Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  “I’m not going home.”

  And only Embry could take that warm, vibrant feeling and turn it into frustration with a single sentence. Brogan held up a finger, warning him. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to say that again, because I heard that with the ear that only catches stupid sentences.”

  Embry rolled his eyes. “It was a mild attack. I’ll take it easy.”

  “Yes. From your bed.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “All evidence to the contrary,” Brogan said.

  “I’ve been dealing with it since I was kid,” Embry said. “I know what to do and what I can handle. This wasn’t bad at all, trust me.”

  Brogan thumb lingered on Embry’s jugular, where a fine sheen of sweat had risen, emphasizing the pallor of his skin. “Your pulse is racing.”

  “It’s a side effect of the albuterol. I’m all right.”

  “You don’t look all right. You look like something that swam up from the bottom of the sea.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” Embry said, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. Conveniently, it made it easier for Brogan to reach him, so he continued to massage his neck.

  “It means gray and sort of pasty and clammy.”

  “Still want to make out?”

  And if he was being facetious, he must be feeling better, Brogan decided. “Give me a couple minutes. I’m feeling a little stressed out at the moment. That was terrifying. I think my hands are shaking. Don’t do that again, okay? This isn’t the kind of lifesaving situation I’m trained for.”

  Embry huffed a small laugh. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

  “Maybe your lips are turning blue.”

  “They are not.”

  “I can find you a blanket. Are you cold? Do you need a blanket?”

  “Brogan,” Embry said, sounding hoarse. “Stop trying to help. You’re making me twitchy.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He thumbed his mic. “Support, this is Smith. Be advised I’m in Ford’s office. He’s having an asthma attack. He says there’s no need for medical assistance, but I’m going to stay up here for a bit to monitor.”

  “Copy.”

  Brogan turned the mic back off. “Now if anyone notices I’ve been in here, we have an excuse. The attack hit you while we were in the elevator together, going to very different places. See? No need for stress.”

  Embry’s eyes remained closed. “Less talking, more rubbing.”

  That was no hardship. He pressed his fingertips deep into rigid muscle until it began to relax, an act that had a somnolent effect on him as well. They waited in easy quiet while warmth returned to Embry’s skin and his breathing slowed.

  “Still with me?” Brogan asked.

  Embry nodded. “I’m okay now.”

  “Tired?”

  “A bit,” Embry’s eyes opened and he rolled his head to look at Brogan where he knelt beside him. His usual armor was gone. He seemed softer, almost sad. “It’s been a while since I’ve had someone to help me through one of these. You’re not very good at it, but it’s nice all the same.”

  “I’ll do better next time. Don’t have a next time, okay?”

  That was definite sadness, Brogan thought. He moved his hand so he was stroking Embry’s jaw more than the back of his neck.

  “It’s not your job to take care of me.”

  “I don’t care,” Brogan said, and he didn’t. God. When had this guy managed to sucker him in so completely?

  “You’re like a teenage girl,” Embry said, still soft, still sad, and Brogan leaned in before he realized what he was doing.

  “No,” he said, mostly to himself, and jerked back.

  Embry blinked. “No? No, what?”

  “I’m not kissing you right now.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Embry said, his tone disgruntled, which was nice. “Although if you wanted to take advantage, now would—”

  “I’m not taking advantage. I’m not pushing. I promised.” Brogan took his hand away from Embry’s skin. “If I kiss you right now, you might have another attack, and then you might die, and then I’ll have killed you with my lips. Sort of a reverse Sleeping Beauty.”

  Embry stared at him. “Right.”

  “Plus, I do have ethics. And kissing people while they’re all sweet and defenseless is a low move. I’m not saying I wouldn’t resort to that if I had no other option, but I’m not there yet. So I’m not going to break my word ten minutes after I gave it. If you want me to kiss you, then...actually, you should kiss me next time.”

  Embry sat up. “What?”

  “Only because that way I’ll know I’m not going to break you.”

  “You won’t break me,” Embry said, his default scowl returning. “I’m fairly resilient.”

  “You almost—”

  “I did not almost die. Shut up about dying.”

  “We’re not going to fight. That’s stress, too.” Brogan had not missed the fact that Embry was, in a way, arguing that Brogan should kiss him, but he decided not to point that out because his goal was to prevent another attack, not cause it. He liked that fact, though. A lot. “In fact, we should reschedule your meetings today so that you’re only seeing people you won’t need to argue with.”

  “I won’t have any meetings left. Besides, I like to argue,” Embry said, and started to get up. Brogan kept him in his chair easily, which he took as a sign that Embry shouldn’t be standing yet. “You may not have noticed it, but my job is always stressful. I can handle it.”

  “Handle your asthma, then we’ll talk.”

  Embry heaved an exasperated breath. It was amazing how often he did that in Brogan’s presence, but he decided there was no correlation. “Oh, my God, get out.”

  “That’s a good idea. Your attraction to me has to be overwhelming, and that’s stressful. Who should I send up to help you reschedule your—”

  Embry put his face in his hands. His shoulders began to shake, and then he was laughing. Laughing hard, even—well, as hard as someone with very recent oxygen problems could laugh.

  Brogan stood there and tried not to be offended. “What?”

  “I can’t believe I ever thought you were a laid-back person.”

  “I am,” Brogan said sullenly. “Usually. It’s not my fault you’re all delicate.”

  Embry smiled, and the dimples made another appearance. It was a sweet expression, almost fond. “You do like me, don’t you?”

  “Not at the moment,” Brogan muttered.

  Embry’s cheeks warmed with unexpected pleasure. “You do. I thought you were fucking with me. You know, getting off on the chase, trying to take me down a peg, that sort of thing. But you legitimately like me.”

  “Of course I like you, dummy.” Brogan touched his thumb to a dimple, even as he was horrified at the idea that Embry thought that being taken down a peg was more likely than someone liking him. “What’s not to like?”

  A crease appeared between Embry’s eyebrows. “Plenty, depending on who you ask.”

  “I can make up my own mind without advice from the peanut gallery, thanks.”

  Embry’s smile fell away. His fingers clasped Brogan’s wrist and squeezed before easing Brogan’s hand away. “That’s bad, though.”

  “Not needing advice?”

  “That you like me.” Embry cleared his throat. “It means you’re going to get hurt.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Brogan asked with false lightness.

  “I choose him,” Embry said, flat and even. The warmth receded from his features. His shoulders tightened.

  “You want me to kiss you,” Brogan pointed out.

  “I want Michael Fassbender to kiss me, too,” Embry said. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to
Hollywood to track him down.”

  “He probably wouldn’t mind,” Brogan told him. Embry was gorgeous, all long, lean limbs and big, clever eyes and a delicate, fascinating mouth. Brogan couldn’t imagine how anyone wouldn’t want to touch him.

  “I’m with Joel.”

  “I get it,” Brogan said, perhaps a shade too sharply, because Embry flinched. “And don’t apologize. I’m fine. Just...take it easy today, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Brogan went to the door, pissed off and dreading going back to Henniton’s side because he thought he might use any excuse to punch the fucker in the mouth. “If you change your mind,” he said, hand on the doorknob. “I mean, if you need help getting out, all you have to do is ask. No strings. Even if you never kiss me, Embry, I’ll help.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, and Embry was already back to his usual remote, diffident self, except for the way the paper he held trembled in the air. “It’s kind of you to offer,” he said. “But I don’t need your help.”

  Brogan nodded and left. It figured, of course, that the one person who didn’t seem inclined to need him was one of the few from whom he wouldn’t mind a little clinging.

  * * *

  At 5:45 p.m., Brogan waited while Henniton packed up his things. They left his office and headed downstairs, where Embry waited, blank-faced, in the lobby. He rose without a word, without so much as a glance at Brogan, and they all walked out together, Henniton blabbering on. Their breath fogged in the cold night air as they headed to the curb and the waiting car.

  Dillon drove them to Embry’s apartment, and Brogan spent the next hour and twenty-six minutes memorizing the pattern on the wallpaper in the hallway while Henniton and Embry fucked.

  He ached the entire time, his chest tight and painful and impossible. He was gnawing the inside of his lip into hamburger. His fingers kept locking into fists. He tried to tell himself that he was merely uncomfortable at the idea of standing outside while people had sex, that he resented being this bored at the end of a long shift, that he was just feeling sorry for Embry. But the truth was he ached.

  It was really the only word for it.

  Chapter Eight

  Brogan was on at seven the next morning. He hated turnaround shifts with a passion because they were the one thing guaranteed to give him insomnia. Seeing the smug, rumpled way that Henniton had looked coming out of Embry’s apartment hadn’t helped.

  After waking up in a crappy mood, Brogan decided that his soaked newspaper—March was definitely in like a lion this year—was a sign of a bad day coming. This omen was confirmed when the first person he ran into at work was Embry, who was waiting outside Henniton’s office, sitting straight-backed on one of the chairs, phone in hand.

  Even more disheartening, Brogan got a pleasant pang to go along with the rush of resentment he felt at the sight of him.

  “Oh,” Embry said when he noticed Brogan there. His cheeks flushed and he shifted his weight where he was perched, as if he wanted to fidget but wouldn’t allow himself.

  Suze smiled at Brogan and went back to work, one giant obstruction in the body of a tiny, fifty-year-old receptionist. Brogan was irrationally happy to see her, because her presence meant he didn’t have to talk.

  “How are you?” Embry asked him. The receptionist’s head jerked up, and Brogan felt a subtle warmth in his belly that he tried to ignore, because Embry didn’t make polite conversation. Which meant that Brogan wasn’t like everyone else, not to Embry.

  Not that any of that did Brogan any good.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Fine.”

  “Great.” Brogan pretended to be fascinated with the carpet, and took a deep breath. He wasn’t jealous, he told himself. And he had no right to be angry. He should stay quiet. That was the ticket. Stay quiet, act normal, and soon he’d be like anyone else, not worth looking at, let alone making polite conversation with. Which was what he needed. Then maybe he wouldn’t feel this way when he pictured Henniton sinking into Embry’s body, or Embry arching beneath him, expression twisted with desire, or worse—the lack thereof.

  “Feeling better?” he asked, because he was a weak-willed, stupid masochist.

  “Yes. My doctor called in a prescription for me to supplement my other meds. I’m all right. Uh, thanks for your help.”

  “Sure.”

  Suze was watching them as she typed, a slight frown on her face. She was a nice lady, but it reminded Brogan to be cautious. He kept his mouth shut, and after another ten minutes of awkward silence, Embry escaped into Henniton’s office.

  After lunch, just before they were due to go off campus for a meeting, Coop arrived, his beady eyes raking over Brogan and Nora where they stood in the reception area. He directed them into Henniton’s office with a jerk of his head then proceeded to stand in front of them like a drill sergeant. Embry and Henniton were waiting—Embry unconcerned, Henniton with visible annoyance.

  “You’re security,” Coop said, and Brogan had to press his lips together at the way the statement made Embry roll his eyes behind Coop’s back. “You’ve signed nondisclosure agreements, if you’ll recall. It’s not your job to infer or investigate. You’re there only in the event that something goes wrong. Is that clear?”

  “Clear,” Brogan and Nora replied in unison, although Brogan knew Nora well enough that he suspected she was tempted to ask, “Could you explain that one more time? It was so very complicated, and we’ve never done our jobs before.”

  The meeting was with Matthew Vindler, a VP at Grailer & McNeil, a Portland-based competitor. Timmerson’s researchers had focused on him as a suspect in the death threats against Henniton, although thanks to Henniton’s interference, they hadn’t been able to do anything with the information. And, Brogan recalled, it was Vindler who had somehow led to Touring calling in Coop in the first place.

  All of this meant they were taking extra backup with them—Dillon and Parks both, who would wait with the car and watch the corridor outside the meeting room respectively.

  Vindler was a beanpole of a man, tall and skinny and smirking with expensive caps and a widow’s peak pronounced enough to make him look like a vampire. His voice was high-pitched, the auditory equivalent of a sneer, and for the first time Brogan found himself in agreement with Henniton on something: Vindler was a weasel.

  His reaction to Coop was interesting. His thin face took on a pinched quality and he stepped closer to his bodyguard. Despite Coop’s earlier warning, Brogan inferred that Vindler knew exactly who Coop was—and what it meant that he was present at the meeting.

  “It’s not that Grailer & McNeil doesn’t empathize with your struggles, Joel,” Vindler said once he’d led them into the small conference room, and gestured for Embry, Henniton and Coop to sit around a low coffee table. “It’s more that we aren’t sure what you expect us to do about it.”

  Brogan and Nora stood behind Henniton’s chair on either side of him. Embry was fiddling with his phone in the chair to Brogan’s right, and Coop glowered from the chair at Nora’s left. Vindler’s bodyguard was a no-neck guy with so much bulk that he would struggle to do more than loom—he wouldn’t be able to outrun a ten-year-old with thighs like those, let alone fight. Brogan kept an eye on him, though, because if something happened, he’d be the source of the trouble.

  He was glad it was Nora with him as his first backup today. He trusted her more than any of his colleagues besides Mario, and the uneasy atmosphere was making his neck prickle.

  Henniton said, “I know you’ve been making inquiries.”

  “I make lots of inquiries,” Vindler replied.

  “Inquiries you have no right to be making.”

  “And who determines my rights?” Vindler’s smile all but dripped oil. “We all know that there’s no regulation when it comes to these sorts of contracts.”
r />   “Formal regulation, no,” Henniton said. “But there are standards and practices among those of our ilk. Grailer & McNeil have a history of violations.”

  “That’s a falsehood and I resent your implications.”

  “Mr. Ford?” Henniton asked, and without hesitation, Embry said, “On January 6, 2011, Grailer & McNeil were implicated in the illegal sale of firearms to Houmam Azmeh, a Syrian crime lord based out of Kobani. In order to help offset these charges, Grailer & McNeil offered up information about Touring Industries’ recent international sale numbers, numbers which you should not have had access to, and which ultimately failed to lead to indictments. In August of 2012, Grailer & McNeil attempted a gross assault on confidential files on the Touring network, which, if I recall correctly, led to the cancellation of several contracts with ongoing clients shared by our two companies at the—”

  “All right,” Vindler snapped.

  “—time, including one that would have meant nearly 32.8 million dollars over a three year period. On March 4, 2014, Grailer & McNeil ‘accidentally’ prevented Mr. Henniton from attending a meeting with—”

  “All right!” Vindler snarled. “You make your point. We don’t always play fair. Although, in this business, I’d emphasize that playing fair is evidence of tiny balls, Joel.”

  “I’m not worried about my balls,” Henniton said. “I’m worried about your lack of acumen. Having to cheat to win doesn’t impress anyone, Vindler.”

  “The fact that you’re here says otherwise. I’m a threat, and you should remember that.”

  Brogan kept his eyes on Big-and-tall, who eyeballed him right back. Nora shifted her weight, but Big-and-tall apparently didn’t consider her threat enough to warrant watching.

  His mistake.

  “I’m terrified,” Henniton said, thick with irony. “And I’m here to serve a warning. We’ve played this little game long enough. If you continue to infringe on our business, Vindler, we’ll have no choice but to sink to your level.”

  Coop cleared his throat, his dead-fish eyes settling on Vindler, who couldn’t hold his gaze, even as his lips curled. “You bring this animal into my office, and yet you say this is only a warning.”