by Sidney Bell
The longer he was out in the bracing air, the clearer it became that he’d gone insane. Who went from half-hearted blackmail to oral sex in the span of five minutes? It wasn’t until he felt the added heft in his jacket pocket that he even remembered he still had Ford’s phone.
Three things occurred to him.
First, that it was probably time that he started thinking of the other man as Embry instead of Ford, regardless of how invested that proved he was.
Second, that Ford—Embry—was in far more serious trouble with Henniton than Brogan had suspected.
And third?
Brogan was in a fair amount of trouble of his own.
Chapter Six
Brogan should have been sleeping. He’d been up all night, and his eyes were starting to feel gritty. But he couldn’t make himself get in bed, partly because Embry’s phone kept going off. It wasn’t even eleven and Embry had sixteen missed calls and fourteen text messages.
The other part was that he couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of Embry against him.
Embry’s phone must have cost a fortune—there were enough features on the thing to run a small country. It took Brogan a couple tries to remember the password. He’d like to say he was checking that Embry wasn’t a threat, but the truth was that he was being nosy.
Normal work apps. Embry was smart enough that his email wasn’t set to remember his password, so Brogan couldn’t get into his account, and there was nothing else in the notepad app besides Coop’s IT password. He suspected that Embry synchronized his notes to his laptop at the end of the day and then deleted them so that if anyone were to get their hands on his phone, they’d have—at best—a day’s worth of material.
Some might call that paranoid.
Brogan was a security-minded individual. He thought of it as responsible, but he did wonder.
He pulled up the internet and started going through Embry’s history. The New York Times crossword was bookmarked, as was the Food Network homepage. IGN, Giant Bomb and GameTrailers were all bookmarked, too.
He’d already known that Embry liked gaming, although this further evidence only made it odder that Brogan hadn’t seen a console at Embry’s place either time he’d been there. He wondered if Embry even had one.
A new text message came in, this time from a number he recognized. Mario’s number. Someone—no points for guessing who—had taken the time to track down the one number that Brogan would recognize so that it was clear that the text was actually meant for Brogan. He thumbed open the message.
I need my phone, asshole .
Brogan’s heart thumped. For a long minute he stared at the words on the screen, feeling as warm as some men might after receiving declarations of love. He fiddled with the options until he had them set the way he wanted, then sent back: Cant talk right now. Busy. Im very important. =D
To which Embry responded: You are such a fucking child. Bring me my phone.
Brogan settled back into the couch, considering where to go next. Finally, he typed: U catch more flies w/ honey than vinigar. Promise something nice—more efective than threats. What r u wearing?
There was a rather long hesitation. Then: I cannot believe you get laid with this technique. And stop sexually harassing me on your friend’s phone, you enormous freak.
Brogan chuckled. Dont be like that baby. We have extrodinarry chemistry.
When Embry replied, Brogan could almost feel the waves of annoyance radiating out of the phone: Learn to fucking spell and BRING ME MY PHONE.
Well, that was just asking for an attitude readjustment, Brogan decided. He hummed a little, then sent: Thats not nice. My feelings r hurt. Now i have to punish u. ;D
That prompted a quick response: Don’t. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.
Brogan typed: Anyone who sees ur phone will think u have got appaling taste in pornography, sweetheart. He thought for a second, then added a dirty emoticon. Go big or go home, right?
There was a very brief pause. Then: You better not be viewing porn on my work phone. I will fucking ruin you, Brogan.
Brogan winced at that, but went forward, because he was rapidly becoming addicted to getting a rise out of Embry. i lik the one with the dp on the ranch. Sorry not gud typingg with one hand don’t mind me. ke4p textng com on. Its hot.
Brogan had no intention of downloading porn or jerking off to Embry’s rants, because he didn’t want to get Embry in trouble. More to the point, he wasn’t stupid and didn’t actually have a death wish.
Embry didn’t respond. And didn’t respond. And still didn’t respond.
Then the phone vibrated once more with: Brogan, why the hell are you sending dirty texts to Ford? On MY phone? My mother could have read this! Do you want to get fired? Why did you turn off autocorrect? What is wrong with you?
At the thought of Mario reading what he’d sent, Brogan found himself blushing like a teenager. He shoved the phone under one of the couch cushions, as if that would keep Mario from seeing his shame. Despite the humiliation of the moment, he couldn’t help feeling a touch of admiration; he pictured Embry reading the last couple of texts with narrowed eyes before coolly returning Mario’s phone with an air of offended dignity that concealed the pure, Machiavellian evil that thrummed within him.
The little bastard.
Brogan looked over at Gizmo, who lay on the floor, his skinny legs sprawled out on the carpet like a starfish.
“I have a problem,” he said. “He is driving me crazy.”
Gizmo yawned.
Brogan rolled over and pushed his face into a throw pillow in the hope that suffocation would erase the memory of this from his mind. He fell asleep that way.
Fourteen minutes later, a terrified intern woke him up by banging on his front door. He blinked at her for a good twenty seconds from the stoop as she stuttered an explanation that he didn’t follow because he was still half-asleep. Finally, she thrust out a note scrawled on a folded Post-It.
Give her the phone or I will terminate her internship.
Pristine, perfect penmanship.
He was tempted to ask her in, make her some coffee, get to know her, but even though Brogan doubted that Embry would ruin this poor girl’s chance at college credit just to make Brogan bend to his will, there was a tiny part of him that wasn’t sure. The girl was all but shaking.
Brogan gave her the phone. She thanked him profusely before she dashed back to her car.
He knew when he’d been beaten.
* * *
Over the course of the next week, Brogan attempted to distract himself from all mentions of Valentine’s Day—and whatever Henniton and Embry had planned to celebrate it—by engaging in a series of grueling workouts. At the very least he hoped he might kill off some of his sexual energy and regain his normal brain function.
When he ended up jerking off in the shower on Sunday to thoughts of Embry’s mouth tight around his cock, he had to admit that the plan had failed. He called the local clinic and made an appointment to see someone then spent twenty minutes trying to convince himself he was being mature when he suspected he was actually being self-destructive.
The idea of sitting alone in his house with so many feelings was depressing, so he texted Mario to see if he could go to his house.
Mario texted back: I’m at work for another half-hour, but you can use your key.
He was used to Brogan’s occasional need for noise.
Mario’s house was a green three-bedroom ranch in an older neighborhood. Mario took good care of the yard, but the gutters were sagging and water dripped from one corner even though it’d been dry for the last week. As he climbed out of his truck, he wondered if Mario had a ladder. It was foggy out, but not too damp. Not a bad day for cleaning gutters.
When Mario got home, he said, “For fuck’s s
ake, would you let me do that? My masculinity is wasting away as I stand here.”
“I was bored,” Brogan said, perched on the ladder and listening to a hockey game on the radio. “Hand me that hose, would you?”
“Where did you learn how to do this?” Mario eyed him suspiciously as he complied. “Do you do this at your house?”
“No. I probably should, but I’m too lazy. Turn the water on?”
Mario did and Brogan directed the flow into the gutter. They both watched as nothing came out of the downspout.
“You’ve got a clog,” Brogan said. “Thought so.”
“What do we do about that?” Mario asked.
“Snake it.”
“I don’t have a snake.”
“I do. Come on, we’ll go to my place while it’s still intermission,” Brogan said.
“Food first.”
When they were in Brogan’s truck, eating tortilla chips with salsa in a ramekin, Mario said, “Alone at last.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“You sent dirty texts to my phone, man. You opened this door.”
Brogan groaned. “Do you remember the good old days when straight men were too macho and insecure to talk about gay sex? I do. They were nice days.”
“We’re talking about this,” Mario said grimly. “Because you won’t talk to anyone else and you’re fucking up.”
Brogan resented that and wiped rogue salsa onto his pants leg to prove it. “I’m not fucking up.”
Mario ticked things off on his fingers, an impressive move since he was still holding the ramekin. He didn’t even spill any. “You could get fired. Your professional reputation could be permanently shredded. Henniton could send thugs to shank you and then you’ll call me to help getting rid of bodies. Thugs are heavy—I could throw my back out.” He squirmed in his seat. “Ford could really hurt you.”
Brogan concentrated on driving for a minute. “I know that.”
“Do you? Because the fact that you’re doing this anyway makes me wonder. This could screw up your life.”
“What if I don’t care?” Brogan asked. “You gotta take a gamble sometime, and the pots worth taking are the ones that can cost you.”
He could feel Mario watching him, so he kept his eyes on the road as he continued. “It’s been a really long time since I’ve wanted something badly enough to feel it with my whole body, Mario. I’m not saying it’s not a mistake. I’m saying it might be a mistake worth making. Sometimes mistakes lead to the best moments of your whole existence.”
Mario thought about that for a while. “That’s some impressive rationalization. What’s really going on?”
“I want him,” Brogan said. “And it’s not about how he looks or the way he reacts when I touch him...although that’s not nothing, because Jesus.”
“You’ve touched him?” Mario’s voice went up an octave, and Brogan winced.
He decided not to mention the almost-oral-sex. “We kissed. Once. But that’s not why I want him.” He thought about leaving it there, then tacked on, “That’s not the only reason I want him. He keeps me on my toes. He makes me think, makes me work for it. I’m having fun. Which is messed up, I know, considering the whole firing/reputation shredded/thugs we have to bury thing. But it’s true. It’s stronger than anything I’ve ever...fuck.”
“I get it,” Mario said. “I’ve been there. But it’s chemical. You’re not in love. You barely know the guy.”
“I didn’t say I was in love. Just that I’ve never felt anything this strong before.”
“You can’t feel that strongly for him, because when I saw him, kiss or not, he didn’t seem pleased that you exist.”
“He loves that I exist.”
“People who love that you exist like it when you send them dirty text messages, and he didn’t. You’re infatuated. Only infatuation makes people make self-destructive decisions.”
“He was amused on the inside,” Brogan insisted. “He only hides that sort of thing because he’s really repressed. It’s cute.”
Mario just raised an eyebrow.
“Okay. I’m infatuated. I’m making bad decisions.” Brogan bit his lip. “He really didn’t like it?”
Mario made an exasperated noise. “Of course he didn’t like it! You threatened to put porn on his work phone and sent him an emoticon that looks like boobs! That’s not how you seduce a repressed workaholic, Brogan.”
“Was he mad?”
“Hell, I don’t know. He seemed annoyed.”
Brogan waved that one away. “That’s his default setting. I’ve learned to disregard it.”
“He’s fucking our client.”
“I think he wishes he wasn’t, though.”
Mario frowned. “Even if that’s true, it has no bearing on this one way or another. If he wants to be with you, Ford will dump Henniton.”
He can’t, Brogan wanted to say, but didn’t. He was walking a very fine line here, and didn’t want to put Mario in a bad position.
“What do you know about Coop?” Brogan asked. The research on Coop had only begun when Henniton had shut down Timmerson’s investigators, and it was correspondingly vague: Coop was a troubleshooter, and he spent most of his time out in the warehouses or “traveling,” whatever that meant.
“Way to change the subject. Coward. And nothing but the standard background. Former Marine, married but separated for about a decade, two almost-adult children who haven’t seen him in a few years. A few arrests for DUIs and bar fights. Guy’s a dick, but that’s to be expected, what with the crazy eyes and all.” Mario crunched on a chip. “Why?”
He’d like to say something like no reason, but he knew Mario wouldn’t accept it. So he went with, “Just curious about your read on him.”
“I know he makes Henniton nervous,” Mario said. “Whenever Coop’s been in his office, Henniton’s shouting and throwing things as soon as he’s gone.”
“What kind of stuff was he shouting?”
Mario twisted sideways in his seat to look at Brogan head-on, the chip bag rustling from his lap. “Is something going on?”
“Nope.”
Mario squinted at him. “I think you’re lying. I think you’re a dirty rotten liar.”
“Sometimes,” Brogan said. “But don’t ask. Really, Mario, don’t ask.”
Mario’s hands closed on the bag, and several tortilla chips died painful deaths under his grip. “Are you in trouble?”
“So much for not asking. And it isn’t me.”
Mario groaned. “Fuck. Of course. Ford’s in trouble and Brogan has to save the day.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I think it hurt my feelings,” Brogan said.
“It means you’re a sap, Brogan. You have this fundamental need to save the people you care about to a completely self-destructive degree,” Mario snapped. “Ford is just the latest in a long line of assholes to take advantage.”
“I can’t believe you called me a sap,” Brogan replied, stung. “I don’t always let people take advantage.”
“Why are you still giving your sister money? Why did you spend four hours on your last birthday driving your narcissistic mother up to Seattle so she could see her latest boyfriend? Why did you lend your brother your truck for three months last year while you drove a rental? That you paid for? Should I keep going? I have more, you know I do. I’m not sure what you’re trying to apologize for with this self-sacrificing shit, but I wish you’d knock it off. You don’t owe Ford anything. He’s a grown up and he made the choices that got him here.”
“You’re a really good friend,” Brogan said tightly. “Please shut up.”
Mario glared at him. “You deserve someone who won’t need you to death. If Ford is in trouble, your little crush is going to drag you do
wn, too. Don’t bail him out and screw yourself in the process.”
Brogan said quietly, “Embry’s doing everything he can to keep me from helping. He won’t even talk to me about it. That’s what makes him different.” He paused, thinking again of the way Embry phrased his request that Brogan stop asking questions. For your own sake, he’d said. “I think he’s trying to protect me.”
“So there’s something to be protected from?”
Brogan turned left very innocently.
“Fine,” Mario said. “Don’t tell me. Ford’s a perfect, helpless angel and he’ll never take advantage of you. But until he dumps Henniton, you need to keep your hands to yourself. And your texts.”
“I know. But, God, Mario, he’s...”
“He’s the kind of guy who fucks his married boss and gets an apartment and a job out of it,” Mario said gently. “Who knows what he’ll offer you if you’ll help him out?”
“Because there’s no other reason he’d be interested in me?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Mario thumped his fist against the dashboard. “Look, I know you get lonely. I only meant that you’re easy to take advantage of when you’re invested, and you can’t trust him.”
Brogan made a face in the general direction of traffic and buried his urge to defend Embry, because Mario wasn’t wrong. Brogan only had one speed when it came to people he cared about: full-ahead-sucker. As much as he wished that Embry’s refusals to involve him meant they could be together without Brogan becoming an accessory to his own destruction, he didn’t trust his judgment of Embry’s motives.
Not that having logic on his side had ever helped him before. “Stop being mature. It’s not making me feel better.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“He says that, too,” Brogan said wistfully. “Are you sure he didn’t find me charming?”
“Seriously? After everything we just talked about, you’re asking me this?”
