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Client-Attorney Privilege

by

charles michael averin

(for @seriouslysollux and @GeorgeSquares on Twitter)

---

Hot. Real hot. We're in the middle of one of those summers. The ones where the first step outside is like walking muzzle-first into a thick, wet wall of carpet. A summer that's got that heat—y'know, that heat where the air outside sticks in your fur and makes you feel slick, and everyone's stuck somewhere between sweaty-wet hot and can't-sweat-too-wet hot. One of those summers where you hold your breath and run from the house to the car 'cause the sun is like a hot iron on your fur and 'cause they've both got air conditioning. Or, if you're poor (or got a death wish) and don't have AC, you spend all your time in coffee shops, strip malls, or shitty pharmacies that deal out the back because they're cool, got Wi-Fi, and you're this close to getting a sweet little sea otter ready to lift his tail and throw back that cute rudderbutt for you.

He's hosting. And, he's got AC at his place.

Then, you've got pronghorns like me who've got days like today. Stuck with shit-all to do in a shoebox office that hasn't had working cooling since I moved in and probably never had it in the first place, lying sonofabitch. Stuck with my next scheduled appointment in two hours, which means at best I'll be out in three, or if I'm real unlucky—and I usually am—four because they'll talk too much and say too little while I hold their paw through a stack of paperwork they haven't done even though Dao Linh reminds them every fuckin day. Worst of all, stuck with my sweet little sea otter sending me pics ranging from R-rated to triple-X. He's got the whole shebang set up—these knee-high paw stockings with rainbow stripes, a tight pink jock that lifts his tight rudderbutt and hugs his sheath just right, and a tailhole just asking for a muzzle to be buried in it for a good half hour.

Too hot. Hot and bothered, but in the weird, mixed way, 'cause the otter's real hot, but my clothes have got me real bothered. The sun peeking through my window's got me sweating something fierce, and I'm sure as shit not one of those professional lawyers—gave up wearing a proper suit months ago. Didn't help my reputation, really, but it was shit in the first place, and who's laughing in a heat wave like this? Other than the hyenas, cheeky fuckers.

It doesn't help that the only window in my tiny-ass office is busted and won't open more than a paw making it a greenhouse in here, and the dinky fan I brought in just pushes the air around in a circle, and I can't exactly point it at my desk if I don't wanna start playing catch-the-flying-paperwork. I'd ditch my vest and open up my button-up—probably toss the slacks, too, because why the Hell not in heat like this—but Dao Linh's just on the other side of the door, and the Ussuri dhole could pop in pretty much whenever to do any one of the many things I, y'know, pay her to do. Like, confirm an appointment, lie to a client and say that I'm out when I'm in, or tell me that my four o'clock is early and can hear me putting my pants back on, so please be quiet, Laymon.

Besides, I'd probably get tempted to give my sweet little sea otter a picture show of my own because damn that butt is fine, and he's gotta know what kind of mess I'm planning to make in him. Even if I had a clean pair of briefs here, though, I'd just do the same thing again in an hour and then my four o'clock would definitely smell the sweat and cum all over the place. I need the money way, way more than I need the early release. Law school wasn't cheap.

Whatever. I'll just go three rounds on the otter later—make up for lost time. Lift him up against a wall and have him leak all over my—

Shit, I'm doing it again. And I'm hard again, which is a real common problem when you've got nothing to do and a lot of time on your paws.

I snap my otter a pic of my vest-and-tie so he knows I'm still interested, then one of my too-tight slacks so he knows just how interested I am at the moment. There's enough pics saved up on my end to keep him entertained for the wait, but I figure, what's the harm in just a little bit of fun?

I undo my belt-buckle. Unzip. Shimmy my slacks down just enough to show my thighs with their creamy-brown fur, my briefs (wet spots and all), and cuppable bulge—snap.

Professional, says the otter.

Pull the waistband just so to show off a white stripe and flex—snap.

Tasty. Gonna show me the prize, stud?

One paw around the base, catching my leaking tip, and—snap.

Damn, stud. You sure you can't take a break? Need those handlebars of yours for the best ride of my life.

It's tempting. Real tempting. Another buzz on my phone tells me my otter's probably trying to tempt me further, probably with another butt shot. I could take a late lunch, but we sure as shit wouldn't have much time—

There's a knock at the door—my dhole secretary, obviously—and I nearly flip my chair trying to get my pants sorted in the three seconds I've got before not responding gets suspicious. I should be better practiced by this point, and I think I've got everything in order, so I clear my throat and say, “Come in, Dao."

The Ussuri dhole pokes her head in—no sniff, thankfully—and from the look of things, she's pleasantly surprised I've still got all my clothes on. “Mr. Laymon, a nice swift fox is here to see you. They don't have an appointment, but I believe they intend to hire you."

“We need the money. Send 'em in, yeah?"

“Right away, Mr. Laymon," says Dao Linh. She shuts the door—probably not necessary, but she's a Hell of a worker bee and criminally underpaid for her level of professionalism, so she can do whatever she wants in my book.

I hear a muffled, “Mr. Laymon will see you now," so I wipe my paws off on my slacks, give my coat a quick paw-brush, and stow away the paperwork I was lazing over earlier.

When the swift walks in, there's a whole new wave of heat that hits me and makes me take a real moment before I remember I'm supposed to stand. Respect thing. At least I don't almost-flip my chair again.

You see, he's got—well, to put it plain, he's got a lot going on in a lotta right ways, and he sure as shit knows it. You don't walk into a lawyer's office—doesn't matter how shitty the practice or how shoebox the office—with all your piercings in, wearing cropped fishnets and plum-colored, knee-patched jeans so tight you could treat a gunshot with them. He's got this silky-smooth pelt, which is just cheating in weather like this, but every part of him looks cool and light, and even his tail flicks with this smooth and even pace. Orange-tan fur like he's been out in the sun and faded away, with the only dark parts being the black patches on his muzzle, and his neck, and his chest and belly, and his—

I'm pretty sure he's wearing a jock. And I'm pretty sure his waistband says “trophy boy."

“Mr Laymon," says the swift, and I start breathing again, even if it is thick summer air. The fox's voice is nice, sort of sweet, but it's higher-pitched and there's an edge of nerves in it, not some impossibly-smooth velvet that'd make me think I had heat stroke. I snap my eyes back to his muzzle, not that that's that much better. His cool blue eyes flick up and down, stopping down for two seconds, then up to my muzzle. He licks his lips. “I should introduce myself. Right. My name is Kris. Kristian Skye, officially."

“Most folks call me Leigh," I say with a smile. “Officially, though, it's L.L. Laymon, Esquire."

“That cannot possibly be your real name."

“Parents are a Hellofa drug, y'know? Leigh Leslie—my folks are old-fashioned."

“I know that feeling," says Kris, and given his look, I sure as shit believe him.

Kris offers me a paw—but not in the way I like—then we sit and his waistband disappears behind the other side of the desk. He could probably sue me on the spot for gawking, and I wouldn't blame him. It's not like I blame me either. It's been hours with nothing but a teasing sea otter to entertain me. Real torture. What's a pronghorn to do?

“Hot in here," says Kris, craning his neck and waving a paw by his muzzle. “You have to be dying in that vest."

Behave, I tell myself. I clear my throat again. “So, Mr. Skye, what can I do you for?"

“A friend of mine recommend your services," Kris starts. He leans back just a bit in his wood chair, cocky like—well, like a fox—and I can hear the front legs lift off the creaky floorboards below. It's not like I'm trying to stare at his chest fluff, but he is in fishnets. “Coyote with the painted fur? She said you got her out of a jam a couple months back."

It's one I remember real clear 'cause it's one of my usual deals. Government likes to say sex work won't get you arrested these days, but they sure as Hell like using it as an excuse to search for 'illegal substances.' Not that every sex worker deals, but if you're working at the street level…

Not that that has to be his kind of jam, and I'm pretty sure I'd be breaking privilege if I just assumed he's got drug charges. “What kinda jam are you in, then?"

“The usual. Cops break up a meeting with a client, sniff around, find drugs. Client puts blame on worker. Cops believe the perv over the whore." The Swift licks his lips again and leans his chair back further this time, still waving his paw to cool his muzzle. He's watching me with this real even look. It's kind of unnerving. It's kind of hot. “Fuckin' keufs."

“Amen," I say, and Kris quirks a brow.

“Didn't figure you for the ACAB type." The swift stops his paw and breaks into a toothy smile, but his eyes are still even. “Guess I'm not the only one getting fucked for money."

“John still around?" I ask, forcing us back on track before I get even more distracted by the Swift and his eye-fucking. “I don't care who your client is, just gotta know if they cut him loose."

“Not sure. They didn't put him in the car with me."

I rub just below my horns, willing my mental gears to focus and start grinding. And, for my physical grinding to stop. “What'd they find? And—"

“How much, yeah." Kris leans back again, up in the air for a good while this time. His way of thinking, I reckon. “Pot. Just a little bit. That was mine."

“Nothing we can't handle. What'd he have on him?"

“Not so much 'on him' than 'in his trunk,' but a brick of coke."

“…Fuck."

“Yeah, fuck," says Kris. Chair legs hit the floor and irritation flickers across his muzzle, finally something other than too-cool indifference. We're both sweating. “Can you help me or not?"

“I reckon I'll do my best, Mr. Skye. You do know you'll have to roll over on this guy—" I start, then clench my jaw. “Sorry, not the best choice of words."

Kris lifts his chair again. I don't get a reply. The fan whir fills the silence.

“Mr. Skye?"

“I'm not going to flip on my clients."

“Your John stuck you with a—"

“Yeah, I was there," Kris says, sharp. “What do you think happens when word gets out I worked with the keufs?"

He lets the words hang, so I keep rubbing below my horns and say, “I'll figure something else out, then."

“Much appreciated, Mr. Laymon." The swift relaxes, leaning back and putting his paws behind his head—but not before his stopping to sniff at his paw. The paw that I shook. His brow quirks up again, and he starts giving me that even look again, but there's something behind it. Cockiness, yeah, but something playful, too. The ghost of a grin.

He licks his lips.

I lick mine, tasting salt and sweat. I really want to lick his lips too, come to think of it. “Dao can get your history, details, and finances. You can afford a lawyer, right?"

“With prices as low as yours, I could hire you two of you—for that extra fun," Kris says, still holding my gaze. He leans back even further, but right before the chair tips, he props one of his footpaws on the edge of my desk, and my eyes snap to it on instinct, but I pull them away to meet his again. “Besides, if you can't clear me, I don't pay, right? That's the deal?"

“That's right." I swallow. The room is real hot. My mouth is real dry. My pants are real tight.

“Leigh gets you off, or your money back. I like it." The swift looks out the window, wincing at the sun. “Funny, I think I had a similar motto."

Don't fuck your clients.

Don't fuck your clients.

Don't fuck your—

There's a knock at the door. Kris looks annoyed—he pulls his footpaw off the desk—but doesn't anything, so I clear my throat again and say, “Come in, Dao."

The Ussuri dhole pokes her muzzle in through the door. “Sorry for the interruption, Mr. Laymon. It's terribly warm in the office and I've cleared your inbox—would it be all right if I went for a late lunch?"

It's hot. Real hot. And I'm real weak. “Go ahead, Dao. If anyone deserves a break, it's you."

“I'll grab you an iced coffee on the way back, Mr. Laymon."

“One for Mr. Skye as well, please," I say, and the Swift shoots me a quirked brow.

“Decaf for me, Ms. Linh," adds Kris.

“Will you two be much longer? Remember that you've your four o'clock to prepare for."

“Don't worry, Dao, I'll be prepared. It's just that Mr. Skye and I have a bit more to do, I reckon."

“All right. I'll be back in half an hour or so," says Dao, and shuts the door behind her.

Kris leans back and sticks his footpaw back on the desk. I adjust the collar of my button-up. He scratches the side of his snout with the paw-shake paw. It's too damn hot in here. I'm a mess.

A moment later, the front office door clunks closed.

Kris sniffs at the paw again before he asks, “So, Leigh, where were we?"

I swallow hard. “You were asking if I could get you off."

The swift licks his paw clean, and I'm about ready to beg. “Can you?" he asks.

“Try me."

Kris rights his chair and pulls it back, then stands and wanders over to the busted window. All of his chair leaning has pulled his plum-colored jeans just a bit lower, exposing the waistband of his jock—it's sure as shit a jock—and the top of his tight, furry butt, that pale orange-tan color with his matching poof of tail. He starts fiddling with the busted lock on it, which has me curious, so I stand up and sit on the edge of my desk for a better angle. The swift gives me an up-and-down as I stand—stopping at my crotch for a good two seconds in that cocky fox way—but then turns his muzzle back to the window.

“Tryna' fix it?" I ask, watching him work. “I reckon I tried a dozen times, but I can't get the latch to pop and I don't wanna break it off."

“I do you a favour, you do me a favour," the swift says, smooth. “You got a pen?"

“Shouldn't be hiring me if I didn't." I toss him one, and I swear, he flicks his tail up and to the side as a tease-and-thank-you.

Then, with a shove, there's a pop, then a click, and Kris slides the window all the way up. “There we go."

Even I feel the slight breeze cut through the room. It's a degree or three cooler outside—not that much better, but I'd do anything for the airflow, or anyone. So would Kris, apparently, 'cause he leans his arms on the sill, dips down, and pokes his head out, cheekfur ruffling just a bit. And, it just so happens to slide those plum-colored jeans lower just another bit, so when he flicks that fluffy tail of his up and onto his back, I can read the words on his jock real, real clear.

“You going to join me over here, Leigh?" asks the swift, cocky in that fox way. “The breeze isn't much, but…"

I swallow real hard, and even though the room's cooler, it's still hot. Real hot. And I'm in a thick heat. Kris's got me wrapped tight around his paw, though, like his jeans, and like my briefs, so I walk over and poke my head out beside him. God knows I wanna lean on over him and grind my hips on that fine, foxy ass of his, but I got a rule.

Don't. Fuck. Your. Clients.

So, instead, I look out at the street below—not anything specific, but I think I see Dao strutting down the hill in the distance—and Kris sidles up against me, perching his muzzle on my shoulder. Watching whatever I'm watching, I reckon.

“It's not the biggest, but it's got a nice view, I guess," I say, feeling the heat come back with a vengeance. Partly 'cause of the sun, but partly 'cause the fox is all bunched up to me. This heat, though—it's a nice heat, real nice.

“Not about the size," Kris starts, and I catch the joke too late, so I swallow hard again. The swift, though—he puts a finger to the side of my muzzle and turns me to face him, holding that real even look of his. His eyes are softer, now, though.

“Easy, Leigh. I don't bite," Kris says, his cool look breaking into a toothy grin. “Honestly, it's nice to meet a guy who's clearly eager but still respectful."

“I reckon you're being generous, calling how I'm acting respectful."

“It's relative. I was coming on pretty strong." He turns his snout away from me, squinting to spot the skyline, but keeps his head bumping close against mine. Real close, but not hot—warm. “Let's do dinner."

“I really, really wanna say 'yes' to that."

“But?"

“But I got a rule, and y'know it could jeopardize your case."

“A rule against dinner?" asks the swift, bumping the tip of my snout with his nose. Playful. Warm. Still kinda really hot. “Seems pretty strict, Leigh."

“A rule against sleeping with my clients. Mighty unprofessional—and could get me disbarred."

“That's pretty presumptuous."

“Am I wrong?"

“Only if you ended up being rude to the waitstaff."

It's weird, 'cause it's still real, real hot out. My button-up is damp, my vest is damp, and I'm still sweating up a storm, but I don't feel it as much anymore, even with Kris' tail curled around the back of my legs.

“Dinner to talk about my case, then—I know a terrible, cheap place, bad lighting, bad crowd, good food," Kris says, pulling away and out of the window. “You can tell me all about how you intend to get me off—'mighty professional' and not against your rules, I figure."

And there's the heat again, back on full blast and soaking into my fur—and briefs. I lick my lips and pull back out to watch the fox, and there's hungry, hot fire behind those even blue eyes of his.

“I reckon that's not against the rules. Technically."

“Lawyers love those, I've heard," Kris murmurs. He steps forward, tail flicking up, and wraps one arm around my side, and I'm not really ready for the hug, so I stumble. I'm really, really not ready for his free paw to slide through my fly—which, I reckon, has been open the whole time—to grope me real, real slow through my briefs, which gets me groaning and grinding and almost has me ready to finish right there. He presses his muzzle against the side of my neck, squeezes me tight above and below, and one of my paws finds its way under the base of his tail grab at his ass, overeager, and Kris gives me a soft chuckle. Then, he grabs my wrist and pushes my paw under the hem of those tight, tight jeans, grinding his hips hard against me. I squeeze one of his cheeks, then slide a pad or two down into the cleft of his ass, teasing over his hole real, real slow, which gets a soft sigh out of the fox.

Then, just as quick as it started, Kris slides his paw out of my slacks, zips them up, and I let him pull away even though I wanna see the fox shimmy out of those jeans and stick my muzzle up against that foxy hole. He's hot. Real hot, one of those summer heats.

“Just a taste for later," he says, grinning wide at me. I grin back. “When we win this case. Your secretary has my contact info."

“We'll figure something out," I say, watching his tail wag as he opens the door out.

“Wear something nice for dinner," he calls, and I just nod, watching him leave with that same cool, cocky demeanor he walked in with. I get the feeling he doesn't mean a suit and tie. I reckon I'll ask the sea otter if I can borrow something real, real nice when I see him tonight—and when we're in the mood for talking. And, speaking of…

I check my phone, and I've got fifteen minutes still 'til Dao gets back, a sea otter still sending me rudderbutt-and-hole pics, and way too many clothes on for this heat wave. So, I pull off my vest, work on my button-up, and undo my slacks, getting ready for a little photoshoot of my own that I can send back to the otter—and, knowing me, to Kris.

***

The heat's still on at night, but it's a low simmer, keeping every tail-shaking fox and bartending badger sweaty and awake and electric until the sun starts to creep over the horizon at three in the morning. For me, though, with my short, creamy fur, it's bordering on cool, especially compared to the sweltering heat at midday—and, I reckon, especially given what I'm wearing compared to most days.

The sea otter (Jesse, I found out, 'cause he asked me to shout it) wasn't exactly my size, but when he learned where I was heading for my definitely-not-a-date, he pretty much insisted he dress me up and turn me out, which, if you've ever met a sea otter, you know they've got a real fine way of insisting. Involves their muzzles stuck right under your scut, buried in your tailhole—a real technical act of diplomacy, I reckon, and it had me leaking everywhere. I'd already gone a couple rounds on him, though, so the extra attention got me not thinking straight when the sea otter told me to put on the stuff I took off him for my 'meeting' with Kris. It was a hot idea at the time. Real hot. Even if I'd gained a little weight since college—the sea otter liked the paunch, and his stuff would've been snug either way.

Ten minutes into the bus ride, wearing the sea otter's rainbow stockings and his tight (and tighter on me) hot pink jock seems a lot less hot, though. Sure, he leant me a tiny-ass pair of daisy dukes and a less-flamboyant black sleeveless hoodie to cover up with, but it's doing shit-all to stop the side-eyes and strange looks I'm getting from other folks on the bus. Part of me dies every time a wolf—or, God forbid, a skunk—comes on the bus and sniffs in my direction, 'cause God knows I pounded that rudderbutt something fierce while he was still in the jock—after eating it for a good twenty minutes—not to mention whatever might've dripped on his stockings. I probably reek like a biohazardy ball of lube, spit, and cum.

Damn sea otters.

It doesn't help that the closest bus stop is still a twenty-minute walk from the dive. When I hop off the bus, I feel every snout on the block turn and watch me. Makes me wanna cut through alleyways, but if I did that, I might as well slap a sign on my back that says “BOGO rides, also the first one's free," so I just pull my hood up as high as my horns let me and walk a bit faster. I don't know how Kris does it—but I reckon with his confidence, it makes him feel hot. Real hot. I kinda feel it, too. It's the excitement—but in my experience, excitement turns into fear real quick when shit goes south. Or, if you're me and in over your head, when you realize exactly where you're headed.

The address Kris sent me is on the outskirts of town, yeah, but I didn't realize just how sketchy it was until about now, being new to the city and all. There are some homeless folks out and about (not that that bothers me—most of 'em are harmless), but there are some seedier-looking, clearly-homed folks (who do bother me, 'specially the one wolf that whistles at me) so I pick up the pace and duck through a semi-populated alley 'cause it's about as light as the main road, what with some of the streetlights being busted. That leads me literally across the wrong side of the tracks and to another dark alley half full-up with some rusty-ass freight loaders, about ready to turn tail and run.

Hearing the faint rumble of bass in the distance, though—and knowing I'd have to walk back alone in the dark anyway—gives me the push I need to finally track down the dive. So, I stick my paws in my hoodie, pull up my stockings, and try to channel at least half the swagger Kris has in his walk, 'cause if it works for him, it'll keep folks off my back, too. At the very least, it'll make my ass look nice.

The bass throbs louder with pretty much every step, though as I turn a corner, I also start hearing some less-musical sounds, though on any other occasion I reckon they'd be music to my ears. Squeaking metal, low cursing, and the tell-tale slapping of hips-on-ass.

I know I've found the place when I spot this bottomless snowy-white hare getting railed on the hood of—well, someone's car by some real, real tall timber wolf with his jeans bunched around his thighs. Safe to say any fear I had about being dressed too slutty for the venue evaporates right then and there. The wolf gives me a two-finger salute as I pass and offers me a turn, but I say I'm meeting someone (and maybe later) and ask him where the entrance is. The hare doesn't say much at all, what with the jock in his muzzle and the little muffled noises coming off of him.

No one checks my ID at the door—there's no door, just beads—though this coyote coming off a bad case of mange gives me a once-over at the bottom of the stairs between drags on his cigarette. He's strapped, but flashes me a toothy grin, so I know I'm good.

Turns out, the dive's an odd mix of low-fi and prettied-up that fits. The ceiling's low—almost scrape my horns getting in—and the floor's concrete, chipped, still clean, though, 'cause it might be a warehouse basement but the patrons still have the good sense to wipe their paws. The walls've been done over with a whole load of stacked posters I can't recognize, probably 'cause they're basement gigs and probably 'cause it's dark as shit. When you pull out of the little corridor, though, it opens up, wide and as loud and bright as you'd expect it to be. They've pulled a sleek bar, two booths, and a thin wooden dancefloor out of their asses and decked them up with any kind of light but white—deep blue, harsh violet, neon-pink, and, of course, UV-black, just my luck.

If it weren't for the hoodie and daisy dukes, I'd probably look like a Pollock painting. And, Hell, there wasn't much airflow down there for the furry folks in it—I could still stand to lose 'em on the dancefloor after a couple of drinks. 'Specially if Kris dared me to lose 'em.

My brain snaps out of my jock and back into my head as I realize there's no way I'll recognize Kris even as I scan the booths. There's a couple of butch canines at the bar, barking about something I can't hear over the untz untz untz production coming from somewhere, and some more neon-coated foxes from all over taking up the nearest booth and yapping excitedly at each other. I almost miss this jockey-panther, thinking it's empty 'cause of their fur, then I spot a pair of coyote ears peeking up below the table and between their thighs, so I move right along and throw myself at the packed dancefloor, 'cause it's the only place left.

I reckon Kris'll be able to spot me easy on account of my no-rhythm-when-not-thrusting. He'll probably say lawyering made me a stiff. I'll probably say he's not wrong, 'cause when I think about it, the last time I was on a dancefloor like this was the summer before law school.

If you've never been in at a shitty basement gay bar with an expired liquor license in some small city on the outskirts of town—and I can guess you probably haven't, no matter how much of a slut you are—you should know the dancefloor tends to be a bit of a paws-on zone. Sure, you can just dance, but most folks usually expect that if you lock eyes (and grin and don't push to another spot), you're looking less to shake your tail and more for that bump-and-grind. So, when this medium-build stoat in fishnets and I get thrown together, we lock eyes, he puts one paw on my ass and one on my shoulder, and we grind, sending sparks flying like sheet metal getting dragged behind a pickup.

I do the same with a neon-stained (once-red, now pink) fox, although when he flicks his tail up, I flip him around and grab his hips while he bops his head to the throbbing bass. And when he gets pulled away by the crowd—maybe a friend, maybe some boy who doesn't wanna know his name—and the timber wolf from outside sneaks his way in front of me, I do the same. 'Course, this time, he's the one who flips me around and grinds to the beat, which puts me about muzzle to muzzle with a familiar swift fox in plum-purple cutoffs, though he's got a black bear behind him instead of a timber wolf.

“Come here often, Mr. Laymon?" Kris shouts, playful but real cool like, even though we're deaf from the music and sweaty in a bump-and-grind sauna. That he recognizes me—I sure wouldn't in this lighting and these clothes—sets my heart fluttering, my mouth dry, and my knees weak, but that last bit might because the timber wolf slides a paw down the back of my dukes.

Kris laughs sharp at the dopey look on my muzzle, cutting through the music, and pulls his bear forward so we can dance properly and so he can shout right in my ear.

This isn't the way I was expecting it to go, but the damn swift has a way of spinning your expectations the wrong way 'round. Now, don't get me wrong—dancing chest-to-chest and crotch-to-crotch with Kris is hot. Real hot, even if I still can't parse half the stuff he's telling me about the dive, the warehouse above and how it closed down, or the bands that somehow find space to play here. It's like he's opening up a doorway I thought closed on me back when I made the choice to enter law school and leave the 'rambunctious gay youth' part of myself behind.

We were supposed to come in here and sit in a booth. Kris'd raise a sharp eyebrow at my outfit, impressed, then mutter something cool-like about that being his average Tuesday afternoon. We'd flirt at each other without actually doing much of anything—he'd grab my ass, I'd grab his, he'd say I smell like otter, I'd ask if he wanted to smell like otter, too—then he'd flick my horns and we'd talk legal strategy.

Which would be a downer, I reckon, 'cause discrediting cops is hard to folks who've already got hard-ons for them, Kris still won't flip on his John Doe, and there ain't much evidence to bury.

The timber wolf behind me got my dukes down to my thighs, which makes dancing harder, or it would if anyone other than a bunch of gays in a basement were defining 'dancing,' 'cause they sure as shit didn't teach bottomless square dancing to us in school. Kris is giving me a good catch-up, though, even if we're looking like something out of neon Caligula. I think I'm getting the gist of it—involves Kris spotting the bright pink jock against my creamy tan fur and teasing his pads under the side straps to make me shiver. He sends a couple thousand more sparks flying by nipping at my neck and working the friction of our grind.

Then, there's a pull-back, a sudden nothing where there used to be paws on my hips and sweet, sweet denim-and-bulge against my ass. Kris says something past my shoulder and not into my ear, and I feel his stupid-cool grin as he starts sliding his pads just under my scut, over both mounds, and into the cleft of my ass—the same thing I did to him in the office, sonofabitch. Real hot. But, just as quick as then—and after a teasing pad against my hole—he pulls away, one arm wrapped tight around my back and one on my shoulder, back to whispering nonsense.

That's when the timber wolf grabs my hips again, but there's no denim on either side, this time—just something hot and huge and real, real leaky hotdogging me on the dancefloor. If it weren't Kris, the bear, and the wolf all pinning me together, I'm pretty sure my legs would've given out right then and there from the adrenaline. Don't get me wrong—the thrill isn't that we could get arrested, 'cause a) with the timber wolf pressed against me, there was little to see from most angles and b) Kris's told me about worse he's done here. Still, I reckon it's like a spring coiled up real tight finally letting loose. All that energy and heat has to go somewhere. And right now, it's going through my borrowed jock and staining the front of my daisy dukes.

When the timber's tip catches just right and I give a shudder that lasts a good five seconds, Kris pulls back and I nearly fall over. The swift pulls back and gives me a funny look, furrowed and with his blue eyes all sharp. Then, he shouts past me—something to the timber—and says, “Let's take a break, Leigh, okay? Grab a drink or three." before dragging me through the crowd by the paw.

I catch a glimpse of the wolf tucking himself back into his jeans, as well as a sweet orange patch of fur that starts below his navel and disappears into his jeans. Then he's gone, sucked into the crowd while we head for the far booth where the panther used to be.

“So, you see the hare that's around? He's a friend of mine. A huge sl—"

Kris runs me through some more shit about some locals and transients, I tell him about some of the more unfortunate clients I've had (leaving out any identifying details), and we both drink something so fruity you can't taste the alcohol, which is just how I like it. Then, at a moment of pause, his eyes flick back to the still-crowded dancefloor, where the timber's reappeared and peeling away to the bar.

“You should take it easy," says the swift, tutting in mock disapproval, but his eyes are following the timber's hips. “Mighty unprofessional, there. Looked like you were about to let him raw you right then and there, Mr. Laymon."

“If he kept going like that, I reckon I'd've let him try. Jealous?" I say, trying to mirror the swift's always-cool, always-cocky demeanor by bumping him with a hip. “You know wolves—faucets. If he went slow—"

Kris rolls his eyes and bumps me back. “Night's still young, Leigh, and I think I prefer you still pent up and eager to help me before you burn out."

“Fair's fair, I reckon."

His eyes aren't sharp, not serious anymore, but they still don't have that playful glow. Part of me wants to chalk it up to the lighting, but…

“Nervous?" I ask, but he just flicks one of my horns with a claw. “We can talk the case if you want, but I'm afraid—"

I'm cut short by the timber approaching the table with a tray of water for the three of us. “Courtesy of the bartender," he says with a curt nod, mostly to me. “You seemed, uh, thirsty."

Kris gives another short, barking laugh at that. “And you didn't, M?"

The wolf flushes—you can tell, 'cause his tail tucks 'tween his legs and he won't look you in the eye—and moves to take a seat, but he stops himself. Hesitant. Cute. Kinda hot.

A pat on the spot beside me sets him at ease. “Come on in, if you'll fit," I say, and he smiles, surprisingly shy-like for a guy who had his knot out on the dancefloor not fifteen minutes earlier. “Leigh, by the way."

“Don't worry, I'll give him your card," says Kris, oozing some mix of pride and disdain. “M here's a lawyer, too, you know—"

I groan preemptively.

“—Great at getting people off, haha," we both finish, though only I say the 'haha' part and Kris cuffs me lightly around the horn again. The way he's acting, he's real keen to touch 'em. Same way the timber's but real keen to touch the rest of me, so I give the go-ahead while Kris and I keep shooting the shit and pretending we don't wanna screw each other on the table.

M's not much of a talker—works in software, Kris says, but seems more interested in my hardware—but he's a gentleman, though, keeping things mostly above the waist for now. A cool-down, even though Kris and his little moves keep heating me up. The swift keeps leaning in just a bit closer. His tail keeps tickling at my ankle and footpaw closest, and at one point, when he gives that sharp, bark of a laugh of his, he puts his paw on the outside of my thigh, real light, like he didn't have his thumbs hooked in my jock on the dancefloor.

Part of me—the part that's been cooped up in my jock and teased far, far too much and too little tonight—wants to do something back. I don't, though. Most of my focus is on keeping the conversation going while I work up the nerve to say I don't think his case has much going for him.

The issue is, me trying to be stoic just sets Kris foxhandling me with more enthusiasm, and the timber's wandering paws aren't helping, either. Both are determined to grab my attention, and both are succeeding.

“—Don't act so surprised, Mr. Laymon," says, Kris, feigning offense 'cause my eyes go a bit wider when he says he's got a theatre degree. “Not all of us are starving, sex-for-survival workers."

“You like it, then?" I ask, trying not to shudder as the timber pads around the base of my horns.

The swift shrugs, fishnets rolling with his shoulders like water and I sort of want to lick his neck. “It pays well, you meet interesting folks, and it puts my degree to use."

The wolf chuckles beside me, real low, and I think I've caught it, but I wait for the punchline anyway.

“Giving a performance? Yeah?" grumbles the swift. “Got it?"

“I think we got it," says M, flat.

“No one I know appreciates my humour," laments Kris.

I put both paws up, which Kris takes as an opportunity to shuffle closer to me and against my side. “Lawyer. No sense of humor, remember?"

“I think you're very funny, Leigh."

“I reckon I'm contagious, then."

“That feels like a—hold up," Kris says, bolting upright and staring over at the entrance. I follow his eyes, but all I see is a wolf—Mississippi Valley, I reckon, sauntering over to the bar in a polo and slacks. “No, it can't be."

“What, you know him?" I ask, dumb, 'cause it's not like Kris'd recognize someone he didn't know. “Old flame?"

“That's the fucking keuf who busted me," says Kris, and it's my turn to straighten up.

“No shit?"

“Quick, give me your hoodie."

“Like Hell—Kris!" I half-shout, but he's already got the zipper down and the timber's helping me out of it, so I only struggle enough to make myself not seem too eager.

Y'know. Standards.

“I need that back before you go, 'cause it ain't mine."

Thankfully, the red wolf doesn't pick up on our commotion. Turns out, blasting music and neon party lights make for a good DIY-ongoing gay flashbang. He surveys the booths, but with Kris's—my—Jesse's hood over Kris's head, he's pretty much indistinguishable, even as foxes go. He does linger on me, though, 'cause I figure a shirtless pronghorn like me isn't an everynight sight in a place like this.

Then again, he might've been watching the giant timber behind me, and I might've just been inflating my own ego.

“We should go. Don't fancy a second run-in with him," Kris mutters, venom dripping. “Who knows what he might plant on me this time if I turn him down for sex."

Wait, what?

I catch his paw as he tries to slide out of the booth on instinct. “If you turn him down for—"

“Sex, yeah, we've been over my profession, Mr. Laymon," says the swift, hot like an iron poker, so I let him go—he flicks his tail in my face, a fluffy, tan-orange blur—and look guiltily at my paw. I don't hold it against him—he's sure as shit got every reason to be upset, but I know he's not upset at us.

The timber's muzzle swivels, watching Kris walk away. When he moves to stand and follow, though, I tell him to wait.

“I think I've got an idea to help Kris, if you're game. You got a phone with video?" I start, the cogs finally slowing down in my jock and speeding up in my brain. “Where's that hare friend of yours?"

“Yes, and probably outside with the bouncer," says the timber, calm, even. He looks at me funny, head cocked to the side. “…How's he—Oh. I think I've got it."

I try not to take too much pride in the look of appreciation on his muzzle. We slide out of our booth, find the hare—wait for to the coyote at the base of the stairs to pull out and for the hare to get feeling in his legs back—and I share my idea.

Turns out, the hare hates cops just about as much as Kris does.

There's another look of appreciation on M's face as I drag him by the paw to the bathrooms.

***

A week later, we're back in that sweltering, sultry-at-night-but-steaming-at-day heat all of the cityfolk tell me you get used to eventually. They say that, but their fur still looks like it's been oiled cheap at a discount garage that mainly services tourists out to see the sights for fees that make mine look reasonable. If growing up didn't acclimate them, what with their boar-hides, lupine coats cut short, and all-around breezy clothing, then I'm sure as shit gonna take to it like a duck to an oil spill on stolen land. It's a court day, though—and they've got AC, even if I'm still gonna use that as an excuse to see my little sea otter Jesse later—so the heat hangs on my creamy coat and doesn't soak through my suit. At least, not yet.

Course, even with that government-certified cooling, I'm still sweating something fierce. Like Kris in church—or me and my well-earned horns, 'cause, looking back, I must've been out of my Goddamned mind to pull my little stunt at the dive.

By the time I got home—with Jesse's hoodie in tow, thankfully, even if I didn't have my dukes—to the shoebox we've packed three furs into 'cause debt is Hell (and the apartment is about as well-ventilated), it was just before morning light. I know that 'cause Hassin's an early riser, and the grey coyote was kind (and wise) enough to not ask about my state of dress (or the backroom-bar cocktail of scents wafting off of me). I also know it was early morning 'cause when the adrenaline finally faded, the sun came up, and all my chances of snagging a few good hours of shut-eye were gone.

Then the heat started up again, baking my room through the small window looking over the plains, like the world wanted to slow-cook me in my sins. A nice pronghorn broil, like the fur traders used to do back when things were even more fucked for everyone than things were for me now.

'Course, this mess was my own fault—not that I could blame it on being young, dumb, and horny ex-student with not a lot to lose. I could've kept at it for a decade and rolled in it. Snagged some corporate law post, wore a suit everyday in an office that had AC and functioning windows, married some upscale stoat or otter or wolf who didn't mind only seeing me three times a week ('cause we'd both be fine sharing our beds, desks, and other bend-over furniture with any folks that caught our discerning eyes).

I could've carried Dao Linh along with me to some post where her skills aren't wasted. The dhole works so hard for me—and my genius idea might lose her the chance at whatever future she wanted as well as lose me my license. It'll lose Kris his liberty—a word you come to hate, being a law student—and probably mine as well, 'cause there's no way this isn't a felony. Hell, I could end up dragging all of Kris's friends—the timber, the hare, even the bartending badger if they decide to take a closer look at their liquor license (or lack thereof)—down with me, 'cause I damn well knew they'd do anything to help him out if I asked.

All 'cause I got drunk on that sweet, sweet cool oozing from the swift fox. Not from the swift tempting me, no—he saw me as help, while I saw him as a quick fix. A way to fall back off the fun-wagon like the addict I am. And the only way I know to fix it is to do my fucking job for once.

So, even though I'm sweating enough bullets to make a table of six all lose a round of Russian roulette, I don't show it. If I've learned anything at all from the swift, the dive, and my own hubris (so grand, I should've studied it in a college-level English course), it's that appearances matter. Kris needs a professional lawyer, so I'll swallow my pride (and discomfort), look the part, and look over the 'case notes' in front of me like I've got an ace in my sleeve. Keeping the ADA off balance means just a little more might go my way, and every bit counts for everyone involved.

I've only been in town a few months, but the DA's office knows me by my clients, and even if I've done all right for myself, it's all been small potatoes up until now. They've sent a rookie—which isn't saying much, given present company—but if they've told the ADA stories about a shabbily-dressed pronghorn named L. L. Laymon, then the opossum's probably shitting herself and assuming she's been hazed, 'cause this pronghorn has polished his horns (thanks to my sea otter), has a suit that fits proper, (thanks to the hare, K), and a reach going beyond the law (thanks to the timber wolf, M).

Which brings us to now, a week later, after Kris's arraignment and moments before the evidentiary hearing, with me three cups of coffee down and trying not to vibrate too much while Kris watches me, even, like he always does with those invisible gears grinding behind those cool blue eyes of his. I don't know if he knows—the timber and hare and I didn't exactly do much talking—except this time, it's not me being a coward that keeps me from spilling my guts to the swift. I need him cool-and-cocky even though I'm a homemade firecracker with a lit fuse. And, more importantly, I need there to be no way to prove that he was involved in any way with what's about to happen.

The swift slides a paw real subtle-like to my knee and squeezes, which stops my leg shaking and hoof tapping. I give him the faintest of nods, partly because I don't trust myself to not say something stupid, partly because that's how weak I feel.

When a weasel-in-uniform announces, “The Honorable Judge Rei Ikeda presiding," and those wide, wooden doors swing open, I nearly faint full-on (and grab Kris's knee to steady myself). That otter's muzzle is familiar—real familiar, one I'd definitely recognize, even though hers is dignified (rather than teasing) starting to wrinkle-and-grey (rather than a grey-brown with an eager tongue), 'cause a muzzle just like it was buried between my cheeks not two nights ago while mine was prepping Jesse. This sea otter ain't mine, though. She's a lot older, gracefully aged and with this air of respect around her, but with us legal types, it's hard to tell if you're someone's mother or grandmother.

Seems that's the trouble with smaller towns. Everyone knows everyone in one way or another—it makes a mess of everything. Although in this case, 'a total mess of everything' is finally something I can work with.

So, in those seconds it takes for us to stand (then sit, when Judge Ikeda does), I dig deep for that conniving core at the centre of all aspiring law students—the same thing I felt at the dive—and realize I don't have to do anything at all to turn this to my advantage other than keep on with the original. It's just the luck of the draw, like the river being flipped in poker. That's how law is, sometimes. Unjust, unfair, unappealing.

The proceedings at your usual evidentiary hearing sure ain't exciting, I can tell you that. The bailiff introduces us—to no one in particular, there's only six people in the room—plain and simple: The assistant district attorney (ADA) is prosecutor Suria Ghul, a Virginian opossum and dressed sharp in a suit (charcoal, deadly, hot-but-not-like-that). I think I've heard about her before—making a name for herself in trial proper, which is another nail in the future coffin, although I try not to worry about that. The bone-white fur on her face makes her look like she's wearing a death mask, and she's got the attitude to carry it.

The cop—keuf, as Kris and his kin like to call them—is one officer Lou Remus, Mississippi Valley wolf, dressed to the nines with all the spare-no-expense expense a police department (PD) set on nailing a hard-working sex worker can afford. You learn to spot it—it doesn't look outwardly fancy, but everything's been touched up, from the way his red fur lies flat and neat (not fluffy-and-friendly, stoic-and-servile) to the fact that they've sprayed him (not with cologne, but scent neutralizer to make him seem less rural).

Then there's me, Leigh Leslie Laymon Esquire—_there's a sharpness to the last word, 'cause if we're being honest, no one here wanted to come out on a Saturday morning to waste time on a sex worker with drug charges when (in their minds, and, nagging in mind) we should've plea'd out at the arraignment. The out-of-town pronghorn that's been dressed up for some reason, and everyone _except Judge Ikeda (and maybe prosecutor Ghul) knows for sure something's up.

Last, and in everyone else's minds, least, there's Kristian Skye, a swift fox with a short record and a long, antagonizing relationship with every form of law enforcement in town. My professors would've said dress him up, present him nice, but it's not like a good suit jacket'll vanish the prejudices around a gay sex worker (allegedly) trafficking cocaine. You play to a court in trial, sure, but here, there sure as shit ain't a jury. So, a humble tank top, plum-purple jeans, and those even blue eyes'll do. He's dressed stylish and smart—and, yeah, relying on classist stereotypes to unjam the swift is a problem, but I'll worry about that after I'm done undoing the classist stereotypes that got Kris jammed in the first place.

Even if he's not on trial for being a sex worker, he's still on trial for being a sex worker, you know?

But they don't say that part when the bailiff lists the charges again and Judge Ikeda asks Kris if he understands the charges laid against him.

“I do, your honour," says Kris, even, as we've planned. So far so—

“Counsel, approach the bench," says Ikeda, and I narrowly avoid giving myself whiplash as my muzzle snaps up. This isn't normal. This also, unfortunately, ain't the time to point that out. On the bright side, ADA Ghul looks just as alarmed as I do, which is saying something given the whole “grim spectre of death" aspect around the opossum.

“Your honour?" asks Ghul, and her voice is stronger than mine would've been.

“Counsel, I understand that for both of you, this is one of your first cases regarding felony drug charges," Ikeda starts, an instructing edge beaming through her tone. “I'd like to take this as a learning opportunity, both for your own benefit and the benefit of your respective parties."

“Thank you, your honour," I add, thinking on my feet. I do my best not to look over at Ghul, no matter how eager I am to check her reaction. “In your informed opinion, who would be best to begin?"

I can hear the clack of teeth as the opossum opens her mouth—it's a dumb question, to be fair—but she bites back the answer before reflex gets the best of her.

Judge Ikeda us a curious look. “As you both well know, the prosecution is required to begin in a criminal trial. Or, I should hope you know that, Mr. Laymon."

“—Due to the burden of proof resting on the prosecution," adds Ghul, and I know I've landed my hook.

“Correct, Ms. Ghul. Now," says Ikeda, looking over the room with a calculating gaze, “this is, however, an evidentiary hearing, not a full criminal trial. Normally, and habitually, the prosecution begins, but the proceedings are lax in their regulations."

“So, for example, the defense could begin the proceedings?" I ask.

“I suppose so, yes, albeit such a choice would but nonstandard," says Ikeda, a flicker of annoyance crossing the otter's muzzle. “The defendant is not trying to prove their innocence, here, Mr. Laymon."

“—the prosecution is trying to establish probable cause. So, calling witnesses is seldom done," adds Ghul, again, though there's no inflammation in her voice. I think she's actually just trying to help. “Your honour, I'd have no problem with the defense presenting evidence and/or calling witnesses at this stage."

“If you so choose, Mr. Laymon, I will allow it for instructional purposes," says Ikeda, resignation distant in her eyes. “I trust you understand the dangers existing therewith?"

“I do, your honour," I reply.

“Dismissed, counsel."

As I turn to walk back to Kris—who is giving me a quirked brow and his usual piercing stare—I catch a glimpse of the opossum's face, and those dark eyes of hers are narrowed.

You see, they're right. Usually the defense doesn't present anything because all you do is blow your surprises early for the actual trial. That, and you can still cross-examine (cross) the witnesses the prosecution calls, so you can undermine their story as they go without having to play any of your own cards. This way, though, they'll get to cross my swift if they want to, then launch into Lou's testimony afterward with a laser focus on anything they want to rebut. It's a bad move for your long-term legal heath—not to mention adding time onto a hearing no one wanted to have happen in the first place.

But, if you're not planning on things reaching a trial…

“Defense, you may call your first witness if you so choose," calls Judge Ikeda.

“The defense calls Kristian Skye to the stand," I reply, and the bailiff rolls their eyes at that. Most probably did.

I run Kris through the story we practiced—“like running lines," he said—making sure to go more broad strokes than in-detail. He hopped in a John's car, they drove over to a local hiking spot that's popular among horny (ex)-students with nosey roommates—I would know—smoked some pot, got frisky (and, in this heat, steamed up the windows something fierce), and in the middle of that, got oh-so-rudely interrupted by the red valley wolf. There's no point deviating, 'cause the bodycam footage was in the discovery file (and I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't watch it) and no doubt the prosecution'll show it as soon as they can.

“Was the car yours, or your client's, Mr. Skye?" I ask, reiterating a point everyone knows for emphasis.

“My client's," said Mr. Skye, and if we were anywhere else, he'd flick his tail to tease my paw at the formality. “I don't drive."

“And had you ever worked with this client before?"

“No."

“Was the cocaine found within the vehicle yours, Mr. Skye?" I ask, not asking after the pot 'cause we know the answer already and the prosecution might forget, thinking they'd just cover it in trial.

“No."

“Why do you think officer Lou Remus thought the cocaine was yours?"

“If I'm honest?" Kris starts, eyes flicking to Judge Ikeda, who's been watching with a look of mild fascination at the exchange. The otter gives a curt nod, and the swift looks back to me. “Partly because it's easy to assume sex workers deal, partly because he was mad I turned him down for sex."

There's a stunned second after that where I know in my horns and bones that the prosecution wants to shout “objection," but the wonderful part about prelims is that hearsay is valid. So, I stifle a smile thinking about the fuming wolf, shocked opossum, and the bailiff's jaw dropping (which is saying something, if you've met a weasel before). “Could you elaborate on that, Mr. Skye?"

Kris cants his muzzle to the side, and we're practically back in my office. If we were there, he'd lean his arms back to cradle his neckfur, plop his paws down on the desk—or stand, here—and flick his tail to draw my attention to his ass. Smooth, cool, and hot. Real hot. I feel it coming off his eyes and his tongue. “Officer Remus propositioned me for sex while I was dressing myself."

“Anal sex, or oral sex?"

“Anal."

“And as the receiving or—"

“Relevance?" shouts the opossum behind me, but I don't turn to look at her (even though I'd love to see the valley wolf shaking with righteous indignation behind me. Instead, I look to Judge Ikeda, who suddenly looks much more interested.

“This is the last question I'll permit down this line, Mr. Laymon."

“Of course, your honour," I say, trying to channel that cool of Kris's and keep my hoof from being restless. I pace instead, which isn't great. “Can anyone verify that he propositioned you, Mr. Skye?"

“My client was within earshot," says Kris, and I see the ghost of a grin on his muzzle. “A red fox—they've got very good hearing."

“Do you know where this client is, currently?"

“No. He wasn't put in the squad car with me."

“No further questions, your honour," I say, before looking to Ghul. The opossum isn't slack-jawed like I'd want her to be—it's an unexpected move, but she's anywhere but dead in the water. For now. “Your witness."

Ghul launches into a barrage of questions so quick, I reckon the assault could've been qualified as a military strike. The Virginian opossum tries out every trick we learned in law school to make the witness impugn their own character, trip them up on a detail, or otherwise incriminate themselves, but the issue is, they're the tricks we learned in law school. Kris stays cool, takes his time—but never enough to look like he's stuck—and even bites back with a bit of sass when he can manage it fast enough.

I think he would've done well, if we'd gotten to trial. On sex:

“How many sexual encounters would you say you've had, Mr. Skye?" asks Ghul.

“With men?" he replies, brow raised.

“Yes."

“All of them."

On drugs:

“Have you used drugs before, Mr. Skye?"

“Yes."

“Which ones?"

“Tylenol, Advil—"

And, of course, his go-to:

“Why did you go down—enter into—choose this career path, Mr. Skye?"

“Well, I got a degree in performance art, so—"

All that in mind, it's amusing, but a sense of humour doesn't let you escape the preponderance of evidence (which is a fancy way of saying that, at this stage, the prosecution only has to show that it's more likely that you did commit a crime than did not). The background work, though, is what's important for the plan. If I know Jesse—and I reckon we'd gotten real, real familiar these past couple days—then I know he's as hot-tempered as the weather and as sharp as a tack (but one you'd like to sit on, if he weren't so inclined to bottom). So, with any luck, Kris is reminding Ikeda of her own (grand?)son.

I'd like to say that the colour started to drain from the opossum's face or that the valley wolf got all red-in-the-face, but things were still fairly grim if you looked at it like a real trial and not a performance. The only shot we'd have is if the prosecution didn't call Lou Remus to the stand—which was a slight hope, seeing how bent out of shape he got over being accused of wanting to bend Kris over or vice versa—but that'd be relying on Ghul being an idiot, and she's probably a better lawyer than I am.

Plus, it's the only way they can use the bodycam footage—without it, they'd have no way to support much of anything except a brick of coke. So, the opossum calls up the officer, and it's their turn to run through the whole song-and-dance everyone pretends they haven't rehearsed a hundred times with their client. Fortunately, it's about the same—plus or minus a few details—until the bust.

“You smelled cannabis, Officer Remus?" asks Ghul.

“In the car, yes ma'am," says the valley wolf, beaming. “I've got a real keen sense of smell, you know—the place reeked something fierce of it."

“Why did you follow Mr. Skye and his client to Hook Point?"

“We got a non-enforcement policy on pot and sex work—pending federal changes, you know—but a lot of the time pot is sold with other drugs we do enforce on."

“And why did you investigate the car?"

“Well, I seen the windows steam up a little, which is normal, given the heat," says Lou, tugging at his suit collar for effect despite the relative cool of the building, “then there was a bit more steam and I couldn't see much of anything."

“And then?"

“Then the car started rocking, and I was worried that a fight had broken out."

There's a flash of insight in the opossum's dark eyes, and that aura of death surrounds her again. “Would you describe the defendant as particularly attractive, officer?"

Lou pauses at that—probably wasn't rehearsed—then says, careful, “He's dressed fancy, and I reckon some folks might find him handsome."

Not a direct answer, but, hey, presumed heterosexuality. In Ikeda's eyes, he was probably trying to avoid sounding homophobic or offensive. So, Ghul continues, “Do you find men attractive in general, Officer Remus?"

“Nope. Can't say I do, ma'am," he says, quick, then adds, “Not that there's anything wrong with men liking other me, of course."

“Of course," says Ghul, smiling. “Were you wearing a camera for this whole encounter, Officer?"

“Yessum," he says, cheery. “Department policy."

Ghul turned to look at Ikeda, who seemed impressed at her (rather than amused at my) path of questioning. “The prosecution will now present the body camera footage."

I inhale as the bailiff wheels in the TV and only exhale when they press play, which doesn't go unnoticed by the perceptive swift beside me.

I've seen it a few times, of course—more than a few, off the books—and it's graphic, and I don't look at Kris as it plays. I can't bring myself to do so. The rocking sedan—not too old of a style, looks refurbished—has its windows rolled up and the windows aren't half as steamy as the goings-on inside, but between the adrenaline surging through my veins and the fact that this was probably an awful moment for Kris, it's the furthest thing from arousing. Lou pulls open the back door (unlocked), catching them right in the middle of the act, to put it kindly, and asks them to step out of the vehicle.

The red fox—Kris's John—curses, pulls out fast, and scrambles out the other side, grabbing his jeans while his tail flicks around for modesty, and the camera never does catch his muzzle. Kris, ever the cool one, doesn't startle—even in the back of the car, he still manages to drape himself over the seats like it's luxury furniture—and the swift doesn't try to cover up, and all right, maybe it's a little bit arousing but only because Kris's eyes always say “come to bed" when I look at those cool blues, and—

The video cuts.

There's a mottled black wolf paw lifting a white scut against creamy brown fur while a red, red hot wolf dick slides between ass, leaking onto a hot pink jock hugging real tight, all under the neon-blue light of a real familiar dive on the outskirts of town while loud, bass-y music blasts, muffled through the bathroom doors, but they don't know that. A paw—that timber wolf's paw—slides onto a hip—my hip—while his other paw holds his phone camera, pointed down to only catch the slow, hot slide of tapered-tip pressing against hole. I see his blue jeans and belt bundled around his thighs, like he likes, same like you can see my rainbow stockings and the tight V where his mottled fur melts into this bright orange just below his navel.

I also see myself shiver again, and I'm lucky I won't have to stand for a long while, 'cause reliving the old fear with this new fear is something else (plus, all the foreplay before that we recorded, not knowing how long it'd take the hare to get Lou to come with him).

“This isn't the—uh," says Ghul, absolutely bewildered, 'cause law school doesn't prepare for tampering, and sure as shit not by your fellow lawyers. “Can you, er, skip—"

The timber starts his hip rhythm, a slow leaky burn punctuated by a soft thud—then there's a sudden surge of untz untz untz as the bathroom door is yanked open then slams shut with a familiar yelp.

(M doesn't stop.)

The opossum doesn't have time to object—or recover, I reckon—before a real familiar, deep voice cuts through just following the yelp, and any hope of skipping 'irrelevant' footage vanishes. “You like that, huh?"

“Yessir," squeals the hare, sharp and loud, 'cause he's in on it. There's a resounding slap as the timber behind me thrusts, hard, and watching it back (again), I have to bite down on my lip to not moan. “Oops, think this one's taken."

“Figures you'd like an audience," grumbles the baritone, closer but partially garbled. “I reckon this'll work. Could leave it open—let folks see you get drilled by this big wolf dick."

There's a giggle (and a slap), then the two shuffle into the only available stall beside us because we've taken the middle. Strategy.

M still has his camera pointed down, and the only reason I'm not dead from embarrassment is that none of them—bar Kris—has any reason to believe that scut butt getting pounded slow, hot, and hard belongs to a special certain pronghorn in the room. And, of course, their interest is mostly in that the baritone coming from the adjoining stall sounds suspiciously like an officer of the law's.

The timber tightens his paw on my hip, claws digging in—I remember that, and the light bruise afterward—and the increased pace makes it harder to hear, but he's built like an oak so the camera doesn't really waver. There's more squealing from the side, along with a few moans, groans, and thuds of their own to match, then the hare's voice again.

“So, stud," starts K, teasing, “you know a half-and-half'll run you fifty, and fifty more if you don't want a raincoat."

“Oh really?" says Lou, and there's another loud moan from the hare, “and what do you reckon I should do if I can't pay?"

A hard slap by M almost jolts me in my seat—I can hear myself cry out, a high-pitched “Ah!"—but the timber slows down, his knot swelling up, thick, purple under the blue light, and practically glistening as it starts knocking hard against my hole, demanding entry.

“Then sir, I guess you'll just have to take it by force," says the hare—'course, only we know they're a hare. The performance is a touch forced, but hey, the hare was a theatre queen. “But I don't know if—mmph."

“What was that?" Lou asks, and M lifts the camera phone—it's a blur, but controlled, so the most you see is more of my creamy brown coat and him pounding away—and points it over the edge of the stall, 'cause if he just stands up straight, he's well above it.

Now there's a familiar sight—the hare's messy jock stuffed in his muzzle while the valley wolf, now shirtless and with his pants trailing out of the stall, exposing a whole lot of mottled red fur—is lifting the hare flush against the tiles walling it off. The hare's hard dick—the real performance, given he was fucking a cop—is real easy to see, leaking between his own white bellyfur and Lou's red while Lou's dick slides somewhere far, far slicker.

“How many you had tonight?" asks Lou, giving a sharp whistle. “I reckon I could knot you right now, if I wanted."

There's more of a lift—and even in the blue light, you can see the hare's eyes flutter as Lou pushes in and starts going to town, rough.

That's about when M pulls the camera back down, though—the whole interlude lasting only about fifteen seconds—and resumes his hard pounding. It gets a series of moans out of me, rising in volume, and then—

The footage cuts there, and while I can see Kris fixing his belt and snapping the back clasp of his purple plums over his tail, Lou pops the trunk, lifts a jacket, and there's the brick. From there, it's the normal song-and-dance—or would've been, I reckon. Cuffing Kris and putting the swift in the back of the car, telling the red fox John to follow the wolf to the station, and—

The video cuts, I'm out of breath, and the room is silent.

Yeah, genius plan.

Kris is staring at me. Ghul is staring at Lou. The bailiff weasel is staring at Ikeda.

“…Counsel, approach the bench," starts the sea otter, still composed. “Actually—don't."

“Your honour, this—this isn't—that's not our footage, and it's clearly inadmissible." The opossum's still radiating death, but a hot, angry death, lashing out at anyone and everyone 'cause her white fur mask is cracked and her eyes sort of scream WHO? when she looks around the room.

If I were here, I'd reckon I got punked by the tailsticks at the DA's office. Especially after the dress-down they probably gave her about me before all of this.

“Be that as it may," says Judge Ikeda, pinching the bridge of her muzzle with a paw, “this is a preliminary hearing, and I can't well ignore what we've all just seen when taking into account if this case should indeed go to trial."

“The—this isn't fair!" says Ghul, and she's not wrong, and she quickly adds, “this—it's an attack on Officer Remus's character! To make it seem like he was soliciting a prostitute, your honour."

“Ignoring the prelude's comments—in my years, I think I've come to know the difference between foreplay and soliciting—it doesn't change…" The sea otter stops, turning to look directly at the witness's stand, where Lou is sitting stock-still with a muzzle that reads like he's being sent off to war. “You do realize that, should this have been a trial, you would be found guilty of perjury?"

The valley wolf opens his muzzle, but no sound comes out, so Ghul leaps to his defense. “The footage—"

“Is inadmissible, thank you, counsel," explains Ikeda, once again taking on a mentoring tone, as though this were a lecture hall instead of a hearing, “but unless officer Remus has been discreet in every single one of his encounters—which this footage demonstrates, has not been the case—any defense attorney could've acquired similar proof by means of private investigator."

(I wanna kick myself for not thinking of that, but, well, the opportunity was right there.)

“With all due respect, unless you're going to dismiss the case, your honour," I interject, remaining seated because I still don't trust my legs not to give in like the timber's still behind me, “then I think the hearing should continue. I'd be happy to cross the witness when prosecutor Ghul is done—"

In that moment, the opossum's eyes scream YOU as loud as eyes can, and if Ghul had power over life and death like her appearance suggests, I'm sure as shit I would've been struck right then and there. It strikes, mostly 'cause she follows by cutting me off and saying, “Your honour, I'd like to ask to reconvene at a later date, to allow the DA's office to investigate what exactly occurred regarding the body cam footage's alteration."

“Approach the bench, prosecutor."

The sea otter looks between us, but there's no knowing look on her muzzle, even though the way my and Ghul's eyes meet practically shout that there's some underlying goings-on. In the same way that thousands of folks passed by that warehouse with the raving basement on their way out of town without ever knowing it existed, though, Ikeda passes over Ghul's “investigation" comment without ever considering that the opossum was blaming me for tampering, and more as a way to relevel the playing field with the new revelation that her client could've pressured mine for sex.

Years of getting jaded by criminal proceedings does that to you, I guess—the abnormal, the conspiracy, and everything else that's so bright-and-flashy goes away when law school fades. Besides, it'd have been some job to tamper with the body cam footage, especially as some out-of-town newbie who's only been working a few months. Or, well, that's the thought, if you haven't actually done it full.

See, the PD keeps their footage on discs, 'cause that's how they play 'em in court out here. You can't take it home, of course, even as the defendant's counsel, and they make you watch it in a room on a laptop they provide. But if you pay attention to the way it's labelled—the disc, with a marker and file number—the next time you go to view it, you can swap it with a blank that looks about the same, 'cause what officer's paying that much attention to the labeling on a CD?

Which, of course, means you can take the footage home if you really try hard enough—and it wasn't all that hard, I reckon—and if you do it after the ADA clocks out like K suggested, there's as much chance as Hell freezing over (or my apartment having functioning AC) that anyone'll notice, especially if you do another swap the next morning. And, hey, I might not know much about editing footage (or anything about of computers that ain't office-related), but M sure does, and it's a real, real nice excuse to visit him—AC and all—for an all-nighter.

Not the cleanest, but hey, for my first felony, I think I'm doing just peachy, all things considered.

A gavel-slam pulls me out of my glee and Ghul away from the bench. The sea otter looks over us one last time before giving her address. “On the matter of the People versus Kristian Skye, I dismiss this case without prejudice. Counsel, if you wish to speak with me regarding this matter—or any other—you may find me in my chambers."

With Judge Ikeda's swift depart, the bailiff weasel escorts Lou from the stand to the ADA, who's gone from boil-the-bones-off-a-goose to a slow, simmering rage, like asphalt hiding that it's gonna burn you the second you set paw on it.

Unfortunately for me, the opossum's coming straight at me, and I don't like that sick smile across her muzzle.

“I don't know how," says Ghul, paw outstretched like a surgeon's white gloves before they're spattered with your blood (and you're thanking them for it), “but I'm impressed."

“With my apocryphal insight and moral aplomb?" I ask, channeling Kris's cool for the last time (I hope) today, 'cause I have to stand and shake her paw without collapsing. I shake my head. “I thought for sure this was going to trial, but I can't say I'm unhappy that I don't have to face you in court. That was some glitch, huh?"

There's a flicker of uncertainty, like a match you blow on. Maybe Ghul knows about as much about computers as I do. “Unfortunately, I don't think the DA's office intends to stop pursuing your client. You see, dismissed without prejudice means—"

“Where's the John?" My neckfur stands on end as Kris's eyes try and burn a hole in the back of my head.

“Hm?"

“You've got no John to finger him, which I'll say is clear prejudice given the car, and then I'll point out that he cut the body cam to solicit my client for sex—"

“—He cut it because your client was naked—"

“We'll have two witnesses saying Lou there loved pounding ass and giving the reach around and photos to prove it," I hiss, and to her credit, her eyes go narrow instead of wide, “My client's got contacts—queer folks tend to stick together, I hear. How's the PD on sexual harassment claims, these days?"

“You really think they'll take your client's word over mine when it comes down to it?" she asks, dark eyes fixed on mine.

“You really think he tossed a brick in the back under a jacket then decided to ride a dick for an extra fifty?"

Ghul opens her muzzle—I hear her tongue click, even though I'm trying to match her stare something fierce—and I catch a quick glimpse of something not-so-dead in that mask of hers. Like the world swivels and the clocks turn back, not so far, to the start of law school where they do the icebreakers, and the both of us have to stand there and think—

“Didn't I wanna do something big?"

So she closes her muzzle without a word, turns on her heels, and does her slow march of death back to her table. The red valley wolf shoots me a look—anger, yeah, but pain, too, 'cause now the semi-secret's out of his paws—and blinks when he realizes the ADA isn't coming to collect him, just her files, so he has to scramble on after her to ask what he's supposed to do now.

There's another blink when Lou looks back at me—eyes on my horns—and his head cocks to the side. Shit.

Then he's gone, passed through the doors with the opossum and weasel, which leaves me and a certain swift alone.

We're not gonna fuck on the desk. There're cameras.

We're not gonna fuck on the desk. There're cameras.

We're not gonna—

“So, am I still your client or—"

***

“Are you gonna out him?"

“Huh?" I say, distracted by Kris tracing his paw in these sweet, small circles through my sticky bellyfur.

We managed to make it to the courthouse bathroom, at least, where I dropped to my knees so hard I might've cracked them and the tile (hooves). I tried to start all slow and sultry, real hot like the weather and sweat and everything else sticky he was making me, at least at first. When Kris grabbed hold of my horns, though, I felt the exact moment things went from me blowing Kris to Kris muzzlefucking me within an inch of my lungs and life (and getting me to come all over the tile without me or Kris having to touch my dick, which is real tacky, I reckon) although I gather Kris liked it from the way he patted me 'tween the horns afterward.

After that, we made it to the car—my car, with AC, holding our breath as we walked as fast as we could through the brick wall of heat—where I tossed my jacket and Kris nearly caused me to run off the road with his paw down my pants, though he kept those cool eyes of his facing forward and his footpaws on the dash, which kept drawing my eyes something fierce.

Going back to either of our places was a bad idea. Part of me was worried Suria Ghul'd follow my car and see I was a, ahem, real unprofessional lawyer, even if every other part was more concerned with Kris's body. So, we stopped by the office (and Dao Linh, seeing how out of breath we were, took another break to grab us drinks) where I dropped off my suit and briefcase and Kris dropped his pants, which is how I ended up eating his sweet, sweet hole on my desk, never minding that the AC was busted, until we heard the dhole fumbling (and she never fumbles) with the office keys at the door.

We split from there. I dropped by Jesse's to pick up a certain favorite outfit of ours (minus the dukes, which I apologized profusely and in a real appreciative way for losing), and although the otter was happy to help me out of my clothes to change (and to lend me his muzzle for some prep), he had a paper to write and turn in for that coming Monday. A real shame, if you ask me, 'cause I'm sure he'd fit in real, real well with the rest of Kris's crew.

M picked me up from Jesse's place—real gentleman like of him, given that I didn't exactly have much to cover up with, but I was in good company. K—that snowy hare—was with me in the back seat, bottomless, and I gotta say, we put the “Victoria relations" into “grave traffic violations" without managing to unlock our seatbelts, much, I reckon, to the timber's amusement, although I wasn't much for watching him, 'cause the hare had a way with his tongue and his paws. From the special way M kept his paws around our waists as we took the elevator up to his apartment—no stops along the way, thank God, and an empty hall, too—I imagine he enjoyed it something fierce.

Our swift—with all his lovely tan-orange fur, faded like the photograph and all mysterious like a legend—greeted us at the door in the same trophy-boy jock he'd had on when he'd sauntered into my office. Or, well, not at the door, per se, more “open the door and there he is, tail flicking around, knees wide on the bed, ass-up and hole already slick with someone else's cum and pre, all with this cool, slick look across his muzzle (also from cum)."

From there, another complete and total mess broke out—sort of our style, I guess, if you come to think about it—which is why Kris is padding through the cum, sweat, and spit stuck in my creamy bellyfur (and making me shudder by nuzzling up close to my neck), why M's waiting for his knot to go down before he can pull out of me (and making me twitch every time he moves, one wide arm around my chest and the other on my ass), and why K's closer to the foot of the bed (on his phone, watching the uncut version of what M filmed in the dive's bathroom while he waits for all of us to recharge. Hares, man.)

So, safe to say the cop and his workplace social status isn't the first thing on my mind, hence, “Huh?"

“The officer. You gonna out him?" Kris asks, muzzle still flush against my neck like this is normal pillow talk.

“I reckon I'll—I reckon I don't know what I'll do. Actually," I start, pulling back into M's chest just to meet Kris's blue eyes, “what do you want me to do? It's your case."

“Why, thanks for the agency," he says, cool, even, (joking). He pauses—licks my muzzle. Sweet. (Sticky). “You could use a contact on the inside."

“Pretty sure he hates me."

“Pretty sure they'll hate him more."

The swift's got an agenda, I reckon, and I'm not one to say no to him. Especially not when I'm pinned between him and a timber who's still throbbing inside me (and keeping me warm in a conditioned apartment). Especially not when I think I'm kind of falling for him and the whirlwind surrounding him.

“Am I wrong?" Kris asks.

“No, that's fair, I reckon."

“Ever thought you'd turn a keuf to the dark side when you were in law school?"

“No," I say, and lick him back. “Ever think you'd turn a lawyer?"

“On? Yes, obviously," he says, always sharp, but his eyes are soft, this time. “I'm gonna ask another question."

“Shoot—or, well, you did all over my snout, but—"

“Why'd you clip it as-was?" The swift fox interrupts me, and I feel M behind me shift—curious, too, 'cause he brought up the same thing when I asked the timber to edit the video. “You could've just shown that keuf balls-deep in our favorite slutty Francophone—stick that tongue somewhere more useful, K, you know you love me—and been done with it."

I swallow hard, and I wanna rub below my horns, but my paws are sort of wrapped up in a sweaty tangle of hoof, claw, and fur. “See, I saw the video of the body cam footage, and I reckon no matter how prepared you are—or how good you look while getting fucked—no one's really comfortable having a video of themselves shown for total strangers to gawk at and judge. Even if it's only five of 'em, and I'm counting myself 'cause you didn't get to choose to let me see—uh. That part of you, in that way, in those moments. And I'm real sorry that you never got the chance to make that choice."

“So, I reckoned I'd even the playing field as much as I could," I say, trying to keep my tongue from running off in a panic, 'cause Kris's cool blues have this way of making you keep talking to fill every bit of silence there is. “The others didn't know it was me, but I reckon you got to see a part of me—not the video me getting fucked, but the me dying watching it in court—so, even if it wasn't the exact same, it was the most I could do, and—"

“Leigh?"

“Yeah, Kris?"

“Thank you," says the swift, our swift, real quiet-like, and none of us fill the silence, this time. My face get hot, though, real hot—and I let him feel me with my muzzle against his neck, just like the timber behind me lets us feel him by wrapping his arms around us both, and the hare—well, the hare lets us feel him by biting at one of Kris's ears and setting us all off again, but it's a different energy, this time. It's bright, flashing, something stark and clear but not in color or sound—a neon feeling in a town that's used to the black-and-white. Not exactly like the dive, but close.

(Even though the hare's hole could pass for a dive, I reckon.)

***

CLIENT-ATTORNEY PRIVILEGE—STARRING (in order of appearance):

Leigh Leslie Laymon AKA “L.L. Laymon Esquire," Pronghorn

Jessie Ikeda AKA “rudderbutter69", Sea Otter

Dao Linh AKA “Please put your pants back on, Mr. Laymon," Ussuri Dhole

Kristian Skye AKA “The Artist Formerly Known as Nathan Stone," Swift Fox

Lou Remus, AKA “Wolf Whistle," Mississippi Valley Wolf

M & K, AKA “Team Zero Shame," Timber Wolf & Prairie Hare

Delicious Pope, AKA “Coyote Mange," Northeastern Coyote

Theo Kobayashi, AKA “Receiver of Coyote Oral Sex," Black Panther

Cécile Reyes, AKA “The Unlicensed Bartender," Eurasian Badger

Hassin Namir, AKA “One of Two Roommates," Grey Coyote

Bell Bolshevik, AKA “The Bailiff," Common Weasel

Rei Ikeda, AKA “The Honorable Judge Rei Ikeda Presiding," Sea Otter

Suria Ghul, AKA “The Prosecution Never Rests," Virginia Opossum

and other miscellaneous animal folk.

THANK YOU FOR READING.