“Your ride.”
“I can walk myself.” Sam scowled.
“That’s probably true, but this is hospital policy. Giddyup.” The orderly patted the seat—he’d heard it all before.
Sam let himself be wheeled to the parking lot where Nathan’s car waited. He did feel wobbly enough on the icy pavement not to protest when Nathan helped him into the passenger’s seat. He could buckle his own seatbelt, though, thank you very much.
The entire city still seemed to be asleep, or waiting for the thaw. Even with Nathan’s powerful engine and winter tires, his car skidded out of the hospital lot and onto the snow-covered road. Sam could hardly remember the last time they’d gotten so much snow. Plows were up and running, clearing the main streets, and Sam thought about all the business he and Yuri would miss out on if he couldn’t work.
Nathan’s car smelled like cold leather and cinnamon. The high-tech dashboard panel had more gadgets than the Batmobile.
Sam’s stomach growled.
“Hungry?”
“I could eat. I don’t have any food at my place, though.”
“Let’s get some breakfast to take home.”
BREAKFAST TURNED out to be the only cleared-out drive-through, which was fine by Sam. He was starving. He’d wolfed down one breakfast burrito and was starting on his second by the time they made it back to his apartment.
Four flights of stairs had never seemed so daunting.
“We can rest if you need to,” Nathan said.
“I’m… I’m fine.” Sam didn’t want to let on how much his head hurt. It would only add to Nathan’s guilt about not getting to him soon enough.
Even so, Nathan kept one hand on Sam’s waist as they ascended the stairs, as though he were afraid Sam would decide to faint and take a header back down. Sam liked it enough not to complain.
“One of these days, we’ll climb the stairs and not have to lean on each other for help,” Sam said, before blushing at his presumption. Only yesterday he’d wondered if Nathan’s attraction had been an act to escape a murder charge. But Nathan only laughed.
Sam’s apartment was slightly less of a shithole than usual. He’d actually cleaned during the past week. Depression did strange things to a guy. Nathan switched on the lights, turned on the heat, and then removed his FBI jacket and bulletproof vest.
“Here. You go change and lie down, and I’ll bring you something to drink.”
“Great. I’ll take a double whiskey.”
“Water, Sam, or juice.” Nathan didn’t sound amused.
“I know. I know. I’m joking.”
Changing did sound like a good idea, though. Sam kicked off his shoes and retreated to his room, which was fucking freezing. He shivered as he discarded his dirty jeans and the scrub shirt. They’d washed his head and the wounds on his arms, but the rest of him felt grimy from being in the same room with a dead Rich Petersen. He brushed his teeth and then used a warm, wet towel to sponge himself off, not wanting to get his bandages wet in the shower. After he felt reasonably clean, he dressed in sweats and climbed into bed under his thick winter quilt—another gift from Grandma, courtesy of the Florida move. Kitchen sounds drifted into the bedroom from beyond.
A few minutes later, Sam accepted a steaming cup of sugary tea from Nathan, who watched expectantly as he sipped. “Careful. It’s hot.”
“I didn’t even know I had tea,” Sam said.
“You do,” Nathan said. “But the packaging was a little old. I hope it’s still okay.”
“It’s great.” Sam didn’t give a crap about the tea or anything else. Not when Nathan was finally here instead of in jail—or worse. Here, and doing the most adorable boyfriend things ever. He sipped again for emphasis and then set the mug down on the side table, putting that ridiculous thought out of his mind. He was already in danger of believing this meant more than it did.
Nathan stood with his hands in his pockets, looking like he didn’t know whether to stay or go. His uncharacteristic awkwardness made Sam’s stomach drop.
“I hate to leave you alone like this, but I’ve asked Yuri and Rachel to come over. There’s a lot of paperwork that can’t wait.”
“Oh.” Sam’s disappointment must have been visible. Nathan’s features softened.
“I was planning on coming back later, if you want me to.”
“Yeah.” Sam almost croaked out the word. He wanted Nathan to touch him, but he simply nodded and said good-bye before disappearing out the door.
Sam spent the day drifting in and out of sleep. Yuri and Rachel did come by as promised. They piled onto his bed with him and watched a couple of Sam’s favorite eighties comedies, even though neither of them particularly cared for the genre.
“You’re missing out on work,” Sam told Yuri.
“Some things are more important than work.”
“Yeah, like Tom Cruise’s booty.” Rachel raised an eyebrow as the man in question shimmied onto the screen clad in nothing but a button-down shirt and tighty-whities. “You know, this movie ain’t half bad.”
“The bottom half,” Sam remarked, his eyes flicking from ass to window, where it was already growing dark. Most of the city was without power after the storm, which had dumped almost twenty-six inches of snow on Stonebridge in record time. Residents would spend the next couple of days digging themselves out, and parking downtown had become a nightmare. Schools would be closed the following day, leading into an extended Christmas holiday.
Christmas. Huh. Sam waited for the familiar pain and realized he’d stopped dreading the anniversary, though it was only a couple of days away. Maybe something had gone screwy in his head after all.
“We should get some Chinese for dinner,” Rachel proposed. “Or pizza.”
“Extra cheese?” Yuri asked hopefully.
Another arrival put their dinner plans on hold.
Sam hadn’t let himself think about Nathan all day. He knew whatever conversation they’d have, once they finally had a conversation, would answer his questions. He worried it would be the end.
But Nathan came back as promised, tired but smiling. He chatted with Rachel and Yuri, who made their excuses while aiming some knowing glances in Sam’s direction.
“Hey, I still need dinner.” Sam shouted at them as they retreated into the living room, probably to talk about him. “You guys are jerks.” It was only a performance, a half-hearted protest. He wanted to be left alone with Nathan.
“I brought sandwiches,” Nathan said, once they’d gone. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a couple different kinds.”
A couple different kinds turned out to be five. Sam chose a meatball sub and ate half of it before his curiosity got the better of him. He wasn’t very hungry anyway.
Nathan sat on a chair next to his bed. He insisted Sam stay put in his room instead of going to the couch to eat like a normal human.
“Thanks for the sandwich.”
Nathan eyed the half-eaten sub on Sam’s lap.
“I’m full.” And tired. Sam tried to stifle a yawn, but Nathan’s hawk eyes saw everything. He stood up.
“You should probably get some sleep.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Do you want me to go?” The hesitance in Nathan’s voice made Sam’s stomach squirm. He decided on honesty.
“No.”
“I thought you might, after everything.” Nathan ran his hand through his hair.
“You forget I don’t even know what ‘everything’ is. The last I knew, you were in jail, arrested for murder, and wouldn’t speak to me.” Sam realized he was close to pouting.
“I know. I hoped you’d understand. It was the only way I could think of to keep you out of it.”
“By blowing me off.” He didn’t add “by making me think you were a murderer,” though the thought was probably visible on his face. Nathan’s rejection had hurt, badly.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should have told me.”
“I think this
should wait till morning, Sam. I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.”
Sam crossed his arms and took a deep breath. His pulse quickened. “Okay, well? Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to come to bed?”
It was more demand than suggestion. Nathan gave him a wry smile before untying his boots.
They arranged themselves as comfortably as possible with Sam’s bandaged head to consider. The stitches would dissolve themselves as the wound healed, the doctor had said, but they’d needed to shave the area to do the stitching. Sam figured he looked pretty frightening, but Nathan didn’t seem to mind. He pulled Sam close, and Sam rested the unhurt side of his head on Nathan’s chest. He drifted off to sleep almost instantly, listening to the steady rhythm of Nathan’s heart.
THE NEXT morning Sam awoke alone. His head throbbed, but the pain was nothing compared to his hurt over Nathan taking off again… until he heard the sound of the shower running. Sam slid off the bed and adjusted his morning wood in his sweats. Apparently concussions didn’t have much effect on his libido.
Nathan’s blurred form through the shower curtain made Sam smile. He thought about climbing in after him but then remembered his bandages—the dressings on both his wrists and his head would need changing, and it didn’t promise to be a sexy business.
He didn’t know if Nathan would mind him in the bathroom, so he gave himself a reason. Luckily his bathroom cabinet held the needed gauze and antiseptic. Sam swiped the mirror with his arm to remove the fog.
It was the first time he’d gotten a look at himself, and besides the two shiners, a bruised and swollen cheek, and a slight cut on his lip, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The bandage on his head started to moisten in the humid air, so Sam started to unravel it. The wound was clean and sewn tight and didn’t seem like it would have trouble healing. His wrists had been rubbed raw too, and the flesh cut, but they had already started to scab over.
“What the hell.” Nathan gave a violent flail from inside the shower and then poked his head out. He looked kind of adorable with his hair plastered against his face, especially with the added indignation. “This shower is possessed.”
Sam smirked back at him. “I see you’ve met my upstairs neighbor.” He held his breath and tried not to stare as Nathan pulled back the shower curtain and stepped onto Sam’s newly purchased bathmat. The erection that had subsided during his self-examination sprang into action at the sight. Sam had no idea how Nathan stayed in shape during winter with swimming as his major fitness regimen. Maybe he belonged to one of those fancy fitness clubs with an indoor pool.
Nathan dried his lean, muscular body with efficient swipes of the towel and then wrapped it around his waist. He didn’t comment on Sam’s unannounced presence, but he frowned when he noticed his ham-handed attempt to rebandage himself.
“Let me help you with that.” Sam gave up the gauze, put the lid down on the toilet to sit, and let Nathan take over. “So, where do I start?”
Sam looked at his hands. The left wrist looked worse than the right, and he held it up. “Maybe this one?”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Sam cleared his throat. “I need to know the truth. You didn’t have any part in this, right?” He flushed and avoided Nathan’s gaze.
“Of course not.” Even-toned. Not upset. “Not even a little.”
“Sheldon had a confession from that guy. It sounded so—”
“I know how it sounded. I’ve heard it. It was very persuasive.”
Air rushed into Sam’s lungs, flooding him with relief. Guilt, however, wasn’t far behind. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m good at my job. I would have been insulted if you didn’t doubt me a little.”
That placated Sam for the moment, but he wasn’t entirely ready to let the matter rest. “Okay. Well, maybe you can tell me what was on the damn flash drive. I can’t believe there was a flash drive.”
“Neither can I, to be honest. Emma must have gotten a kick out of hiding it. She was the Bond fan, of the two of us.”
“Is that why she married you?”
“Probably.” Nathan seemed lost for a moment, and Sam regretted the joke. But then Nathan refocused on his task. “So, do you remember the night I called you over to talk, and we looked at the computer?”
Sam did, indeed. It had been the night Nathan first admitted his attraction—the one he said he’d never act on. “Yeah.”
“You told me you’d talked to Emma about Patricia Feldman down at the station, and it gave me an idea. So I called Patricia the next day. At first, she wanted nothing to do with me. She said she was sorry about Emma, and I could tell she was scared. But finally, after I told her I was an FBI agent and could promise her protection, she agreed to see me.”
Nathan moved on to the second wrist, swathing it with careful, practiced motions.
“So you met?”
A nod of assent. “Turns out she had reason to be scared. She was sure her husband hadn’t killed himself. She’d met with Emma several times and could tell she didn’t buy it either. And when Emma finally got her hands on Feldman’s toxicology, it didn’t gel with the autopsy results. The pills they found in Feldman’s stomach had barely started to dissolve, which meant someone drowned him before they had a chance to do the job. Probably force-fed him the pills as well.”
“No wonder Emma was so quiet about those results,” Sam muttered, staring down at his hands. He’d been so disappointed at the time.
“Once Patricia finally trusted Emma enough to tell her what she knew, Emma put two and two together.” A pregnant pause. “Sheldon knew what the toxicology and autopsy results indicated. He told Emma they were inconclusive and ordered her to drop the case. Of course, she couldn’t.” Nathan closed his eyes for a moment.
In spite of the warm, close quarters, Sam shuddered. He couldn’t believe they were talking about the same man who’d brought him Christmas presents as a child. “But I don’t understand. What did Patricia know? Was she withholding evidence?”
“She was trying to protect her kids. Seems her husband was in a boatload of trouble with the mob and had evidence to incriminate members of the PD as well.”
Sam grimaced, half from the pain in his head, half in commiseration for poor Patricia Feldman. He was also more than a little pleased his own guess had been so close to the mark. “She must have been scared out of her mind.”
“She was.”
A droplet of water beaded down Nathan’s lightly haired chest and onto his firm stomach before disappearing into the treasure trail below. Sam watched it, distracted by the overwhelming urge to put his hands on Nathan’s waist and pull him close to lick the trace it left behind.
Nathan paused to rip the gauze and tape Sam’s hand before he spoke again. “Patricia felt guilty about Emma’s death. When I asked why, she told me she’d given Emma all of the info about her husband’s involvement with the Voronkovs and the police. It was a million-dollar, drug-money-laundering scheme. The drugs came into Stonebridge port, and the Voronkovs paid the cops to look the other way. Then Mark Feldman filtered the money through his foundation and gave the dirty cops an additional cut on top. And that’s where Chief Sheldon came in. He was working directly with Bernhardt Hoff to bring the drugs into the city and benefitting quite handsomely from it all.”
“Bernhardt Hoff? Was he the one who made the confession?”
“Yes. And he killed Emma.” Nathan swallowed deeply and glanced away from Sam’s concerned gaze. “He did this to you too.”
Sam’s fist clenched with outrage. He wanted to punch something, but without a productive outlet for his anger, he could only sit and listen—and be thankful the perps were finally behind bars. “Meanwhile, the cops are arresting dime-bag dealers left and right to make it look like they’re doing something to solve the drug problem.”
“Exactly. Addressing the symptom and not the cause.”
“Because the cause is paying the bills.” Sam sho
ok his head. “I thought the Voronkovs were mainly in New York?” He’d done some research on the new Russian crime elite for an article the previous year and knew the Feds were having a difficult time getting charges to stick, mainly because the bosses seemed to keep their hands clean while delegating the dirty work to a coterie of very dedicated and skilled henchmen, like Hoff.
Nathan seemed to pick up the thread of his unspoken thoughts. “From what we’ve gathered in our questioning so far, Hoff’s job was to extend operations north. He’s not a stool pigeon, though, and he’s not naming names. It’s our hope we can… persuade him.”
Sam’s head ached. From what he’d seen, the man had been incredibly cocky and self-assured about his own prowess. The callous way he’d spoken about Emma’s murder had turned Sam’s stomach. He seemed like the kind of guy whose loyalty could be bought for a price, but ultimately only cared about himself. “I wonder how a guy like Mark Feldman gets involved in something like this.”
“Money. Power. You can’t underestimate how seductive those things can be. But apparently Mark decided he wanted out. He was going to cut all ties and go clean. Sheldon and the Voronkovs couldn’t have that, not with everything he knew.”
“So they killed him.”
“Actually, Petersen did.”
“What?” Sam’s eyebrows shot up.
“He botched it pretty badly—he didn’t wait long enough for the pills to dissolve, which is what tipped Emma off in the first place. The way I see it, he’s lucky he’s dead.”
“I’ll say. At least the bullet was quick.” Sam had hated the guy, but he didn’t like to imagine what Hoff might have done to him if he got the order.
Nathan bit his full bottom lip as he considered Sam’s head, turning it gently to the left, then the right. “This doesn’t look half bad.”
“So I’m not Frankenstein’s monster?”
“I’m going to put a little antibiotic ointment on. Hold still.”
Sam did as he was told while Nathan uncapped a tiny squeeze tube of petroleum-like stuff and smeared it on the wound. The touch was efficient but kind and conjured up a vision of Nathan dressed in hospital blues. He would make a damn fine doctor, Sam thought, cracking a smile.
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