Levi blinked dazedly. His thin lips were red and wet, and it was tempting to just dive back in. “What?”
“The guy you cheat with because you’re mad at your boyfriend,” Dominic said. “That’s not me.”
Levi sucked in a breath. “That’s not what—”
“Even if you didn’t have a boyfriend, I wouldn’t hook up with you while you’re drunk and upset. If you thought I was that kind of person, you wouldn’t have trusted me enough to come here tonight.”
Whatever outrage Levi might have been working up deserted him then. He just shook his head, looking exhausted and burnt out.
Dominic shifted his grip from Levi’s wrists to his hands. “This isn’t how it happens, you and me,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”
Levi’s lips parted in surprise, and the drunken haze cleared from his eyes for a couple of seconds.
A black town car pulled up at the curb. Levi wrenched away from Dominic so fast that he staggered and almost fell. The driver jumped out of the car and rushed toward him, exclaiming, “Detective Abrams! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Levi leaned on the driver for support as he was guided to the backseat. While the driver opened the door for him, Levi glanced back at Dominic over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “I . . . sorry. And thanks.”
The driver got Levi tucked safely away in the back, then returned to the front. Dominic stood on the curb, watching the sleek car rejoin traffic and glide away into the boisterous, colorful Las Vegas night.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
Levi resisted the return to consciousness as long as he could. Every time he started to surface, he burrowed deeper into the covers and let himself drift off again. Sleeping was so much more preferable to being awake right now.
Eventually, however, raging thirst and a full bladder forced him to accept the inevitable. He opened his eyes.
“Fuck,” he said to the empty bedroom.
It was silent and dark, the curtains pulled shut over the many windows. Levi’s head throbbed so badly that he felt dizzy even lying flat on his back; when he pushed himself up onto one elbow, the contents of his stomach sloshed around like water in a pail. He gagged and pressed his fist to his mouth.
The clock on his nightstand read 11:04. Next to it was a bottle of water, some ibuprofen, and a note:
Be back around 4. Feel better.
—S
Levi’s memories of coming home last night were murky at best. He did remember the doorman having to help him into the elevator, which was so embarrassing that he cringed thinking about it now. Stanton had met him at the door, both irritated and baffled—it was unusual for Levi to drink to excess. That was where Levi’s memory fuzzed out, though Stanton must have undressed him and gotten him into bed. No matter how upset he was, he wouldn’t leave Levi to fend for himself.
Levi chugged half the water, took a handful of ibuprofen, and polished off the rest of the bottle. Thank God he didn’t have to work today—of course, he wouldn’t have gone out last night if he did. He and Martine had been working for more than a week straight on the serial homicides, and Sergeant Wen had insisted they take today off to recharge. His idea of recharging probably hadn’t included getting falling-down drunk, but at least it’d taken Levi out of his head for a while.
Easing himself out of bed, Levi shuffled into the bathroom, keeping a tight lid on his nausea. He relieved himself before he turned on the shower, cranking the temperature up nice and hot. Once underneath the spray, he braced one arm against the tiled wall and let his eyes fall shut.
It was only then that he remembered kissing Dominic Russo.
His eyes flew open. “Oh my God.”
They’d kissed last night, and it hadn’t been any sort of playful, friendly peck. They’d been wrapped up in each other, bodies pressed together, tongues twining . . .
He’d started it. And Dominic had pushed him away.
He would have let Dominic fuck him; he remembered that much. If Dominic were a different type of man, Levi would be having a very different experience this morning.
Did he have to tell Stanton about this? Did one drunken kiss count as infidelity? Well, yes. At least, Levi would think so if their positions were reversed.
“Shit,” Levi muttered. He turned his face up into the water as if it could wash away what he’d done.
Why had he done it, anyway? Alcohol alone wasn’t an excuse. Just because Dominic was handsome and brave and a good listener and a talented investigator . . .
No. He did not have a crush on Dominic Russo, for God’s sake. This was too ridiculous, not to mention deeply humiliating. Even before he’d thrown himself at Dominic, he’d revealed things that had taken him months to confide to Stanton. How could he ever look Dominic in the face again?
Levi shoved the thoughts away and concentrated on the present moment. He finished his shower, got dressed, and trudged out to the kitchen, where he made himself a mug of black coffee with two shots of espresso and nibbled some dry toast.
The problem was that he didn’t have anything to do all day but coddle his hangover, obsess over last night, and dread Stanton’s homecoming. They were going to fight, big-time. And in this instance, Levi was very clearly the one in the wrong.
As he usually did, Stanton had left the mail in a pile on the breakfast table. Right on top was an ornately calligraphed invitation suite to the wedding of one of his business associates.
Very subtle.
Levi gathered up the various thick, creamy white cards and fanned them out in a semicircle. They’d discussed this wedding months ago when they received the save-the-date, and they’d already been planning to attend. Yet rather than fill out the response card and send it on, Stanton had left it blank and set it out here for Levi to find. He was letting Levi decide whether or not they were still going.
After a moment’s hesitation, Levi got up to fetch a pen from the kitchen junk drawer. Last night’s indiscretion notwithstanding, he wasn’t ready to give up on his relationship with Stanton. Not yet.
Underneath the line Mr. Stanton Barclay and Mr. Levi Abrams, Levi checked the box that read will attend. He slipped the response card into the little matching envelope, and as he was sealing the flap, he remembered that he’d never sent his grandparents their anniversary card.
This was apparently the morning for unpleasant realizations.
Groaning in frustration, Levi returned to the master bedroom. He’d bought the card days ago and written a message, so all he had to do was address the envelope and stuff it inside. But he’d also have to call his grandparents to apologize.
When he fished in his nightstand drawer for stamps, he only came up with an empty sheet, which was a pretty good indicator of how his day was proceeding. A quick rummage through Stanton’s nightstand and the kitchen was similarly unproductive. He couldn’t stand the thought of going out while he was this hungover, but the only other place he could think to look was Stanton’s study.
He didn’t like going in there when Stanton wasn’t home, though that was due mostly to his own ideas about boundaries and personal space. Stanton himself had no objection to Levi entering his study at will, and had told him as much on multiple occasions. So while Levi was uncomfortable stepping into the elegant, beautifully appointed room, he didn’t feel guilty.
Stanton’s giant black walnut desk was so well organized that Levi found the book of stamps within seconds. He peeled one off for his grandparents’ card, shut the drawer, and was already turning to leave when his eye was caught by an item near the bottom of a neat stack of papers and folders.
Why would Stanton have something with the UNLV logo on it?
Levi tugged the folder in question free without disturbing the rest of the stack. Now he felt guilty, though not enough to stop.
His breath caught. The folder wasn’t just from UNLV—it was from the William S. Boyd School of Law. And it was very clearly an admissions prospectus.
He opened the folder and rifl
ed through the contents, his guilt fading by the second as anger rose up to replace it. There was a folded letter tucked inside; ignoring his mother’s scolding voice in his head, he pulled it out and smoothed it flat. It was from the law school’s dean.
The first few paragraphs were bland pleasantries, one insanely rich white guy talking to another. Levi skimmed until he reached a few lines near the bottom of the letter.
On behalf of myself and the entire School, I want to convey our deepest gratitude for your very generous gift to the Wiener-Rogers Law Library, which will help shape the education of generations of future scholars. We are delighted to be associated with the Barclay name and reputation, and look forward to a promising relationship between your family and the School for many years to come.
Bile rose at the back of his throat, though not because of his hangover. The dean hadn’t flat-out said what he meant—he wouldn’t put it into writing—but Levi knew Stanton, and he could read between the lines.
His movements calm and measured, Levi refolded the letter, tucked it back into the packet, and left it out in the middle of Stanton’s desk before walking out of the room.
He had a few hours to pack.
When Stanton came home, Levi was sitting in the living room, a suitcase and duffel bag at his feet. His hangover hadn’t improved at all, so on top of all the grief and anxiety and indecision swirling through him, he had to contend with a monstrous headache and the sensation that he might vomit any moment.
Stanton walked into the room with his eyes on the cell phone in his hand. He was dressed in his suit from work, his tie loosened a bit around his throat, looking so handsome and familiar that Levi was tempted to forget everything and just pull him into a hug.
“Hey,” Stanton said, “how are you—”
Looking up, he saw Levi’s bags, and his face went pale. He blindly set his phone on a nearby end table; it slipped off the edge and hit the floor. He didn’t notice.
“Levi,” he said. “Don’t do this.”
Levi stood up, disliking the vulnerability of being the only one seated. “I went into your study today to get a stamp. I saw the folder you have from UNLV Law, and the letter from their dean.”
“What do you mean, you saw it?” Some of the color returned to Stanton’s face. “I didn’t leave it just lying around. You went through my things?”
“Yes,” said Levi. “It was wrong, and I’m sorry. But I can’t pretend I didn’t see it.” He took a shaky breath. “How much did you donate to the school to guarantee my admission? How much is that idyllic future worth to you?”
“That’s not—”
“Tell me!”
A muscle jumped in Stanton’s jaw. “Three million dollars.”
Levi doubled over as shock and pain lanced through him. Stanton hated him being a cop so much that he was willing to gamble three million dollars on the chance that he’d be able to talk Levi into changing careers?
“Do you know how it makes me feel when you do things like this?” he asked. “Like a whore, Stanton. Like you think that if you throw enough money around, I’ll eventually do what you want.”
“Of course I don’t think that,” Stanton said, his eyes wide with dismay. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You never mean it that way. And when I tell you something bothers me, or makes me uncomfortable, you always apologize—and then you do it again a few months later.” Levi’s breath came faster as his frustration built. “Why don’t you listen to me? Why don’t you care?”
Stanton moved toward him, but stopped when Levi stepped back. “Not care? How can you say that? I love you more than anything in the world.”
“I know you love me. But you don’t respect me. At least, not the way I need you to.”
Stanton’s face was blank with incomprehension.
“How many times have I told you I don’t like it when you order food for me, or call my parents to talk about me like I’m a naughty child you need help bringing under control? How many times have I told you I don’t want to be a goddamn lawyer?” Levi’s voice rose to a shout, and Stanton flinched. He spoke in a calmer tone as he added, “You may love me, but you also think you know what’s best for me more than I do myself. I can’t accept that.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have to take the initiative so often if you would fucking talk to me, instead of running and hiding whenever the conversation gets uncomfortable,” Stanton snapped. “Half the time you leave me stumbling around in the dark not knowing what the hell you want.”
“You’re right,” Levi said simply.
The angry scowl slid off Stanton’s face, replaced by pure surprise.
“There are conversations I’ve avoided having with you.” Levi steeled himself; his heart pounded against his rib cage, his hands shaking. “I don’t want to get married, and I don’t want to have kids—not now, maybe not ever. I will always be a cop. And I don’t think we can make each other happy anymore.”
His stomach churned, burning like he had a bleeding ulcer. Stanton just stared.
“I obviously can’t give you what you need in a partner,” Levi said. “Isn’t it better for us to go our separate ways now, instead of continuing trying to change each other until we ruin all of our good memories and have nothing left but resentment?”
“Is there someone else?” Stanton asked.
The question was so unexpected, so completely out of left field, that Levi couldn’t control his reaction. Whatever expression flashed across his face made Stanton turn aside with his eyes shut tight.
“You could have just said so,” he muttered.
Levi shook his head, disconcerted by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. He didn’t want Stanton to think he was leaving him for another man, but he also couldn’t lie about what had happened the night before. “It’s not what you think. I . . . I did kiss someone else last night while I was drunk, and I’ll admit I might have feelings for him that aren’t strictly platonic. But that only started happening within the past few days. It has nothing to do with us. It’s not why I’m leaving.”
“Maybe not,” Stanton said bitterly. “But it sure as hell gives you somewhere to go, doesn’t it?”
“No! God, no, that’s not what’s happening here.”
There was no point; Stanton didn’t believe him. Levi could see it on his face. The timing was terrible, and there was probably no way to convince Stanton of the truth when the pain of their relationship ending was this fresh.
“I’m going to a hotel. I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff after we’ve had a few days to process this.”
Tears shimmered in Stanton’s blue eyes. “Levi, please don’t leave. Don’t run away.”
“I’m not running this time.” Levi hefted his duffel bag over one shoulder and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. As he headed for the door, Stanton stepped into his path.
“Is there anything I could say that would convince you to stay?” he asked.
Yes, there was, because a huge part of Levi wanted to stay. Ending a relationship of three years with a man he still loved wasn’t as simple as just walking out the door. If he thought there was a genuine chance he and Stanton could have a real future together, he would drop these bags in a second and do whatever it took to make it work. He could make his own compromises if he knew Stanton would accept him for who he was at his core.
“Tell me you could be happily married to a cop for the rest of your life,” Levi said.
Stanton drew breath as if to speak. He hesitated. Then he closed his mouth and pressed his lips together.
Levi kissed his damp cheek and left without another word.
His original plan had been to go straight to the hotel. He’d already booked a room at a relatively inexpensive place Downtown, close enough to the substation that it wouldn’t be a chore to commute back and forth. This involved getting his Honda Civic out of the garage where it’d been languishing untouched for the past two years.
Levi tossed his bags in the t
runk and got in the driver’s seat. He buckled his seatbelt, put the key in the ignition—and then dropped his forehead against the steering wheel as a dry sob burst out of him.
He’d been the one to leave, but it hurt, hurt so badly that his throat felt swollen shut and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to drive.
His entire life was going to change. No more coming home to someone who loved him. No more falling asleep beside Stanton and waking up next to him in the morning. No more lazy breakfasts and weekend trips and cuddling up with Netflix. They would never make love again.
He would have to find a new place to live and go through the torturous ordeal of disentangling his and Stanton’s shared belongings after two years of living together. And . . . and everyone would know. It would be in the society pages of newspapers, on the gossip blogs—hell, their breakup might even affect the stock of Stanton’s company.
Levi stayed slumped over the steering wheel for a few minutes, shaking with repressed sobs while he tried to get himself under control. Eventually, he sat up, scrubbed the heels of his hands underneath his eyes, and reached for his cell.
“Hey,” Martine answered. “Enjoying your day off?”
“I broke up with Stanton,” Levi blurted.
There was a short silence on the other end of the line, and then she said, “Come over.”
“I don’t want to be a burden—”
“Hush. Go to my house and let yourself in. I just got Mikayla from softball practice; we’re on our way to pick Simone up at tennis, and then we’ll swing by the grocery store on the way home. We should get there fifteen or twenty minutes after you.”
“Okay.” He already felt a little more composed. “Thanks.”
“See you soon.”
Hunting through the glove compartment, he found a stack of paper napkins left over from some long-ago fast-food meal. He blew his nose, dried his face, and made sure he had his head on straight before he started the car. The engine almost refused to turn over due to the weak battery and the low tire pressure indicator blinked angrily on the dashboard, but he could make it.
Kill Game Page 16
