FatassTurkey
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Summary
เขาอยากให้มาร์ชเลิกบุหรี่ให้เร็วที่สุดเท่าที่จะเป็นไปได้ ดังนั้นเขาต้องหาวิธีให้อีกฝ่ายหันมาสนใจสิ่งอื่นแทนบุหรี่
" ลองหาอะไรที่เสพติดอย่างอื่นแทนบุหรี่ไหมละ ? "
" หา ??? "
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THEY'RE BACK. AND NICER THAN EVER.
The 80s are running out of steam and fellow private eyes Healy and March are no different. Struggling to catch a serial killer and with Holly on the verge of leaving California, they'll have to come face to face with what they fear the most: the future.
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“He had a sharp nose and head with full, healthy hair, and was dressed in a white button-up shirt that looked crisp and too tight on his body, with slacks hanging low on narrow hips. There was stubble along his jaw and exhaustion beneath his eyes despite the well-kept mustache and soft blue tint of his irises, but somehow neither of those things took away from him. If anything, they added something unfairly charming. He smelled faintly of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke, and something sweeter underneath that reminded Healy vaguely of oranges.
Healy frowned when he noticed that the man’s blond hair was exactly the same shade of June’s usual beehive hairdo.”
Or
Four times Jackson Healy thought about kissing Holland March, and one time Holland March kissed him.
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Tonight, too, is a repeat. Jacob sometimes wonders if God has already smited him and this is his personal circle of hell—one where he is made to commit sin upon sin, made to succumb to lust and homosexuality until he finds the strength to walk away.
Thus, he whispers not a prayer for protection, but a plea for forgiveness—for the scriptures have ridden the tides of history and translations and adaptations and yet there are only two absolutes: that Eve will always take a bite of the forbidden fruit, and that Jacob Palmer will always fall into Sebastian Wilder's bed.
Or: Jacob Palmer has an extreme case of religious guilt. This does not stop him from sleeping with Sebastian Wilder.
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“Do you really want that? For me to, uh, hit you?” He whispered the last part, keeping the scene calm. March was really starting to enjoy the feeling of his hand on his pant leg, against his thigh. It was so warm. Warmer than the coil in his gut from his bubbling arousal. He could barely speak. He lit up another cigarette, puffing with the only full breath he could conjure in the moment. Chest heaving and falling.
Fuck it.
Holland March drunkenly confesses that he wants Jackson Healy to hit him.