by A. R. Barley
And he liked being kissed.
He hadn’t even known how to talk about it at the time, but one day he’d ditched baseball practice and run away. Dante had found him on the swings at the playground down at the end of the block.
“Things really that bad?” Dante had asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he dug underneath his shirt and pulled out the little icon on the chain. “St. Cristopher,” he explained. “Patron saint of children, travelers, epilepsy, and toothache.”
He’d dropped it around Luke’s neck.
Then he’d sat down on the swing beside him and waited silently until Luke made the choice to go home.
Luke had worn it for years before stowing it away in a box with the cuff links his father had bought him for prom and the watch he’d inherited from a crazy great-uncle. He hadn’t thought about it again until he joined the fire department. Every atheist was a believer when faced with a fire big enough to consume a city block. Most firefighters had some kind of good luck charm or pendant. Technically speaking, St. Florian was the patron saint of firefighters, but Luke figured if St. Chris was good enough for Dante and toothache, he was good enough for him.
“I’m sorry,” Luke said. “I’m so damn sorry.”
Chapter Twenty
What St. Cristopher medal? It took Dante a minute to remember the good luck charm that had been pressed into his hands at his second—no, third—group home. He’d worn it out of habit more than anything else, until that day on the playground when it seemed like Luke needed all the luck he could get.
“Fucker.” Dante spat the word. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him, and I’ll get your damn medal back.”
“We’ll find him,” Luke corrected.
Not a chance in hell. Luke might be strong enough to win at arm wrestling, but he’d held onto a little boy’s good luck charm for fifteen years. He wasn’t a fighter and he definitely wasn’t a cop.
More importantly, the attacker might have been wearing a hoodie, but Luke had been out there in the open. The guy had seen his face, which made him vulnerable.
Dante stopped his pacing and turned to look at where Luke was perched on top of an oversized metal desk. He was wearing the NYPD sweatpants Dante had loaned him earlier in the week and a mint-green T-shirt that matched his eyes when he was laughing. Only he wasn’t laughing now and his eyes weren’t green anymore.
They were gray and washed out, the same nothing color as the cheap paint the city had used on the fire captain’s office walls.
He wasn’t going anywhere near the investigation.
Not again.
Not if Dante had to handcuff him to the big metal bed frame in his apartment, for his own good.
“Start at the beginning,” Dante ordered. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“You read the report.”
“Yeah, well, now I want to hear it all over again. Straight from the horse’s mouth.”
Luke’s nostrils flared, and he let out a little huff of protest, but when Dante didn’t respond to his defiance he gave in. “It was a slow night. I got out of class early, so I went to Toro.”
“That’s some kind of club?”
“It’s in Brooklyn. It’s like The Golden Bow except everybody’s sporting flannel and beards, even the twinks.” He shrugged. “It’s not exactly my thing. I’m more into clean-shaven redheads with a closet full of NYPD-issued riot gear—”
“You were at Toro,” Dante prompted him back on track.
“I wasn’t looking for anyone, but there was a band I like in a watching-a-train-wreck way. It’s European. Death oompah. The lead guy plays a mean accordion. And when I bought my second drink there was this guy at the bar.” Luke leaned forward slightly, getting into the narrative. “Tim. We flirted.”
Flirted. Dante’s teeth ground together. He’d watched Luke flirt with other men in the past. For him, it was a full-body experience.
Not that Dante was jealous of some one-night flirt listening to bad music, but, fuck...
If he’d wanted Luke before, it was nothing like knowing exactly how he’d feel in his arms, moving against him—inside him. It was nothing like spending the past few days smelling his scent on his sheets or running with him in the early morning light.
His body ached to wrap itself around Luke and hold him tight. To promise him everything was going to be okay. Tim hadn’t meant anything. The mugger was only one mistake away from being caught.
Instead, he waited patiently for Luke to finish telling his story.
“He was cute, and—” Luke flushed “—easily impressed. Some guys are really into the whole fireman thing, you know?”
There was something plaintive about the curve of his lips. Dante couldn’t help but nod. He knew exactly what Luke was talking about. “Nobody’s judging. I’ve had my share of fun with badge bunnies.”
“Right. Well, Tim was into firemen. He wanted to know everything, and it was hard to talk because of the music.”
“Death oompah isn’t exactly conducive to conversation?”
“Death oompah is good for only two things, conversation’s not either of them.” Luke continued before Dante could ask what things death oompah was good for. He’d be willing to bet one of them was sex, and even if it wasn’t then he’d be willing to give it a try. He liked accordions as much as the next guy, which was not at all, but he’d like to see if he could make Luke moan loud enough to cover the noise.
“We left before the final set. There’s a little coffee shop around the corner from the bar. We went there and talked for a while. Then I needed to catch the train home.”
Luke shrugged. “I was about to take a shortcut down an alley—the kind of alley our asshole likes to hunt in—but Tim said it was a bad idea. We walked three blocks out of the way, past this ugly green statue. We had to loop back around. It was a pretty night. Tim was sweet, flirty. One minute we were kissing and the next something hit me from behind. I went down so hard, I thought something had fallen off one of the buildings. You always hear about air conditioners coming off the fifth floor and killing people. It felt like that. Everything started to swim. Tim was arguing. He tried to fight the guy off, but the asshole hit him too.”
Every detail was recited perfectly. Every word was calm, and then Luke’s voice broke off. He huffed. “After that everything got fucked up. I know he was bigger than me. I know he was wearing a dark hoodie. I remember the shoes. They were red.”
“Anything else?” Dante asked.
“The shoes were weird. Really weird. I’ve looked at a hundred brands since then online, but I can’t find the logo.”
“So we’re looking for a ghost in designer shoes.” They practically had the fucker cornered. “Did he say anything to you?”
“‘Be glad your wallet and cell phone are all I want, boy,’” Luke recited with a hard edge to his voice. “‘On second thought, I’ll take that purty necklace you’ve got around your neck.’”
“Cute,” Dante said. “Did he have an accent? Was there anything noticeable about his voice? Was he older than you? Younger than you?”
“No accent,” Luke said. He was definite about that part. “He was—” here he got a bit shaky “—younger than me. I think. His voice was deep, but it creaked a bit on the end.”
“So he took your wallet, cell phone, and the St. Cristopher medal. What about your watch?”
“My watch?” Luke looked down at his watch. He blinked twice like he’d only just realized he was wearing the familiar hunk of metal.
“It was a present from Charlie,” Dante said.
Luke nodded. “On my eighteenth birthday. You remember that?”
“I was there.” He’d spent three weeks stressing over a present before finally showing up with half a dozen scratch-off tickets in a shiny red envelope. “It belonged to your grandfather, right?” Passed down from
father to son and then on down the bloodline. Not that Dante was racist. Just because the only thing he’d inherited from his unknown father was hair that could be seen from outer space. “It’s got to be worth a few bucks.”
“I’ve never really thought about it.” Luke pulled a face. He fumbled hurriedly to undo the watch’s metal wrist. He stared at it for a long moment. “You think that means something. That he didn’t take my watch. Like he’s not taking the jewelry to sell. He wants trophies.”
“Maybe.” Dante frowned. “Maybe you got lucky and he didn’t see it. I try not to read too much into some idiot’s motives. Not without a shit-ton of other information.”
“Is this how you do it?” Luke seemed to have calmed down a little. His long legs were swinging, his feet only an inch or two above the scuffed wood floor. “How you question suspects?”
“You’re not a suspect,” Dante said. “You’re a witness. I’m a hell of a lot tougher on suspects.”
“The witness we need to get your captain to take this thing seriously?”
“Not a chance. He already knows you’re involved. He’ll think it was a regular mugging. That you changed your story because we needed a witness.”
Luke dropped the watch onto the desk beside him. It landed between a pair of empty coffee mugs, a stapler, and three different colored pads of Post-it notes: green, pink, and classic yellow. He didn’t pick it up again. “I didn’t change my story.”
“No. You didn’t. You faced down a dangerous maniac, and you survived—”
“I lost my stuff.” His nose scrunched up. “I let him take it.”
“You made the smart choice, and you survived,” Dante repeated a little louder this time. “With a guy like that? You don’t fight. I tell people that at work all the time, and it’s true. But he saw your face. Tracking him down? Finding him? That’s dangerous for anyone, but he’s seen your face.” It was too dangerous for Luke to keep being part of the investigation. If they walked down the wrong street—if they knocked on the wrong door—then the lurking attacker would recognize Luke.
And then it would be all over.
There’d be no second meeting down a dark alley.
The guy who’d been attacking men all over New York City was getting more violent. The next time he hit, someone could end up dead.
That someone could be Luke.
Not going to happen.
Dante might be enough of an asshole to sleep with his beloved foster father’s only real son. He might even be on the verge of breaking rule one for the first time in his life, but there was a difference between breaking Luke’s heart and letting him get murdered.
This next bit wasn’t going to be easy.
Dante shifted forward until his toes hit the stiff leather box of his shoes. His clothes suddenly felt too small, too tight. He tugged at his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. It didn’t help. Much. “When’s your shift over?”
Luke checked the time on the wall clock. The fire must have been something because his mouth moved as he worked out how many hours were left. “A couple of hours?” He did the math a second time. “Two and a half hours. Crap. This has been a horrible day.” His lips quirked upward. “Started out pretty good though.”
“It was a nice run.” Dante tried to smile and failed. “When your shift’s over, you’re going home.”
“Back to your apartment.”
“Long Island,” he corrected forcefully. It might not be as much fun as having Luke snugly in his bed, but at least he’d be safe.
Luke hopped off the side of the desk, stumbling awkwardly before catching himself on a small chair set up for visitors. He straightened. “Not a chance.”
“You’re going back to Long Island, and you’re going to stay there.”
He took a deep breath. “I’ve got a class tonight—”
“Then you’ll go home after your class.”
“I’ve got a life,” Luke objected. “We’ve got a life.”
“It’s too dangerous. I never should have let you help with the investigation.”
And there it was. Luke was completely and utterly pissed. More than that, he looked gutted. One eyebrow was lifted just a little bit. His mouth was crooked. “Bullshit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s bullshit,” Luke said. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not going to be coddled and protected.” He grabbed Dante’s arm, holding him in position. “You go undercover. You put yourself in danger every day, but I can’t even read a few files?”
“It’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re Charlie’s real son.” And there it was, a universe of insecurities laid bare for everyone to see. With everything else they’d been through in their lives, it was the one difference that really mattered. “You’re blood and if anything happens to you—” Charlie would never forgive him. All those cops who’d watched Luke grow up would never forgive him. Those were hard truths, but there was something even more vital he knew down in his bones. “—I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
“Blood doesn’t make a family,” Luke parroted for the millionth time. Dante had heard the words so many times he almost believed them, but underneath he’d always known the truth in the deep gnawing place inside: Luke was blood and he wasn’t.
Luke would always come first, and if that meant Dante had to push him away to keep him safe then so be it. He could make do with polite words at holiday dinners and occasional smiles.
The sex—the sex had been great.
The relationship they’d started building over ramen and pizza was even better.
But keeping Luke alive was more important.
“‘Blood doesn’t make a family.’” He could still the hear words ringing, echoing in his ears. “Yes, it does—”
“No. It doesn’t.” The steel-gray color had crept back into Luke’s eyes. If Dante never saw it again it would be too soon. When he spoke, his voice was ice cold. “Blood doesn’t make a family. You think Charlie started saying that when you came around?”
“What?”
“I’m not Dad’s real son—not that it fucking matters. In case you didn’t notice, he’s Irish and I’m black.”
It wasn’t possible. “You’re mixed—”
“The man’s practically transparent. I’m the poster boy for melanin.” Luke took a step closer, then seemed to remember he was angry at Dante and retreated to the far side of the room. “You’re not the only one with a shitty origin story. My mom was a confidential informant, right up until she wasn’t. Two years later Charlie gets a call from the federal pen in Pennsylvania. She was doing fifty to life on felony murder. She must have got pregnant the week before they put her away because out I popped nine months later. Not that she wanted me around.”
This was a story Dante had never heard before. Not from Luke. Not from Charlie. Not from any of the older detectives around the station who liked to sling gossip like hamburgers at a truck stop diner. “She asked Charlie to take you in?”
“She didn’t ask. The social workers needed a name to put on the birth certificate, and she said Charles David Parsons. They never slept together. Not before she went to prison. Not ever.” Luke spit the information out rapid-fire. “Maybe she knew Charlie wouldn’t ask for a DNA test. Maybe it was the only name she could remember. Either way Charlie was given six hours’ notice to pick me up at the prison gates or have me sent to foster care.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask. You just assumed. You and every other one of the kids Charlie fostered over the years. His chosen kids.” The floors creaked under Luke’s feet as he walked forward until he was almost—but not quite—close enough to touch. “He chose you. Me? It would have gotten around the department eventually if he’d turned me down. With me there was no choice.”
“Blood doesn’t make a family.” The words were automatic. Dante didn’t even realize he’d said them until they were out of his mouth.
Damn. Things were all kinds of screwed up.
He slumped against the closest wall. The firehouse was built out of old plaster, cool to the touch. It felt good against his back. How had they ended up in this place? Arguing angrily in a borrowed office.
“You’re Charlie’s son. He loves you,” Dante said stubbornly. “I can’t let you get hurt.”
“Charlie loves me? What about you? I thought you cared.” Luke kicked out hard enough to make his boss’s desk shake. “I’m not that kid anymore. I’m a grown man. I can make my own decisions. I don’t need to be coddled—”
“I won’t allow you to put yourself in danger.”
“That’s not a decision you get to make,” Luke said. “Maybe if you were my boyfriend. Maybe if you asked me, but this? Fuck, did you ever care about me at all?”
Dante cared so much his heart was breaking, but he wasn’t about to let that show on his face.
He was a professional, damn it.
And if they were broken up then Luke was more likely to go back to Long Island after his class than to hang around the city.
He was keeping Luke safe.
Whatever it took.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was the longest damn shift of Luke’s career. The exhaustion that had been gnawing him all day descended like a great gray monster to tear whole strips out of his flesh.
Or maybe that was just how it felt to lose someone he cared about.
Crud. All the time they’d spent together Luke thought he’d finally managed to squash his fear of rejection. Then Dante had told him to go back to Long Island and it had come roaring back like a wild animal finally released from a too-small cage to tear at his heart. He’d had other relationships before, real relationships that lasted more than one magical week, so why did Dante’s rejection make him feel like he was coming apart at the seams?
Because it was more than just a week. Their relationship had been building and growing in one way or another for years.