Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  “I prefer to arrange for that sort of thing on an as-needed basis,” Ford said, seemingly unconcerned.

  Brogan lifted his eyebrows. The sheer balls on Ford were remarkable, whatever he was up to.

  “You realize that by waiting to turn me in you’ve put yourself in an awkward position, don’t you?” Ford asked, tilting his head to one side. “That’s not a threat, by the way. Simply an observation.”

  “Oh, well done,” Brogan said. The of-course-it-was-a-threat pissed him off, but he couldn’t help admiring the way the query put him on the defensive. Usually when he was confronting people about doing something they shouldn’t be doing—which happened a lot in the security business—they either grew frightened or belligerent. Only Ford would ask cold, manipulative questions like a fucking defense attorney.

  Ford continued, “I’m not sure how you’ll prove I was there at all. If there were camera footage, perhaps...but we both know there isn’t. One might even ask what you were doing down there in the first place, seeing as you didn’t report me at the time.”

  “I was getting coffee. It’s in the log.” Brogan said flatly. “As is the camera malfunction. And I’m willing to get fired if it means you don’t get to hurt anyone, you little liar. So much for your promises.”

  Ford straightened, as if to go around Brogan, and Brogan eased his hand into his jacket. “Please stay where you are.”

  Those shrewd eyes flickered toward Brogan’s shoulder holster—and his visible pistol—and then he leaned back against his desk again, this time with his hands at his sides, bracing himself against the wood.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Ford said. “Where’s the benefit in that? Right now, I’ve got trespassing, breaking and entering. They’ll try for corporate espionage but they won’t have enough. I don’t have a record. I won’t even serve time. So there’s no point in shooting a man and getting put away for the rest of my life, is there?”

  “Is corporate espionage what you’re up to?”

  Ford didn’t blink. “Sure.”

  Brogan sighed. “I’m a poker player, Ford. I like a good bluff, generally speaking, but it’s time to show some cards. You’re right. I shot myself in the foot by not turning you in this morning, because if I do it now, they’ll want to know why I waited. But I’m not going to help you hurt anyone, end of story. I don’t care if they fire me. So get talking, or we’re going to take a walk downstairs.”

  Ford studied him for what felt like an eternity, probably trying to decide whether or not to trust him. Brogan gave him the time, keeping his face still. He didn’t want to reveal the unhappiness that curled in his stomach at the idea of hauling Ford into Timmerson’s office. He would do it. That was all that mattered.

  Ford tapped his fingers against the desk. “I don’t trust Ernest Cooper. I’d prefer to have something in my pocket should trouble arise. I wanted access to his remote desktop password so I can keep an eye on him. It’s in my smartphone if you want to check for yourself.”

  Brogan believed much of this even before he pulled the phone out. Coop gave Brogan a slippery feeling, too, and Ford was certainly control freak enough to want leverage.

  Ford said, “Password’s 4A6?BY. Open the notepad. Most recent entry.”

  Brogan obeyed, keeping one eye on Ford the whole time, and there he found the following: corpsandcountry.

  “Supposed to use numbers and special characters, too, aren’t you?” Brogan asked.

  “He’s not as smart as he thinks he is.”

  “That’s going around.”

  Ford narrowed his eyes. “Bad luck is not the same thing as fucking up.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. Why not ask Henniton for the info? I’m sure the IT director would give it up for the COO. It’s not like an employee has a guarantee of privacy on company networks.”

  Ford hesitated for the briefest second before saying, “Joel is high-strung and—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Brogan said. He dropped Ford’s smartphone back into his suit jacket pocket, not willing to give up any possible leverage at this point.

  Ford pushed away from the desk in an abrupt motion. When Brogan sank back and started to go for his weapon, Ford snorted. “I’m not going for a knife, Smith. I’m pacing, all right? I pace when I’m thinking. Stop being dramatic.”

  “I’m being dramatic,” Brogan said, watching Ford wend his way around his office with a heavy glower. “Okay.”

  Ford walked for a minute, his stride graceful as ever despite the tight lines of his back.

  Finally, Ford stopped. He leaned back against the edge of his bookshelf, his shoulders falling. “There’s friction between Joel and Coop. Joel doesn’t want me involved, because...” He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck.

  “He doesn’t trust you?”

  “He does as long as I’m not caught sneaking into other people’s offices.” Ford looked at Brogan pointedly. “He wants to protect me.”

  “Why don’t you let him? Just keep your head down and let Henniton and Coop handle their business?”

  Ford didn’t answer for a heartbeat. “Is this just between us?”

  “I’m not making any promises about not telling my boss.”

  “I mean,” Ford said impatiently, “if I tell you something that Joel might not like, are you going to tattle to him?”

  Brogan considered. “I’ve never been much of a suck up.”

  Ford tapped his fingers against the bookshelves, fast and forceful, before muttering, “Fuck it.” Then, louder, he added, “I wanted to know what Coop has that manages to keep Joel in check.”

  Brogan got up, taking a few steps so that he stood right in front of Ford, keeping his expression blank despite the feral hope rising inside him. “You don’t love him, do you? Do you even like him?”

  Ford said warily, “He’s...different now.”

  “Possessive.” Brogan didn’t quite manage to stop while he was ahead, too caught up in the fact that Ford hadn’t answered the question. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Does he hurt you, Embry?”

  He hadn’t meant to call Ford by his first name. They weren’t friends. Hell, at this moment Brogan wasn’t sure they weren’t enemies. But it had slipped out without his permission, as if some part of his brain had accepted an intimacy that he knew better than to allow.

  Embry—Ford, damn it—flinched. A pause. Then he repeated, “He’s different.”

  Brogan decided to take that as a yes. He was careful to keep his hands from forming fists, however much he might like to let them. “And you’re thinking that whatever Coop has might help you orchestrate a getaway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what does he have?” Brogan didn’t fool himself into thinking that Ford couldn’t remember a password as simple as Coop’s. No wonder he’d given up his smartphone so readily. He’d probably only put it in the phone in the first place because he was an anal little bastard.

  Ford’s teeth ground together for a moment. “I’ve been too busy working and worrying about you to start hacking. Believe it or not, I need more than a couple of hours to work miracles.”

  “You’re sure Henniton wouldn’t let you leave?”

  “I belong to him,” Ford said tonelessly.

  That statement pissed Brogan off. He took his time replying to make sure the emotion didn’t color his words. He also stepped closer. “So? Go anyway.”

  “There are other factors.”

  “He has something on you, doesn’t he? Is it something you need? Or something you can’t let happen?”

  “I can’t... I’m not talking about this.” Ford swallowed. “None of this is your concern. You’re here to check on what I was doing in the IT director’s office and I’ve told you. I’m not going to hurt anyone. I have nothing to do with the death threats agai
nst Joel, and nothing I do is going to get anyone on your team—or you or your friend—damaged in any way. It’s personal, okay? For your own sake, just let this go.”

  “How old are you?” Brogan asked, wondering what it meant that Ford noticed that Brogan was friends with Mario. He also wondered at Ford’s last comment: for your own sake. And he especially wondered at his own priorities. He’d just finished a long overnight shift. He should be going home to crash for eight hours, not asking questions that he didn’t need the answers to.

  Ford lifted his chin in a delightfully defiant gesture. “You’ve gotten everything you’re—”

  “This part—you telling me whatever I want to know—isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Brogan said mildly, but he was pretty much done pushing the issue. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure he believed everything Ford had told him, but he believed that whatever Ford wanted from Coop was about his relationship with Henniton, and as long as it wasn’t going to get someone hurt, Brogan figured it wasn’t his business. If Ford needed a way out, Brogan wasn’t going to hold that against him. Not in the least.

  “How old?” he asked again, when he didn’t get an answer.

  “Twenty-three,” Ford snarled.

  “You’ve accomplished a lot for someone your age.”

  “I have a natural inclination toward organization and details. It’s not anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Executive assistant to the COO of a major company when you’re twenty-three? That’s not ordinary at all. That’s a gift.”

  “I’m controlling, nitpicky and neurotic,” Ford said, sounding aggravated at having to explain these things, thereby proving that he was also moody and stubborn. Brogan, contrary fool that he was, found it downright adorable, particularly when Ford continued, as pedantic as any obnoxious professor. “Just because that makes me good at this kind of work doesn’t mean I have a gift. My personality has been at least as much of a hindrance as a help. It—it turns out people don’t find those traits endearing in a person and—”

  Ford’s eyes widened, and he clamped his mouth shut, closing off the flow of words. He took a deep breath, and in a more measured tone, said, “Stop asking me questions.” His voice didn’t match his expression, which remained hostile. “And take a step back. You’re crowding me.”

  Brogan didn’t move. “There’s nothing ordinary about you.”

  “Fine. I’m a special snowflake,” Ford said through his teeth, and Brogan laughed, because this idiot. He was absurd, and Brogan was torn between wanting to throttle him and kiss him stupid.

  “You are the most ridiculous thing,” Brogan managed, and he should’ve known better than to assume Ford had a sense of humor, so the fact that Ford grabbed his index finger and nearly wrenched it off his hand was at least partially his fault.

  He let out a low yelp before he could stop himself, because having someone bend your finger back that far was painful as hell. It was a leverage move designed to take someone to his knees, but Ford didn’t force Brogan down the rest of the way. He was making a point, not trying to humiliate or injure. Brogan could get out of it, and he suspected that Ford knew it. But Brogan didn’t try.

  Instead, with pain—bearable, if not minimal—humming through his hand, Brogan lowered himself to his knees. The submission seemed to take Ford aback. He licked his lips and his grip lightened.

  “Don’t like being teased?” Brogan asked.

  “Not when I’m over a barrel,” Ford replied. He sounded firm, but the leverage released even more. They were practically just holding hands now.

  Brogan smirked up at him. He wasn’t sure what it said about him, but he was sort of having fun. “I apologize sincerely. My mistake. I’m in a good position to make this up to you, though, if you’ll let me.”

  Ford gave him a baleful look. “Have we not learned our lesson about making jokes?”

  “Who’s joking?” Brogan asked, because now that the idea had occurred to him, he liked it. He was inches away from Ford’s groin, and while Ford could definitely incapacitate him right now, Brogan was finding it difficult to concentrate on that when he could be using his free hand to unzip those trousers. He’d been jerking off to fantasies similar to this for the last few days, and he was tired of pretending he didn’t want this. And when Ford realized what he was going to do, Brogan might lose his finger, but at this point he wasn’t sure it wasn’t a fair trade.

  So he lifted his free hand and placed his palm against Ford’s firm belly, low enough to make it plain where he was going with this. When that didn’t provoke a protest, he stroked the placket of Ford’s trousers, and then leaned forward to press his face against the joint of hip and thigh, noting that Ford hadn’t broken his finger off yet. He used his thumb to rub the bulge of Ford’s cock beneath the wool, working against the slowly hardening flesh beneath, nuzzling against the fabric.

  Ford made a low sound, and Brogan looked up. Ford’s mouth hung partially open, his cheeks flushed. A frown marred his brow, his breathing too quick.

  “Let me,” Brogan whispered. He tugged at the button of Ford’s trousers, began to ease the zipper down. There was black fabric underneath, thin and soft. He mouthed at Ford’s cock through the cotton, using his free hand to pull the trousers more fully out of the way, then inhaled the scent and warmth of Ford’s body, getting painfully hard himself.

  “Let me,” he breathed again, then slid his lips against the head of Ford’s cock, prompting Ford to give a strangled sigh. Brogan closed his eyes in concentration, trying not to lose control. Everything about this was ill advised, but fuck, he liked listening to that precise, supercilious voice sound so vulnerable. He wanted to hear more. He brushed his mouth against Ford again, disappointed that he couldn’t taste skin, wondering if he could get the underwear out of the way one-handed. Maybe not, so Brogan took a chance, tugging at his captured hand.

  Ford released him, moving his fingers to Brogan’s hair, pressing them tentatively against his scalp, a gesture at once encouraging and arousing. When Brogan looked up, he found Ford’s gaze locked on his mouth, his eyes dark and hot.

  Brogan growled, “Let me,” and Ford hesitated for a count of three before nodding helplessly.

  Brogan grasped the waistband of Ford’s trousers and underwear at once and began to pull.

  Someone knocked on the door and his thoughts instantly turned to murder.

  Ford shoved him away so hard Brogan fell on his ass—nothing kills the mood like a broken tailbone, he thought. Ford was fixing his clothes in double-time, fingers scrambling as he hissed, “Get up!”

  Brogan obeyed, trying to dispel the lingering fog of arousal, and sat in the nearest chair, arranging his jacket to cover the fact that he was packing a damn redwood in his pants. Ford was already behind his desk. If not for the flush on his cheeks and his over-bright eyes, he’d pass for unexcited.

  “Come in,” he called, exactly the right amount of bored and impatient. The woman from before tipped her head in, looking apologetic. She didn’t even get her mouth open before Ford snapped, “Two minutes.”

  She disappeared, leaving them alone once more, and Ford jumped back up. “You can go,” he said, pointing to the door. “And stay gone, because that’s not going to happen again.”

  “You mean the part where I volunteered to suck you, or the part where you said yes?” Brogan asked. “Please don’t break my fingers.”

  “I’m going to break your face in a second,” Ford threatened.

  Brogan grinned. “That’s going to make it harder for me to put your cock in my mouth.”

  Ford’s eyes flashed, and then he slammed them closed and took a deep breath. “Stop talking about oral sex,” he said in a low voice, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right now. I can’t believe I almost...do you know what would happen if we...get out of my office.”

  “Think ab
out it,” Brogan said. “And when you realize that you want this, all you have to do is say so, and I’ll take you apart. I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget he ever existed, Ford.”

  Ford was working hard to look unruffled, but his breathing was still too fast. He knew he wasn’t pulling off, too, because he said snidely, “Why don’t you try holding your breath until that happens? Elsewhere.”

  Brogan was a masochist. It was the only explanation for why that snotty attitude was getting him even more turned on. He didn’t leave. Instead he came around Ford’s desk and edged the other man back against the bookcase, making Ford startle and glare. Brogan didn’t let that put him off. With one hand—the one not currently throbbing—he cupped Ford’s cheek and tipped his face upward.

  The kiss was chaste and slow—at first. Ford stayed frozen for all of five seconds before he melted, and his lips, slightly chapped and warm, opened beneath his. Brogan deepened it a tiny bit, licking his way in, losing his head a little. Ford trembled and Brogan almost gave up trying to do the right thing, almost said fuck it, and almost shoved that lean, neat body against the wall to keep him still while Brogan ripped his clothes free. When Brogan managed to lift his head he gazed down at Ford, who was all pink cheeks and damp lips and lovely, hazy nervousness.

  “I didn’t know you’d be so sweet,” Brogan murmured, trailing his thumb across Ford’s lower lip. “Or I’d have kissed you that first day.”

  Ford’s lashes swept down as he shivered.

  “Hell,” Brogan whispered. “I have to get out of here, now, or I’m gonna fuck you on this desk. And then you’ll kill me and we’ll both get fired.”

  Ford’s face contorted, but Brogan couldn’t tell if he was fighting the urge to laugh or punch him. He’d have preferred the first, but decided the second was more likely.

  He used up all of his self-control for the coming year in order to pull away. He exhaled and forced himself to leave, taking only the time to adjust himself in an attempt to conceal his erection. He didn’t dare look back because he’d never manage to go if he caught another glimpse of Ford. Then he was passing the woman—as good as faceless while he was in this state—and heading downstairs. Somehow he made it to his truck, where he sat for several long minutes.