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Why him? Sam thought in irritation, watching a droplet of sweat trail down Gene's tense, corded neck. Any second they'd have a gang of blaggers bursting out into their ambush, but that drop of sweat was riveting.
Human sexuality was a continuum; Sam knew and accepted that. It wasn't gender that galled, it was the way this went beyond opposites attracting: more like matter and anti-matter. Besides, Gene, with his Neanderthal attitudes, would probably pound his DI to a pulp if he had a clue.
Desire, like her bigger sister, Love, was a contrary, illogical, frustrating creature.
Just like Gene.
Gene could feel Sam watching him. The daft bugger was staring with big, schoolgirl eyes and a total lack of sense. Things were about to get ugly; distraction was dangerous, but Gene didn't dare call his DI on it.
Gene grew up knowing what happened to poofters, learned to cover with crude jokes and marriage, to be the meanest dog in the junkyard, to survive. Sam, though, didn't have the survival instincts of a Brussels sprout. It was Gene's job to protect them both by ignoring that simmering tension.
Even when the strain sent sweat running down his neck.