by Sidney Bell
“He walked into a door?” Brogan asked tonelessly.
Henniton didn’t respond for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “And once you’re done at the hospital, take him home, even if he wants to come in. Stay with him a bit. He can be...impetuous when he’s angry. I’ll clear your shift with Timmerson. Embry doesn’t have to see me. I just don’t want him to be alone.”
Brogan wondered if Henniton thought Embry would run for it. He nodded, although if Embry decided to go, he wasn’t going to do anything to get in his way.
Chapter Nine
By the time they left the ER, it was hard to say which one of them was in a worse mood.
Embry’s eye was blue-purple and swollen half-closed despite the ice pack he’d been pressing to the injury for the past four hours. He had five stitches in his eyebrow, a bottle of Vicodin to help with the pain (although he refused to take any), a corticosteroid to treat the swelling, and an antibiotic to prevent infection. They’d also scheduled a follow-up appointment in two weeks because a CT scan had revealed a hairline fracture in the orbital bone below his eye. That was the source of the bleed from his nose, and if it didn’t begin to resolve on its own, he would need surgery. He was tired and in pain, his clothes were covered in dried blood, and he was in a foul mood.
Brogan wasn’t doing much better. He’d been speaking to Embry in short, impersonal sentences because if he wasn’t careful, a hell of a lot more was going to spill over than just “I need your middle name for the intake form.” Brogan’s hands still trembled with the urge to break something—or someone—because despite having distance from Henniton, every glance at Embry’s face added fuel to the fire.
They were getting in the elevator when Embry said, “You don’t have to come up.”
“I know.”
“So you can go as soon as we get to my floor.”
“Could. Won’t.”
“I don’t want you in my apartment.”
“Yeah, because of all the men in your life, I’m the one you don’t want around.”
And then he clamped his mouth shut, because that was getting a little too caustic for his tastes. Embry was trying to scowl at him past all that swelling, and Brogan jabbed the button for the sixteenth floor a dozen times, as if that would somehow shore up his hold on his temper. He didn’t want to be like Henniton, who shouted and intimidated and hit, but fuck, he was angry. Angry at Henniton for being a brutal bastard, angry at himself for not intervening before it got to that point, and yeah, even though he felt like a dick for it, he was a little angry at Embry. Not for getting hurt, never that, but for not letting Brogan help.
He wanted to help more than he wanted his next breath.
“You have no right—” Embry began, and Brogan gritted his teeth, because Embry was wrong, dammit. Brogan had the right to care about whoever he wanted to, and even if Embry ignored him, that wouldn’t stop him from believing that Embry deserved better—or saying so.
“I’m taking the right,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice low—he was not going to yell, he was not—and making the kind of eye contact he reserved for situations so dangerous that he couldn’t risk having a client tune him out. He thought of it as his I’m going to end up stepping in front of a bullet for you if you don’t get this eye contact. “So here’s what you need to know: he doesn’t get to hit you. He doesn’t get to hurt you or talk to you the way he does or throw things while you’re in the room. He doesn’t get to treat you like a whore. I don’t care what he buys you. And while we’re on the subject of buying things, if you need a fucking couch to sleep on in order to get loose from him, you can sleep on mine.”
Okay, so maybe he was going to yell a little. Not that Embry was cowed in the least—his shoulders were square as he yelled right back, “Your couch has nothing to do with buying things!”
“I know! That’s not the point!” They arrived on the sixteenth floor and Embry charged past him down the hall. Brogan stormed after him. “The point is that you don’t fucking have to be here. You don’t have to take this shit, and I don’t care about your damn pride or your independence or whatever—if you would just be honest with me, I could help you figure this out. We can get you out if you’d trust me and let me help and give me the goddamn keys!”
Embry was trying to juggle his pill bottles in one hand while he fished his keys from his briefcase with the other. Brogan knocked his hand away and stuck his own fingers into the little pocket inside the case, because Embry could never keep his keys or wallet in his trousers—no, that would fuck up the pristine tailored lines or something. Brogan ignored the warmth and solidness of Embry’s arm along his as he grabbed the ring, only then realizing that he could have used his own damn key.
“You passed it,” Embry said through his teeth. “It’s the gold one, dumbass.”
“Shut up. I don’t like you right now.”
“Yeah? I never like you.”
“Oh, really?” Brogan asked mockingly. Why wouldn’t the key go in the damn lock already? “I know you were thinking dirty thoughts about me in the car earlier.”
Embry’s good eye widened, his mouth dropped open, and his cheeks flushed bright red. “I have never thought dirty thoughts about you.”
“You’re a fucking liar,” Brogan snarled, and managed to get the door unlocked. He shoved it open harder than he meant to, making it bounce off the arm of the sofa.
“Don’t break my shit!” Embry shouted.
“I will if I want to!”
“Get out! I don’t need your help!”
“Stop saying that!” And maybe it was melodramatic, but that didn’t stop Brogan from throwing his hands up like he was petitioning God for help, not that even God could out-stubborn this idiot—
Embry flinched, almost stumbling as he lurched back against the breakfast bar.
Brogan’s anger dissolved so fast it left him shaky. “Oh, fuck,” he murmured. “Oh, baby. Come here.”
“I’m fine,” Embry said hoarsely, stationary as a statue, staring at the carpet. “I’m fine, really.”
Brogan moved in gradual increments, giving Embry enough time to decide whether he would allow contact. He touched Embry’s chin to lift his face, his heart thundering at the wariness he found there. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I yell when I get mad. I have a shitty temper that way. I’ll work on it. But no matter how mad I get, I will never hit you, Embry. And that won’t change even if you yell back or argue or refuse to do what I want. Never.”
Embry seemed to give that real consideration. Brogan held his gaze the entire time, letting him make up his mind, and eventually, Embry said, “Okay.”
“Okay.” Some instinct had Brogan stepping in, wrapping one hand at the warm nape of Embry’s neck and tugging the smaller man against him, watching for signs of protest. Their chests brushed, and although Embry nodded almost imperceptibly, his body was unyielding as stone. Brogan rubbed his thumb along Embry’s hairline, pressing into the tight muscles with his fingers and dipping his head so that his lips hovered at the shell of his ear.
“Easy,” he whispered. Brogan used his other hand to cup Embry’s uninjured cheek, and then he stroked along the smooth column of Embry’s throat, using just enough pressure to encourage the tension to unravel. It didn’t take as long as he’d expected. Only a minute later the rigidity in that strong frame began to fade.
“There we go,” Brogan praised him in an undertone.
Embry smelled like hospital antiseptic and pomade and, more faintly, sweat and the remnants of his cologne—a not unpleasant mix. His eyes were closed, and when Brogan moved from rubbing Embry’s neck to the curve of his shoulders, an actual groan emerged.
Brogan’s breath caught. That groan had been low and thick and needy, and it went straight to his groin. Embry’s upper body tipped forward as he surrendered, and a second lat
er his good temple came to rest against Brogan’s shoulder. He was so slim and firm and unexpectedly responsive that Brogan had to remind himself that this was about comfort, not sex.
Part of him wondered how Embry might be after a real massage, lying on his stomach with his bare skin shining with oil and his muscles lax. Would he let his thighs fall open if Brogan’s hands stroked his long legs? Would he arch beneath Brogan’s questing fingertips? Brogan swallowed—that image was all it took for his cock to begin to harden.
“All right,” he said, disengaging himself. When had Embry put his hands on Brogan’s hips? Embry blinked, dazed and sweet, and Brogan was tempted, so damn tempted.
But he’d said he wouldn’t push, and the last thing he wanted was to be the kind of man that Henniton was, the kind of man who stole what hadn’t been freely offered, the kind of man who would destroy beauty in his rush to possess it.
“Better?” he asked, and some of the fog cleared from Embry’s eyes. He gazed up at Brogan, stunned at first, and then embarrassed, and then—of course—the blush rose in his cheeks. Brogan cast about for something to get Embry away from him before he snapped.
“Shower?”
“What?” Suspicion rose in those dark eyes.
Brogan shook his head. “I mean for you. You should take a shower. And, uh, maybe change clothes. You’ve got some blood on you.” Instead of pushing Embry against the wall and plundering that delicate mouth the way he wanted to, Brogan used Embry’s narrow shoulders to turn him in the direction of the bathroom. Embry frowned at Brogan’s prodding, but shrugged and left.
Not that listening to water pelting in the bathroom helped him stop thinking dirty thoughts. He kept picturing Embry naked and soapy and supple, maybe even relaxed enough that when he was done getting clean, he’d let his hand wander down to give himself a few lazy strokes, to let his head tip back in the steam and—
“For fuck’s sake,” Brogan griped, and turned on the television to crappy afternoon programming. Ah, Judge Judy. That’d kick it.
Embry emerged fifteen minutes later, and all the progress Brogan had made toward not being a horny pervert was lost, because he was wearing worn jeans that cupped his ass and thighs like a second skin and an ancient red T-shirt with a graphic of what might be Bit from the old Tron movie. It was clearly part of his adolescent wardrobe—the fabric strained across his shoulders, which were ropy with lean muscle. His belly was flat, his revealed forearms veiny and strong. Brogan stared at those forearms for a second, feeling like a Victorian male struck dumb by the revelation of an ankle. Embry’s hair was towel-dried and finger-combed, wavy without all that product in it, and he was barefoot.
Barefoot.
He looked approachable and gorgeous and so very, very delicious. “Christ,” Brogan said, staring at him. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Embry’s brows lifted, and then a hint of mischief lit up his features. He turned around, smirking over his shoulder, and Brogan saw the word No stenciled across the back of the T-shirt a half-dozen times.
“Cute,” Brogan said, heaving a sigh. He’d been right about the Tron thing. The guy must’ve been an enormous dork in high school.
Embry smiled with one side of his mouth, maybe trying to keep the sore side of his face still. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Could you eat pancakes?”
Brogan considered. As far as comfort food went, they could do worse. And Embry could use some coddling, although he seemed to be in a better mood now. Brogan wondered if his willingness to hold Embry for a time was contributing to it, then realized he was getting ahead of himself. “You eat pancakes?”
“I eat whole wheat banana pancakes.”
“Oh, you mean you eat cardboard.”
“Shut up,” Embry replied, almost affectionately.
Cooking together wasn’t as easy this time. There were no stories about grandmothers or Nina Simone, because the air was thick with their awareness of each other. When Brogan placed a hand on Embry’s hip to ease him aside so he could get into the fridge for milk, Embry’s breathing hitched, and they both froze. Brogan could feel the warmth of Embry’s skin even through the denim of his jeans, and his fingers itched to tighten, to tug Embry back against him. Embry smelled of soap and clean, masculine skin, and Brogan closed his eyes, wishing he knew what Embry would do if Brogan were to lower his head and press an open-mouthed kiss beneath the lobe of that fragile ear. Would he sigh? Would he be pissed off that Brogan was making a move when he’d promised he would let Embry come to him?
He shouldn’t. Brogan knew he shouldn’t, he wasn’t that dumb. Embry’d had a shitty day, and he might say yes for a half-dozen reasons that had nothing to do with wanting this, reasons ranging from a need for comfort to a desire to punish Henniton. Brogan wouldn’t mind the former, but it would suck to be the tool Embry used for the latter. Still, Brogan wasn’t sure he cared enough to say no, not with Embry so close and responsive, his breath quick and uneven.
He didn’t get the option. Embry pulled away, leaving Brogan’s hand cold when he was gone.
Brogan’s pants were tented, which was embarrassing, and he adjusted himself. Judging from the riotous blush on Embry’s cheeks and the way he kept his body angled away, Brogan wasn’t the only one.
Embry cleared his throat, but he still sounded rough as hell when he said, “You needed the milk?”
“I don’t even remember,” Brogan admitted.
By the time they were done eating, he was tapped.
“I hate to skate out on the dishes,” Brogan said, putting his fork down and getting up. “But I need to leave. Pretty much now. Because I really want to fuck you, and if I stay, I think you might cave and let me. You’ve had a crappy day, and maybe you’re not thinking straight, and the only thing keeping me from putting my hands on you is the thought that you might regret it, so I’m going to go before we make a bad decision.”
Embry swallowed, apparently following Brogan’s run-on sentence just fine. He got up and brushed past Brogan to unlock the front door, then paused there, hand on the knob. After an eternity, he said, “Okay.”
Brogan collected his jacket, but Embry didn’t open the door and Brogan stopped beside him, close enough that he could stroke a thumb very gently beneath his swollen, bruised eye.
“I’m sorry this happened to you,” Brogan whispered.
“I brought it on myself,” Embry said. Brogan’s face must’ve revealed his anger at that, because Embry hurried to add, “Not that way. I mean that I know what he is and I’m still here. That’s at least a little bit my fault.”
“There are things that abusers do that erode a victim’s confidence,” Brogan said. “They know how to isolate you from friends and family and beat down your spirit well before they lay a finger on you, so that by the time they hit you, they’ve already limited your ability to fight back or run. They do it on purpose.”
Embry laughed under his breath, a mixture of amusement and misery. “I’m not a victim of domestic violence, Brogan.”
“Yeah, Embry, you are. He fractured one of the bones in your face. You think because you’re a guy that means it doesn’t count?”
“I think it doesn’t count because...” Embry abruptly seemed to find the television—playing cartoons now—captivating.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not okay. There are no circumstances that justify it.” Brogan struggled to remember why there was probably a better time for this conversation. But at the same time, he couldn’t leave it like this, not when Embry had to know how dumb it was for him to blame himself. “You’re so... Christ, Embry, he should be grateful for every opportunity to touch you that he gets. He should be on his fucking knees he’s so grateful that a piece of shit like him is even allowed to put his hands on someone as lovely and smart and complicated and fascinating—”
“Not really up to you.”
“I’ve told you and told you. You’re going to get hurt.”
“Whether I do or not is my business, don’t you think?” And Brogan couldn’t believe he was arguing this, because he was supposed to be going.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you making this so hard?”
“I’m not—”
Embry shoved him and Brogan’s back hit the wall with a thud.
“Ow,” Brogan said, even though it hadn’t hurt, and there wasn’t anything to complain about with Embry pressed against him, his slim body thrumming with energy, his expression dark and furious and sharp.
“Do you think this is easy for me?” Embry snarled. “You think I didn’t want to hit back? You think I don’t know that he’s a bastard? But I—I was handling it, I was getting it done until you showed up, and you say these things, these wonderful...and you say them like they cost nothing.”
Brogan started to reply, but Embry kept going. “Do you think I’d still be here if it was that easy? If I wouldn’t lose everything by leaving? Fuck.” He backed up a step, and dragged a hand over his mouth. Brogan felt the loss of contact like an arrow through his ribs. “Fuck you, Brogan. Fuck you for making this so hard.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Tell me what you need—”
It was either the wrong thing to say or the right thing—it depended on the point of view, because he only got a second to meet Embry’s eyes, narrow and searing, before that pretty mouth crashed against his own.
Brogan’s brain could barely keep his heart beating at the jolt of sensation, let alone help him figure out what to do next, so he stood there stupidly while Embry kissed the everliving fuck out of him. Brogan got lost in the feel of the straining body against his, in the strength of the fists crumpling his shirt, in the hot, wet mouth parting beneath his own. Embry was small next to him, slim and wiry, but there was nothing delicate about his hard shoulders or lean belly.
