Huggy hasn't laid eyes on this time of day since he was in diapers."

Starsky's smile acknowledged the accuracy of Hutch's assessment of their mutual friend's habits. "Don't tell me Dobey keeps banker's hours?"

"No. Him I can call." Hutch reached both arms above his head, stretching for the ceiling.

"Ya know, blondie, you should see a doctor or somethin'. Ya got nearly six hours sleep," Starsky pointed out. He finished the last bite of his waffles and pushed the plate away, taking up his cup and leaning back in his chair.

Hutch ignored the comment, not about to admit his loss of sleep to the cause of it. "Did you mean what you said last night?"

"About wantin' to sleep with you?" Starsky teased, eyes alight with mischief. "Never mind the verbal abuse. Yeah, I meant what I said. Why?"

"I need to have a look around those garages," Hutch said. Deliberately, he pushed aside his tiredness and the confused emotions that were its cause and focused his attention on business.

"So look all you want. With your cover, nobody's gonna do much except chase ya out if ya go pokin' your nose in where it don't belong. If someone accosts you, Officer, holler and I'll come rescue you," Starsky suggested flippantly.

Hutch cast a baleful eye at his temporary partner.

Starsky sobered. "I'm serious, Hutch."

"Doesn't anybody worry about sabotage?" Hutch asked. It made no sense to him that, with thousands of dollars worth of prize money at stake, more caution would not be taken.

Starsky shrugged. "Not for the kind of prizes on this circuit. And not before, oh, say Friday."

"Why not 'til then?"

"Nobody's qualified yet. After ya qualify, the officials lock up your car so you can't make any alterations. Before that, everybody's still workin' on their cars. It would have to be some very subtle piece of sabotage to slip past a head mechanic. Were you thinkin' about prowlin' around tonight?"

"Yes. Not that I think I'll find three million in coke sitting in someone's tool box," Hutch explained.

"But you never know what else might be lyin' around waitin' to be tripped over," Starsky countered astutely.

Hutch shrugged.

"Okay," Starsky agreed. "Tonight?"

"If we can get in."

Starsky drained the dregs of his coffee and got up to stack his dishes in the sink. "We can get in. It's not unusual for some of the mechanics to spend half the night there. That's gonna be one of our problems. There's bound to be a few burnin' the midnight oil."

"One of our problems?" Hutch echoed.

"Hey, I said I wanted to back you up. And, yeah, one. The other is the security guards. They make pretty regular rounds."

"Wonderful."

"Yeah, a racetrack really ain't the best place to take up a career in prowlin', but we can give it our best shot. In the meantime, we gotta get to the track so you better get on the horn to Dobey."

* * *

"Dobey."

"Captain, it's Hutch. RandI come up with anything?"

"Yeah, hold on."

Hutch leaned back in the den chair, a second cup of coffee in his hand, while he listened to Dobey shuffle through the mountains of paper that always seemed to inhabit the administrator's desk. His notebook sat beside him on the table and, when he heard Dobey's exclamation of discovery, he put aside his cup and picked up a pen.

"Okay," Dobey said, obviously scanning the information so he could pass on only the relevant facts. "Out of the nineteen names you gave them, RandI came up with half a dozen who have priors, all of it minor stuff. Disturbing the peace. Drunk and disorderly. Nothing to indicate a dealer. None of them out of country."

Hutch sighed. "It's never simple. Would have been nice if one of them had a major prior. That's just the drivers," he reminded his superior.

"For the American teams," Dobey corrected. "All the internationals had to clear Immigration. That British guy, ah . .

." There was the sound of more rustling paper. ". . . Nigel Richardson. Two of his team were refused entry for prior convictions and turned back. I was also able to get Customs and Immigration to catch the Mexican team when they crossed. Nothing. All the rest were already through."

"I'm thinking the cocaine may not even be here yet," Hutch said, exchanging pen for cup again. "Wouldn't make a whole lot of sense to have it here already and wait until Sunday to make the sale. I'm going to have a look around tonight, but I don't expect to find much. Has anybody else turned anything?"

"Carter caught a whisper yesterday that Ben Forest might be the buyer."

Hutch grimaced. It would hardly be the first time they had gone after Forest and failed. "Cocaine isn't usually his market. His rep is smack."

"Branching out, maybe?" Dobey suggested. "Movin' on up?"

"Yeah," Hutch muttered in disgust. "The white collar dope of choice. I need you to check out the financial records of Carlos Montoya and Mark Leland if you can get into them without a court order. I don't want to spook anyone just yet."

"Got it."

Hutch hesitated, remembering how guilty he had felt last night for eavesdropping on Starsky. He had come to the point, however, where he really needed to know. Whether Dobey would agree was up for debate.

"Cap, I need you to do something for me," he began hesitantly.

"What?" Dobey asked, and Hutch smiled at the caution in his superior's voice, knowing it was engendered by past requests.

"Find out the story behind Starsky's resignation," Hutch requested flatly, not terribly hopeful that Dobey would agree.

There was the sound of a gusty Dobey sigh. "Already in the works," he admitted. "I called NYPD and left a message. Captain Walters is supposed to get back to me as soon as he can."

"Thanks, Cap," Hutch said, relieved that he would not have to lie to his captain. He had done it in the past, usually at Dobey's request when it was a case of the administrator being unable to tell what he did not know, but Hutch hated it nonetheless.

"You think I like sending you out with a disgraced cop as your only backup, Hutchinson!" Dobey roared, then abruptly cut himself off.

"I know," Hutch said softly.

For one very long minute there was only the sound of the open connection, then Dobey asked, "How's it working out with him?"

Hutch hesitated, staring into the middle distance as he tried to decide how to answer. Somehow he thought Dobey would be unimpressed if informed that although the former cop was turning out to be an asset to the case, he was also proving to be a considerable distraction for the investigator.

"That bad?" Dobey ventured when no reply was forthcoming.

At that moment, Starsky stuck his head through the door, looking pointedly at his watch and giving Hutch the hitchhiker's thumb over his shoulder.

"Ah, no, Cap. So far, so good," Hutch answered vaguely. "I'll call again this time tomorrow if I can." He put down the phone and got to his feet. "I've gotta stash this," he held up his notebook, "then I'll be ready to go."

Starsky trailed along behind him as far as the foot of the stairs and Hutch felt the deep blue gaze follow him as he took the steps two at a time. The dark man was still there when Hutch galloped back down them a minute later.

Hutch stopped short two steps from the bottom when he caught sight of Starsky shaking his head. "What?" he asked, wondering if he had forgotten something important.

Starsky shrugged, still looking bemused. "Ya just got no idea, do ya?" he muttered and abruptly turned to stalk out of the house.

A little bemused himself now, Hutch followed.

* * *

By two o'clock that afternoon, Hutch was hanging on to the frayed ends of his patience by his fingernails. With Starsky engrossed in his backup car along with most of the rest of the team, Hutch had been free to wander at will. He had done so and, as Starsky had said, as long as he steered well clear of the cars themselves, no one had objected to his presence even when he casually strolled around their garages. He was not, however, free to poke and pry as he needed to. Having to wait for nightfall was wearing on his nerves.

Needing to work off some excess energy, he decided to go for yet another stroll around the garages. Exiting via the bay doors, he turned right, mindful of Starsky's warning and his own instincts to avoid the French mechanic to the left. Meandering, eyes searching intently without appearing to, he reached the closest entranceway to the stands and, on impulse, turned into it. Climbing the stairs to the top of the stands, he scanned the entire area, noting the comings and goings of the team members as cars were brought out to the pits for trial runs. He squinted to see who was on the track now and was able to pick up the Firestone logo. That would be Colin Lewis winding his machine up to her limits.

Uninterested in yet another demonstration of speed, Hutch continued scanning. His gaze passed over the opposite bank of stands, then returned with a flick, zeroing in on something he had caught only a glimpse of, but which, nevertheless, had caught his eye. Unable to say what had arrested his attention, Hutch continued to watch the area, realizing only when he reappeared out of the shadows of the entranceway that it was a man who had alerted him. No, not the man, but the clothes. Too far away to make out features, what Hutch could see was that the man was dressed in a dark suit and tie with a white shirt. In a place where coveralls were considered the uniform of the day, the sartorial splendor stuck out like a sore thumb.

The man also seemed to be unfamiliar with his surroundings. As Hutch watched, the figure continued to move along the walkway behind the pits, pausing to look into each open doorway and entrance and then moving on. Instincts aroused, Hutch began a parallel movement along the top of the stands, slowly working his way lower until he came to the next set of steps. Just as he began to descend, he saw his quarry once again pause at an entrance and then turn into it where he was quickly swallowed by the shadows.

Taking the stairs as quickly as he could without breaking his neck, Hutch hurried to the walkway and began circling around to the entrance the man had entered. Taking a quick look before he charged in and finding the corridor empty, he hurried along it until he came to the opening onto the north parking lot. Keeping to the shadows, he eased his head out far enough to scan the surrounding area but there was nothing to see.

Leaning back against the wall, Hutch closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to bring to mind every single detail he could recall. The face had been too far away to distinguish features, but Hutch could swear, based on the way the man held himself and moved, that he was familiar.

"Hey, Hutch. You okay?"

Hutch's eyes sprang open and he hurriedly pushed away from the wall as he searched his memory for the name of the bleached blonde he had met the night before.

"Uh, yeah, Cindy. I'm fine," he reassured her with what he hoped was a sufficiently vacant smile.

"What are you puffin' about?"

"Oh, uh," Hutch scrambled for a response. "I was bored so I, uh, ran up and down the stairs for some exercise."

"Bored? Yeah, well, ain't that the name of the game," Cindy complained, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Hey, why don't we go into town for a while? Maybe Dave'll let you borrow the Torino."

Somehow Hutch had a hard time imagining that. In any case, he could not leave now. "I can't today. Dave said he'll be done soon and we're gonna go . . . uhm . . ." He stumbled to a halt as he tried to think of something people might do in the middle of the afternoon, then blushed scarlet at the knowing look on Cindy's face.

"A little afternoon delight, eh, honey?" Cindy empathized. She patted Hutch's arm. "Maybe tomorrow then."

Much to Hutch's relief, Cindy continued on her way out into the parking lot. He had no time for embarrassment as he followed, scanning right and left and seeing no sign of his quarry. Arbitrarily, he turned into the next entrance and went toward the track again, strolling along the walkway, casually looking into open bay doors and entranceways but finding no sign of the well-dressed anomaly. Frustrated, he continued to search.

* * *

"This is not an easy place to find someone," Monk complained belligerently, running a finger around the collar of his sweat-soaked shirt.

"I trust you had the intelligence not to request directions."

Monk nearly snapped his denial, then remembered how much his boss wanted to preserve friendly relations with this new, very promising supplier. At least the arrogant son of a bitch did not look quite so dapper today, clad in stained coveralls, with his hands greasy and his white-blond hair ruffled.

"Of course not," he finally replied, glancing around the deserted facility that was crowded with cars and parts and tools, the uses of most of which were a mystery to him.

"You have a message for me?" the blond prompted impatiently.

"Yes. Mr. Forest wanted me to let you know that we've been able to arrange to make the exchange here on Sunday like you wanted. I'll make the exchange myself," Monk assured him.

The supplier did not appear greatly impressed by the information. "That is acceptable."

"Ah, you did say you wanted it done during the race, didn't you?"

"That is correct."

"So I'll be meeting someone else?" Monk guessed.

"No. You will meet only with me!"

"But won't you be . . ." Monk waved a hand toward the track. ". . . just a little busy?"

"That is not your concern. You need only bring the money to me when I have said."

Monk shrugged agreeably. He was used to taking orders without explanation by now. Ben Forest was not a man who often explained himself to his underlings.

"You must go now."

A strong grip on Monk's wrist halted him as he turned toward the door. "You will take a circuitous route back to your auto, I trust," the blond driver warned.

"I know my job, Mister . . ." Monk cut himself off just in time. He saw no sense in this no-name business, but if Mr. Forest was willing to go along, who was he to argue. "Mr. X," he said. "I'll see you on Sunday."

* * *

Hutch was still searching when his quarry reappeared, coming directly toward him along the walkway behind the pits, and once again the sense of familiarity assaulted the young cop. He reversed direction, but knew he was fully exposed. All he could do was keep his back to the man and hope he went unnoticed. He needed a clear look at the man’s face, but it was too big a risk that if he ducked into one of the garages or entrances, the other man might chose the same one. Just as he was about to try it anyway, a very familiar figure sauntered out of the entrance just ahead, spotted Hutch and opened his mouth to greet him.

Hutch practically leaped on Starsky, dragging him back into the shadowed entrance and spinning him around so that the smaller man's back was to the track and Hutch could look over his shoulder. He felt Starsky's arms slip around his waist and pull him closer.

"Not that I'm complaining, but this is so sudden," Starsky quipped.

"Shut up," Hutch hissed. Seeing the approaching shadow, he caught Starsky's chin and tipped his face up, bringing his mouth down onto the other man's into what he hoped looked like a passionate kiss. Eyes open, he saw the man look into the entrance and once again spun until Starsky's back was against the wall and his own to the man he now recognized. He heard his quarry's expression of surprise and then hurried footsteps go past them. As soon as he thought it was safe, he tried to pull away but found himself locked into the kiss by Starsky's strong fingers laced into his hair. It took him several seconds to drag himself loose and by the time he raced to the end of the alley, he caught only a glimpse of the man as he got into a maroon LTD sedan.

"Damn!" he muttered under his breath as Starsky came up behind him. Once again bold arms encircled him and he was pulled back so that an even bolder mouth could nuzzle the nape of his neck.

"What's wrong?" Starsky asked quietly.

About to angrily break free of the embrace, Hutch hesitated as he realized that rather than attempting to hinder him, Starsky was doing his best to help without any idea of what was going on. He turned within the circle of Starsky's arms and made sure they were alone before gently breaking free.

"Problem?" Starsky repeated.

"I saw someone I recognized, but I never saw who, if anyone, he met," Hutch explained impatiently.

"You need to get this to Dobey?" Starsky asked. For a second time, he moved in and slid a possessive arm around Hutch, drawing him out into the sunlit parking lot.

"Yeah. About five minutes ago. Damn!" Hutch muttered.

"Okay. Come on. I gotta cruise by the auto supply again. We can hit a pay phone on the way."

*****

"Dobey."

"It's Hutch. I just saw a familiar face at the track. Alex Phylos, alias Monk. He's Ben Forest's lieutenant. I didn't see who he met." The barely leashed frustration was thick in his voice.

"I'll let Carter know. See if we can get a tail on him."

"Don't spook him!" Hutch demanded nervously.

"Hutchinson," Dobey growled warningly.

"Sorry. He's driving a maroon LTD sedan, license JNJ 322. I'll keep in touch."

* * *

"You sure this isn't a waste of time?" Starsky asked as they pulled into the dark, nearly deserted track parking lot.

"It probably is," Hutch admitted. He had managed a short nap before dinner and felt recharged with nervous energy. He followed as Starsky got out of the Torino and opened the door to his garage.

"There's someone from at least four other teams here. I recognize the cars in the lot," Starsky said as he crossed to a tool chest and pulled out a drawer. He fished out two items and returned to Hutch.

"Here. We'll work faster if we work separately," he said, handing over a small receiver/transmitter. "Just double-click the send button if you need to talk and I'll answer the same way if it's safe. If you can't talk, don't click and I'll find you as fast as I can."

For the first time since his talk with Huggy had eased his doubts about Starsky, Hutch felt a pang of suspicion. It faded almost immediately, but must have shown in his face because the open expression on Starsky's began to close, the eyes going cold.

"Either you trust me or you don't," Starsky challenged quietly.

Hutch caught at a leather-clad arm as Starsky turned away. "You're right. And I do. But you're putting your ass on the line here. Even if you get caught by someone who has nothing to do with the cocaine, you could end up being accused of sabotage."

Starsky shrugged. "I've been accused of worse," he reminded him. "I'll think of something. What about you?"

Hutch smiled brightly, putting on his best befuddled expression. "Who me? I'm going to bat my eyelashes and blame it all on you."

"Uh-huh," was Starsky's only comment.

Leaving the lights burning, the two men slipped through the doors leading to the track and separated.

An uneventful two hours later, after avoiding security and searching through a dozen garages and finding exactly nothing suspicious, Hutch was just about ready to call it quits and return to Starsky's garage. He had managed to do a quick search of the teams' bases on his side of the track with the exception of the Argentinean's. If Starsky was moving as quickly, he should be close by.

Hutch carefully eased open the lock on the door of Carlos Montoya's garage and slipped inside. He made a speedy search of the garage itself in the light provided by his small flashlight and then moved into the office area. Not knowing exactly what he was looking for, he had to open every drawer and scan every piece of paper he found. He found nothing until he opened the top drawer of the desk and saw a telegram lying there. Although he spoke Spanish fairly well, reading it was another matter and he had to concentrate to puzzle out the short message.

Hutch's focus was so fierce that, at first, he failed to recognize the quiet clicks coming from the radio on his belt. It took him a moment to realize that Starsky must be signaling him and he double-clicked the send button in return.

"Hutch?" came the hushed voice.

"What?" he whispered.

"Where the hell are you? Why didn't you signal back? I was just about ready to start charging around looking for you."

"I'm in Montoya's garage," Hutch replied, already working his way toward the exit.

"Well, get your beautiful butt outta there, blondie. Half the team just pulled up."

Grateful for the warning, Hutch got out and made his way to Starsky.

* * *

Starsky held a finger to his lips as Hutch stepped through the door of the garage, pointing with the other hand to the wall between this garage and the one assigned to the French team. Listening silently, Hutch could detect the sound of voices and realized that if they had been speaking English, he would have been able to understand every word. The nearly impenetrable wall of sound provided by dozens of revving engines that ensured daytime privacy was missing now.

Hutch nodded his understanding and remained silent while Starsky returned their radios to the toolbox and they left the building.

"Did you find anything?" he asked once they were safely inside the Torino.

"Nothing," Starsky replied succinctly.

Hutch relaxed back into the seat, feeling the tension that had helped keep him alert begin to drain away, reminding him of how tired he really was. It took him several minutes to realize that while he was relaxing, his companion was actually becoming tenser as each mile passed beneath the wheels of the Torino. He studied the other man as best he could in the brief flares of light provided by the infrequent streetlights they passed. It was difficult to tell in the uncertain light, but Hutch was certain he could see the muscles bunched around Starsky's jaw and down his neck. He looked at the slender hands and found them gripped fiercely around the steering wheel. It was a testament to his exhaustion and his preoccupation that it took several more minutes of the tension-filled silence for him to realize that the silence itself might be the cause.

It was the trust issue again. Starsky had reported, while Hutch had kept his own counsel. How else would Starsky interpret his silence?

"I found something," he admitted belatedly.

"Yeah?" Starsky said, his tone deliberately disinterested and his gaze focused on the road.

"I found a telegram in Montoya's garage. My Spanish isn't that great, but I'm pretty sure someone, maybe his cousin, is flying in on Saturday," Hutch reported. "Would make sense if the deal isn't until Sunday not to have the stuff come in until closer to then."

"Benito is Carlos' back-up driver," Starsky informed.

To Hutch's surprise, Starsky still appeared, if not exactly upset about something, at the very least, withdrawn. If it was not the trust issue . . . He took another stab in the dark. "Did something happen? Were you almost caught?"

"I know how to do a clandestine search," Starsky snapped.

"So do I, but if it hadn't been for you, I'd have been caught dead to rights," Hutch reminded him. "I didn't even thank you for the warning, did I?"

Starsky shrugged. "I said I'd watch your back," he dismissed the gratitude. "So you think Benny's a mule, do you?"

Having learned enough about his temporary partner to know that when Starsky changed the subject he would get no more from the man, Hutch allowed himself to be drawn back to the case.

"I don't know, but it won't hurt to have Immigration and Customs go over him with a fine toothed comb when he comes in," Hutch admitted.

"Not looking too good for Carlos, is it?" Starsky asked.

It was Hutch's turn to shrug. "Do you know him well?"

"Well enough to hope it isn't him," Starsky admitted, finally easing back into the seat, some of the tension bleeding away.

"How come it always works out that way, do ya think?" he asked. "I mean, I'd love to see you cage a cancer like Giroux for life."

"We don't have anything that says it's Montoya, just enough to check things out," Hutch pointed out.

They pulled up into the driveway and Hutch had opened the door before he realized that Starsky had not shut the engine down.

"I'm goin' out for a while."

Hutch waited silently until Starsky turned to look at him. The interior light revealed the face of a man deeply troubled.

"You think I'm plannin' on running to Carlos?" Starsky challenged.

Hutch shook his head. "You said it earlier, either I trust you or I don't."

"You were thinkin' about not telling me about the telegram." The words were a challenge, but the weary tone said it was no more than Starsky expected.

"That's not true."

"No? Took you long enough."

"Listen, Starsky, that had nothing to do with trusting you. I'm just not used to working with a partner. I usually work alone. I get information from people; I don't usually give it to anyone except Dobey. I've only known you a few days, but I do trust you as well as I'm able under those circumstances."

"Why?" Starsky pushed.

"Huggy," was the only reply Hutch could give, the rest was far too nebulous for him to explain.

"Huggy's got a lot to answer for, doesn't he? Got you to trust a crooked cop and got me to . . ."

"Got you to . . ."

Starsky offered a bitter smile. "Got me to work with an honest one. Listen, blondie, you're tired and I ain't. So, unless you wanna do somethin' to tire me out . . ." He let the suggestion taper off into a leer that spoke volumes.

Hutch got out of the car and pushed the door closed. He leaned back in the open window for a moment. "Shall I leave a night light on?"

"Just the one in your eyes, beautiful."

* * *

Unable to reach Dobey directly at that time of night, Hutch left a detailed message with Huggy to be passed on in the morning and then took his tired body off to bed. He woke a few hours later, sneezing explosively, to discover himself alone in the bed and the room reeking of cigarette smoke. Looking out through tear-blurred eyes, he finally spotted his erstwhile bedfellow. Rather than coming to bed, Starsky had pulled the wicker chair up close enough to the open window so that he could prop his feet on the sill. He slumped there now with, as far as Hutch could see in the gloom, a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

"Don't tell me you're allergic." Starsky's voice, heavy with sarcasm, floated to Hutch on another waft of contaminated breeze.

Hutch struggled up to sit on the side of the bed, rubbing at his streaming eyes. "No. No problem," he said, then sneezed again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Starsky growled and tossed the burning cigarette out the window. "Happy now?"

"You didn't have to do that."

"Yeah. Sure."

Now that he was awake, Hutch felt the pangs of an over-full bladder and padded to the bathroom to relieve the pressure. When he returned, Starsky was still in a morose slump in front of the window. Silently, Hutch returned to the bed and climbed back under the covers.

"I didn't know you smoked," Hutch offered hesitantly. Even without a clear view of the other man, he could sense that Starsky's drive had done little to improve his mood.

"Face it, Hutchinson, there ain't all that much you do know about me."

"True," Hutch acknowledged. He rolled over onto his back and stared up into the darkness. He was just drifting off to sleep again when he heard Starsky get up and a moment later felt his weight settle onto the other side of the bed. He could feel the sapphire eyes on him and opened his own but was unable to make out any expression on the shadowed face in the uncertain light from the street outside.

"Ya know what I thought when I first saw ya at Huggy's?" Starsky asked, reaching out to run his fingers through Hutch's hair. He did not wait for a response. "It looked like all the light in the room was sorta . . . caught in your hair. It's the same now. I can hardly make out your face, but your hair seems to glow."

Hutch was released suddenly and Starsky swung away, lying down with his back to the cop. Propping himself on an elbow, Hutch reached out tentatively, finding a wide shoulder and laying a hesitant hand on the smooth, warm skin.

"Tell me what's wrong," he demanded gently.

"You ever wonder what you'd do if you couldn't be a cop anymore?" Starsky asked, his voice so soft Hutch had to strain to hear.

"No," Hutch admitted softly. He had already tried several niches in his life and had never found anything that suited him so well. Being a cop wasn't just what he did, it was who he was.

"Me neither," Starsky revealed. "I'd almost got it out of my mind, you know. Put it behind me. Then . . ."

"Then I came along and brought it all back," Hutch completed, his voice nearly as hushed as Starsky's pain-filled tone.

The muscles under his hand shifted in a shrug.

"Go to sleep," Starsky commanded, pulling forward so that Hutch's hand fell away.

"I want to help if I can," Hutch offered. Accepting the rejection of physical contact without even considering the irony, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

Starsky gave a bitter chuckle. "White Knight syndrome," he pronounced, but with much less sarcasm than Hutch had expected.

"You're a good cop, ya know that, Hutchinson," Starsky continued. "You been takin' a lotta shit from me, but you've stuck with it. Took a lotta dedication for you to put up with what I been dishin' out."

Hutch accepted the veiled apology, appreciating Starsky's understanding, even if somewhat belated, of his position.

"I was a good cop, too." Like the last time this statement had been made, there was nothing on Earth that could disguise the wealth of painful emotions behind it.

"Tell me what happened?" Hutch encouraged again.

"You read it. Remember?" The brittle bitterness was back.

Hutch let silence be his plea. He felt Starsky shift further away from him on the bed but was uncertain if the movement indicated rejection or was only Starsky seeking a tangible distance from the subject.

"I started wantin' to be a cop . . . Hell, I can't remember ever wantin' to be anything else. I was gonna be just like my dad. Could hardly wait to get through school so I could sign up."

Hutch remembered the meandering road into the force that he himself had taken, but kept the thoughts to himself. "Signed up on your 18th birthday, did you?"

"Nah, hadda wait until the end of the school year," Starsky admitted, "and by then, I'd got my draft notice."

"Vietnam?" Hutch breathed softly. Enrollment in college, a wife and Hutchinson influence had saved him from that ultimate hellhole.

"Uh-uh. Motor pool at Fort Benning in Georgia. I don't know how many times I got told how lucky I was that the army had me doin' somethin' I actually had a talent for." There was an undercurrent of genuine amusement in the voice now.

"So you spent your hitch tinkering with jeeps?"

"Yeah, seemed like the longest two years of my life. Not that ya got a lotta perspective at that age. Signed up at the academy the same day I got my discharge papers. I thought about takin' some time off, you know, then figured why start thinkin' for myself again just to go back to havin' someone tell me when to eat, sleep, or take a piss."

Hutch laughed, remembering his own severe adjustment from carefree student to police cadet. "Did you ever work with your dad?"

"Yeah." Hutch had heard Starsky do this before, turn that one word into a sentence with a wealth of emotional meaning, in this particular case, all of it bad. "Two years."

"What happened?"

"I got ambition," Starsky admitted. "Wanted outta the uniform. I was a detective sergeant like you when I left. Was even thinking about taking the lieutenants' exam as soon as I had enough time in. But my dad, he never wanted any of that. It wasn't until he was killed during a bank robbery that I found out why."

The next logical question stuck in Hutch's throat. He had a horrifying premonition that he knew what Starsky was going to say next.

"Ya ever heard of Joseph Durniak, Hutch?"

Hutch searched his memory. "Ah, isn't he a big time mobster in New York?"

"Yeah, he sure is. The day after my dad was gunned down in the street, Durniak himself comes callin' on my mom. Just like that. Sits himself down right in her own house and says how he wants to pay for my dad's funeral. Tells her Michael Starsky's been on his payroll for years." A note of detached wonderment entered the husky voice. "You know, I still can't figure out how a tiny woman like my mom ever dragged me off that bastard. I don't even remember goin' after him."

It took every ounce of willpower Hutch had to stay still in the bed. Every instinct he owned was clamoring for him to do something, anything that would dissipate the raw agony that seemed to be filling up the darkness around them.

"I never found out how, but somehow the papers got hold of it. Took 'em about half a minute to take Michael Starsky from hero to less than zero. Not that he didn't deserve it . . . ."

Hutch could hear how much that last statement cost Starsky, tasted the sourness of betrayal on his own tongue.

"It wasn't Durniak. He's got his own code of honor," Starsky admitted with less reluctance than Hutch would have expected. "Could have been one of his associates or maybe one of his enemies. Face it, only takes a whisper in the right ear."

"Whoever it was implicated you?" Hutch asked after it seemed Starsky had no more to say and the silence had stretched to the breaking point.

"Not that anyone ever admitted to me. But that didn't stop IA from tarrin' me with the same brush. Got so I couldn't've handed out a parking ticket without them investigating to make sure I followed procedure," Starsky revealed. Though his voice remained quiet, it vibrated with barely restrained fury.

"They finally charged you?" Hutch guessed.

"Yeah. Six months after my dad was killed, me and my partner got a 2/11 in progress call. Busted in to find a hype wavin' a gun. He turned it on me and I shot him in self-defense."

"How do even the headhunters come up with a corruption charge out of that?" Hutch protested. More involved with the facts than the emotions, Hutch forgot his reticence and rolled onto his side to face Starsky again.

"Turns out this hype is a very successful pusher who's been tryin' to horn in on someone else's territory. You're a bright cop. Bet you don't need three guesses."

"Durniak."

"Yeah. IA musta thought they'd died and gone to heaven when they stumbled over that little fact. The shooting was clean, but they latched onto that connection like sewer rats."

"But they couldn't prove it?"

"No."

Starsky sounded so defeated that Hutch reached out and laid one hand on the cold, bare shoulder, feeling the slight trembling. "You resigned. Why?"

"Good of the service, Hutch. The NYPD didn't need this splashed all over the papers right after the shit with my dad. And . . ."

"'And' . . ."

"And some of my brother officers . . . my partner . . . were wonderin', too."

"Christ!"

When Starsky continued, his voice had an urgency to it that tugged at Hutch.

"I ain't claimin' I was perfect. I made deals. The same kind every cop who ever cruised a beat makes. If some little fish wanted to finger a shark if I fixed a minor charge, hell, I'd go for it. But my captain always knew about it."

"We've all done that," Hutch reassured him gently.

"And I tried to always remember it was people I was dealin' with. Hell, I've poured more'n one drunk into a bed at the mission insteada into the tank like I shoulda. Slipped a few bucks to an irate store owner so he'd let off a shoplifter who was just tryin' to feed her kids."

Starsky rolled to face Hutch, his luminous blue eyes pleading for understanding, asking for the absolution from a man barely more than a stranger that had been denied him by men who had worked, sweated, and bled with him.

"Ya gotta have some heart, ya know, Hutch. Ya can't just do the job."

"Christ!" Hutch ground out again between clenched teeth. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. He had judged this man just as surely as had the others and his shame showed in his eyes. If it had meant his badge, Hutch could not have stopped himself from dragging the trembling body into his arms.

Two pairs of arms wrapped around two taut bodies in the most passionate and innocent embrace that Hutch had ever known. Sensing that Starsky's pain was too deep for tears, Hutch wept them for him, silent and dry-eyed, the grief so much more terrible for being held in.

After a few minutes, Hutch felt Starsky trying to struggle free and released him, watching as the former cop scrambled out of bed and returned to the window. The connection forged by Starsky's need and his own empathy was drawing up tight with the loss of contact, stretching out until it threatened to snap.

Hutch could not bear it. He left the bed himself and went to Starsky, his hand finding the smooth, cool flesh of Starsky's shoulder again.

"I've never had a permanent partner. Been ducking it ever since I got out of uniform. I've never found a man I wanted to trust with my integrity." Hutch squeezed the broad shoulder so hard he knew there would be bruises in the morning. "I just found him."

Starsky's head went back, the dark curls brushing Hutch's knuckles. The cop saw the long throat ripple, the Adam's apple bob as Starsky swallowed hard.

"Go on back to bed now, Hutch," Starsky whispered, his hand covering Hutch's and then lifting it away.

Understanding that Starsky had to reclaim his armor, Hutch reluctantly obeyed.

* * *

Thursday

By the time they reached the track on Thursday morning, all trace of the moody Starsky had disappeared. The morning flew by in preparations for the trial run. Even Hutch was pressed into service, if for nothing more glorious than passing tools and running for coffee. Starsky was nearly crackling with suppressed excitement, and Hutch was having a hard time not getting caught up in the team's enthusiasm and in Starsky's in particular.

Although he had no way of knowing for sure if the tale he had been told the night before was true, he had been conned often enough to know when he was being force-fed a pack of lies. Hutch would willingly bet his own badge that Starsky had not been lying, which was only making Hutch's battle to resist the dynamic racer all the harder.

It was, therefore, a very confused Hutch who stood beside Starsky at the rail bordering the pits watching Carlos Montoya put his car through her paces. As the Argentinean came around the track for the third time, Starsky turned Hutch toward him, locking the interlaced fingers of both hands around the slim waist.

"That's it, baby blue. I gotta go suit up. Cheer for me?" he asked teasingly.

Hutch put on his dumb act for the people around them, but tried to convey his sincere good wishes with his eyes for Starsky alone. "'Course I will. You're gonna win, right?"

"This is just to test out the car, baby," Starsky reminded him as if Hutch really did not understand. He tightened his embrace. "How about a kiss?" he murmured softly, leaving the decision up to Hutch.

About to return the hug and back off, Hutch, on impulse, and not stopping to think it through, brought his head down, closing his mouth over the lips that parted for him. Still not thinking, only reacting, he sent his tongue in search of a counterpart that welcomed him eagerly.

"Hey, if you two don't cut it out, somebody's gonna throw a bucket of water on you."

The kiss ended abruptly and the two men stood staring in stunned surprise at each other as whatever was being born between them was torn asunder by the interruption. Starsky recovered first. Retaining a one-armed grip on Hutch, he turned to face the speaker.

Mike matched the grin on his teammate's face. "Merle says if you don't get down there now, he's gonna run her himself."

"Over my dead body," Starsky spouted on cue. He released Hutch. "Keep an eye on him, Mike. And you . . ." His eyes met Hutch's wary ones. ". . . Cheer for me."

Hutch watched the retreat until Starsky was out of sight. He turned back to Mike, blushing when he saw the look of sympathy on the other man's open, friendly face.

"Aw, Hutch, don't do it. Dave's a great guy. He's been a damned good friend to me. But for your own sake, Hutch, don't fall in love with him. He's not in the market."

Hutch faced the rail, wrapping his hands around the metal and watching the last of Montoya's run with blind eyes. He knew he was getting in over his head but could find no way to stop it. He feared that Mike was right, that he just might be falling in love.

"Thanks, Mike," he finally managed to say, "but we're both just havin' some fun."

Mike clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, prompting Hutch to try to smile in reassurance.

Forcing his attention back to the track, Hutch watched Montoya coast his car into the pit, then clapped with the rest of the small audience as Starsky's red and white Gena pulled out and took its first slow lap. He watched, fascinated, as Starsky was given the green flag and began easing up through the gears. The powerful engine smoothly ran up the scale from growl through rumble into thunder as the speed climbed.

"Listen to her," Mike said beside him. "Like poetry. Okay, Hutch, watch now. He's got her up to speed, now he'll see how she handles."

Hutch knew "up to speed" meant at least 200 mph. As for "how she handles," he had a feeling that ignorance was bliss, but he still had to watch as the car rocketed around the track. Unable to help himself, he counted the laps, becoming more horrified by the moment as Starsky manhandled the car all over the track. He forced himself to take a deep breath when tiny black dots in his vision warned of oxygen deprivation, unaware that he had been holding his breath.

Seconds that felt like hours later, the car entered the last lap, and Hutch did not need Mike's startled exclamation to tell him the sudden high-pitched whine of the engine meant Starsky was demanding every ounce of speed the car could deliver as it sped down the straightaway. Even the scream of agonized tires, trailing the stench of smoking rubber, could not drown out the shocking retort that cut across the engine's roar like the crack of thunder over a still meadow.

Automatically, Hutch ducked into a defensive crouch, his right hand groping uselessly under his left arm. His eyes scanned the opposite stands, tracking for the telltale flash of sun on metal that would reveal the sniper's position.

"A tire," Mike bellowed. "He's blown a fucking tire!"

Belatedly, Hutch's gaze dropped to the track, his breath freezing in his chest as he saw the red and white blur spinning out of control into the bend. In the instant that he remained frozen, metal flew into concrete and spun away around the curve, glancing off the wall again and again. By the time the dervish came to rest in the median, Hutch had already vaulted the rail and begun the sprint that was to become the gossip of the track for days to come.

Hutch was hardly aware of the panicked thrum of his heart as he ran, his gaze focused solely on the pile of junk that, only a moment ago, had been an expensive automobile. He was so oblivious to his own actions that even the sight of the white-suited, helmeted figure scrambling free of the twisted metal had no effect on his headlong rush. He was still several steps away when Starsky, back to the approaching juggernaut, sprang to his feet and raised both hands to indicate he was okay.

Scrambling to halt his momentum on the slick, oil-soaked gravel of the median, Hutch nearly cannoned into Starsky, which would have sent them both sprawling. Starsky's quick reflexes saved them as he pivoted and grabbed at the passing body. They spun on the dwindling momentum until Starsky dug in his heels and stopped them both. Hutch's hands pawed for a hold on Starsky's arms and the two men held on to each other as they tried to collect scattered wits.

"What . . ." Starsky panted. "What are you doin' out here?"

Hutch looked at the man he gripped, taking in the torn coverall, the blooming bruises and the blood that crept down the side of the long face from a cut somewhere under the helmet. He shook his head in mute incomprehension.

Starsky squeezed the arms he held, giving Hutch a small shake. "I'm okay."

Hutch looked beyond Starsky to the wreckage of the car and beyond that to the rail where he had been standing while reality shifted back into place. He released Starsky and threw off the mirroring grip. "You're hurt."

Starsky grinned. "Nothing serious," he reassured him, then turned to survey his car. "Gena on the other hand . . ."

* * *

To Hutch, it was totally incomprehensible. Once Starsky assured his team he was okay, that seemed to be the end of the matter. Other than the offer of a greasy rag to wipe the blood off his face and a cold root beer, Starsky's condition was given all the attention a paper cut might have received. Not so the crumpled pile of metal that was towed back to the garage. There it was greeted by more genuine grief than Hutch had seen at many a funeral.

"I really think you should let me drive you to the hospital," he suggested for the tenth time, flinching as nine pairs of hostile eyes glared at him. Stubbornly, he stood his ground. Finally, Starsky left the scene of mechanical post mortem and led Hutch over to a corner where no one could overhear.

"Okay, Hutch. Everybody realizes you're real concerned, but ease up on the act, okay? Your cover's secure," Starsky reassured him.

"Act? Cover?" Hutch echoed incredulously.

Starsky's expression softened. "I'm sorry. That was outta line. I know you mean it, but I'm okay. Banged up a little, but nothin' serious."

"You belong in a hospital. You can hardly move," Hutch insisted.

Starsky shook his head. "I ain't got the time, and, much as I appreciate you worrying about me, you don't either. You were supposed to be cruising down to the Pits when the trial run was over. Well, it's over, so go." He dug the Torino's keys out of his jeans and handed them over. "You can make me forget all about my bruises tonight back at the house," he teased with that irrepressible grin that had opened the first crack in Hutch's resistance to him.

Recognizing incontrovertible defeat when he saw it, and accepting the pointed reminder of where his first duty lay, Hutch took the keys and left.

* * *

"It's about time you showed up," Huggy offered by way of greeting when Hutch strolled into the Pits and hitched himself up onto a seat at the bar. "Dobey's been doin' the funky chicken. Callin' me every hour, seems like. Listen, blondie, why tell the man I'm your contact if you ain't gonna contact me?"

"Shut up, Huggy, and give me a beer," Hutch ordered affectionately, dismissing the complaints. The day Huggy Bear stopped complaining, Hutch would know he had something to worry about.

Drawing the draft, Huggy carried it back and plopped it down in front of Hutch who was squirming on the stool. He propped his elbows on the bar and cradled his pointed chin in his hands as his gaze ran over the tall cop, taking in the altered style.

"Goin' for a different look, are ya, Hutch?" he asked innocently.

Hutch glared and picked up the beer, taking a deep draught before replying. "Part of the role," he dismissed his ultra-tight jeans and revealing muscle shirt. "So what does Dobey want?"

"To talk to you, man," Huggy exclaimed as if Hutch were the village idiot.

"I called him last night," Hutch protested. "Okay. Okay. I'll call him in a minute." He tipped back his head and poured the rest of his beer down his throat. He put the glass down and nudged it toward his friend. "Another one."

Huggy refilled the glass and put it down in front of the obviously disturbed cop, watching as half the liquid comfort disappeared rapidly.

"Starsky makin' your life that miserable?" he ventured.

"Starsky nearly plastered himself all over the track this morning," Hutch growled.

"What!" Huggy exclaimed, almost climbing over the bar. "He all right?"

"So he says," Hutch muttered, clearly not believing it for a minute.

Huggy relaxed back down to the floor. "What happened?"

"He had Gena out on the track this morning and blew a tire," Hutch explained. "I think he belongs in the hospital, but everybody is so busy worrying about the fucking car . . ."

"Uh, Hutch, where is all this comin' from?" Huggy asked, his expression a comical mixture of puzzlement and speculation. "I thought you hated the guy."

Hutch hid his face in his glass. He was no longer sure exactly what all he felt for Starsky, but it certainly was not hatred. It was desire, respect, and, after last night, empathy and compassion. Putting down the glass, he chose retreat as, at least, a temporary respite from Huggy's questioning if not from his own tail-chasing thoughts.

"I gotta go call Dobey," Hutch said and went to use the pay phone.

It took Dobey only a moment to come on the line.

"Yeah, Captain. Huggy said you needed to talk to me. Something important?" Hutch asked.

"Maybe. I talked to Captain Walters this morning. Starsky's former superior," Dobey said in the tone of voice he reserved for the most serious information.

Hutch ran a hand over his face and leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes, dreading what just might be fed into his ear in the next few minutes. He had a childish urge to hang up the phone or cover his ears and refuse to listen. Instead he invited, "Come on, Captain. Let's hear it."

"Walters said that Starsky was one of the best men he ever commanded."

The breath he had not even realized he was holding left Hutch in a rush and his knees sagged slightly. "Until?"

"Until nothing. He said he never believed the charges for a minute and tried to get Starsky to fight them, but he wouldn't. Walters wouldn't discuss the details with me, but he did say he'd trust Starsky with his life any day of the week."

"Thank God," Hutch breathed nearly soundlessly.

"What was that?" Dobey asked.

Hutch straightened up and tried to shake himself back into professional mode. "Anything else?"

"Just one thing. Walters wants us to tell Starsky that if he ever wants to come back and fight it, Walters will back him all the way."

"Hell of a testimonial for a crooked cop, isn't it, Captain," Hutch observed ironically.

"It does sound like the man got a lousy deal," Dobey admitted.

"I'm going to cruise my informants tonight, see if I can pick up any whispers."

"Keep in touch."

Hutch stayed where he was for a few moments after he hung up while he made a conscious effort to tamp down the joy and relief he felt. He was not ready to share the emotions he was feeling with anyone, not even Huggy.

Unfortunately, the lanky bartender was still waiting when Hutch returned to the bar. Hutch slid onto the stool and picked up his nearly empty glass.

"That didn't take long," Huggy commented, busying himself with polishing glasses that were already sparkling.

"How long does it take to say you've got nothing for me," Hutch replied.

"So how come he's been in such a panic to get hold of you?"

It was time to remind Huggy just how well Hutch knew him. "You're not fooling me, Huggy. You think if you cha-cha around the subject long enough, you can slip in the question you want answered and I'll spill." He gave his friend an affectionate, forgiving smile. "That's the first lesson they teach you in Interrogation 101 at police school."

"It sounds to me like I got two friends at risk here. Ain't I got a right to be curious?" Huggy defended his nosiness.

"To be curious, yes," Hutch conceded. "To have that curiosity satisfied . . ." He shrugged broad shoulders.

Huggy raised his hands as if held at gunpoint. "Okay. Okay. I can take a hint."

"If somebody hits you in the face with it," Hutch agreed with a grin. He swallowed the last mouthful of beer and put the glass down with a decisive snap.

Huggy put up a hand to halt the departure. "Seriously, Hutch, is Starsk okay?"

Some of the elation faded as Hutch shook his head. "He says he is. If you want my opinion . . ." he trailed off as he remembered the team members' reaction to his concern. ". . . well, then you're the only one who does."

* * *

Hutch pulled the Torino into the driveway beside the house Starsky and his team were renting. After locking it up, he moved to the front door, hesitating for a moment as he wondered if he should knock. Deciding that as a live-in guest he need not stand on formality, he pushed on the unlocked door that opened directly into the living room. Merle, Vince and Juan were sprawled on various pieces of furniture, beer cans in hand, and eyes glued to the television.

"Hey, Hutch," Vince hailed absentmindedly.

Hutch moved around until he could see the race being broadcast on the screen. Did these men never get tired of automobiles? Obviously not, considering their complete fascination.

"Hope you ate out," Merle said without taking his eyes from the screen. "Dave cooked tonight and it was weird."

"Puttin' peanut butter in enchiladas oughtta be against the law, man," Juan declared.

"No, I ate," Hutch said, still trying to understand the apparent callousness of these men who were supposed to be Starsky's friends. They all knew so much more about him, maybe it was Hutch that was making a big fuss over nothing. He knew he tended to be very overprotective of those he cared about, and like it or not, he was caring more about Starsky with every passing hour.

"Where's Dave? Is he okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"You gonna start that again?" Merle growled warningly. "The man said he was fine."

Vince elbowed the older man in the ribs and answered. "He just went upstairs."

Hutch nodded his thanks and went up the stairs two at a time, reminding himself to be cool.

"Oh my God! You said you weren't hurt," he blurted when he opened the bedroom door and saw the Technicolor display adorning Starsky's brief-clad body.

"No," Starsky corrected tiredly, easing down to sit on the side of the mattress. "I said it wasn't serious."

Moving into the room, Hutch pointed at a particularly vivid display covering nearly half of the furry upper torso. "What about that? How do you know your ribs aren't broken?"

"I've had broken ribs. These ain't broke." Starsky laid a protective hand gently over his rib cage. "They're just . . . bent a little."

"You belong in a hospital," Hutch insisted.

Starsky's head snapped up, or it would have if his neck and shoulder muscles had cooperated. "Since when do you give a fuck?" he growled. It was obvious that his temper had had a chance to ripen along with his bruises. Perhaps Hutch could understand Starsky's teammates' attitude if this was what they had faced in the past.

Hutch paused in his approach to the bed. "I . . . I don't know," he said honestly. "I think," he added hesitantly, "sometime between when you hit the wall and my feet went over the rail."

Starsky grinned weakly, quite obviously having been told about the vault and the sprint. "You sure it wasn't just a little sooner than that?" he challenged. "Like maybe when you kissed me?"

Hutch looked away, the memory of his own aggression and Starsky's response flooding his body with warmth.

"Ya know what, Hutchinson, ya got really lousy timin'," Starsky complained. "I couldn't get it up tonight with a forklift."

A dozen different denials ran through Hutch's head, but he knew voicing any of them would be a waste of breath. If he didn't believe them himself, he would never be able to convince Starsky. How could he possibly try to deny his desire after the kind of kiss he had initiated this afternoon?

"Braggart," he accused instead.

Surprise registered for a moment on Starsky's face, then he wrapped both arms protectively around himself as he bent forward. "Goddammit, don't make me laugh now. And here I thought you were such a humorless bastard."

"Do you always have to be so . . . so abrasive?" Hutch exclaimed in sheer exasperation.

Starsky straightened cautiously. "I guess it's gotten to be a habit. And you know, ya just kinda bring out the worst in me sometimes," he admitted sheepishly.

"We seem to do that to each other," Hutch admitted. "Hey, now where are you going?" he objected, moving to block Starsky as he tried to get up off the bed.

Far from discouraging the curly-haired demon, the long body now so conveniently close only gave him a ladder to climb. He latched onto various bits of Hutch and used each grip to help him ease to his feet.

"I'm goin' in the bathroom where I'm gonna fill the tub with all the hot water we got and about a pound of Epsom salts and I'm gonna lay in it until I convince myself that I ain't dead."

He sounded so determined, and the plan made such sense, that Hutch made no attempt to dissuade him. Instead, he slipped his arm around the slim waist and, encouraging Starsky to lean on him, helped the other man into the bathroom.

Hutch tried to get Starsky to sit on the toilet lid while the tub filled, but the injured driver opted to stay on his feet, leaning against the wall until the bath was ready. After dumping in the Epsom salts, Hutch once again offered a supporting arm. At the edge, Starsky stopped, his free hand pushing at the waistband of his briefs. The stretchy material came free cooperatively enough, but caught at his thighs, too far down for him to reach without bending.

Sighing softly, Hutch bent to encourage the uncooperative garment in its descent. He was unable to pretend he failed to notice when the plump penis twitched as his warm breath passed over it. He looked up accusingly at Starsky, who shrugged.

"Can I help it if he's the eternal optimist. I've been neglecting him for weeks now."

"Uh-huh," Hutch muttered as he helped the suffering man into the tub.

Starsky gave a yelp at the temperature, but sank down into the water readily enough. "And what is 'uh-huh' supposed to mean?"

"What about Monday night?" Hutch asked.

"What about it?" Starsky asked in genuine puzzlement.

"When we were driving to the track on Tuesday morning, you said you hadn't seen your bed all night," Hutch reminded him, realizing that even then he had been feeling the first stinging nips of the green-eyed monster.

"You're right, I did spend the night with a lady." Starsky sank lower in the tub and closed his eyes. "One of my favorite ladies, in fact." He cracked one eye open to watch the effect of his last word on the subject. "Gena."

Hutch's mouth dropped open as he finally made the connection. Now that he thought about it, he realized that Starsky had made numerous references to working that night; Hutch just hadn't been listening.

"All this time you been thinkin' I was humpin' my brains out and all the time I was workin' my ass off," Starsky complained in the tones of one greatly maligned.

"All this time?" Hutch echoed despite the blush he could feel staining his face. "We've only known each other four days."

Starsky's eyes popped open. "Feels longer. I guess you think so, too, huh?"

Hutch rose abruptly to his feet. "I've got to go."

Starsky straightened up in the tub so fast he caused a minor tidal wave, splashing water over the side and all over the floor. "Where? Not back to the track? I'm supposed to be your backup."

"We aren't going to find anything at the track that wasn't there last night. You know that. Whoever he is, our seller isn't that stupid. Like we said last night, he won't have the stuff here until Saturday at the earliest. Tonight, I'm going to visit all my contacts and, frankly, you'd be in the way. You can hardly move," a glare silenced the expected protest, "and you might scare them off. They don't take kindly to strangers."

Reluctantly, Starsky settled back in the water. "Yeah, well, you be careful."

"Yeah," Hutch promised, reaching down to ruffle the thick curls. He pulled his hand back when Starsky winced away from the touch. Impulsively, he leaned over and brushed his lips over the softness of Starsky's instead. Blue sapphires, clearer and more peaceful than Hutch had ever seen them, gazed up at him. "Will you be okay?" he asked gently.

"Yeah, sure," Starsky murmured, then seemed to shake himself from his bemusement. "Tell Mike to come and check on me in an hour, will ya? If I ain't outta here by then, he may need a crane."

"First a forklift and now a crane. You really are fixated on machinery, aren't you?" Satisfied to have gotten the last word again, Hutch made his exit before Starsky could think of a reply.

* * *

Slipping back into the bedroom in the wee small hours, Hutch undressed as quietly as he could. With only moonlight coming through the blind that Starsky had forgotten to close to guide his way, he came to stand beside the bed. He stared down at the bundle of misery curled on its side, reluctant to take the chance of jostling Starsky out of an obviously uneasy sleep.

"Ya might as well get in," Starsky invited churlishly. "I ain't gonna hurt any worse than I do now."

Hesitantly, Hutch lifted the covers and slipped beneath them. His brief glimpse of the battered body showed more darkened areas than had been there earlier. The hot soak had probably brought out the bruising.

"You want something for the pain?" he whispered.

"Already chewed some aspirin," Starsky refused. "Ya find out anything interesting?"

"No. Go to sleep."

"Tomorrow's Friday."

"I know that. I've gotta get lucky soon. We haven't got the manpower to just blanket the place. Besides, on Sunday, the track will be . . ."

"A zoo," Starsky finished with a yawn.

"Yeah. Go to sleep," Hutch repeated and turned his back.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah," Hutch replied with a sigh, knowing what was coming.

"What about us?"

"Don't tell me you rented a forklift while I was gone," Hutch tried to joke.

"Tomorrow?" Starsky pursued, not willing to be put off.

"I . . . I . . ." Hutch hesitated, although his body knew exactly what it wanted.

"Gotta tell you the truth, Hutch." There was the sound of a jaw-straining yawn. "If you're in this bed tomorrow night . . ."

"Go to sleep," Hutch cut in.

"I'm goin'. I'm goin'."

* * *

Friday

Hutch put the cup of coffee down on the bedside table and sat down carefully beside the form huddled under the covers.

"Dave?"

No reply. Not so much as a twitch.

"Starsk?" Hutch eased the blanket back and placed a very gentle hand between the bruises on the revealed shoulder. "You awake?"

"No," came the rasping reply from the face buried in the pillow. "I died in the night. Can't you tell rigor's set in?"

"You going to go to a doctor now?"

"No," Starsky groaned as he slowly straightened stiff limbs and flopped over onto his back. "I'm going to go see the shower and the medicine cabinet and then I'm going to work. I've gotta qualify today."

"Stubborn, pig-headed," Hutch muttered under his breath, trying not to reveal how much Starsky's reference to qualifying affected him. He was sure that watching Starsky fly around that track again so soon was going to be one of the hardest things he had ever done. Despite his thoughts, he offered two strong arms to help lever Starsky to his feet. "You look like a muralist's nightmare," he decreed.

"Very funny," Starsky growled.

Hutch ignored the foul temper and helped Starsky limp toward the bathroom.

"Hutch?" Starsky said when they reached the door, then drew the blond's mouth down to his for a tender kiss that nonetheless held the promise of passion.

"Yeah?" Hutch breathed when his lips were gently released.

"I meant what I said last night," Starsky reminded him, then turned and closed the door between them.

* * *

"Captain, this is Hutch."

"Anything?"

"No. I cruised all my contacts last night. The whispers are growing about a big deal going down, but we could be generating those with all our inquiries."

"Huggy said Starsky was hurt yesterday."

"Blown tire at high speed. Nothing to do with the case."

"You sure about that?"

"Sure as I can be. I don't think Monk made me."

"I'm going to assume we won't get anything in advance and start planning a roster for Sunday. I'll need to meet with you Saturday night, but I'll hold off briefing until Sunday morning. We don't need to generate any more rumors."

"I think all I can do at this stage is hang around the track and keep my eyes open."

"And keep in touch."

"Will do, Cap."

Hutch put down the phone and leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. He needed a break on this case in the worst way. For the obvious reasons, of course, to arrest the criminals involved and keep the drugs off the street, but also for personal reasons. He had no doubt that Starsky would carry through on his promise tonight in that big bed upstairs. He felt his body quicken at just the memory of the brief kiss that morning and the desire in Starsky's eyes. Hutch knew that if Starsky made a move on him tonight, he would not resist. In fact, there was more than a small possibility that he would be making those moves himself, and, if he did, he was honest enough with himself to admit that it would be more than his body he would be committing to Starsky's care.

"Hey, you plannin' on walkin' to the track today?" Starsky asked, appearing in the doorway.

"Huh?" Hutch muttered, drawn from his thoughts by the sudden appearance of the subject of them.

Starsky dangled his keys from one finger. "Bus is leavin'," he warned.

As Hutch followed him down the hall, he noticed that the shower must have done Starsky a world of good. The swagger was certainly back in his walk. Valiantly, Hutch tried to keep his eyes off the hips that seemed to move totally independently of the rest of the long torso. He found himself speculating, however, on just what kind of an advantage such an ability would be in bed.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Forest?" Monk asked after he had been admitted to the office.

"Yes, Monk. I have been hearing some disquieting rumors. Word has been whispered that I am soon to be involved in a major purchase. I do not like it when every punk on the street knows my business," Forest said.

"Nobody's said a word, Mr. Forest. I'd swear to it."

"Are you sure you were not seen at the track?"

"As sure as I can be, sir, and I know for a fact I wasn't followed. I haven't even so much as moved outta the house to get the paper since then. Thought it would be better to keep a low profile."

Forest nodded acceptance of the reassurance.

"The cops might just be fishing," Monk suggested. "They've tried that on you before."

"Yes, they have, and they have always failed. They fail because I am a careful man. I expect you to be just as careful."

"I will be. I'm not going near that track again until Sunday."

"That would be wise." Forest turned his attention to the papers on his desk. "You may go."

* * *

Regardless of the fears that plagued him, when Starsky eased his car onto the track for his qualifying run at noon, Hutch was standing in the pits with the rest of the team. With his mind full of images of the crash of another powerful red and white car, it would have taken an act of God to make him take his eyes off the identical backup car as it began circling the track. He didn't want to watch, yet couldn't bring himself to look away.

Adrenaline flooded his system as the green flag slashed the go-ahead and the rumble of the powerful engine surged into a roar as Starsky put his foot down. Every time Starsky shifted his machine up, Hutch felt it in his chest, tightening the muscles another notch until he was almost gasping for every breath he managed to force past the restriction. His body shook and his fingers wrapped convulsively around the rail, but his eyes never left the streak of sound and speed for long enough to even blink.

By the time Starsky rocketed past the pits for the third time, Hutch knew it was almost over. One more lap and he could breathe again, could acknowledge the press of someone's hand on his shoulder. While the car remained on the track, however, Hutch felt as if it was only his obedient stillness and total focus that protected the machine as it approached the last bend.

Seconds later, sounds of celebration erupted around him and Hutch grabbed a much-needed breath. As if in a dream, he felt the friendly slap between his shoulder blades rock his body and peripherally took in Merle's comical dance of elation. Over. It was over. Still riveted, his gaze remained on the speeding car, and he saw, as it came out of the bend, that far from slowing down, it was gaining speed.

The compelling scream of machinery, strained to its limits, nearly piercing his eardrums, and the miasma of burning rubber choking him, Hutch realized that it was not over. Hutch felt his heart leap into his throat, lodging there as the car suddenly began swerving back and forth across the track, skidding on screeching tires up into the banked curve and then down toward the median in a movement that should have shaken the frame from the chassis.

It was going to happen again. Hutch knew it. Something was terribly wrong and that speeding, fragile vessel that held Starsky was going to cannon into the unforgiving concrete again.

"Hey! Somebody stop him!"

Hands scrabbled at his shoulders and waist, holding him back, dragging him away from the rail that his body, without conscious direction from his mind, had been preparing to leap. He struggled automatically, his fist connecting with something soft and yielding.

"Ow! Damn!"

He fought on, slowly losing ground beneath the strength of the many hands that sought to subdue him. Not once, as his body fought for freedom, did his eyes ever leave the track. Icy cold with horror, they saw every jerk and twist the car made while his body pumped adrenaline into his already frantic system.

Hutch lost it completely as the car suddenly went into a spin, fighting his captors mercilessly as he remembered the horrendous sound of the enforced mating of metal and concrete. He broke through finally, reaching the rail just as the car abruptly righted itself on the track and suddenly lost speed. Stunned, he stood and numbly watched the machine easing into the far bend.

"You okay, Hutch?"

The blond turned his head, staring mutely at Mike who stood beside him, disheveled and panting. Slowly, Hutch looked around at the rest of the team who were in similar states of disarray and had all gone back to congratulating each other.

He shook his head, trying to shatter the feeling of unreality that possessed him.

"Everything's okay," Mike was saying in the reassuring tone one might use to calm a wild animal. "Dave's got the number two starting spot. Isn't that great?"

Fury filled Hutch. "Are you people out of your minds? He was almost killed out there!" he shouted.

"Killed?" Merle chortled. "That boy's pure D magic. You see him come outta that spin?"

"Hutch," Mike said, laying a hand on a trembling shoulder, his hazel eyes understanding as he finally realized what was happening. "He wasn't out of control again. He just had to see how the car handled."

"'Handled'?" Hutch echoed incredulously. "You mean he did that on purpose?"

Mike's confirming nod was only a formality. Hutch understood now. He understood that he had just made an absolute fool of himself. Angrily, he pulled away from the sympathetic mechanic and stalked away just as Starsky coasted the car into the pits.

Hutch ignored the arrival and kept walking, not stopping until he reached the comparative sanctuary of Starsky's empty garage. He was shaking so hard with fury and reaction, he was afraid to stop, afraid he might go back there and punch his temporary partner right in the mouth.

He had barely cleared the doorway when he heard running footsteps behind him and spun to confront Starsky as the other man sprinted into the garage.

"You bastard!" he snarled, swinging on the unsuspecting driver. At the last moment, his fist unfurled, his grasping fingers latching onto sweaty curls and dragging Starsky to him. With all the anger within him, he dropped his mouth over surprise-parted lips and ground a brutal kiss into their unresisting softness.

The sweet surrender Starsky gave him was not what his furious soul craved and, as abruptly as he had initiated the kiss, Hutch ended it, tearing his mouth free and flinging Starsky away from him.

The darker man stumbled backward a few steps, caught his balance and stood staring at the cop, the back of one hand pressed to his ravaged lips.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to do that?" Hutch demanded.

The bewilderment left deep blue eyes. "I told you I hadta qualify," Starsky reminded him.

"You didn't tell me you were going to throw the car all over the track like some kind of demented Mexican jumping bean. At 200 miles an hour!"

"Two-ten," Starsky mumbled, his expression sheepish.

Hutch just stared open-mouthed.

Starsky eased forward, moving cautiously as if he expected Hutch to do God knew what. "Where ya comin' from here, Hutch?" he asked gently. "Ya don't even like me, remember?"

"Like? Christ, I think I'm fa . . ." Hutch locked his teeth over the confession trying to escape him.

Starsky sobered abruptly, taking the last step that separated them, and laid a very careful hand on Hutch's arm. "I'm sorry, Hutch. I swear to God I didn't think about how it would look to you. How you'd feel about it all. To me, it's just part of what I do." He paused, his eyes searching Hutch's face for some glimmer of understanding. He squeezed the flesh beneath his hand reassuringly. "It hadta happen, didn't it, Hutch?" he murmured softly. "Everything's been so damned intense between us right from the start." He slid his hand up to ruffle the blond softness at the back of Hutch's head. "Tonight, Hutch," he promised. "Tonight we're gonna work this out. No more hiding for either of us."

Starsky stepped back as the babbling of voices drew closer, heralding the approach of the crew.

Hutch gathered calm about himself, reminding his scattered wits that he was a cop with a job to do. His behavior in the last half hour might have done wonderful things for his cover, but Hutch was ashamed. The drug connection could have waved his three million worth of cocaine right under Hutch's nose while Starsky was on that track and the oblivious cop never would have noticed. He needed to get back to doing his job.

Bundling his emotions away to deal with later, Hutch left the garage and climbed into the stands. Qualifying runs continued down on the track and Hutch watched as a dozen drivers took their turns circling the track, seeking the best starting place they could get for the race on Sunday.

He saw the German team emerge for their run. True to form, Werner took no notice of the small scattering of applause as he brought his green and white car out onto the track. From conversations overheard and observations made during the week, Hutch knew that neither Werner nor any of his team seemed inclined to socialize to any great extent. In fact, Hutch had only seen Werner one other time, from a distance, during his trial run. Other than that trial run, the whole team stuck very close to their trailers, which had made it impossible for Hutch to get a look inside them.

Since it appeared that the entire German team was in the pits, it seemed like a good time to try to remedy that situation. Once again focused on the case, Hutch made his way down out of the stands and circled until he could exit through the entranceway that led out to the most northerly area of the parking lot where Werner's trailers were parked.

The trailers appeared to be deserted, and were, Hutch discovered after circling them both and trying every entrance, locked up tight as Fort Knox. From what he could see through the one uncovered window in each trailer, one was used as a garage. The setup, although smaller, showed little difference from the facilities provided by the track. The other trailer, however, was obviously being used as living quarters for the team.

"Wass ist los?" barked a deep voice just as Hutch came around the end of the trailer furthest from the stadium.

Hutch froze, wondering if he had been seen looking inside, then dismissed the concern. At this point, whether he had or not was a moot point. He could do nothing but brazen it out.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The questions were rapped at Hutch in accented English, by a man who could easily have been a poster boy for the ideal Aryan youth in the not so distant past. Tall and well-toned, the stranger possessed pale blue eyes and white-blond hair. From the description Starsky had given him and the at-a-distance glimpse he had seen, Hutch would have assumed he was facing Werner himself were it not for the fact that Werner must be on the track at this moment for his qualifying run.

Assuming his most innocent expression, Hutch moved forward, hand outstretched. "Hi. I'm Hutch," he gushed. "I thought Dave had introduced me to just about everyone, but I guess we missed you."

The German ignored the outstretched hand and Hutch finally let it drop to his side.

"Who is this Dave?"

Hutch widened his eyes. "Dave Starsky, of course. He's one of the drivers. He's really the best, you know. He's gonna win, I just know it." Hutch kept up the babble, while at the same time moving cautiously sideways until he had a clear path to the closest entrance.

"Oh, I guess that was a silly thing to say. I mean, I didn't mean any offense or anything. Are you a driver? I just . . ."

"What are you doing here?"

Cut off in mid-sentence, Hutch assumed an offended air. "Well, heck, you don't hafta bite my head off. I'm just taking a walk. I'm so bored. All anybody talks about around here is cars, cars and more cars. And me, well, I don't know anything about the stupid things at all. And . . ."

"Enough! You should not be here. Go away now. Stay away." The Aryan ideal made a shooing motion with his hands.

Holding in his sigh of relief until he was well within the darkened entranceway, Hutch was more than happy to comply.

* *

The second time Hutch found himself in trouble that afternoon, it was a situation from which he could not so easily extract himself. On his way back to Starsky's garage in the hopes of dragging the driver away from his team long enough to answer some questions, Hutch passed the garage assigned to the French team. This was another facility he had been unable to search and, when he glanced in and saw it was deserted, he ducked inside for a quick look around. He found a few notes that his long-forgotten high school French just was not up to translating, but nothing any more incriminating than he would expect to find in Starsky's garage. He was about to call it another fruitless effort when he heard a sound behind him. He spun around to find Guy Giroux just entering the garage.

The smaller man checked for a moment when he saw Hutch, then continued inside. "So David does let you off his leash, I see."

"Guy," Hutch exclaimed with apparent pleasure, despite the shivers of warning that were making the hairs on the back of his neck lift.

"What are you doing here, Hutch?" Giroux continued. "You do realize this is very unwise. I could so easily suspect you of trying to tamper with one of our cars."

"Me?" Hutch exclaimed, resurrecting his most innocent expression and even managing to come up with a credible giggle while every instinct he owned warned him to get out fast. Knowing Starsky's garage was next door, and hoping no one would decide to rev up one of the thunderous engines in the next few minutes, he sidled around until he was pressed up against the wall between this garage and the next one. He raised his voice and hoped it would carry. "I don't know anything about cars."

"No?" Giroux asked, following every movement Hutch made, stalking the bigger man. "Then perhaps you were waiting for me, cheri?" he purred. "Everyone is convinced you are totally besotted with Starsky, but perhaps you seek a little variety, no." Placing one hand on the wall beside Hutch, Giroux eased closer, almost bringing their bodies together.

"No," Hutch replied as loudly as he dared. "I was just bored and wandering around."

As ridiculous as he felt backing off from someone so much smaller than himself, Hutch forced himself to do it, knowing that any sudden show of aggression would be totally out of character for the role he was playing. Hutch continued to retreat, leaving the security of the wall at his back as Giroux continued to advance, until the Frenchman had him backed up against the fender of the car, leaning in until Hutch had to arch backward over it.

"Did Starsky not warn you to stay away from me, my little innocent? Surely he has told you that I am evil incarnate," Giroux murmured. Without warning his hand flashed out, callused fingers finding Hutch's nipple through his thin t-shirt and pinching hard.

Hutch pulled away, barely restraining his instinct to do something more positive than retreat, and turned his back to scramble away and put the car between himself and the threat. He spun back at the sounds of flesh impacting with flesh and a sharp yelp of surprised pain.

"You know, Giroux, someday somebody's gonna take great pleasure in handing you your balls," Starsky said, sounding as if he would very much like to be that man.

Hutch watched as the two antagonists, one half lying on the greasy floor and the other towering over the sprawled body, glared at each other in mutual animosity.

"I didn't go looking for him," Giroux defended himself, one shaky hand lifting to wipe at the blood on his mouth.

Starsky held out an arm. "Come 'ere, Hutch," he ordered as if Hutch were a well-trained puppy and Starsky had every reason to expect instant obedience.

Whatever it looked like, Hutch was happy to comply, relaxing as Starsky's arm slid around his waist. He kept his eyes on Starsky's face, hoping he looked appropriately adoring and contrite. He did know he must look relieved at the very least.

"Do yourself a favor, Giroux," Starsky suggested with false amenity, "and just send him back home if he wanders again."

Not waiting for a response, Starsky steered them out into the sunlight. "You okay?" he asked, his arm a band of security around Hutch's body.

"Yes," Hutch confirmed. "Thanks."

Starsky gave another reassuring squeeze and let go. "You'da got yourself outta there if I hadn't come along. Ya got balls, Hutchinson. Look at ya, you're not even shaking."

"I should be, I was mad enough. I couldn't do anything too aggressive . . ."

"Without blowing your cover," Starsky concluded. "Maybe, if you're lucky, he'll turn out to be your man and you'll get a chance for a little revenge."

"Never works that way, Starsk. It's never the ones you want it to be."

"True," Starsky conceded. "Come on, it's time we got outta here."

* * *

To Hutch's surprise, the nine men who sat around the kitchen table that evening were a subdued bunch. Since Starsky had managed to retain the number two spot despite the fact that nearly all the competitors had now qualified, Hutch would have expected high spirits at the very least. It took only a few minutes after sitting down for the situation to be made clear to him.

"You get ahold of the wreckers?" Starsky asked around a mouthful of food that he seemed to be eating strictly from necessity rather than for his usual enjoyment.

"Be around in the morning," Merle confirmed morosely. "We got just about every nut and bolt stripped off her that we could salvage."

"Damn shame," was Vince's opinion.

"Damn shame she wasn't insured, you mean," Starsky snapped.

Several sets of shoulders around the table shrugged off the self-chastisement, but it was Merle who spoke up. "That ain't your fault, Dave. We all voted. The premiums woulda sucked us dry."

"Just means ya gotta place on Sunday, man," Juan pointed out helpfully.

"Put a little more pressure on me, why doncha," Starsky complained, obviously trying to lift the spirits of the men depending on him even if his own were running at a very low ebb.

Merle gave Juan a shove. "That's right, you moron. He ain't gonna drive worth a damn all tensed up. He needs to be mellow, man. Laid back and relaxed."

It took a few moments for Hutch to realize that nine pairs of eyes were on him and a second or two longer to connect the teasing glances to Merle's statement. When he did, he felt himself go so hot he was sure even his hair had turned red. Suddenly the food on his plate seemed absolutely fascinating.

"Lay off," Starsky ordered in a tone that demanded instant compliance.

There was an awkward silence around the table until the intrepid Merle once again broke it. "Whadda the books say, Mike?"

"Win or place on Sunday or I'm gonna be using nothing but red ink for the rest of the season," Mike reported.

Hutch remembered Starsky telling him how one wrecked car or a blown engine could mean the end of a season for an independent team. It seemed to him a very precarious way to make a living.

"You comin' to Montoya's party tonight?" Vince asked Starsky.

"You think that's the way we oughtta go?" Starsky inquired mildly, but his eyes were cold, which made no sense to Hutch until he remembered that the Argentinean had a sponsor.

"We all know how you feel about contractin' with a sponsor, Dave," Merle soothed. "To tell you the truth, havin' to account for every wheel lug don't exactly ring my chimes neither."

"But the safety net'd be nice, huh?" Starsky acknowledged. He pushed away his half full plate. "Quaker State still callin'?"

"Once a week like clockwork. Their scout, Hayes, is a bright boy. Knows a good thing when he sees it," Mike confirmed.

"Maybe I better talk to him next time he calls," Starsky admitted.

"No sense in borrowin' trouble. We can talk about it after the race," Merle decreed.

There were the sounds of general agreement and for a while everyone's attention, with the exception of Starsky's, was on their food.

"So, you comin' to the party or not? You didn't say," Juan reminded him.

"No," Starsky replied, his gaze lingering on Hutch.

When nine other pairs of eyes followed, Hutch decided he had had quite enough dinner and got up to scrape his plate and start cleaning up. He could still feel the speculative emanations coming his way, but at least he had his back to them now.

The talk turned to the other competitors and the various merits of their skills and machines and Hutch listened with only half an ear as he worked. So they were going to be alone for the evening? Hutch was surprised to find he was glad, and even more surprised to realize why. Sometime today, whether it had been watching Starsky risk his life once again or when he had kissed the son of a bitch for all he was worth rather than punching his lights out like he should have, Hutch had made his decision. There was going to be a hell of a lot more than sleeping going on in Starsky's big bed tonight.

Hutch felt his tightly bound sex stir at just the thought and shifted, trying to ease the denim discomfort. He glanced over his shoulder at Starsky and found, as if his thoughts had been read, the warm gaze on him. Their eyes met and Hutch swallowed hard against the sudden constriction in his throat at the gentle smile that lightened Starsky's features in place of the leer he had expected. Emotions as well as hormones thoroughly engaged, Hutch turned his attention back to the sink.

A few minutes later, he felt Starsky's hand on his back.

"I'm gonna go up and call my mom. Come up when you're done?" he asked, as if he really expected Hutch to refuse.

Hutch dragged his mind out of his jeans long enough to remember he still had work to do. He glanced around to make sure they were alone. "I need to talk to you about the case."

Starsky's smile dimmed a little, but he acknowledged, "Duty first."

By the time Hutch had finished up in the kitchen, Starsky's crew had made their boisterous departure. Quite obviously, the men had decided to put aside their gloom for the last night of fun before the race. Starsky had already told him that there would be no partying for any of them Saturday night and had admitted that such restraint was unusual on the circuit. Maybe it was because, unlike most of the crews, Starsky's had a vested interest in being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the morning of the race, an interest more compelling than a paycheck.

Realizing he had polished the stovetop for the third time, Hutch chided himself for last-minute nerves and climbed the stairs. He found Starsky still on the phone and sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed. To Hutch's surprise, the other man was still fully clothed. Perhaps Starsky was also feeling a slight case of the jitters.

"Okay, Mom. I'll call you tomorrow night," Starsky said into the phone, signaling for Hutch to come into the room.

Hutch closed the door behind him and went to retrieve his notebook from his suitcase under the bed.

"Yeah, Mom. Love ya, too. Bye."

Hearing the phone cradled, Hutch climbed to his feet and made to sit on the end of the bed.

"Ah, Hutch, you mind usin' the chair?" Starsky asked. "You wanna take care of business first, blondie, I think you better not put too much temptation in my way."

Seeing the very good sense of that suggestion since he was dealing with his own considerable temptation, Hutch sat on the chair and flipped open his notebook. He heard Starsky give a deep sigh as he replaced the phone on the nightstand.

"Your mom okay?" he asked solicitously, unsurprised to realize that he really cared about the answer.

"My little brother needs a good swift kick in the ass," Starsky replied.

If not for his eavesdropping, Hutch would have had no idea of what Starsky was talking about. "Still being a prick, is he?"

Starsky chuckled, obviously remembering his mother's outrage during the call Hutch had overheard. "Careful you don't end up with a mouthful, too." He winced and hurried on. "You said you needed to talk about the case," he prompted. "You find something at Yves's?"

Because Vince and Juan had ridden back with them to the house and dinner had been ready when they arrived, Hutch had had no chance to relate his experiences of the afternoon. He did so now, concluding with, "It's Werner I want to talk to you about."

"Don't know what I can tell you," Starsky said, grunting as he shifted to lean against the headboard. It was obvious that his injuries were still painful, the beneficial effects of the morning shower having worn off hours ago. "But go ahead and ask."

"Why does he use those trailers? Must be a hell of an expense when he could have a garage instead."

"I don't know," Starsky admitted. "He used track facilities the last two races. Maybe he lost some equipment or something. Theft isn't a major problem, but it happens. I never heard he was ripped off." He paused to search his memory. "He uses one of them to live in, doesn't he?"

"Looked like it to me," Hutch confirmed.

"I heard there was some trouble at the hotel where he and his team stayed the first race this year. You saw what Nigel's party was like. Sometimes things can get outta hand. That's one of the reasons we rent a house whenever we can."

"That sounds reasonable enough, but those trailers still make him stand out like a sore thumb in my mind, just the way Monk stood out the other day at the track because of his suit. You know as well as I do that it's usually something stupid like that that trips up these creeps. Some little detail that attracts the attention."

"Wish I could help you more, but I know pretty much zip about the man. Won't speak to me. Probably wouldn't even run on the same track with me if he could avoid it."

"Is he that competitive?" Hutch asked.

Starsky laughed bitterly. "The man's a Nazi, Hutch, and I'm a Jew. Oh, I know Americans wanna believe alla that died with Hitler, but it didn't. I had enough relatives comin' to visit when I was a kid with numbers tattooed on their arms and horror branded in their eyes to know the type. You don't forget hearin' stories like that, Hutch, and my mom never stopped us from listenin' either. I always figured she thought of it as part of our heritage."

Hutch could find nothing to say to that. What did a rich, blond, blue-eyed American know about the yoke of that kind of prejudice? He had run headlong into closed minds since he had become a cop, but that was different. He could accept someone hating him for what he chose to be; he could not understand the same emotion leveled at anyone for simply being born what they were.

Starsky let him off the hook. "It seems to me you've already made up your mind about Giroux. How come?"

"He's too stupid," Hutch said slowly. When you made a decision from instinct, sometimes it was hard to explain it. "Too ruled by his own passions. If you've got a three million dollar deal coming down, you don't take the chance of being collared on a perversity charge. And I really feel it has to be a driver. His crew might be involved, but the driver's gotta be the head man."

"Makes sense, I guess," Starsky admitted.

Hutch reviewed the notes he had made one last time, then flipping his book closed, he went to stash it back in the suitcase. He remained kneeling beside the bed, looking up at Starsky questioningly.

Starsky reached out right-handed to run his fingers through the fine strands of blond hair. "We need to talk about this?" he asked softly.

Hutch shook his head. "Probably, but that isn't what I want to do right now."

A callused thumb brushed at a prickly sideburn. "You ever done this before?"

"No, but I learn quick."

"So I've noticed," Starsky murmured, leaning toward Hutch. The movement ended in a yelp of pained surprise as his bruised ribs reminded him of their presence.

Disappointed, Hutch climbed to his feet. "Maybe we better . . ."

"Don't even think it," Starsky commanded as he caught at one of the big hands. With Hutch's help, he hauled himself to his feet. "All I need is a nice hot shower. With you."

Hutch neither protested nor tried to resist as Starsky drew him into his arms. Neither was the hand at the back of his head that directed him to the parted lips more than a formality. Hutch was more than happy to go there on his own.

As it had on the track before the accident and again in the garage today, the kiss seemed to take on a life of its own as the two men became immersed in each other and everything else disappeared.

Hutch had thought he knew what to expect, but the first few moments blew those preconceptions away. With the decision to allow himself this loving, however brief it was going to be, came the freedom to let his senses take over and revel in the erotic sensations of kissing someone as strong as he was, to enjoy the embrace of arms as muscular as his own, to release, for the first time in a sexual situation, the full power of his athletic body. By the time the first kiss ended and the second immediately followed, the control he had practiced all his adult life was gone and his sensual nature set free.

Even then he might have retained some semblance of restraint had Starsky not responded to him with every ounce of the wanton sexuality he made no effort to hide. The lithe body undulated against him and the impudent hands caressed him, imperiously tugging away any impediment that dared to get in their way. The rough brush of Starsky's shirt against his bare chest reminded Hutch that he, too, had hands and he sent them questing for velvet skin beneath concealing material.

It wasn't graceful, it wasn't elegant, but in a very few minutes they were rolling together on the bed, finally naked. Deprived of oxygen and uncaring of the fact, Hutch refused to let their sealed lips be parted. He pursued again and again when Starsky tried to withdraw, until he sprawled over the muscular body, grasping at whatever exciting flesh he could reach and feeling the callused hands gripping his own body fiercely. He thrust instinctively, the silken glide of their engorged cocks compensation for the loss when Starsky finally managed to tear his mouth away.

"Easy, baby blue."

Hutch heard the words, felt the husky tone shiver down his spine, but was well beyond the coherence required to comprehend their meaning. The body beneath him heaved and he pressed down harder. It was gathering, that ultimate moment that was reason enough for existence, all sensation narrowing down to the demanding flesh between his legs.

"Not so fast. Only got one in me tonight."

The words meant nothing, only the rasp of the voice on tortured nerve endings allowing Hutch to perceive them at all. The body beneath his squirmed and some primal urge warned of escape. He clamped both hands on wriggling hips and leaned his weight into the struggle.

Then, suddenly, the source of the terrible, beautiful pleasure was gone. He was sprawled on his back, and someone was urging him to his feet.

"The shower, remember, Hutch? We were gonna take a shower first."

Blindly, he clamped his hands around the furry torso, but was shocked into releasing it by the hoarse cry of pain that greeted his touch.

"Not the ribs. Remember?"

He stared uncomprehending into beautiful blue eyes.

"Ah, babe, you need it bad, doncha."

A gentle palm cupped his burning face and he pressed into it, the small part of him not ruled by sensation alone cherishing the tenderness.

"Bet ya got more than one in you tonight, doncha, beautiful. Down ya go."

Hutch was being pushed down again and went with it until his buttocks pressed onto the rumpled sheet. He held out his arms to the one he needed. "Starsk," he begged.

Hungrily, he followed with his eyes as the bruised body evaded his greedy hands and sank to its knees before him. Roughened palms stroked his inner thighs, pressing, encouraging his legs to part.

"Yeah. That's it. Let me at you."

Hutch groaned and threw back his head as strong fingers probed his aching sac, seeking out the anxious spheres of his testicles and pressing so very sweetly. He closed his eyes to preserve what little sanity remained to him.

"No, babe. Open your eyes. Watch me. You gotta give it to me now. Watch me, Hutch."

The husky voice commanded and Hutch obeyed, forcing open leadened lids to watch the incredible sight of both those talented hands wrapping around his engorged cock. Then the hot mouth descended, engulfing the weeping head and sucking, sucking, sucking as if it would siphon his soul from him.

Hutch cried out, voice high and strained, and let the sensations carry him away. For that brief moment there was no trace of civilized man left within him, just the hard clench and drain that delivered his seed into the keeping of the man who demanded it from him.

When Hutch returned to full awareness, he had flopped back on the bed, his eyes staring up at the featureless white ceiling as his body throbbed and ached with the echo of his climax. He felt the brush of silk upon his thigh, then a heaviness, and realized that Starsky had rested his head there, the warm moist breath from the panting mouth caressing his spent genitals. Gathering strength from some as yet untapped source, he lifted one trembling hand and brought it to rest on the bowed head.

"Just feel it, babe."

Incapable of doing anything else, Hutch obeyed.

"Hutch?"

Caught on the very edge before tumbling over into sated sleep, Hutch managed to balance there, a hum of inquiry/satiation rumbling in his throat.

"Uh, Hutch. I sure hope you're awake up there 'cause I don't think I can get up."

Reminded of his new lover's injuries, Hutch struggled to gather his shattered wits and sit up. He gazed down at the supplicant kneeling at his feet and, much to his surprise, felt a shiver of excitement trace his body. He had thought himself completely drained by Starsky's skillful mouth, but his body, as it had for days now, had other ideas. His cock began to fill again, shifting lazily where it rested on his thigh and eliciting an admiring chuckle from Starsky.

"Maybe I oughtta just stay where I am," Starsky suggested, easing forward to take the spongy tip of Hutch's cock between his lips. He released it immediately at Hutch's gasp. "Too sensitive?" he asked, rubbing his cheek against the long thigh.

"Mmmm," Hutch confirmed, stroking at the tangled curls. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into this bed and have Starsky cuddle in beside him. He let his gaze run over the long torso, eyes widening when they came to the dark groin and the still swollen cock.

"Christ, I didn't even . . ."

Starsky broke into the self-chastisement. "You were busy, okay? And if you wouldn't mind giving me a hand up . . ."

Hastily, Hutch helped the other man to his feet and stood holding him in his arms while the circulation returned to bowed legs. After a few moments, Starsky began moving against him, brushing the soft hairiness of his body against Hutch's hairlessness. Hutch caught his breath as barely quieted nerve endings sprang back to attention. Swollen lips came to claim his and another jolt of arousal hit him as he realized that the impudent tongue that thrust its way into his mouth brought with it the flavor of his own seed. He captured the strong muscle and sucked, both hands reaching down to cup the ripe ass cheeks and pull the exciting body closer.

Once again it was Starsky who broke the hermetic seal of their lips. He laughed softly, face turned into the hollow of Hutch's neck and shoulder. "You sure got a one-track mind, blondie," he murmured, pressing back into the fingers that kneaded his ass.

"You been grabbin' my ass since ya got my jeans off." Starsky licked his way up the long neck until he could whisper into Hutch's ear. "Tryin' to tell me somethin'?" he suggested wickedly, spreading his legs and thrusting back again.

Hutch shuddered, his fingers tightening on the succulent rear.

"Like that idea, do ya?" Starsky teased, licking around the rim of Hutch's ear, catching the soft lobe and biting gently. "Are ya hot to get that long, red cock up my . . ."

"Christ, stop," Hutch demanded hoarsely, hips thrusting involuntarily, rubbing his fully engorged cock against Starsky's furry belly, his hands tightening to pull them closer together.

Starsky nursed at the soft flesh he had bitten, smoothing his hands up and down the long back in soothing strokes, letting Hutch have the lead once more.

"No wonder your mother wants to wash your mouth out with soap," Hutch panted.

Starsky chuckled softly. "Wouldn't let you now, babe. You taste too good to let anybody take it away."

With the edge taken off his urgency, Hutch was able to bring himself back under control after a few pleasurable moments of simply being held. He felt Starsky's hard cock rubbing against him and eased his leg between the widespread thighs, pressing firmly into the aroused genitals.

"Want to go slow this time," he confessed.

"Oh, yeah," Starsky agreed. Gently, he eased out of the embrace, catching Hutch's hand and leading him toward the bathroom. "Shower first?" he suggested.

Hutch followed immediately, already imagining how the beautiful body would look and feel under the hot spray. He felt no disappointment when they stood beneath the cascade. The thick pelt plastered against the well-toned body was a delight to behold, but Starsky would not let him touch, evading his hands and reaching for the soap instead.

Starsky maneuvered them around until Hutch leaned against the wall with Starsky's body blocking the spray. The strong, soapy hands ran over him, cleansing and caressing in turns. They traveled his body, worshipping his shoulders, cherishing the long muscles of his arms, plucking at nipples that flushed and grew erect while he writhed against the wall. His fingers clawed at the tiles as he battled to give Starsky the lead, not to wrest it from him again and force the tantalizing hands to stop tormenting the rigid muscles of his belly. His restraint was rewarded when the hands finally moved lower, cupping around the soft/hard contrast of his genitals, squeezing and soaping in a silken glide that left him panting, knees trembling.

As suddenly as he had been engulfed, he was abandoned as the hands moved on to soap his thighs, the other man kneeling on the hard porcelain. He pressed into the tiles for support as first one foot and then the other was lifted and washed with astonishing thoroughness.

Just as Hutch was sure he could stand no more of it, he was gently urged to turn and the cool ceramic became a refuge. He pressed his face, his chest, his engorged cock against the welcome cold as every contour of his clenched buttocks was explored, not by Starsky's insistent fingers but by the arrogant mouth. Lips caressed, the tongue bathed and sharp teeth branded the white globes before the soapy hands followed in their wake, kneading, massaging until the muscles relaxed and two thumbs could probe into the crevice, prying him open to allow slick fingers to glide over the sensitive flesh revealed. He pressed harder into the wall, trying to escape as one fingertip found his anus, circling and teasing at the resistant portal as he fought his own desire to invite the impudent opportunist inside.

When he finally lost the battle and arched back, he was once again abandoned as Starsky slowly rose, the hands gliding on the slippery soap up his back to his shoulders. The strong body pressed into him from behind, the thick cock sliding smoothly against the back of his thigh.

"If you weren't so tall, I'd nail ya. Right here, right now. Slide all the way up your tight, cherry ass," Starsky growled, his teeth once again latching onto the lobe of Hutch's ear.

Hutch shuddered as the threat/promise was breathed into his ear, recognizing that despite never before having considered submitting to another man, he would be more than happy to participate eagerly in his own ravishment now. He trapped a whimper in his throat, mangling the sound until it emerged as a strangled moan.

"Easy, beautiful. We're gonna go nice and slow," Starsky reminded him, moving away slowly, retaining a fierce grip on trembling shoulders until he was sure the shaken man could stand alone.

After a moment spent collecting his wits, Hutch shrugged the grip away and turned, easing past Starsky to stand under the spray. As the warm water caressed him, sluicing away the soap, he wished he could turn it to cool, just for a moment, to let the shock help him regain control.

"Go ahead if you need to," Starsky suggested, as if he could read Hutch's mind.

Standing squarely under the showerhead, Hutch yanked the cold-water tap over to full, allowing the sudden icy deluge to hit him full in the face, chest and groin. He returned the setting to normal as the cold shock returned some threads of sanity back into his hands.

Starsky was holding out the soap when Hutch turned around and the taller man accepted it. Within a moment he had made the delightful discovery that soap plus water plus thick body hair equaled not the thin film Starsky had had to work with but an abundance of frothy lather. He spread it liberally over the battered torso, thinking irresistibly of whipped cream when the twin dark nipples he teased poked through their white covering like two ripe cherries. He smiled as he reached down to dab a dollop of foam on the empurpled head of Starsky's cock.

"I know what you're thinking," Starsky taunted softly. "If it really was whipped cream, I'd make you lick it off."

Hutch moaned softly and dropped to his knees, but a fist in his hair prevented him from following through. He looked up and found Starsky watching his mouth with the concentration of a cat at a mouse hole.

"Didn't your mom ever tell you to wash your food before you eat it?" Starsky asked provocatively.

"No," Hutch replied, bringing both soapy hands up to encircle the engorged cock and plump sac. He squeezed and stroked, watching the effect on the face above him. "But she was always scolding me for playing with my food."

Both of Starsky's hands came down to cover Hutch's, encouraging them, directing them. "That's it. Get me nice and clean. But hurry," he demanded, pulling the hands away and turning his back to the kneeling man.

Hutch nearly lost it as he was presented with the ripe cheeks. Instinctively, his hand went down, wrapped around his own cock and squeezed painfully tight.

"Oh, yeah," Starsky murmured, looking back over his shoulder. "You really wanna . . ."

"Don't," Hutch cut in harshly, panting as he gripped his own excited flesh fiercely. "Don't say it."

Starsky grinned and leaned against the cool ceramic, spreading his legs to the limit the confines of the tub would allow. "'Nuf talk," he agreed restlessly. "Do it."

Abruptly, Hutch rose to his feet and battled his way through the shower curtain, leaving Starsky to hurriedly finish his own cleansing and follow.

"Sorry," Hutch murmured, wrapping Starsky in a large towel, blotting the water from the furry torso, and bending to gently dry the diminished cock.

"A man's gotta know his limitations," Starsky dismissed the apology, running his fingers through the damp blond strands that were already beginning to dry. He cupped Hutch's down-turned chin and urged his head up until their eyes could meet. "It don't really have to go slow if that ain't the way you want it."

Hutch shook off his uncharacteristic hesitancy and rose to his feet. Tossing aside the towels, he drew Starsky out of the bathroom and back to the big bed. He waited until the sexy body was stretched out on the dark blue sheets, then eased down beside it.

He reached out to stroke the half-hard cock. "I keep leaving you behind."

"Nah," Starsky denied, reaching out to encircle the red pole that seemed to jump into his grip. "I'm just pacin' myself. I been wantin' you since I laid eyes on you. You can do anything you want, Hutch, and I'm gonna love it."

Hutch eased Starsky over onto his back, letting his gaze caress the banquet spread out before him. He brought his mouth down to sample a swollen nipple, licking delicately then nipping carefully, kissing his way across the broad chest until he found its hardened partner.

He settled there, nursing the small pap while Starsky groaned encouragement. He had done this to more women than he could remember and yet the restless writhings of this man inflamed him as no woman ever had. Never before had he felt as if he truly would die if Starsky denied him more. He slid down the bed, his lips finding the heat generated by the massive bruising over the arched ribcage. His lips cherished the wounded flesh while he wished that he had the power to heal, could take away the pain with the touch of reverent hands.

He slid lower, settling between eagerly spread thighs. Starsky's now fully engorged cock rode the smooth expanse between his nipples and he rocked, feeling the velvet tip glide over his flesh on its own slick essence. He pressed wet kisses to the taut muscles that padded Starsky's belly, letting the sculpted lines lead him down once again until the naked crown of the cut cock caught under his chin. One more wriggling slide and the thick monster was in his face, demanding, without a sound from its owner, that Hutch do something.

Encircling the thick base with one hand, the thumb of the other rubbing the weeping tip, Hutch hesitated as he remembered that he had never done this before.

"It's okay, babe. Ya don't hafta," Starsky murmured, slipping both hands into the soft, blond hair.

As if the absolution had been all Hutch needed, the hesitancy departed and hunger returned. Abruptly, he lowered his head, engulfing the broad tip between his lips, his senses nearly overcome as the taste and feel of it burst upon his tongue. Eagerly he sucked, taking as much as he could and making up for the lack with his hands. His technique may have been less than expert, but if the writhing of the body beneath him was anything to go by, what he lacked in experience was more than made up for by enthusiasm.

A steady monologue of groans issued from the man beneath Hutch, interspersed with tender obscenities that seemed to spark along his nerves until he had to block them out or succumb to their power over him. Concentrating fiercely on his own hunger, he missed the shouted warning, feeling the throb and pulse in the thick flesh only a moment before the first stream of semen hit the back of his throat. He swallowed without thought, backing off when he realized what was happening until only the quivering tip remained in his mouth and he could let the bitter fluid collect as he sucked and pumped the last spasm from the spewing cock. He savored and analyzed, swallowing only when the spent cock began to soften and he had to release it. He laid his head on a trembling thigh and let the pleasure sweep over him until slender hands urged him upward.

His cock a throbbing demand between his legs, Hutch crawled up the bed, coming to rest straddling narrow hips.

Starsky ran the tip of one finger over Hutch's lips making him realize they were swollen and wet from his eager ministrations.

"Ya got a lotta natural talent there, babe," Starsky panted. "Ya want my ass now?"

Hutch shook his head mutely, even in his comparative inexperience realizing that he was too far gone for the delicate business of anal penetration, yet nearly frantic for relief.

"Next time," Starsky promised, and pulled him down.

With his cock trapped between strong thighs and his mouth coaxed to where it could be claimed, Hutch's whole body heaved, thrusting instinctively as his mouth was filled with a tongue that demanded he share the feast he had just gorged himself upon. He humped frantically, nearing the edge once again, straining for it when two strong hands clamped on his ass, spreading him. The sudden vulnerability thrust him up and over the top and he let orgasm possess him again. He collapsed onto the man beneath him even while his cock still throbbed the last weak spasms.

"Easy, easy," Starsky soothed, one hand stroking sweat-soaked hair while the other glided up and down the quivering back.

Totally enervated, all Hutch could do was lie there and pant. He knew he must be nearly crushing the smaller man but was completely incapable of the coordination necessary to even roll over. It seemed Starsky understood his predicament because, rather than trying to shift the dead weight, he wriggled out from beneath it, settling them both down in each other's arms.

"Oh, my God," Hutch finally murmured when he was capable of doing more than gasping for his next breath.

"Or words to that effect," Starsky agreed.

"Such a romantic," Hutch complained lazily, rubbing at the smooth, tender flesh at Starsky's waist.

"You a hearts and flowers type of guy?" Starsky yawned the question, his petting hand moving slower and slower over Hutch's back as sleep began to creep up on him.

"Any kind you want," Hutch murmured, consciousness slipping away.

"My . . ." Sleep stole the last word from Starsky's lips, but it did not matter for there was no one left awake to hear it.

* * *

Both men were so exhausted that they might well have slept through the door-slamming, off-key-singing, boisterous return of most of the crew. Slumbering on blissfully no matter how satiated was simply impossible, however, when someone was beating an uneven jungle rhythm on your bedroom door.

"Dave! Come on, bro." The voice was Merle's, much the worse for the liquid libations he had obviously indulged in.

Hutch shot up in bed, scrambling for a memory of where the hell he was and for a corner of the sheet to cover his nakedness.

"Sure hope you locked that door, blondie," Starsky muttered, burrowing further into the pillow.

Giving up on the sheet, which was hopelessly tangled around Starsky's legs, Hutch settled for a speedy review of his returning memories in the, he feared, vain hope that he had locked the door.

"Know you're in there," Merle accused along with another application of meaty fists to fragile wood.

"Cut it out, Merle." This marginally more lucid voice sounded like Vince. "You're gonna wake 'em up."

"Nah," Merle denied the accusation. "Light's on, ain't it?" A cackle of laughter so filthy it needed a censor rating. "Gonna wear it down to a nub, Davey."

"Get away from there." That was Vince's slurred voice of reason again. "You're just jealous."

"Jealous! Jealous?" Outraged indignation that only the truly drunken could manage. "Jus' thinkin' 'bout Davey's health."

"Yeah, yeah. Got nothin' at all to do with Charlie Sireen turnin' ya down."

There was the sound of a scuffle and then the solid thump of a full body slam against the door. The frame shook alarmingly, making Hutch fear the whole thing was about to give way. He renewed his efforts to claim a concealing portion of the sheet.

"Needa get her on a team. Good mechanic." Merle was rhapsodizing now. "An' wouldnit be fiiiiiine watchin' her wrigglin' 'round unner . . ."

"Dave'd take her away from ya in five minutes flat." Vince again. "They jus' can't resist . . ."

"All right, you guys, go the fuck to bed!"

The bellow erupting from beside him shocked Hutch into giving up his one-sided bedding struggle. He sat staring at Starsky who was also sitting straight up and glaring at the door.

There was the sound of shuffling and complaints, luckily unintelligible, retreating down the hall.

"Shit," Starsky moaned as he flopped back down on the pillow.

"Sounds like you've got quite a reputation to live down," Hutch remarked dryly. He finally untangled the sheet and draped it over them both.

Starsky opened one eye and Hutch met it with a lifted brow. "Any worse than I'd hear in the locker room at your precinct?"

Hutch shrugged, acknowledging Starsky's accuracy with a small smile.

"'Bout time we had that talk?" Starsky asked, and it was difficult to tell if he really wanted to do so or was just resigned to the inevitable.

At that moment, Hutch's bladder chose to remind him of the abundance of coffee and soda he had consumed throughout the day.

"Gimme a minute," he said and climbed out of bed. A quick glance around revealed that his clothes were scattered who knew where. Reminding himself that it was a little late for modesty now, he went to the bathroom, feeling the blue gaze following him. When he emerged, the scrutiny was waiting to watch his return trip to the bed. There was an expression of bemusement on Starsky's face that Hutch had seen before.

"What?" he asked, stopping short of getting back into the bed.

"Ya don't even know, do ya?" Starsky said softly.

Hutch had heard that question before as well, at the bottom of the stairs just three days ago. "Know what?" he asked, unaware that he matched Starsky's whisper.

"How beautiful you are," Starsky revealed, reaching out to draw Hutch back into the bed. "Maybe that's why, 'cause you don't know."

Hutch accepted the tender brushing of lips to lips that followed the declaration, slipping his arm around Starsky and stroking the long back. He touched, not to arouse with the long sweeps of his hand, but simply to connect, be close, demonstrate that the reason he was here was more than an abundance of testosterone. The soft lips moved down to his neck, warm curls resting against his shoulder as Starsky painfully shuffled closer.

"Want some aspirin?" he offered.

"Not if it means ya gotta move," Starsky replied, warm breath caressing the sensitive skin of Hutch's throat. "I know we should talk about this, but couldn't we just go back to sleep now? Talk later?" he asked plaintively.

"If you want," Hutch confirmed. After all, he already knew the speech. The one that went, "I had a good time, but..." He had made it himself a dozen times. He did not need to hear it.

"Been so long since I held a lover in my arms. Feels so good," Starsky murmured.

The soft declaration was so far from what he had expected that the question refused to stay decently hidden in the suddenly elation-bright corners of Hutch's mind. He felt it slip into his throat, slide past the sudden obstruction there, glide onto his tongue and escape. "Lover?"

"Oh, yeah. Love you, baby blue."

Then Starsky was asleep and Hutch was left alone with a mind that refused to be quiet. The thoughts chased themselves around like playful puppies, occasionally turning to offer stinging bites of doubt, then gamboling off again on fresh up draughts of elation. He was loved. As much as he loved, he was loved in return. The lodestone of his joy wriggled closer still, entwining them in an intricate puzzle of contented flesh. With his fingers lost in dark curls, Hutch rejected the doubts, accepted the joy, and slept.

* * *

Saturday

Hutch woke up in stages, well after the sun had made its appearance, to find his face full of tickling silk, his arms full of warm flesh and his morning erection rubbing sweetly in the cleft between muscular nether cheeks. He was only halfway to consciousness when he realized that the man in his arms was moving, pressing back into him and bringing him almost to the point of no return before he could even fully appreciate the sensations.

Hutch's hand quested downward from where it was cupped protectively over Starsky's injured ribs to wrap around the thick cock.

"With me, are you?" Starsky asked, voice sleep-rough and husky.

Hutch burrowed through the curls to find the shell of a hidden ear. "Way ahead, maybe, from the feel of it."

"Mmmm," Starsky agreed. "But I'm gainin' fast."

The sudden throb and surge of the erection in Hutch's hand seemed to confirm Starsky's claim. Hutch stroked and squeezed, encouraging the eager flesh to catch up to and even surpass his own race for completion. He felt a callused hand grip his hip and, as Starsky curled around his encompassing hand, the ripe cheeks press harder into his groin. The blond cried out softly.

"That's it. Come with me, Hutch. Winner's circle all the way," Starsky moaned, then went abruptly still.

Hutch felt the sudden gush of liquid silk in his hand and let his lover's pleasure complete his own. Feeling as if it was drawn from the depths of his soul, his semen boiled forth, spreading between them, binding them in sensation.

"That," Starsky panted when he could catch his breath, "is the only way to wake up."

"Mmmm," Hutch agreed, equally as breathless. "Wish I didn't have to get up."

"So don't," Starsky suggested sleepily.

"You mean there isn't some piece of machinery demanding your undivided attention today?" Hutch asked, remembering only as he voiced the question that Marcy was officially locked away until the race and Gena was little more than scrap metal.

"Nope," Starsky agreed, then qualified. "Well, I did think I might give the Torino a wash and wax."

"Why don't you have a name for the Torino?" Hutch asked curiously, burrowing into the sweaty nape and licking at the salty flesh.

Starsky shuddered but made no attempt to pull away. "I don't name cars," he protested a bit breathlessly. "Merle does. It's either that or let him put in a leopard seat and mink dash. All great artists are a little . . . weird."

Hutch laughed. "The word is eccentric, Starsk, not weird."

Starsky shifted around stiffly, quite obviously still feeling the effects of his close encounter with the concrete wall. He stopped his painful wriggling when they were face to face.

"Speakin' of names. Don't think I ever slept with someone before who called me by my last name." Starsky's expression became contemplative. "Come to think of it, never been in love with somebody I called by theirs either."

"In love," Hutch repeated, his index finger tracing the lips that had just said the words so easily that still hesitated upon his own.

"Yeah. Love's an odd witch sometimes. Likes to throw together weird combinations. You know, like the princesses and the frogs, the Romeos and the Juliets." The wide eyes that met Hutch's were world-weary and wise. "The Starskys and the Hutchinsons."

Hutch pulled away abruptly, flopping onto his back, the self-delusional bubble he had been floating in shattered. He would have left the bed but for Starsky's restraining arm locked around his waist. He could have easily fought his way free, but would have had to hurt Starsky to do it.

"Come on, Hutch," Starsky pleaded, propping himself up on an elbow to look down into the closed-off face. "You tryin' to tell me you got a place for me in your life?"

"No more than you've got one for me," Hutch ground out the words through locked jaws so they would not tremble.

"But I do, Hutch," Starsky said sadly. "Catch is, you'd hafta give up everything. For a while that probably wouldn't matter, but someday it would. Then you'd cross back over that line and start hatin' me again."

"I never hated you," Hutch protested.

"Oh, yes you did," Starsky reminded him, demanding honesty to match his own. He shifted around until he sat on the side of the bed. "When you thought I was something you despise. I'm not one of the good guys anymore, and I can't ever go back."

Hutch scrambled up to sit beside Starsky, his urgent fingers gripping both of Starsky's arms. "But you can," he said breathlessly. "Walters said to tell you . . ."

Hutch's words stumbled to a halt as he found himself facing the wary, suspicious stranger he had met in Huggy's bar less than a week ago.

"Walters? What the fuck did you do?" Starsky asked in as calm and as deadly a tone as Hutch had ever heard.

Hutch froze for only a moment, but it was long enough for Starsky to come to his own conclusion.

"You checked me out," Starsky accused, all of the old bitterness polluting the angry words. "I really thought you believed me."

"I did. I . . ."

Starsky pulled away and left the bed, obviously intending retreat. If he had not been so stiff and sore, he would have made it before Hutch had had a moment to even think about the abrupt about-face his life was taking, let alone react. As it was, Hutch scrambled free of the bed and caught the other man before he had managed two limping steps away. Wrapping his big hands around Starsky's arms, he only just resisted the urge to shake him.

"Oh, no you don't. You're not running away again."

"Let me go," Starsky growled threateningly, twisting to free himself from the tight grip. "Let go or I'll . . ."

"What?" Hutch cut in. "Fight me? Then you better be ready to put me in the hospital. Can you do that, Starsk? 'Cause if you can't, you aren't getting out of here until you listen to what I have to say."

"All right. All right," Starsky shouted, pulling his arms free but standing his ground. "You got somethin' to say, you go ahead and say it and then get the hell out of my life."

"I'm sorry," Hutch began.

"Yeah. Sorry," Starsky spat. "Everybody's always sorry. Walters was sorry. My partner was sorry. I bet even my dad, wherever the hell he is now, is sorry, too."

Suddenly Hutch realized what he was doing, meeting Starsky's aggression with his own and accomplishing nothing but fueling the fire. It had happened over and over between them since practically the first moment they had met, both of them trying to keep themselves separate and holding the other at bay with alley-cat hostility. He refused to let it happen again.

"Five minutes ago you said you loved me," Hutch reminded him softly, changing tactics, knowing it was his only hope of reaching his angry lover.

"Which just proves what head I've been doin' my thinkin' with," Starsky snarled. "And that somebody oughtta give you a fuckin' Academy Award."

"But I didn't say it, did I?" Hutch went on in the same calm, even tone, knowing that eventually Starsky would be unable to resist hearing, hoping he could also make the emotionally guarded man listen.

"So here you are with all your vulnerabilities exposed, wondering just where you stand. And what do I do? I slap you in the face with another betrayal. Only I'm not your dad, Starsk. I'm not your partner, or any of the men who were supposed to stand by you and didn't."

Starsky had fallen silent, his eyes still wary as he watched Hutch, as if he expected the big blond to strike out at any time. But somewhere in those wide, doubting eyes, just a bit around the impossibly blue irises, the desire to believe was reviving.

"So I'm saying it now. I love you, David Michael Starsky. More than that, you've made me trust you and there's damned few other souls in this world who can say that. Will you listen to me, Starsk? Really listen? Do that and when I'm done, if you still want me to, I'll leave. Fuck the case. Fuck the drugs. You'll never have to look at me again."

Hutch watched as the desire to believe warred with the instinct to protect himself in Starsky's expressive face, holding his breath until he saw the first glimmers of acceptance there.

"You'd walk away from the case?" Starsky asked cautiously.

Hutch nodded silently, afraid to say more, hoping he had said enough.

"All right. All right. I'll listen," Starsky conceded. He turned away and limped back to the bed, planting himself on the mattress and crossing his arms over his bare chest.

As much as there should have been, there was nothing the least bit amusing about Starsky sitting there like some grand inquisitor while naked as the day he was born. The truth was, Starsky wasn't truly naked; he was once again clothed in the bitter armor whose disappearance had been such a gradual thing that Hutch had not noticed the departure, only the return. He hoped he could once again strip away that emotional shielding and reach the man beneath.

Slowly, as if afraid he might spook the former cop into flight again, Hutch eased his own naked body down onto the edge of the bed, settling close enough so that their knees almost touched as they sat face to face.

"Dobey called Walters." Hutch held up a hand to stop the immediate retort he saw forming on Starsky's lips. "Just let me tell it like it happened. I don't know when he called. Could have been five minutes after we left his office. I did ask him to do it, but not until Wednesday morning."

Some of the defensiveness left Starsky's pose, enough at least to let the arms relax, the hands coming to rest on naked thighs. "I . . . I guess I can understand. You'd need to know . . ."

Hutch dared to reach out and cover one of the restless hands with his own. "What I needed to know was who this man I was falling for really was. You had so many keep out signs up and you were confusing the hell out of me. Coming on like a sex-crazed Neanderthal one minute and like my idea of a perfect partner the next."

"So you asked Walters and he told ya. Why didn't ya just tell me that night? Why let me make a fool of myself spillin' my guts?"

"Starsk, Walters wouldn't tell Dobey anything specific. He just said he'd trust you with his life. He isn't your enemy either. And Dobey didn't tell me even that much until Thursday afternoon when I called him from Huggy's."

Hutch saw the significance of that set in. After their late night talk. After the kiss. After Hutch's mad dash.

"I was already in love with you by then, Starsk, and I don't fall in love with people I don't trust."

As Hutch waited in an agony of suspense, he saw bow-taut muscles slowly ease, felt the hand under his turn and lock with his own. The eyes that met his were softer, yet still retained traces of wariness, and Hutch realized that the caution had never completely left their blue depths. Wounded as Starsky had been, that self-protective hesitancy might never be completely banished. It made Starsky's willingness, not only to love but also to admit that love, an even greater gift.

"I understand," Starsky finally conceded. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the scared knuckles of the hand in his. "Guess we can go back to you bein' mad at me now."

"Much as I might want to, I can't seem to stay mad at you," Hutch admitted. He had never been angry with Starsky, only their impossible situation.

"Part of my charm," Starsky declared. The smile he brought forth was a little crooked, but was, nevertheless, a valiant effort to oust the last few minutes.

"I refuse to feed your over-inflated ego any . . . Oh, my God!" In the process of raising his free hand to tousle Starsky's tangled curls, Hutch had caught sight of his watch. "Christ! It's almost noon! Dobey's going to have an APB out on me if I don't check in soon."

"So call," Starsky said, nodding toward the phone on the bedside table. "I'll grab a shower, then throw together some breakfast while you have one."

Hutch was about to agree when he remembered something about peanut butter enchiladas. His expression became decidedly doubtful.

"What can I do to toast?" Starsky protested, and although Hutch knew he had only been reading his expression, it still felt eerily as if his lover had read his mind.

"Well, I did say I trust you, didn't I?" Hutch conceded.

"That's right, you did." Starsky climbed stiffly to his feet, pulling Hutch up to stand within the circle of his embrace. "And I'm gonna hold you to it."

* * *

"Do you know what time it is, Hutchinson?" Dobey barked by way of greeting.

Hutch closed his eyes, only half-listening to Dobey, far more of his mind on the patter of water coming from the bathroom, imagining Starsky's muscular body turning under the spray . . . .

"Hutchinson! Are you there?"

Hutch landed back in reality with a thump. "Yeah, Cap. Sorry."

Dobey harrumphed, accepting the absent-minded apology. "Benito Montoya came in. Customs went over him and his luggage with a microscope. Not so much as an aspirin."

Hutch sighed. On the one hand, he was relieved, knowing that Starsky considered the Montoyas friends. On the other, if Benito had had the dope conveniently rolled up with his socks and underwear, Hutch's job would have suddenly become a whole lot simpler.

"Scratch one suspected South American connection," he finally replied.

The shower had stopped and Hutch could hear Starsky moving around in the bathroom. Once again his mind sent him images that went straight to his groin, causing a feeble stirring in flesh that should have been decently quiescent after all the loving it had received in the past twelve hours.

"Is something wrong?" Dobey asked.

Hutch nearly laughed, wondering what Dobey would do if he told him the truth. Pull him off the case perhaps, and maybe arrange for him to spend at least part of every day with the department shrink from now until he retired. No, the truth was definitely not a viable option, but then neither was it an outright lie.

"Nothing I can't handle," Hutch finally replied, choosing the middle ground.

"I need to see you tonight," Dobey reminded him. "Do you want me to meet you somewhere?"

"No. I'll be okay coming into the station," Hutch decided. "If I come up with anything before tonight, I'll be in touch."

"There's still been no sign of Monk anywhere."

"If he is the one who's supposed to make the buy, he'll be laying low if he's smart. I never had a lot of respect for his intelligence, but Forest is another matter."

"Slippery as an eel," Dobey agreed.

Starsky stepped through the bathroom door, wearing nothing but a towel around his neck to catch the water that still dripped from his hair. Once again Hutch's ability to concentrate went right out the window. "Gotta go. I'll be in by seven if I can."

"Hutchinson, wait!"

Hutch brought the phone back to his ear. "I'm here."

"You can't go near that track today. I just got a list of the vendors that will be setting up for the race tomorrow. There's one or two here I know for sure you've busted and at least that many, if not more, who would know you on sight," Dobey explained.

"Shit. What about . . ." Hutch paused a moment to think it through, averting his gaze from Starsky in order to concentrate. "Shouldn't matter tomorrow," he decided. "There'll be thousands of people there and who's to say a cop can't go to the races on his day off, right?"

"Right," Dobey agreed.

"Okay. I'll be in tonight."

Hutch hung up the phone and sat captivated by the sight of his lover strolling around in nothing but his own glorious skin. As if summoned by the heat of the gaze, Starsky came and sat down beside him on the bed.

Hutch drew Starsky into his arms, burying his face into the warm neck and inhaling deeply. "You smell so good."

"You smell better," Starsky insisted. "Like sex. Like us."

Hutch shivered, Starsky's open, earthy sensuality ambushing him again. Tangling his fingers in the wet tendrils that seemed to curl around his fingers with a life of their own, he drew the tempting lips to him. Leisurely, he explored the moist delights of inner lip and a playful tongue that stroked and teased his own.

"What'd Dobey have to say?" Starsky asked hoarsely when their lips eased apart.

"Dobey?" Hutch echoed dreamily.

Starsky laughed and pulled away. "Yeah, Dobey. Your boss."

"He wanted to know why I was so late," Hutch said, beginning an inventory, with lips and tongue, of the vivid bruises that decorated the furry torso.

"Did you tell him?" Starsky wanted to know, obligingly leaning back on braced arms to give Hutch all the access he wanted.

"Uh-uh," Hutch grunted, leaving off the tending of wounded flesh for an attempt at enticing the plump penis between Starsky's thighs into coming out to play. His tongue probed at the spongy tip inquiringly until fingers in his hair gently eased him away.

"You ain't gonna get nothin' more outta him 'til he's had a rest," Starsky warned.

Hutch sat up, revealing his own flaccid cock. "Me, too," he admitted, "but I can't seem to keep my mind on the job."

With what appeared to be a Herculean effort, Starsky left the bed, dragging the towel from around his neck and wrapping it securely around his waist. "Shower. I'll get breakfast. We'll go to the track," he announced, sounding as if he doubted the wisdom of every one of his own suggestions.

"I can't be seen there today. Dobey said he's got a list of vendors and I know some of the people on it," Hutch said, rather proud of the fact that he had been able to remember the information in light of the distracting bounty before him.

Starsky leaned over and dropped a kiss on the tip of Hutch's nose. "Wanna stay in bed all day?" he invited.

"Didn't we both just admit that we're not supermen," Hutch reminded him. "Besides, I need to be able to walk tonight."

Starsky laughed, and moved away to start dressing. "Did Dobey tell you if Benny came in or not? His flight was arriving somewhere around ten, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yeah. He cleared customs clean as a whistle," Hutch remembered. Fortunately for the sake of his career, his head seemed to be clearing a little with every item of clothing Starsky donned.

"That's a good thing isn't it?" Starsky asked. "Narrows the field some more."

"Yeah, right down to zero," Hutch was able to reply intelligently as the masculine breadth of Starsky's chest disappeared beneath a red t-shirt.

Starsky sauntered closer to the bed, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, fingers splayed over his groin, drawing Hutch's eye inevitably to the well-packed crotch of his tight jeans.

"Think about something else for awhile," he suggested, then swooped down and ground a demanding kiss onto Hutch's willing lips.

As suddenly as he had been possessed, Hutch was freed and Starsky was strutting toward the door, hips swinging provocatively. He pulled the door open, looking back over his shoulder before he went through.

"You gonna lay there all day?" he challenged.

Hutch stretched out on the bed, doing an exemplary job of flaunting his own assets.

"Was thinking about it," he admitted.

"Think again, Hutchinson. Since you don't have to work today, you can help me wash the Torino."

* * *

"I have never understood why anyone would wash a car themselves," Hutch said after spending fifteen minutes watching Starsky assemble the supplies necessary to wash the Torino. "When mine gets dirty, I take it to the car wash."

Starsky gave him a look combined of equal parts condescension and disgust. "Yeah, I know. I've seen your car. Hold out your arms."

Obediently, Hutch held out his arms and Starsky filled them with an assortment of rags, brushes, bottles, and cans. "What's that crack supposed to mean?"

"What crack?" Starsky asked innocently. "I just said I've seen your car. Take that stuff outside, will ya?"

Hutch started toward the front door with his burden but stopped and faced the stairs when he realized Starsky had disappeared from behind him and was heading up the short flight. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Gotta change," Starsky replied as if Hutch were a particularly backward but lovable child.

"Oh, yeah. Wouldn't want to take the chance of messing up a pair of your cruddy jeans," Hutch shot back sarcastically.

"That's right," Starsky agreed brightly, as if he had never heard of sarcasm in his life, and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

Hutch had deposited his load beside the Torino and was looking the car over when Starsky returned. "You know, I don't see that you even need to . . ."

The rest of the observation stuck in Hutch's throat and then was forgotten completely as he turned around and got a good look at his lover. Shirtless, barefoot, and barely fit for public consumption in a pair of cut-offs so short and ragged they made Hutch's own look positively modest, Starsky represented the most blatant invitation to rape Hutch had ever laid eyes on.

"Somethin' wrong?" Starsky inquired with a grin that looked like it must hurt it was so wide.

"You are a cocktease. You know that, don't you?" Hutch accused.

"Taste of your own medicine, Officer?" Starsky taunted. "Come on, let's get this done."

Thinking of many things he would like to get done, none of which had anything to do with car wash and paste wax, Hutch nevertheless grabbed the car brush out of the bucket of soapy water and prepared to set to.

"What the hell are you doin' with that!?" Starsky protested, grabbing the brush away from him and shoving it back in the bucket. "You gotta wet her down first . . ."

So began Hutch's education in the fine art of the proper care of a pampered automobile. Considering his own opinion on the subject, he might well have expected to be bored to tears, but there was no fear of boredom setting in, not when he had a nearly naked Starsky to watch as the other man bent and squatted and stretched his athletic body all over the damned car. Jealous he may well be, but certainly not bored. The afternoon sun could only be blamed for a small part in raising Hutch's temperature by the time Starsky, draped over the side of the red car and industriously scrubbing at the windshield, gave a little hop and ended up with one knee propped on the hood, leaving that incomparable ass threatening to ooze out of its inadequate restraint.

"Would you look at this," Starsky was muttering in disgust, his whole body rising and falling with the energy of his scrubbing. "You must have bugs out here as big as elephants. Shit. How the hell am I supposed to get this off?"

"You're supposed to be washing this oversized Coke can, not making love to it, Starsk," Hutch protested, not certain whether to be amused by the sight of his lover practically humping his car or whether he ought to nail the little cocktease to it right here and now.

"'Coke can'?" Starsky echoed, sliding down off the car and turning threateningly toward Hutch. "Whaddya you mean Coke can?"

"Well look at it for . . ."

For a second time, Hutch found himself unable to complete his sentence, but this time it was because Starsky had, without telegraphing his intent by so much as a flicker of his eyes, suddenly squatted, dipped the brush he held in the bucket at his feet and then flicked it at Hutch. With his face full of soapy water, it took Hutch a moment to remember that, reduced to rinse boy because of his ignorance, he held the ultimate weapon in his hand. Without hesitation, he brought it up and pulled the trigger. He, however, was aiming for a target a good deal more southerly than Starsky's face.

Expecting retaliation of some sort, Starsky was able to twist far enough to take the blast of cold water on his hip rather than full in the crotch as Hutch had intended. The battle, however, was joined.

Laughing and shouting, they chased each other around the car, alternating soaking each other in soapy/icy sprays and groping at whatever part of the other man happened to come under grasping fingers. Sponges flew, rags splatted juicily onto bare flesh and the car brush somehow found its way into the back of Hutch's shorts before a sudden bellow from above called a halt to their play.

"Would you two shut the fuck up!" Mike bellowed, leaning precariously out of the second story window overlooking the drive. He cradled his head between both hands, as if he were afraid it just might tumble down upon the two men looking up at him.

"I like that!" Starsky protested, feet spread and hands on hips. "After the noise you guys made coming in last night!"

"Quiet!" came the order from the next window where Merle, who would have been green had his natural skin tone not been black, leaned just as precariously as his teammate. "Or I'm gonna cut your fuckin' brake lines."

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other, grinning from ear to ear as they surveyed the mayhem they had managed to inflict on each other. They settled back down to the serious business of pampering the Torino, but the smiles never left their faces for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

"Whaddya think?" Starsky asked.

Hutch looked over his lover's shoulder at the contents of the refrigerator. He reached around to prod at a few of the foil-wrapped leftovers. "Has anything made a threatening gesture?"

"Would you two show a little respect for the dead and take your comedy act somewhere else?" Vince requested from where he sat at the kitchen table, head laid carefully on the shiny surface.

"Now, how is that for gratitude. I was thinking of taking your turn cooking tonight," Starsky said, closing the door of the refrigerator and turning to face the table, the better to enjoy his teammate's discomfort. "How about chili dogs and French fries?" he suggested.

Not having the advantage of Merle's dark complexion, it was immediately apparent when Vince began to turn green. "You're evil, Dave; you know that?" he accused weakly.

"Come on, Dave." Hutch came to the rescue, catching Starsky's hand and tugging him toward the stairs. "Let's go out for dinner."

Merle's voice floated up the stairs behind them from where he sprawled on the couch, an icepack propped on the top of his head. "Bless you, my son. Get his sorry ass outta here."

Giggling with delight at having exacted some revenge for their own rude awakening early that morning, Starsky and Hutch tumbled into their room, arms around each other.

Hutch dragged Starsky's damp and soap-stained body against his own equally disreputable frame and swooped in for a chemical-flavored kiss.

Starsky pulled away with a disgusted expression, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "Shit. You taste awful," he complained.

Hutch refused to yield his wriggling armful. "And just who was it that fed me a face full of car wash?" he inquired, forcing a second soapy kiss onto the smiling lips.

Laughing into each other's mouths, they struggled playfully for a few moments until Starsky managed to get his arms up between their closely pressed bodies and pushed the bigger man away.

"I thought you wanted dinner," Starsky reminded him.

"I do," Hutch agreed, moving in once again, the hunger in his eyes revealing exactly who he planned to make a meal of. He hooked his index fingers in the belt loops on the front of Starsky's shorts and pulled.

It appeared that Starsky decided not to attempt to resist such an irresistible force because suddenly they were groin to groin. Hard cock pressed eagerly against hard cock, despite the layers of soggy material that separated them, and they humped together for a few pleasurable moments, letting their bodies take over and do what came naturally until both men were panting with excitement. Reluctantly, Hutch relinquished his grip and eased away, leaning to brush a surprisingly gentle kiss onto parted lips before separating their bodies completely.

Starsky allowed the retreat but questioned it with his eyes.

"Want to enjoy the anticipation," Hutch admitted shyly. "We have to eat and I have to meet Dobey. Seems anything we did now would be . . ."

"Slam, bam, thank you, sir?" Starsky finished.

Hutch nodded, unable to tell whether Starsky objected to the delay or was willing to do a little anticipating of his own.

"Go grab a shower," Starsky suggested, backing off another step.

"You don't mind?" Hutch asked uncertainly.

Starsky's eyes traveled Hutch's body from bare feet to soap-sticky hair. "Can't say I'd wanna wait another week to get my hands on you again, blondie, but I think I can manage a couple of hours."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure you better go shower before I change my mind."

Hutch took a few backward steps toward the door.

"And, Hutch,"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe you better lock the door just in case."

* * *

Hutch left the bathroom door unlocked but he did close it, whether to bolster Starsky's will to resist or his own was up for debate. A little of both likely, he admitted as he wrapped the damp towel he had used to dry himself around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom. A billowing of steam exited with him so it was a moment before he spotted his naked lover stretched out on the bed. He moved toward him, hesitating when he saw what Starsky was doing.

Starsky looked up at the sound of the opening door. "Do you mind?" he asked, indicating Hutch's notebook that was open on the bed beside him.

Hutch continued on to the bed, settling his weight on the edge before he answered. "Of course not. You know everything that's in there anyway."

Starsky ran a thumb along the edge of the book. "I was thinking about what you said this morning about zero suspects, but that ain't right. You're back to 20 again."

"Nineteen," Hutch corrected.

Starsky acknowledged the amendment with a small smile that faded quickly. "What the hell are you gonna do?"

Hutch shrugged and picked up the notebook, flipping it closed and laying it aside. "Don't know. Dobey won't be able to give me more than a dozen men, if that," he admitted. "All we can do is keep our eyes open and hope like hell that we get lucky. Maybe Dobey will have some ideas when I see him tonight."

Starsky hesitated a moment. "Do you think he'd mind if I came along?"

"At this stage, I think he'd be glad of any help he could get," Hutch decided. He left the bed quickly when Starsky reached out for him. "Anticipation, remember?"

Starsky sighed but rolled off the side of the bed. He took a few steps toward the bathroom, then looked back over his shoulder. "Anticipation?" he asked when Hutch managed to drag his gaze up to meet his eyes.

Hutch nodded decisively. "Anticipation," he confirmed and turned away to the closet.

* * *

"Well if it ain't my two favorite honkies," Huggy greeted when Starsky and Hutch came through the front door of the Pits. "Table for two, gentlemen, or perhaps I ought to set up a boxing ring on the dance floor?"

"Table's just fine, Huggy," Hutch said, refusing to rise to the bait as he led Starsky to the table in the back that he usually chose. It gave him a complete view of the room and very conveniently put his back to the wall.

Huggy trailed along behind them, a speculative look on his face.

"How about a couple of menus?" Hutch asked once he and Starsky were seated.

"Menu? Since when do you want a menu? All of a sudden the Huggy Bear Special ain't good enough for you?"

Starsky leaned back in his chair, smiling at his outraged friend. "Huggy Bear Special?" he echoed. "Tell me, Hug, is the secret ingredient still the same?"

Huggy's face assumed an expression of offended innocence. "That was a damned lie and you know it. Just for that, I'm gonna let my waitress serve ya whenever she gets around to it," he announced and flounced back to the bar.

The two men at the table grinned at each other, knowing their mutual friend's curiosity would force him to return long before their meals appeared.

"Do I want to know?" Hutch asked.

Starsky grinned. "Depends how strong a stomach ya got."

Hutch debated for a moment, then shook his head. "I eat here too often so you better not tell me."

The waitress appeared with the requested menus and told them that the Huggy Bear Special for the evening was veal Parmesan with secret sauce. Starsky cracked up, laughing so hard he was incapable of speaking for several minutes. Calming somewhat, he finally handed his unopened menu back and ordered the special.

Very certain now that he definitely did want to know, Hutch seconded the order. "Maybe you better tell me."

"You're sure?" Starsky teased.

"Yes."

"Well, the first time I met Huggy he was running this little three-table diner in New York. I was there with the Animal Control officer to investigate allegations that . . ."

"No! Don't tell me. I changed my mind," Hutch protested. He studied Starsky's expectant face, grimaced and made a "gimme" gesture.

". . . the secret ingredient in the Huggy Bear Special was cat," Starsky revealed.

"Oh, God," Hutch groaned, thinking of the literally hundreds of specials that he had wolfed down at the various establishments Huggy had owned since he had met the enterprising black.

"It was a damned lie," Huggy insisted as he appeared at their table with a tall glass of draft in each hand. He put one glass down in front of Hutch, but held the other over Starsky's head. "And you shouldn't be spreading vicious rumors."

When Starsky refused to be intimidated by the threat, Huggy gave up the game and put the glass down in front of him. He dragged a third chair up to the small table and plunked himself in it, every nuance of his body language making it clear that he had no intention of shifting himself.

"So what the hell is it with you two? Last time I seen the pair of you together you was worse than a couple of stray cats, hissin' and spittin' at each other."

"Hey," Starsky protested. "We thought you'd be happy. We're gettin' along just fine."

Huggy's speculative glance went from Hutch to Starsky, as if to judge just who might reveal the most, then returned to Hutch. "Seems to me you're gettin' along a whole lot better than fine."

Suddenly as uncomfortable as he had been under the speculative glances of Starsky's team the night before, Hutch shifted in his seat, feeling the heat creeping up into his face.

"Enough, Hug," Starsky warned in a tone that would have been far better suited to the tough beat he had once patrolled in New York.

Starsky bore up under the scrutiny of two pairs of eyes, one velvet brown and the other baby blue, while an awkward silence grew around the table. Before it could become terminally uncomfortable, the waitress approached with the meals and Huggy used her appearance as an excuse to escape.

Starsky dug into his food, obviously determined to ignore the probing gaze that still lingered on him for as long as he could stand it. After several mouthfuls had been chewed and leisurely swallowed, however, he set down his fork and knife and met Hutch's eyes with his own. "What?"

"Last night at dinner," Hutch said softly, "when you told the guys to lay off, it wasn't part of the act, was it?"

"I didn't fall in love with you in the shower last night, you know, Hutch," Starsky confessed.

Hutch reached out, stopping himself just short of covering Starsky's hand with his own. Unable to resist completely, he laid his hand on the table beside Starsky's, just barely brushing the be-ringed baby finger with his own.

"Anticipation," Starsky reminded him with a grin.

Hutch groaned.

* * *

As Hutch had predicted, Dobey did little more than raise his eyebrows when Starsky followed Hutch into the Captain's office at seven PM.

"You do realize you're on time, don't you, Hutchinson?" Dobey offered by way of greeting.

"I'll try not to make a habit of it," Hutch reassured as he and Starsky settled into chairs across the desk from Dobey.

Dobey gave him an old-fashioned look and turned his attention to the civilian. "Mr. Starsky," he acknowledged.

"Captain Dobey. I asked Hutch if I could come along tonight. I thought I might be of some help."

Dobey accepted the situation silently, then prompted, "All right, Hutch, where do we stand?"

"Up to our asses in alligators," Hutch summarized. "What few leads I was able to pick up on any of the drivers have either dried up or checked out. In my opinion, we haven't got a snowball's chance of stopping this deal tomorrow."

"Are you telling me you think we ought to just quit?" Dobey growled.

"When have you ever known me to give up, Captain?" Hutch asked with a grin. "I'm just hoping you haven't made the commissioner any promises."

"Nary a one," Dobey confirmed.

Hutch took his notebook out of his jacket and flipped through the pages. "How many men can I have? A dozen?"

"Ten for sure," Dobey replied. "Some uniforms off-track, as well. Ready to move in if you need them."

Starsky whistled but otherwise offered no comment on the lack of manpower.

"I know. Ten aren't nearly enough, but the rest of the criminals haven't exactly been taking a holiday," Dobey blustered.

"They never do," Hutch agreed. "We've got only one lead that hasn't gone sour."

"Monk?"

"Monk. All we have to do is spot him in a crowd of thousands and let him lead us to the supplier."

"Piece of cake, right," Dobey observed sarcastically.

"Probably impossible," Hutch acknowledged, "but the only chance we have. Where's the map Starsky made?"

Dobey opened a file on his desk, extracted the enlarged copy of the diagram and shook it out on the desk.

Both Starsky and Hutch hitched their chairs closer to the desk so they could lean over the map. Hutch picked up a pen and offered it to Starsky. "Can you give us more details?"

Starsky accepted the pen, looking over his previous work before adding to it. "The way this place is set up, with the outer perimeter fences, there's a half-dozen gates, leading into the parking lot so payment's made at the gate, not at the entrances to the stands. Security tends to spend most of their time keeping an eye on garages, keeping the public out of the pits, breaking up fights. That kinda stuff. We can't just lock down the garages because team members need to get in and out for equipment and stuff."

Starsky drew a second oval around the area he had previously designated as stands. "Some of the parking lot is taken up now with vendors, but there's still room for at least a thousand cars. The stands will hold five or six thousand people and they usually end up pretty close to full."

"That is one big haystack to find a particular needle in," Dobey observed.

"That's why I thought . . ." Starsky trailed off, looking first to Hutch and then to Dobey for permission to proceed.

"Thought what?" Dobey prompted.

"If you can square it with track security to put your men in their uniforms, it'll give them more freedom. They can go where they want and use their radios freely without attracting any attention."

Dobey leaned forward. "That's a good idea." He considered the logistics for a minute. "I can arrange that," he finally confirmed.

"If you can set it up, then you can put a man on each gate," Starsky continued. "If this Monk is smart, he's gonna try and arrive with the bulk of the crowd, say sometime during the last two hours before the race starts. He won't wanna be early or a straggler. He wants to slip in unnoticed. If nobody's spotted him by the time the race starts, then you have your men start movin' and keep movin', trying to spot him."

"If anyone does make him," Hutch cut in, "they radio and switch off tailing him. He's experienced, but nobody is going to spot that many different faces."

"Five or six thousand to one are pretty lousy odds," Dobey reminded him.

"But it's the only game in town," Hutch concluded. He exchanged a glance with Starsky before continuing. "I'm not going to be able to suddenly show up in a uniform. I think my face is too well known by now. I'll have to stay in character."

"That'll put you out of the loop," Dobey protested.

"I can't see any way around that," Hutch admitted. "And it does have one advantage. If I'm in civilian clothes and Monk does make me, he might just think I'm a racing fan, especially if he doesn't see any other faces he knows."

Dobey reluctantly agreed.

"The race starts at noon. The gates open at nine AM. Teams are usually in around eight, along with the vendors, track officials, etc.," Starsky supplied further information. "If Hutch is comin' in with me, he'll already be on site and in character before your men arrive. Don't send 'em in together. Couple at a time. Less conspicuous that way. If they're briefed before . . ."

Starsky let his sentence trail off as he became aware of the regard of both Dobey and Hutch.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come brief my men for me in the morning, Mr. Starsky?" Dobey asked, amusement plain in his voice and his face.

Starsky shrugged self-consciously. "Sorry, Captain Dobey. I gotta be at the track by then."

"Well then, you better continue to give us the benefit of your experience now."

* * *

"Something wrong?" Hutch asked when they had been in the car for fifteen minutes without Starsky saying a word.

"Should there be?" Starsky wondered. "Just tryin' to think if all the angles are covered."

Hutch stretched his arm out along the seat, letting his fingers toy with the curls brushing Starsky's collar. "I don't want to think about the case anymore," he admitted.

Starsky glanced at him quickly, then returned his attention to the road. "Think we've anticipated long enough now, do ya?"

"Oh, yeah," Hutch agreed.

Starsky put his foot down.

* * *

Starsky opened the front door, letting Hutch precede him into the house, but quickly placed a hand in the small of the long back to steer him toward the stairs when it appeared Hutch intended to at least acknowledge the men sprawled all over the living room.

"That was rude," Hutch accused with suppressed laughter in his voice as he allowed himself to be hustled up the stairs.

"Be downright crude if I jumped you in front of them," Starsky excused his ill manners, his hand sliding down to cup Hutch's ass and give it an encouraging push. "And we're lockin' that damned door tonight."

Hutch continued to allow Starsky to direct him right up to the door of their bedroom, obligingly stepping through the opening. There his acquiescence ended as he spun and grabbed Starsky with one hand and the edge of the door with the other. Flicking the door shut, he pushed his lover up against it and brought his mouth down on the one that was open and ready for him, while he flipped the lock in with a decisive snap.

"Door's locked," he murmured against the warm lips.

* * *

Sunday

Ben Forest pulled closed the zipper on the sturdy carryall that contained three million of his dollars, then laid both hands protectively on the top of it.

"I don't need to remind you of the consequences should anything go . . . amiss with this arrangement?" he asked Monk who stood across the desk from him.

Monk had discarded his usual natty suit and replaced it with jeans. He would fit in better with the crowd at the racetrack dressed this way, but, at the moment, his casual appearance made him feel that much more vulnerable in his boss's well-dressed presence. He suppressed a shiver of fear. "I've been with you for three years, Mr. Forest. I'm not stupid. As long as our new friend comes through, I'll have the cocaine to your factory thirty minutes after the race ends and I'll be on a plane to Miami for a little vacation. If he doesn't have the drugs, then it'll be your money I deliver."

"I'll be taking a day or two of vacation myself. Perhaps I'll try a little deep-sea diving while I'm in Catalina," Forest mused. "You should try it sometime, Monk."

Monk nodded agreeably, not at all fooled by the seemingly friendly chat. If he had had any vague notions of simply taking the money and running, they would never have survived the warning in Forest's cold eyes. If he tried anything, he would be deep-sea diving himself, without benefit of an air tank.

Forest handed over the bag. "I'll expect the factory to confirm delivery soon after my arrival in Catalina then."

"They will, Mr. Forest." Clutching the leather handles of the bag tightly, Monk got out of there as fast as he could.

* * *

Monk parked his borrowed car in the crowded lot at the racetrack and got out, locking it behind him. He had arrived within a half mile of the track nearly an hour ago but had waited for traffic to increase. Timing his entrance into the park until there was such a jam-up of cars that they were being processed three and four at a time, Monk could be fairly certain that the gate keepers were getting them through as quickly as possible. Under such circumstances, there was no time to spend chatting or in any other way noting the occupants of the cars that passed by or the people who handed over their money.

Immersing himself in the crowd of people who had also just parked their cars, Monk moved with them until he was through the entranceway to the track. Splitting away in the opposite direction as they cleared the opening, he turned into the next entranceway and moved along it, looking over his shoulder as he reached the parking lot to be sure he was not being followed. He heard the sudden wall of sound that erupted behind him and realized that the race had started.

A careful man, Monk decided he would wander for a while longer before committing himself. In fact, he just might find himself a nice little spot and watch the race for a while as well. The switch could be made at any time, but once the drugs were in his possession, he did not intend to hang around. Carrying around three million dollars at a racetrack might well look suspicious, but it could not get him arrested in and of itself. A bag full of uncut cocaine was a whole other story. He would have to meet his supplier, therefore, as close to the end of the race as possible so that he could leave with the crowd.

Monk bought a cold soda and a hot dog, found himself a nice aisle seat about halfway up the stands and settled down to wait.

* * *

Hutch felt his gut clench up as he heard the public address system come on.

"Gentlemen, start your engines."

Even out in the parking lot, Hutch could hear the command and the sudden roar of twenty high-powered engines all being brought to thunderous life at the same moment. With an effort, he banished the image of his lover in that pack, straining at the bit, preparing to pit himself and his machine against his competitors, and concentrated on his own job.

As had been feared, the general crush of cars and people had given Monk, if he had entered the track as expected, the perfect cover. The odds against the police, already astronomically high, had increased when Monk had slipped by them and would continue to increase if the afternoon wore on without a sighting of Forest's lieutenant.

Hutch would be spending every moment of the race on the move. Leaving the actual scanning of the crowd to the detectives Dobey had assigned to him, he had saved for himself the task of monitoring the garages. Hutch was counting on his being familiar to the various teams to allow him access where a stranger might be conspicuous.

Forcing himself not to think of Starsky and determined not to watch the contest being waged on the track if he could help it, Hutch took one last look around the parking lot and then made his way to the nearest entrance.

* * *

By the time the race was half over, Hutch felt as if he had walked a hundred miles around the walkway between the pits and the garages. Occasionally choking on the fumes of the passing cars, nearly deaf from the continual bombardment of the noise of the powerful engines, Hutch kept his mind on the job and his eyes off the track. He feared that if he once looked out at the cars that sped around the oval, their tires barely seeming to skim the asphalt surface, he would be mesmerized by terror for his lover's safety.

The professionalism that had served him so well in the past rescued him now, allowing him to focus solely on beating the odds by stopping the drug deal. Now if only Lady Luck would smile on him just a little.

* * *

Coming into the second-to-last lap before he would make his last scheduled pit stop, Starsky poured on the speed, wanting to secure the number one spot. If he could get past Werner in his green and white car on the next straightaway and keep the lead around the curve, his position would be perfect to maintain that lead when Werner then had to make his own last stop. Considering the way Werner felt about him, being able to get by him without a fight did not look promising.

As expected, the green car moved to block him as Starsky tried to ease up to pass on the right. With a sudden brake/gas combination, Starsky dropped back and swerved behind Werner, jumping forward as he cleared the back fender and surging up alongside. He braced himself for the jolt that would rattle his teeth when Werner jogged sideways into him to try to force him either to retreat or spin out of control. Unexpectedly, the green car gave way, letting Starsky into the lead position. As he shot by, Starsky caught a glimpse of the angry face inside Werner's car and nearly hit the brakes in surprise.

Dodging and weaving amid the back of the pack, Starsky poured it on, seeking every inch of lead he could muster in this last lap, then slowed as he neared the pits.

He was scrambling free of the restraints and heaving himself up out of the car before the wheels had even stopped turning. The men of his team cleared a path. They would be assuming the heat and g-force had affected him and he needed to puke.

Instead of stumbling to his knees, however, Starsky grabbed Mike, who was sitting on the bench, by the arm and hauled the other man to his feet. He slapped his helmet into Mike's hands.

"Remember, you're going to lose three positions for changing drivers. Ignore Werner. This is your big chance. Go for it, tiger," he shouted above the roar. He paused one second longer to smack his stunned back-up driver once between the shoulder blades, then, leaping the rail, disappeared into the closest entranceway.

* * *

With less than a quarter of the race still to go, the temptation to look out onto the track was becoming more and more difficult to resist. As a consequence, Hutch forced himself to focus his attention in the opposite direction, scanning the nearby stands. In Hutch's opinion, this had to be the hungriest crowd he had ever seen. All afternoon it had seemed that more people were going to or coming from the food vendors in the parking lot than remained in their seats to watch the race. The human tide did, however, appear to be going in one direction now that the end of the race was approaching. With their hands full of junk food, mobs of people were making their way back up into the stands to watch the final fiercely competitive leg of the race played out for their entertainment.

Everybody except one, Hutch realized, seeing a lone figure trying to make his way down the stairs in opposition to the pushing, shoving horde determined to go up. He lost the jean-clad figure for a few moments, then the mob parted momentarily and he got another glimpse as the man cleared the last riser and stepped out onto the walkway to the north entrance. For only a brief moment, Hutch got a clear view of the man, but it was long enough for him to recognize Monk and to see that Forest's lieutenant was carrying a large carryall. Taking his eyes off Monk long enough to scan the area for his back up, Hutch saw that the only tan uniforms close to him were being worn by real security guards. None of his own men were close enough for him to attract their attention.

Whispering apologies to Lady Luck for doubting her, and cursing his lack of a radio in the same breath, Hutch hurried toward the entrance where his quarry had disappeared, making no effort to hide his movements until he reached it. Here he leaned against the wall, poking his head around the corner to catch just a glimpse of Monk as he exited into the parking lot toward the right.

Dashing to the end of the entrance, Hutch once again stopped and cautiously eased his head through the opening. The area was still choked with the vans and trucks of the food vendors who were just beginning to close up their assorted vehicles. For a few heart-stopping moments, Hutch could not locate Monk, then spotted him strolling casually along in front of the row of vans. As Hutch watched, Monk looked over his shoulder several times. Seemingly satisfied, Monk suddenly altered course, heading straight for the oversized trailers belonging to the Werner team. After one last look around him, Monk stepped up to the trailer that served as a garage and knocked boldly on the door. The door opened only far enough to admit Monk and the lieutenant slipped inside.

Moving out of the entranceway, Hutch made his way along in back of the vans until he could crouch behind one that stood directly across the open stretch of tarmac between himself and the German's trailers. The realization that he was going to have to go ahead and try to stop the deal without backup was beginning to sink in when Hutch felt two hands settle on his shoulders. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Easy, baby blue," came a blessedly familiar voice.

Pivoting without standing, Hutch found himself looking into the sweat-streaked, tense face of his lover.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Later," Starsky dismissed the question. "I'll explain later. Which one are they in?"

Hesitating only a moment, Hutch replied, "The one they use as a garage."

"Good," Starsky replied succinctly, narrowed eyes tracing the length of the trailer. "Give me two minutes to get into position . . ."

"'Position'?" Hutch echoed. "Oh, no. You're not going in there."

"Hutch, I looked for your backup. There ain't nobody around. Nobody's close enough," Starsky explained impatiently.

"Go look again," Hutch demanded.

"Just how long do you think we got here, babe?" Starsky asked in exasperation. "How long does it take to make an exchange?" he went on with infuriating reasonableness.

"You haven't even got a gun."

"And where are you hiding yours, Officer?" Starsky challenged, his eyes traveling over Hutch's brief t-shirt and tight pants.

In reply, Hutch pulled up his pant leg to reveal the ankle holster. He pulled the gun.

Starsky shrugged. "Okay, so you got one. Two minutes, Hutch, then you get 'em to open that front door. You take the one that opens the door and I'll get the other."

Hutch grabbed Starsky's arm as the driver tried to move away. "Wait a minute. How the hell are you going to get in? All the entrances are in the front and the windows are sealed."

Starsky gently lifted the restraining hand away. "There's a trap door underneath at the back of the trailer. If you're gonna use one of these trailers as a garage, there has to be an exit at the back in case of fire."

"What if it isn't there?"

"Then I'll find some other way in," Starsky said impatiently. "Ya gotta trust me here, Hutch."

Hutch reached out for Starsky's arm again, but the smaller man evaded him and took off behind the row of vans. Hutch watched him cross the open space to the back of the trailer and disappear. Furious but controlling it, Hutch counted off the two minutes requested, then eased out from behind his own cover. Looking right and left to be sure he had not attracted any undue notice, he walked boldly up to the trailer door, his arms at his side and his gun held tight against his thigh.

Standing to the opposite side from which the door would open, Hutch rapped sharply. "They need you on the track," he called, hand over his mouth to muffle his voice. "There's been an accident."

There was a pause of perhaps ten seconds that felt like ten years to Hutch and then the door began to open. Hutch waited until it was open far enough that the person on the other side would be slightly off balance, then grabbed the handle on his side with his left hand and yanked it toward him. At the same moment, he drove his right hand, still fisted around his gun, into the belly of the man as he stumbled forward. Martin Werner gagged and doubled over, and Hutch grabbed his arm, spinning him and forcing him face first into the side of the trailer. Ramming his captive's arm halfway up Werner's back, the cop pressed his gun against the man's ear.

"Police. You're busted," he murmured with great satisfaction.

"Drop it cop," Monk demanded from the open door.

Hutch never had time to react to the new threat before it disappeared. He saw a blur of white crash into Monk and the surprise on the criminal's face as he went down beneath flailing fists. The fight rolled away out of Hutch's line of vision, but he could still hear the two men crashing around inside when two of his backup men made their tardy appearance.

"Hang on to this for me," Hutch instructed, pushing Werner toward the new arrivals.

By this time, the noise of battle had ceased inside the trailer and Hutch took a cautious look inside, his eyes widening and an involuntary grin lighting his face as he took in the sight of a triumphant Starsky sitting astride a downed and only semi-conscious Monk.

"Do they want this one, too?" Starsky asked with a grin that nearly split his face in two.

"I'm sure they'd like you to get off him first," Hutch countered, in the rush of victory forgetting completely to be furious at the risks Starsky had taken.

Starsky climbed off Monk's back and reached down to haul the stunned criminal to his feet by the back collar of his shirt. He shoved the stumbling man toward the door, delivering him into the keeping of the two backup officers. One of them had obviously radioed their comrades, for more tan uniforms were arriving and on the other side of the gates the high-pitched scream of police sirens could be heard.

When Starsky turned back into the trailer, Hutch waved him over to where he stood by the desk.

"Take a look at this," he invited, using the barrel of his gun to hold open the top of one of the two identical carryalls that sat on the battered surface. "Ever seen three million in cash before?"

Starsky swaggered over to the desk, picking up a screwdriver on the way and using it to ease open the zipper on the other bag. "How about three million in coke?"

At that moment, the roar of thousands of voices went up at once, bringing Starsky's head around. Some of the triumphant satisfaction left his face. "Race is over. I wonder who won."

"We did, partner," Hutch replied and slung his arm around Starsky's shoulders.

* * *

"Mr. Starsky, come in. I'm sorry I've kept you waiting so long," Dobey apologized as he led Starsky into his office.

"That's okay. I gave my statement to one of your officers, Captain Dobey," Starsky said.

"I know, but I wanted to talk to you myself, to thank you for everything you've done. After reading Hutch's preliminary report, I see I've got even more to thank you for than I thought. You saved the bust and maybe his life as well."

Starsky shook his head. "I told Hutch I'd back him up any way I could. I was just keeping my promise."

"I'm curious about something, Mr. Starsky. Could you tell me how it was that you ended up showing up right at that moment, and already knowing what was going on?" Dobey asked.

Starsky leaned back in his chair, some of the openness leaving his face. "Got your doubts about me, Captain?"

Dobey shook his head and smiled. "No. I just can't see any way short of telepathy that you'd know Hutch needed you."

"It had nothing to do with telepathy, Captain. I caught a glimpse of the face of the man driving Werner's car when I passed him and realized it wasn't Werner. I didn't know if he never had been driving or had switched drivers during one of the pit stops, but, either way, Werner was at large, and Hutch had always figured it was one of the drivers involved."

"And you gave up the chance of winning the race in order to back Hutch up."

"I keep my word," Starsky said, his expression becoming remote.

"That's what I had been led to believe by Captain Walters," Dobey said with evident satisfaction.

The long face closed up completely now, assuming a forbidding expression.

"I've got a message for you," Dobey added.

Starsky stood up. "If you're all done with me now . . ."

"Sit down, Mister," Dobey commanded, in a tone of voice that Starsky had been obeying for most of his adult life. He sat.

"I had a long talk with your former captain."

"So Hutch tells me," Starsky admitted grudgingly.

"He asked me to tell you that if you ever wanted to go back and fight the charges, clear your name, he'd be behind you all the way."

Starsky sighed, his body relaxing in the chair as if all the fight had suddenly gone out of him. "Can't do that, Captain Dobey."

"Why not?"

"Because it wouldn't matter a goddamm what I did, I'd still be a marked man in the NYPD."

"Maybe. That kind of thing never does seem to go away, does it," Dobey admitted. "But it could be a different story in the BCPD. I've been trying to get Hutch partnered since he came into this division two years ago. He's been resisting all the way." Dobey sat back and folded his hands around the armrests of his chair. "I've never seen him work as well with anyone as he has with you on this case, and it seemed to me that it worked for you, too."

For a brief moment the indigo eyes became animated with hope, then the shutters came back over the revealing orbs. "Maybe, maybe not, Captain, but I've got responsibilities I can't just walk away from."

Dobey accepted that with a nod of his head. "Fair enough, Starsky. I just wanted you to know that from what I've seen and what I've heard from Hutch, I wouldn't hesitate to give you a place here in this department as Hutch's partner, if that's what you both wanted."

Starsky rose to his feet and, when Dobey followed, held his hand out to the black man. "Thank you, Captain. I appreciate the offer, but . . ."

"I understand." Dobey ushered the weary driver to the door.

"Where is Hutch, by the way?" Starsky asked casually as they reached the door.

"Interrogating the prisoners. He'll probably be at it for days. Do you want me to have him call you?"

Starsky shook his head. "No, that's okay. Uhm, he's got some stuff at my place. If he doesn't have time to pick it up, I'll just have one of the guys drop it off before they leave town."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that, and if he can get away, I'm sure he'll give you a call. Are you leaving tonight?"

"No. Tomorrow."

Dobey opened the door.

"Thank you again, Mr. Starsky."

"You're welcome, Captain Dobey." Starsky hesitated a moment. "Tell Hutch . . . tell him I said good-bye."

* * *

Hutch leaned over the table, his weight on both big hands, as he loomed over the somewhat worse-for-wear Monk. "You aren't being very smart, Monk. You know damned well we've got you dead to rights. With your record, you're looking at ten to fifteen easy. More, if I can figure some way to tie you into Mickey's death."

Monk just stared at his own hands folded in front of him on the table. "I want to call my lawyer," he repeated, as he had been repeating for the past two hours.

Hutch sighed and shoved himself upright. He walked to the door and opened it, signaling the uniformed officer who waited outside to enter. "Keep an eye on him," he ordered, leaving and closing the door behind him.

Making his way to the squad room, Hutch poured himself a cup of coffee, glancing at his watch and cursing when he saw the time.

"Is Dobey still here?" he asked Carter who sat at his desk trying to finish up his own report.

Carter pointed back over his shoulder. "Burning the midnight oil."

Hutch stuck his head in the door of his superior's office. "Captain?"

"Now what," Dobey snarled before he looked up and saw Hutch. His expression softened somewhat and he ran a hand back over his hair. "Sorry, Hutch. Long day."

"Yeah, I was just about to mention that."

"How's it going?"

"He's like one of those dolls where you pull the string to make him talk, only somebody broke his record. All he can say is, 'I want my lawyer.'"

"Idiot."

"I think he's more afraid of Forest than he is of us."

"We'll have to let him see his lawyer soon if we don't want to sour the whole bust."

Hutch nodded in tired agreement. "Listen, Captain, do you mind if I take off 'til tomorrow. I'm not getting anything out of Monk, and if we have to get him a lawyer, chances are I won't."

Dobey glanced at his watch. "I thought you'd want to see this through to the end after everything you've gone through."

"I've got some loose ends of my own I'd like to tie up," Hutch admitted.

"Starsky?"

Hutch nodded, his expression cautious.

Dobey deliberated for a moment. "All right. Get outta here. I want your full report on my desk by tomorrow afternoon."

"Thanks, Captain," Hutch said, and made good his escape while the getting was good.

* * *

Hutch pulled up to the house on Borden Street twenty minutes later. It looked like every light in the house was on, and he could see the shadows of figures moving behind the curtains of the living room. He walked up to the door and, since he was no longer a live-in guest, knocked. After a few moments, the door swung open to reveal Vince. A somewhat unsteady Vince.

"Hi. Is Dave here?" Hutch asked.

"Heya, Hutch," Vince greeted throwing an arm around Hutch's shoulders and dragging him into the living room. "Look everybody, it's Hutch."

Hutch looked around, seeing dozens of empty glasses and bottles littering the room, and taking in the generally happy, if somewhat vague, expressions on the faces surrounding him. Starsky was conspicuous by his absence.

"Is Dave okay?" he asked, wondering if any of the men here were in any condition to answer even so simple a question.

"Uh, uh, uh," Merle admonished, waving an unsteady finger in front of his own face until he realized that he should be pointing it at Hutch. After a moment, he seemed to work out the mechanics of this and reversed the direction of his hand. "Uhm, what was I going to say?" he wondered blearily.

With a gargantuan effort and much groaning, Mike heaved himself up off the couch, dropping his half full glass in the process, and staggered over to Hutch, grabbing him by both ears and tugging the taller man's head down. Once Mike had Hutch within reach, he laid a big, wet, sloppy kiss on the blond's lips, then pulled back.

"I been wantin' to do that since I laid eyes on you, blondie," he confessed. "But you were Dave's." He staggered away a few steps, falling onto Merle who had been occupying the other side of the couch. "The good ones are always Dave's," he mourned to the older man.

\Vince weaved over, grabbed Mike by the back of his coveralls and dragged him off the mechanic, plopping him back on his own side of the couch and putting a fresh bottle of beer in his hand. "Don't worry about it, man. It was only 'cause Dave was the hotshot driver. Now you are, my man."

Juan leaned precariously out of his chair to pat at Mike's knee consolingly. "You remember don't you, man. Hutch ain't really Dave's. They were just pre . . ." A mild belch interrupted him " . . . tending all along. Hutch is a cop."

"Is Dave here?" Hutch repeated, in the vain hope that one of these men might actually be sober enough to answer him.

"Hutch, up here," Starsky called from the top of the stairs.

Hutch took the stairs three at a time, but Starsky had already disappeared before he got to the top. The door of what he now thought of as their room was standing open and he could see Starsky beside the bed as he came through it. He stopped in his tracks only a step inside when he saw that Starsky was in the process of packing and that his own suitcase, presumably already packed, sat by the door.

"You probably better close the door," Starsky suggested as a gust of off-key but joyful singing rang up from downstairs.

Hutch eased the door closed behind him. He gestured toward his suitcase. "Are you throwing me out?" he asked, trying for a teasing tone but failing miserably.

"Dobey didn't know if you'd be able to get away. Merle’s gonna take me to the airport in the morning, then take the Torino on to Phoenix with the rest of the team. I was gonna drop your stuff at your place on the way," Starsky explained, lavishing far more attention on folding a pair of his ragged jeans than they deserved. "You getting anything out of those two?" he asked.

"Not much, but some of Werner's team don't seem to be too crazy about extending their stay in this country. They're trying to make some deals," Hutch said, moving another two steps into the room, unconsciously keeping himself between Starsky and the door, as if he expected the other man to bolt any second.

"That's good. If Werner's put in a tight enough corner, he just might hand you Forest."

"I didn't come here to talk about the case," Hutch said and then fell silent, letting it build around them until Starsky had to abandon his task and look up at him.

"I hate good-byes, Hutch," Starsky said, turning away to stand in front of the window.

Hutch watched the reflection in the window, trying to see what emotions lay in his eyes that Starsky refused to let show on his face. "Is this it, Starsk? You going to just fly away? Forget we ever met?"

Starsky put one hand up to the glass, leaning his weight into it and letting his forehead touch the pane, leaving Hutch with nothing to read but the rejection in every line of the taut body. Starsky remained mute for so long that Hutch was beginning to despair that he would answer, that there truly was nothing left for them to say to each other except good-bye.

"I don't think I can ever forget you, baby blue," Starsky admitted in a hoarse whisper.

Hutch crossed the distance between them in two great strides, wrapping his arms around the slim waist and pressing his face into the vulnerable nape of Starsky's neck. "Please don't make me leave, Starsk," he begged softly.

The body that had gone bow-taut at the first touch of Hutch's hands slowly began to relax, as if it refused to accept the dictates of Starsky's mind. Seemingly unable to help himself, Starsky slowly turned within the circle of Hutch's arms, his hands reaching out and finding the broad shoulders and locking on as if he was drowning and the tight grip was the only thing holding him safe.

"I love you, Starsk. I know it's impossible. I know, but, oh, God, I need you," Hutch confessed, his arms tightening as he waited for Starsky to struggle for his freedom.

But Starsky had given up his struggle, his hands caressing their way up Hutch's neck. Hutch reveled in the possessive fingers that slipped into his hair and the sensual mouth that sought his waiting lips for a kiss that was tender and sad and desperate and as loving an expression as either man had ever known.

"Damn you, Hutch," Starsky cursed softly when their lips parted. "I wanna make love to you. Wanna do it so good you'll never forget me."

"Never can, Starsk," Hutch vowed. "Let me stay," he demanded, claiming his right to the mouth that surrendered so sweetly to him.

Gently, Hutch eased away, catching at Starsky's hands as they fell from his waist and pulling the smaller man along with him as he moved backward toward the bed. He reached for the t-shirt, easing the threadbare material up the long torso so carefully that the mundane task became a benediction, a declaration of the wonder he felt as each tiny patch of velvet flesh was revealed. At last, he slid the barrier free, his hands returning to caress before his head dropped, lips placing a lingering kiss directly over Starsky's pounding heart.

"Love you," he murmured between worshipping kisses.

Starsky staggered slightly, then steadied beneath the loving torture. Hutch felt long fingers slip into his hair again, guiding his lips to a dark nipple, already hard with anticipation. Starsky cried out in wordless wonder as his lips closed over the small nub.

Lifting his head, Hutch gazed into dreamy dark eyes. "Tell me what you want, Starsk," he coaxed.

"Anything," Starsky panted. "Everything. You."

Running his hands from chest to belly to hips as he went, Hutch dropped to his knees, finding the leather belt and slipping it free before attacking the strained zipper and snap. Gently, he slid the clinging material down, encouraging Starsky to step out of his Adidas so that he could dispose of the barrier completely.

Once he had his lover naked, Hutch yielded as Starsky reached down to pull him to his feet, and allowed himself to be enfolded in trembling arms. He sought the soft lips, enjoying the throaty moan as the rough caress of his clothes stroked Starsky's naked skin. It was, however, only a small part of the glory they could share, and he pushed the other man away to discard his own clothing.

As reverently as Hutch had unveiled Starsky's eager body, the favor was now returned. The callused fingers slipped each button free, lips and tongue cherishing the long line of his chest and abdomen while hands brushed the material free and it fell to the carpet, forgotten before it had even come to rest. His own fingers became lost in the wonder of the soft curls as he felt Starsky's cheek brush the hard peak of his nipple and the dark head turned to suck as eagerly as a nursing baby.

Hutch looked down as Starsky took his turn kneeling before him, the capable hands quickly drawing down his jeans and baring his eager cock. He pressed his hands into the muscular shoulders as one foot and then the other was lifted so that his sandals could be removed and the jeans discarded. Starsky's mouth sought his cock then, but Hutch denied the hunger, pushing him away before he could do more than brush the tip with wet lips.

"Together, Starsk," he reminded him gently.

Moving away, Hutch eased onto the waiting bed, wordlessly stretching out his arms to his lover. Starsky came into them eagerly, their bodies merging, fitting together as if they had been doing this all their lives, had been born expressly for the purpose of this embrace, this loving.

Lips clinging, breast-to-breast, their livid cocks trapped between the muscular press of their bellies, they moved together smoothly until they both trembled on the very edge of annihilation. Sky blue eyes locked with the deeper blue of a night-shrouded ocean, they balanced on that edge for a moment, communicating the love that made this simple act one that could never be forgotten or replaced, and then, together, they loosed what little control remained to them and tumbled into climax together.

They might have slipped directly into sleep, exhausted by the emotional storm and more than content to ease over that last precipice within the safety of each other's arms, but for the human tornado that suddenly erupted outside their room.

"Daaaaaaveeeeeyyyyyy," sang an inebriated tenor.

Starsky moaned. "Oh, fuck. The door."

Hutch was out of the bed and across the room before the words had even left Starsky's lips. He flipped the lock while wishing for the insurance of a deadbolt. He turned to return to the bed and found contented blue eyes watching him.

"What a miserable thing to do to the afterglow, huh?" Starsky asked.

"Think we can ignore them?" Hutch asked, moving toward the bed, very aware of the intent gaze upon him and for the first time in his life consciously flaunting himself for a lover, wanting those deep blue eyes to find his body pleasing.

"Oh, I think you could distract me if you put your mind to it," Starsky assured him, lifting a hand in invitation.

Hutch crawled into bed as the noisy serenaders, earning no response for their troubles, continued on down the hall.

"Now where were we?" Starsky teased as their bodies settled back together.

"Right about here," Hutch decided, slipping one arm around Starsky's waist and the other under his head, relaxing as their flesh seemed to merge.

"I take it Mike won," he murmured, intent upon his separate exploration of each of Starsky's lips, deciding after due consideration that he liked them best together.

"Mmmmmm. Second," Starsky amended, tilting his chin obligingly to encourage the great experiment to continue down his throat. "'Nuf to keep us in the black, but I'll be havin' to switch off races with him now. He'll get snapped up by somebody else if I don't."

Hutch stiffened at the reminder of their reality, but the sweep of a gentle hand down his back refused to allow him to withdraw.

"Gotta face it, Hutch. Now or in the morning, our lives are still gonna be pulling us apart," Starsky reminded him.

Hutch buried his face in the smooth throat. "It doesn't have to be that way," he ventured softly.

"Aw, baby blue, don't do this," Starsky pleaded.

"It doesn't," Hutch insisted, finally pulling away and lying on his back, staring hopelessly at the ceiling. "Walters said he'd back you anytime you wanted to fight to clear your name."

"Yeah, Dobey told me," Starsky admitted, studying that same blank, white expanse. "Said he'd take me at Metro, too. Even partner us if that's what we want."

Hutch shifted again, propping himself over his lover. "And you won't even consider it," he accused bitterly.

"I got responsibilities, Hutch."

"You just said Mike was ready," Hutch countered. "If you weren't there to race for the team, Mike could do it."

"And what about my mom and Nicky?" Starsky protested. "Do I just walk away from them, too?"

Frustrated, Hutch lashed out with words. "Starsk, why not just tell me I was a lotta fun, but . . ."

Starsky erupted, pushing Hutch over onto his back and looming over him. "Don't you say that," he snarled. "Don't you dare say that. I haven't felt like this since . . . goddammit, I've never felt like this for anyone. You think I'm playing around here? I love you. I trust you!"

Hutch drew his lover down to him, settling him against his chest, caressing the dark curls with a gentling touch. "Shh. I know. I didn't mean it. It's just . . . . Christ, Starsk, I don't know if I can let you go. Put you on that plane tomorrow. Please, even if you're lying, tell me you'll at least think about it."

"I can't lie to you, babe. I'm sorry. Haven't got anything for you but the truth."

Hutch was silent for a long time, his hands continuing their soothing caresses. "What's your truth?" he finally asked.

"That I don't know what the hell to do," Starsky admitted reluctantly. "I feel like a rubber band, Hutch. Everybody pullin' in a different direction until I'm afraid I'm gonna snap. Everybody wants somethin'. You. Ma. Nicky. The team. Even Walters has his own reasons for sayin' he'd back me. It don't look good him commandin' a crooked cop and not knowin' it."

His hands still gentle though he felt that his own pain would overwhelm him, Hutch cradled his lover close. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," Starsky confessed, burrowing into the arms that held him. "A few days ago, I didn't have a whole lotta options. "Now . . ."

"Now you do?" Hutch prompted.

"Now I do," Starsky agreed. "And I don't know what to do with them. But going after IA." The dark head shook back and forth where it lay against Hutch's chest. "It'll be a media circus. The reporters will drag it all out in the open again. My dad and Durniak. It'll be a fucking nightmare."

"You're tough, Starsk," Hutch countered. He was fighting for his happiness here and knew it. "You can take it."

Starsky pulled away, propping himself up so that Hutch could see the anguish in his long face. "But my mom ain't, Hutch. A couple of years ago she lost her husband and then found out he wasn't the man she thought he was all their lives. I'm already away half the time with the team, and Nicky's bein' an asshole. Just how much heartache should one woman hafta take?"

"Maybe what you need is some time, babe. Just some time to think it through. To do what you need to do," Hutch suggested hopefully.

"Time is somethin' we ain't got, Hutch. I gotta be on that plane tomorrow," Starsky reminded him, just as if Hutch was not aware of every tick of the clock that brought them closer to the moment when Starsky would fly out of his life.

"It's not the only plane in the world. Planes go back and forth all the time. I'd still be . . ."

Starsky put his fingers over Hutch's lips. "Don't say that, Hutch. For Christ's sake, don't. I don't want you waiting here, being alone . . ."

Hutch kissed the callused fingers, then lifted them away. "All right. I'm not going to yank on my side of that rubber band any more. But if you've got the right to make up your mind, then I've got that right too." He looped his arms around the strong neck. "But whatever happens tomorrow . . ."

"Tonight is yours," Starsky completed.

"Ours, Starsk. Ours," Hutch corrected sadly.

* * *

"Window or aisle seat, Mr. Starsky?" the pretty agent behind the counter asked.

"Doesn't matter," Starsky replied listlessly.

"Smoking or nonsmoking?"

"Non."

"Are you checking luggage today?"

Starsky lifted his suitcase onto the scale. "Just one."

The luggage was dealt with and the boarding pass handed over.

Starsky accepted the folder and turned away.

Hutch, who had been watching, fell into step beside his lover. "Which gate?"

"Hey, you don't have to hang around," Starsky protested. "You must have stuff to do. Reports to write."

"You've got at least half an hour before they even start boarding." Hutch let his eyes plead his case. "Let me stay. Please."

"Damn," Starsky swore and looked away. He thrust the pass toward Hutch. "Gate fifteen," he said gruffly. "Let's go find a coffee."

Seated at a tiny table in the cubbyhole of a restaurant provided little privacy, but a glance around proved that the inhabitants were far too interested in their own concerns to worry about the two unhappy men.

"This really stinks," Starsky grumbled into his coffee. "Ya shouldn't've come."

"Had to," Hutch replied softly. It was nearly killing him not to touch, not to reach across the table and close his hand over Starsky's, but at least he could look. His eyes devoured every feature, trying to imprint them permanently in his memory.

"If you're gonna keep lookin' at me like that, Hutch, you might as well just lay one on me right here," Starsky said with a sadly ironic little laugh. "It's written all over your face."

Hutch looked down into his cup to hide what he had no hope of erasing.

"We said it all last night, babe," Starsky said softly, looking around and resenting every pair of ears that had no business hearing this conversation. "I shoulda just got Merle to drop me off."

Hutch bit his lip. "Sorry," he choked out.

"Dammit, I can't sit here like this! Let's walk," Starsky demanded, thrusting to his feet.

Obediently, Hutch followed, falling into step as Starsky walked down the open concourse toward gate fifteen. He felt every minute as it flew away, taking them inevitably to what could be a final parting.

"You'll think about it, won't you, Starsk?" he blurted because he had to. The words simply refused to stay in his throat any longer. "Sorry," he added belatedly.

"First call for Flight 496 to New York, now boarding at gate fifteen. Would passengers in first class and those requiring extra assistance please board now."

They had arrived at the gate and stood a little off to the side, both men watching the line of people advance through the gate door, if for no other reason than to avoid looking at each other.

"Got a long flight ahead of you," Hutch said, because the silence between them was more than he could bear.

Starsky finally looked at him, but just as quickly looked away. "Yeah."

"Would passengers seated in rows seventeen through thirty on flight 496 to New York please board the aircraft now."

"That's me," Starsky said. With visible effort, he forced himself to face his companion. He stuck out his hand. "You sure you don't wanna come live in my world?" he asked huskily.

Hutch enfolded the outstretch hand in both of his and squeezed hard. He dredged up the parody of a smile. "What? A guy who doesn't even know where the gas goes?"

"Christ!" Starsky swore between gritted teeth and pulled Hutch into his arms. He hugged fiercely, then pushed him away. "I gotta go, partner."

Then he was gone, leaving Hutch with a memory of warmth and strength. Catching hold of the back of a seat, Hutch held on tightly, watching as the last stragglers boarded and the plane taxied away.

If this were one of those sappy, happily-ever-after movies that Hollywood loved to churn out, any minute now Starsky would walk back through that door and crack some joke about paying all that money for his clothes to fly to New York. But this wasn't a movie. This was real life, and when the door opened for the last time, it was only the boarding agent.

* * *

Fifteen days later

Hutch sighed and closed the hardcover book. He slid it away from him with the finality of a student who has accepted that, no matter how hard he tries, the information was not going to go into his head and stay there beyond the time it took to turn the page. He picked up the bottle of beer that had sat at his elbow for the past two hours while he had poured over the stack of books he had brought home from the library. He took a tentative sip and, finding the brew flat and warm, returned the bottle to the table and sat staring balefully at the manuals.

"Face it, Hutchinson," he muttered with self-disgust. "You are just one of the mechanically retarded."

After a week of devoting all his off duty time to the subject of auto mechanics, Hutch was ready to admit defeat. Even with illustrations, he still had trouble telling the difference between an air pump and a fuel pump. As for the manifold and carburetor, although there was a possibility he might recognize them if he peered under the hood of his car, what purpose they served in getting him from point A to point B remained a mystery.

Contrary to Starsky's first stated opinion, Hutch did know where the gas went in, but where the fuel went from the little hole on the side of the car he never had, and never would, understand. It was a measure of his feelings for Starsky that he had even made the attempt to find out.

Hutch switched his unhappy gaze to the telephone that remained stubbornly silent despite his mental demands that it ring—now! It had been fifteen days since he had watched Starsky walk away from him and get on the plane that would take his lover out of his life, perhaps forever. After living through a failed marriage and uncounted soured romances, Hutch was anything but a romantic optimist, but he had been unable to convince himself that what he and Starsky had shared had been nothing more than an extended one night stand. Starsky was going to call. Hutch firmly believed that. He had to or give in to the overwhelming grief that tried to possess him whenever he considered the possibility of never seeing the dynamic ex-cop again.

It was Hutch himself who had suggested that Starsky take some time to decide what he wanted, and Hutch was determined to give him that time. Starsky already knew what Hutch had to offer, there was no sense putting more pressure on his lover. In Hutch's opinion, if Starsky was a bottle of champagne, there was already enough pressure under his cork to pop it sky-high without Hutch shaking up the bottle even more. At least that was what Hutch told himself every time the little piece of paper with Starsky's number on it started calling him from where it was tucked in his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans.

Like it was calling him now, at about a hundred decibels that only he could hear. Hutch forced himself to stay firmly parked in his chair all the way across the room from temptation. But the optimism, of which Hutch had only a limited supply, was wearing thin.

He got up from the table, firmly turned his back on the telephone and began stacking the thick auto mechanics manuals into a pile. They were going back to the library tomorrow. There was no sense kidding himself. He was never going to be a mechanic. If he wanted to join Starsky in his world, the only way would be to become in reality what he had pretended to be—little more than a walking, talking sex toy to fill in the hours when Starsky was not completely consumed by his cars. The sheer joy of being together and a healthy portion of lust might carry them through a month or two, but, Starsky had been right, the day would come when Hutch would begin to resent his position.

No, the only way for them to be together was for Starsky to come live in his world, and Hutch was determined to hold onto that hope for all he was worth. He just had to be patient. In the meantime, he was spending far too much time alone. He needed to start getting out again, socialize with people again. But before he did that, he decided as he shut out the lights and climbed into bed, he was going to buy an answering machine. Just in case.

* * *

Twenty-six days

"Hutch, my man," Huggy Bear greeted as Hutch walked up to the bar at the Pits. "I was beginning to think you had packed up your marbles and found some other place to play."

Hutch slid onto a stool and signaled for a beer. "I've been around."

Huggy moved down the bar to fill the order and Hutch watched him, shifting around on the stool until his back was to his usual table. The table where he and Starsky had laughed and bantered and let anticipation build. He regretted those lost hours now, wishing that he and Starsky had spent every possible moment screwing each other's brains out. Maybe it would have burned out what had been between them, shown it to be nothing more than lust, of no more consequence than chemistry. Maybe if all they had shared were their bodies, if Hutch had not learned so much about Starsky, then he would have had a hope of forgetting him and getting on with his life.

"So I've heard," Huggy picked up the conversation when he returned with the brimming glass. "Haven't seen you in—it's gotta be more than a month."

"Not that long. Couple, three weeks, maybe. Been busy," Hutch muttered, taking a first sip and looking around at anything except that table and the probing dark gaze that was trying to ferret out his secrets.

"Too busy to return a phone call?" Huggy accused.

Hutch shrugged. "Hey, I'm here now. What did you want?"

Huggy folded his arms over his chest, his homely face tightening with exasperation. "I didn't want nothin', man. But when a friend of mine suddenly disappears off the face of the earth, I get a little curious is all." He paused and after a few moments of silence, Hutch had to give up his visual inspection of the premises and meet Huggy's unhappy gaze.

"You haven't even asked for information off the street," Huggy pointed out. "You don't trust me no more?"

"Of course I trust you," Hutch protested immediately. Staying away from Huggy had nothing to do with trust. It had to do with memories, and Hutch already had more than enough of those to contend with. Every time he heard a car shift gears, smelled the pungent aroma of gasoline or even took a goddamned shower he remembered the man who had loved him so briefly. Even Dobey's office held the ghost Starsky.

Huggy seemed to accept the emphatic declaration. "You want something to eat?"

"Not hungry," Hutch replied, remembering his and Starsky's discussion concerning the Huggy Bear Special. He could feel Huggy's doubtful gaze on him. "What?" he challenged.

"You look like you've been missin' more than a meal or two, Hutch," Huggy observed. "You been sick?"

"No, I haven't been sick," Hutch snapped, in no mood to be mothered. "I'm not hungry, so why don't you just leave it at that."

Huggy backed off a step or two, his hands coming up as if to defend himself from attack. "No problem, my honky brother. I know when to keep my nose out of other people's business."

Hutch shook his head. "I'm sorry, Huggy. I'm just tired."

"Yeah. I hear Forest is really giving you a run for your money," Huggy changed the subject. "Word on the street is that you almost had him."

Hutch sighed. "Horseshoes and hand grenades, Huggy," he lamented. If he could stick to business, he knew he would be just fine. Work had seen him through more than one crisis in his life and it was bound to work this time as well. At least on the surface. "Five more minutes and he never would have gotten on the plane for Mexico."

Huggy laughed. "You shoulda hung onto Starsk and that damned Torino of his if ya wanted to get someplace fast," he quipped.

Hutch felt himself freeze, knew that, for however briefly it was revealed, Huggy had seen the anguish in his eyes.

"Hutch?" Huggy prompted, and in his face Hutch could see the genuine concern, the willingness to help. It only made the pain worse.

"Leave it alone," Hutch growled threateningly, knowing his reaction was all out of proportion to the concern being offered but unable to rein himself in. He was in full fight or flight mode as the reality of his loss swept over him again. He pushed the mostly full glass toward Huggy, seeing the liquid slosh over the sides, and jumped off the stool.

"Just leave it the fuck alone," he repeated and got out of the Pits before he made an even bigger fool of himself than he already had.

* * *

Forty-two days

"Morning, Johnny Apple," Hutch greeted the diminutive news-agent-cum-bookie who was one of his occasional, and reluctant, sources of information.

John DiApplisso, alias Johnny Apple, offered Hutch a disgruntled expression in return. "I'm clean, Hutchinson. You ain't got nothin' on me," he protested.

"That's what you always say," Hutch replied automatically, his eyes scanning the wide array of magazines, newspapers, and periodicals arranged over the shelves of DiApplisso's cart.

"Honest. Anybody who told you different is a liar," DiApplisso continued to defend himself, becoming agitated enough that Hutch knew he was hiding something. "All I've been doing is selling newspapers."

Hutch made a note in his "could be useful some day" mental file and got on with the business at hand. "Well that's a good thing, Johnny, because that's what I want to talk to you about."

DiApplisso held his hands up in protest. "Now, wait just a minute." He pointed to the framed certificate nailed to the overhang of his cart. "I got my license. Look at that. It's still good for nine months."

"I'm not the by-law officer, Johnny. I could care less about your license. Today," Hutch qualified. "I want to know if you can get me a paper called On The Right Track."

"The racing monthly?" DiApplisso asked suspiciously. "What do you want with that?"

"I'm thinking of changing professions," Hutch countered. "You grill everybody who wants to buy a magazine?"

"Huh," DiApplisso grunted as he bent over to peer under the counter. "Have to be the smash-up derby with that junker of yours," he needled as he searched amid the debris cluttering the shelf.

Hutch's lips tightened at the insult, but he forgot his offended dignity when DiApplisso straightened up with the sought after magazine in his hands. A somewhat dog-eared and disreputable copy that had definitely seen better days.

"I don't stock it. Not enough interest. This one is mine," DiApplisso explained, handing over the magazine but watching Hutch as if he expected the big cop to disappear with his property.

"But you'll find it in your heart to sell it to me, right?" Hutch asked. He handed over a ten for the well-used paper. "Keep the change."

"Well, yeah. Sure. I was done with it anyway." DiApplisso tucked the bill away. "Seriously. What you want with that?" he asked curiously.

Hutch remained silent. He flipped through the pages until he found the standings for the level that Starsky competed in. There was Starsky's team name solidly in second. They were a dozen points ahead of the third place Montoya's and only two points behind the more experienced Lewis. It seemed that Starsky, or perhaps it was Mike, had been holding his own since the team had left Bay City.

"Hey, I remember now. You were involved in that big bust out at the Bay City Speedway. What, a month ago?" DiApplisso probed, proving that he not only sold his newspapers, he also read them.

Actually, it was forty-three days since he and Starsky had worked together to foil the cocaine sale, forty-two since Hutch had last seen or heard from Starsky. Optimism was all dried up now, but he was still clinging to a fading hope.

None of which was information he planned on sharing with DiApplisso or anyone else.

"See you around," Hutch said as he folded the magazine and tucked it into his pocket before walking away.

"Not if I see you first," Hutch heard muttered behind him.

* * *

Fifty-Six days

Despite the fact that optimism was long gone and hope was barely a glimmer in the dark pit of his grief, Hutch still felt his heart leap in his chest when he walked into his apartment and saw the little red light on the answering machine.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Hutch spared a hand from also ridding himself of his holster long enough to push the rewind button. The tape hummed to itself for a few seconds, but when Hutch pressed play the only sound that came from the machine was the click of a broken connection. Disappointed, Hutch set the machine to rewind and erase before hanging his jacket and holster in the closet and going to the kitchen to see what, if anything, he could scare up for dinner.

Rewarmed pizza seemed to be the only item on the menu that would not require more time and energy to prepare than Hutch felt like putting into it. He put a couple of slices onto a pan and slid it into the oven before retrieving a beer from the refrigerator and sitting down at the table. While he waited for the pizza to heat, he spread out the New York Times he had found in the squad room this afternoon. He had no idea where it had come from and noticed only now that the paper was nearly a month old. He did not feel like getting up to get the morning paper that sat on the table beside his door, so he decided to page through the old news anyway. Nothing of interest caught his eye until he turned to the local news and suddenly found Starsky staring out at him from the first page.

It took several moments for Hutch to get over the shock of finding himself face to face with Starsky before he noticed how stressed his former lover appeared. Dressed nicely in a suit and tie, Hutch could see that Starsky had all his guards up, his features taut and his eyes wary. Hutch had dealt with the media often enough to sympathize. You never knew when the ladies and gentlemen of the press might turn on you and you could find yourself playing the main course in a feeding frenzy.

Hutch realized that he had been sitting staring mesmerized at Starsky's face long enough for the aroma of crisping cheese and over-cooked dough to be filling the cottage. He jumped up to rescue his dinner, but then left it sitting on the counter while he went back to the table where he snatched up the paper and hurriedly read the short article that went with the picture.

The article told him only that former Detective Sergeant David Michael Starsky, the son of etc., etc., was currently embroiled in a legal battle with the Internal Affairs department of the NYPD, attempting to prove that corruption charges that had been brought against him more than two years before were unfounded. Most of the rest of the article was about Starsky's father, his death, and the truth that had been revealed posthumously.

Reading between the lines and taking in the signs of stress that he could see in Starsky's picture, Hutch feared that there was a lot more to the story than the simple facts that appeared in the article. Even with the width of the country between them, Hutch could feel what Starsky was going through. For the first time in weeks, the slip of paper in his wallet began calling his name.

Not stopping for second or third thoughts that might make him hesitate, Hutch hurried across the cottage, digging for his wallet and ferreting out the number before he even made it to the telephone. He dialed the number before he could change his mind, waiting anxiously through two rings. His heart fell when he heard the third ring cut off mid-way and a recorded voice filled his ear.

"The number you have dialed has been changed to an unlisted number."

Hutch listened through the announcement twice before he slowly lowered the receiver to the cradle. He had waited too long and now he had no way of contacting Starsky. Starsky would have to call him. After more than eight weeks of hoping for that call, Hutch had no illusions left anymore that Starsky ever would.

He went back to the table and slumped down onto the chair, his eyes seeking out the article once more. Like a man probing an unhealed wound just to see if it still hurt, Hutch read the article again. Yes, it still hurt. More, in fact, as he remembered that the paper was over a month old.

Hutch felt that last stubborn bit of hope sputter and die as he folded the paper and set it aside. Starsky was trying to clear his name, might even have succeeded by now, but Starsky had not called. Starsky was never going to call. Hutch let the grief sweep over him. One last emotional storm, then he would have to get on with the rest of his life.

* * *

Seventy-eight days

"If that's all, Captain," Hutch said as he gathered up the files he and Dobey had been discussing, preparatory to getting to work. He got only halfway out of the chair before Dobey waved him back down.

"No, that isn't all," Dobey growled. "It's time you and I had a little heart to heart."

Hutch felt his defenses rising. He already knew what Dobey wanted to discuss. They had been over the same ground at least a dozen times in the past two years. But Hutch knew that departmental pressure was growing and that Dobey was feeling the squeeze. In turn, his superior had been leaning on Hutch.

"Don't bother getting your back up, Hutchinson," Dobey warned. "You've managed to tap dance your way around the whole issue since you transferred into Metro, but time's running out and the tune has changed. It isn't safe to be a lone wolf on the streets anymore."

"It isn't all that much safer with a partner," Hutch countered, knowing Dobey would know he was referring to the death of Detective Sergeant Tom Summers who had been shot during a 2/11 call despite the fact that his partner had been standing right beside him.

"I can't understand why you're being so stubborn about this," Dobey complained. "You've worked with nearly every man in this department at one time or another. There has to be someone you can work with." He paused, his considering gaze making Hutch wonder just what new angle had suddenly occurred to the older man.

"Is it ego?" Dobey asked. "You've made some pretty heavy busts in the last two years. Maybe you don't want a partner because you don't want to share the glory?"

Hutch just let his glacial expression speak for him and, in a moment, Dobey was brushing his own asinine accusation aside.

"Never mind. I know it's not a swelled head. God knows it's hard enough to get you to deal with the press, even when it would do the department some good," Dobey admitted.

"How you feel about it is going to be academic soon," he went on when Hutch offered no comment. "It's in the works now. Soon it will be a departmental regulation that no officer hit the street alone."

"When?" Hutch asked, surprised that the powers that be were actually moving on an issue that had been neglected for far too long. Hutch agreed, in theory, that every cop needed a partner. But for him, it was a matter of trust, and Hutch did not trust easily.

"A month. Maybe more. You know what red tape is like." Dobey sat forward, resting his folded hands on the desktop and leveling his serious gaze on his stubborn subordinate. "There are good men in this division. Wouldn't it be better to chose one of them now, of your own accord, than to have the department force a partner down your throat?"

"Picturesque," Hutch quipped, but his stubborn expression remained intact. "Maybe I'll have to reconsider my line of work," he mused.

"That would be a waste. You're a good cop. If my back was to the wall, I might even say you're the best cop in this division." A pudgy finger leveled on Hutch. "And if you repeat that to anyone, I'll deny it. But you're not as good as you could be if only you had the right man backing you up. You proved that with that Speedway bust. Impossible odds against you and you still managed to pull it off. And don't you try to tell me that Starsky had nothing to do with it. You said right in your report that if he hadn't shown up when he did, your ass would have been new mown grass."

Hutch did not even flicker an eyelash at the mention of Starsky's name. Enough time had passed that he had stopped feeling the kick in his chest and the flash of near paralyzing grief every time he thought of Starsky. When he was on the job. True to form, his professionalism, his ability to submerge himself in his work had, after months of silence, come to his rescue. Off duty was still another matter altogether. That was why Hutch had been spending longer and longer hours at the precinct. Never before had his in box been so consistently clear.

"Special case," he dismissed Dobey's observations casually.

"Bullshit," Dobey offered bluntly. "The night the two of you came in before the race, I thought then what perfect partners you made. He'd start a sentence and you'd finish it. If he had an idea, you let him run with it, and I've never seen you defer to anyone like that before. After that first meeting right here in this office, I couldn't believe the change."

Hutch wanted to offer a second casual denial, but his throat closed over it. Every word Dobey spoke was nothing but the pure, unvarnished truth and Hutch could not bring himself to belittle it with a lie. He had been resisting being partnered for many reasons since his promotion to detective, not the least of which was, as he had told Starsky, because he did not want to risk his integrity to someone else's actions. That was now only a small part of the reason he would consider leaving his chosen profession before giving in. He had already had the perfect partner, and he wanted no one else at his back.

"You had every reason in the world not to trust Starsky, but you did. Why?" Dobey pursued the subject.

Because I fell in love with him. Because I thought he loved me, too. Hutch held the words inside himself. It was not information Dobey needed, was probably information he would not want. And it was only a part of the truth in any case. It was back to a matter of trust and, in the end, trust was an instinct that too often defied description.

"I offered him a place here, you know?" Dobey revealed when Hutch again let silence be his only reply.

Hutch knew that further evasions on his part would soon have Dobey's cop instincts jangling a yellow alert, and Dobey was far too good a cop to let that happen. "So he told me."

"I guess he must have liked driving fast cars better than he liked patrolling a beat," Dobey concluded.

Hutch wanted to protest, the memory of the grief-stricken man he had held the night of Starsky's confession so vivid that he could almost feel the strong fingers digging into his shoulders again. He chased the images away, forcing them back behind the walls he had erected around all those bittersweet memories.

"What's not to like, Captain," he said as he pushed himself up out of the chair. He had nothing more to say on the subject, and, if Dobey did, he could put it in a memo. Hutch had work to do. "From what I understand, the pay is certainly better."

Dobey shook his head. "All right. Go earn your keep. But think about it, Hutch. Before the department puts your back up against the wall."

"I'll give it all the consideration it deserves," Hutch promised and made his escape.

* * *

Ninety-two days

When Hutch realized what he was doing—stroking his thumb repeatedly over the signature on the paper before him—he flipped the cover closed on the file with an angry snap. He was supposed to be preparing for Monk's preliminary hearing on Monday and Dobey had let him bring their copy of the file home when it became apparent that he was accomplishing nothing at the station.

He had had little better luck in focusing his attention while sitting at his own kitchen table. He had read Starsky's report perhaps a dozen times and spent at least the past—he glanced at his watch—twenty minutes trying to erase the scrawled signature with his loving caress, while every single moment he had spent with his briefly known lover played behind his unseeing eyes like a B romance from the '30s. He was going to make a fool of himself on the stand on Monday if his mind skipped away on him every time someone mentioned the man's name. And this was only the preliminary hearing. If Monk failed to cop a plea and went to trial, then Starsky would have to return to give testimony. Hutch wondered if by that time, maybe a year down the road, Starsky would have become nothing more than a fond memory. The possibility seemed unlikely.

Hutch had fantasized Starsky's return. Let himself wallow in the joy he would feel if he were to open his door and find Starsky on the other side, ready and willing to pick up where they left off. But that had been during the early days when he had still been clinging to hope and counting on what they shared to draw Starsky back to him. When such nonsense tried to fill his head now, he drove it back, refusing to be devastated all over again when the fantasy ended and he was alone. It worked, after a fashion and when he was awake. Most of the time.

Sighing in self-disgust, Hutch pushed up from his chair and wandered into the kitchen. The sight of the refrigerator seemed to remind his stomach how long it had been since he had last fed it. Obligingly, Hutch pulled open the white door and studied the meager contents of his larder. Time to shop again. Maybe he would make the effort to stock up tomorrow. In the meantime, scrambled eggs and toast would have to do. Drawing the requisite items from the cold interior, he let his body run on automatic as his mind continued to worry away at his preoccupation.

As the weeks went by and it became clear that Starsky would not be contacting him, Hutch believed he found a certain acceptance of that decision within himself. His professionalism asserted itself as it had time and again after a devastating loss and he immersed himself in his work. He was a changed man, but it did not seem to show on the outside, and Hutch was content to let the rest of the world think what they liked as long as they kept their opinions to themselves.

There were a few exceptions, of course. Like Huggy Bear. The irrepressible barkeep had badgered and probed until finally Hutch had warned him off with pointed words in a tone that had delivered his "no trespassing" decree with insulting clarity. Their relationship was now a wary one. Although Huggy remained an important source of information, they now dealt together in a coolly impersonal manner. It pained Hutch to be so at odds with his long-time friend, but he knew he could not bear to have even Huggy probing at the unhealed wound of his love for Starsky.

Realizing his hands had completed the brief preparations while his mind was otherwise occupied, Hutch carried the frying pan full of eggs and milk to the stove and lit the burner beneath it, then popped two pieces of bread in the toaster.

He was rummaging around in the refrigerator for butter when his doorbell rang. Dropping the butter on the counter, he went to answer it. With a polite refusal for whatever salesman it was forming on his lips, Hutch swung the door open and felt his world rock on its foundations.

Resignation, acceptance or whatever else Hutch had thought he had found were revealed for the Band-Aid solutions they truly were as he stood staring at the apparition on his doorstep.

"Hi," Starsky offered hesitantly, his expression an uneasy combination of arrogance and uncertainty.

Stunned beyond words, Hutch looked past Starsky to where the Torino sat parked nose to nose with his battered LTD. The sight of Starsky's ridiculously flashy pride and joy brought the reality of Starsky's presence home to Hutch as no other single detail could. Still, he felt frozen; the only part of him that seemed alive was his heart, which was racing so hard it felt as if it might leap from his chest. His brain seemed unable to assimilate the fact that an image could be fantasized to perfection and yet remain utterly recognizable when it became reality.

"Uh, Hutch," Starsky ventured, his gaze slipping past the man frozen at the door to the interior of the cottage. "You barbecuing or something?"

The far too commonplace inquiry and the smell of burning bread finally broke the paralytic hold shock had upon Hutch's body. Leaving the door wide open, he dashed to the kitchen to rescue his dinner.

By the time he reached the kitchen, the toast was well beyond resuscitation and the eggs were not far behind. He popped the toast and scooped the pan off the burner, shoving it in the sink and automatically opened a window to clear the stench. He was unsurprised when he turned his back on the mess to find that Starsky had followed him.

"You've got a lot of fucking nerve," he accused. His voice became stronger, his tone ragged as he continued, the sorrow within him finally finding an outlet and spewing like a too-long capped volcano. "How dare you think you can just stroll back into my life without so much as one fucking word in all this time? Are you confused, Starsky? Did you forget I wasn't really the dim-witted bimbo I pretended to be? Or maybe you had another accident in one of your toys and just forgot how to reach me for three fucking months."

Hutch paused long enough to catch a breath, his baleful gaze pinning Starsky where he stood. "I don't know whether to fuck your brains out or beat the shit out of you," he exclaimed in exasperation. He had never dreamed that he was capable of feeling such a maelstrom of emotions all at one time. The joy he felt at so suddenly having Starsky within his grasp mixed and swirled with the fury that had been building for so long that it almost blinded him.

"If you're askin' my preference, Hutch, I'll take what's behind door number one," Starsky said and the unconscious sexuality of the man nearly ended the confrontation there and then.

Hutch reared back despite the fact that Starsky had not moved. "Oh, no. You're not sweeping me off to bed like, like . . . Oh, hell, I don't know what like, but you're not doing it."

"You brought up the subject," Starsky reminded him.

Hutch threw up his hands in exasperation. If he didn't move, he was going to explode. He started pacing, prowling the cramped confines of his home while Starsky watched him warily.

"Do you have any conception of what you put me through, you bastard? Sitting around waiting for you to call. It took a long time for me to figure out you weren't going to," Hutch ranted, the volcano of hurt inside him letting loose with a lava flow of bitter words. "Pretty fucking stupid of me, huh?"

"You were the one who said I should take some time," Starsky put in, his mild tone doing nothing to calm the conflagration of Hutch's fury.

"Yeah, you're right. It's all my fault," Hutch shouted.

"I didn't mean . . ."

"You didn't mean a goddamned word you said," Hutch accused in a roar that must have been heard to the end of the block.

That hit Starsky on a raw spot. "Now, wait just a damned minute," he countered, the passive stance and expression replaced by outrage. "I never lied to you."

Hutch ignored the attempted interruption. "Come on, Starsky. Just be honest with me now, okay. It was just fun and games, right? Mike warned me. Told me right out not to fall in love with you because you weren't in the market."

They were doing it yet again. Letting their tempers take control of them as had happened almost from the moment they had met. It had to stop. Hutch knew they could stop it. They had done it before. But there was too much pain inside him for Hutch to be able to throw on the brakes.

"So what do you think I'm doin' here now?" Starsky asked reasonably, the aggression disappearing as abruptly as it had appeared.

The wind went out of Hutch's sails so suddenly that he stopped dead in his tracks like a becalmed ship. He could come up with absolutely no reply except the obvious one. Starsky was here because Starsky wanted to be here.

"You done now? Think you can sit down and let me tell you how it all went down? Remember one time you asked me that?" Starsky asked, evoking images of a time of naked, satiated flesh and bitter anger. "Can you do that for me, or do you just want me to go?"

If Starsky's first question had caused Hutch to grope past his fury, this last one caused an earthquake of panic. "You're not going anywhere," he declared.

For a moment it appeared that Starsky might bridle at the commanding tone, but then a tentative smile eased some of the uncertainty out of his face. "I wasn't planning to. Not unless you throw me out. Sit down, Hutch. Okay? I know you're hurt, and that was never what I wanted. There was just so fuckin' much I had to figure out."

"And I was the least part of it. The furthest away and the easiest to put out of your mind," Hutch muttered accusingly.

"No, babe. I swear. You were the part I knew, or thought I knew, I could trust to still be there when all the rest of it was done. I never stopped thinking about you, loving you, or wanting you. I'm not sure I'd've got through it all if it wasn't for you."

"Goddamnit, Starsk . . ." Hutch started to explode again.

"Hutch, just listen. Okay?" Starsky tilted his head and offered an encouraging grin. "You can always throw me out later."

"You think I won't?" Hutch challenged, but he knew that control of himself was once again in the hands of his reason. He sat down on the couch as requested.

Starsky came to sit on the chair facing him. Watching him, Hutch could almost see the thoughts marshalling behind the earnest blue eyes.

"When I got on that plane, it was the hardest thing I've ever done," Starsky began. "I wanted to say fuck the world and just chase you all the way home. Jump into bed with you and pull the covers over our heads. I can be real patient when I have to be. Like when I wanted to be a cop and hadta do my hitch in the army first. But when I want something really bad, as bad as I want you, I ain't always that strong."

Starsky paused and Hutch obligingly provided a nod to indicate that he remembered. He wondered if Starsky had any idea of how each moment of the too-short time they had spent together was etched on his heart. How each memory had been examined minutely over the past three months as he had searched for something to bolster his fading belief in Starsky's love.

"I intended to call you the minute I got home. Spent the whole flight rehearsing what I was gonna say. Couldn't wait to hear your voice." Another short silence while an expression of bewildered disgust settled itself on Starsky's face. "The shit was flying before I even got both feet in the door. Nicky was into shit up to his eyeballs and my mom was just on her way out the door to bail him outta the drunk tank."

"Drunk tank?" Hutch echoed, jolted out of his self-absorption by the unexpected information.

"Yeah," Starsky confirmed, shaking his head. "Drunk and disorderly. Disturbing the peace. Common assault. Resisting arrest."

"Shit," Hutch muttered, feeling a small pang of sympathy.

"I never even got to give my mom a kiss hello before I was tryin' to sort out that mess. Everything really sorta snowballed after that for a while. I hadta call Walters to ask him to help me out with Nicky and the captain started badgering me about clearing my name. Then Mike blew an engine in Phoenix and I hadta run around getting some money out to them and trying to make deals over the phone. Some days I felt like I was being buried alive. It just kept coming, one thing after another."

"Why didn't you call, Starsk?" Hutch asked the question that was uppermost in his mind. He could understand the long absence. If it had taken Starsky three months to sort out his life, then that was what it had taken. What Hutch found so impossible to swallow was that Starsky had left him in the dark.

"I did," Starsky replied with such honest simplicity that even though Hutch knew for a fact that there had been no call, he wanted to believe.

"Honest, Hutch. I got long distance bills like you wouldn't believe from calling you," Starsky insisted with that same earnestness. "I felt bad for not calling right away. It was a couple of weeks before I got a chance to even grab a deep breath, but the night before I was gonna go see the lawyers for the first time, I hadta talk to you. I guess you were out 'cause I got your machine. 'You've reached Ken Hutchinson. Sorry I can't take your call right now, but if you leave your name and number and a brief message after the tone, I'll call you back,'" Starsky quoted, even getting the tone and inflection of Hutch's voice exactly.

"I would have," Hutch said softly.

"I know," Starsky agreed. "But I didn't want to talk to a machine, so I decided to call later."

"But you didn't?"

"Sure I did. Called half a dozen times that night, but you never answered." Starsky looked away. "I thought maybe you were out . . ."

"But you didn't call again," Hutch insisted. It was possible that he had been working that night. Perhaps even an all-night stake out. But that had been only one out of the many lonely nights he had spent hoping the phone would ring.

Starsky hung his head for a moment, then looked up, letting Hutch see the guilt in his face. "Yeah, I did. Dozens of times, but only when I knew I'd get the machine."

"The machine?" Hutch echoed.

An eloquent shrug of broad shoulders made the worn leather of Starsky's old jacket creak and groan. "When I couldn't get you that first night, I started thinking. You know, Hutch, I can be a pretty ruthless son of a bitch sometimes. I figure out what I want and I go after it. Sometimes, I just don't care who gets hurt."

Hutch opened his mouth to protest. It seemed to him that the very opposite was true. Once he had pierced the façade of bitter bravado that Starsky had been wearing when they first met, it was glaringly apparent that Starsky cared far too much for the people he let close to him, gave of himself far too deeply for his own good. Starsky, however, would not let him voice his objections.

"You gotta just listen for a while, Hutch," Starsky insisted. "When I first laid eyes on you, I wanted you. I only came to Dobey to offer to help 'cause I wanted to get into your jeans."

"I don't believe that," Hutch snapped.

Starsky tilted his head to the side. "You know, Hutch, you'd make a really lousy father confessor. But, okay, I'll give you that. Getting you into bed wasn't the only reason I offered to help. After a day or two of working with you, the reasons didn't matter anymore anyway. I was committed and already falling in love with you." He held up a threatening finger. "Don't say a word, Hutch. This ain't easy. Bein' honest with yourself never is."

Hutch took a deep breath and pressed his lips together, determined to listen and, if at all possible, understand. It took an effort of will almost beyond his strength with Starsky right there within touching distance to calm himself. In the end, he had to call on the professional side of himself, pretend that Starsky was no more than a suspect who was ready to confess to his crimes if Hutch would just hold onto his patience and let him.

"Like I said, after I couldn't get you on the phone, I started thinking. Then when I saw the lawyer and then had that first meeting with IA, I was desperate to talk to you. I had to make myself step back from it all and look at why I needed you so bad then. I've been an independent guy alla my life. Ask my mom. I nearly drove her nuts when I was a kid. Everything that went on with my dad and IA just made that worse. I'm the strong one, Hutch. Always have been. So I hadta look at why all of a sudden I'm desperate to talk to a man I only knew for a week. I'm not sayin' here that I didn't love you. I'm saying I didn't trust my own motives. It took a while for me to be honest enough with myself to admit that I didn't know whether I wanted to talk to you 'cause I loved you or if I just needed you."

"Dammit, Starsk. I wanted to be there for you," Hutch protested.

"I know you did, Hutch," Starsky admitted. "But did you wanna be there 'cause I loved you or because I needed someone who was strong that I could lean on while everyone else was depending on me?"

"I wouldn't have cared," Hutch insisted, but knew he was walking a very fine line between the truth and a lie.

Starsky called him on it. "Now you gotta be honest here, too. It's like you saying you coulda been happy following me around from race to race. What if you'd've gone through the whole mess with me and when the smoke cleared, it turned out what I felt wasn't love at all, just need. We didn't talk all that much about ourselves when we were together, but you said enough for me to figure out that you haven't exactly been a big winner in love's crap shoot. Even though I couldn't be sure just what kind of love I felt for you, I knew I loved you enough not to want to hurt you like that. If I'd've called, depended on you while I sorted out my life, that woulda been makin' a declaration to you. I couldn't do that and then find out it was something different I was feeling."

"Do you think not calling hurt less?" Hutch asked incredulously. "I'm tough enough to make my own decisions."

Starsky shook his head. "Yeah, you're a tough, hard nosed cop. On the outside. Just like I am. But inside you got a heart that's just about as breakable as that fancy crystal that'll shatter if you even look at it wrong."

Hutch wanted to deny the accusation but, unless he was undercover, he always had been a lousy liar. He could not deny the truth that his heart had already been mended many times and only haphazardly. That was why he tended to guard it so carefully.

"I hadta get it all sorted out, Hutch. I hadta know I was free and clear and then I hadta make sure just what it was I had to offer. When I'd get weak, when I thought I couldn't take it anymore and would be better off just going back to the team, I'd call you and listen to your message. Just to hear your voice."

"All those damned hang up calls," Hutch murmured.

"Yeah," Starsky admitted.

Hutch took a deep breath and forced himself to sit back on the couch. There was still a wide pit of anger within him, but now he had control of it. He was even beginning to understand Starsky's logic, and, in a weird sort of way and knowing how Starsky tended to assume the protector role for those he cared about, it even made a cock-eyed kind of sense.

"All right," he finally commanded. "Tell me what happened."

Starsky leaned back, ran his hands over his face and then let them drop to the arms of the chair. "It was a fuckin' mess. You ever go deep sea fishing, Hutch?"

Hutch shook his head, wondering where Starsky had pulled the nonsensical question from.

"I did once when I was out here visiting my Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al. He took me way out and something big and strong latched onto my line and fought like . . . well, like its life depended on it. IA fought like that. Their case had more holes in it than my favorite cutoffs, but they fought anyway. Throwing everything my way they could think of."

"Would you get to the point?" Hutch growled.

"You ain't gonna believe it, Hutch. It was Joe Durniak that cleared my name." Starsky gave a bitter chuckle. "It ain't common knowledge yet, but that old bastard has agreed to turn state's evidence. Walters was in on the negotiations and he asked Durniak point blank, in front of witnesses, if I'd ever been on the take. Durniak tells him I'm too goddamned honest to ever be of any use to him and Walters gets it in writing. At first, I didn't want to use it. My lawyers had already told me that I'd win, but it was probably gonna take months." He paused, his gaze locking with Hutch's and conveying why the decision had been made and what it had cost him. "I didn't want to wait months."

"But IA finally had to back down," Hutch summarized.

"Uh-huh. Cleared my record. Even apologized, although that never got into the papers. Strictly within the force. I was reinstated, but put in for some stress leave. With egg all over their faces, the department gave it to me. Walters has my transfer request, already approved. I call him and he'll have it on Dobey's desk on Monday." Starsky paused, his eyes seeking a verdict from Hutch. "So it's up to you, Hutch. Did I wait too long? Do I stay or do I go?"

Suddenly finding the ball in his court, Hutch did not know exactly what to say. He slowly got to his feet, wandered over to the kitchen and back again a few times before deciding he might as well get all the details at once.

"What about your mom, Nicky, the team?"

Starsky shrugged. "The team was easy. Mike's been doing good the last three months. I left my investment in for now, so they're okay with me leaving if I hafta. Nicky's in AA and getting his act together. Finding out about my dad really knocked him on his ass."

"Did you, too," Hutch defended automatically. With almost no contact with his own family, Hutch was at a loss to really understand Starsky's familial devotion. He respected it, but he did not understand it.

"Nicky's not strong. Never had to be. But I figured out he's a man now and it's time he started acting like one. I can't look out for him forever," Starsky admitted, but Hutch could see that that decision had also taken a heavy toll on the older brother.

"And your mom?" Hutch asked, knowing that this was where the biggest stumbling block would have been. Starsky was devoted enough to his mother, felt responsible for her to such an extent that it had been no offense to his machismo to admit that concern openly to Hutch and to the team.

Starsky shook his head again, an expression of wonder on his face. "My mom is an exceptional lady. Said I'd be on the road with the team anyway, so I should do what I need to do. At least this way I'd be in one place and she'd always know how to get ahold of me."

Hutch's pacing brought him to stand in front of Starsky. He studied the man he had despaired of ever seeing again and realized that the relaxed sprawl was a sham. Starsky was no more certain of his welcome than Hutch was of whether he wished to offer it.

"So just what is it you need, Starsk?" he asked softly.

Starsky met his eyes and Hutch could see the vulnerability laid open for him to accept or reject.

"I need to be your partner. In every way there is," Starsky said simply.

Hutch sat down abruptly on the couch behind him, his gaze moving off into the middle distance as he tried to adjust to the fact that everything he wanted was suddenly in his hands. When his attention returned to Starsky what must have been some time later, but felt like only moments, he found the other man in the middle of a yawn he was sure must be threatening to unhinge the stubbled jaw. He had been looking at Starsky for the past—his eyes flicked to the clock and back again—two hours but had not really been seeing. He saw now. Saw the rumpled clothes, tousled curls, stubbled chin, and red-rimmed eyes that remained half closed as if Starsky could not quite keep the heavy lids up.

"Sorry," Starsky mumbled.

"Where did you pick up the Torino?” Hutch asked and could see that the question puzzled Starsky.

"The Torino?” Starsky echoed.

"Your car. The last I knew you sent it with the team to Phoenix. Where were they when you picked it up?"

Understanding crept onto Starsky’s tired face. “I had Merle ship it to me when I decided to leave the team."

"In New York? " Hutch asked incredulously. "My God, you mean you drove across country to get here? "

Starsky shrugged as if the distance was of no more importance than if he had driven across town.

"When did you leave New York?" Hutch asked suspiciously.

"What day is it?"

"In about two minutes, it will be Saturday."

"Thursday. I left Thursday morning."

"Three thousand miles in two days? Are you out of your mind? It's a miracle you and the Coke can didn't end up wrapped around a telephone pole," Hutch shouted.

Starsky didn't even object to the insult to his beloved car. "Yeah," he admitted. "Listen, Hutch," he continued as he began struggling to his feet. "You got a lot to think about. I'll get a room somewhere and call . . ."

Hutch shot off the couch as if he were propelled by an explosion. "No!" he yelped and his hands went out, closing around Starsky's arms and hanging on for dear life. With the first touch, whatever it was—fear, hurt, or stubborn pride—that held him back since Starsky had first appeared, let go and his grip tightened to near crushing force. "No," he repeated more quietly.

"I won't disappear again," Starsky promised. If the grip on his arms hurt, he bore it, making no effort to break away.

Hutch gave him a little shake. "You're staying here if I have to handcuff you to the bed."

"You gone kinky on me, Hutch?" Starsky asked, giving that slight tilt to his head that to Hutch always seemed to invite a kiss. "Ain't you ever gonna kiss me hello?" he asked forlornly.

Somehow Hutch resisted temptation. If he kissed, then he would want to touch and once he started there would be no stopping it. He brushed the side of his baby finger against the dark circle beneath Starsky's right eye.

"No," he whispered. "There's still too much anger in me. Stay, Starsk," he coaxed. "Sleep with me tonight. Let me be as sure as you seem to be before we start all over again."

Once again it seemed that Starsky might rebel, but for a second time he gave way. "I got a bag in the car."

"Go get it," Hutch ordered.

* * *

Hutch waited until he was certain that Starsky had gone out like a light before carefully turning onto his side. Starsky was here. Barely seen in the dim room, the steady inhale and exhale of deep, exhausted slumber almost masked by the steady thrum of the air conditioner, and even the warmth of the man was leached away by the inches of empty mattress between them. Still, even if all five of his senses were stripped from him at this moment, Hutch knew he would feel Starsky's presence somehow.

His emotions had settled a little, lulled by exhaustion and the sweet knowledge that Starsky slept beside him, that when he opened his eyes in the morning, Starsky would still be there. He had no illusions that they were in for clear sailing from here on in. From the moment they had met, their relationship had been many things, but it had never been easy. They were both strong-minded, stubborn-willed and tended to be over-protective of those they cared for. Good qualities in the long run, but bound to bring them head to head in the future. They would both have to learn to compromise, in both their personal and professional relationships.

It was difficult to even consider future disruptions at the moment. Hutch knew his own hurt and anger had not been fully purged. Intellectually, he understood the course Starsky had chosen to follow. But his heart remembered the pain and Hutch was not sure he could forgive so easily. Time would tell, he supposed.

Tucking his arm up under his pillow, Hutch settled his head and gave in to a muscle-straining yawn. They would work it out in the morning. Or maybe next week. Or a month from now. Perhaps next year. Tired as he was, Hutch could feel the grin that spread over his face in response to his thoughts. Hell, maybe he would just plan on seeing how things were going on their twenty-fifth anniversary and leave it at that.

Reluctantly, Hutch let his eyes close, unable to stop himself from reaching out. Once his fingers closed around the reality of Starsky's callused fingers, he could let himself tip over into sleep.

* * *

Day One

Hutch woke up with a feeling that he had experienced so seldom in his life it took him several moments to recognize it. Contentment. Mixed with the oddest sensation of anticipation, as if he balanced on the edge of embarking on a great adventure. It might have taken him longer to recognize his emotions had the source of them not chosen that moment to stir in his arms, snuggling closer and murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep.

Starsky. Not the fading image of a just completed wet dream, nor the fantasy partner of a dozen boring stakeouts, but the real, flesh-and-blood man. A man whose sleeping habits, Hutch discovered as more complete awareness crept in, had changed little in the months they had been apart. His lover was still a bed hog and a cover stealer, attested to by the fact that Hutch's butt hung over the edge of the bed and only his pajama bottoms stood between him and the cool wash of air from the window air conditioner.

Cautiously, Hutch shifted until he was in a slightly less precarious position, but gave up the idea of trying to retrieve any of the sheet that appeared to be wrapped tightly around several portions of Starsky's anatomy. He would have to remember to adjust the temperature accordingly. He had the feeling that life was going to become a series of adjustment for a while as he and Starsky became partners, between the sheets and on the streets. For a man who hated change, Hutch found himself looking forward to the process and the life he and Starsky would carve out for themselves.

The time to begin that process was at hand, Hutch realized as Starsky wriggled in his arms once again, trying to encroach on the thin strip of mattress he had yet to claim. Hutch resisted this time, holding his ground and seeing the fan of long, dark lashes laying on Starsky's cheeks flicker as consciousness approached. Anxious to hurry the waking process, Hutch stroked along the line of the stubbled jaw with one fingertip and was rewarded a few moments later by the regard of sleep-drugged blue eyes.

"Good morning," he greeted, trying to tamp down the explosion of pure joy that seemed to be expanding in his chest.

"Is it?" Starsky asked, and those eyes that so often revealed to Hutch what the cocky façade sought to hide spoke of lingering uncertainty.

Hutch let his glance flick to where a tiny part in the blinds let in a bright strip of summer sunlight, then returned to the doubtful eyes. "Yes, it is," he offered.

Dark lashes swept down, concealing Starsky's thoughts and reinforcing for Hutch just how skillfully Starsky had learned to guard the soft center of himself.

"I wasn't talking about the weather," Starsky mumbled.

Tenderly, Hutch again brushed the tips of his fingers along the stubborn jaw before his thumb rubbed over sleep-dry lips. "Neither was I."

No slouch when it came to concealing his own vulnerabilities, it took every ounce of willpower Hutch had to hold himself wide open then to the probes that Starsky's eyes had become. Neither one of them seemed to be breathing as Starsky sought reassurance. The longer it lasted, the easier it became for Hutch to let this man he loved ferret out what he needed. The joy he felt was a reward in itself when the doubt faded from Starsky's face, the hard lines of self-defense softened and the taut muscles within his embrace eased.

"We sorted it all out last night?" It was still a question, but a mild one now. In a few moments, Hutch was sure, the arrogance that was as much a part of Starsky as his strut would be reasserting itself. He looked forward to it, but knew he would have to guard against allowing himself to be utterly steamrollered. Starsky had already proven that his dynamic personality could set even the likes of Dobey back on his heels, and Hutch had no intention of letting that happen to him. At least not too often. And there seemed to be no better time than the present to start making sure that Starsky understood that Hutch could give as good as he got.

"I'm sure there are going to be all sorts of problems waiting to ambush us along the way," he cautioned.

"Like what?" Starsky asked, and, as Hutch had predicted, the cocky grin was back.

"Like which side of the bed you like to sleep on. I think it must be mine because I'm lying here with my ass waving in the breeze and your half doesn't even have a dent in it," Hutch accused, somehow manufacturing a stern expression and keeping it on his face long enough to give Starsky's confidence a gentle rabbit punch.

"Oh," Starsky muttered, automatically trying to shuffle back to the neglected side of the mattress.

Hutch tightened his embrace, preventing the withdrawal and closing the small gap that had appeared between them while they talked. "Oh, no you don't," he admonished playfully.

They tussled together, Hutch allowing Starsky to wriggle away a few inches at a time, only to follow relentlessly to bring their bodies back together. Once their horse play/love play reached the middle of the bed, he tightened his grip again, allowing no further retreat. He was not surprised when Starsky continued to wriggle against him until their cocks were hard and eager, separated only by the flimsy material of two pairs of pajama bottoms and a twisted lump of sheet.

Feeling the flat of Starsky's hand slide down between them, stroking down his naked belly, Hutch caught the wrist before it could reach his groin.

"Oh, no you don't," he repeated, his tone no longer light as he drew the impudent hand from between them.

He held the challenging gaze as he pulled Starsky's arm upward, pleased when no resistance was offered as he slid his hand over Starsky's to cup the smaller palm around one of the bars of his brass headboard. Obligingly, Starsky's other hand came up to also grip the bar and the long body began to turn onto its back.

"No," Hutch commanded, his hand on Starsky's hip holding him on his side. "No watching the ceiling. No closing your eyes," he added.

"Revenge, Hutch?" Starsky asked uncertainly.

Hutch searched his own motives for a few moments before nodding firmly. "Yes," he confirmed.

It took another few moments, and Hutch could track the adjustment that went on inside Starsky's head by the expressions that crossed his face, but then the nod was returned.

Hutch counted slowly to ten, letting the anticipation build for both of them, then leaned in and lightly brushed his lips over Starsky's. The kiss was without pressure, a bare meeting of flesh on flesh as Hutch turned his head again and again, bringing their mouths together and then parting them. Starsky's chin tipped ever so slightly, firming the contact and Hutch allowed it until Starsky, given an inch and predictably trying for a mile, opened his mouth. Hutch withdrew immediately.

"I know, I know," Starsky laughed before Hutch could chastise him. "Oh, no I don't."

Satisfied, Hutch remained silent but withheld further kisses. Instead, he let his fingers rediscover the softness of the hair spread liberally by Mother Nature on Starsky's chest.

"I always wanted a hairy chest," he commented idly, tracing the contours of the muscles beneath the silky pelt and feeling Starsky's fast beating heart beneath his fingertips.

"And now ya got it," Starsky husked.

Hutch let his expression ask the question for him.

"What's mine is yours," Starsky quipped, his heightened color and glittering gaze belying the attempt at levity.

"This, too?" Hutch asked, finger and thumb zeroing in on one nipple that was already flushed dark and rucked up in anticipation. He pinched, gently at first, applying more pressure as he watched pleasure bloom on his lover's face.

"Yes," Starsky gasped, back arching to increase the pressure.

"And here?" Hutch illustrated this demand by releasing the captured nipple and stroking feather light from breastbone to hip, fingers exploring the hard slabs of muscle that crisscrossed the long torso.

"Yes."

Without touching the flesh beneath the tented material, Hutch slipped the single button on Starsky's pajama bottoms and carefully parted the cloth. Obligingly, Starsky arched up off the bed so that the obstruction could be stripped away. While Starsky kicked the pajamas off over his feet, Hutch took the opportunity to strip away the blue cloth covering his own lower body.

When the muscular body had settled back on the bed, arms still stretched over the tousled head and the expectant lapis gaze fixed on him, Hutch settled his hands on the smooth skin of the long waist. He let the arc and line of muscle lead his fingers downward until they framed, but did not touch, Starsky's engorged cock.

"And this?" he prompted.

"Yes." It was a growl this time. "I'm yours. All of me."

Hutch knew it was true and he released the last of his anger. Starsky was his. The three months of heartache he had endured to have Starsky here now, free of obligations and absolutely certain of what he wanted, had been worth the wait after all.

"I love you," Hutch said and felt the words shudder through the body he caressed.

"Show me," Starsky invited/demanded.

Hutch complied, investing every caress with all the bottled yearning he possessed as he explored the wide shoulders, thick muscled thighs and broad chest. His mouth followed in the wake of his hands, devouring flesh already made sensitive by the touch of his fingers. He licked up the sharp salts as sweat bloomed on Starsky's skin, heard the metallic protest of the bars as Starsky strained against them, and inhaled the pungent musk of Starsky's arousal. Always, always careful that, no matter how he moved or where he touched, he never so much as brushed the weeping tip of the cock that stood like an angry sentinel at the dark groin.

He could feel Starsky's eyes on him, knew that each time he ventured close to the aching cock, a silent plea was being sent that this time he would touch. He eased down level with the restless hips, his hands reaching around and under to cup the full cheeks of Starsky's ass, feeling the muscles play beneath his fingers as Starsky tried and failed to hold himself still.

"If I touch you, will you come?" he asked, chin tilted up so he could drink in the strained expression on Starsky's face.

"Like . . . like the fourth of July," Starsky panted between gritted teeth.

"Braggart," Hutch accused, then wrapped his hand around the thick base, feeling the first pulse as climax took his lover, watching as the thick, white cream erupted between them. The waste appalled him, and he bent his head, capturing the broad tip of Starsky's cock between his lips, his hand striping up the shaft, milking the next burst of semen into his mouth. And the next. And the next. Until his mouth was full and the cock empty.

Carefully, Hutch withdrew, moving up until he was poised over Starsky who had fallen onto his back, arms still above his head while his chest rose and fell like overworked bellows. Patiently, Hutch waited for the intensity to pass, hoping Starsky would understand what was being asked.

Starsky didn't disappoint him. Before he had even brought his own breathing under control, Starsky was reaching up, trembling fingers tracing Hutch's wet, swollen lips.

"Yes, that, too," he answered the silent question.

Hutch swallowed, taking his lover's seed into himself like a sacrament, then lowered himself into the arms that reached for him, enfolded him in the strength he cherished.

He could have stayed like that forever, listening as Starsky's heartbeat slowed beneath his ear and feeling the hands that caressed his hair with such tenderness. But the throb and ache of his hard cock reminded him that his revenge on Starsky was exacting its toll, as Hutch's body demanded its own release. He was so close, it would not take much. He shifted until he could press his cock against the firm length of Starsky's thigh. One stroke. Two. Then he was being roughly pushed away, finding himself on his back with a grinning Starsky leaning over him.

"Oh, no you don't," Starsky echoed Hutch's own words back at him with such fiendish delight that Hutch feared he had created a monster.

"No?" he asked, trying not to sound too desperately needy.

"No," Starsky confirmed. "I want yours, too. In me, not all over the sheets," he demanded.

Hutch matched the grin, spreading his arms. "Be my guest," he invited.

Starsky sobered abruptly, his gaze becoming so intense that Hutch felt he must be reading the fine print of his soul.

"I want you to fuck me."

The words hit Hutch as they always had, deep in his balls, sending sparks shooting up his spine. What Starsky demanded, Hutch himself wanted so badly even the suggestion was almost more than he could stand. He knew Starsky knew it, had known it right from the beginning.

"You wanted my ass so bad the last time that you almost came if I even mentioned it, but you wouldn't fuck me," Starsky said as if he had picked the thoughts right out of Hutch's mind.

Hutch opened his mouth to protest, but Starsky laid a silencing palm over it.

"It took me a while to figure it out," Starsky admitted. "I wanted it pretty bad, too, or I mighta caught on sooner."

Starsky took his hand away and Hutch felt the callused fingers in his hair again, the touch soothing and arousing him at the same time.

"What did you figure out, Starsk?" he asked in a whisper that could barely be heard above the thrum of the air conditioner. It was both frightening and wildly arousing to be known so well by someone he had known for so little time.

"That you couldn't fuck me if you couldn't keep me," Starsky said simply. "You had to hold back just in case I got on that plane and never came back. That's why, the last night we were together, I didn't offer."

The fingers that had been toying with Hutch's hair suddenly tightened into a fist and tugged until his head came up, his eyes meeting the ones that offered no quarter.

"But you can do it now, Hutch. I'm here. I'm staying. I'll never leave you again."

It was a vow. As binding, no, more binding, than the vows that Vanessa had spoken to him. When Vanessa had said "'Til death do us part," she had meant as long as it was convenient. Not Starsky. The man that hovered over him now, demanding that Hutch invade his body, meant that only the Grim Reaper was ever going to part them again.

"How do you want me?" Starsky asked and Hutch knew there was no mind reading involved this time. What he felt, what he wanted and needed must be written all over his face. He also knew that this time he was going to take what he needed so badly.

However, inexperienced, he fumbled for a response. "Uhm, isn't on your side supposed to be the easiest?"

"Fuck easy," Starsky dismissed the uncertainty. "How do you want me?" he repeated, but his tone had changed. The question was no longer a demand, it was an offer. "On my hands and knees?" he suggested. "So you can lean over me, cover me. Or on my back? So you can watch my face when you open me up . . ."

Goaded out of his hesitancy, just as Starsky knew he would be, Hutch latched onto Starsky's shoulders with both big hands, pushing him away and flipping the compliant body away from him onto its side. He fitted himself up against the broad back, easing his hard cock into the crevice between Starsky's ripe cheeks.

"On your side," he said firmly, running a caressing hand from Starsky's breastbone down the front of his body to his knees. "So I can touch you all over," he added, his body moving in an age-old rhythm that had him gasping on the edge in seconds.

"Oh, no you don't," Starsky protested, struggling in the tight embrace, managing to remove his ass from Hutch's groin.

Hutch nearly sobbed in frustration. "Next time," he pleaded.

"This time," Starsky insisted. "Don't come, baby blue. Please don't come. I need it from you."

Hutch forced himself to be still, leaned his sweaty forehead against the cool, velvet flesh of Starsky's shoulder while he took deep, calming breaths.

"I don't have any lube," he offered one last, weak protest.

"In the side pocket of my bag," Starsky said.

"You were that sure of me?" Hutch asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable, needy and transparent.

"I wasn't sure of nothin'," Starsky said. "I'm still not."

And Hutch remembered that he was not alone in his vulnerability and that he never would be again. Without a word, he rolled out of the bed, retrieved the tube and returned so quickly that the imprint of his body on the mattress had no chance to rise. He reached around Starsky and put the tube in his hands before snagging the pillow and swinging it around in front of Starsky as well.

"Rest your leg up on the pillow," he instructed, then held out his open hand for Starsky to squeeze some of the cool gel onto his fingers.

Starsky complied with the silent request, but cautioned the spoken one. "You sure you want me to do that? You do this right, I'm gonna come all over it."

Hutch closed his eyes and moaned. "If you don't shut your mouth right now, I'll come before I get anywhere near your ass." He took a few more moments to calm himself, then brought his laden fingers around to Starsky's ass. He hesitated. "You sure about this, babe?"

Starsky did not reply in words, just reached back and held himself open.

Taking a deep breath and silently commanding his clamoring cock to wait, Hutch pressed his fingers into the crevice of Starsky's ass, fumbling a moment before finding the soft, giving place that suddenly contracted at the touch. He circled the tiny opening, his mind jabbering that his cock would never fit and his cock insisting that he try—right now. As abruptly as Starsky's anus had denied him entrance, it suddenly yielded, softening as he probed gently with his middle finger. He never got the chance to question Starsky's certainty again for at the first pressure, Starsky surged back, thrusting the rigid finger all the way inside himself to the palm.

Two moans smashed the silence that had surrounded them.

"Christ, yes," Starsky groaned.

Hutch clamped his lip between his teeth, focusing on the pain as he moved his finger inside the warm, wet channel that enclosed it.

"Do it, Hutch. Do it to me. Fuck me," Starsky chanted, his body already moving demandingly.

Reluctantly, Hutch took his hand away, the feeling of loss nearly overwhelming as his fingertip slipped free. They should use more lubricant, he should open Starsky up more, but Hutch feared that neither he nor his lover would last through any more foreplay. He slicked his cock hastily with his still slippery fingers, the touch of his own hand almost too good.

"Ready?" he panted as he slid in closer, closest, guiding his angry cock to the slippery anus and holding it there.

"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," Starsky moaned.

Unable to resist any longer, Hutch thrust forward, feeling the tender flesh yield and yield, allowing the wide head of his cock to slip in. The force of his thrust implanted one inch and then another before the yelp of Starsky's surprised pain and the lock-down of the muscles that only a moment before had been so welcoming stopped him cold. His attempt to withdraw earned him another yelp.

"Christ!" Starsky cursed between clenched teeth.

Beneath his hands, Hutch could feel that every muscle of Starsky's body was clamped as taut as the anal ring that held him prisoner. His hand still slippery with lubricant, Hutch encircled Starsky's fast disappearing erection, cradling it gently and trying to coax it back to hardness. As the cock in his hand filled, the spasming anal muscles eased and he heard Starsky exhale a sigh of relief.

"Okay. I'm okay," Starsky panted. "Come on into me now, babe."

Hutch ignored him, continuing to fondle the smooth-skinned cock until it throbbed in his hand, then abandoned it to reach further down to cup the heavy balls. He squeezed gently, feeling the hard centers within the sac press into his palm. Tentatively, he pressed forward, easing in only a little before Starsky's yelp froze him again. He felt his erection beginning to fade and once again tried to ease out of the tight sheath. A grip like iron on his hip held him in place.

"No!" Starsky protested the withdrawal. "Don't stop."

"I can't keep hurting you," Hutch nearly sobbed. In a very few minutes, it would be academic. His erection would be gone.

Starsky twisted his upper body around until Hutch found himself mesmerized by pleading eyes. "If you stop now, you'll break me. Just do it, babe," he pleaded and thrust back hard.

And Hutch was in. All the way in. His cock swelling again, caressed so sweetly by the spasming channel that he could not have pulled out again if his life had depended on it.

"Yes!"

It was a cry of triumph, of exaltation that a goal long desired had finally been attained, and Hutch could not be sure which of them had voiced it first and which had been the echo.

Hutch went with the grip in his hair that dragged his mouth to Starsky's, his tongue ravishing the cavern that opened as willingly as his lover's ass had suddenly opened to his cock. His hand pumping the thick cock, Hutch found and matched Starsky's rhythm, driving into the sweetly yielding ass with months of pent-up need powering each thrust.

He was close. So close now. Barely withdrawing before thrusting up again while Starsky tore his mouth away and curled around Hutch's fist, no longer thrusting, simply holding himself open as Hutch strained to bring them both over the top. Hutch stilled abruptly as he felt the first hot splash of Starsky's semen fill his hand only a heartbeat before the anal contractions hit, squeezing him in a rhythmic fist that milked an answering flood from his own cock.

Sobbing for breath, Hutch felt Starsky suddenly go limp in his arms just a moment before every scrap of strength seemed to drain out of his own body. Neither of them was capable of anything more than to hang on to each other as they rode the crest and then slid down into the trough of sated exhaustion beyond.

It seemed to Hutch that wallowing in the afterglow might well be a worthwhile purpose for the rest of his life. He had everything he needed. At least for the moment. Of course, it could not last, not with a man of Starsky's restless nature for a lover. But he enjoyed it for the moments it lasted before Starsky began to stir. He gasped as Starsky eased forward and his sensitized and still puffy cock slipped free of the slippery ass. He heard an unintelligible mutter from Starsky and gave up on the idea of simply cuddling down for a little restorative nap.

"Something wrong?" he asked, brushing aside the curls that covered the nape of Starsky's neck with his nose so that he could sample the slick salt of sex sweat.

"Mmmmm," Starsky confirmed, nevertheless bowing his head forward so that Hutch had unobstructed access.

Hutch took advantage of the offer, nibbling gently while his hands soothed the last of the overwrought shudders out of Starsky's body. "What?" he murmured between kisses.

"Think I'm lying in the wet spot here," Starsky complained, although he did not seem inclined to do much about the situation.

Taking the complaint to heart, Hutch eased away, inching back to his side of the bed. He drew Starsky with him, who obligingly wiggled around so that they could settle down together face to face.

"You okay?" Hutch asked.

"Uhm-huh. You did that real good," Starsky confirmed.

"Seemed to me you were doing just about as much as I was. For somebody who was supposed to be submitting, you weren't very submissive," Hutch pretended to complain.

Starsky raised himself on an elbow, his blue eyes probing Hutch's. After a moment, he settled back down on his half of the pillow. "I'll have to work on my meek and mild."

Hutch laughed. "You don't know the meaning of the words," he accused, tightening his grip when he felt Starsky's muscles tense to life up again. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. I want an equal partner, Starsk. Here and on the streets."

"You got 'im," Starsky confirmed in as smug a voice as Hutch had ever heard. There was a short silence, then Starsky continued, sounding only slightly less sure of himself. "You think this is gonna work out, Hutch? You and me. Partners in every way there is?"

Hutch pretended to consider the question. "Me and thee? I don't know, Starsk, human nature being what it is. Why don't you ask me again in about fifty years."

* * *

Epilogue

Hutch sat at his desk, his eyes locked with the deep blue anticipation of his partner's where Starsky sat directly opposite him. Both their heads were cocked ever so slightly toward Dobey's office and both of their bodies were poised for flight as they shamelessly eavesdropped on their superior's telephone conversation.

"Whaddya mean you want to order a hamburger and onion rings to go? Who do you think you're talking to? No! This isn't the cafeteria. This is Captain Dobey's office!"

The receiver smashed into the cradle on the other side of Dobey's half-opened door and Hutch and Starsky both sprang to their feet, identical devilish grins lighting their faces as they beat a hasty retreat out of the squad room. Dobey's bellow followed them all the way to the elevator.

"Starsky! Hutchinson!"

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