Thin Blue Grind Read online

  THIN BLUE GRIND

  By

  Pandora Pine

  Thin Blue Grind

  Copyright © Pandora Pine 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Digital Edition: December 2018

  1

  Tennyson

  This moment was surreal. Psychic Tennyson Grimm was sitting in the second row of hard metal chairs arranged in front of the stage in the ballroom of the Lenox Hotel in downtown Boston. To his left were Carson Craig and his husband Truman Wesley. On his right was Jace Lincoln, fiancé of Boston Police Captain Kevin Fitzgibbon.

  The banner said it all, loudly proclaiming the reason they were here, explaining why Tennyson’s husband had been spending every night for the last month working late, and why his stomach was tied in so many knots that he could earn a Boy Scout merit badge.

  Thin Blue Grind, in bold blue cursive letters, dominated the banner. If Tennyson wasn’t sitting in front of a stage with a stripper pole off to the left, it could almost be a cute slogan for a coffee house next to a police precinct.

  Part of the reason his stomach was tied in knots was that his husband wasn’t the most graceful man when he was fully dressed. He did okay in the bedroom, but that was because he was lying down. Most of the time.

  “Why do you look like you’re about to drop a litter of kittens?” Carson whispered.

  “I haven’t seen Ronan’s act.” Tennyson nibbled on his bottom lip.

  Carson’s blue eyes bugged out of his head. “What do you mean you haven’t seen it?”

  “Ronan wanted it to be a surprise. I don’t even know what song he chose.” Upon further reflection, Tennyson should have been a bit more insistent on knowing more details about this performance.

  “Probably Send in the Clowns.” Truman burst out laughing.

  “Not helping, husband!” Carson shot him the stink eye.

  Truman was laughing too hard to even attempt a comeback line. His left hand was flapping in the air uselessly.

  “Please tell me someone’s seen it. Fitzgibbon? Jude? A choreographer? Someone who knows what the hell they’re doing?” Carson sounded like he was pleading for some form of divine intervention.

  “The only thing I know for certain is that he’ll be stripping down to blue boy shorts. Ronan wanted the whole thing to be a surprise for me, but knowing him, he was liable to take it all off. I wanted to see his end game.”

  “Don’t you see his end game face to face?” Truman pressed his tongue against the side of his cheek and started making the universal hand gesture for blowjob. He whacked his lips with his fist and started to giggle.

  “That’s it for you. You’re cut off!” Carson shook his head.

  “How much has he had to drink?” Tennyson craned his neck around Carson to watch Truman. He was slapping his knee and laughing so hard he was starting to bark like a trained seal at an aquarium show.

  “Just the complimentary glass of champagne they handed us at the door.” Carson sighed like this was just the beginning of what was going to be a very long night.

  “Are you sure he didn’t smuggle in a flask?” Or a keg? Ten wisely kept that to himself.

  “Back to Ronan.” Carson grimaced. “We’ve been selling tickets to this show at West Side Magick since before Thanksgiving. We told all of our clients Ronan was participating in this charity strip-a-thon on New Year’s Eve. Those clients who couldn’t come into Boston tonight for the show have been stuffing donations into the pants of the life-sized cardboard Ronan cut-out you put at the checkout counter in the store. Now you’re telling me you haven’t even seen him dance?” Carson slapped a hand dramatically against his forehead.

  Oh, Tennyson had seen Ronan dance all right. Like the first night they were in their new house in Salem, Massachusetts and Ronan caught his baby toe on a corner molding. He’d shouted the house down while hopping around on his uninjured foot until crashing shoulder-first into the bathroom door.

  Then there was the time their ten-month-old puppy had pounced on Ronan’s pants while he’d been stripping in the kitchen, toppling him and sending him crashing to the floor. Ten had to extricate him from his pants. He was praying extra hard that there wasn’t going to be a repeat of that tonight with him having to rescue Ronan from some unforeseen catastrophe.

  “Oh good! I’m not late for the show!” Bertha Craig, Carson’s deceased mother, was all smiles. Bertha was Ronan’s biggest fan. “I didn’t want to miss the full monty.” Bertha started to cackle.

  Carson started to laugh along with his mother. Christ on the cross, maybe it wasn’t too late to run backstage and talk to Ronan before the show started. Ten stood up and was about to make his way past Carson and Truman who were both howling like rabid hyenas, when the spotlights in the room started to twirl.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, will you put your hands together for Cold Case Captain Kevin Fitzgibbon…”

  Fuck. My. Life. Tennyson slumped back into his seat. Time to run back stage and talk to his husband had just run out.

  2

  Ronan

  Cold Case Detective Ronan O’Mara ran a hand down his freshly shaved chest. He still couldn’t believe he’d been talked into this. Stripping for charity was one thing, but shaving his entire body, that was something else entirely.

  “Damn, look how nice you clean up.” Private Investigator, Jude Byrne, wearing only a red glitter thong, sidled up next to him in the dressing room mirror. He ran a hand down Ronan’s silky chest.

  “Get off.” Ronan slapped his hand away. It wasn’t that he was so puritanical that he objected to another man touching him, it was that it just felt weird not having his usual coating of fur.

  “All summer long you looked like a version of the wolf man. You have to admit this makes quite a difference.” Jude ran a hand down his own clean-shaven chest.

  “Doesn’t it itch when it grows back?” Ronan grimaced at the very idea of it.

  “Just the hair on my balls.” Jude grinned brightly. “But a little lotion takes care of that.”

  Ronan had learned more about his friend in the last three minutes than he had in the year they’d known each other. “I need to finish getting dressed.” Turning from the mirror, he headed back to his locker. It seemed odd getting dressed just so he could take it all off again.

  Learning how to work with his costume had been half the battle. Snaps instead of buttons on his shirt were meant to be pulled apart so that he didn’t need to waste valuable time trying to undo individual buttons. It also upped the drama to give the shirt a yank and revel his smooth, spray-tanned chest. The tear-away pants had been the most interesting part of his wardrobe. He and Jude spent hours one night in front of the two-way mirror in one of the interrogation rooms at his South Boston precinct trying to figure out how in the hell to work those damn things.

  “Ronan, five minutes to show time,” Kevin Fitzgibbon called out as he passed the row of lockers where Ronan was getting ready. “Holy fucking shit!” The captain started to laugh. “That’s your costume?”

  “No, Cap. I just got here from my second job. I’m a chicken rustler on the side.” Ronan rolled his eyes and grabbed his hat. “Why the hell aren’t you stripping?”

  “I’m fifty years old, Ronan. No one wants to see a pasty, white Irishman shaking his groove thing. They needed someone to host this event and do the PR. I was more than happy to step into the br
eech. It’s all about knowing your role.” They stopped walking near the entrance to the stage.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, will you put your hands together for Cold Case Captain Kevin Fitzgibbon…”

  “Wait here, I’ll introduce you. Good luck, Ronan! I’ll be rooting for you. There’s a pull-out couch in mine and Jace’s hotel suite upstairs if you need a place to sleep later.”

  “Funny.” Shit… Ronan hoped like hell it wouldn’t come to that. He was doing this for Tennyson who was always telling him to push his boundaries and try something new. He stripped for Ten every day, but not to music and certainly not in a way that would make an entire ballroom full of paying customers chant his name. Whispering one last prayer to the patron saint of rookie strippers, Ronan was ready to go.

  “Good evening and welcome to the Boston Police Department’s New Year’s Eve Ball!” Kevin waved to the screaming crowd. “We’ve been holding this annual event now for the last twenty-four years, but this year we decided to add a twist. What better way to welcome in the New Year than with a bunch of half-naked, sweaty, cops flaunting their guns.” Kevin flexed his left bicep for the crowd.

  The audience burst into catcalls and applause.

  Christ, Ronan was going to lose his nerve if Kevin kept chattering on like that. He was already scared to death. What if he forgot the moves? Or got tripped up on his steps? Or fell flat on his face in front of the old ladies who’d won the ticket lottery for front-row seats?

  “Our first stripper is a member of the Cold Case Unit. You’ve seen his face all over the local news, now you’re about to see the rest of him. Give it up for Rodeo Ronan O’Mara dancing to Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!”

  Hearing the first twangy chords of the guitar broke Ronan out of his paralysis. He ran onto the stage with a hand on his white cowboy hat. The audience went nuts for him. The cheering was so loud that he could barely hear the music.

  Twirling around, Ronan, faced the crowd. He strutted toward the edge of the stage, easily spotting Tennyson behind the row of bloodthirsty old ladies in the first row who were waving dollar bills at him. Thank Christ they weren’t allowed to actually shove the money down his pants. That might kill his boner until Valentine’s Day.

  Ronan pivoted his hips, looking like a modern-day version of Elvis Presley, but in cowboy boots instead of blue suede shoes. His thumbs were hooked in the front pockets of his dark jeans. His sleeveless red checkered shirt was untucked and came down low enough to hide his package…for now.

  He grabbed his hat off his head and windmilling his right arm around, dropped it on the tip of his right boot. Giving a jaunty little kick into the air, Ronan caught the Stetson and positioned it back on his head, his left arm shooting out to point directly at Tennyson who was sitting with his mouth hanging open. Ronan couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing at this moment. Truman and Carson were losing their minds, shouting for him and holding money high in the air.

  There were uniformed members of the BPD walking through the crowd with baskets on long handles for the audience to deposit their money. It reminded Ronan of the collection baskets they used back when he was a member of Saint Theresa’s Catholic Church. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if one of his fellow officers borrowed them from their house of worship for this event. Jesus, what he’d give to see the look on the priest’s face when he found out the baskets had been used to collect tips for a gay stripper.

  As the song played into the first chorus, Ronan felt his stomach drop. This was the part of the act that Ten might not like. Pointing out over the crowd, he slapped his thighs before grabbing his package with both hands. The audience went wild.

  Ronan was already into his next move, grabbing his belt buckle in one hand and the brim of his hat with the other, while boot-scooting stage right, unable to notice what Ten’s reaction had been. He really hoped his husband wasn’t going to serve him with divorce papers or slap his face with a glove and challenge him to a duel like in days gone by.

  Twirling around, Ronan kicked his left foot back to slap the sole of his boot with his right hand. He repeated the action on the other side by kicking his right foot and slapping it with his left hand. This was it. This was the big part of his number. He bounced down into catcher’s crouch and jumped back up clutching his package with one hand and his hat with the other while humping himself toward the front of the stage. This time, his eyes were locked with Tennyson’s.

  Ten’s eyes were glued to Ronan. His mouth was shut now, but his eyes were so wide that if someone slapped his back, his eyes were going to bounce clean out of his skull. As the chorus reached its pinnacle, the audience shouted along, “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!” With Ronan ripping his shirt open and running a hand down his smooth chest. He very clearly saw Tennyson mouth the words, “Holy fucking shit!”

  Ronan could only take that as a good thing. Turning around, he gyrated his hips while teasing his shirt off his broad shoulders. When it was off, he chucked it at Tennyson, who caught it easily. He saw his husband hold it up to his face as if he were sniffing it. Fuck… If Ronan hadn’t been half hard before, thanks to the rabid dog look in Ten’s eyes, he sure the fuck was flying at full mast now.

  Taking his hat off his head, Ronan grabbed his package and started swaying around the floor like he was riding a bucking bronco. The crowd was going nuts for him. Maybe Jude had slipped them all some cash before the show so that they’d applaud for him.

  Spinning around again, so his ass was facing the crowd, Ronan pulled his tear away pants off, sending them toward the back of the stage. He was left wearing a pair of aqua-glitter boy shorts that left nothing to the imagination.

  He turned his head to look over his shoulder and Tennyson was still sitting there looking thunderstruck, while Truman and Carson were holding on to each other and bouncing up and down in their seats.

  He hoped to hell Tennyson was just over-awed by his performance and not trying to calculate in his head how much of his pension to ask for in the divorce.

  Thankfully, the song only had a few more moves left to go. Pointing to his impressive bulge with both index fingers he humped it toward the crowd, earning more catcalls and more waving bills in the air for the altar boys to collect with their baskets.

  As the last notes of the song faded, Ronan held his hat straight up in the air and waved to the crowd. He tapped a hand over his heart before pointing to Tennyson and heading off the stage.

  This New Year’s Eve was either going to be the best or worst of his entire life. All of the shouting and catcalling from the crowd wasn’t going to mean shit if he didn’t get to ring in the New Year with a kiss from his husband.

  3

  Tennyson

  Tennyson sat stunned while everyone else around him was losing their minds over his half-naked husband. His half-naked husband who could fucking move. His half-naked, fully aroused, husband who could fucking move.

  Popping up from his seat, Tennyson muscled his way past Carson and Truman who were trying to grab him and do a little Texas two-step right there in the aisle. He sprinted for the stage. As the crowd started a cheer of, “Ronan! Ronan!”

  Having no idea how to get to the dressing room from the ballroom, Ten figured the best way to get there was to run up the stairs and exit stage left. There had to be someone backstage who could lead him to Ronan, if the smell of his fucking pheromones didn’t do the trick.

  When Ten ran up onto the stage, the audience’s chant changed. “Take it off! Take it off!” Looking out over the crown, Ten realized they were shouting at him. “Not if you were all wearing paper bags over your heads in a power outage,” he mumbled as he ran toward the backstage area and slammed into Fitzgibbon.

  “Where’s the fire?” Kevin was grinning from ear to ear.

  “In Ronan’s glittery boy shorts. Where is he?” Ten panted for breath.

  “Straight back, turn left at the disco ball!” Fitzgibbon shouted.

  Tennyson hadn’t
waited around for further comment from Ronan’s boss. He was running like the hounds of hell were chasing him, or like every single, gay man in Boston were chasing his husband. “Ronan!” he shouted.

  “Ten? Are you okay?” Jude stopped him at the entrance to the dressing room.

  “Jesus, Jude! Put some clothes on.” Ten put a hand up to shield his eyes from Jude’s red-thonged bulge.

  “Uh, I think you’re missing the whole idea of a stripping show.” Jude rolled his eyes.

  “My husband! Where is my husband?” Ten didn’t have time for this bullshit.

  “He’s in the dressing room, but you can’t go in there.” Jude stepped directly in front of him.

  “Why the fuck not?” Ten was getting pissed off now. Jude wasn’t going to like him when he got angry.

  “You’re not a contestant.” Jude raised an eyebrow.

  “Fucking arrest me or get the hell out of my way.” Ten shoved Jude, managing to squeeze past his bulk. “Ronan!”

  “Ten?” Ronan came around the corner only dressed in his cowboy boots and glittery boy shorts.

  “Thank Christ.” Ten barreled toward him, hopping into his arms and wrapping his legs around Ronan’s middle.

  Ronan caught him easily, wrapping his arms around Ten’s back, while his husband peppered his face with kisses. “Does this mean you liked my dance?”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you had moves like that?” Ten’s dick was so hard right now he could carve a statue out of block of marble with it.

  “I wanted it to be a surprise.” A shy smile curved his lips.

  “We need to get out of here. Now!” Ten jumped down from Ronan’s arms and started looking around for the exit. Some door, any door, that would lead out into the main hotel.

  “Why? Are you feeling okay?” Ronan reached up to brush a hand over Tennyson’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish to me.”

  “The fever isn’t up there. It’s down here.” Grabbing Ronan’s hand, Ten stuck it on his package.