A Gay Romance

an excerpt



Chapter One

A Sty of Dirty Pigs and their Alpha

"Dirty fucking cops," Ram muttered. He crushed the evidence of their despicable corruption between his meaty fists. At times, his intense rage took over and his decision-making ability, like forgetting he would need that evidence for later, suffered. It was very typical of his type: the alpha male. "They will not get away with this," he vowed. "Not this fucking time." His growl vibrated off the walls with such force it would have made a lesser man tremble in his boots as piss ran down his legs. Ram Rage, alpha cop and all around badass, was not to be fucked with under any circumstance.

He angrily turned around and stormed away from the scene of the heinous crime. His broad and masculine shoulders were thrown back and his large size thirteen boots caused the floor beneath his feet to quake. He was in no mood to be fucked with, and his posture made that clear. He paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder, giving one last scowl at the crime scene. Those fuckers had no idea who they'd just crossed. Ram would solve this case, he always did, and those snake-bastards would regret the day they slithered out of their moms' vaginas.

It was lunchtime and that meant most of his fellow officers would be back at the department scrounging up some grub. Somewhere amongst them was the no-good thieving prick who thought he was above the law. A rumbling growl vibrated Ram's muscular chest as he stomped down the narrow gray hallway towards the officers' favorite gathering place. No, it was not a fucking watering cooler. They were full-fledged fucking cops not office assistants.

One of the office doors to his left suddenly opened and the newest member of the Homosapia County Police Department came stumbling into Ram's path. The guys had nicknamed him Peaches after they'd stripped him naked his first day on duty. Before they covered him in shaving cream and shoved him in a locker, they discovered his balls were the orangey-flesh color of the fruit and covered in soft fuzz. Although Ram was much too macho to participate in department shenanigans, the first time he heard the story it almost made him smile. Almost.

"Peaches," Ram bellowed. The deep baritone of Ram's alpha male voice echoed in the hallway and the rookie fumbled, dropping a pair of shiny boots to the tiled floor. The kid was young, fresh out of the academy, and he looked like he was going to shit his pants. Ram bullied his way into the tot's personal space and stood there, looking down at him with a heavy scowl. Ram growled as he shoved the squashed evidence he still held in his hand right into Peaches' face. "What do you know about this?" Ram growled.

"Uh," the kid stammered, "it's a four letter word?"

Ram threw his shoulders back and pushed his massive pecs forward; the buttons of his cornflower blue dress shirt fought against the strain, the material in between gaped open and revealed his pristine white tank top underneath. "You know what I am, Peaches?"

"Big?" The rookie's eyebrows rose, questioningly.

Ram growled, and the kid gave another guess. "Constipated? Cause..." his voice cracked. "I heard that apple juice is really great for that."

Ram got right up in Peaches' face and poked him hard, right in the solar plexus, with his calloused finger. "Do I look like the pucking Gerber baby to you? Do you think I drink mucking apple juice out of a Goddamn bottle?" Ram's face heated and a pulsing vein popped out on his forehead. "I eat my bucking apples like a man. Pulverized and ground into a delicious mouth-watering sauce! And if I had some mother ducking applesauce I would mother plucking be eating it right the bloody suck now!"

Ram watched as a drop of spittle flew from his taut mouth and landed right in the corner of Peaches' left eye. Only then did he notice the dilated pupils and glazed look of arousal. When Peaches tilted his head and exposed his neck, Ram took a small step back. "Hey now," he spoke, hands both raised and facing Peaches, "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm not into whips and shit and right now I don't have fucking time for this."

"Sorry," Peaches mumbled. "All that growling and posturing revs my engine."

"Well I'm not a damn mechanic. I'm a detective." Ram went to thump the badge hanging from the lanyard around his neck but stopped short, not wanting the evidence to splatter on his shirt. "I detect things. And right now, I detect a whole lotta bullshit. Someone around here knows something and I'm going to find out who." He shoved past the kid and resumed his march, left right left, down the hall. His days as a hardcore Marine made the movement second nature. Just before he turned the corner, he swiveled back around to face the rook. "And, Peaches? Congratulations on setting that record. Even if it does give that dick Mathias yet another thing to brag about."

Not waiting for a reply, Ram stalked off towards the crowd that gathered around Sasquatch, the department's beloved coffee machine. Taking a quick headcount, Ram knew the five officers gathered here were all possible suspects. These guys put the hard in hardcore and dotted the "i" in pig. They were school cops, the roughest of rough. Ram watched as they filled their manly thirty-two ounce coffee mugs, the thick black liquid making a soft plopping sound as it rolled out of the pot.

"Listen up, fuckers." Ram used his most menacing police voice. "Today a crime was committed." He made sure to look each one of them straight in the eyes, but they weren't fazed. Officer Bill lifted his mug to his lips and took a giant gulp of the steaming hot coffee substance. Ram fought the urge to cringe. Not even he, alpha-est of all alpha males, could stomach Sasquatch's brew without cream and sugar. He knew without a doubt that not even one of these men drank their coffee as anything but straight up black as night.

"No shit, Sherlock," Bill said. "I confiscated eight guns, four switchblades, and a pair of nail clippers by eight o'clock this morning. And that was just in the kindergarten wing."

Refusing to back down, he growled and stared each one of them right in the eyes again before hissing, "A crime against one of our own, committed right here under our noses by a rat-bastard, two-timing, dirty cop." He paused to let that sink in before continuing. "I will uncover the truth. Maybe it was one of you. Any of you have anything to say for yourselves?" He looked around at the faces of his brothers. "No one has anything to say?"

"We don't even know what you're talking about," Bill said, sounding like a smug bastard. Ram always thought Bill was the kind of guy who seriously needed an ass whooping. He always seemed to have a chip on his shoulder, and not just a little beef, but rather a ten-piece chicken basket with a side of coleslaw and gravy.

The thought of food made Ram's stomach growl. He just wanted to solve this fucking case and salvage what was left of his lunch hour. "If I find out you sludge munchers are covering for each other, there will be hell to pay. I'll take you all down and then I'll replace Sasquatch with a fucking latte machine!"

"Aw, looks like somebody didn't have their appley wappley sauce today," Bill teased, using his best perfume-smothered grandmother voice.

Ram growled and stormed away from the group. Those guys were a bunch of assholes, but they were his assholes and he hated to think that any of them could be the no-good scoundrel he was looking for. If he had to pick one of his brothers to point the proverbial finger at it would be Mathias. That silver-haired bastard was always trying to get under his perfectly bronzed, all natural skin, and he knew just where to find him.

Ram stomped and growled his way through booking, ignoring the questioning looks of his co-workers. He huffed and puffed his way down the Hall of Head, named for the dozens of photos hanging on the wall, all headshots of officers who had worked for the department. Ram took a moment to be thankful for his job with the Homosapia County police. The fact that, miraculously and very conspicuously, every single officer who worked there was gay made the Hall of Head a double entendre and funny as hell. Too bad one of the assholes pictured there was as shifty as Ryan Seacrest's sexuality. That thought threw a bucket of ice water on all of Ram's warm fuzzy feelings.

Ram growled.

At the end of the hall, Amanda emerged from the freshly renovated interrogation room where she was probably terrifying the snot out of some suspect with her flannel collection and stories of what she once did to a man with her chainsaw. She swaggered up next to Ram and tried to keep pace with his long strides but even though she was as masculine as he, she was short and stocky and struggled to keep up. Breath coming in pants now, she pounded her fist into her opposite hand and asked, "Who we killin', Rage?"

"Fucking Mathias," he growled. "And I won't kill him, maybe just taser him in those big balls he's always bragging about."

"I should have known." Amanda sighed. "You know, he's a Dom and you're an alpha male. There's room for both your clichés here."

Ram came to a halt in front of the locker room door marked with a picture of a well-hung rainbow-haired unicorn. He stared blankly at Amanda, having no clue what the hell she was talking about. This was about one of their own being a backstabbing traitorous bitch, not some kind of dick measuring contest. Growling yet again, he shoved the door open and barged on through, knowing Amanda wouldn't follow him. The three women in the department, Amanda, Candy, and their receptionist Andrea had to use the women's locker room, designated by a unicorn with pink hair and nipples. Ram had personally voted for the blue and pink sprinkled donut signs instead but no one wanted to deal with Blake pouting if his idea didn't win.

The door swung closed behind him, cutting off whatever else Amanda was going to say. The Homosapia County Police Department's locker room looked like it was straight out of a gay porno. The floor was tiled, the lockers were navy blue and had those slats that looked like gills across the top. A simple wooden bench ran alongside them, shiny and just the right width to support their asses as they did the kinds of things gay men always do in locker rooms: changed their outfits. Of course they also stood around, one foot up on the bench with their balls dangling low, shooting the shit. In here guys could snap each other's asses with a towel and wash each other's backs in the shower. It was a place where men could bond. Well, most men. Ram and Mathias had never ‘shared a moment' in here and he was pretty damn sure today wouldn't be any different.

Ram found Mathias exactly where he knew he would. The man was meticulous about his routine and even more fussy about his appearance. Every day at lunchtime, he came in here to freshen up. His locker was like some sort of bizarre shrine to uptight dickwads everywhere. On the top shelf various size lint brushes were lined up along with a bottle of that wrinkle releaser spray and stain remover. Small, evenly spaced magnetic hooks on the inside of the door held various instruments like a sewing kit, a polishing rag, and those tiny scissors used for trimming ear and nose hairs.

Mathias was sitting on the bench, bending over to slide on a pair of recently shined boots. "What," Ram spoke, "you get off on making the noob polish your shoes?"

"Actually," Mathias didn't break for a second, "I do. Almost as much as when he polishes my knob. What's it to you, Ram?"

Ram reached over and slammed the locker door shut, the growl he let loose echoing in the cavernous space. "Me? I'm thinking that maybe you want to be top dog around here. And maybe you'd do anything to make that happen. Maybe you'd even steal from the one guy who's never going to kneel down to you."

Mathias stood; the move smooth and deliberate. "The fuck you say?" he said in a voice that was just as controlled as his movement.

"You know what, I don't actually have to say anything. You see this?" Ram shoved the now-mangled evidence forward. "I'm going to run it for prints. We both know you wouldn't wear gloves and risk ruining your manicure, and when your greedy little paws show up all over it, I'm going to have your ass."

Mathias smirked. He fucking smirked. Ram felt that vein again, the one on his forehead that popped out whenever he alphaed up, it was near to bursting. Mathias' eyes zoned right in on it. He had an evil glint in his eye when he said, "Well, if you wanted my ass, all you had to do was beg."

Ram growled. "In. Your. Fucking. Dreams. Grandpa."

"My dreams? Your caveman brain would explode. Neanderthal."

Like a rooster, Ram puffed up his chest. "Oh yeah? I once fucked a guy's throat so raw he had to swallow Vaseline before he could talk again. For the next year."

"Pfft." Mathias saw his chest puff and raised him a shoulder roll. "I fuck guys so hard doctors call the vegetative state I leave them in the Mathias Miasma."

Ram pushed right up into Mathias' face. "I get so deep they call me Lavaman because I drill all the way to the core and make ‘em erupt."

"Limp Dick!" Mathias' voice boomed.

"Snack-size sausage!" Ram retorted.

"I need to piss!" Mathias screamed.

"So do I!" Ram kicked his baritone voice up even louder, not to be outdone. He followed Mathias to the row of urinals along the far side of the room. He angrily jerked his zipper down, mimicking Mathias' every movement. Head turned to the side, gaze fixated on Mathias' package, Ram slowly and dramatically reached below his briefs to pull out his cock, daring the other man to do the same. This was, after all, an all-gay every day facility. None of society's rules on proper urinal etiquette, using every other john or not looking, applied here.

Modesty also had no place in their locker room. They had remodeled the locker room right before starting on the interrogation room. The profits from their Speedo car wash had gone towards top of the line, homo approved bathroom equipment. Each urinal came with its own built-in cherry-flavored wipes dispenser and measuring tape. Mathias' eyes darted between Ram's dick and the measuring tape, daring him.

Challenge accepted. Ram shook off, reached for the edge of the tape dispenser, and pulled. He placed the tab right up against his groin and ran the length of the tape down his thigh. He took a second to admire his impressive six inches, and that was while soft as a virgin's ass. A cocky smirk on his face, he turned towards Mathias. The man's cock dangled alongside the measuring tape. Ram counted down each notch. Six fucking inches exactly.

Their eyes locked, the desire to compete and win evident in both their glares. Ram snarled as he wrapped his hand around his cock. One single stroke and he was hard as nails, he was that good. He could feel Mathias' eyes on him as he pulled the tape taut along his length. Twelve point four. Oh yeah, he had a dick made for gay romance novels. He jerked his chin towards Mathias' still vapid flesh. The man snorted before squeezing his eyes closed. A look of deep concentration came across his face and for a second Ram thought he had won, but then that limp noodle began to rise without a single fucking touch.

Ram watched, hating himself for feeling a slight bit of amazement. He gawked as the head of Mathias' dick rose all the way to touch his belly button and then lowered back down until it was perfectly parallel to the floor. The look in his eyes when he opened them was triumphant but it was quickly wiped away when he saw that again their lengths were exactly the same.

"Neat trick, granddaddy," Ram snarked. "I have heard men your age have to put Viagra in their coffee every morning. I guess it's true, huh?"

"It's about discipline not some tiny blue pill. I can show you, young padawan, but you've got to forget this accusatory bullshit."

Thinking of all the ways he could use that trick to impress handsome young men, Ram nodded and tucked himself back into his pants. Besides, he was now convinced of Mathias' innocence. If you have a twelve-inch pecker, you don't need to lie about a single damn thing in life.

"Good." Mathias slowly lowered his dick down and to the left before tucking away as well. They walked to the sink and stood side by side as they washed their hands, the truce settling between them. After drying his hands on one of the towels from the heated rack next to the door, Ram walked out and headed towards the front desk. Mathias had suggested he speak to Andrea, their transgender and all around gossip queen receptionist. If something happened in the building, she would know all about it.

His heavy steps echoed down the hall, the gray-flecked industrial carpet doing nothing to dampen the noise. He trampled past Sasquatch, the smell of burnt coffee stinging his nose. The school guys had all dispersed by now, but, like addicts, they would be back at the end of their shifts to finish off what remained of the swill.

As he neared the break room, scene of the crime he was desperate to solve, he heard a rhythmic pounding. Now, working in this particular department, it was generally considered a smart choice to ignore all rhythmic pounding noises, but since Ram was on a case, his detective nature demanded he check it out.

Entering the room, he surveyed the scene and found Bill standing in front of one of the vending machines, alternately kicking and punching it. "What the fuck?" Ram yelled, the outburst causing Bill to jump like a kid who'd been caught stealing from the cookie jar.

"Goddamn it, Ram! Don't do that."

"You know, the Chief will have your ass if he sees you doing that. Those machines were his pet project and he will chain you up to his Harley and drag you across the parking lot if you break one."

"Yeah, well, it gave me the latex gloves but the soft grip pen I bought won't drop down. It's stuck between the lube we use for cavity searches and the Packed brand fudge everyone raves about." Bill punctuated his statement with another kick to the machine, this one finally causing the pen to fall. He bent and grabbed it from the dispenser and stood with it triumphantly raised in his hand.

"Wow," Ram said, "you must have really wanted that pen. You could have just asked Andrea to get you one from the supply closet, you know."

"Yeah, but she brought in all the leftover party favors from some party she threw and they're all shaped like penises." Bill shuddered a little, making Ram wonder what his problem was. He knew the guy wasn't repulsed by cock. With the exception of Amanda and Candy, the whole force practically worshipped the penis God.

Bill seemed to notice Ram just staring at him, eyebrow raised, the words "so what" left unspoken. He blanched and began to stammer. "Not that there's anything wrong with that of course. I like, you know, dick. But, uh, you see I work with kids so..."

Ram could understand that. Kids made him really nervous too, mostly because he kind of wished he could have one someday but it was well-known that cops and kids mix about as well as penis pens and kids. His schedule was crazy. It's also a well-known fact that cops work nearly twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He'd worked three-hundred and twenty hours in the last two weeks, often wearing the same clothes for days on end. The only time he managed to eat anything was in the car driving between crime scenes. Plus, the mere thought of a tiny little being that shared part of his DNA made something horrible happen to his insides; they went all soft and gooey, which downright pissed him the hell off!

"Whatever," Ram half yelled and half mumbled, "I don't have time for this shit. Grow a pair." He did a one-eighty and barged out the door, leaving a flabbergasted Bill in his wake. He resumed his original mission, this time growling at anybody in his way and refusing to be distracted.

Andrea was sitting at the reception desk, her long nails clacking against the keyboard as she typed away.

Ram marched right up and slammed his fist on the edge of her desk. She didn't as much as flinch. A few pointed seconds went by before she raised her eyes from the screen, briefly acknowledging his presence, and then returned them to the monitor. "Andrea--"

She cut off his growl before it could even form with a slash of her hand. "Ram Rage," she said in her typical sassy voice, "don't you dare growl at me, Mister. Uh-uh." She blew a pink bubble with her gum that eventually popped before she added, "I ain't got time for that."

"Make time," he growled but quickly stopped when Andrea gave him a very pointed look. "This is code one priority!"

"Oh, no, honey child, your priorities and my priorities are as different as Kim and Khloe Kardashian. Solving crime, that's your focus. Me? Girl, I'm focused on writing me some steamin' hot Thor and Superman fanfic. Henry Caville in those damn tights! Mm, mm, mm."

Ram sighed. This case was starting to get to him, especially knowing there was a dirty cop in their midst. He wasn't any closer to figuring out who. Throw in the fact that his stomach was about to gnaw its way through his backbone and it all made him want to do something so violent, so masculine it would make him feel almost as blissful as coming.

He leaned over Andrea's desk and glared right at her as he picked up a pencil out of the little mesh caddy. To the untrained eye Andrea seemed to be completely unaware, her eyes focused on the computer screen and her nails still clacking away, but Ram was a detective and he knew better. She never missed a damn thing. He took that pencil between his hard-calloused hands and with a growl, snapped it right in half.

Andrea's fingers stopped, leaving a void of silence hanging in the air between them. "Oooh, Ram Rage did you just have a YOLO moment? Am I supposed to yell ‘Come at me, bro' or something? Now why didn't you tell sweet Andrea you were in such a pissy mood, sugar? You're making Prince Joffrey look like the Easter Bunny with all that bad voodoo you puttin' out."

"Sorry," Ram mumbled as he walked around her desk to throw the broken pencil away.

Andrea pushed away from her desk and swiveled to face him. "Superman is just going to have to wait to get his hands wrapped around Thor's big hammer. Talk to me. Like you're Paula Dean and I'm from People magazine."

"You know I don't understand half of what you say, right?" Ram asked. Like everyone else, he really did adore Andrea. She was feisty and her ghetto sass always made him laugh, but he didn't watch TV and had never once glanced at a gossip magazine, not even the ones they kept in the wicker baskets next to the toilets in the bathroom stalls.

Andrea patted his hand, her colorful, bedazzled nails and dark skin contrasting against his own Olympic bronze. "Boy, I know you're as hopeless as Jacob trying to win Bella's heart from Edward. Not that she deserved either, that cheating whore. Which is why I rewrote the story. Let's just say Jacob and Edward didn't miss the skank. They were too busy fucking like bunnies," she paused and looked thoughtful, "or more like immortal and very energetic bunnies. Although I guess maybe Jacob would just eat--"

Ram cut her off with a growl. "Andrea, let's pretend like we're on an episode of Cops here."

"Like I would ever watch Cops. Puh-lease. That show is boring." Andrea made a show of rolling her eyes and yawning.

"Fine, pretend we're on CSI Miami then," Ram growled, feeling his patience crack further. He wasn't sure how much more bullshit he could shovel before it shattered completely.

"Oh, now we're talking. But let's do the original CSI, they have the studly Nick Stokes on that one. Even if he was a zombie on Walking Dead I'd still let him bite me." She waggled her perfectly threaded eyebrows at him. "Ya know what I'm sayin, Ram?"

"You're on whatever fucking CSI floats your fanny." Ram growled the words through clenched teeth. "And you're the key to solving this whole case." He plopped the crumpled ball of evidence on her desk. The brown paper lunch bag had been clearly marked ‘property of Ram Rage'. He'd even had it notarized. "There's a crooked cop amongst us. Help me catch the bastard and tell me what happened to my fucking applesauce."

Andrea sat up straighter in her office chair. She fluffed her hair and plumped up her silicone breasts. "Can't be looking like Lindsay Lohan if I'm gonna be famous for solving such an important case. And I can absolutely tell you who stole it. It was--" The shrill ring of the phone stopped her mid-sentence. "Commercial break," she said before turning back to the desk and picking up the incoming call.

Ram wanted to break something. Again. He was so close, so fucking close, to closing this case and getting his damn applesauce back. He heard Andrea trying to calm whoever was on the other end of the phone call. She was in her professional mode and her voice was nearly monotone as she spoke. "Sir, just remain calm and don't touch anything. We have officers on the way."

She hung up and turned to Ram. "Hot damn, we got a live one, boys," she whooped with excitement.

"But--" Ram stammered.

"Sorry, Ram, but murder trumps kindergarten snack time. You had better go grab Blake and get over to the fabric store on Fifteenth Street. Apparently, the dead woman is bleeding all over the velvet. We can't have that, it's like a whole 'nother crime in itself." She handed Ram the call sheet with the details. "Now, off you go. Superman needs to introduce Thor to his rod of steel."

Un-fucking-believable. Ram tore the paper from Andrea's hand. She turned back to her computer, clearly dismissing him. He snatched what remained of his lunch from her desk and trudged towards the office he shared with his partner. Time to put his big girl panties on. He was a fucking cop and an ex-Marine. He could go days without food. He. Was. A. Man.

By the time he reached the door to their office, his testosterone was pumping hard. Ram's big black shit-kicker connected with the door, throwing it wide open. It bounced off the wall and sprang closed in his face. He growled at it and kicked it in again. His partner, Blake Hoardan, was behind a gray metal desk with his feet propped up looking at a magazine. Blake was one of the few men in the department taller and more muscular than Ram. His arms were the size of telephone poles and tattooed with swirling shapes and colors. His face was all angles. The dark stubble on his jaw made him look hard and dangerous. But Ram knew better. Blake Hoardan was the only person Ram trusted to have his back.

Blake looked up, unimpressed by Ram's boorish entry, and quickly went back to flipping through his magazine. He'd seen Ram's alpha male theatrical display enough times that it no longer fazed him in the slightest. Ram growled, pissed that his macho performance was wasted. Wanting to get some kind of reaction from Blake, he marched up to him and ripped the magazine from his well-manicured fingers.

"O.M.G., Rammy," Blake whined. "I was just about to look at the after pictures of a bathroom remodel. It was French chic, Ram!" He held the back of his hand to his forehead and pretended to swoon. "French chic!" he squealed again. "I'd sell my mother into slavery to have my bathroom remodeled like that."

"Who cares about a French head at a time like this?" Ram asked hypothetically.

"Who wouldn't like some French head, eh?" Blake smirked at his own joke.

Ram growled. People often didn't know how to take Blake. A big bear of a man with an almost grizzly look, but when he opened his mouth and spoke, the unicorn-loving kitten underneath came out. Although Ram was accustomed to his partner's eccentric outbursts, it was go time. "We have a case. Follow me," he ordered.

Blake popped up out of his chair. "A case! A case! Ooh, I hope we get to go undercover for it. I bought the perfect pair of--"

"Blake!"

"Right." Blake put on his cop face and came around the desk, ready to go. "I've got your back."

And that's why Ram would kick the ass of anyone who tried to make Blake feel less than perfect. They were partners and Ram didn't take that lightly. Over the tender moment Ram told his partner, "We should check in with Chief first." Ram spun around like he was in a Stevie Nicks video and strode out of the office, Blake gliding along behind him like a silent butterfly, but Ram knew he was there.

He knocked on the chief's door once, out of courtesy, and then barged in. "Chief," he started but stopped when he saw the chief slowly pulling a spoon from between his lips.

"Just a sec," the chief said, licking the spoon one last time before placing it on his leather-top desk. "Damn, that applesauce hit the spot."

Ram could only watch, transfixed, as that leather-loving bastard picked up the little plastic dish and started licking it clean. Not a single drop remained when he turned to Blake and said, "Thanks. I do believe you were right. That was just what I needed." He leaned back, the leather chair creaking, and patted his stomach. "Now, what can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Ram couldn't speak. He clenched his fists and bit his tongue to keep from asking why the fuck the chief had eaten his applesauce. He knew if he opened his mouth, he'd say something that got him kicked off the department baseball team. He was the pitcher, of course. Alpha males didn't catch. Ever.

Thank God Blake spoke up. "Oh, you know," he waved his hand in the air, "murder and blood and velvet. Oh my!"

"Well, be careful out there." The chief grabbed one of his leather bound pens out of his leather penholder and bent over his desk to work on the mountain of paperwork there. They started to leave when he called out, "Watch your backs."

"We will, sir. And our fronts," Blake answered.

Ram grabbed his partner's arm and began to drag him out the door.

"Keep your eyes peeled," the chief called after them. "And give ‘em hell."

"Yes, sir," Ram ground out before yanking Blake into the hall. He could still hear the chief talking as they walked away, something about take no prisoners. The last thing he heard before throwing Blake into the interrogation room and closing the door behind them was, "Never eat yellow snow."

Ram turned on Blake and growled low.

"Rawr." Blake made a clawing move in the air. "What's got your panties in a bunch?" Blake cocked his hip. "And aren't we supposed to find a suspect first before we use the new interrogation room?"

Ram felt his anger boiling. He wouldn't be surprised if the steam coming from his ears set off the fire alarms. "What the mother fudging fudge, Blake!" He tried to rein in his anger as his fists squeezed so tight he thought they might implode. "Why would you give someone my applesauce? That was my flicking applesauce! You know how much I love my flipping applesauce!"

"Yeah, but Chief said he thought he might be getting a cold," Blake pouted. "So I told him an apple a day keeps the doctor away and suggested he enjoy your applesauce. I didn't think you'd mind. After all, keeping Chief healthy keeps the department healthy. Don't you remember? He told us that himself last year at the Christmas party when he took the last of the taco salad right before you got any."

Ram growled, but the earnest look on Blake's chiseled mug made him realize he couldn't get mad at Blake. He wheeled around towards the wall and struck out with his fist. He leaned his forehead against the wall and snarled, "Fuck, Blake, you know I love my applesauce."

"Yeah but the Chief needed it. We can go buy you some more."

"Damn right you're going to buy me some more." Ram stepped back from the wall and shook his fist out and walked out the door, knowing Blake would follow. He had really wanted to crack some dirty cop skulls but would have to settle for investigating a measly homicide. How anticlimactic.

"Great idea," Blake said as they walked down the hall. "The decorators did a great job on that room but there was a big space there. It needed some pizzazz and that dent was just the thing. The little blood streaks? Magnifique!"

"Yeah, they sure did a great job. It looks exactly as it should, very professional." He nodded his agreement. Ram punched through the glass door that lead out to the squad car lot. He unhooked his aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on before turning to Blake and smirking. "Let's gyrate."

"Huh?" Blake asked, pushing his cat eye sunglasses up his nose.

"You know, roll. Let's roll, Blake. If I don't get some applesauce stat I might shoot someone."