Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

be the unsettling yellow-green concoction before him. Casting a glance over at his partner— Agent Nathan Reilly, his frown deepened. Nathan appeared too amused for his own good.
    "Because you love my sense of adventure," Nathan replied with a cocky, lopsided grin. He enjoyed his job far too much, in Harlan's opinion.
    "Is that what we're calling it?" Harlan grumbled, bracing himself as he took a sip of a drink that set him back as much as a week's worth of dinners at the automat. "Dammit." He coughed and sputtered, dribbling a good portion of the stuff on his vest.
    Nathan didn't bother holding back his laughter. "That good, eh?"
    "Tastes like piss water," Harlan grunted, slamming the glass on the table and swatting it away from him in case the fumes alone did him harm.
    "That's probably because it is," Nathan said with a grin before tossing back the contents of his own glass and shuddering. "Jesus, Joseph, and Mary Pickford's momma, that'll put some hair on your chest." The pained look on his face brought a chuckle from Harlan.
    Putting the empty glass on the table, Nathan blinked a few times, shuddered again, and called the waiter over to order another. Harlan just shook his head. Well, he could hardly let Nathan one up him, so he tossed back the remaining liquid in his glass.
    "So how'd you hear about this one?" he wheezed.
    "Arty down at Union Square," Nathan replied, his head tilting to one side as he watched the spectacle on stage. Harlan followed his gaze and upon further inspection, noticed the fella sporting a pencil-thin mustache and tuxedo was a dame, and the beautiful blond in the flowing, lavender gown twirling a parasol was a fella.
    "The blind guy who's always sitting around George Washington?" Harlan's gaze remained on the stage where the dame was singing Sweet Lady to the rosy cheeked boy .
    "He wasn't always blind."
    That captured Harlan's attention and he shot an accusing look at the empty glass on the table. "You mean…"
    Nathan nodded somberly. "It wasn't piss water, I can tell you that much."
    "Son-of-a bitch." It was no secret that Harlan didn't give a damn about temperance. That's not why he was here. It was about the innocent folks who were paying the price set by a bunch of high-society bastards sitting atop their high horses. Meanwhile, good, hardworking men like Arty were dropping dead, going blind, or being left brutally debilitated by those looking to make it rich. Uncle Sam had picked up his Bible for the cause, but not before carving inside the pages to leave room for his bottle of whiskey. Sometimes Harlan wondered if Nathan was right. Maybe this was one war they'd never win, especially when most of their own men were no better than the hoods they put behind bars.
    He'd been so lost in thought; he hadn't even realized they had company until Nathan smacked him in the arm and snickered. Harlan's gaze traveled up a deep blue suit, noting the slender curves and the purple rose tucked in the front breast pocket. There was a lighter blue shirt and lavender tie. Above that, pouty lips and even further up, the biggest, brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. It was the southern belle who'd been up on stage only moments ago, except he'd traded in his dress for a three-piece suit. Harlan opened his mouth and when nothing came out; the kid dropped himself down onto Harlan's lap and threw an arm around his neck.
    "Hey, Daddy. How's about wetting my whistle with a little giggle water?" The kid's fingers caressed the stubble on Harlan's jaw before they trailed down to his chest. Instinctively, Harlan put his hand over his pocket watch just in case. He cast a sideways glance at Nathan, who looked about ready to burst into a fit of laughter. Damn him.
    "You know, alcohol's illegal," Harlan told the young man matter-of-factly. That earned him a pleasant laugh and a slap to the chest that nearly knocked the wind out of him. This had to be a first. Not many folks had the grit to get this forward with him, not even the boldest of ossified flappers.
    "You slay me," the blond giggled, before biting down on his full bottom lip. It was well rehearsed, but no less seductive. He was young, but not overly. Early twenties maybe, with the kind of brightness in his eyes that said he was far too smart to be in a dive like this, which meant only one thing. The kid was a worker.
    "Listen, um…"
    "Julius," the young man purred. "Wanna dance, handsome? You can bring your meat. The more the merrier." He turned his