Between Love and Duty

by Janice Kay Johnson

  The muscles in Duncan’s jaw flexed. “I have to stay available.”

  “You could do that at home.”

  He’d stayed home yesterday evening, after he followed Jane from work and walked through her house to reassure her. After he consulted with the security guy and overrode all Jane’s objections to his suggestions. Once home, he’d made himself some dinner, sat down with it, eventually scraped most of it in the trash.

  Leaving her had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  “Will you be all right?” he’d asked, and, holding open the front door, she’d smiled and given a sturdy nod.

  “Of course I will.” With an almost-mischievous grin, she had added, “I have you on speed dial now, you know.”

  “Good,” he’d said hoarsely, and her smile had ended up dying in the face of his grimness.

  If he’d seen the slightest sign she would welcome him he’d have offered to stay despite his own deep qualms. But he hadn’t mistaken the horror with which she’d jumped away from him after he kissed her, and she was working damn hard now to convince him she was relaxed and absolutely fine. Nope, don’t need you, her body language insisted.

  So be it, he’d told himself, and gone home where he’d tried to eat, tried to watch TV, tried to read. Tried to sleep.

  This afternoon he’d gotten hung up in some meetings and the best he could do was excuse himself for a minute in the early evening to call Jane to make sure she’d made it safely home.

  She was apparently peachy fine. “Niall already checked in,” she told him.

  When he got free, Duncan drove first by Jane’s house. There were lights on—in fact, so many her house shone like a beacon. Here I am. No, she was defying the darkness with light. He wondered if she would sleep with them on, too, or if she would convince herself that was silly.

  He had actually gotten as far as his own house and slowed to pull into the driveway before his foot resettled on the gas and he kept going.

  Tomorrow was Friday. He wished it was Saturday, when Hector was thinking maybe a movie again if it was raining, as the forecast promised. Tito liked going to the movies. This was ridiculous—Duncan couldn’t keep taking Saturdays off, but this one he would. To be with Jane.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said.

  “What?” His brother looked at him, startled.

  This was why he’d come.

  His skin felt too tight, hot. Hell. This was worse than standing up in front of the class to give a presentation when you weren’t prepared. Worse than walking toward a crazy, armed man, your hands raised as you offered yourself in exchange for a sobbing hostage.

  “Has Conall ever, uh, had a long-term girlfriend?”

  “What?” Niall said again, but his expression had become wary.

  “Have either of you?”

  His brother’s fingers drummed on the table. “No.” There was a small silence. “Women, yes. Long-term, no.” He frowned. “I don’t think. Conall hasn’t said, anyway.”

  “Do you think you ever will?”

  “God, no!”

  So I’m not alone. Weirdly, Duncan was appalled. He’d rescued his brothers, and yet they were as screwed up as he was.

  Really? You’re surprised?

  This was the most personal they’d gotten in probably fifteen years. Which was pathetic. Here was Duncan, filled with anxiety, and Niall twitching like a kid undergoing the inquisition.

  Duncan swore and sank down on the chair he’d pulled out.

  Niall cocked his head, an expression of sheer amazement on his face. “You’ve fallen for her. Jane.”

  “I swore I never would.”

  “But you did,” said Niall, irritatingly persistant.

  “I can’t go anywhere with it. I can’t…”

  “Let her in?”

  His jaw hurt. There went the enamel on his teeth. “Trust her. I can’t…trust anyone.”

  They stared at each other, two men who knew each other too well, and yet not at all.

  “You were an adult when Mom left.”

  Duncan let out a huff of almost humor. “Eighteen? An adult?”

  Niall gave his head a shake, rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t think…”

  “What?”

  “About you.” He came close to a laugh, too. “Man, does that sound self-centered. It is, isn’t it? Oh, shit, who am I kidding? I was. I just, uh, thought…”

  “That I was the tyrant and you were the victim?”

  “Something like that,” his brother mumbled.

  “You still think that?” Duncan asked in disbelief.

  “No. I don’t think about the time after Mom left any more than I can help. Do you?”

  “No,” Duncan admitted.

  They sat in silence for a long time.

  Why have we never talked about this?

  Because they were men? Because Duncan didn’t talk about feelings? Didn’t admit to having any? Crap. He had no idea.

  He groaned. “I didn’t mean to start this. But I…”

  “Don’t know what you’re doing. Yeah, you said that.” One corner of Niall’s mouth twitched. “Maybe a night or two with her would cure you.”

  “Maybe.” He’d been trying to tell himself that. But… “I don’t think so. I’m afraid I’d only get in deeper.”

  “And you can’t walk away. Not now.”

  “No. What if this psycho actually comes after her?”

  Niall did not rush to reassure him. “We have a seemingly limited pool of suspects.”

  “Probably. Maybe. Did she talk about every case she’s worked? What if this is about something else entirely?”

  “Unlikely.” But Niall’s fingers were beating a rhythm on the table again. His one nervous habit. “‘Bitch, you think you can do anything you want’ sounds a lot like somebody didn’t like her butting in. Unless she makes a habit of interfering…?”

  “Didn’t you ask?” Duncan said with quick anger.

  “More or less. She said no.”

  Neither spoke for a minute, maybe two. Finally Niall said, in a strange voice, “You’re trusting me with Jane, right? I mean, with her…well-being.”

  Was he? The concept was unexpected. Duncan’s eyebrows knit.

  When he didn’t say anything, Niall gave his patented, humorless laugh. “Or not.”

  Still disconcerted by the whole idea, Duncan found himself slowly admitting, “Yeah, I guess I am. You’re…a hell of a cop.”

  “And your brother.”

  They looked at each other cautiously.

  “Yeah. And my brother.”

  What was Niall suggesting? That Duncan could trust him? Or that he already did, and hadn’t noticed?

  “What’s your worst memory of me?” He hadn’t known he was going to ask until the question was out, lying there like a defective cherry bomb.

  Niall’s body coiled as if he wanted to leap away from it. Duncan could almost see it vibrating on the table. From Niall’s expression, he did, too.

  Finally he let out an expletive. “That’s a hell of a thing to ask.”

  “Forget it. Forget I asked.” Once more filled with foreboding and restless energy, Duncan pushed back the chair and stood.

  “No.” His brother moved his shoulders as if to force them to relax. His expression had morphed into something strange. “Funny, I thought choosing one worst memory would be harder than it is.”

  Duncan clenched his jaw, one way of bracing himself.

  “But what jumps to mind first is you coming to pick me up at juvie. Telling me Dad had been put away for ten years, that Mom was gone, kaput. It was only us, and I was answerable to you now. Things were going to be different. I’d toe the line or else. I was going to class, getting my grades up, mowing the lawn…” He laughed at that point. “What did I know, being fried because you were ordering me to take responsibility for the lawn.” He shook his head. “You threatened me, and I could tell you meant it. Mom never did.”

 
“I know.”

  “I told myself it was BS, of course. You wouldn’t wreck my car so I couldn’t drive it if I got out of line. So what, you were bigger than me? You couldn’t really force me to do everything you told me to do.”

  But he could. He had. He’d been his brothers’ worst nightmare.

  They were both quiet for a while. Duncan itched to pace again, but didn’t, only stood there gripping the back of that chair.

  “I imagine you can figure out what some of my other worst memories are,” Niall said dryly.

  Yeah, that wasn’t hard. He’d actually been surprised that one of their explosive encounters hadn’t made the grade as Number One Worst.

  “You going to ask me what my best memory is?” Niall asked unexpectedly.

  “I…didn’t plan to. I wasn’t sure there would be one. But okay. What’s your best memory of me, the tyrant?”

  “This is leaving aside some of the early good stuff. When you taught me to pitch, and spent hours every night catching for me. Helped me get that heap of crap I called a car running.”

  Duncan nodded. He had a lump in his throat. It felt like mumps. He’d never had mumps.

  “My best memory… No, I have two. But the first one is you coming to pick me up at juvie.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.” Niall’s fingers played a quick tune. “Strange, huh? But see, here’s the thing. You came. I knew, I always knew, you didn’t have to. You’d been dying to leave for college. I was…jealous, because you were so close.”

  Now totally unable to speak, Duncan could only nod.

  “I told myself I didn’t believe all that crap you were threatening, but I’m pretty sure that deep inside I did. And what it meant was, you weren’t leaving. I didn’t want to believe every word you said, but I did, too. Because it meant…I could trust you. You were digging in, for me and Conall.”

  A sound ripped its way out of Duncan’s throat. Raw, inarticulate, pure emotion.

  Niall’s eyes shied from his face. It was a minute before he said, “The other time I remember was college graduation. Not high school. That time you looked happy, but I figured it for relief. One of us was out of your hair. No longer your responsibility.” His mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. “And then you wrote me the first check for tuition. Anyway—fast-forward four years. Graduation day, me getting my diploma with honors. I looked over, and saw you crying.” This grin wasn’t twisted—it was broad, and affectionate. “Yeah, I saw you. It blew me away. My big brother crying because he was proud of me. That was, um…” He cleared his throat. “I think maybe that was the moment I knew I wanted to, uh, follow in your footsteps.” He gestured hastily. “Becoming a cop, I mean.”

  Assuming responsibility for other people. Trying your damnedest to rescue them.

  Shit. Duncan was suddenly afraid he was about to cry again. This—what Niall had said—was a gift. It was all worth it, he thought giddily.

  Feeling out of control, clumsy, he shoved away from the chair and stumbled back into his antsy circuit of the too-small room. While his back was to his brother, he gave his cheeks a quick swipe and was dismayed to feel moisture. God. He had cried.

  Niall wasn’t looking at him when he turned that way again. He sat with his head bent, one hand beneath the table, the other open on it. His whole pose was relaxed, pensive, but from this angle Duncan could see the hand on his thigh, not quite out of sight. It was fisted tight.

  “Thank you,” Duncan said hoarsely.

  Niall’s head came up. There was alarm in his eyes, but also… A glitter of emotion to match what Duncan felt. They stared at each other, leery, embarrassed, but also without the barriers Duncan had barely known were there. It was as if a door had been unbolted, flung wide-open. He felt a weight in his chest.

  My brother. For the first time in forever, those two words didn’t mean “my responsibility.” Or “my burden.” They meant… Dazed, he shook his head. He wasn’t entirely sure. Except that his brother was someone he could trust, who maybe—certainly—had mixed feelings about him, but who was also conscious of that bond. Who would cover his back without hesitation, as he would Niall’s.

  “I think I’m in love with her,” he said, and Niall only nodded.

  “I noticed.”

  Duncan hesitated, gave a nod of his own and left.

  He still didn’t know what he was doing with Jane. But he thought he was closer. Which scared the crap out of him, but not having the right to stay close to Jane and keep her safe…

  He groaned and got behind the wheel of his 4Runner. He felt so strange. As if he’d been frozen, and now with one gentle but strategic tap he had shattered into hundreds, thousands of pieces. Some were melting. He didn’t understand any of it.

  How was it that what he once would have seen as duty, as burden, wasn’t? That now it was something he craved?

  The kiss?

  Partly. It had contributed, yes. But whatever this was had started the first time he saw her, when she knocked at his door and he opened it. The cracks in the ice had spread when she stood up to him. When she shamed him that day at the beach. When she let him see some of her own hidden hurt.

  Yesterday, driving away from her house and leaving her alone, that was the tap that had broken his ice. He wondered if she could melt it entirely.

  If the creep stalking her actually got to her… His hands convulsed on the steering wheel. It would not be a failed responsibility. Or not only a failed responsibility.

  It would be a new Ice Age.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TITO SAT IN THE HALF-EMPTY movie theater watching the action on the screen without pleasure. Pretending to watch. Last time they saw a movie, he had glanced over his shoulder once or twice, trying to pick out Duncan and Jane from the other dark figures nearby and failing. But he hadn’t seen them, not knowing they weren’t there, and had forgotten them altogether.

  This afternoon, he could see them without even turning his head. They sat right across the aisle. Papa had snarled something under his breath when they chose their seats, so close. It had made Tito’s skin prickle. He wished his father wouldn’t be…so angry. He didn’t like him when he was that way.

  For a while, Duncan and Jane had shared a small popcorn that rested on his knee. After a shake of her head, he’d set it down on the floor to one side. Not long ago, he had laid his arm over her seat, behind her shoulders. Tito couldn’t tell where his hand was—dangling in air? Curled around her upper arm?—and he didn’t know why he cared. So what if Duncan liked Jane? If he was here not for Tito’s sake, but for hers? I have Papa.

  But Tito was having one of his mixed-up days when he wished he didn’t. Papa’s mood had been dark, which made him snarl at Jane and glare at Duncan. Everything about him made Tito feel itchy, like he wanted to squirm in his seat until he was as far from the man beside him—his father—as he could get. Papa stank, as if he should have showered this morning. Tito didn’t like the way he looked, from the stubby squareness of his hands to the grease on his chin he hadn’t wiped off after today’s burger and fries. He was so short, so squat. Tito stared unhappily at the movie screen, wondering if he would look like that. He wanted to be like Duncan instead, tall and lean, with that long-legged stride and watchful way of turning his head. Duncan had…had dignity. La dignidad. Sí. Staring blindly, Tito examined the concept. Maybe Papa had lost his in prison, or had never had much to start with… Tito didn’t know.

  This tug-of-war inside him was making him feel sick to his stomach. La familia was most important. He knew that. He was lucky that his father was willing to do anything to be his father. Think of Raul, how worthless he was.

  But Tito’s whole body wanted to strain toward Duncan, right there across the aisle. And yet he was ashamed of himself, because he was supposed to love his own father. Why don’t I?

  He stole a glance at his father, whose hand was buried deep in the extra-large popcorn tub, and whose face glistened even more now.

  Ti
to shivered, and looked away.

  “I’M GOING TO CHECK IN AT the store,” Jane said, almost patiently, “and then I’m having dinner with friends.”

  Tito waited at her side, his dark eyes moving from her face to Duncan’s. Hector had already driven away, his truck giving a throaty belch of black smoke and shuddering as it joined the line of cars leaving the theater parking lot. Duncan had walked Jane and Tito to her car and now gripped the top of her door, keeping her from shutting it. He stared forbiddingly down at her.