by A. R. Barley
And Luke?
He’d wanted Dante for so long the desire was like a comfortable old sweatshirt at the back of his closet, one he knew he should have tossed out years ago but just couldn’t bring himself to throw away, but he couldn’t let Alex find that out. Not if he wanted a real chance with Dante.
“It had to have been Finn,” Alex said, clearly pleased with his own deductive work. “He’s cute for a cop.”
Troy flexed in a way that was probably supposed to make him look intimidating. It worked. Then again, he was badass ex-military. He was intimidating even when he was just standing around. “If that’s your thing.”
Alex chuckled. “Don’t worry, big guy. I’m not into cops. I’m more into big, dark hero types with a tendency to look before they leap.” He shrugged. “I’m funny that way.”
“Hilarious,” Luke agreed. How the hell did Alex know he’d been out the night before? “Did I forget to take off my eyeliner?”
He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, but nothing came off. Shit. He was going to need to hit the bathroom to wash it off before any of the less tolerant firefighters spotted it. The captain ran a tight ship—he didn’t put up with bigotry—but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Some of the guys could get feisty when his back was turned.
Alex grinned. “You don’t have anything on your face. I’m just psychic.”
“Asshole.” Luke glared at him for a long moment before turning toward the older, more responsible of the pair. Troy still had his badass expression on, but there was something weird happening at the corners of his lips. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
“Nope.” Troy held perfectly still for a long moment. His eyes practically glowed and he slapped a hand over his mouth. The bastard was laughing like some school kid who’d just discovered fart jokes.
Asshole.
There was a long minute and then Alex took pity on Luke. “It’s your pants.”
Luke glanced down at his borrowed T-shirt and sweatpants. He’d thought about changing when he got to the firehouse, but the clothes were clean and respectable. They smelled like detergent. And if they also held a whiff of Dante’s familiar shampoo? That was nobody’s business but his. “What’s wrong with my pants? I’ve worn sweatpants before.”
“Yeah, but they don’t usually have the NYPD logo on the side.”
“Goddamn it.” Luke twisted his head until he could spot the bright white shield. Definitely NYPD. He might as well be wearing a neon sign that he’d gotten lucky with a cop. “Any chance you’ll forget this anytime soon?”
“You could try bribing us,” Troy suggested. “We take milkshakes.”
“Would that work?”
Alex snickered. “Not unless you spiked them with something. Even then we’d wake up eventually.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “So, how is the good Detective Finn in the sack? He looks like he’d be fun. Lean muscle. Lots of stamina.”
Luke flipped him the bird. “None of your freaking business.”
Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. Alex’s eyes gleamed and his teeth flashed like a shark who’d just scented blood in the water. He’d just been guessing before. Now he knew that he was onto something.
Damn it.
How many times had he come into the firehouse crowing about a wild night on the town? Dozens? Hundreds. Only those had all been one-night stands. Flashes in the pan. Dante was different. He wasn’t anybody’s flavor of the week. He was important and until Luke figured out what was going on between the two of them, he wasn’t going to share it with anyone else.
“You like him,” Alex said. It wasn’t a question.
Luke rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
“You really like him.” Alex was firmer this time, like Luke had just confirmed his theory. Which he probably had. Shit. Sometimes it was like he had superpowers.
“Maybe.” Luke wiped sweaty palms on his borrowed pants. He might not be shouting his relationship from the rooftops, but if Alex already knew... “What’s not to like?” Dante might have a rough exterior and a tendency to shut down when things got personal, but underneath it all there was a man with a good heart and a delicious smile. Kissing him was like—
It was like his first taste of ice cream coated in rainbow sprinkles.
He couldn’t keep the smile off his face no matter how hard he tried.
Now Troy wasn’t even trying to hide his laughter. Jackass. “You did it now.” He slapped Luke on the back. “You better give in and tell him everything because he’s never going to stop asking.”
“I’m persistent,” Alex said.
“Psychotic,” Troy corrected. “His entire family’s completely psychotic. They’re better than military police when it comes to ferreting out information, and they gossip worse than recruits. Just tell him about your date with Finn.”
Finn, right.
They were talking about Finn.
Not Dante.
“I didn’t go on a date with Finn.” Luke chose his words carefully. “I was at The Golden Bow.”
There was a full kitchen one story up, but they’d still squeezed a coffee cart into the corner of the lounge. Troy walked over and poured himself a cup. “Never heard of it.”
Alex gestured wildly for his own cup of coffee, but his boyfriend pointedly ignored the hint. Good. He didn’t need any more caffeine. “It’s a nightclub—mostly a dance club. We’ll go sometime. You’ll hate the music, but they’ve got amazing cocktails.”
Troy pulled a face. “Cocktails are an awful thing to do to good whiskey.”
Luke fished his phone out of his pocket and checked to see if there were any messages. Nothing. “I wasn’t drinking cocktails. I was helping the police with an investigation.”
“I bet you were.” Alex wiggled his eyebrows.
“It’s not like that,” Luke said. “Anyway, I didn’t go home with Finn. When we were done, it was too late to catch a train out to Long Island. I was going to crash at your place, but Dante offered to let me stay on his couch instead.”
“Oh.” Alex’s excitement wilted. “Those are your brother’s pants? You could have just said. Boring.” He jumped up to get his own coffee, adding a splash of his milk, before heading back downstairs to where the ambulances were parked.
Troy didn’t say a damn word until the door was firmly closed behind Alex. Then the bastard frowned. “You slept with Dante?”
Maybe Alex wasn’t the one with superpowers. Maybe it was Troy. His brain was full of desperate denials, but none of them found their way out from between his clenched lips. How the hell did Troy know? “You can’t tell anyone.”
“I’m not a snitch.” Troy titled his head to the side. “Isn’t that a little twisted?”
Luke couldn’t say a damn word. It was so damn new, so fresh, and in the back of his brain there was the niggling feeling that Troy was right. Anything between the two of them was impossible, out of the question, wrong.
How many times had he called Dante his brother over the years? “Blood doesn’t make a family.” He’d heard his father say the words so many times they were practically tattooed across his soul.
Dante was family.
No matter what.
And if the night before had been a mistake after all? If they tried again and their next encounter was anything less than insane perfection?
Damn. All the years Luke had fantasized about a Dante who was too far out of reach. Now that he might actually be touchable—suckable, fuckable—Luke didn’t know if he could make that final leap into the great unknown.
“We’re not blood—” He didn’t even know how to phrase it. “It’s not like we’re actually brothers.”
Troy didn’t say anything, which left Luke desperate to fill up the empty space between the two of them. “Anyway, it’s not like you an
d Alex. Dante’s not into anything long-term, and I’m not going to fall for him just because I like his apartment.”
“So, it’s exactly like me and Alex.” Troy smirked. “Dante must have some pretty nice ink if you’re into him. Let me guess, handcuffs? His badge over his heart?”
“Fuck you. I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m into tattoos—” Luke decided that discretion was the better part of valor and headed downstairs before Troy could ask any other stupid questions. Maybe he’d get lucky and there’d be a fire, something big, Troy could get smacked on the head again. The bastard deserved it.
In the locker room Luke found a quiet bench to sit on while he licked his wounds. He didn’t actually want any harm to come to his best friend. Some surface wounds would be enough. Maybe a scar across his face. Then he’d look like a damn pirate.
When Luke was settled in, with his back leaning against a locker and his feet stretched out in front of him, he pulled his cell phone out a second time. Still nothing.
Not that he’d expected a text message from Dante, but it would have been nice.
No guts, no glory.
Luke texted a smiley face.
Two seconds later his phone screen lit up with an answer. You need to learn how to be patient.
You could teach me.
I’m busy.
Isn’t it your day off?
I’m grocery shopping.
Right. The cold metal was digging into Luke’s ass, but he didn’t let it distract him.
The phone in his hands buzzed again. There’s a bar I’ve been meaning to try in the East Village. They’ve got live readings by authors. Tonight’s sci-fi and fantasy night. You interested?
Maybe. Hell, it was all of Luke’s favorite things combined: sci-fi novels, themed bars, an actual invitation from the man he’d been fantasizing about for years. Of course, that didn’t mean it was a date. He chewed on a fingernail. They could go on a date without declaring their undying love—or fucking up their familial relationship. Definitely. Text me the details.
Good. We’ll get dinner afterwards.
Dinner. Luke’s teeth ground together. Dinner was a little less ambiguous and a whole lot more date-like. If he said yes then he wouldn’t be staying on Dante’s couch before a familial breakfast. He’d be naked in bed with Dante’s hands on him, and he’d be begging for more.
Bells clanged overhead. Sirens screamed and the door to the locker room banged open. Somewhere in the city there was a fire, and it was Luke’s job to fight it. First, he needed to make a decision. His fingers flew as he hopped off the bench.
You pick the restaurant.
No time for second-guessing. He slammed his thumb down on the green send button.
After that he was all business as he changed into his bunker gear. Between the fireproof clothes and the equipment, it weighed more than sixty pounds. The first time he’d pulled it on, it had felt like a weight around his neck. He’d almost tipped over off the back of his training engine.
Now he didn’t even feel the weight on his shoulders. He was too busy double-checking his gear and climbing up into position on the fire truck beside Troy. “You know what’s going on?”
“Fire,” Troy said.
“Funny.” Neither of them laughed as the sirens changed tone and the truck’s engine roared to life. The metal platform under their feet rattled and shook. The truck pulled out onto the street with its ass end swinging wildly.
Luke pulled the shield down on his helmet and tried to focus. In a city like New York where the buildings were set up practically on top of each other, fires were won and lost by inches. Even the smallest mistake could put firefighter—or civilian—lives on the line. He needed to concentrate on his work.
Not on the last text message from Dante he’d glimpsed as he tossed his phone into the back of his locker.
I like anything. As long as I’m with you.
Chapter Fourteen
While the author continued droning on about the phallic symbolism of spaceships in classic science fiction for the second straight hour, Dante considered the very real possibility that his head might explode. The bar was full to the brim with men and women in graphic T-shirts with blue police boxes, etiquette robots, and toothsome heartthrobs. The beer was cold. The mixed drinks were strong.
It had all the hallmarks of a good time...
And the author just kept talking.
Luke poked him in the ribs. Hard. “Hey,” he murmured quietly. “You want to get out of here?”
“You don’t want to stay?”
“I’m good.”
Thank God. Dante liked spaceships and explosions as much as the next person, although maybe not as much as the writer whose name he couldn’t remember even though it had been said at least a dozen times during the introduction. She’d won awards. Important ones.
He turned and followed Luke as he picked his way out of the crowded bar. Out on the street the weather had taken a turn for the damp and dreary. Moisture beaded across his brow. He pulled his jacket closer around him. “You read any of her books?”
“All of them.”
Shit. He stopped short, his fingers clenched tight around his coat’s black buttons. He hadn’t known that. “Do you want to go back? She’s signing books after she finishes talking.”
“Yeah, but that’s if she ever finishes talking.” Luke’s lips twisted like he’d just tasted something rotten. “I want to be able to enjoy her books in the future.” A scarf materialized from his coat pocket and he wrapped the cabled wool around his throat. “You ever decide on a restaurant?”
They had reservations at a Brazilian steakhouse a little over a mile away. In better weather it would be a nice walk, but the cold was nipping at his nose and Luke was stifling a little yawn. Dante frowned. “You pull a hard shift?”
“Apartment fire over on the West Side. It was a shit show. There was an old man in one of the upstairs apartments with an oxygen tank, you know, the kind you’re not supposed to have near an open flame. Only he thought pointing his cigarette out the window was good enough.”
“Right.” Dante cleared his throat and made an executive decision. “Forget about the reservations. The best pizza place in the city is only two blocks from here. We’ll get a couple of slices, warm up, decide what to do next.”
“The best pizza place in the city? That’s a pretty bold claim.”
“Not if you’ve tasted their crust. It’s flaky and doughy at the same time. I don’t know how they make the stuff. It’s a work of art.”
They made it half a block before Luke cleared his throat. “You made reservations?” There was a hitch in his voice and his cheeks were red under his warm brown skin. “I guess that means this is a date.”
A date. Dante’s throat went dry. He almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. What the heck was he talking about? This wasn’t a damn date.
The last time he’d gone on a date, with Mika, a psychologist in a nice suit, they’d gone out for a nice dinner near her office. Afterward he’d invited her to go for a walk on the High Line but she’d been wearing the wrong shoes.
The conversation between them had been good. Probably. She’d laughed twice, but he’d forgotten to get back in touch with her for six days, and when he finally texted, she’d been blunt. Her job was stressful enough. She didn’t need the added pain of a cop with undiagnosed PTSD and a constantly shifting schedule.
The schedule part was true.
The bit about undiagnosed PTSD had stung.
Going undercover had jump-started Dante’s rise up the ranks to detective and kept him busy, but he’d seen things along the way. Sometimes they still woke him up in the middle of the night. It wasn’t important. Hell, he had more nightmares about his mother than about the stuff he’d seen on the job.
“It doesn’t have to be a date.” Luke ti
lted his chin down to rest against his chest. When he spoke, his words were barely audible over the noise from the street. “Not if you don’t want it to be. I just—” He cleared his throat and his voice got a little louder. “I’m getting a lot of mixed signals. You know? You spend ten years actively trying to avoid me and then you’re making reservations at a steakhouse.”
Dante concentrated on the sidewalk in front of him. The cement was cracked and chipped. There were pieces of trash scattered on the ground along with skinny plants searching desperately for sunlight. If this was an undercover assignment he’d know just what to say. When it came to investigating evildoers he could be damn charming. Too bad Luke wasn’t planning a bank heist or plotting to seize control of an organized-crime family. Then Dante would have known exactly what to say next.
They crossed the street, narrowly avoiding death by New York City driver.
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” Dante said.
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’ve been avoiding this.”
“This?” Luke stopped short. “Bad author talks?”
Fuck. Was Dante going to have to explain the whole thing? “You and me. Together. Fuck, I’ve wanted you for years. You know how wrong that felt? I’m supposed to be your brother—your older brother—and all I wanted to do was taste you.” More than taste. Hold. Fuck. Keep.
“You could have tried asking. I wouldn’t have said no.”
“You were a kid—sixteen—and I was an adult. I was supposed to know better.”
Maybe Dante should call this whole thing off, but Luke had started moving again and he needed to stretch his legs to catch up.
Damn. He hadn’t had very good luck with dates recently.
Then again Mika hadn’t kissed him like Luke had the night before, desperate and needy and wanting. He would have remembered. Hell, he wouldn’t have waited days to text her back. He’d have called. He’d have shown up at her office the next day with a smile on his face and an arm full of roses.
Luke didn’t like roses. They were smelly and expensive, at least that’s what he’d said when he was buying flowers before his first middle school dance. He’d chosen lilies instead. Spiky ones. Would he like it if Dante brought him a dozen just because?