by Mel Gough
Damien chuckles. Brad feels it rumbling in his chest. “You’re a weird fucker sometimes.”
Brad can’t help the grin threatening to spread over his face. “I know.”
Damien’s soft curls brush Brad’s forehead and temple as Damien angles his head and kisses Brad’s hair. “Let me tell you, my motives are pure as the fucking snow,” he murmurs. “You’re gorgeous, and the nicest guy I’ve met this century. I wanna be with you every fucking minute. That’ll do you?”
Brad’s grin widens. He wraps his arms around Damien and rolls on top of him until Damien gives a little squeak. Hovering over him, Brad takes his time studying the handsome face, feeling the taut body against himself. “Yeah,” he finally growls. “That’ll do me just fine.”
39
Brad stays in the office over lunch the next day, having a sandwich at his desk and groaning under a mountain of court files that somehow appeared while he was away one day for Aiden’s funeral. It’s a Saturday, and the files don’t need to be submitted before Monday, but Brad doesn’t want to sacrifice his free Sunday to get on top of them. He’s just opened a new document and rubs his temples at the nineteen pages to fill in, when his phone rings. He glances down at the cell and sees that it’s Damien’s number.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?” He’d left the penthouse before six a.m., when Damien had still been asleep, looking so peaceful Brad has been daydreaming about that ever since.
“I’m fine,” Damien replies. He sounds distracted. “It’s just…” There’s a pause.
“It’s what?” Brad prompts. “Spit it out, you can tell me anything.”
“Did…I know this sounds weird, but did you feel like you were being followed when you left the house this morning?”
“Like I was being followed?” Brad echoes. “No, not really. Why?”
“I don’t know,” Damien says. “I felt like someone tailed me. I’m meeting my agent in a while; her office is in Midtown. The whole way on the subway I had this weird sensation.” He gives a nervous laugh. “Probably a fan too shy to show their face.”
“Maybe,” Brad says, thinking. Now he’s the one having a weird feeling. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but maybe… Do you wanna come stay in Brooklyn with me for a few days?” The words are out before Brad even realizes he’s going to offer. It’s not like they haven’t spent all their free time together for a week now. But putting the invitation into words marks a next step. Brad tries not to overanalyze. Damien could do with a few days away, that’s all.
After a moment of surprised silence Damien says, “Okay. Yes, actually, I think I’d really like that, thanks!”
“No problem,” Brad replies. “That’s settled then.” He surveys the mess on his desk. “I’ve got a mountain of admin to do today, but I’ll be home by seven. Go get your stuff and come over to Garfield Place around eight?”
“Perfect!” Damien says. “Don’t buy anything for dinner. I’m taking you out! I’ll research some places.”
“Sure thing,” Brad says, laughing at Damien’s enthusiasm. “See you later!”
“Bye,” Damien says, and hangs up.
Brad puts the phone down, smiling. He cracks his knuckles and gets back to work. With a dinner date to look forward to, he’s extra motivated to get all of this paperwork done in record time.
40
Viv wants to scare the cop. She wants him to believe that Damien isn’t worth it, that being with a celebrity is too much hard work. On the subway ride from Chinatown, keeping herself hidden in the throng of commuters, Viv steals away inside her head, fantasizing about throwing a rock on Moretti’s car. She has no idea where the fantasy came from, it’s just there, a perfect scare tactic. But she doesn’t know if Moretti has a car, and she can’t wait any longer to poke around and find out more. She has to do it today. Following Damien around as he takes the subway to an appointment in Midtown, then back home, then out here to Brooklyn has exhausted her. She struggles to keep up with him as he hurries out of the subway station.
She’d nearly given up after when she’d followed him back from Midtown to the penthouse, but something made her stick around and wait in the bubble tea café again. After an hour he’d come back out, holding a small carry-on bag and heading for the subway station. Nothing about this day has been normal. As far as she knows, he has never once taken the subway in all the days she gone around to his place.
She follows Damien to a beautiful brownstone on Garfield Place, and watches from a distance as Moretti lets him in. Across the street she spots a low stone wall, partly obscured by the low-hanging branches of an untidy tree. Viv perches on the wall, with no firm plan as to what she’ll do next. The fantasy of a rock crashing through glass is more insistent than ever, and as she sits and waits an idea begins to form in her mind. She rummages in her bag until her hand alights on something soft. She pulls out a pair of thin, smooth kid gloves. No longer used to the New York climate, she finds that her fingers get cold when the sun starts to set, so she put the gloves in her bag a few days ago. She now pulls them on. She’ll wait until all the lights are out in the house, and then she’ll give them a good scare.
Moretti will think Damien has a dangerous and unhinged stalker and will give him up. He’ll never guess that it was only her.
When Damien steps through the door of the brownstone, they’re both a little nervous. Damien puts his overnight bag on the floor by the door. “It’s a bit early to be moving in,” he says, and gives Brad an uncertain, searching grin.
“Special circumstances,” Brad replies. “Let’s just…” Not make a big deal of it, he wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat. Damien seems to read his mind. He reaches out and cups Brad’s chin.
“Let’s not overthink it,” he agrees. “One day at a time.” Then he pulls Brad into a long kiss. With an effort, Brad forces himself to focus on the present moment.
When they emerge from the kiss, Damien asks, “You hungry?”
Brad nods. “Starving!”
After half an hour, the detective and Damien reemerge from the house. Viv follows them at a safe distance to a small local eatery. Her heart breaks at the thought of them ensconced in the restaurant. But as she crosses the street and settles down in a bar to wait until Damien and Moretti go back home, her brain plans the future. She has to focus on making that happen. When Moretti drops Damien because being with him is too much of a liability, she’ll be there to pick up the pieces. This time, she won’t fail him.
Brad has walked past the little Israeli restaurant many times, but he’s never been inside. At first, he’s uneasy. The staff recognize Damien the moment they walk in, and a young waitress nearly drops her tray when she passes their table, craning her neck to get another look.
Damien seems oblivious, or he’s so used to it that it no longer bothers him. The restaurant isn’t very busy, and the staff are friendly and solicitous. When the waitress keeps topping up the starters without having to be asked, Brad muses that being recognized all the time has its perks.
The food is good, too, and Damien dives in with relish. “That pickled cabbage is just like my gran used to make,” he says, nudging the bowl toward Brad. “And have you tried the gherkins?”
“Where did your grandmother come from?” Brad asks, smiling at Damien, who enjoys another pickle with enthusiasm.
“Romania,” Damien says. “Just before the war. She was very young.” He grins. “And she was the black sheep. Married a gentile.”
“You take after her?” Brad asks, teasing. Damien laughs and nods. Just then the waitress is back, refilling the water glasses which don’t need topping up. Damien thanks her with a smile, and she hurries back into the kitchen, blushing crimson.
“Hey, when are you going back to filming Gaukur?” Brad asks, suddenly aware that they’ve never talked about the show. He’s been reminded of Damien’s celebrity status tonight and realizes he knows less about him than Damien’s fans. “Where do you film anyway? Can’t be LA; it looks
too green.”
“Canada,” Damien says. “Near Winnipeg, mostly.” He picks up a piece of pumpernickel, but only turns it around and around in his hands. Brad is disconcerted by the sudden change in Damien’s mood.
“Hey, what is it?” he asks, leaning closer so they won’t get overheard.
“I’m not sure I’ll have that job much longer,” Damien replies.
Brad lowers his voice further “Why?” he asks. “What happened?”
“The show might get canceled,” Damien murmurs, looking over his shoulder to see if the waitress is coming back. “It’s doing pretty well, but it’s expensive to make. More expensive than they thought at the network, apparently.” He looks down and mutters, “Cheap bastards.” His voice is bitter.
“I’m sorry,” Brad says, reaching out to squeeze Damien’s arm. He doesn’t know what to feel. He’s only now realized just how much he’ll miss Damien when he goes to Canada for several months at a time.
Damien gives him a grateful little smile and squares his shoulders. “It’ll be all right. Gaukur is a nice regular paycheck, but something else will turn up. Usually does.” He still sounds bitter, and Brad doesn’t like it. Then Damien makes a face. “And I expect we’ll start press for Dark Core soon. Something to look forward to.”
“It’ll be okay,” Brad says. “We’ll deal with Vivienne before all of that.”
Damien doesn’t say anything but takes Brad’s hand under the table for a moment. Then their main course arrives, and soon they’re talking about the food again. Brad’s chicken schnitzel is so good, he can’t believe this place has been on his doorstep all this time and he’s never come here before.
They finish every last crumb, unpleasant thoughts of canceled shows and Vivienne Aubert banished. When they’ve paid and get ready to leave, the waitress appears again. She blushes as she addresses Damien. “I love your show,” she says breathlessly. “Can…could I have a photo.”
“Course you can!” Damien says with a smile.
Brad steps to one side. Soon, the bartender and a couple of other staff appear as well, and in the end the only two other guests in the restaurant come for their selfies, too. Damien is kind and patient with them all, and it occurs to Brad that he rewards the fans for having left him alone all through dinner first. The meet and greet only lasts a few minutes, in any case. Nobody takes advantage of Damien’s generosity, and Brad fights down the unease caused by the glances that flit in his direction. If Damien isn’t bothered by what these people make of their outing, then he shouldn’t be. This is what Damien’s life is like, and Brad better get used to it.
When they finally step outside, a light drizzle falls, and the headlights of the few cars in the road make dancing circles of light appear all around them. Damien zips up his jacket and glances at Brad. “Sorry about that,” he says.
“No need,” Brad says. “Doesn’t bother me.” He reaches out and takes Damien’s hand. Damien’s eyes sparkle, and he grips Brad’s fingers as they hurry down the sidewalk toward home.
Even while Viv still pries the stone loose from the garden path she suspects that she’s making a mistake. Her gloved fingers are clumsy, and she wipes her blotchy eyes on the soft suede fabric covering the back of her hand. As she straightens up, she staggers and steps off the path into the flower bed.
Then, as she walks onto the deck, the darkness is replaced by glaring lights. Viv hadn’t factored in automatic floodlights. She freezes, breath catching in her too tight throat. Nothing moves, the garden is silent but for her wildly beating heart.
Viv still can’t believe she’s in this tidy garden in Brooklyn. To know Damien is in that house, with the cop, still seems like the worst and most unimaginable nightmare.
After following Damien and the cop back to Garfield Place, Viv had gone around the back to see if her plan was viable at all. A narrow path runs behind the properties, and Viv had no trouble identifying the gate in the fence enclosing Moretti’s back yard. She could have climbed it, she’s nimble enough, but the gate was unlocked. To Viv, that’s a sign that this is what she’s meant to do.
Face set in grim determination, she walks across the deck. The sole of her right foot squelches with the mud she accumulated on her white Gucci sneakers when she stepped into the flowerbed.
She lifts the paving stone over her head and stops a few yards away from the left-hand patio door. She inhales once, then takes the last few steps at a run. As she hurls the stone toward the window she’s gripped with doubt. What if the glass doesn’t shatter? But a split-second later it does, with a loud, ringing crash.
They make love when they get home, slow and gentle, they’re so full from the delicious dinner. Then they fall asleep curled up around each other.
It’s the unmistakable sound of breaking glass that wakes Brad in the small hours, and his training kicks in at once. A glance at the alarm clock tells him that it’s just after one a.m.
“Wh’ was that?” Damien asks groggily, sitting up.
Brad is already out of bed. He picks up his boxer shorts from the floor and pulls them on, then fishes for his Glock in the bottom drawer of his nightstand.
“Someone smashed a window downstairs,” he whispers, climbing into his boots. He hurries around the bed without making a noise. “Stay here. I mean it.”
He waits until Damien gives a nod. He looks so young, with his hair tousled from sleep, the bedsheets wrapped around his drawn-up knees. He eyes Brad’s gun, looking scared.
Brad takes the stairs one by one, making sure his boot hasn’t made a noise before moving again. He holds the gun upright, with the safety off. At the end of the stairs, still out of sight of the main part of the living space, he stops, listening.
All the windows at the front are intact, and so are the glass panels in the door. Moonlight flows through them, showing him the familiar night landscape of the house. The gun now pointing in front, Brad takes the last stair and steps around the staircase until he can see toward the back of the house. He sweeps the space with his eyes, and with the gun. The house is deserted.
At first, Viv is stunned. As the racket dies away she listens to any sound coming from inside the house. Only when she thinks she hears muffled voices does she retreat back the way she came. She stops outside the circle of light still bathing the patio and turns around. After a few moments, a light comes on downstairs.
Smiling to herself, Viv hurries across the lawn and slips out of the gate. She’s done it; she has disrupted their lives. Yes, he’s a cop, and he’s used to violence. But this is his home. How long will it take him to realize that he’s brought this trouble onto himself, and that he can stop the disruption only by dumping Damien?
She finds a cab on 7th Avenue. As she sits in the back, staring out of the window into the night, a little spark of fear niggles at the back of her mind. She’s never destroyed someone else’s property before. Tonight, she’s crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. But she banishes the unease from her gut. Yes, this is unpleasant for all of them. But it’s not like she hurt anyone. She’s doing what’s necessary, and the necessary is rarely pleasant, or easy.
But maybe her next action should be less violent. She pulls out her phone, an idea already forming at the back of her mind.
Before venturing into the dining space and toward the back door, Brad goes over to the wall and switches on the ceiling lights. The sudden brightness makes him squint, but it only takes him a moment to see the broken window in the patio door. Shards of glass glint all around it, and a large black boulder lies not far from the dining table. Brad thinks he recognizes it even from this distance. It’s one of the paving stones the designer used for the paths connecting the flowerbeds in his yard. Brad has never liked them. The first ones started to come loose while the workmen were still busy with the garden.
At that moment, the movement-sensor controlled floodlight above the patio clicks off. Whoever threw the stone must’ve still been there when the light came on in the house. The timer is set
to two minutes.
As he moves toward the patio doors, his boots crunch on the glass. He stops by the smashed window, shivering in the cold breeze coming through the jagged opening. He wears nothing but boxer shorts and his boots. Weapon pointing up again, Brad stands for a moment, surveying the darkness. Nothing moves. He didn’t expect it to.
He retreats into the house and hurries up the stairs. Damien waits in the bedroom. “Is it burglars?” he asks. He wears jeans already and has pulled on a long-sleeved T-shirt.
“Someone threw a paving stone through the patio door,” Brad says, stepping out of his boots and hunting for the pants he took off earlier. He pats his pockets. “Shit, my phone is downstairs…”
Damien pulls out his own. “I’ve got mine. Should I call 911?”
“Yeah,” Brad says. He finishes dressing and steps back into his boots. “Tell them the address and that I live here. Detective Moretti, with Detective Bureau Manhattan South. That’ll speed things up.” He grabs his gun which he’d put on the bedside table on Damien’s side while pulling on his pants. As he turns back toward the stairs he catches sight of Damien’s naked feet. “Put on shoes before you come downstairs. There’s a lot of glass.”
Damien nods, cell phone on his ear. Brad goes back downstairs. He doesn’t think that whoever threw the stone hung around, but he still has to check. This doesn’t feel like a burglary gone wrong. The question is, what is it?
He crunches across the glass by the patio doors, wincing about the damage done to his hardwood floors. If this was his case, and the owner of the house walked all through his crime scene he’d be hopping mad. But he has to do a first sweep of the garden himself. He unlocks the undamaged side of the double doors, careful not to touch anything on the outside. He steps onto the deck, and the floodlights come on again. He stands for a moment and listens to the silence of the chilly night.