Shift’s End

by A. R. Barley

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was Thanksgiving in New York, and the tiny bungalow on Staten Island had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. The couch was shoved up against a wall and the coffee table was in the backyard. When they finally sat down to dinner, almost twenty people had squeezed into the front room.

  Jack was at the head of the borrowed table, carving the turkey. Mona and Eric were on his right side. They’d spent three days baking pies—pumpkin, apple, and mincemeat. Alex and Troy had contributed a pot full of tortellini soup. The beer was from Dante and Luke. Luke’s father, Charlie, had provided the wine. Reese and his wife, Laurie, had decided to come at the last minute when a snowstorm in the Midwest canceled their planned trip to visit their daughter. At the far end of the room, Diesel’s cousin Peter and his family were munching on cheese and crackers.

  If one more person walked through the door, Jack was going to have to turn himself in for violating the fire code. He’d never been happier...except for one thing. “You keep messing around in the kitchen and everyone’s going to eat without you,” he called out over the chaos.

  “I’ve been snacking all day.” Diesel finally appeared in the door holding a dish full of sweet potatoes. He was dressed in a scarlet sweater that was soft to the touch. His jeans were worn with a hole in one knee and his feet were bare. Alex had convinced him to try painting his toenails a couple of weeks earlier, and he’d taken to switching the color every Friday night while they watched a movie on the couch. “I’m pretty sure I’d live.”

  “Uh-huh, but then I’d have to make small talk.” Jack put his knife down just long enough to pull his lover into a strong kiss. In the six months since Diesel had moved in their bond had only grown stronger. Every morning they woke up next to each other, and each night... Yeah, Jack had been enjoying the nights.

  Diesel disengaged. He put the sweet potatoes down and slipped into the chair to his left. “Does anyone want to say grace?”

  Everybody made a point of looking anywhere but at each other. After a long moment’s silence Charlie Parsons cleared his throat. He pressed his elbows against the table and clasped his hands together. “We ask for the courage to face our fears and the strength to protect others. We give thanks for our community and to the partners who stand by our sides.” He paused for a second, like he was trying to figure out if anything else needed to be said. “Amen.”

  It was as good a prayer as any and better than most. Everybody at the table bobbed their heads in unison. “Amen.”

  The turkey was a little bit dry. The mashed potatoes were runny. The crust on the pumpkin pie was burnt. Jack loved every single bite. When it was finally over, they split up into two groups. Eric led the team putting the living room back together while Charlie helped Jack and Diesel do the dishes.

  “I’m too old to be moving furniture around,” the retired police detective explained.

  Jack wiped down a clean plate, stacking it on the counter. “You’re pretty spry for an old guy.”

  “Yeah, well, I keep active. I sold my house last month, redid the entire thing from the ground up.” Charlie flushed. “I was going to move into one of those old age communities. I went to look at a bunch of them, but—damn—they were boring. Bought a little fixer upper instead. Figure I can work on that for a couple of years.”

  “You know anything about tile?” Diesel asked. “We’re going to redo the bathroom. I can switch out a toilet, but the tile’s got me frustrated.”

  “There are videos online.”

  “Sure, but it’d be nice if we had help from someone who actually knows what they’re doing,” Diesel said, like they hadn’t already painted every wall in the house and reupholstered the bench seats at the breakfast table.

  Jack kept doing the dishes while Diesel talked to Charlie Parsons about subway tiles versus checkered marble. When the plates were dried and stacked up and Diesel had moved on to the casserole dishes, Jack handed the towel over to Charlie. No one paid much attention as he slipped out the back door.

  His hands shook as he fumbled the key in Mona’s door. Hiding Diesel’s present had taken work, but, hopefully, it’d be worth it. He grabbed the box waiting by the couch and raced back across the thatched lawn separating their two houses.

  The box was heavier than he’d thought. When he got back to the kitchen, Diesel was alone, thank God. Jack hadn’t planned this far ahead. He slipped in quietly through the back door and put the box down on the built-in table. He cleared his throat.

  Diesel wiped his hands on his jeans, then turned to face him, his lips stretched into a wide grin.

  “There’s something on your face,” Jack said. “Right—” He reached up and swiped a smudge of cranberry sauce from Diesel’s cheek. Adorable.

  Jack grinned. “Have I told you how much better my life is with you in it?”

  “Not recently.”

  “Fuck, I love you.” He swallowed hard as soon as the words were out of his mouth. His head was aching, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “There was supposed to be more of a buildup to that.” He’d been planning the best way to say “I love you” for weeks. He should have just said it, every morning and night and a hundred times in between.

  Damn. He’d been an idiot, but it was too late to turn back now.

  “I really love you.” His hands felt sweaty. He needed to explain—

  “Eep.” The noise came from the table.

  Diesel’s gaze narrowed. “What’s in the box, Jack?”

  Right. Jack half turned. “So, I was thinking about how none of my relationships have lasted for more than four years. I don’t want that with you.” They were the real deal. A lifetime of love and commitment in an FDNY-approved package. “I love you forever and ever, and I thought one way I could show you—” It had made so much sense at the time. “You have to love me even if this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Eric and Mona are still in the other room. Whatever you’ve done, I’m sure they can think of something dumber.”

  Great. Forget explaining everything. Maybe it would be easier to just show him. He opened the front of the box, reached in and scooped up his prize.

  The puppy was so damn fluffy, it was like holding a cotton ball. A wriggling, mewling, cotton ball that licked his face any time it got the chance. “Eric and I picked him up from an adoption fair last weekend,” Jack said. “They don’t know all of what he is, but the lady who was fostering him says he’s at least part spaniel.”

  “A puppy?”

  “He’s going to live a hell of a lot longer than four years,” Jack explained. “It’s supposed to be symbolic.”

  “I love him.” Diesel crossed the last few steps between them. “I love you.” He pulled Jack into a warm hug, tilting his head down to press their lips together. He tasted like gravy and beer and happy memories yet to come. Then he laughed, sharp and giddy in a way that made Jack wonder if he’d made a mistake after all. Right up until he realized the puppy was helping himself to some of the cranberry sauce still coating Diesel’s cheek. “Does he have a name?”

  “His foster mom was calling him Gizmo, but I figured you could improve on it.”

  “Spencer,” Diesel said emphatically. “Spencer Tracey, like the actor.”

  It was absolutely freaking perfect. Jack kissed Diesel long and hard, ignoring the wiggling puppy between them. If he had his way, Spencer wouldn’t be the only one changing his last name to Tracey.

  * * * * *

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  Read on for an excerpt from Broken Protocol, the second book in t
he Smoke & Bullets series

  Chapter One

  Smoke & Bullets was a dank basement bar on the wrong street corner in Hell’s Kitchen, and so dark it always took Dante’s eyes a moment to adjust. He crossed his fingers and said a quiet prayer that he could have a beer with his new partner here without running into a certain somebody.

  Finn took two steps inside and stopped short. “I thought we were going for a drink. Not catching typhus.” He wrinkled his nose at the sour scent of days’ old beer clinging to the chipped linoleum.

  Finn freaking Pride. A detective so green he could go undercover as a fern.

  “It’s a fucking cop bar.” The beer was cold, their fries almost edible, and on occasion they played music from the jukebox. Dante led the way through the round tables and rickety chairs. A dozen faces turned in their direction, and despite his long absence he nodded a greeting without stopping to talk to anyone. He was here for a drink and to introduce his partner to the scene. That was it. Twenty minutes tops, then he’d be going home to the comfortable silence of his Inwood apartment.

  “Beer,” Dante told the bartender when he finally got up to the counter. “Whatever’s on tap.”

  A frothy glass of beer appeared in front of Dante. He handed over some cash. “Keep the change.” He took a long sip. The beer was frothy and bitter.

  “You didn’t get me a drink?”

  “This isn’t a date.”

  “No shit.” Finn leaned in to order. “Whiskey. Neat.” While his drink was poured, he looked around. Every thought he had was telegraphed across his face.

  He’d be crap at undercover.

  A tumbler landed in front of Finn and he took a quick sip. His mouth twisted. “Everyone in here wears a badge?”

  “Except for the firefighters.” And there was the other reason Dante normally avoided Smoke & Bullets like it was a one-way ticket to food poisoning. Hose jockeys were friendly assholes. Where there was one there were five more.

  “So if I wanted to ask someone about the Donnelly gang?” Finn went to take another sip, thought better of it, and placed his glass carefully on the counter. “Or how to avoid getting on the captain’s bad side?”

  “Or the best way to put through a special warrant request, or who’s been keeping a close eye on the usual suspects, or whose ass you need to kiss to get promoted.” He could watch the tumblers clicking into place behind Finn’s hazel eyes. Maybe he wasn’t a complete idiot after all, even if he was young and inexperienced. “Only so much gets put down in reports. A good cop bar is where you go to find the rest of it.”

  “And this is a good cop bar?”

  “One of the best.”

  Something heavy knocked into him. “Sorry, dude,” someone said from behind him. “Let me buy you a beer.”

  “No thanks. I’ve already got one.” Dante headed for the last quiet corner at the far end of the bar. The little patch of countertop between the dirty dishes and the bottle rack wasn’t exactly palatial but he pulled over two bar stools and squeezed himself in. At least with his back to the wall no one could bang into him by surprise. He pulled his beanie out and tugged it down over his head, the soft wool comfortable and familiar, the slight pressure against his scalp reassuring, and pasted his practiced smile onto his face.

  Finn frowned. “You look like a pitbull with a hangover. Does that smile work on women? Guys in Homicide say you have a reputation for booze, babes and busting heads.”

  “Yeah, well, that hasn’t been me for a couple of years.” In his early twenties the sex had been fantastic, the women gorgeous, and if he’d mostly been too drunk to remember the sex, he’d also been too drunk to feel guilty when he moved on to someone new.

  That had all stopped when his foster father had taken him aside after one particularly public escapade. “You’re a police officer,” Charlie Parsons had said. “A man. It’s about time you started acting like one. Find someone you can’t live without. Settle down. Have a couple of kids.” He’d slapped Dante on the back. “Make me a grandfather.”

  Kids were out of the question, but Dante had taken the rest of his advice to heart. He’d cut back on the booze and lately he’d dropped women entirely.

  Fuck.

  He might as well be a monk.

  There was a crashing sound over near the battered pool table near the back—fire department territory. A dozen glasses shattered against the ground. It was followed by a thunderous applause.

  The crowd parted, giving Dante a clear view of a man leaning over the pool table, larger than life. His muscular body was packed into a pair of skintight jeans, and a green T-shirt clung to his chest. The rich color perfectly complemented teak skin that gleamed under the low lights. Mahogany curls framed symmetrical features. His nose was straight. His lips were full.

  His eyes were too far away to see clearly, but Dante knew without a doubt that they were a grass green that deepened to a mossy color when he was concentrating.

  And gleamed like emeralds when he was horny.

  Luke freaking Parsons. The reason Dante had spent so much time on out-of-town undercover jobs.

  Dante’s heart stuttered. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He should have known that the social lives of New York City cops and firefighters were too incestuous for him to avoid Luke for long. No matter how hard he’d tried.

  His foster brother had broken with Parsons family tradition to join New York’s Bravest instead of New York’s Finest when he graduated from college a few years earlier. His engine house was only a few blocks away from Smoke & Bullets, tucked into one of the many pocket neighborhoods that made up lower Manhattan. They’d probably walked over as a group after shift change to join the rest of their friends waiting at the bar.

  Luke shifted forward onto the balls of his feet and leaned down to make his shot. His shirt pulled free from his jeans, displaying a long strip of muscular flesh over a heart-shaped ass.

  Not that Dante noticed.

  Or cared.

  He’d built a career out of not noticing Luke Parsons, taking on extra shifts instead of going to family dinners and volunteering for undercover assignments when the pressure got to be a little too much to bear.

  Finn was grinning. “Damn. I don’t care what he does for a living. Just tell me he’s gay.”

  “You touch him and I’ll gut you,” Dante growled, the words ripping out of his throat before he could stop himself. He couldn’t make that kind of demand. He didn’t have the right. Not when he’d been avoiding his foster brother for so long it had turned into a habit. How many years had it been since they’d occupied the same space? Too many. That didn’t stop him from glaring his partner down.

  “That’d be a crying shame.” Finn frowned. “Why do you care? He a friend of yours? Old partner? Arch nemesis?”

  “Something like that.”

  Luke made his shot. It must have been a good one because there was a whoop of excitement from the men near the pool table. One of his friends wrapped his arms around his waist and gave him a tight squeeze.

  Dante’s hands clenched tight into fists.

  Then the hand on Luke’s hip dropped a few inches to knead his ass. Luke batted him away as he bent forward to line up his next shot. Then the hand went in for another squeeze.

  Dante’s mind went blank.

  Instinct took over as he charged across the crowded bar.

  * * *

  Luke laughed when he felt a hand on his ass just as he was going to take a shot. Alex Tate was happily engaged to the love of his life, but he’d do anything to win a game of pool. Cheater.

  And then the earth moved.

  Alex let out a rough yelp as his hand was yanked away. His feet came out from under him and he stumbled, hard, into the pool table as a hard body in a white button-down pushed him to the side.

  “What the hell?” Luke demanded, his face je
rking upward. His eyes widening as he met a familiar pair of mismatched eyes. “Dante.”

  Dante’s succulent lips twisted into a shit-eating grin. His focus didn’t leave Alex. “Touch him again, and you’ll be bobbing toes-up in the Hudson.”

  The scrape of Dante’s rough voice on Luke’s frayed nerves was enough to set his skin tingling and his blood burning. He gulped down the sudden burst of emotion. This wasn’t the time or place for his stupid childhood crush to make a resurgence.

  Not when other people had started to notice the commotion at the pool table. A dozen different men had started moving in their direction, hands forming into fists.

  “You’ve got to come up with a new threat.” He stepped forward, grabbed Dante’s hand, and pried him off Alex. “You’ve been using that one since I was nine years old.”

  “You were a cute kid. Ears too big for your head.” Dante shrugged. “Then you grew up.”

  “My ears are still too big for my head.” Luke waggled the appendages in question. That actually earned him a smile and a noise that in someone else might have qualified as a death croak but he was taking as a laugh.

  “Luke, you want to explain what’s going on?” At six foot three with muscles built to carry sixty pounds of equipment upstairs in a towering inferno, Alex’s boyfriend, Troy Barnes, was built like a tank. And with years of training courtesy of the US Army, he knew how to fight.

  If Luke didn’t defuse the situation carefully, the resulting explosion could end with someone getting hurt. For a minute he almost considered letting it happen. At least if Dante was bruised and broken on the floor, he wouldn’t be able to run off again.

  But Dante liked to fight dirty, and Troy was still getting over his own wounds.

  Luke held up his hands. “Just a misunderstanding. It’s all over now.”

  “It’s not over until that guy apologizes.” Dante glared at Alex, who’d taken the opportunity to slip behind his boyfriend. “He grabbed your ass. You told him no—I could see it from all the way up at the bar—and he did it anyway.”