Each week, I send out a story via my email newsletter. Each story is around 1000 words, sometimes less, sometimes more. The stories are in a variety of genres: supernatural, thriller, sci-fi, horror, and sometimes romance, and all of my stories typically feature a gay protagonist.
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This is story number 39 of the series. Enjoy!
Perfect Alibi
The vodka burned as it slid down Peter’s throat, but not as much as the knot of guilt twisting in his stomach. He slammed the shot glass onto the mahogany bar, his hands steadier than they had any right to be. Around him, the club pulsed with synthetic life—rainbow lights cutting through artificial fog, bodies moving to a beat that seemed to hammer directly into his skull.
Just another job, he told himself, the same lie he’d been repeating for three years of marriage to Micah. Just one more, and we’re out.
But Senator Morrison wasn’t just another target. The man had three kids, coached Little League on weekends, had spent the last decade fighting to expand healthcare access for low-income families. Peter had done his research—he always did—and every detail made his chest tighter.
“Another,” he signaled to the bartender, a mountain of muscle and ink who moved with surprising grace behind the bar.
“Rough night, beautiful?” The bartender’s voice carried a slight accent—Puerto Rican, maybe Dominican. His dark eyes held genuine concern, not just the performative flirtation Peter was used to.
“You could say that.” Peter forced the practiced smile that had gotten him through a dozen seductions, but it felt brittle tonight.
His phone vibrated. Micah: Clock’s ticking, babe. Morrison’s security just got the decoy call. 90 minutes.
Ninety minutes until a decent man died so that arms dealers could keep their Defense Department contracts flowing. Peter’s throat constricted. He threw back the second shot, welcoming the burn.
The dance floor beckoned—a writhing mass of sweat and desperation that reminded him too much of his own life. He pushed through the crowd, past couples grinding against each other with pharmaceutical enthusiasm, past the inevitable cluster of barely-legal kids pretending they belonged here.
There. By the DJ booth, just as intel had promised.
Jeremy Morrison looked nothing like his father—where the senator was silver-haired and distinguished, his youngest son was all sharp angles and nervous energy. Twenty-two, just graduated from Georgetown, pupils dilated to black pools. The kid was rolling hard on something stronger than MDMA, his jaw working overtime as he attempted to dance to music he clearly couldn’t quite hear anymore.
Peter felt sick.
“Hell of a party,” he shouted over the bass, sliding up next to Jeremy with practiced casualness.
The kid turned, and Peter saw his father’s eyes—same deep brown, same intelligence, though currently clouded by whatever cocktail was coursing through his system. “Fucking insane,” Jeremy agreed, his voice carrying the slight lisp that came with a numb tongue. “You feel that drop? Like my whole body just… dissolved.”
He demonstrated with an elaborate full-body wiggle that should have been ridiculous but somehow managed to be endearing. Peter’s chest tightened further.
“I’m Peter.” He let his fingers trail down Jeremy’s forearm—bare, slick with sweat and burning hot. “You look like you could use some air.”
Jeremy’s grin was crooked and completely genuine. “Jeremy. And fuck yes, it’s like a sauna in here.” He leaned closer, his breath sweet with whatever craft cocktails he’d been downing. “Plus, you’re way too pretty to be real. I need to see you in actual light to make sure you’re not a hallucination.”
The kid’s honesty was disarming. Most of Peter’s marks were calculating even when high—always angling, always performing. Jeremy just… existed, open and unguarded in a way that made Peter want to tell him to run.
They stumbled toward the exit together, Jeremy’s hand finding Peter’s lower back with surprising familiarity. Outside, the August humidity hit them like a wall—thick and oppressive, carrying the mingled scents of hot asphalt, overflowing dumpsters, and the lingering sweetness of someone’s discarded snow cone.
“Jesus,” Jeremy breathed, tilting his face toward the sky. “When did D.C. become the surface of Venus?”
A black SUV idled at the curb, exactly where it should be. Peter’s stomach clenched as he guided Jeremy toward it.
“My place or yours?” he asked, hating himself for how easily the words came.
“Mine’s closer.” Jeremy fumbled for his phone, squinting at the screen. “Like, literally four blocks. Driver’s probably asleep by now anyway.”
As they slid into the SUV’s leather interior, Peter caught sight of his reflection in the tinted window—blonde hair artfully mussed, green eyes bright with artificial enthusiasm, smile sharp enough to cut glass. He looked like exactly what he was: a predator in designer clothing.
Jeremy, meanwhile, had melted into the seat like butter, his head lolling back as he watched the city lights streak past. “You know what’s weird?” he said suddenly. “This is the first time in months I’ve felt… I don’t know. Happy? Like, genuinely happy, not just distracted.”
“Yeah?” Peter’s voice came out rougher than intended.
“My dad thinks I’m a fuckup.” Jeremy’s laugh held no humor. “Maybe he’s right. But tonight, I don’t care. Tonight I’m just… Jeremy. Not the senator’s disappointing gay son who can’t stay sober long enough to hold down a job.”
Peter’s hands clenched in his lap. He checked his watch: 12:47. Thirteen minutes.
Jeremy’s townhouse was everything Peter had expected—Georgetown brownstone, probably worth three million, the kind of understated luxury that whispered old money. Jeremy fumbled with an elaborate smart lock, cursing softly until it finally clicked open.
“Welcome to the Morrison disaster zone,” Jeremy said with a self-deprecating bow, kicking off his shoes in the marble foyer.
The interior was a study in contrasts—expensive artwork hung slightly crooked, Persian rugs scattered with designer clothes, fresh flowers in crystal vases next to empty pizza boxes. It was the home of someone trying very hard to be an adult and not quite managing it.
“Drink?” Jeremy called, already moving toward a well-stocked bar cart in the living room. “Fair warning, I’m probably going to spill something. My motor skills are not at their peak right now.”
“I’m good,” Peter said, his voice sounding strange in the sudden quiet. Outside, he could hear the distant thrum of traffic, the occasional siren. Normal city sounds for a normal summer night when normal people weren’t about to lose their fathers.
Jeremy poured himself three fingers of what looked like very expensive scotch, then immediately knocked over the bottle trying to replace the cap. “Shit, shit, shit—” He lunged for it, managed to catch it before it hit the floor, then looked up at Peter with such pure delight that Peter’s heart cracked a little.
“Reflexes of a ninja,” Jeremy declared solemnly.
12:51. Nine minutes.
“Bedroom?” Peter suggested, surprised by how steady his voice was.
Jeremy’s expression shifted, becoming suddenly vulnerable. “You sure? I mean, I’m not exactly operating at full capacity here, and I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of—”
“Hey.” Peter stepped closer, cupping Jeremy’s face with both hands. The kid’s skin was fever-hot, pupils still enormous. “We’ll go slow. Just… let me take care of you.”
It was supposed to be manipulation, but the words felt true as he said them. Jeremy leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.
The master suite was exactly what Peter expected—king bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private garden, artwork that probably cost more than most people’s cars. Jeremy collapsed onto the bed with a contented sigh, patting the space beside him.
“This is nice,” he said as Peter sat down. “Just talking, I mean. Usually guys just want to—” He made a vague gesture. “You know.”
12:53. Seven minutes.
Peter’s phone buzzed. Micah: In position. You good?
He typed back quickly: All set.
But he wasn’t. Every instinct screamed at him to grab Jeremy and run—get them both as far from this house as possible before—
Jeremy’s hand found his, fingers intertwining. “Thank you,” the kid said quietly. “For being patient with me. For not making me feel like a freak.”
Peter’s throat closed completely. He managed a nod, not trusting his voice.
12:54.
The bedroom door exploded inward.
Peter spun around, his body moving on pure instinct as a figure in black tactical gear swept into the room. For a split second, his mind couldn’t process what he was seeing—then the intruder raised her weapon, and training kicked in.
The silenced pistol was already rising when Peter recognized the dark hair spilling from beneath the tactical mask, the distinctive way she moved—all grace and deadly precision.
“What the fuck, Peter?”
Alana. Christ, it was Alana.
Peter’s mind raced as he stared at his former partner, the woman who’d taught him everything he knew about seduction and assassination. She was supposed to be in Prague. She was supposed to be—
“Same thing as you, looks like,” she said, her voice tight with disbelief. “Creating an alibi.”
The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. Two different contracts. Two different clients. Same target, same timeline, same patsy.
Behind him, Jeremy made a sound like a wounded animal—pure, animal terror as his drug-addled brain struggled to process the gun, the standoff, the sudden transformation of his hookup into something from a nightmare.
“Alana, listen—” Peter started, but she was already shaking her head.
“I can’t leave witnesses, Peter. You know that.”
Her gun swung toward Jeremy, and Peter moved without thinking. He dove across the bed, his hand finding the Glock he’d taped under the nightstand. The first shot took Alana in the shoulder, spinning her around. The second caught her center mass.
She hit the hardwood floor with a wet thud, blood spreading in a dark pool beneath her black tactical vest. Her eyes found his as she died—surprised, almost disappointed, like he’d failed some test he hadn’t known he was taking.
Jeremy was screaming—high, keening sounds that seemed to come from somewhere primal. Peter turned to find the kid pressed against the headboard, his whole body shaking, eyes wide with chemical terror.
“Jeremy.” Peter kept his voice calm, authoritative. “Look at me. Look at me.“
The screaming stopped, but Jeremy’s breathing was coming in sharp, panicked bursts. Hyperventilating.
“I need you to breathe slowly, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Can you do that for me?”
Jeremy nodded frantically, his chest hitching as he tried to follow instructions.
Peter’s mind was already moving, calculating, adapting. The timeline was shot—Morrison would be dead in three minutes, and Jeremy was supposed to be the perfect witness, too fucked up to be reliable but present enough to establish Peter’s alibi. Instead, he had a traumatized kid, a dead assassin, and about thirty seconds before the sound of gunshots brought security running.
Except… Jeremy lived alone. The townhouse was soundproofed—rich people valued their privacy. And the kid was high enough that his perception of time would be completely fucked.
“Jeremy, I need you to listen very carefully,” Peter said, moving slowly toward the bed. “Do you understand what just happened?”
“She… she had a gun. She was going to…” Jeremy’s voice cracked. “Who was she?”
“Someone very bad who wanted to hurt your father.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Alana’s client probably had very different reasons for wanting Morrison dead—corporate interests, political leverage, old grudges. In the ecosystem of assassination, there were rarely good guys and bad guys, just competing interests with lethal consequences.
“My dad?” Jeremy’s eyes widened further. “Is he—”
“He’s fine,” Peter lied smoothly. “But she might have had backup. We need to call the police, but first I need to make sure you’re safe.”
12:58.
Peter’s phone buzzed. Micah: It’s done. Clean exit. Love you.
Senator Morrison was dead. His youngest son was sitting three feet away, alive only because Peter had chosen to save him instead of maintaining his cover. The smart play would be to put a bullet in Jeremy’s head and stage it as a murder-suicide—grieving son kills intruder, then himself, overcome by drugs and trauma.
Instead, Peter found himself reaching out to touch Jeremy’s shoulder gently.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said, and meant it. “I’m going to take care of this.”
What followed was twenty minutes of the most delicate psychological manipulation of Peter’s career. He needed Jeremy confused but compliant, traumatized but not suspicious. The kid’s altered state helped—time moved differently when you were rolling, memory became fluid, cause and effect blurred together.
By the time Peter finished his work, Jeremy’s story was simple: he’d brought home a hookup who turned out to be a good guy, someone who’d protected him when a burglar broke in. The intruder had been after drugs, maybe information about his father. Peter had fought her off, saved Jeremy’s life, but been forced to leave quickly to protect his own identity—he was married, couldn’t afford to be connected to a scandal.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold up to casual scrutiny. Jeremy was too high to remember details clearly, too grateful to question Peter’s version of events. And Peter had been careful—no fingerprints, no DNA evidence, nothing to tie him to the scene beyond Jeremy’s deliberately vague description.
“What’s your name?” Jeremy asked as Peter prepared to leave through the back entrance. “Your real name?”
Peter paused at the bedroom door, looking back at the kid who should have been his alibi and instead had become his salvation. Jeremy sat surrounded by Egyptian cotton and blood spatter, still beautiful despite everything, still trusting despite having every reason not to be.
“Does it matter?” Peter asked quietly.
Jeremy considered this with the gravity of someone whose world had just shifted on its axis. “Maybe not,” he finally said. “But I’d like to know what to call the person who saved my life.”
“Michael,” Peter said, using his husband’s name because it felt like the only true thing he could offer. “My name is Michael.”
The night air hit him like a benediction as he slipped into the alley behind the townhouse. By tomorrow, Senator Morrison’s assassination would be front-page news. By next week, Jeremy Morrison would be answering questions about the mysterious break-in that had coincided so tragically with his father’s death.
Peter’s phone buzzed with a text from Micah: Flight to Buenos Aires leaves at 6 AM. New passports are in the car.
He should have felt triumphant. The job was done, they were rich, and they’d be sipping wine in South America by sunset. Instead, he felt hollow.
As he walked toward the car that would take him to his husband and their new life, Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Jeremy’s question. What did you call the person who saved your life?
He wasn’t sure, but he knew what you called someone who destroyed it first: yourself.
The city lights blurred past the window as his phone rang. Micah’s voice was warm with satisfaction and relief.
“How did it go, baby? Tell me everything.”
Peter closed his eyes and began to construct the lie that would carry them both forward—a story of perfect execution and clean exits, of alibis that held and witnesses who didn’t exist. It was a beautiful story, elegant in its simplicity.
It was also completely false.
But Peter had always been very, very good at lying. Even to himself. Especially to himself.
“It was perfect,” he told his husband, and almost managed to believe it.
THE END