by K. C. Burn
“Get the fuck away from them, you pervert.” Drew’s eyes widened, and his gaze met Kyle’s equally surprised one a mere blink before Wyatt pulled Brett up by the collar.
In a second, Brett’s expression turned vicious and ugly. He faced his assailant, and Drew just wanted to die of humiliation. Brett’s companion spoke rapidly into a cell phone before moving to hover at the edge of the altercation.
Wyatt continued to roar at Brett, who shouted back all kinds of stuff about freedom of speech and hate crimes. The two of them were similarly built, and under normal circumstances, it might have been a fair fight. Drew had seen the signs before; it was only a matter of minutes before the fists started flying. However, by some chance, Rob wasn’t there—probably taking a leak—and Drew had to get this contained before Rob came back. He wouldn’t give a flying rat fuck who started what, but if he returned to find Wyatt fighting, he’d start beating on whomever Wyatt was.
“Guys, stop it. This is stupid.” Drew’s voice wasn’t loud enough to overcome his sheer and utter embarrassment. Was this the behavior he could look forward to if he actually brought a boyfriend home to meet his family? That thought was enough to spark Drew’s own temper. He had a much longer fuse than the rest of his family, but he was still a Drummond.
“Wyatt, fucking stop this now.” Drew grabbed his brother’s arm while Kyle tried to get Brett to see reason. Unfortunately, Brett didn’t do a damn thing to calm the situation, sneering and taunting Wyatt.
“No fucking way. I saw him, hands all over you. Pervert.” Wyatt directed the last word at Brett, whose face reddened to the point of almost purple.
“Is that what I am to you? A pervert?” Drew’s voice got louder, trying to outshout the potential combatants.
“No, of course not.” Wyatt didn’t even bother to look at him, attention still on Brett.
“So, I’m not a pervert, but if a guy is interested in having sex with me, he’s a pervert? Unacceptable, Wyatt.”
“Jesus, you fairies are all so sensitive.” Wyatt had more to say, but Brett took exception to words Drew had heard most of his life whenever he stood up to his brothers.
“Fucking redneck homophobe!”
Wyatt clocked Brett across the jaw, but Brett managed to twist his head aside, the momentum causing Wyatt to stumble and allowing Brett to remain upright.
“If you had the guts to admit to your latent gayness, you might have had a chance to fuck these two instead of being pissed I got to them first.” Brett yelled that at the top of his lungs, several onlookers gasped, and Drew lunged for his brother, no longer worried about saving Brett but just trying to keep his brother from going to jail for murder.
“What the holy hell is going on here?” A stranger in a police uniform bellowed, catching Drew’s attention as everyone paused.
Drew had just registered that the stranger was a grown-up, filled-out, still-fucking-gorgeous Cliff Garcia when a blow hit him from behind. The last thing he saw was the edge of a table speeding toward his face before a shock of pain turned his vision red, followed by everything going black.
Chapter Five
A beefy blond about Cliff’s own age, face twisted in a snarl, launched himself at Brett. And missed, taking out someone Cliff thought might have been trying to stop the fight.
However it had gone down, the miss was enough to shock everyone into stilled silence.
“Scott, get him out of here, and call for backup.”
Cliff had left that asshole Brett alone for ten minutes. Ten. And somehow he’d instigated a brawl. In the Angry Parakeet, for God’s sake.
Roughly shoving Brett out of the way was enough for him to see a knot of people gathered around a fallen figure on the floor. A small blond man knelt close by, holding a pale hand.
“Drew? Drew?” There was no mistaking the panic in his voice.
“Let me through,” Cliff ordered. Most of the onlookers melted away, allowing Cliff to approach. Two identical faces turned toward him, skin pale and ashy, but the Drummond twins didn’t move. Figured. At least he had a decent shot at not getting fired for this fiasco, considering the chief’s attitude about the Drummonds mirrored his own.
“Give him room.” Cliff hadn’t seen who’d gone down; it had all happened too fast. But clearly someone was injured, and in all likelihood, it was a guy. Those fucking Drummonds. If some poor bystander got killed or maimed because the Drummonds were homophobic assholes, Cliff wasn’t sure he’d be able to control his own temper.
“Drew? Drew?” The small blond seemed stuck on that one name, but at least Cliff could assume that was the name of the guy who’d dropped. And hadn’t stirred.
“Back away, kid. Let me help him.”
It was dark under the table, where the thin guy lay crumpled. Cliff pulled a flashlight from his belt and shone it.
Bright red hair reflected light back at him, crimson blood streaming from a gash on the guy’s forehead providing a stomach-turning contrast. Cliff gasped; his chest constricted. His little fantasy just that morning made the redhead—Drew—seem almost like a friend. Acquaintance, at the very least. Watching him for those few minutes had told Cliff a wealth of information about his character, and all of it was good. Unlike the evil twins responsible for hurting him.
Cliff bit the inside of his lip, hoping to control his suddenly racing heart.
Focus on the job. Get the job done.
As he knelt over Drew and radioed for an ambulance, his mind repeated those two phrases, hoping to whatever deity might be listening that he’d do right by this guy and not fuck up. He’d never had to deal with anyone close to him while in a professional capacity.
With trembling fingers, he quickly checked Drew’s pulse, tempted to turn him over on his back to reassure himself the damage wasn’t as bad as it appeared, but that wouldn’t be smart. From Drew’s position and the location of the gash, he must have hit the edge of the table smack in the middle of his forehead. Depending on how fast he hit, he could have spinal issues, and moving him would be the worst thing to do for him.
“An ambulance is on the way.” He gave Drew’s shoulder a little squeeze, loath to leave him, but Cliff had a job to do, and it wasn’t mooning over the gorgeous guy he’d wanted to get to know. Also, he wasn’t sure how long he could stare at Drew, motionless and bleeding, before he lost his shit all over the place.
Turning to the blond kid, who was likely the same age as Drew, he did his best to appear confident and in control. “What’s your name?”
“Kyle.”
“Okay. Kyle. Make sure no one turns him over. Let the EMTs do that, in case he’s got a spinal injury.”
Kyle’s blue eyes widened and filled with tears, but he nodded.
“Good. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Cliff was so full of shit. This could go bad in a heartbeat, especially if he didn’t get some backup in here. Brawls were nasty things, and he was technically on his own against at least two Drummonds. And head wounds could be finicky and dangerous.
“Right. You two. Tell me what the fuck happened. Or wait until I get you to the station. Either way, you’re spending the night locked up.”
One of the twins… Cliff would like to say he’d put Sandy Bottom Bay so far in his rearview that he couldn’t even remember the names of the two kids who’d done their best to make his school life miserable, but it would have been a lie. He knew the twins were Rob and Wyatt, but he’d had a hell of time telling them apart, and eight years later hadn’t made that job any easier.
The only difference right now was one of the twins was staring, stricken, at Drew, and the other was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter getting ready to take a swing. If he thought he was going to take a swing at Cliff, there might be an ugly surprise or two in store. Like the gun in his holster.
Cliff took a deep breath and pointed at the bouncing twin. If he wasn’t calm, this situation would explode, and if it did, Drew might get hurt even worse. Not to mention Cliff’s own health might
be in jeopardy.
“Drummond… Which one are you?” The twin simply glared at him. Cliff rolled his eyes and pointed at Drummond twin one instead. “Which one are you?” As soon as Cliff noticed his fingers were still trembling, he put his hands on his waist.
“It was an accident. I swear.” Drummond twin one was shaking more than Cliff, which seemed an odd reaction since he’d seen these guys do worse damage in the schoolyard. Why would he be afraid?
“Officer, uh…” Kyle stammered a bit.
“Garcia.” Cliff didn’t take his attention off the twins. As soon as some backup got here, he was arresting these two for assault.
“Officer Garcia?” Kyle sounded oddly incredulous, but Cliff had no idea why. The kid was too young for them to have been in school together, and if nothing else, Cliff looked 100 percent like a Garcia.
“Yes?”
“It was an accident. They’d never hurt Drew.”
“Bastard.” This from Drummond twin two, the belligerent one. That was going to get old quick. “Cliff Garcia, back as a cop. Figures.”
Cliff spared a glance for Kyle, ignoring the twin’s venom. At least Cliff had the police on his side. “What makes you so sure?”
“He’s their brother.”
Shock pushed away all other emotions, and Cliff almost stumbled. He’d known there was another Drummond kid somewhere. When he’d been at school, anyway. Presumably the various branches had spawned more Drummonds while he’d been in California. But at school, Cliff had been vaguely aware Rob and Wyatt had a younger brother, although Cliff didn’t think they’d ever crossed paths. If he’d spared a moment to think about it, he might have guessed Kyle was their brother. He was much closer in coloring than Drew was.
Cliff closed his eyes for a moment. Did that mean giving up the prospect of getting to know Drew? He almost laughed right there in the bar. Even if Drew wasn’t as intolerant as his brothers, even if he was gay, there was no way he was out of the closet. Not with violent brothers like Rob and Wyatt. And that was assuming a Drummond could keep—or want to keep—his nose clean in order to have a relationship with a cop. Not that he knew for sure, but it was probable that all the Drummonds had a record or had been in juvie. Cliff stared down at Drew, and something cracked in his chest, the death of hope. Stupid to grieve for something that could never happen, but he couldn’t deny finding out Drew belonged to the Drummond clan was oddly devastating.
“Please. Tell me he’ll be all right.” Drummond twin one must have been the one who’d accidentally sent his brother careening into the table. Given the disparity in body type and weight—not that any of these Drummonds were fat—Drew hadn’t had a chance of stopping himself. Why hadn’t he woken up yet?
Sirens were audible over the steady drumming of rain on the roof, and getting louder, and Cliff barely restrained himself from running outside and yelling at them to hurry. At least he was fairly certain the worst of the tension was gone, since he could now see the belligerent twin was trying to find an outlet for the fear he felt for his brother, much like the anger curdling in Cliff’s brain.
If he weren’t here in an official capacity, he’d love to punch one or both of them. And Brett for good measure. Instead he drew on all his experience as a cop and became the authority figure they expected.
“The paramedics are on their way. He’ll be in good hands.” Also a line of bullshit. He hadn’t met anyone else in emergency services yet, but he hoped they’d been hired by someone as competent as the police chief. Ruthlessly, he suppressed the desire to kneel down next to Drew and touch him, reassure himself that Drew was still breathing. Give him whatever comfort he could derive in his unconscious state.
Within seconds, paramedics and more cops swarmed into the bar, all of them borderline drenched from the downpour that had begun abruptly during the fight. The paramedics immediately assessed Drew while Cliff directed the cops to take a few witness statements, but he was going to accompany Drew to the hospital. Assuming Drew regained consciousness soon, Cliff would need to get his statement. He could send another cop, but he wanted to torture himself just a little longer, find out what Drew’s voice sounded like, find out what color his eyes were. Stupid, but he was going to take whatever he could get.
He took one last look at the twins. “I want to know which one of you is which. You’re going to give statements to these fine officers, understand? Got it?”
His stern, uncompromising words snapped the belligerent twin out of his temper, and the anger drained from his face. Of course, if they weren’t so worried about their brother, odds were Cliff would have a mouthful of broken teeth, courtesy of a Drummond fist, but he’d take whatever advantage he could get.
“I’m going with Drew to the hospital. If he agrees this was an accident, you’re in the clear. Otherwise I’m running you in. And don’t think I didn’t hear what you said to Brett. Hate speech can get you in big trouble, Drummond.”
Kyle spoke up. “Can I ride with him?”
“You related?”
Kyle’s shoulders dropped. “No. Best friend.”
An odd tension relaxed in Cliff’s chest, one he hadn’t realized was there. For a moment, he’d expected Kyle to say he was Drew’s boyfriend. Kyle was clearly gay, so maybe Drew wasn’t quite as intolerant as his brothers.
Cliff reached out a hand and dropped it on Kyle’s shoulder. “They won’t tell you anything, but I’ll make sure your statement gets taken first so you can follow along as soon as possible.”
Drew was loaded onto a stretcher, backboard in place, and wheeled out of the bar. It looked like he was coming around, which was a fucking relief, although head wounds could still turn bad. Depended on how badly his brains had been rattled. Between the blood that was every bit as horrific as a slasher film and the possibility of spinal-cord injury, Cliff was terrified for the man.
One of the paramedics mentioned fractured skull under his breath, and Cliff’s insides clenched up. Drew wasn’t going to bleed out, not like some of the murder victims Cliff had seen, but at the very least Drew had suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury, which had been known to cause all sorts of complications up to and including death. Cliff’s first day on the job couldn’t end this way. It just couldn’t. Not when Drew had breathed a tiny spark of hope into his life just by existing.
The ashen-faced twin turned to Kyle. “Call Uncle Walt. He’ll be too drunk by now to drive you, but he’ll send one of the cousins to pick you up. Take you to the hospital.”
Cliff followed the stretcher but was still paying enough attention to realize Kyle was able to call Drew’s uncle Walt without having to ask for a phone number. Kid wasn’t lying about being a best friend, but if an obviously gay guy like Kyle got preferential treatment from the Drummonds, what had possessed them to start that vicious, hateful argument he’d witnessed?
* * * *
Drew groaned and blinked. A stabbing, throbbing pain lanced through his brain, centering on what felt like a great, gaping crack in his forehead.
Flashing lights, wailing sirens, and people’s voices were like stilettos through his eyes and ears. His thoughts scattered on shards of pain, and he had no idea where he was or why he hurt so badly.
Was he drunk? He’d never been so hungover in his life. He’d been…at the Angry Parakeet, maybe. Had he somehow drunk enough to edge into alcohol-poisoning territory? Or almost-dead territory?
“Wha…” He tried to move, sit up, something. His body was weirdly immobile, but his stomach lurched. Hands gripped his shoulder, turning him on his side as he spewed his guts out. The heaving of his stomach made the pain in his head pulse angrily in time.
Finally he was done, although the wooziness hadn’t decreased in the slightest. This time he didn’t try to sit up or move his arms. He tried to focus his gaze, just a bit. He had to know where he was, but the only thing visible was a swath of dark green. The monstrous effort of keeping his eyes open was too much, and he let his lids drop again.
“Hey there, careful now. We don’t want a repeat of the stomach explosion.”
“Sorry.” He must be drunk, because even he could hear he was slurring.
“Nothing to be sorry for. You just relax. Let these guys do their work. You had an accident.”
“Hurts.” Work? Accident? He was so confused, but the hand holding his was warm and strong, anchoring him in some indefinable way.
Chapter Six
The lights were still too bright, nothing was clearly focused, and time no longer seemed to run at its normal speed. At least Drew knew now that he hadn’t been stupid enough to drink until he nearly died. Then again, the endless white walls interspersed with tests and cold instruments might mean he was in purgatory. His vision swam, and he remembered a lovely nurse with a lovely IV. Drugs slightly muffled the pain in his head and kept his stomach from rebelling, and he was fairly certain morphine didn’t help dead people.
“Hey there. How are you doing?”
There was that voice again. He’d heard it before, and it made him feel warm and safe. It was also the sexiest voice he’d ever heard, although sex was the last thing on his mind just now. He could barely move without pain and nausea, and his cock was about as responsive as an overcooked noodle.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Drew forced his eyes to open. Somehow he knew the owner of that voice wasn’t another doctor, and he wanted to see the guy. Carefully he turned his head. While his eyes worked on making sense of the figure in front of him, he decided to answer the question.
“Shitty.” His voice was crazy scratchy, and his mouth was dry enough he almost expected dust to puff out with the word.
“Would you like some water?”
Oh God. That gorgeous voice offering water. It was official. He was in love.
Drew’s first instinct was to nod, to avoid using his voice, but even under the pleasant haze of intravenous painkillers, he knew that would be a bad idea. “Please.”
The owner of the voice drew closer, cup in hand. The dark green clothing resolved into a police officer’s uniform. Wow. Once he was feeling up to his old self, this would probably fuel a few late-night fantasies.