Destiny Calls

by Samantha Wayland

  “Prove it,” he said, gesturing to Brandon. “Kiss him.” Brandon"s head snapped up, his eyes wide.

  Damn. He should have seen that coming. One of Brandon"s brows lifted and Patrick could practically hear Brandon"s thoughts— What are you going to do now, you idiot? His mind raced, trying to answer that very question. Too bad he was coming up blank.

  Fuck it. How bad could it be?

  Turning, he speared his free hand into Brandon"s thick, dark blond hair, the curls tickling his fingers as he cupped the side of Brandon"s head. Brandon"s eyes bulged, his mouth falling open. He didn"t say a word out loud, but his face practically shouted, You wouldn’t dare.

  Patrick never could refuse a dare. After all these years, Brandon ought to know that.

  Tightening the arm around his friend"s waist, Patrick pulled Brandon"s long, firm thighs up against his own, their hips bumping. The crowd around them fell silent, watching. Waiting. Holding their collective breath in anticipation.

  He wasn"t going to disappoint. Dropping his head, he pressed his lips over Brandon"s.

  The first kiss was quick, a rubbing of mouths, Brandon"s totally immobile beneath his. It was weird but not awful. Brandon"s lips were firmer than any woman"s had ever been. And actually, it was kind of interesting, since for the first time in his life, his big frame wasn"t dwarfing the person in his arms. Brandon"s tall, lean body fitted against him perfectly.

  In the spirit of wanting to end the stand-off decisively—and knowing that one peck wasn"t going to cut it—he dipped his head again, running his mouth along Brandon"s, catching his lower lip before letting it go. The fine stubble tickling his chin and his palm where it cupped Brandon"s jaw was distracting. Not bad, but…different. His heart started beating a little faster, the blood humming in his veins. He watched, fascinated, as Brandon"s gaze lost focus and his eyelids dropped to half-mast. Not pushing him away, but not actually kissing him back either.

  He was about to let Brandon go, hoping their new biker friend was suitably convinced, when a wave of motion rippled through the dense crowd, emanating from the stage and forcing their audience back toward the bar. Brandon"s hand shot out, gripping the bar as he turned his back to the room, but the momentum of all those bodies crushed together was too much and the weight of the crowd pushed him 11

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  forward. In an instant, Patrick"s back was pressed against the bar as Brandon"s lips, chest, hips and legs were all crushed to his.

  Sweet Lord, his libido had always had a short fuse, but never in his life had anything just flipped his switch.

  Until now.

  Brandon"s erection ground against him, the heavy shaft straining against leather and through denim. It shouldn"t have felt so good. But it did.

  A very small part of Patrick"s mind thought he should be horrified, but his own cock pressed back, surging with blood and desire to match the press of Brandon"s rigid length. Another very small part of his mind thought he should resist no matter how good it felt. Brandon was his best friend, his pal. His bud.

  The rest of his mind was thinking, Fuck. Yes!

  When Brandon"s mouth opened beneath his lips, rational thought fled in the face of a tidal wave of desire.

  Patrick"s fingers came back up and fisted in Brandon"s hair, holding his head at the angle he wanted it, needed it, while his tongue plunged into Brandon"s mouth. Brandon met the assault head-on with one of his own. Their tongues met and clashed, warred and retreated. His muscles knotted, the need escalating, his cock so hard he could barely stand straight. He wrapped his arm around Brandon and pulled him closer, so that their hips collided again and again, the length of their cocks rubbing each time Brandon"s hips twitched in response to the thrust of their tongues. Brandon"s whimper rang through his head like a bell, drowning out the sound of their audience hooting and hollering their appreciation.

  The kiss was wild. Carnal. Blood rushed from his head, flooding through his aching cock before tracing fire through his veins.

  God, Brandon tasted good. Familiar and different. The strength of Brandon"s arms, his sheer size, his flavor and texture. It was like Patrick"s first kiss all over again. A world of discovery in one lip-locked moment. Heat poured through him, thrumming with rough need.

  The big ugly guy was gone. The crowd was gone, the music, the bartender with whom he had, indeed, been flirting. He lost track of them all, no longer caring if they were near, if they watched, if they even existed. There was only Brandon.

  Who is, Patrick thought with a last grasp at reason, my best friend. Should it feel this hot? Taste this good? He sank even deeper into Brandon"s mouth and into the kiss, even as his brain sent its last reasonable transmission.

  This was probably not a good idea.

  Fuck! What the hell is Patrick thinking, kissing me? Brandon wondered as he rolled his hips along his best friend"s erection one more time.

  Okay, scratch that. What the hell am I thinking, kissing him back?

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  But, of course, he knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking that Patrick"s kiss was better than every fantasy he"d ever conjured. The feel of Patrick"s tongue sliding along his, the thrust of that fucking enormous cock as it bucked against him, was so much better than he could have ever imagined.

  Crushing Patrick"s flat belly up against his, he indulged himself, deepening the kiss, relishing the feeling of Patrick"s hands fisted in his hair, his hard muscles bunched under Brandon"s hands. He was finally kissing the man he loved and, for just one totally self-destructive moment, he was going to enjoy the hell out of it.

  The man he loved. Even as he angled his head to take control of the kiss again, his tongue touching all the corners of Patrick"s mouth before Patrick regained the lead, he cursed himself. He"d known for years—maybe since they"d first met two decades ago—

  that he was at least part way in love with Patrick, but he had managed not to admit it, even to himself.

  Until now.

  Which, actually, was about the worst timing imaginable. Because even with Patrick"s tongue halfway down his throat, he knew Patrick was straight. And when this kiss ended, that really heterosexual, old-school, Boston-Irish, hard-assed cop was going to return. For Patrick, this kiss would be an aberration.

  For Brandon, it was a stolen moment he"d remember for the rest of his life. Even if it hurt like fucking hell.

  Damn it, he really should have just stayed home.

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  Chapter Two

  Patrick managed to keep an iron fist around his emotions until he was through his front door and had it locked behind him. Then he let loose.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the wall.

  What the fuck had happened? What in the name of all that"s holy had he been thinking, kissing Brandon like that? Sure, the original get-rid-of-the-nasty-dude plan had been solid, but that had only required him to do one thorough examination of Brandon"s tonsils with his tongue, maybe two— not the twenty-three attempts he"d been completely absorbed into before they"d finally broken apart.

  And then, could you say awkward moment from hell?

  Brandon had stared up at him with his lips swollen, his cheeks flushed, his chest heaving for breath and for one moment, Patrick had seriously contemplated kissing him again. He"d wanted to. His aching, needy cock had begged him to thrust up against the rigid shaft outlined by Brandon"s tight leather pants, but instead he"d stood frozen, fighting panic, fighting need. He"d let the panic win, let his stupid big mouth take over and declare, “Well, I guess our little performance was convincing. Want another beer?” Like it hadn"t meant a thing.

  “Fuck!” He shouted again, hitting the wall once more, kicking it for good measure, then stormed into the kitchen. He needed a drink. He needed a kick in the ass. Not that he hadn"t already had one of those, damn it. He"d see the hurt on Brandon"s face, the way his eyes had tightened, the color draining from his cheeks
before he"d turned away.

  Patrick had hated that. Hated himself for causing it.

  Whipping the refrigerator door open with enough force to tear it from its hinges, he stood blank-faced, staring into it like an idiot. He"d already forgotten what he"d been looking for and searched the contents for some reminder.

  A-ha! Beer. Shit, yes, he needed a beer.

  Yanking a long-neck bottle from the carton, he cranked off the cap and took a deep pull, nearly choking as he swallowed past the knot in his chest.

  He was such a fucking jerk. He knew Brandon had a thing for him. Once upon a time it had freaked him out a little, then he"d had the good sense to be flattered and on a few drunk occasions in college he"d almost talked himself into giving it a try. But that had been a long time ago and since then he hadn"t given it much thought. It wasn"t like it impacted their ability to be friends. It was just a little sexual attraction. No biggie, right?

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  Shaking his head, he slammed his half empty bottle down on the counter and leaned over to bang his head against the kitchen cabinet door.

  Whack.

  Why did he have to kiss him?

  Whack.

  Why couldn"t he have just thrown a punch at the stupid fucker who had been hitting on Brandon and left it at a good bar fight?

  Whack.

  He and Brandon knew how to handle themselves in a bar fight.

  Whack.

  What he didn"t know how to handle was Brandon, not ten minutes after Charlie"s band had taken the stage, tossing back the double scotch he"d just ordered and declaring he was going home.

  Whack.

  What he didn"t know how to handle was the look on Brandon"s face as he"d climbed into his cab, unaware that Patrick had followed him to the door and stood watching from the street.

  Whack.

  What he did know was that Brandon"s thing for him wasn"t just a simple physical attraction.

  Whack.

  And he was the lousiest, most goddamn idiotic best friend in the entire fucking world.

  Whack!

  He was seriously considering putting his head through the cabinet door when a gentle hand brushed the base of his neck, stilling his movements. He sighed, his shoulders slumping, his forehead coming to rest against the wood before he cut his eyes over to look into Destiny"s concerned gaze.

  For a moment they stood silent, years of friendship and a bond neither of them could define making words unnecessary.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. “Oh, honey. What have you done?” Destiny had been curled up on the couch in the den, almost asleep, when Patrick came slamming in the front door. He"d nearly scared her right out of her skin. She"d come by to let out Patrick"s Old English Sheepdog, Farley, since Patrick had gone straight from work to the gym and then on to the Blue Door to meet Brandon. Once she and Farley had romped around some, they"d cuddled down together on the couch, the muted TV on for Farley"s entertainment while she read the book in her lap. She probably ought to have gone home, but her roommate was driving her up the wall and 15

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  she needed a couple minutes to relax. Patrick"s house was home for her and Farley was the closest she"d come in months to having someone warm to snuggle.

  She was surprised, though, that Patrick was home already. It was still early and she"d planned on being out of the house before he returned. She"d figured since Patrick and Brandon had gone out for drinks and to see Charlie"s band, they wouldn"t be home until closer to last call. Or at the very least after midnight.

  Not at ten thirty.

  As soon as the door slammed, Farley leaped off the couch and took off, his nails scrabbling for purchase as he barreled through the door and down the hall.

  Lucky dog. At least Patrick would scratch his itch.

  Then Patrick bellowed an f-bomb and she forgot to be disgruntled about her serious lack of loving.

  Shoving her book and the old afghan off her legs and onto the couch, she stood and went to the door. She paused when she heard pounding from the front hall. Was Patrick kicking something?

  Her heart sank. Could he and Brandon have gotten into a fight? It was hard to imagine. She"d been friends with those two idiots since high school and she couldn"t remember them ever fighting. Bickering and arguing, sure. But never punch-the-wall-and-yell-f-bombs-mad fighting.

  She slipped down the hall, her stocking feet silent on the old hardwood floor, the squeaks of her approach masked by another shout from Patrick. She stopped to listen, her lip caught between her teeth.

  Maybe she ought to leave him alone. She wasn"t, after all, supposed to be hanging out all night, but back home with Andrew, her roommate-from-hell. They"d moved in together two years ago, then foolishly become lovers. Eventually, Andrew had developed selective deafness when it came to her rule about commitment—she didn"t do it, ever—and she"d ended it. They had their own rooms and for the most part, given that they both worked long hours, it hadn"t been an issue. Hell, nothing better had come along. Nothing even tempting, if she didn"t count the man currently stomping around his house like a lunatic.

  Or his best friend.

  So she and Andrew had agreed to stay roommates until the lease expired. At the time, a year hadn"t seemed that long. Too bad that had been an eternity ago.

  Fortunately, one more month and it would be done. All she needed to do was find a new place to live.

  She looked around her wistfully.

  Patrick had offered her one of his spare rooms. God knew he and Farley barely used half of the enormous old Victorian. He"d inherited it from his great-aunt Ethel, who had been more like a grandmother to Patrick—and to Destiny and Brandon too, for that matter. By the time they"d reached high school, Ethel had recruited all three of 16

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  them into shoveling the walk, weeding the flower beds and painting the fence. And in return, they were lavished with cookies and milk and hugs. That was, until the day the youngest of them, Brandon, had turned twenty-one. Then Ethel, the hot ticket, had promptly switched to cookies and Manhattans and hugs instead.

  The memory made Destiny smile. She loved this old house, which was too bad, since she couldn"t move in. The constant battle to resist ripping Patrick"s clothes off was bad enough. No way was she going to live with that day in and day out.

  Of course, her frustration level was probably so high because this wasn"t an urge that she"d had to resist in the past. She and Patrick had been lovers off and on for years.

  Sometimes for a night, once for almost two years running. They weren"t ever a couple, but also never hooked up with anyone else when they were together. It wasn"t a rule, it had just worked out that way. It might have had something to do with the fact that sex with Patrick had always been, hands down and without fail, mind-blowing. He was amazing in bed. They were amazing together. It was like they were a chemical match.

  They liked the same things, liked to try new things. He loved to do to her what she loved having done and vice versa.

  She shoved her hand through her hair and huffed out a sigh.

  They were friends first, lovers sometimes and dated never.

  She didn"t do long haul. Didn"t believe in it. She"d tried it once after college and all she"d gotten out of the deal was the realization she couldn"t spot a cheating bastard, even when he was sleeping right next to her every night. And for that reason, among many others, her relationship with Patrick suited her perfectly. Or it had. Because now, for the first time in almost fifteen years, they were both single and not sharing a bed.

  She ached with wanting him. Craved his touch.

  And by god did it burn her butt that for the first time in all those years, it appeared he wasn"t interested. None of the usual cues were there. The looks, the touches. The heat.

  Damn it.

  Why doesn’t he want me anymore?

  Maybe because he"s going crazy, she thought as he stomped to the back of the house, crashing th
rough the kitchen and pulling the refrigerator door open so fast, every bottle and jar rattled.

  Quietly, she followed, stopping at the kitchen door to watch while Patrick, muttering and cursing, pounded his head against a cabinet. His knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the counter. She winced each time he made brutal contact with the thin wooden panel.

  When she couldn"t stand to watch any longer, she went to his side and put her hand on the back of his neck. As soon as she touched his warm skin, his entire body deflated, his shoulders curling into his chest. His forehead pressed into the cabinet, he rolled his head to face her.

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  For a long moment they stood silent. Her heart ached at the pain etched on his face.

  Pain tinged with anger.

  “Oh, honey. What have you done?” Okay, maybe she could have found a nicer way to phrase it, but she knew this man too well to mince words.

  Patrick screwed his eyes shut. “I"m a fucking idiot, Des.” She thought about denying it, but years of experience had taught her to get the facts first. Patrick was never mean, always well intentioned and absolutely famous for letting his big mouth get him into trouble. “Tell me what happened. I"ll help you if I can.” Patrick"s laugh made it clear he didn"t think it was funny at all. He turned, his arms tightly crossed on his chest, his eyes not quite meeting hers. She wanted to reach for him, to offer him comfort, but she stayed where she was.

  “I kissed Brandon.”

  For a moment, she simply couldn"t process the information. “I"m sorry, what?”

  “I kissed him,” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “I fucking kissed him, Des.”

  Oh boy. She held back from saying what was foremost in her mind, which was, roughly, Oh shit. And Hallelujah.

  Instead she drew a deep breath and struggled to find the right words to help Patrick. He was already upset and she hated to poke at him, but she needed to know what the hell was going on in that head of his. She tested the ground a little before wading into the bog. “Is that a bad thing?”

  Patrick shot her a look that said he thought she was a complete simpleton, then launched himself forward to pace the kitchen. Farley wisely retreated to his bed in the corner.