by Whitley Gray
“Need more light?” Dean pushed the lantern his way.
A pang of bittersweet gratitude twisted in Zach’s stomach. Consideration had always been one of Dean’s best qualities, especially after the accident. That didn’t justify resuming their romance, though.
No point in indulging vanity—thank God he had twenty-twenty vision with glasses. Grimacing, Zach pulled out his reading glasses and shoved the menu under the light. Between the light and the lenses, the text emerged from the shadows. “Know what you’re going to have?”
“Now or later?”
Zach looked up. Dean leaned back in his chair, dipped a finger in his drink, and ran it around the edge of the glass.
With a frown, Zach shook his head. Why couldn’t Dean let it go? They were done. Anything besides friendship was out of the question. Say it. Lay it out in no uncertain terms.
Eyes like blue flames gazed across the table. The tip of Dean’s tongue took a leisurely stroke along his lower lip. “Maybe for dessert, then.”
Just like the old days. Except these days innuendo wouldn’t get Dean where he wanted to go. For a moment, Zach stared. “What are you having for dinner? Here. At the restaurant.”
“Steak smothered in mushrooms. Baked potato slathered with butter and sour cream. Asparagus drenched in hollandaise.” Dean’s lips pressed into a hard line.
“The heart-healthy special, huh?” Zach dropped his gaze to the menu.
“Sometimes I want to indulge my more primitive desires.” The tone had gone remote.
Thank God he’d avoided tacking on “for red meat.” That had been one of Dean’s favorite double entendres. For a moment, the thought of satisfying their mutual desires broke through, flooding Zach’s memory with sensual sights and sounds. Dean’s hands on him, his touch sure and steady.
“Gonna make you feel so good, Zach.” Zach shivered. Pointless to think about it. The past precluded having anything beyond a platonic relationship. As it was, their continued acquaintance had escaped implosion by the narrowest of margins. Walking the just-friends tightrope wasn’t easy.
A white-aproned waiter took the order for Dean’s cholesterol-laden feast and Zach’s choice of grilled trout with rice and steamed vegetables. Dean watched the server sashay away before flicking his gaze to Zach.
“So. How was your Omaha case?” Neutral tone, neutral expression. Neutral ground.
“It’s over.” Zach pulled off his glasses and stored them in the case. “How’s the hospital?”
“I’m on the kids’ ward. Inpatient psych. A little sad, but new challenges, you know?”
The current nursing assignment seemed to agree with Dean. Good. “Yeah. You can make a lot of difference for some of them.”
“Hope so.” Dean ran a palm over the gelled spikes of his blond hair.
“Meeting new people?” A touchy subject, but if Zach didn’t push, Dean wouldn’t venture out without him.
“A couple of people at work.” Dean stared at the window. “Is Sands keeping you here for a while?”
“Until I hear otherwise.” Until some other monster surfaced. Zach took a sip of water.
“Still thinking about private practice?”
“Not at the moment.” Liar. He thought about it every day, with every new case.
“Probably just as well.” Golden eyebrows hiking toward his hairline, Dean continued, “I hear crazy people can’t afford psychiatrists anymore.”
And like that, the ice broke, freeing them to talk and laugh. This was what Zach missed most. Not the sex—the camaraderie. The conversation with someone who knew and accepted him, damage and all.
Chapter Three
Damn rainy weather.
Beck’s left shoulder ached, and he rearranged his holster. If this kept up, he’d need pain meds to sleep tonight. Meanwhile, time to take a break and sneak some ibuprofen. Even if it was a nonsteroidal, couldn’t have the boss thinking he wasn’t 100 percent and ready for the field.
He made for the men’s room. In a stall, he dry-swallowed three of the blue gelcaps, then peed and washed his hands. On the way back to his desk, he stopped at the drinking fountain and gulped water, making sure the pills would dissolve. Twenty minutes, and relief should kick in.
Beck reached his desk and lowered himself into the chair. A pile of reports sat waiting for his attention. Ridiculous. He was a homicide detective, not a secretary. This was a waste of his skills. Field cases waited, infinitely more interesting and requiring a detective’s intuition.
Across the room, Van met his gaze and looked away. Beck spun his chair toward the windows behind him. Sheets of water rippled down the windows, blurring the building across the street.
After the shooting, Beck’s ex-lover had made it clear as still water that there was nothing left between them. At least Van had understood the pressures of the job, the danger, both on the street and in the department. Homicide was a macho division, and the other detectives were unlikely to accept an alternate orientation. He and Van had agreed to keep their relationship under wraps. Had they had a relationship or just been fuck buddies?
Nights in a soft bed, Van’s hot tongue everywhere until Beck squirmed with need. A firm grip on his cock, stroking.
“What would you like tonight?”
Heat rushed to his groin. Mind-blowing sex—no doubt about that—but was that all they’d had?
They’d never eaten at a restaurant unless it was out of town. They’d never taken a vacation together. Van liked sun and sand and room service; Beck preferred snow and skiing and grilled steaks at the lodge. And they never stayed over at each other’s places.
Sure didn’t sound like a relationship. Hell, when he’d been lying in the hospital with his shattered shoulder pinned together, wondering if his hand would ever work again, he’d turned to Van expecting emotional support, and his lover had gunned down the only thing Beck had left.
Van had left nothing at Beck’s apartment except travel brochures.
The first time Beck had risked his heart, and he’d gotten blown away for his trouble. Staying secreted in the closet precluded Van paying attention to a disabled boyfriend. “It would look strange if I spent extra time with you,” Van had said, and he’d been careful not to visit more often than any of the others. At that point, Beck had wished his injuries had been more severe, that the bullet had hit a few inches to the right and down, preempting Van’s assault on Beck’s heart. Death had sounded better than total bereavement.
Anger had overtaken depression in short order. The first thing he’d done after arriving home was deep-six the tropical-vacation brochures littering the kitchen counter.
In the ensuing weeks, Beck had fought through the pain of physical therapy and the loss of the relationship.
As Beck’s psychologist, Jay had helped him work through most of that. And the painful inquiry about the shootings.
“Hey.” Soft brown eyes gazed down at him, wary, not welcoming. The familiar scent of Van’s bay rum aftershave reached Beck, and his stomach clenched.
“Well. What can I do for you, Detective Gates?”
Van plopped a folder on his desk. “Got a computer request that needs your expertise.”
“Don’t think I can help you.” Beck picked up a pen, tapped it on the folder. “I’m not a computer expert.”
Van’s full mouth thinned, lips pressed together. “It’s a search for vehicle license plates. Need it for the murder book.”
Helpless to resist, Beck’s gaze wandered down Van’s chambray-clad torso. The memory of burying his face in Van’s groin set off a twitch in his own.
“Hey, dickhead. I need the information.”
Head in the game, Stryker. “What’s the case?”
For a moment, Van said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard. Then, “It’s a home invasion.”
It was Beck’s turn to stare. Another one? “When did that happen?”
“A week ago.”
“What’ve you got so far?”
“You�
�re not on active duty in the field, Stryker. And you’re not part of my investigation.”
Beck barked a laugh. “Same supportive bastard, aren’t you?”
A faint pink materialized high on Van’s cheeks. He opened his mouth, closed it.
Beck waited, twirling the pen.
“Just get the information.” Van turned on his heel. In spite of himself, Beck took a surreptitious look at Van’s ass as he marched back to his desk. Too bad there wasn’t more to him than a hot body.
Across the room, Van’s partner, Katie Coleman, gave him a huge smile. If she were a guy, maybe she’d pique Van’s interest. As it was, she’d be wasting her time. Bats for my team, Coleman. Beck swung his gaze toward the folder.
Whether Van acknowledged it or not, Beck was part of the investigation now.
* * * *
Isaac Olivetti paced back and forth in front of his desk, listening with aggravation to his campaign manager via earpiece.
“It’s not going well.” Jeremy Levin’s report came through with electronic clarity. “Richards is up in the polls.”
“Up? And how are my numbers?” Olivetti glared at CNN and the stock ticker snaking along the bottom of the screen. For as much money as he paid Levin, Olivetti should never lag behind. Scowling, he stalked to the windows. From his thirty-fifth-floor office, a grungy line of smog showed against the slate-colored Rockies, bisecting the view. Olivetti switched to speakerphone and threw the earpiece on the desk.
“The voters aren’t big on corporate raiding.” The campaign manager heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Job loss in this economy—”
“But I’ve focused on overseas acquisitions for the past year. Let some good American opportunities slip by.” Damn it, why couldn’t the public see his conservative attitude, his good intentions for the people?
“You want the numbers up? Buy a failing company. Save it. Save the jobs. Be the all-American hero.”
Olivetti counted to ten, strangling his temper. They’d covered this a million times. It made bad business sense. Did the voters want a sap who made bad financial decisions in charge of a state budget? On the other hand, he was pouring huge amounts of money into the campaign. If the price of success was keeping a sinking business afloat, he would do it. After all, he could always close a failing company after the election and take a loss.
“Mr. Olivetti?”
Forcing a smile into his voice, Olivetti said, “I’m here. You may be right, Jeremy. I’ll look into it.”
“Look into it now, or you won’t have time. The election’s in four weeks, and I need you out on the road.”
Four weeks. In the corporate world, that was a single tick of the clock. Politically, he was running out of time, and he needed to be out on the campaign trail. Finding the right business required research. But that was what he paid his business team to do. It was what he paid Levin to do in the political world; that was why Olivetti had hired Levin, the most detail-oriented, the most effective behind-the-scenes campaign manager money could buy. The best. Smile. “I’ll begin assessing possibilities tonight.”
“Try for something symbolizing America, like a flag company. Something the voters can relate to. No industries known for corporate greed.”
“Fine. On your end, I’d like you to push the volunteers harder, get them out to university campuses across the state, even the smallest colleges.”
Levin snorted. “Leave the campaign strategy to me. That’s what you pay me to do.”
A heat wave built in Olivetti’s face. “And winning is what gets your daughter the care she needs instead of a five-by-nine cell. Right now we’re not winning, Mr. Levin.”
A sharp intake of breath. “We have a deal—”
“And it’ll stay intact as long as you do your job.”
For a few seconds, Levin said nothing. Then, “One other thing. In these last four weeks, I need you to be available for multiple visits around the state, a last big push.”
It’d be hard to leave the business unattended for a month, but Olivetti would do whatever was necessary. He’d have to rely on Ms. Sweet and keeping in touch via telephone. “Fine. As part of that, I want to forge a connection with the college demographic. Richards tends to ignore them.”
Levin sighed. “His street teams have the eighteen-to-twenty-four-year-old section well in hand.”
“Then what can I do?”
“They need to see you with your sleeves rolled up, getting your hands dirty. You already have the guys in the three-thousand-dollar suits on your side. I’ll book you on a couple of small campuses like Aurora Community College. An intimate question-and-answer period.”
Community colleges? He should be getting the big venues, like University of Denver. But Levin should know what would work.
“Fine. Set it up.” Olivetti clicked off and glared at the phone.
Why was he surrounded by idiots? Power—that was the thing. Absolute power. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the photos on his desk. He was due at the local NBC affiliate in an hour for an interview, and he’d need a mantle of calm to charm the reporter and get through the questions.
* * * *
“The same dream?” Jay cocked his head to the side.
“Yeah.” Beck slouched in the wingback chair and stared at the print of Selby’s Loft on the wall above his psychologist’s head. The image of the open window in the brick wall seemed like an invitation to jump. Why would a shrink have a picture like that? He twisted the cap off his water bottle and took a slug.
Jay gave him that over-the-tops-of-the-reading-glasses psychologist look and tapped his pen on the arm of the chair. “Same ending?”
The question sent Beck’s stomach plummeting like a roller coaster. Why did Jay always ask that? It always ended the same—blood and mayhem. Promises made. Danny dying. “The same. Can we talk about something else?”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“Going back to the field.”
One side of the cop-turned-psychologist’s face lifted in a smile. “Desk work not doing it for you, eh?”
“You know it’s not.”
“What does your physical therapist have to say?”
“That I’m ready.” What the PT had actually said was “slow down or you’ll hurt your recovery,” but the sooner Beck got out of the office, the sooner he could look into those home invasions.
“You know McManus will never agree to let you out there alone.”
“I don’t want a partner.” After Danny, Beck never wanted to be paired on the job. A piece of him had died with Dan. They’d been closer than brothers; the man had been Beck’s best friend, the best partner in the homicide unit. Beck gripped the nubby upholstery of the chair and stared at Jay. “McManus would consider letting me work alone if you tell him it’s okay.”
Jay pulled off his specs. “I can’t do that.”
“Are you going to give me more of the ‘unresolved issues’ crap? I can do the job alone, Jay. I can’t lose another partner.”
“The chances of that happening are—”
“I don’t give a shit how small the chance is. I’m not risking it again.”
Crossing his legs, Jay said, “Beck. I was a cop for twenty-five years. I know how hard Danny’s death has been on you. But I also know that you’re at risk—”
“I’m not going to swallow my gun.” Beck glowered. Just because Jay had a special interest in suicide prevention among cops, he saw potential everywhere. Statistics weren’t people.
The clock on the shelf behind Jay’s desk counted down the seconds. Tick, tick, tick. The psychologist waited, peering at him.
Beck chugged more water, settled in for a period of who would break the silence first. Twenty minutes left in the session. They’d see who broke first.
“You weren’t responsible for Danny’s death, Beck.” Jay’s voice and expression offered the same calm sympathy he’d offered every session since Beck’s discharge from the hospital.
Misery and guil
t swirled in his gut. What could he say? No, I’m not responsible? His eyes closed, revealing the horror film, and a dull rumble filled his senses. The suspect’s gun swinging up, Dan’s hesitation, Beck’s too-late recognition of what would happen next. Blood spraying in an obscene crimson cloud from Dan’s neck. The white-hot explosion of the bullet in Beck’s left shoulder as he returned fire. The kid crumpling to the pavement, maroon darkening his gray T-shirt.
“Beck.” Jay’s voice broke through the roar assaulting Beck’s ears.
He forced his eyes open, fixated on the salted bricks of the Selby. A breath left him on a shudder. “It’s gone.”
“You okay?” A frown creased Jay’s forehead.
“Yeah.” He gulped the remaining contents of his water bottle. Deep breath. Slow heart rate. God, he had to distract himself, get his mind unwrapped from the mental spectacle of the shooting. Maybe he’d go out to the bars tonight, find a guy, escape the job for a few hours.
“Are you thinking about looking for company tonight?”
Beck’s head snapped up. How did Jay do that? Beck hadn’t sought anonymous company since…before. Before the shooting. Before he’d thought he found someone in Van. Before nightmares ripped him from sleep and flashbacks dropped in unannounced. He pushed out of the chair. “I need to go.”
Jay groaned and stood. “Next week?”
“Uh, sure.” He reached the door in two strides.
“Beck?”
Politeness dictated he face Jay. He pivoted and raised an eyebrow.
“Be safe.”
Chapter Four
“Stryker, get in here.”
Beck twisted in his chair. Uh-oh.
Captain Paul McManus’s faded green glare skewered him from the doorway of his office. “Now.”
The Man, as he was known to his detectives, had the ferocious look of a winter’s day. A life spent investigating society’s underbelly had left him with crevassed wrinkles creasing his forehead and a snowcap of white hair. The pale green eyes missed nothing and could freeze a cop midstep. He ruled the detective division with all the warmth of a Smith & Wesson.
