Holy Christ, she’s kidding, right? Brandon studied her face. She was totally serious.
“You"re crazy.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.” Wasn’t she?
“Will you think about it?” she asked.
Would he think about it? Hilarious. He doubted he"d be able to think about anything else.
Patrick couldn"t stop thinking about it. Sitting at his desk, surrounded by the brotherhood of the Boston Police Department, all he could think about was Brandon and Destiny and the totally off-the-wall idea Destiny had proposed to him last night.
He"d been concerned when she"d shown up unannounced at almost eleven o"clock at night. He"d been nervous when she"d said she"d come from Brandon"s place and asked to come in so they could talk. He"d been shockingly aroused when she"d told him what had happened, that she and Brandon had kissed, touched each other, brought each other to a quick, hard climax. Somehow, though, he hadn"t been the least bit surprised. Or jealous.
Which was, he had to admit, really weird.
But nothing she said had prepared him for what she"d suggested next. A threesome? A threesome with Destiny, Brandon and himself.
It was ludicrous. Totally bonkers. And every single time he"d thought about it since, he"d had to force himself to think about tax returns and baseball statistics and his Great Aunt Ethel until the erection subsided. Destiny had asked if he could imagine anything hotter. He hadn"t answered her. But in the bright light of day he had to admit, if only to himself, that he couldn"t. Maybe there had once been something else rattling around in his sexual imaginings, but now that she"d planted that image there, it was stuck. He was stuck.
Only it was a totally crazy idea, wasn"t it?
39
Samantha Wayland
Sitting at his desk, painfully aware of the people around him, he stared blindly at his computer screen and tried to make sense of his rioting emotions and imagination.
The first hurdle, and the one that even one week before would have seemed insurmountable to him, was that she wasn"t talking about a threesome in the old Letters-to-Playboy, Penthouse-Forum, classic-guy-fantasy kind of way. She was talking about a triad. He"d looked it up. That"s what they were called. A triad. Three equal partners who all shared with each other.
She was talking about him fucking Brandon. And Brandon fucking him.
He was acutely aware of the goose bumps racing over his skin, lifting the hairs on his arms, on the back of his neck, sending a jolt down his spine that settled in his balls as they drew up tight.
For Christ"s sake, this was insane. When had the mere idea of fucking Brandon stopped being enough to send him screaming from the room and started being so damn arousing?
Like the total coward he was, he let his fear take hold and shied away from thinking about it. He"d get back to that issue. There were still plenty of others to deal with.
Like the fact that he"d been patiently waiting for Destiny to be available for the better part of a freaking year so that he could pick the right time to re-enter her life. Her bed. Only this time, he"d been thinking about staying. About trying to convince her to stay in spite of her strong misgivings about any long-term romantic commitment. He hadn"t quite figured out how he was going to do this and he had no doubt she"d freak if she knew he was even considering it, but what he did know was there wasn"t anyone he"d ever met, let alone been with, that he"d loved as much. Or as long.
That they had remained friends through all the ons and offs had to mean something. Each time they"d split up, he"d missed her more. Thought about her more and more often. He was pretty sure he knew what it meant, even if it would terrify Destiny to hear him say it.
Hell, it had only been this past year that he"d begun to accept what had been obvious all along. He"d had a few other offers for dates, for sex, for whatever might happen. He"d declined them all. He hadn"t wanted to be with any of them. Until Brandon.
Until Brandon.
Which brought him to the next issue. He didn"t kid himself. He wasn"t known for being a good sharer. Not where women were concerned. Only, for the first time in his life, Destiny had told him about kissing and touching another man. About wanting another man. About wanting to be with Brandon. And it hadn"t bothered him at all. No jealousy. No anger, no hurt, nothing but a hard-on and another bout of trying to shove his growing desire for his best friend back in the box from which it had sprung.
He tried to imagine Destiny kissing someone else besides Brandon. Another officer, maybe. Patrick looked around the bullpen. Maybe Mike Perez, the new hot-shot in the department who had all the ladies giggling over in dispatch.
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And there it was. Jealousy. He had the almost uncontrollable urge to punch the man in the face. Destiny was her own woman, he respected that, but picturing her with another man made one word pound at his temples.
Mine.
On a whim, he tried to imagine Perez kissing Brandon next. Tried to picture their lips locked, their hands all over each other.
Clapping a hand to his forehead, he held his head up with an elbow on the desk. He was in deep shit. Because it was there again. The anger, the jealousy. The word.
Mine.
Then he pictured Destiny and Brandon together, their arms wrapped around each other, hands gliding over asses, breasts crushed to chest, throaty moans and jerking hips, and all he got from that was yet another erection.
Goddamn it.
Destiny was right. He couldn"t think of anything hotter than seeing her and Brandon together. Nothing would be hotter than being there with them. He could barely imagine the pleasure that could be had through enjoying his best friends enjoying each other.
Which brought him to the final and most frightening thing about all of this. These were his best friends. His two oldest, dearest friends. The two people who knew him better than anyone else on earth. Not one of them had parents that were worth a damn and since the tender age of fifteen, the three of them had been together. They"d practically raised each other. Destiny and Brandon had been there for every one of his highs, his lows and all the garbage in between.
Could he risk that? What if he lost them both?
Quite simply, the thought terrified him. He couldn"t come up with a single thing in the world that would be worse or hurt more. He didn"t know if he had the guts to take that kind of risk.
Even if he couldn"t stop thinking about how good it might be.
Which brought him back to the place he"d been all day. Stuck.
His phone rang and he saw that it was Destiny calling. He didn"t answer. He didn"t have anything new to say. When he"d walked her to his front door the night before, she"d stood on the stoop, staring at him until he"d kissed her lips once, gently, and told her the truth.
“I don"t have any answers for you.”
He still didn"t.
41
Samantha Wayland
Chapter Five
Three days later, Patrick sat at his desk and frowned at the report in front of him.
What were the chances? What on earth were the fucking chances that the seemingly routine breaking and entering case he"d snagged a few days ago would connect back to one of Boston"s biggest and most notorious mob families?
Normally, this sort of thing would have been great. Incredible. To have something on the Benedetto family, anything at all, was cause for rejoicing. But normally he wasn"t actively avoiding his own best friend, a member of the Organized Crime Task Force.
It was Sunday morning and Patrick had only just made it to his desk for the first time this weekend. Saturday had been spent out taking reports on the multiple related B&Es when he"d received the call that the license plate one of the victims had called in was a possible match to a fake plate used by the Benedetto family.
It was turning into one hell of a mess and they still had no idea what the fuck was going on. Hopefully, though, with one thug in custody and being questioned by one of their best interrogator
s, they"d get something. And maybe, just maybe, Brandon wasn"t in today and he"d get one of the other Task Force members assigned to help him.
A movement in the relatively quiet bullpen caught his eye. He looked up to see Brandon stride through the door and down the aisle toward him.
Yeah. He hadn"t really believed he was going to be that lucky.
Careful to keep his face neutral, he fought not to let his eyes drop, keeping them on Brandon"s face and most definitely not on his chest in that thin shirt, or his legs in those faded jeans. Sunday in the office meant your most comfortable clothes.
Shit, Brandon looked good.
Brandon, the king of appearing as though nothing in the world was bothering him, sauntered up to his desk and collapsed into his guest chair, just as he had done a thousand times before. Only, there was no smile, no joke, no laugh, no punch on the arm, no what the hell did you step in now? Just the same painfully neutral face Patrick himself was attempting to maintain.
It sucked. Large. Distance had allowed him to keep the denial train on the tracks.
But now, seeing Brandon, he was officially derailed.
Christ, he"d missed him. A lot.
He had an almost irresistible urge to reach out and grab Brandon"s arm. To apologize for being such a complete horse"s ass. But they were still cops and they were sitting in the middle of the detective"s bullpen. He"d have to save that for later.
So instead, he smiled. It was tentative, but it was genuine. “Hey, bud. Looks like we"ve caught another case together.”
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Brandon couldn"t decide if he wanted to laugh or cry. Patrick was obviously trying very hard to be himself, to be calm and his old friend, but he was sitting at his desk like he had a rather large poker up his butt and his face looked like he had about ten thousand things he wanted to say, none of which were Hey, bud. Looks like we’ve caught another case together.
But Patrick was trying. Trying not to freak out just because Brandon was sitting there. It was an improvement. Not much of one, but still an effort, so he decided he"d play along. It wasn"t like he had much choice with the two of them sitting in plain view of at least a half-dozen colleagues.
“Hi,” Brandon offered, going along with Patrick"s attempt to ignore the elephant in the room. “Good score, grabbing that guy on the street this morning.”
“I wish I could take credit but my B&E vics were the ones who snagged him. I just brought him in,” Patrick admitted.
“Yeah. I guess that"s why I"m here. Can you run me through what"s happening?” While Patrick recounted his case to date, Brandon sat back and listened. He knew Patrick would have detailed notes on all of this, so he didn"t bother writing any of it down. He just took it all in and let it rattle around in his brain, trying to make sense of why the Benedettos might be interested in a small, upscale restaurant, its owner and two of the owner"s friends, one of whom also worked as the hostess. He listened to Patrick, the facts, his observations, filling in the blank spaces with what Patrick knew he"d simply understand.
It was ridiculous how much it hurt, how much he"d missed discussing their cases like this. Sitting there, working together, falling into their old, familiar routines, bouncing ideas off each other, taking for granted that they"d be on the same page on a thousand little issues. It felt good. Right. Except for the constant fear that Patrick was going to throw the whole damn thing away over a couple kisses. And the constant hum of desire that he might do just the opposite and go for Destiny"s harebrained idea.
It was a miracle Brandon could focus at all.
Patrick had just about brought him up to date when something he said, or didn"t say, caught his attention. “What"s the connection between the chef and these two friends? Why would someone go after the restaurant and its owner and the hostess, of all people?”
Patrick"s cheeks pinkened. “Uh, she"s not just the hostess. She"s his girlfriend.”
“I thought you said she was with the other guy?”
Patrick"s pink cheeks edged to red. “She is. She"s with them both.” Patrick looked down at his notes, shrugging as if he was imparting a mundane detail. “The three of them are in one relationship. It"s called a triad,” he offered helpfully.
Brandon watched Patrick"s cheeks turn a painful shade of scarlet. Then, god help him, his lips twitched. “I know what it"s called. I looked it up too.” 43
Samantha Wayland
For a moment, Patrick gave no indication he"d heard him and just continued to stare down at his desk. Then a slow smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners and that goddamn dimple winking in his cheek. Brandon"s heart rolled over in his chest. For the first time in over a week, the barest ray of hope that they just might survive this broke through. The only question that remained was where they would all end up?
He found he fervently hoped it was in bed.
Good god, what had Destiny done by putting these ideas in his head?
Before he could come up with a good answer, one of the weekend dispatchers poked his head through the door.
“Hey! Patrick! Holding just called looking for you. Your guy is talking.”
“Great. Okay.” Patrick checked his email and started to print the report from the interviewer. Thrusting his chair away from his desk, he stood and grabbed his coat from behind him.
Brandon didn"t move, days of Patrick avoiding him making him unsure.
“You coming?” Patrick asked, one brow up.
Just like old times. Brandon smiled his first real smile in days. “You bet.” By sunset, Patrick could hardly believe the day he was having.
He and Brandon had gone to speak with his B&E vics and come up with gold—a flash drive detailing the very illegal activities of the Benedetto clan and some of Boston"s biggest political names.
They"d hauled ass with the evidence back over to the station and handed it off to the techies who would process and log the evidence. Patrick had barely planted his butt back in his chair when his phone had rung.
It was Brandon. “You"re not going to believe this.” At that point, he might have believed any damn thing.
“I"ll be right there.” He threw the phone back in the cradle and grabbed his coat again.
Hours later, he and Brandon stepped out of a secure room at Massachusetts General Hospital, stood in the over-bright, sterile hallway and stared at each other.
“Did that just happen?” Brandon asked, breaking their stunned silence.
Patrick pictured the battered and broken man they"d just questioned and shook his head. “Jesus. How can a man do that to his own son?” Brandon shrugged and shook his head, without answer. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it. Mario Benedetto"s son, Damian, had been responsible for losing the flash drive that they"d recovered. Apparently the meathead had gone with the idea that he could improve his “enforcement” wing of the family business if he had the complete list of clients, so he"d helped himself to a file off the bookkeeper"s computer, 44
Destiny Calls
then promptly lost the damn thing. He"d tried to retrieve it, thus the B&Es Patrick had been chasing down. When he didn"t succeed, he had confessed to Dad.
Safe to say Dad was pissed. Sending his henchmen to get the drive, he"d held at least one or two in reserve to beat his own son to within an inch of his life. They"d told Damian they were sent to teach him a lesson.
And learn it he did. Only the lesson that Damian absorbed, along with countless kicks to the ribs, a broken arm and nose, an eye that might not ever recover and facial scars that would stay with him for life, was that Dad was a psycho who couldn"t be trusted. What he"d learned was that he"d be a hell of a lot safer if Dad were in prison.
In exchange for immunity, Damian Benedetto had agreed to testify against his own father.
This was fucking huge.
Patrick jumped when his cell phone started to vibrate. He flipped it open and smiled when he saw the call was from Ryanne Choate. She was their fri
end and normally his favorite Assistant District Attorney. Today she was just about his favorite person on earth.
“Hey, Ry. Got some good news for me?”
When she answered, he looked up and smiled at Brandon. Their eyes met and for one heart-stopping moment, he couldn"t decide if he wanted to high-five or kiss the man. Maybe he"d just do both.
This might be the biggest day of either of their careers and there wasn"t anyone else he"d want to share it with.
If Patrick didn"t stop staring at him like that, Brandon was not going to be held responsible for his actions. It had been a long day, a longer week and adrenaline was making him giddy. When Patrick looked at him, his smile wide, dimple flashing, eyes sparkling, the blood being forced through his system by his pounding heart all shot south.
Patrick hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket.
“Well?” Brandon asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear the words.
“We got the warrant. We can go arrest Mario Benedetto,” Patrick said, sounding as amazed as Brandon felt.
“Holy crap.”
Patrick laughed. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
They left the hospital at a jog, crossing the ambulance bay to the garage and Patrick"s truck. Neither spoke as they drove to the station and met with the rest of the team before mounting up and heading out to the North End. The Task Force kept a tight watch on old Mario, so they knew he was at his restaurant, Bella , on Hanover Street, the main drag in the old Italian neighborhood. They even knew he"d be sitting at 45
Samantha Wayland
the back corner table in the private dining room in the basement, surrounded by his men and his family.
Hell, it was Sunday, so they could be reasonably certain that he was eating the veal marsala with a side of lasagna and going to drink one more glass of wine than he did the other six nights a week.
And tonight Brandon and Patrick were going to walk in there and arrest him.
Holy fucking shit.
Standing in a doorway just a few yards down the street from Bella"s bright windows, Brandon watched the nose of the SWAT van ease to the corner on the next street up.
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