by A. R. Barley
It had been real.
Right up until Dante said he wouldn’t allow Luke to put himself in danger.
Allow.
Like Luke was still nine years old. Like he needed permission.
Hearing it put that way was like a knife in the gut. Luke turned the words over and over again in his head for the next four days as he went about his regularly scheduled life—work, school, an hour and a half commute back to Long Island—right up until he realized that was probably what Dante wanted.
It had been four days and he hadn’t done a single thing to help find the attacker. He’d just been wallowing in his own unhappiness.
He missed Dante.
Damn it.
So, on day five he got out his best club clothes, slicked his hair back, and headed back to the one place he’d sworn he’d never go again. Toro. Dante was a smart cop, but he worked like a cop. He’d start at the most recent incident and go backward. Maybe he’d even get a lucky break and someone would recognize the sketch of the suspect he was having made up.
Luke could be more flexible.
It took a while for criminals to develop their skills, so he’d start at the earliest known mugging—his own—and work from there. Maybe he’d catch a lucky break and Tim would know something more about their attacker. He’d gotten close enough for the attacker to land a punch. Had he seen any identifying marks? Maybe he knew where to buy those red sneakers.
He hadn’t been kidding when he said the nightclub was a Brooklyn fixture. It was built in a converted warehouse, stuck in between a dry cleaner and a charcuterie. The crowd had long since outgrown the venue, and on the weekend the line wrapped around the block.
It wasn’t the weekend. Luke got in with a wink and a nod to the oversized bouncer at the door. He forced himself to keep his back straight and his shoulders raised as he walked toward the dance floor. His boots clip-clopped audibly against the gleaming cement floor. Even on a weekday at least a hundred other people had shown up looking to boogie. They looked small in the cavernous space.
More than a few of them turned in his direction, staring covetously at his silk shirt, his perfectly faded jeans, or his tight ass. He gave them each the same easygoing, flirtatious smile. Half a dozen smiled back. Bingo. He approached them each one by one, smiling, laughing, twirling them around the dance floor with his guaranteed-to-give-a-straight-guy-a-woody moves.
He might not have excelled at swimming lessons—and the boxing had clearly been a lost cause—but he’d aced his elementary school’s ballroom dancing classes. All it took was a swing of his hips and a little cha-cha in his step. Ballroom and club dancing weren’t exactly the same thing, but they both required a sense of rhythm and a little creativity.
Just like good sex.
Dante might not like to dance, but he’d always had great rhythm. He’d been fantastic in bed. Or maybe it was the way they’d moved together. In perfect synch.
Luke wasn’t going to think about that.
Instead he asked the men if they’d ever danced with someone named Tim. Where did he live? Did any of them have his phone number?
It was useless. They didn’t know anything useful, and most of them danced too close. They grabbed his ass or pulled him in just a bit too tight.
It would have been fine a few weeks earlier.
Hell, he’d have enjoyed it.
A lot.
But now he was just thinking that the hand moving against him should belong to Dante. The men grinding against him, warming him with their body heat, they should all be Dante.
After six different men asked for his phone number, he gave up and headed for the bar.
“Hello, gorgeous.” The bartender was twice the size of the guy at The Golden Bow but he still managed to pull off adorable with a streak of blue in his hair and the matching neon eyeliner that rimmed his gray peepers. “You paint those pants on?”
“Just about.” Luke grinned. “I like to make an entrance.”
“Then you’ve definitely succeeded.” Mr. Blue Hair smiled. Dimples. Cute. “Can I set you up with something to drink?”
“Seltzer and lime.”
“Big spender.”
“But I tip well.”
“A man after my own heart.” The bartender chuckled and made up his drink, depositing it on the counter in front of him with a flourish. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yeah.” He dropped a twenty-dollar bill onto the hardwood between them and pushed it across. “Were you here for the Dark Iris concert?”
The bartender did a fancy bit of magic and picked up the money without seeming to move at all. “They were crazy.”
“I met a guy here that night. Tim.”
Mr. Blue Hair laughed. “Not exactly an uncommon name. What was he like? Skinny?”
“Cute-skinny, not starving-to-death-in-a-third-world-country skinny.”
“I might know who you’re talking about.”
Good enough. Luke drank some of his seltzer water. “Know how I can get in touch with him?”
“You looking to buy some Hucci?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a knockoff brand, you know, like—”
“I got it.” Knockoffs weren’t exactly Luke’s thing. His clothes were either hard-wearing, vintage, or homemade, but not everyone had the patience or downtime to knit their own cardigans.
Hucci. It was kind of funny.
Were the attacker’s sneakers knockoffs? That would explain why Luke hadn’t been able to locate the brand insignia online. There’d been so many almost matches, but...
This might actually be something. His next sip of seltzer water was a little fast, and he ended up with bubbles up his nose. If he could track down Tim, he might have a real lead on the attacker’s identity. Then Dante would have to realize that he wasn’t some damsel in distress.
Luke grinned. “I was just hoping to take the guy for a cup of coffee.”
“Take me out for coffee instead. Tim’s okay, but his boyfriend’s a real piece of work.”
“Boyfriend?” Luke frowned. Maybe they weren’t talking about the same guy after all. Tim had definitely been friendly, even if most of his questions had been about firefighting. He’d wanted to know what kind of qualifications someone needed to apply, how long the training was, if his captain was a hard-ass.
If Luke hadn’t known better, he’d have thought the other man was applying for a job.
But there’d also been the little touches and soft smiles of a man who was definitely interested in something more.
“He wasn’t acting like a guy who had a warm bed to go home to.”
“He never does. I think it’s part of their kink.” The bartender considered for a long minute before reaching under the counter to pull out his cell phone. “Or he’s trying to leave. Either way it’s screwed up.” He typed something in quickly. “What’s your phone number?”
Luke rattled it off.
“Okay.” He typed a little more. “That’s the address I have for Tim; I don’t know if it’s good anymore.”
“Thanks.”
“Not a problem.” Mr. Blue Hair gave him a friendly wink. “You’ve also got my phone number. Call anytime you want. And if you see the boyfriend? Run.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Dark hair. Generic asshole. Likes to sample the merchandise, so his clothes always look almost high-end.”
“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out.” Luke took one more long look at the dance floor—all those gorgeous, happy men eager to make his acquaintance—and knew he wouldn’t be using the phone number. Even if Mr. Blue Hair had dimples just the way he liked.
He wanted Dante.
First, he needed to track down Tim and find out what he knew. He finished his seltzer water in two quick gulps, then hit the streets.
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People thought of Brooklyn as a smaller secondary borough compared to Manhattan, but the truth was the opposite. It had almost twice the population and three times the land area. Luke didn’t have Dante’s preference for taxis, but in this instance he was more than happy to hail a yellow cab and give the driver Tim’s address.
The driver was a slim woman in an oversized sweatshirt advertising New York basketball. Her hair was dyed eight different shades of orange and blue. The variation in color might have been a mistake, except it was plaited into an arrangement that would make any sci-fi princess proud. She turned around in her seat to stare Luke down. “You sure you want to go there? It’s not exactly a walk in the Gayborhood.”
“I’m secretly a badass.”
“Right.” She nodded in a way that said she didn’t believe a word he said, but at least she turned back around to face the street. A couple of seconds later the taxi was finally moving forward.
Luke had lived in New York his entire life. He was a firefighter. He could lift large weights over his head and—on very rare occasions—talk back to his own father. He was freaking fearless.
That didn’t mean he was an idiot.
Taxi drivers in New York were like cockroaches: true survivors. If the driver thought the neighborhood they were going into was sketch as fuck then she was probably right. He fiddled with his phone for another minute before hitting the home button and turning it on.
There were no missed calls and no new text messages. Dante hadn’t gotten in touch with him once since walking out of the captain’s office.
Luke pulled up his text messages and found the most recent one from Finn. The words had changed, but the message was the same every single time he texted: Dante was an asshole to work with, worse than usual, send help, please.
Luke hadn’t responded.
Dante was always going to be an asshole. It was in his freaking DNA. There was nothing Luke could do to help.
Except Dante wasn’t a jerk really, not down deep inside. He was a nice guy dealing with his own issues. Working undercover hadn’t been easy either, but no matter how long he’d stayed away, keeping himself sectioned off like a prisoner in solitary confinement, he’d never actually disappeared completely. No matter how far away he was or how important the assignment, he’d always made time to call Luke on his birthday or get in touch with Charlie around the holidays. It wasn’t nothing. Dante’d been crushing on Luke since they were both kids. He might not agree with how Dante’d dealt with it, but he had to respect his choices. Calling like that? It must have hurt Dante almost as much as it hurt Luke.
Maybe even more.
Fuck, Luke loved him. He’d always loved him, he always would love him, but now he was also in love with him.
Just acknowledging it was enough to lift a weight off his shoulders. As soon as he was done in Brooklyn, he’d catch another cab up to Inwood and talk to Dante. He could pick up dinner on the way.
Indian food from that place they both liked in Morningside Heights and something special for dessert.
First, he needed to finish up with Tim.
And that meant letting someone know where he was going. He texted quickly: “I might have a lead on the case. Going to check it out. I’ll let you know if it’s something.”
Then he added the address.
* * *
If Dante had to spend five more minutes with Finn Freaking Pride, he was going to tear his partner’s head off. When the captain had asked him to stay late to go over paperwork, he’d jumped on the opportunity. Unfortunately, Finn had decided to stay too. He was taking the time to compare the sketch the witness had made of their gay-basher to a binder of similar dirtbags. So far no one was a match.
He’d gotten takeout from the deli down the street.
It smelled like ass.
He’d insisted that Dante eat half of it. Cheerful freaking bastard.
Dante was finishing up when Finn’s phone buzzed. A friend or something else? Maybe it was a message on one of his dating apps. Lots of people met their soul mates online. Luke could be on one right now finding a man who wasn’t afraid to commit to more than one day at a time. Someone who didn’t insult him every time they opened their idiotic mouth.
Would he bring him to Charlie’s birthday party?
Should Dante find someone to bring to the party? He could get a drink and hit the bar. It couldn’t be too hard. He’d done it before after a drink or ten.
The air tasted sour just thinking about it. He ground his arm against the borrowed desk until the watch he was wearing bit into his wrist. Luke wouldn’t have left the watch behind on purpose. He’d come looking for it eventually, and when he did he’d find Dante.
They’d talk.
He’d explain.
What, exactly, he didn’t know.
But he’d keep explaining until Luke understood exactly how much he cared about him. Damn it. Rule one was just something Charlie said that first week in the house on Long Island. Dante was the one who’d always taken it too seriously, protecting Luke no matter what.
Even when Luke didn’t need protecting.
That’s what had hurt more than anything else.
Luke had been attacked and he hadn’t called Dante. He’d made a generic report to a beat cop. If he hadn’t run into the attacker a second time, no one would have ever known.
Why the hell hadn’t he called Dante? Probably for the same reason Dante hadn’t called him all those times when he was hurt on assignment.
Stubborn.
Idiotic.
The both of them.
Finn glanced down at his phone for a millisecond, maybe less. Then he pushed it away.
There was a long silence.
Dante leaned back in his chair. His partner was looking at the walls, at the floors, anywhere but at his cell phone. Suspicious. “Why aren’t you making a joke about the future Mr. Pride?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your app.” Dante directed with a jerk of one hand. “Someone finally respond to your dating profile: single male searching for same.”
“It’s not an app. It’s a text message.” All the color had disappeared from Finn’s face. Combined with his blond hair, it left him looking washed out and monochromatic. “It’s Luke.”
“Okay.” Dante’s hands seemed to form up into fists of their own accord. Luke was texting Finn. Why? “You two going to start dating now?”
Except that wasn’t Luke’s style. He’d never been the kind to rebound fast, and he’d only ever flirted with Finn to make Dante jealous. Was that what he was doing now?
It was working.
Sort of.
“You going to look at the message?” Dante asked.
Finn shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What if it’s private?”
“It’s not going to be.”
“What if it is?”
Then Dante would throw himself off the George Washington Bridge. He rolled his eyes. “Then you don’t fucking tell me. Now read it.”
“Okay.” Finn picked up his phone and swiped it on.
It shouldn’t take a grown man—a police detective—that long to read a damn text message.
Dante threw a pencil at him. “What does it say?”
“Luke says he has a lead on the case.” Finn frowned. “I thought you said he wasn’t going to work on it anymore?” His nostrils flared. “There’s an address.”
Damn it. Dante tugged his keyboard a little bit closer. “Read it out to me.” He plugged it into the database then had Finn read it back a second time to double-check his work. The department hadn’t bought new computers in over five years. His old desktop hummed and whirred, but nothing could make it run any faster.
Three and a half minutes later there was a ping.
“‘Fraudulent materials,’” he read off the scr
een. “Why would Luke be going to meet with a forger?” According to the pertinent details running across the screen the house had last been raided six months earlier. Detectives had pulled out ten pallets of fake shoes, everything from Jimmy Choo to Prada to limited-edition sneakers. He clicked on a photo. Definitely shoes, but he couldn’t tell if they were fakes from a photograph.
Some of them weren’t very good-looking.
One pair of sneakers caught his eye in particular. It was overdesigned and gaudy, a bright flashing red that would catch the eye no matter how dark the surrounding environment.
Fuck.
The suspect’s name was Harvey Leiter. Dante didn’t recognize him, but top of the list of known associates was Timothy Kane. Tim. Like the Tim that Luke had been talking to right before he was attacked.
There were three other known associates. He clicked through the files quickly until he found exactly what he was looking for: dark hair, thin eyebrows, a nose that had been broken more than once, and a trio of freckles to the left of his mouth.
He turned the screen so Finn could get a look. “Is this him?”
There was a rattle of papers on the other desk as Finn pulled out the sketch. He looked at it carefully. Then he looked at the screen. He looked back at the paper.
Not fast enough.
Luke was in danger. Not some vague possibility from the outer reaches of Dante’s overworked mind. Real danger.
He was walking right into the belly of the beast.
Dante stood so fast his chair fell over. He didn’t bother picking it up. He was already running with Finn only a few steps behind him. He needed to get across town. Fast. He had to save Luke.
Not because of rule one.
But because he loved him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The taxi dropped Luke off at the end of the street and zipped away. Luke had to walk the final sixty feet himself, his shoulders bowed against the cold. The joints in his knees were stiff, but it didn’t take him more than a minute to get to the tattered old bungalow with the lemon-yellow door just visible in the dark and the wind chimes hanging off the porch.