by A. R. Barley
Cute.
Dante’s free hand clenched. He stuffed a dumpling in his mouth and chewed methodically. His mother always told him to chew ten times before swallowing and—he swallowed hard.
The soft dumpling turned into lead in his throat, hard and heavy.
He coughed. He choked.
Air vanished from his lungs.
He was going to die.
He swallowed again and the bite of food finally made it down the right pipe. Damn. His eyes squeezed shut. He grabbed his beer off the table and drank half of it in two gulps.
“You going to be okay?” Luke asked.
Dante downed the rest of his beer. His throat felt like it was bruised from the inside and the cold liquid didn’t do enough to fix it. When he spoke, his voice was raspy: “I’m fine.”
“Ate it a little too fast.”
“Just thinking about—” His breath caught in his throat. Usually that was a metaphor. This time it might be enough to kill him. He cleared his throat. “—something,” he finished lamely. How long had it been since he’d thought about Nancy Green? Months? Years? He couldn’t be sure.
This was the problem that always came along when he spent too much time with Luke, getting all sentimental. The Chinese place around the corner from Charlie Parsons’s might be a good memory, but there were plenty of rotten ones buried in his subconscious too.
There were still three dumplings left, but he didn’t reach for them. Instead he waved down their waitress. “Another drink.”
“More of the same?”
It’d be so damn easy to drink his way out of this mess, all the crappy emotions that were bubbling up again, memories about Nancy, feelings for Luke. All of it could end in a tidal wave of cheap alcohol and meaningless sex.
Except, he’d done that for years and all he’d ended up with was a headache the size of the Empire State Building.
Plus, Luke was still sitting across the table from him asking if he was going to be okay, looking at him like the answer actually meant something.
“You got some kind of iced tea?”
“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head and rushed away.
Luke was still staring at Dante with those pretty green eyes. His mouth opened. The tip of his tongue swiped across his full bottom lip.
He was about to say something.
Then he blinked twice. His eyes narrowed and he stared openly toward the front of the restaurant. Something harsh flickered across his face. He slipped off his bench seat and scooted around to slide in next to Dante. “Whatever happens next, you’re not going to like it.”
“Don’t tell me. Your ex-boyfriend just walked through the door?”
“Worse.” Luke sighed. “It’s a buddy of mine from work and his boyfriend.”
“I’m not seeing the downside. I like firefighters.”
“You met the other night.”
Dante didn’t get it. Then a short blond sat down across the table. He had to scoot all the way in to make room for his much larger boyfriend. It took Dante a moment to identify the pair from Smoke & Bullets. The blond was the one who’d gotten all handsy over at the pool table. Jackass.
He bared his teeth.
The jackass’s boyfriend stuck out a hand: “We weren’t introduced the other night. I’m Troy Barnes.”
Dante shook quickly. “Touch my dumplings, and I’ll beat you to death with a damn spoon.”
“Someone sucks at sharing,” the blond snarked.
“Troy Barnes. Alex Tate.” Luke cleared his throat. “I’d like you to meet Detective Dante Green of the NYPD.”
Alex blinked in surprise. “Your brother?”
“I—” Luke cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
“Sorry about the confusion the other night,” Alex said. “I wouldn’t want to watch anyone feel up one of my siblings either. Even if it was just a joke. Hell, that’s probably the number one reason I moved out of Brooklyn. So I don’t have to watch my relatives date.”
Right, because if Dante managed to salvage a real grown-up relationship with Luke then he’d have to watch him go out with other men. Maybe it wouldn’t be Finn, but eventually someone would catch his eye. Watching someone else smile at him? Kiss him? Touch him in all the ways Dante never could? It’d be pure freaking torture.
But if it kept that broken look off Luke’s face, the one he’d worn the night before when he’d talked about feeling invisible? Dante’d endure anything to keep from seeing that again.
He ate two of the remaining gyoza, savoring every bite, then pushed the plate a little closer to Luke. Watch him share like a good boy.
The waitress came back to drop off Dante’s tea and get Alex and Troy’s order. Her smile was vague and polite without holding any real meaning. “You guys expecting anyone else?”
Dante frowned. He’d been planning on a quiet dinner for two. The arrival of Luke’s friends had blown that little scheme out of the water. If anyone else showed up, he was going to head for the hills. He wasn’t exactly a people person.
“This is it, thanks.” Luke’s knee pressed a little harder against his leg, like he knew exactly what Dante was thinking. It was kind of nice. Like someone had his back. He waited a beat for the waitress to leave then pointed a finger at Troy. “You feeling okay?”
“Fuck you.”
“It was a big fire today. Want to make sure the guy watching my back is still up to scratch.”
“Like I said, fuck you.”
“I mean, you’re still recovering—”
“I’m fine.” Troy flipped him the bird.
Dante frowned. Troy didn’t move like an injured man. “What happened?”
“What didn’t?” Alex laughed.
“I got shot.”
Dante had to respect that. He settled a little further back in his seat. “Most impressive scar?”
“Impressive-looking or the one I’m most proud of?” Troy rolled up a sleeve to reveal a row of deep scars. “Alex did the stitch work. It’s kind of how we got together.”
“Nice.”
“What about you?” Troy asked. “Got any scars?”
Dante didn’t talk about his scars—mostly—but Troy was watching him with steady eyes like he knew. There were scars. They were ugly, and some of them were so deep they touched Dante’s soul.
And Luke was still staring at Troy like the fucker’d hung the moon.
Dante might put up with waterboarding to keep Luke happy, but he couldn’t let that stand. He braced his feet against the floor and pushed himself up a few inches. He tugged his sweatshirt away from his pants and pulled his T-shirt to one side.
Luke leaned forward in his seat, his skin pale. “Oh my God.”
Chapter Nine
The scars on Dante’s side were brutal and ugly. Pink flesh puckered against pale skin. If Luke reached out to touch it, there’d be a hard ridge of tissue against his fingertips. Dante might even allow it in the moment—like he’d allowed so many other things in the past—but then it would be over. If Luke pushed the issue now, in public, Dante would never show him another scar ever again.
Like the time Dante let him borrow his baseball glove before locking it up.
Or the time he let Luke braid his hair, which had gotten just a little too long, before shaving it a half inch from his head.
Instead, Luke’s hands dropped down to rest on the cool vinyl of the bench seat. His fingernails dug into the material hard enough to leave small half-moon marks.
“Nice work,” Troy said. “You’ve got to have a story to go with it. You fall into a cement mixer? Kill a man in Reno just to watch him die?”
“Undercover work requires discretion,” Dante said, and his voice was firm.
Undercover. Something rattled free at the back of Luke’s mind. Dante had come back from an undercover assignment more than a few times with dark circles under his eyes and a hair trigger, but he’d only ended up in the hospital twice. The most recent time had been for a busted leg. “Six years ago,” Luke
said quietly. “That thing upstate.”
The tension around the table was thick enough to cut with a knife, but this wasn’t just some trite metaphor and Luke was choking on it. Light spiraled in the air in front of him. “A knife wound. You told Dad it was nothing to worry about. You said you were fine—a clean in-and-out.”
“I am fine.”
“You look like you were torn apart by an angry wolverine.”
“Weird animal or weirdo in a spandex suit?”
“Both.”
Dante nodded slowly. He dropped his shirt back down over the scar, then settled his sweatshirt back into place. “It would have healed cleaner, but they dropped my ass in the freaking river. The infection put me on my ass. The fever was—It was difficult.”
Not better.
So much not better.
Luke ground his teeth together. He’d called Dante up after Charlie told him about the injury to offer his help. He remembered rushing around his bedroom, putting things in a backpack to take to the hospital, and then Dante finally picked up. His voice had been shaking, but he’d been firm about one thing. He didn’t want Luke’s help.
Not just that. He’d called Luke an asshole.
A bowl of soup landed on the table in front of Luke. Everyone else dug in like it was the best meal they’d ever tasted.
Maybe it was. The restaurant was one of his favorites, but suddenly the broth tasted like salty water and the meat was tough. He tangled his fork in the noodles and took a large bite. Nothing.
The past few days had been stressful, tiring. Every time Luke closed his eyes he saw those bloodred tennis shoes and heard that rough voice: “Wallet, watch, now.” But underneath it there’d been something else, a warmth deep in his belly he felt from having Dante’s attention, his respect.
He’d been an idiot.
Dante didn’t respect him. He didn’t need Luke’s help. He wasn’t looking to build an adult relationship. He was just indulging him, letting him trail along like a long-legged kid on Bring Your Child to Work Day, or—worse—trying to keep him safe.
Luke wasn’t nine years old anymore. He wasn’t a kid. He didn’t need anyone to keep him safe. He was a man, a New York City firefighter.
They were talking over his head, chatting about the latest sports fiasco and the next big superhero movie. Troy and Alex were doing most of the conversation, but Dante was chiming in when necessary, talking to the pair like they were old friends.
The childish thing would be to stomp off. Luke ate some more soup instead. By the time everyone else was finished, his bowl was half empty. “All that gyoza,” he said when Alex gave him a questioning look. “I ate too much.”
Alex didn’t say anything. Neither did Troy. Dante shifted a little bit closer on the cramped bench seat. His body heat wrapped tight around Luke. Hair stood up on the back of his neck. The want was a familiar ache deep in his belly. Tension built in the air, but Luke was the only one who could feel it.
They paid their bill—Dante left a huge tip—and walked out onto the sidewalk. The subway station was to the right. Alex and Troy turned left, walking. It made sense. Their apartment was one subway station away, but it was also just a five-minute walk.
Ten feet down the sidewalk, Alex turned back in Luke’s direction with a grin. “Are you going to crash on our couch tonight?”
Yes, please. Luke tried not to look too grateful. He took a step forward—
Dante’s hand wrapped tight around his wrist. “I thought we were going to talk.”
“Uh-huh.” Luke scuffed his toe against the concrete walk. The grip on his wrist was hot and tight, but that didn’t mean it would be hard to pull away.
Dante wouldn’t keep him.
He didn’t care enough.
“Luke.” Dante said his name quietly. The rough edge to his voice clutched at his insides tighter than any physical restraint. “I came here to talk with you.”
Maybe he cared after all. Even if it was just about the case.
Luke nodded. The motion was meant for Dante, but when he spoke his words were for Alex: “I’ll call you afterwards, if it’s not too late.”
“Right.” Alex didn’t look like he approved, but Alex’s family was simple. He had siblings—lots of them—along with a flotilla of aunts, uncles, and cousins.
Luke had grown up with foster siblings; some stayed for a couple of hours and others for a few weeks. Then there’d been Dante. “He’s your brother,” his father had told him a hundred different times over the years. When he’d been little, Luke had felt that truth in his bones. Then he’d gone through puberty and everything had gotten...confusing. He wasn’t that kid anymore. He knew what he wanted, not that he was ever going to get it. Dante didn’t do long-term relationships, and he definitely didn’t spend more time on Luke than it took to pull his ass out of the fire.
He plastered on a well-practiced mask of familial affection. Then he turned to look straight into Dante’s mismatched eyes. “You want to—” Find a hot fudge sundae? Disappear into a dark alley? He mumbled a suitable ending “—get some coffee while we talk?”
“Thanks, but I’m not exactly looking to run into any more of your friends.”
“I thought you liked Alex and Troy.”
“They’re fine, but I came here to talk to you.” Dante repeated his words from a moment earlier with just a little more emphasis this time.
“About the case.”
“The case.” Dante’s lips pressed together in a thin line. His nostrils flared. “The mugger. Think we should have warned your friends?”
“They’re not going to fumble in an alley. Their apartment’s less than a mile away.”
“And if tonight’s the night he chooses to broaden his horizons?”
“Then it’ll go poorly for whoever he finds in the alley,” Luke snapped. He wasn’t the son of a cop for nothing. He’d listened to enough shop talk over the years to make his own guesses. The mugger was getting consistently more violent, but there hadn’t been any variation in his hunting grounds.
He liked dark alleys and corners near nightclubs, in Manhattan or Brooklyn.
He didn’t lurk outside of ramen joints.
Dante nodded. “You’re right. Probably.”
“Definitely.” Luke forced himself to stand a little taller. There was only an inch separating them in height. If he stood up straight, the distance was almost nonexistent. “Or, did you want to catch up with them? I’m sure Alex would appreciate a big strong cop walking him home.” He grinned. “Troy might knock you out on principle.”
“He could try.”
Right, because Troy wasn’t the only one with a violent past. Luke stiffened. Did Dante have any other scars? A roadmap of life events he’d kept secret beneath his baggy jeans and misshapen blazers?
Hot fingers remained in place around Luke’s wrist. He swallowed down a rush of bright awareness before pulling away.
He needed to concentrate on the case. Maybe that way he could at least pretend to keep things on a professional level between the two of them. “You said your captain needs evidence. Any idea where we’re going to find that? It’s not like he’s leaving notes with his name, address, and modus operandi spelled out for everyone to see.”
“That’d make him every cop’s dream criminal.”
“Do you have any evidence?”
“There was nothing at the scene the other night. We’ve got a list of other places where he’s struck, but it’s been too long. Even if there was something, it’d be impossible to tell if it was left from the attack or something else.” Dante shoved his hands in his pockets. “I thought we might try for an eyewitness instead.”
“You want to re-interview the victims?”
“Maybe. There’s something off about the reports. No one saw anything, but it doesn’t feel right. I want to find someone new. He’s gone back to some of the clubs a few times. I thought we could go there, maybe find someone who didn’t report their encounter.” Dante cleared his throat.
“Find his mistake.”
“How do you know he made a mistake?”
“They always make a mistake.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we don’t find them.” Dante shrugged. “Don’t worry. This guy’s smart enough to hide his tracks, but he’s no genius. He’s made a mistake.”
His words weren’t exactly reassuring.
Luke frowned. “Did you have a particular nightclub in mind?”
The night had brought with it a cold snap. Dante’s skin was pale. His shoulders were stiff, but his hands were shaking. “I asked Finn if he had a suggestion, but—”
“Finn’s no club rat.”
“How do you know?”
“He doesn’t have the vibe. He’s the kind of guy who goes out on Friday night with friends, the same place every time. He’s not hanging around the clubs.”
Dante’s hands stilled. “Finn doesn’t hang out at gay clubs, but you do?”
“Gay, straight, in-between.” He shrugged. “I’m not picky.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You don’t know a lot of things about me anymore. That’s what happens when you avoid your family for ten years. You know I like to dance.”
“I remember that much.”
Luke groaned. Coffee. He needed coffee or booze. Neither one was available on the street corner. He started walking. How many times had he danced barefoot in his father’s kitchen only to turn and see Dante watching him? Hundreds? It had started when he was too young to think anything of it and continued until Dante moved out of the house.
Then there had been those other rare nights: Luke with his shoes shined and his hair slicked back, wearing his best black pants with a bright button-down shirt and a fresh flower from the market down the street.
He’d gone to a dozen school dances over the years, with girls and—eventually—boys.
And each time Dante had sat on the stairs, watching him preen in the mirror.
Dante had only ever gone to one dance: senior prom. He’d worn Charlie Parsons’s navy funeral suit and a crisp blue shirt that matched only one of his eyes. His shoes had gleamed.
It had been Luke’s turn on the stairs, wishing he could go too.