by A. R. Barley
Today he knew Dante was in the city. After a phone call to one of his father’s buddies on the force he even knew where to find him. He straightened his shoulders and pushed his way into the controlled chaos of the NYPD’s major crimes division.
Paperwork was scattered over desks. Beat cops were working with detectives in suits and ties on varying assignments. Someone else might have been intimidated, but Luke had grown up around cops. He knew how they worked.
He waved down a gnarled police officer in a rumpled suit. “Dante Green. Where is he?”
“You’ve got too much muscle to be a process server.” The man flashed a crooked smile. “Let me guess, Dante banged your wife?”
“He didn’t fuck my sister either,” Luke said. “I’m working a case over the river, thought Green might have some insight.”
Mr. Helpful jerked a hand back and to the right. “He’s the asshole in the bad suit.”
“Thanks for the description.” Luke kept walking. There were one or two familiar faces in the crowd, friends of his father’s, but when he finally found what he was looking for it wasn’t a face, just hunched shoulders in the farthest corner and a feeling.
He didn’t stop moving. If he stopped he might have time to think about what he was doing. Think about the fact that Dante didn’t want to see him. Instead, he lengthened his stride as he crossed the remaining distance between them. He reached out a hand to grab Dante’s shoulder and thought better of it.
Dante didn’t like to be touched. Not unless he was dating someone, and even then Luke had seen him shy away from anything resembling PDA. Of course, it was different in the bedroom, or the backseat of a patrol cruiser, or the bathroom at a French restaurant on the Lower East Side.
Luke wasn’t jealous of the parade of nameless women who traipsed through his life. Dante might kiss them, but he didn’t spend time with them. As far as Luke could tell, he didn’t spend time with anyone.
Luke threw himself down into the seat across from Dante and forced a smile onto his face. “Hungover?”
“Fuck you.”
“Sounds about right.” He plucked a cup from the beverage tray he’d brought with him and passed it across to Dante. “You look like crap.”
Dante’s skin was almost gray under the constellation of freckles that swirled around his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His charcoal suit was rumpled and awkward. The shirt underneath was completely nondescript. It might have been beige or grey. It was definitely cheap. His penny-bright hair was shaved close to reveal a well-shaped skull. His right eye was porcelain blue. His left eye was a warm hazelnut.
The technical term was heterochromia and it was sexy as hell.
He took a long sip of his drink, sputtered, and swore. “This isn’t coffee.”
“Herbal hangover cure. It’s good for what ails you.”
“And you’re drinking?”
“Dark chocolate mocha, triple shot of espresso, cinnamon, cayenne.”
“Sounds complicated.” Dante leaned forward, taking in a hungry breath. “There’s an extra cup.”
“You finish the hangover cure and you get the second drink. You don’t finish and I give it to your new partner. He’s pretty.”
“Finn freaking Pride.” Dante snorted. “I don’t think I was ever that young. Worst thing? They’ve got us handling cases a kindergartener could solve. We’re in charge of every stolen backpack and misplaced puppy in the city.” He drank some more of the herbal tea and grimaced, but this time he didn’t put the paper cup down. “You bring this to me for a reason?”
“I called you last night to make sure you got home. I left a message—” More than one. Not that it mattered. Luke had left thousands of messages over the years. He’d been lucky to get a single-word text in return. “I care about you. I’m your brother—”
“Foster brother,” Dante corrected quickly. “We’re not blood.”
“Blood doesn’t make a family.” Luke pitched his voice half an octave lower to parrot his father’s favorite saying.
Dante flashed his teeth. “Another couple of years and you’re going to turn into your old man. You sound just like him.”
“There are worse fates.” Luke hooked his feet under the edge of the desk in front of him and tipped his chair onto its back two legs, balancing carefully. “Charlie’s old, but he’s still feisty. You should call him sometime. Bonus, he’s still got all his hair. You shaved yours off.”
“I couldn’t get the dye out.”
“No shit?” His jerk of surprise overbalanced the chair and almost sent him sprawling onto the ground. He clenched his core muscles tight and managed to rebalance. “Was it green? Please, tell me it was green.”
“I’m not a damn leprechaun. Anyway, I can’t talk about undercover assignments.”
Luke waved the objection away. “Tell me you were at least something cool this time. Like a rock star or a race car driver.”
“In New York City? Seems a little conspicuous.”
Dante had spent years undercover, although most of it had been out of town, loaned out to the FBI or the state cops. Not that Luke was supposed to know anything about it, but Dante still talked to Charlie occasionally, and Luke wasn’t above pumping him for information even if it hurt to know Dante wasn’t avoiding the entire Parsons family. He was just avoiding him.
He took a long drag on his mocha, enjoying the kick from the cayenne. “Black hair,” he guessed. That would explain the need to cut it off instead of dying it back. “And you were a biker. No.” He snapped his fingers. “You like being an expert or authority figure—even if it’s a corrupt expert or authority figure. You were a lawyer.”
“An accountant.”
“Boo. Boring.” Luke unhooked his feet and tilted back onto the ground. “Next time you should be a superspy. ‘Green. Dante Green.’”
Dante’s forehead furrowed. His whole face was getting in on the action now, giving Luke a squinty stare that was probably supposed to be scary.
It probably worked on most guys, but most guys hadn’t shared a bathroom with Dante back when he was going through his emo phase. Once you saw a guy stab himself in the eye with liner pencil it was hard to find him intimidating.
How long had it been since the two of them had shared a coffee? Luke hadn’t meant for it to be that long, but it seemed like Dante only ever went out to Long Island to see Charlie when he knew Luke wasn’t going to be home. At first it might have been a coincidence, but after a dozen times Luke had stopped caring...much. That didn’t stop the sting from coming back every time Dante canceled on a family dinner because he was working an extra shift or had to skip the holidays because he was undercover again.
It had been years.
“You seeing anyone?” Luke asked before he could stop himself. He was a freaking idiot. Dante might be firecracker-hot, but he’d already made it clear that he wasn’t interested in spending five minutes with him...let alone an hour and a half for dinner, another hour for conversation over dessert, and the twenty-six seconds it would take Luke to go from begging desperately for pleasure to exploding under Dante’s touch.
“I told you I was single, remember?”
“And? You could have met Miss Right on the subway on your way to work this morning.” Luke frowned. “How long has it been since your last girlfriend? We need to get you a Tinder account.”
“Isn’t that a gay thing?”
“You’re thinking Grindr. Tinder’s an ‘I want to meet somebody’ thing. You can use it to find boys or girls.”
“What about you? Who are you dating these days? Got a girlfriend?” Dante demanded. “Boyfriend?”
“You know me. The world’s a movable feast. I like to keep my options open.”
“Anyone long-term?”
“I’m still holding out for Prince Charming.”
“You read too many roman
ce novels.”
“I don’t read any romance novels,” Luke lied brightly. “I’m all about sci-fi. People in space. That’s what all the cool kids are reading these days. Have you checked out The Expanse?”
“You know I don’t read as much as you.”
“They made it into a TV show, but I haven’t watched it yet. You’d like the books. There’s war, chaos, corrupt governments, and evil corporations. Lots of people die. One of the main characters is a cop. He’s all bitter and disenchanted.”
“You sure it’s sci-fi? Sounds an awful lot like real life.”
“I’ll toast to that.” They both sipped their drinks.
Dante tipped his cup upwards to swallow his all at once. “Are you sure it’s supposed to taste like this?”
“It’s fine.”
“You never know. It might just be water with food coloring and a nasty stench.”
“Do you feel better?”
“No.” Dante frowned. His cheeks were a flushed pink and his skin tones were decidedly more natural than they’d been when Luke sat down at his desk. “Maybe.”
Dante removed the second mocha from the beverage tray, his fingers wrapping eagerly around the paper cup, his smile greedy and happy like a little boy who’d just been handed a forbidden treat. It was cute.
“I’ve got a hangover. I didn’t take a bullet. If I die in the next little while it’ll be because my partner gets me killed. Not because I tied one on last night or some asshole shot me again.”
“You’ve been shot—”
“I’m fine.” Dante growled. “Now, you didn’t come here to talk to me about herbal remedies. You want a favor. Are you going to tell me what it is or do I need to check my messages? Let me guess, you need me to do your homework? Someone messing with one of your firefighter buddies?” He cracked his knuckles, the sound somehow audible over the chaos of the police station. “Want me to put the fear of God into them?”
The spicy mocha suddenly tasted dry in Luke’s mouth. He was going to be sick. “Am I that easy to read?”
How many times had he called Dante with his problems over the years? His foster brother wasn’t his first choice, but when push came to shove Luke always called him for backup.
And Dante always came through when he was called, no matter how well he avoided Luke. None of that helped Dante see him as anything other than the skinny nine-year-old he’d been when they first met.
The one with the oversized ears, superhero backpack, and bully problems.
Dante’d been in the Parsons house less than four days when he spotted Marty Scudder hassling Luke under the Little League stands. A cop’s kid should have been able to take care of himself—Dad had taught him how to throw a real punch back in kindergarten—but somehow Marty always managed to talk to that vulnerable place deep in his belly.
“You’re a loser, Parsons. An idiot. Weak. Daddy’s pet. He’d be better off with a dog.” A sharp right hook had sent Luke tumbling into the dirt. He’d rolled into a ball, preparing for a follow-up kick in the gut that never came.
When he’d finally opened his eyes, Dante had been holding Marty six inches off the ground. “Apologize.” It hadn’t been a suggestion.
Luke wasn’t that kid anymore. How many years of self-defense classes had he taken? And Dante wasn’t the only one with muscles. Luke might not be bulging like a Greek god, but he was a New York City firefighter.
That wasn’t nothing.
He wasn’t weak.
He refused to be weak.
“This was a mistake.” He pushed his chair away from the desk. “I shouldn’t have come here.” Not when he wasn’t wanted. “I’m on duty all weekend. If you’re looking to visit Dad when I’m not around, that’d probably be a good time.”
“What’s the favor?” Dante leaned both elbows against the table. “Tell me. Now.”
Leaving was still the best option. If Luke turned and walked away, he could still get out with his dignity intact. Instead he flattened his hands against the battered wood of the desk.
“Liam and Ryan. That’s not the first mugging I’ve heard about recently.” Luke had been one of the victims. He’d been mugged outside a nightclub in Brooklyn six weeks earlier. At the time he’d thought it was a one-off occurrence. Now he wasn’t so sure. The attack had seemed so familiar the night before, he’d vomited in a train station garbage can on the way home. Not that he was going to let Dante know that.
“I made a few calls.” To bartenders at every gay nightclub and hot spot he could think of in the city. “It looks like it started a couple of months ago as far as I can tell, sometime in October. Muggings outside local clubs.” He swallowed. “Gay hot spots.”
“What did Liam say last night?” Dante asked. “‘It’s just a mugging.’”
“It’s not just a mugging.” Luke concentrated on getting the words out. If he stopped now then he’d never get through this. Not with cold sweat already pooling at the base of his spine. “Not all the victims reported their encounters to the police—the ones who do mostly get blown off—but it’s happening more often now. Every night. He never says more than a couple of words. He never talks about his victims’ sexuality. He just takes their things. Wallets, watches, and cell phones sure, but Ryan’s ring wasn’t the first personal item he took either. I talked to a couple of cops. The official line is that it’s not the same attacker.”
“And?”
“They’re wrong.” Luke’s stomach felt like it was going to empty itself. Again. He forced his eyes shut. “It’s the same guy. It has to be. And he’s getting more violent.” He’d ended up bruised and battered, but the gun was new. When he’d been attacked it had been a sucker punch. The guy had gotten the drop on him while he was making out with a guy he’d picked up in a club. The weapon meant the attacker was upping his game. “One of these days a couple of trinkets isn’t going to be enough. He’s got a gun, and sooner or later he’s going to pull the trigger. You really want someone’s blood on your hands?”
Dante’s full lips were pressed together in a thin line. He didn’t say a word now that Luke had gotten to the end of his story. He just waited.
Luke was going to track the attacker down if it was the last thing he did. His hands clenched tight. Finding the asshole would be easier if Dante decided to come along for the ride. Of course, if Dante held true to form, he’d hightail it in the opposite direction and take the next government-sponsored train out of dodge.
“I’m not asking you to take my word on it,” Luke said. “You talked to Liam and Ryan last night. I thought we could track down some of the other victims, listen to their stories. Maybe you won’t think it’s anything but—”
“You think it’s something.”
“I know it is.” It wasn’t just the ugly shoes or the dark hoodie. It was the way he moved and the trinkets he demanded from his victims. The man who’d mugged Liam and Ryan was the same one who’d attacked him. “Absolutely.”
Dante leaned back in his chair. Somewhere between the hangover cure and the mocha, he’d started to look like a real human again. One with truly impressive forearms. “Okay. Tell it to me again. I want to make sure I heard everything.”
Chapter Four
Luke was smart and capable. He had good instincts. As he rattled through his story a second time, Dante nodded along, even though he didn’t believe for a minute that there was a series of interconnected muggings going on around Manhattan.
He would know about it.
Someone would know about it.
Except there was something about Liam and Ryan, something nagging inside his head, something he’d been too drunk to notice and too stupid to write down. It had been bothering him since he’d rolled out of his bed. He just couldn’t remember what.
Luke’s eyes were a soft moss green as he finished his recitation. He was concentrating hard. Even then,
he couldn’t keep still. His fingers fidgeted with the strap of the messenger bag he was wearing over one shoulder. Damn, he was adorable with his hangover cure and complicated coffee drink.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to hang out sometime.
Yeah, and maybe he could light himself on fire and send himself straight to the devil.
Better to work the case like a professional and then get the hell out of dodge. He might be burnt out on undercover work, but that didn’t mean he had to sit at a desk where anyone could find him. He could walk a beat somewhere Luke would never find him, like the moon or the subterranean tunnels of Manhattan.
“Pride!” Dante belted out his partner’s name. His voice was loud enough to cut through the hustle and bustle of the police station. All around him cops and criminals went silent.
A minute later Finn’s head popped around the corner from the break room. His lips were twisted in a guilty expression, right up until he spotted Luke. “Parsons.” His smile was open and inviting as he hustled across the room. “What’s up?”
Luke’s smile was less than enthusiastic. He reached out to toy with the stapler on Dante’s desk, muscles bulging under a heather gray T-shirt with an FDNY logo on the right side. “I’ve got the morning off. Thought I’d stop by and see my favorite policeman.”
“Glad to see I made an impression.” Finn batted long blond eyelashes.
Un-freaking-believable. The hangover cure wasn’t as miraculous as advertised because Dante’s headache was back with a vengeance. It felt like someone was taking a ten-pound hammer to his temple, and neither Luke nor Finn seemed to notice. They were too busy flirting.
At least, Finn was flirting. Luke’s only responses were grunts of affirmation from around the brim of his coffee cup. His expression was bland. He wasn’t smiling, or frowning, or paying much attention at all. Finn perched on the side of Dante’s desk, stretching out until he knocked one foot against Luke’s sprawling jean-clad legs.
And Luke moved to make room for him without even a beat of hesitation, tucking his legs back under his chair so there was a solid six inches of space between him and the other man.