Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  “If you don’t want me to ignore you, what would you prefer?” Embry asked, sounding like an accountant questioning a client about their tax needs for that fiscal year.

  “Don’t try to make me think I don’t matter to you,” Brogan said. “I know it’s not true and it hurts.”

  “I can’t do that in front of Joel.”

  “Just fucking say hi in the mornings, okay? Make some damn eye contact once in a while. It doesn’t make you a tease unless you do it with your pants off.”

  Embry scowled at him but said, “Okay.”

  “Okay,” Brogan said again, and heaved a massive sigh. “Could you go in first? I’d like to stand here for a minute and be maudlin.”

  Against all odds that made Embry smile, and the dimples were as irresistible as ever. Brogan smiled back without meaning to, and Embry sighed, looking at him with exasperation and humor and affection. Potent stuff. If Brogan could get Embry to look at him like that for the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man.

  Then Embry walked away and Brogan leaned against the car, trying to focus on all the reasons why he’d said no to Embry back in the apartment.

  With the sensation of Embry’s warm skin burned into his palm, those reasons weren’t leaping to his fingertips.

  * * *

  When Wiley’s shift ended, Brogan happily abandoned the support desk to start his own escort shift, only to be told that Henniton had requested that Parks replace Brogan as primary for the day. Brogan sat across from Timmerson down in the Security Division offices, wondering what the motivation behind the choice was.

  “Did he say why?” he asked Timmerson.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Brogan could think of several potential reasons. One that was possible: I know he beats his boyfriend and he might be tired of the judgment I can’t help but direct at him. One that was improbable: He’s realized that I hate his fucking guts and he’s a nice enough guy that he’s doing me a favor.

  And the one he feared was true: He’s found out that I touched someone that he thinks belongs to him and this is the first step in his entirely successful efforts to destroy my career.

  “No idea,” Brogan said, and felt like shit for lying.

  “Well, he didn’t seem upset,” Timmerson replied, “and to the best of my knowledge right now, it’s just for today. So head on out to Henniton’s house. We’ll be putting you with the wife instead.”

  * * *

  Alyssa Henniton was a nice woman. She smiled and asked questions about Brogan’s family and interests while they were driving to various shops. Her kids were out of the house and she didn’t have a job, so Brogan suspected that half of her shopping addiction was nothing more than sheer boredom. She laughed when he let a bit of sarcasm slip through, and he found her very likable when she forgot to be the proper, expensively coiffed wife of an asshole.

  He wondered if Henniton had ever hit her the way he’d hit Embry.

  She didn’t deserve what Henniton and Embry were doing to her, and Brogan felt like a douchebag just for keeping the secret. Sorry, he thought, watching her bob her head to the music in the rearview mirror.

  * * *

  He returned to the Touring building wind-chapped and cold. He was daydreaming of the night he had planned—pizza, beer, online poker while 120-pound Gizmo pretended to be a lapdog—when Timmerson yanked him out of his thoughts at the support desk.

  “What are you still doing here?” Brogan asked, because even though it was only three, it was Thursday, and that meant one of Timmerson’s numerous offspring played some kind of sport that he coached or attended or something. Timmerson’s usually placid features were grim.

  “I know you already covered for Wiley but can you take the next two hours for Dillon as backup, too?”

  “Sure,” Brogan said, pulling out his phone to ask the neighbor kid who sometimes walked and fed Gizmo to stop by. Jenny charged almost as much as doggie daycare, but he couldn’t begrudge her. Giz was a pain in the ass. “What’s up?”

  “There was an...” Timmerson paused to consider his choice of words, “...altercation. Between Dillon and someone the client met with a few hours ago during an off-site meeting. I’m sending him to the hospital.”

  Brogan put his phone aside. “Is there any ongoing trouble?”

  “Not according to Dillon, Parks, Coop or Henniton,” Timmerson said, and he sounded downright annoyed—rare for him. “Supposedly it was a misunderstanding, and Dillon doesn’t want to press charges. They were all very tight-lipped about it, even Ford, and you know he wouldn’t miss a chance to read someone the riot act if there was a screwup.”

  “Hmm,” Brogan said, distracted by a clench of worry at the idea of Embry at this “altercation.” “No one else was hurt?”

  “No.” Timmerson took a deep breath. “Head on up, all right? And thanks.”

  Suze was typing at her desk, ignoring the murmur of angry voices coming from behind Henniton’s closed office door.

  “Support, be advised, I’m in place in Henniton’s reception area,” he said into his mic.

  “Copy,” Nora replied, and a moment later Dillon came out.

  Altercation, Brogan thought, and stared.

  Dillon’s sandy-blond hair was tousled, his shirt collar torn, and his nose had been broken. A long series of grit-filled scratches decorated one cheek, as if he’d rubbed his face back and forth over the rough surface of a brick or some asphalt.

  Dillon’s default stupid expression had shifted into rage. Brogan kept his mouth shut and Dillon stalked past him with the single-mindedness of a tank and got in the elevator.

  Brogan said, “Uh, support, could you check with Parks and see if I’m wanted in the office or if I can—uh, should—remain out here?”

  “Stand by.”

  A moment later, she said, “Remain in reception.”

  “Thank God,” Brogan muttered, and Nora huffed in amusement as she shut off her mic.

  As much of a relief as it was not to stay outside, he wouldn’t relax fully until he could see for himself that Embry was uninjured. What the hell had happened while they were off campus?

  The fact that Coop and Henniton were natural yellers was a plus. He could hear almost half of the argument through the door.

  First Henniton yelled, “...your assistance, thank you very much, with this kind of fucking help we don’t even...”

  Then Coop replied, “...what was necessary at the time. You don’t know how to work with these sorts of...gone to Juarez and done a better...show a weak face, be my guest, but as long as you do, you better be ready to sacrifice a few more assets, and bleeding bodyguards tend to...fucking inept security!”

  A third voice joined in, the words too hushed to make out, the tone almost reasonable—Embry.

  Coop wasn’t a fan of the reasonable tone, evidently, because his replay was almost a scream. “You little shit, don’t think I don’t know that you were part of this. How’d you do it? Because...that spreadsheet...accurate when I finished it!”

  Henniton answered, with nearly the same volume and tone. “Would you let that go? It wasn’t Embry! He has no reason to risk the deal, you stupid bastard!”

  Coop’s sneering rejoinder was mostly garbled, but the last few words were crystal clear. “...to believe him, when you’re fucking him every night. I hope his faggot ass is worth it, Henn—”

  There was a thud, and Brogan was already moving when he heard Nora over the mic bark, “Backup!”

  He shoved inside and took a split second to survey the scene, hand on his pistol. Henniton struggled on the floor while Coop straddled his chest, one hand grinding Henniton’s face into the carpet, the other gripping his throat. Parks was dazedly getting to his feet, but Brogan ignored him, already cataloguing the different ways he could handl
e this depending on how violent he wanted to get with the older man. He could shoot him, but he doubted Touring Industries hired him to protect one employee at the expense of another if he could help it. And Coop wasn’t trying to kill Henniton—just kick the shit out of him. Brogan waded in, resigned to a fistfight.

  Before he got there, however, Embry, watching from beside the desk, lunged forward. He darted behind Coop, then drove his hands up and under Coop’s arms, using the strength of his legs and a ton of leverage to break Coop’s grip and knock him to one side on his ass. Brogan was taken aback by how proficient the move was.

  Embry shifted his weight, falling into a fighting stance as Coop scrambled to his feet. Despite the murder in Coop’s eyes, Embry’s body language didn’t reflect fear—he was ready and willing to throw down. And maybe he knew some martial arts, but this was still a twenty-three-year old office professional versus a highly trained soldier with three or four combat tours under his belt, an experienced killer who was clearly off his fucking nut at the moment. Fear, hot and sharp, spilled through Brogan at the thought of how that fight might resolve.

  He yanked Embry out of the way with a fistful of suit jacket and stepped in front of him.

  Brogan wasn’t as big as Henniton, but he was still considerably bigger than Embry. With his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, he was also a more threatening target. He stood perfectly still, giving Coop the first move, his mind calm and quiet.

  It’d been a while since he’d been faced with real bloodshed. Part of him had missed it.

  He didn’t say anything as he watched Coop with flat, ready eyes. Coop stepped forward—maybe to get past Brogan to Embry, maybe to hurt whoever was nearest—and Brogan inhaled, fingers tightening on the butt of his gun as he tilted his head warningly: be sure you want to do this.

  From behind him, he heard several new voices as the rest of the Security Division people arrived. Coop’s eyes flickered over his shoulder to whoever was standing there.

  The rabid energy left Coop in a rush, his fists unclenching, and he headed for the door, giving Brogan enormous breadth so it’d be clear he wasn’t instigating a fight. His beady eyes lingered on Embry with loathing, making Brogan tense up again, and then Coop was being escorted out of the office by Timmerson and Nora, both out of breath.

  Parks stayed by the door, tie askew, hair mussed.

  Brogan looked Henniton over for injuries. He was red-faced as he got up, radiating fury and humiliation, his mouth razor-thin.

  “Are you all right?” Embry asked, hovering out of arm’s reach.

  Brogan didn’t blame him. He half expected Henniton to take a swing, too, but the bigger man only stood there, staring at Embry with narrowed eyes. Hostility dripped from every pore.

  “Are you injured, sir?” Brogan asked, preferring that Henniton’s attention be on him instead of Embry.

  “No,” Henniton said hoarsely, one hand going to the livid marks at his throat. He walked toward Embry, whose whole body stiffened, although he didn’t step away. Henniton touched his thumb to Embry’s bruised cheek, perhaps reminding Embry of who had the power in their relationship, perhaps reminding himself.

  “You helped me,” Henniton said to Embry. The words were hard to read, menacing but also smug, like Embry’s actions had proven that he cared. Brogan knew better. He’d gotten it from Embry: it hurts more when the knife in your back is put there by someone you trust.

  He wondered if Embry had stopped Coop because Embry wanted to hurt Henniton himself.

  “I can be mad at you and not want you to die at the same time,” Embry replied. His voice was blank, and he didn’t protest when Henniton’s hand cupped his hip.

  “I’ve had a hard day,” Henniton said, lifting an eyebrow, lips curved cruelly. “Have you forgiven me yet?”

  Embry said nothing, his eyes flickering in Brogan’s direction before he tipped his chin toward the door. He seemed distant, maybe resigned, and Brogan hated it, hated everything about Embry’s still, empty expression.

  “I’ll wait outside,” Brogan bit out, turning on his heel. He wanted to ask if Embry was sure about this, if Embry would be okay, if Embry wanted him to break Henniton’s fucking jaw, but he didn’t. Embry would say no if he wanted to, Brogan was sure.

  “Mr. Smith,” Embry said. Brogan waited until he could keep his expression bland before glancing back.

  “Yeah?”

  “That was well handled.” The words were remote, but he’d angled his body so Henniton couldn’t see his face, and Embry was looking at Brogan so intently that Brogan’s gut clenched.

  “You’re welcome,” Brogan managed.

  * * *

  That night, exhausted but unable to sleep, Brogan ran over everything he’d witnessed today—Dillon’s bizarre injuries, Parks’s refusal to explain it to Timmerson, Coop accusing Embry of changing a spreadsheet, and most of all, Henniton’s defense of Embry. He has no reason to risk the deal.

  Except that Brogan knew he did. Not what that reason was, but he knew it existed. Brogan would bet that whatever happened today had Embry’s fingerprints all over it.

  If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say that Embry had used Coop’s stolen IT password to change a spreadsheet in a way that threatened an illegal arms sale, a change that, when discovered, ended with Dillon beat up and everyone lying to Timmerson.

  Perhaps most interesting of all, Embry had responded to Coop’s violence like a combatant, his lean body falling into the fighting stance that Brogan recognized from Krav Maga. He wondered how a guy barely out of college came to be so proficient with the brutal combat techniques of the Israeli Army.

  He should let this go. Keep his mouth shut and his eyes closed and let Embry’s problems remain Embry’s problems. He had nothing to gain from getting involved and a lot to lose.

  You don’t want him, he told himself over and over, hoping the words would chase him into sleep, where they might sink in. Where he might learn to mean them.

  Chapter Twelve

  At five the next morning, Brogan was jolted out of sleep by a pounding noise. It’d been years since he’d been woken by artillery fire, but some things didn’t fade. For several long seconds he was completely disoriented, seeing his nightstand, a half-open closet, and a mound of dirty laundry where he expected to see his gear and the sleeping bodies of the other men in his unit. The windows and door should’ve had towels jammed at the openings to keep the sand out, but they were bare.

  Where? Where was he? He waited, heart hammering, listening for yelling and running, the punched out sounds of a SAW or an M249 being fired, but all he heard was a dog barking.

  The pounding resumed and he stumbled to his feet, yanking his bedside table drawer open—well, out onto the floor, but not before his fingers scrambled to grip his pistol, already loaded. He thumbed off the safety then took a deep breath.

  War’s over, he told the thundering adrenaline. Oregon. 2016. I’m at home. It’s 0500. No one is trying to kill me. That’s Gizmo barking. Don’t shoot Giz.

  Still, he couldn’t make himself put the pistol back, and he checked his points of egress as he proceeded down the hall. At the door, he put a straining Gizmo on the leash but didn’t bother telling the dog to shut up—idiot wouldn’t listen anyway.

  The last burst of knocking resounded loud enough that his adrenaline spiked again. He took aim on his door and yelled, “State your name.”

  A deep voice rumbled through. “It’s Ernest Cooper.”

  Brogan shook his head, hard, because he must have misheard. He put his eye to the peephole and yeah, that was the grizzled face he’d come to know and loathe. With the chain still on, he opened the door a crack.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “I come in peace,” Coop said, holding his hands up. “Just here to talk.”

  “
It’s five in the fucking morning.”

  “It was this or corner you at work, and I thought you might be more inclined to listen if you were on home soil, so to speak.”

  Brogan glared at him, then slammed the door to take the chain off. He stepped back, pistol at the ready, and said, “Enter.”

  Coop hesitated at the threshold when he saw that Brogan was not only armed but halfway to a bead.

  “Easy, son,” Coop said, tone light despite the sour twist to his mouth. “Conversation only.”

  “Take off your jacket.”

  Coop obeyed, giving the order due seriousness, and even lifted his shirt to show his belly before hiking both legs of his jeans up to his calves. “I’m unarmed. You can put the weapon down.”

  Yeah, he could. Problem was, he didn’t want to. The visit had Brogan’s instincts jangling and he had to force himself to put the safety on. After a moment, he slid the gun into a drawer in the kitchen.

  He started to make coffee. It was slow going, considering that Gizmo was still freaking out. He doled out some scratches to calm him down, but didn’t put the dog in the yard. Coop was eyeing Giz with more respect than he’d ever aimed at Brogan. When the aroma of dark roast filled the air, Brogan asked, “You want a cup?”

  “Appreciate it.”

  By the time they were seated at his dining room table, Brogan was almost awake enough to keep up with human conversation without violence. He scratched at his morning stubble while Coop studied him, and only realized once Coop’s attention sharpened that his hands were trembling with the remnants of his adrenaline rush. He locked his disloyal fingers around his mug and Coop sighed.

  “Smith, you look like a bag of smashed asshole.”

  Brogan hadn’t heard that delightful turn of phrase since Basic, and he couldn’t quite keep himself from snorting. “Well, you did wake me up.”

  “Dreaming?”

  Brogan jerked a shoulder in response.

  “Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Coop added, sounding smug.

  “I’m not ashamed,” Brogan said honestly. It must’ve come through in his tone, because Coop’s lips tightened. “At any rate, I’d like you to get to the point.”