Tweeker?
He tried to focus on the third man, but then the first boot struck. He could actually feel his ribs bending beneath the impact.
His head swam, his focus lost. They freed his arm and he fought again to get up but couldn"t, barely making it to his knees. Shaking his head, he tried to get his bearings. He opened his mouth to call for help, but before he had a chance, there was another hard shove from behind and he fell back to the pavement and onto his shoulder. He cried out as pain took him to the edge of consciousness.
Shit. He had to get up, damn it. He had to. He knew it, fought for it, but his head was out of whack and his ribs burned so that he could barely breathe and goddamn it, he couldn"t get his legs back under him. God help him, he couldn"t fucking do it.
Fear roared though him, bitter on his tongue as another kick hit his shin. Instinct forced him onto his side and into the fetal position, protecting his sensitive belly. His tortured arm was alarmingly numb, but he managed to bring his hands up to protect his face.
The part of his brain that wasn"t still reeling from the blow to his head knew that his kidneys were exposed. Vulnerable.
The next kick missed them by inches.
He was helpless.
The assault was swift. A fourth kick landed on his thigh. Then another on his already-screaming shoulder. He heard himself cry out as if from a great distance.
The next kick hit the mark in the soft tissue of his lower back.
Sweet Jesus, it hurt. He tried to keep focused, but nature takes mercy on those in pain. Brandon knew he was close to losing consciousness. He struggled once more.
Tried to yell for help.
“Shut up, faggot!”
Faggot? These men were going to kill him because he liked to fuck men?
Before he could work that out in his dazed mind, he heard the sweetest words to ever grace his ears.
“Hey, you motherfuckers, what the hell are you doing?” As quickly as they"d come, his attackers took off running away from the voice. He could hear heavy footsteps coming toward him and prayed for help. When he was gently rolled onto his back, he moaned. It was agony. His ribs, his kidneys, screamed in pain.
“Jesus, it"s you.”
He fought to open his eyes, grateful for the gentle hand wiping away the blood. It was the Big Ugly Biker Dude. Who knew he would be so damn happy to see this guy 53
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again? He wondered fleetingly if the man had any idea just how much trouble he"d managed to stir up by hitting on him. Probably not.
Wasn"t important now.
“Don"t move. I"ve called an ambulance.”
Brandon tried to murmur his thanks, but no sound came out. He was pretty sure his lips moved. Maybe. Closing his eyes, he told himself to focus, to stay in the here and now, but he couldn"t. He was going under, the black void rushing up to meet him as he lost consciousness.
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Chapter Six
Patrick lay in bed, staring up at the ugly and irregular swirls that coated the ceiling.
He and Brandon had done the plasterwork at Ethel"s command the summer after their freshman year of college. They"d had absolutely no idea what the hell they were doing and it really showed. Smiling, he could still picture Ethel thanking them for being such good boys, even as she eyed the ceiling with dismay.
He"d been living in the house, sleeping in this room for almost five years and he still couldn"t bring himself to fix it. He doubted he ever would.
Just as he seriously doubted he would ever get to sleep. He"d tried everything—a soak in his big tub, watching TV, a cold shower, masturbation, another cold shower.
Hell, he"d even choked down some warm milk before determining it was disgusting and that a double shot of Kahlua made it much more palatable and likely to succeed.
But here he was, wide awake.
Climbing out of bed, he pulled on shorts, socks and sneakers, determined to go for a run. He had to do something to force his body and mind to stop and maybe making it go extra fast for a while would help. He was just grabbing a t-shirt from his dresser when Farley"s head came up, ears pricked. When his dog leapt from the bed and scrambled down the stairs, Patrick was right behind him. He heard the key in the lock as soon as he hit the foyer.
Glancing at the mantle clock in the living room, a chill rolled down his back. It was almost midnight. Only two people had keys to his house—Destiny and Brandon. This was either a wildly unexpected booty call or something was very wrong.
He yanked the front door open so swiftly, Destiny nearly fell into the house, her key clattering to the floor. Tear tracks stained her face. Grabbing her arms, he caught her mid-stumble.
“What is it? What"s wrong?”
“Jesus H. Christ, Patrick, you scared the shit out of me!” He held onto his patience, barely, and told himself he shouldn"t try to shake it out of her. “What"s wrong, Des?”
His heart stuttered when she burst into tears and buried her face against his chest.
“Oh, Patrick. They called me. He made them call me because he knew you"d go ballistic and he wanted to make sure I was here and that I would drive you there, because he told them you"d been through too much today already and so they called me and told me to come tell you.”
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He had no fucking idea what she was talking about. But he knew who. He tried to keep his voice calm, even if he wanted to yell so badly his throat hurt with the effort to restrain himself.
Something had happened to Brandon.
Careful to be gentle, he ran a soothing hand down Destiny"s back. “Honey, you need to tell me what happened. Is Bran okay?”
“I don"t know! He"s at Mass General, in the ER.”
Oh, Jesus. Screw gentle. He pushed Destiny far enough away to look down into her face. “We have to go. Are you okay to drive or do you want me to?” She smiled weakly. “No, I have to. Brandon made them call me because he wanted me to drive. No way am I showing up in your car.” He smiled back at her. He was scared witless, but he took comfort in knowing Brandon was able-bodied enough to give specific instructions about who to call and why. Grabbing his wallet and house keys, he pushed Destiny out the door and locked it behind them.
They arrived at Mass General in record time. The streets were relatively quiet at that hour on a Sunday night and Destiny drove her flashy little BMW like the true Bostonian she was—with an absolute disregard for laws, signage and other drivers.
Since he and Brandon had taught her how to drive, Patrick couldn"t have been prouder.
As soon as the car stopped moving, they were out and running for the brightly lit doors of the ER. Pulling out his wallet and shamelessly flashing his badge, he cut through the red tape and visitor regulations with impunity, forcing his and Destiny"s way to Brandon"s door within minutes.
Once they got through it, though, they both came to a grinding halt.
Destiny thought her heart would shatter as she stood in the door with Patrick, staring at Brandon. Tears welled up and spilled over.
Brandon, fortunately, slept. He would have hated her tears. He wasn"t as freaked out by them as Patrick tended to be, but he"d do about anything to make them stop, nonetheless. Instead he lay still, quiet, his breathing deep and even. It was warm in his room and he"d kicked his blankets to the floor, leaving his lovely body covered only by a pair of boxer briefs and acres of stark white bandages. His face was bruised, one eye swollen and his forehead discolored around the gash someone had carefully taped closed.
What in the hell had happened?
Patrick looked at her and while his eyes were dry, his expression was bleak. They moved together to the bed, dragging over a chair, which Patrick sat in with her on his lap, one of her hands pressed between his. When they"d both pulled themselves together, she reached out to take Brandon"s hand as well.
He immediately opened his unblackened eye.
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“Hi.” His voice sounded rough.
She forced back the tears, forced her throat to relax so she could speak. “Honey, what happened?”
“I was attacked,” he said quietly, sighing. He winced when he let the air out of his lungs too quickly. She could tell by his long, slow blinks that he was in pain. She looked at Patrick. He sat frighteningly still and rigid behind her, his eyes the only part of him moving as he scanned Brandon"s body, lingering on the bandages. His need for answers was etched into every line of his face.
He hardly looked up when two men walked into the room and stopped. Just as she and Patrick had, they stood quietly and surveyed the damage.
She recognized their faces from various police events she"d attended, but didn"t know their names. No one seemed inclined to make introductions until she pinched the back of Patrick"s hand.
He pulled his eyes from Brandon long enough to say, “Carter, McGuire, this is Destiny Matthews, an old friend of mine and Brandon"s.” She waved at their nod.
“You pull this case?” Brandon asked, as if he weren"t talking about his own assault.
“Yeah, man,” Carter responded. “I"m sorry about this. You okay to talk now?”
“Sure,” Brandon said, “let"s get it over with.”
With an uncharacteristically quiet voice, he began to recount what had happened.
He"d gotten no further than describing how his head had hit the pavement when Patrick was up out of the chair, spilling her onto the seat before he took up pacing the tiny room, forcing the detectives against the door to take their notes. Brandon tried to watch Patrick as he moved back and forth, but Destiny could see how the effort cost him. Squeezing his hand, she drew his attention to her and spoke softly.
“Let him be.”
Brandon"s smile was feeble at best. “He"s had a rough day.” Patrick stopped pacing and spun to face the bed. As soon as he opened his mouth, she stopped him with a look.
Brandon raised his eyebrows. “Someday, can you show me how to do that?” Destiny laughed, his smile warming her heart. “Sure. I have to warn you, though, it doesn"t always work.”
“I just bet it doesn"t,” Brandon mused, starting to laugh. He immediately stopped and she winced with him. Patrick started pacing again.
“Are they broken?” she asked.
“My ribs? Miraculously, no. I was sure these ones on the side,” he said, pointing to the area in question, “would be dust after that first kick.” Patrick abruptly stopped pacing again and stood staring at the only blank wall in the tight space. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath, the tension in his neck 57
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cording the muscles, his fingers curled into fists at his side. He was trying to rein in his temper and barely succeeding. She noticed that Detective Carter was also watching him closely.
Eventually, Brandon returned to the details of his attack. His voice was clear but quiet as he remembered specifics that might help Patrick or the detectives figure out who had done this.
When he told them his attackers had called him a faggot, she gasped, kicking herself when Brandon"s voice faltered, his gaze sweeping over Patrick"s rigid back before watching the faces of the other men in the room. They said nothing and she realized they assumed it was a generic insult, not a specific label.
Brandon shot one more look at Patrick, then sighed. She was probably the only one who heard the heartfelt fuck he muttered before he spoke aloud again. “I guess you guys should consider this a possible hate crime,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact.
“You think you were attacked because you"re a cop?” McGuire asked.
Brandon stopped to think on that for a moment, eventually nodding. “That is a possibility,” he allowed.
Carter nodded. “We"ll be looking at the Benedettos first. Mario could be out for revenge.”
Patrick turned to study the detective"s faces, his eyes narrowed. “Shit. That could be it.”
McGuire looked up from his notebook. “You were the other arresting officer. You have any problems tonight?”
A chill ran down her spine at the idea that the mob might be seeking revenge.
“Nothing,” Patrick said without having to think about it, which only made her feel marginally better. “I got back from the station late and then was home alone. I didn"t hear or see anything unusual.”
McGuire pursed his lips, obviously considering what might be going on.
“Interesting.” He returned his attention to Brandon. “Is there any other reason you can think of that might lead someone to attack you? You have any enemies other than the Benedettos?”
Destiny watched Brandon straighten up in the bed, his gaze casting to Patrick quickly before focusing on nothing at all.
“I can"t think of any,” Brandon said without looking up.
She stilled in her seat. What was wrong with him? Glancing up at Patrick, she saw him staring down at Brandon, deep lines of concern creasing his face. “Where were you again?” Patrick asked quietly.
Brandon repeated the address and she couldn"t understand his grimace or why Patrick turned away and closed his eyes with evident frustration. She tried to picture the street.
Then she figured it out. Damn.
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Resignation was stamped in every line and curve of Brandon"s face as he made direct eye contact with McGuire. “You might consider looking into crimes against gay men in the area.”
McGuire and Carter said nothing, looking at Brandon as if he might have spoken in Greek.
She wanted to slap both their faces. She knew goddamn good and well Brandon didn"t want to say what these nimrods were going to force him to say. But how could he not? If someone was attacking innocent men on the streets, he couldn"t risk obstructing the investigation. Even while she understood this about Brandon"s very nature, she wanted to rail against how unfair it was that his choices, his privacy, were being taken away from him.
Suddenly nervous, she jumped to her feet, busying herself by picking the blankets up off the floor and tucking them over Brandon, offering him what little protection she could.
Patrick turned and leaned against the wall by Brandon"s bed, his arms crossed over his chest. He stared at his two colleagues, his face bland.
It was painfully clear the detectives weren"t figuring it out. “It"s possible,” Brandon continued, “that they"ve seen me in that neighborhood before and assumed that I was gay because I sometimes go to the Blue Door Tavern down the block.” He left out that he and Patrick had been there just the other night. She couldn"t decide if she was relieved or pissed off by the omission.
She was definitely pissed off by the look on Carter"s face. “The Blue Door is only for gays on certain nights.”
Destiny"s stomach lurched at his tone when he said the word gays.
Brandon sighed. “Yes, and those are often the nights I"m there.” He stopped and shot a look at Patrick, one that spoke of fear and apologies, then stared directly at Carter. “Jesus, Carter, do I have to write it down in your little notebook for you? I"m gay. Well, actually, I"m bisexual—not that it"s any of your business—and it"s possible those men attacked me because of it.”
The silence that followed this pronouncement was awful. Destiny watched the detectives" faces closely and she didn"t like what she saw. McGuire, at least, looked mostly surprised. But Carter looked disgusted.
She turned back to Brandon but he was watching Patrick carefully. No doubt wondering, as she was, if he was going to blow a gasket. He sure looked like he was considering it. His thunderous expression was probably what forced Carter"s face back to neutral. Carter was damn lucky Patrick had offered him that warning.
No doubt trying to keep things on track, Brandon returned to recounting the details of his attack, his outing to his fellow officers complete. The fallout would be what it would be. Brandon would have to see it through and she and Patrick would stand by him.
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She listened to Brandon and watched Patrick, wondering how this was going to impact him. He was Brandon"s best friend and he wasn"t pretending to be surprised, which Carter and McGuire would no doubt have noticed. Not to mention he was standing over Brandon"s bed like some kind of giant avenging angel. But what his colleagues didn"t know was that Patrick was also bisexual. Hell, she wasn"t sure if Patrick had figured that out yet. She sent up a silent prayer that this wouldn"t scare Patrick away from his feelings.
She returned her attention to Brandon when he mentioned the return of Big Ugly Biker Dude. She smiled. “What are the chances?”
“Would this be the man that chased the assailants away?” McGuire asked, his tone all business. He had been taking furious notes the whole time. Destiny hoped he was a good guy. She was pretty sure Carter was a lost cause.
When Brandon confirmed Biker Dude"s role in the night"s events, Patrick finally stood away from the wall and stopped staring holes through Carter. He crossed to the foot of the bed, his back to the detectives, blocking their view. She could tell he was barely holding it together. “I"ll question him myself tomorrow,” he promised. He looked like he was thinking about charging down to the station right then and there.
Brandon smiled in spite of Patrick"s ferocious expression. “I"m sure he"ll be thrilled to see you,” he said, his voice bland.
She smothered her laugh, mostly because Carter could still see her. Patrick looked momentarily shocked. When his face started to cloud once more, Brandon winked at him. Even as Patrick straightened with surprise, he couldn"t keep his lips from twitching.
Destiny smiled at Brandon, running her hand lightly over the bandages on his forehead before letting her fingers trace through his hair. Brandon smiled back.
Clever man. It wasn"t easy pulling Patrick out of a mood.
But then again, who knew the stupid lug better than the two of them?
No one.
The ride home was agony.
Brandon lay across Destiny"s back seat and stared at the ceiling of the car, using every ounce of his focus and strength not to groan out loud as each bump and curve in the road shot pain along his ribs, back, shoulder and thigh.
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