“Whatever you say,” Brock says, and he winks as Cohen passes him. His voice is light. “You like calling the shots, don’t you?”
“Shut the fuck up.” She pushes him hard enough to stumble, and the gun stays with him the whole way.
Cohen’s blood boils when he catches sight of the cuffs, done tight enough that Brock’s hands are pale beneath the angry red lines around his wrists.
The stairwell door is closed when they reach the front desk, and Cohen knows he left it ajar. Kay’s chair is pushed away from the desk and there’s a smear of blood on the pale wood, but a distinct lack of figures huddled beneath it.
They’re a handful of steps from the stairwell door when a footstep echoes in the silence, and Natasha stops suddenly. “Drop the gun.”
Cohen whirls, already reaching for the unfamiliar gun in his holster and lunging to press it against Natasha’s temple, but Brock is faster, and neither of them are where he expects them to be. Brock’s skull makes impact with Cohen’s face, and they both fall together with grunts of pain.
“Jesus Christ,” Daniel mutters, kicking Natasha’s dropped gun away and twisting her arm up behind her back. “Someone needs to save the pair of you from each oth—”
A crack of gunfire from the office cuts him off.
“Get in there!” Daniel shouts, and Martine and Harry are up and lunging for the door right when it swings open.
Roger stands framed in the doorway, waving his gun over his head. “All clear. Can we get a first aid kit in here?” He looks back into the office. “I didn’t shoot you, I shot him!”
Cohen drops to his knees, dragging Brock down with him. “What the fuck,” he breathes, and Brock laughs.
“Not the first time I’ve been at gunpoint,” he says, reaching up to touch the red mark blooming around Cohen’s eye with a snort that might be vaguely concerned. “We might want to work on communicating, though?”
“Guy’s going to be fine,” Roger says. There’s a smear of blood along his sleeve. “Through and through, missed everything that matters, and Osborn’s joining Bartlett in the morgue once the scene techs are done in the office.”
Daniel has Peter’s face in his hands on the other side of the room, their foreheads pressed together. Cohen can see his shoulders trembling even at a distance, but he thinks about seeing Brock at gunpoint and has to take a deep, bracing breath to keep his heart rate under control.
Roger’s hand lands, heavy and reassuring, on his shoulder. “Go give your statement, kid,” he says. “We’ll get it as clear as it can be and then we’ll move on.”
“Yes, sir,” Cohen says, and he smiles at the older man. Once the adrenaline is out of his system, maybe sometime next week at the rate it’s fading, and all the dust has settled, it’ll be a simpler time. He catches sight of Brock, towering over Kay and Tia with his head bent down, full attention on them both, and corrects himself. A better time, complications and all.
“I handed what I had off to Marian and the FBI earlier,” Brock says quietly, rubbing at his wrists. “Before everything went ass-up. Internal Affairs and then a jury will take care of Rotolo, and I think the whole Masters connection was bigger than we ever thought. Bartlett and Pierce are dead, West probably won’t hold a grudge, your team is cleared, and it looks like your biggest worries are just going to be regular New York criminals for a while.”
“We wouldn’t have ever looked at Rotolo and found Pierce if you hadn’t figured it out.” Daniel isn’t looking at Brock, not directly, and his mouth is tight. “I would have shrugged that off, because there was no reason at all to think that something so—so insignificant from back then would have been behind all this.”
“Luck,” Brock says. “One of the reports had the name in it, and it sounded familiar. I was curious and asked Nottage. It was luck, and timing, and a combination of him being nosy enough to know and me being nosy enough to ask. Pierce would have pushed her too far before long, though. Secrets like that always come out eventually.”
“God, what a mess,” Daniel mutters. “I can’t believe they managed to get away with it for as long as they did.”
Brock snorts with laughter and reaches out to clap Daniel on the shoulder. “You’re doing all right, Callahan,” he says. “You got everyone through. James is going to be proud of you.”
“He is never finding out more than I’ve already told him,” Daniel says, finally meeting Brock’s eyes. There’s a curl to his mouth now, and a faint hint of pink in his cheeks. “Honestly, I’m never going to hear the end of it anyway.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think they’ll be looking at you for Captain earlier than he made it.” Brock stands up, grinning at the younger man, who stares back with wide eyes. “I’m going to take Cohen out for dinner,” he says. “I’d say he’s due a day off tomorrow, wouldn’t you?”
Daniel groans and throws the nearest object—luckily a pen—at him. “Get out of here, and I don’t want to hear anything!”
Brock laughs on his way out, lifting a hand and waving behind him. Another pen hits the back of his head. “Anything!” Daniel stresses. “I mean it!”
Cohen looks up from his desk as Brock weaves his way through the bullpen toward him. The bruise around his eye is a spectacular red-purple already, and Brock’s grin softens into something smaller as he gets close enough to see the burst blood vessels in his eye.
“I’m taking you out for a steak,” he says, reaching out with a hand, which Cohen takes without hesitation. “Callahan’s kindly agreed to give you tomorrow off.”
“Really?” Cohen says, allowing Brock to pull him to his feet. His grin is small, too, teeth flashing white against the dark stubble around his mouth. “What did it cost you to manage that?”
“Nothing at all.” Brock lets their tangled hands fall between them, and nods at Roger Murphy before cutting a sideways glance at Cohen. “But, I’m not going to lie. There’s a lot hanging on this steak. How you order could seriously affect the future.”
Cohen snorts and takes the lead, pulling him to the side to avoid tripping over a satchel next to someone’s desk. “And here I was thinking I’d have to slowly introduce you to the thought of a future,” he says. “Challenge accepted.”
Epilogue
Brock’s fingers are warm and solid, tangled with Cohen’s own where their hands hang between them. “Last chance,” he says, and the edge of humor in his voice wavers, brittle and uncertain. It’s been a couple of months now, of toeing invisible lines and seeing where things will take them, and Cohen’s never heard his voice sound like that.
Cohen turns his head, catching sight of the tight set to Brock’s mouth, and he stops, squeezing his hand. “Last chance to what?” he asks, suddenly sure that this is a hell of a lot more than a flippant joke when Brock turns further away. He squeezes his hand tighter. “Hey. Tell me what that means.”
“Nothing,” Brock says, and Cohen’s never been less convinced by a single word.
“Pretty dumb joke if that’s what you were going for,” he says. “I should probably be the one warning you off. I know you know Derek, but the others need a warning label.”
“I know Daniel too.” Brock straightens up, his shoulders back, and he reaches out to knock on the door himself. “Probably know Kay better than I’d like.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that!” Peter whisper-shouts as he swings the door open. “She brought Jello shots. I don’t think there’s any Jello in them, just vodka.”
“Last chance,” Cohen says, loosening his grip on Brock’s hand and raising an eyebrow. “You ready or not?”
“Ready,” Brock says, and Peter steps back to let them in.
“I’m thankful for the NYPD uniform pants,” Tia says. Andrew’s face goes violently red, and she coos wordlessly, leaning in to pinch his cheek and then press a kiss there. “Yes, I do mean what they do to your butt, you adorable prude.”
Peter’s head hits the table with a dull thud.
“Can we stop
fetishizing their uniform?” Sam says, eyes wide and haunted. “I grew up with my dad wearing it.”
“I used to come over before we started dating just to see your dad in those pants,” Lydia says, tipping her champagne glass back. “After we started dating, it was just a bonus.”
“This many people in a room is surely a fire hazard, right?” Daniel says. His eyes meet Brock’s across the table. “Legal opinion?”
“I like the pants too,” Brock says, warm and loose-limbed with the scotch and comfortable with Cohen pressed along his side. He tips his glass at Lydia, who beams, and Kay whoops. Morgan reaches up and takes the glass out of Kay’s hand, setting it on the table.
“I dunno, I kind of like the courtroom dress slacks better,” James says from the end of the table. “They were what caught my eye to begin with.”
Sam groans, long and loud, and Lydia crows with delight, leaning forward.
“We all know you’re an ass man,” Derek pipes up, and there’s a brief pause, surprise in the air, before Lara leans over and pushes the mug of cocoa in front of Derek closer to him as everyone breaks into laughter.
“No more ass-talk,” Ben says over the din, looking toward Daniel. “I’m thankful to Daniel and Peter for agreeing to host this bunch of hooligans.”
A chorus of agreement echoes, although there’s a couple of disappointed groans too as everyone settles back down.
“We’re thankful that you’re all here,” Peter says, reaching out to squeeze Daniel’s hand. His smile is small but bright, the candlelight flickering faint shadows over his face.
“I’m thankful to be here.” James rubs the back of Derek’s hand with his thumb. Derek looks back steadily, his eyes clear and features soft in the dim lighting. Daniel hasn’t had a chance to talk to Derek, not properly, but he knows he’ll get the chance now and that’s enough. The worst is finally over and he’s got most of the people he loves in the same room. Everything else will come with time.
“I’m thankful for friends and family,” Cohen says from the other side of James, lifting his glass. “New and old, and the choices that brought us all together.”
Everyone raises their glasses to that.
Tia puts her glass down after a moment and stands up. “More Jello shots,” she declares. “That was way too emotional for me.”
“You’re cut off,” Daniel says, pointing at her with the serving spoon from the stuffing dish. “Nottage, if you can’t keep her under control, we’re gonna talk.”
“Don’t set him up to fail,” Peter sighs, and gets up. He’s smiling even as he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Come on. There are more shots on the counter.”
Daniel drops the last of the trays from the table onto the last available counter space with a clatter.
“We’re going to be eating turkey sandwiches for the rest of our lives,” Peter says from where he’s stacking the dishwasher. “Also, we’re never hosting again.”
Daniel tucks his chin over Peter’s shoulder, hands tucked under his shirt and splayed out against the warm skin of his stomach. “Fine by me. I wasn’t the one who insisted guests don’t clean up.” He breathes in and Peter smells like turkey and marshmallows. “Did you eat any of the yams, or just the marshmallows?”
“I’m an adult,” Peter informs him archly. “Don’t be policing my food choices.”
The laughter that bubbles up is warm and hopelessly fond. Daniel presses a kiss behind his ear. “You’ve never let me police anything about you, even when I tried,” he murmurs.
Peter puts the handful of cutlery he’s holding down into the sink and turns in Daniel’s arms until their noses are brushing. His eyes are bright, and he slides his hands up Daniel’s neck until he’s cradling his face, thumbs brushing against his jaw. “That’s because you were policing yourself back then,” he says quietly. “Not me.”
“Not anymore,” Daniel says, and Peter’s smile is blinding.
“No,” he agrees, “not anymore,” and then he’s biting at Daniel’s bottom lip until he opens his mouth on a gasp. Peter’s tongue follows his teeth, and then the rest of him is there too, pressing his thigh between Daniel’s legs and plastering them together from mouth to hip as he crushes their mouths together.
The sound of clapping breaks through the rushing of blood in his ears, and the only word he can think of to describe the sound Peter makes is squeak. He doesn’t know whether to turn around, but he does, and isn’t surprised to see Kay leaning against the fridge with a marker held in her mouth, fanning herself with a takeout menu.
She holds it up, a messy 10/10 scrawled across it.
“I hate you,” Daniel says, but he’s already laughing into the curve of Peter’s neck.
Brock takes his coffee from the madness of Daniel and Peter’s new apartment’s surprisingly spacious kitchen and finds himself by the window in the living room, staring out at the darkened sky and the twinkling lights. Across the room, Derek is in the corner of the sofa, cross-legged with the infamous cat perched on his legs and kneading at his chest, her head pressed into the curve of his neck. He’d responded to Brock’s awkward hug when they’d arrived with a pat to his back before pulling away and stayed pretty quiet throughout most of the celebration so far. It wasn’t really surprising, not like his comment during dinner. Brock’s known him longer than most of the people in the apartment, save Daniel and Lara and Ben, and he’s always been on the quieter side. After everything he’s been through in the last year, it’s expected. What surprises Brock more than anything is the way he glances up every couple of minutes, scanning the room until he finds James, and how the almost imperceptible build-up of tension in his shoulders relaxes when he does. His hands are mostly steady as he strokes them down the cat’s back and scratches at the dark fur, and his lips move occasionally.
He’s dragged out of his thoughts when a pair of arms settle around his hips and a chin hooks over his shoulder, stubble rubbing against the side of his face. “You good?” Cohen asks, his breath fanning against Brock’s ear.
“I’m good,” Brock confirms, and he’s surprised that it’s true. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, or even whether he’ll be able to stay in New York permanently, but for the first time the future looks like something more than the same series of bland, impersonal hotel rooms and revolving-door of cases. That’s something to be thankful for.
James stretches out on the sofa, resting his head on Derek’s thigh and shoving one of the cushions under his bad leg to give it some elevation. Derek rests one of his hands on James’s chest, over his heart, and keeps stroking the cat even as it makes a disgruntled sound at having half of his lap taken away.
“Don’t let her claw me up,” James murmurs, turning his face inward until his nose brushes against the soft fabric of Derek’s sweater. He closes his eyes, lulled into a doze by the hum of familiar voices and background noise. “Daniel’s told me exactly what she’s like.”
“She’s a good girl,” Derek says softly. “But I won’t let her get you anyway.”
“I know you won’t.” James reaches up and brings Derek’s hand to his lips, pressing a blind kiss to his knuckles and then leaving it there, tucked between him and Derek. “Happy Thanksgiving, Derek.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Derek echoes, his thumb passing over James’s cheek. The cat purrs somewhere just above James’s ear, a paw ghosting past his neck. “This year, I’m thankful for you.”
The End… for now
Acknowledgments
My undying gratitude to the usual suspects, with special mention again to Anita for making sure I didn’t abandon this series, and to Elizabeth for the honesty and encouragement, and to both for seeing the reality in my imaginary world with such clarity.
About the Author
Brooke Edwards is an Australian LGBTQ+ author and dreamer, slowly working her way through the stories that keep demanding (loudly) to be told. She’s hopelessly obsessed with procedural law enforcement shows, flawed humans being and co
ffee – not necessarily in that order. Brooke’s first books were released through Dreamspinner Press in 2015/2016, and she also began self-publishing in 2017. Her self-published works are exclusive to Amazon.
Author contact:
www.brookeedwardsauthor.com
www.brookeedwards.blog
Other books by Brooke Edwards are available at her Amazon page.
Other Books by Brooke Edwards
Casus Fortuitus
Mens Rea
Law and Disorder
Cause and Effect Over and Again
Standalones
When Fate Falls Short
Sweet Dreams
Over and Again Page 11