The Man Who Loved Cole Flores (Dig Two Graves 1)

Cole stumbled on his feet and leaned more of his weight on Ned, his chin resting on Ned’s shoulder. “Mm-hmm,” he said with a sly smile. “Yes. Prooffff, Neddie. Of course.”

Ned stepped forward with a sense of purpose and pushed aside the fabric obscuring the entrance into the tent, losing his voice when instead of a man, he faced an armchair and… what was it exactly? His unspoken questions were answered when a woman shrieked, pushing down lush skirts that had been covering her face moments ago. Her breasts were still bare by the time the photographist, a graying man with a flat chin and large lips, shoved Ned out.

“Wait for your turn, goddamnit!” he growled with so much aggression Ned put his hands up in apology despite having taken part in armed robbery just hours ago. Whatever was happening in that tent shouldn’t have been witnessed.

The photographist hummed something before delving back inside, and Ned stiffened when Cole’s weight rested against his back. “What was that?” he muttered, sliding his arms around Ned’s midsection while the tapping of people’s feet against wood reached a crescendo inside the impromptu dancing hall close by.

“Muff portraits.” Ned laughed so hard it was Cole’s time to hold him straight.

“I bet they make a pretty penny. Sure beats getting pirooted ten times each night, I say,” Cole told Ned, rubbing his cheek against Ned’s shoulder with a sly smile. “If I had a cooch, I’d be in a studio day and night. Every man from California to New York City would carry a picture of my cunny in his wallet.”

Ned laughed so hard it brought tears to his eyes. “You’re the most handsome man I know, so maybe you should try it anyway. You think ladies like lookin’ at pictures of thick, long snakes?”

Cole’s lids seemed heavier than usual, his dark lashes shadowing black eyes. He exhaled, rubbing Ned’s shoulder as they stood together, listening to the next piece of music—this one much slower, dreamier. “Then maybe we should both reveal ourselves to the lens?”

The whisky loosened Ned’s tongue, but the sheer audacity of this idea had him burning on the inside. “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve heard since the dynamite on the bridge,” he slurred, but then turned and poked Cole in the chest several times. “I see! I know! You just want some ugly background to make you look better. In your dreams, Flores. In your dreams!”

Cole opened his mouth but remained quiet when a short woman strode out in a dress that was simultaneously too fine and too revealing to be worn by an honest lady. She offered them a luscious smile of painted lips.

“I should demand a fee for you walking in on me like that.”

Ned took off his hat and bowed. “Meant nothin’ by it, m’am.”

“Have a good night, madam,” Cole said and put his arm around Ned’s waist.

She stood still, eyes wide in the dark. “Suit yourselves.”

Ned laughed and poked Cole with his elbow when she walked off. “You don’t want a piece?” he whispered, secretly hoping Cole wouldn’t change his mind, because he didn’t want to sit on his own for half an hour.

Cole smirked and moved his index and middle finger up Ned’s chest, as if they were a tiny man taking careful strides. “I already have company tonight.”

“I don’t have all night, gentlemen!” The photographist yelled. “You seemed in a hurry.”

Ned chuckled, and pulled Cole into the tent with goosebumps all over his arms. He was liked. He was important to Cole. More important than cooch or booze. He’d never had a friend like that before.

Ned had no idea one could have electric lights in a place so small and remote, but despite the town’s reliance on oil lamps, the photographist’s tent was illuminated with a pale glow. Perhaps it had something to do with containers cluttering the space around the two light sources, but Ned chose not to question why the interior was hot as the warmest summer days, and stepped past the wooden tripod that held the camera, toward a backdrop of a sunbathed sea shore.

“Cole, look at that!” Ned pointed to the painted background in awe. “Never been to the ocean.”

The photographist pointed him to a chair standing in front of the canvas. “Now you have. Sit,” he said, still bothered by the earlier intrusion yet unwilling to lose potential customers.

Ned took hold of the wooden backrest and dropped into the seat with a silly expression, but before everything could have been set up for his first ever likeness, Cole strode closer and rested in Ned’s lap, draping his arm along his shoulders.

“It’ll be a neat memory,” he slurred, pulling at Ned’s hair with his fingers.

The photographist huffed, but adjusted his camera without a word.

Ned held Cole’s back when they wobbled in the chair, but he wasn’t sure anymore what he felt when they sat in such a position. Cole was so bold, so shameless in doing whatever the hell he wanted, be it proper or not. Ned had no other way but to comply. His first ever likeness, one to capture him in his youth, would be shared with this man who’d become so important in the span of only a handful of weeks.