“The Team will regroup again, I’m sure,” he said. “It just needs time. The internal investigation will take months, I expect.”
I nodded. “You heard from Simon and Brad since the first couple of weeks?”
He smiled. “Heard about them! They can’t be parted. All that time of keeping a low profile, now apparently they’re Couple of the Year at the Department and loving the whole damned notoriety. They’re off fieldwork of any kind, but their specialty is on support, of course, and they’re invaluable wherever they are. They said they’d come over next week.”
I snuggled up against him a bit, and maybe he took it as a cue.
“Are you worried about the job, Tanner? The Team?”
“Not sure it’s the job for me after all,” I said slowly. “Can’t deny I’ve made some royal fuck-ups. Maybe this is the prompt for me to take a break.”
He tensed against me, but he didn’t insult me by shouting me down. I could almost feel him gathering the words in his mind before he spoke. He was much more forthcoming these days, and it was astoundingly welcome.
“You’re very good at your job,” he said. His thoughtfulness was like a special gift to me. “You always have been. The mistakes haven’t always been your fault. The way you played Greg was magnificent. I couldn’t have done it like that. You saw what would provoke him, and what would placate him. You saved us all, probably.”
“And you? Do you question your future with the Department?”
He was quiet for a moment, but I was a man of change too. I was teaching myself to allow him time to think, restraining myself from leaping into his silences with impatience and provocation of my own.
“I’ll see. I’m enjoying a break from what you call my ‘mission-mode’ for a while.”
“You look good on it.” I lay back against his chest and could feel his heartbeat, deep and steady against my own. Fucking fine. I didn’t curse quite so much nowadays, at least not aloud. Getting mellow, I guess. It wasn’t the worst way to be.
Niall shrugged, but his voice sounded pleased. “I’ve had some discussions with Phil. There are new components on the market that we think we could make up into cutting edge sound equipment. It’s just a thought, but he’s very skilled on manufacture.”
“What about Sheri?”
Niall sighed. He knew my teasing by now. “Yes, she was there too. They’re good together. She needs to talk about it, though, every now and then, with someone who understands. I mean her kidnapping, the scenes with Greg. It’s her way of coping.”
“And you’re her confidante, not me,” I said gently. “It’s cool.”
“And I want to spend time with you,” he murmured against my ear. I turned so that he wouldn’t get a mouthful of hair and got a mouthful of my kiss instead. It was hungry again; seemed we were always hungry for each other.
The couch sagged with satisfying flexibility as I twisted on top of him and nipped at his throat. We were heading for another session of touch and passion and satisfaction. I wondered if he’d tested the couch in the shop before he bought it, lying back in its comfort with thoughts of me beside him, sinking my head back against the cushion and spreading my legs to grip around his hips….
It was a pretty fine place to be.
IT WAS when we were yawning and ready for bed—to sleep—that he put a hand on my arm and turned me to look at him.
“Tell me what’s on your mind, Tanner, if it’s not the work for the Team.”
I shrugged. “It’s nothing maybe. Just wondering when you’ll be looking for a new apartment. I’m sure the Department will still help. Guess I could go back to my old place, too, some time. Brush off the cobwebs, get used to those five flights again.”
He pursed his lips. “We could look for somewhere together.”
We could indeed. My heart started beating faster, and I didn’t think it was because of the thought of all those stairs. Dammit, I felt like a giddy kid again. He did that to me on an embarrassingly regular basis.
“But not yet,” he continued.
“No?”
“I’m happy enough here, aren’t you?” He looked worried, really, at the thought of moving back out. We’d made quite an impact on this trailer park, but they didn’t seem to want to stone us out of it yet.
“Yes, I am. It’s good. We’re good here.”
“And if we’re not, we have Dylan to watch our steps for us.”
We both smiled at that. Junk was still getting used to Niall, but Dylan gave his full approval. Apparently, he still thought he had to keep up his guardianship, in case of future attacks. He often slept at the foot of my trailer steps, he checked out every visitor we ever had, and he accompanied Niall all the way out of the park every time he went to the store.
It was a good feeling.
It was late, and we’d made out all damned evening to the sounds of smooth, sexy music, but Niall still ran a hand down into the small of my back and sighed that sigh that told me his mind was on fucking, not faithful friends.
Damned guy was insatiable. Thank God.
“I’m sort of tired,” I began weakly.
“Won’t take much of your time,” he wheedled. His mouth brushed at my jaw, and I instantly relaxed, like I’d stepped into a warm, relaxing bath. “After all, don’t I come way too quick?”
I remembered a long, lusty session last night; wave upon wave of pleasure and torment as he took me up to the brink of orgasm and back again; the sight of him lifted above me, shining with sweat and eyes glinting in the darkness, for hour after hour….
Who the hell ever said that about him?
Then I remembered and groaned. “You’re never going to let me forget that.”
“…and I have a distinct lack of imagination….”
“Shit.” Of course, that had been a total fabrication. In reality, Niall’s imagination made my heart sing and my toes curl. Niall’s imagination startled me into erotic pleasure time and again. Niall’s imagination was deep and sometimes rather dark, and way beyond normal description.
But maybe he’d believed me. Maybe my acting had been just that little bit too good.
Then he laughed softly, the vibration thrumming against my neck, and I let him tease. It was all part of the delicious game we enjoyed together now. His fingers slid into my loosened pants, and I nudged my hips up against him. He had me off balance; he had me captured. He had me fooled, time and again, and I didn’t care.
Yeah, this was definitely the very best place to be!
CLARE LONDON took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter-three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home.
Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her here:
Website: http://www.clarelondon.com
E-mail: [email protected]
Blog: http://clarelondon.livejournal.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/clarelondon
Twitter: https://twitter.com/clare_london
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/clarelondon
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/clarelondon/
By CLARE LONDON
72 Hours
Branded
Charlie Chuckles
Compulsion
Footprints
Just-You Eyes
One Night Stand
Pop-Ups
The Right Choice
Sparks Fly
Then and Now
Timeslip
Touch
Where’s Santa?
Wishing on a Blue Star (Dreamspinner Anthology)
True Colors
True Colors
Ambush
Payback
Switch
Flying Colors
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
To Beth, who helped this happen,
and to Ed and Dorrie for their unflagging support—thanks.
Chapter 1:
Anger and Intolerance
Anger and intolerance are the twin enemies of understanding.
—Mahatma Gandhi
IT HAD been just about one of the worst days of Logan Crane’s life.
At work, he had volunteered for the hot, dusty job of unloading a bulk delivery of mulch, knowing that it was usually considered a one-man job and he would have three or four hours of toiling in blissful solitude. Unfortunately for Logan, not one but three trucks of wood chips had been ordered by the garden center manager, who was gearing up for the spring rush.
So instead of the peaceful afternoon he’d anticipated, Logan was stuck working with Petey and José, two very young, very loud colleagues who talked non-stop over the radio they had blasting hip-hop music. The constant yammering and grating music competed with the bright sunshine for the privilege of drilling a gash of pain into Logan’s brain.
As he clocked out, Logan grumbled to himself that for all the help Petey and José had been, he might as well have worked alone. Maybe if they’d keep their shirts on and pull up their goddamned pants, they could get some work done. The sight of sweaty, bronzed flesh and the constant flashes of clinging underwear had jangled Logan’s nerves as badly as had the accompanying racket. He dismissed the sensation as annoyance at having to work with these “wild city kids.”
Calling them city kids was a slight stretch since North Braddock, Pennsylvania, was not technically in Pittsburgh, though it was part of the greater metropolitan area. At any rate, it was certainly more urban than his old hometown of Elco had been. Turning his bright blue Ford 150 towards home, Logan swallowed down the longing for the days when he had earned his living quietly fixing cars in his small, run-down shop in Elco. Thirteen months earlier, Logan had moved his family forty miles north to take a job in the motor gang at the Edgar Thomson Steel Works. A job that his brother-in-law had arranged at great trouble, a job that had lasted only twelve weeks.
Willing away that gloomy memory, Logan trudged up the steps to apartment D3, situated towards the back of the bustling Palisade Manor complex. As he slouched down the hallway, he did his best to ignore the growing Saturday evening bustle emanating from the neighboring units; right then, Logan craved only some cold beer and a quiet dinner.
His wife, Linda, greeted him at the door, though evidently not offering either of the two things he wanted. She pecked her husband on the cheek, observing, “You’re late.”
“Took some overtime to finish up the job I was doin’.”
“Thank God—we sure can use the money.”
“Yeah,” Logan mumbled as he headed for the kitchen.
“Where’re you goin’?”
“Gonna warsh my hands and get me a Iron City; relax a little before dinner.”
“You don’t have time,” Linda said, frowning at his grimy shirt and jeans. “Just go ahead and jump right in the shower.”
“Right now? What for?”
“The Trimbles’re having a party tonight an’ we’re invited.”
“You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout a party this mornin’.”
“It’s a last minute thing; Kim just called a few hours ago. Come on, hon,” Linda wheedled. “It’ll be a night out for the two of us and it won’t cost anything.”
“How ’bout a babysitter?”
“Oh, we don’t need one for this. Krista can keep an eye on Meghan for a few hours—bet you did more than that when you were twelve. Anyway, we’ll be right across the parkin’ lot.”
“I ain’t up for no party, you jus’ go on without me.”
“Don’t be like this, Logan. At least we can take advantage of havin’ people around who like to have a little fun now an’ then.”
“We just saw the Trimbles last Sunday when I replaced Don’s goddamn water pump, ’member?”
“That’s one of the reasons they invited us—to thank you.”
“If they really wanted to thank me, they would’ve dropped off a case of beer. Neighbors here can’t leave ya in peace. All they wanta do is pry and gossip. I had a rough day and I ain’t—”
“Oh no—you ain’t pullin’ that shit on me, mister. I work just as hard as you, and I need this.”
Logan’s rising annoyance caused an equivalent rise of several decibels in his answer. “So? I said go ’head.”
Linda didn’t shrink from matching his tone or volume. “I already went to two parties without you—folks here’re gonna start thinkin’ there’s somethin’ wrong with you.”
That phrase twisted the invisible band around Logan’s head even tighter, and in response he raged, “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means you’re goin’ to this party,” Linda shouted back.
Logan was preparing to vent his fury at his mulish wife when he saw the pale, worried face of his elder daughter peeking around the doorway. Knowing his girls, he guessed that her ten-year-old sister was probably right behind her. The kids had evidently been summoned by their parents’ irate voices—though heated arguments had become an all-too-common occurrence during their time in Braddock.
Logan’s anger swiftly died, extinguished by a blanket of guilt. Without another word, he headed for the bathroom to prepare himself for an evening promising only unwelcome noise and unwanted companionship.
Later, at the party, Logan tried to inoculate himself against the misery of the night by indulging in more than his share of the cheap whiskey on offer while completely ignoring the soda and greasy pizza his hosts had provided.
Always a man who prided himself on holding his liquor, Logan showed only the slightest signs of inebriation as he and Linda prepared for bed later that night. The cut-rate booze had done nothing good for his mood while only aggravating his headache; he yearned for oblivion as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his work boots.
Unfortunately, when Linda joined him in their small master bedroom moments later, she was not yet ready to let the evening go. “Did you hear what Joann was tellin’ me? They’re takin’ their kids to Disney World for spring break.” Linda’s tone slid from innocent to accusatory as she continued. “Sure would be nice if we could do somethin’ like that for our girls.”
Logan knew immediately that Linda was working her way towards yet another “discussion” of their shaky financial situation. He hated the way these conversations ended up as stereo in his ears—his wife’s nagging doubling the drumbeat of his own guilty conscience.
In a vain attempt to head her off, he said, “You know I’m lookin’ for something better.” Squinting wearily into the glare of the yellow light coming from the bedside table, he added, “There just don’t seem to be too many mechanic jobs to be had right now.”
Not mollified in the least, Linda crossed her arms and snapped, “Even if there was, it ain’t like it’d pay as good as the mill did.”
Prodded by the emergence of a stinging subject, the embers of Logan’s anger flared back to life hotter than ever. He jumped to his feet and strode around the bed to face his accuser directly. “Fuck! Do you wanna fight about this again?”
“I’m not looking to start a fight; it’s just that Marie says—”
“I know what your sister says, and she doesn’t know anything about it. Let it go, Linda.” He turned away, heading back to his side of the room to finish undressing.
Linda
stayed him by grabbing at his sleeve while insisting, “It isn’t just Marie. Bob thinks you could maybe get back in the mill, too. They need another mechanic on swing shift, he says. If you’d jus’ go to Chuck and apologize—”
“I’m tellin’ you,” Logan growled, biting each word off, “for the last time. I ain’t crawlin’ back to that fuckin’ foreman!”
“You stubborn bastard. First good job you ever got, and you gotta go an’ ruin it. Bob warned you that the guy was an asshole when they hired you on—all you had to do was ignore him.”
By now the couple was standing toe-to-toe, breathing fire at each other while their angry voices ricocheted through the small apartment and across the complex. Logan leaned down into his wife’s equally red face, snarling, “Chuck deserved that beating—deserved worse. Son of a bitch called me a cocksucker!”
“So what? Is that the end of the world? Big, bad Logan can’t take a little bit of name-calling?”
“Shut up!” Logan grabbed Linda by the shoulders and backed her towards the dresser, warning her. “Shut the fuck up. I’ve had enough of your mouth tonight.” He gave her body a quick shake, as if to punctuate his command.
Unfazed and defiant, Linda screamed back, “Too bad! I’ve had enough of scraping by. After twelve years we finally had a chance at a good life—and you blew it. My momma always said a man who can’t provide for his family ain’t no man at all.” She poked him in the chest with each word that followed. “That’s you. No man at all!”
For months Logan would claim to remember little of what happened next: not violently hurling his tiny wife into the dresser, not hearing the ancient wood splinter and collapse around her, nor watching the waterfall of shattered mirror shards slice into her unconscious form.
He had never meant to hurt her, he told the cops, and then later, the judge.
He had just wanted—no, needed—for the jeering, nagging, jagged voice to stop. But in the awful quiet that descended as Logan gaped in horror at the bloody devastation he had wrought, only one voice was silenced. The other howled on, louder than ever.
Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits Page 100
