by Sidney Bell
No. Even Brogan couldn’t be that monumentally self-sacrificing. There had to be another reason. There had to be. “Why are you doing this? Really?”
“I generally prefer options that don’t include murder. More than that, I don’t want you giving up the rest of your life for them.”
“It’s for Amy,” Embry shouted, the rage threatening to slip its leash entirely. “For my parents. They need this!”
A muscle ticked in Brogan’s cheek. “You say that, but something tells me Amy would rip you a new one for being so careless with yourself.”
That made contact. Embry jerked back, struggling not to lash out and hit something—the wall, the counter, anything.
He heard Brogan as if from a very great distance. “Give me a chance. Twenty-four hours. Do what you want after, but please, Embry, one chance.”
Embry’s voice was rough when he said, “How do I know you won’t turn on me? You’ll call the cops the first time I turn my back.”
“I won’t.” Brogan’s eyes were steady, as honest as ever. Embry wanted to believe him. Christ, he wanted so many things he wasn’t even sure how they could all fit inside him, not when they all contradicted each other. “I know trust isn’t easy for you,” Brogan continued. “And I’m not promising that I won’t call the cops at some point. I promise I won’t call the cops today, though, not as long as we handle this my way. Deal?”
Embry considered it while he studied Brogan’s face and body language, searching for some sign of deceit. But there was nothing. Just Brogan and that pure, uncomplicated warmth that made Embry weak. It broke something inside Embry, made him desperate and grateful, all at once.
Embry was a fool, clearly, because even after everything that had happened to him, he didn’t learn. He believed Brogan, because he didn’t learn.
“Okay,” he whispered, and handed the key over.
Brogan exhaled hard and made quick work of the cuffs. Then he was free and standing in front of Embry, his big hands cupping Embry’s face as he pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Okay,” Brogan whispered back.
Chapter Sixteen
“If they find out about this, you’ll get fired,” Embry pointed out as they sat in Brogan’s truck in front of the Touring admin building. The blue nighttime was kept at bay by the yellow glow of the sodium lamps set in concrete blocks throughout the parking lot, leaving the strong planes of Brogan’s face shadowed.
Brogan nodded. “I know.”
“You don’t have to be part of any of this. You could go home. Watch some bad TV. Eat something irradiated.”
“Not in the cards tonight.”
Embry wasn’t sure where they stood—if Brogan did this, if those words he’d said (I’m falling in love with you) were true, then Embry was in way over his head, because he’d owe so much without any way to pay it back. It felt odd to reach out and touch Brogan’s fingers, even when Brogan flipped his hand over and gripped tight. Embry had never held hands with a man before. It wasn’t as awkward as he’d thought it would be.
“If you change your mind or...it’s okay. I can take care of the rest on my own.”
“That’s not comforting, but thank you,” Brogan said. He heaved a sigh, then turned, pressing a hard kiss to Embry’s lips, taking him by surprise and making his pulse jump. “I know you don’t feel the same way I do, but if you could try to trust me and stay in the truck, I’d appreciate it. Don’t murder people while I’m inside.”
Embry nodded.
Then Brogan was slamming the door behind him and hunching in his winter coat as he crossed the parking lot.
It took twenty-three long minutes. Embry spent them alternately staring at the clock in his cell phone and watching the entrance to the main building, fingers tapping on his thighs. When Brogan came out, he said, “It’s done.”
Brogan started the truck, keeping his speed regular and smiling at the Touring security guards at the gate. They recognized him by now, and they seemed to have gotten over their surprise at seeing Embry with him when they arrived.
“Did you run into any trouble?” Embry asked, when they were back on the boulevard.
“No, Nora was there. I said I’d forgotten to read up on the guys at the meeting tomorrow, and she took a coffee break and left me the computer. I made small talk for a little while afterward so it wouldn’t be suspicious. She’s been on since I got off shift, by the way. No sign of Coop, Parks or Dillon, so you should be safe.”
“Good.” Some of Embry’s tension drained. “Thank you. You have a talent for crime, it appears.”
Brogan’s mouth tightened. “Don’t say that, all right?”
Embry turned in his seat to study his profile. Brogan looked older, tired. Embry wasn’t surprised by the slight sting of guilt. He was surprised by how difficult it was to ignore.
“I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry. I’m—I’m grateful. Every time I think I’ve reached the end of your patience with me, you give more.”
“I’ve been told it’s a character flaw.”
“It’s only a flaw if the recipient is unworthy,” Embry said. “Which I guess means—”
“You’re not unworthy,” Brogan countered.
Embry could tell they weren’t going to agree on this. Best to get on with business, then.
“So what are the next twenty-four hours gonna be?” Embry asked. “Every man has a right to atone? I shouldn’t sully myself with killing? Or are you going to use Amy against me again, tell me that she’d never want this for me?”
Brogan parked on the street again since Embry’s car was still in his garage, and gave Embry a frustrated look. “Shut up, okay?”
Embry sighed. “Sorry.”
Once they were inside, Brogan grabbed a beer out of the fridge. “Do you want one?”
Embry nodded, and sat at the table that Brogan pointed to. They drank for a minute while Brogan contemplated something. Embry waited. He was good at being patient.
“There are rules to this,” Brogan said finally. “From now until this time tomorrow, you’re mine. Henniton doesn’t exist. I don’t care if he calls fifteen times or claims his hair’s on fire. You don’t even fucking mention his name.”
“All right,” Embry agreed. If his heart had thumped a bit when Brogan had said, “you’re mine,” that was no one’s business but his own.
“Rule number two. You say yes when you want to say yes, and you say no when you want to say no. I want honesty, not obligation.”
“All right.”
“And three.” Brogan took a deep breath. “Be yourself. I guess that’s kind of an addendum to number two, but that Ford robot shit ends now. I want the Embry in the Tron T-shirt who thinks that whole wheat pancakes help prevent colon cancer. If you get angry about something, I want to see it, and if you feel something else, I want you to let yourself feel it. No hiding.”
“Fiber is good for you,” Embry said automatically, then stalled out. He wasn’t surprised that Brogan had decided that the part of Embry that liked Tron and health food was the real Embry, the part of him that he’d thought had died with his family, and which whispered to him with increasing frequency the more he was with Brogan.
“Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Embry said. He told himself that he wasn’t betraying his plan—it wasn’t like he was taking a vacation here. He was compensating someone for a task, no different from when he paid that kid in the IT office at Harvard to purge him from the student records.
“Good.” Brogan stood up. “Come on.” He walked into the living room, hauling Gizmo off the couch and gesturing for Embry to sit down. While Embry sat among the dog hair, wrinkling his nose, Brogan fiddled with the TV, then dropped a controller in Embry’s hands.
“You want to play video games?” Embry asked.
&
nbsp; Brogan sat beside him, not quite close enough to touch, tipping the rest of his beer into his mouth as the title screen for “Left 4 Dead 2” came up and the game loaded. He didn’t say anything.
Embry screwed his face up in confusion. “You have twenty-four hours. You can do whatever you want, tell me whatever you want. And you want to play video games?”
“Your old landlord said you were living with a futon and a couple crates. Avoiding distractions, I’m guessing. How long since you’ve had a console? Years?”
Embry stared at him.
Brogan seemed disinclined to look back. He kept his focus on the screen. “We’re running Hard Rain,” he said.
Embry’s throat tightened. That was his favorite campaign. He must’ve mentioned it during their first conversation outside the boardroom two months ago, and Brogan had remembered.
Embry was still staring. His mouth had dropped open.
Brogan gave him that rueful, crooked smile. “You’re gonna need to look at the screen if you want to play,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.” Brogan rested two fingers on Embry’s chin and nudged his face in the direction of the TV. “We’re starting.”
Embry forced himself to nod. “Right.”
So they played. By nine they’d wasted over a thousand zombies and they were both starving. They ordered in because Brogan didn’t have anything in the house that Embry could turn into actual food. Brogan chose pizza and Embry agreed on the condition that they eat from plates instead of directly out of the box. They got pepperoni on Brogan’s half and spinach on Embry’s, and they ate and drank beer and argued about which Firefly episode was best.
And for a little while, Embry forgot.
By midnight they were both half-drunk and slumped together on the sofa. Embry had shed his jacket and pistol, his shoes were off, and his face felt warm from the alcohol. He could feel Brogan’s eyes on him.
When Brogan started rubbing gentle circles on Embry’s thigh with his thumb, heat curled in Embry’s belly, heat and resignation. Video games might’ve made it seem more like a date than a transaction, but he wasn’t stupid, and there was a kind of relief in finally getting around to it. Maybe Brogan had gone on about saying no if Embry wanted to, but that was clearly meant to soothe Brogan’s conscience. Brogan wasn’t so noble after all, Embry decided, although he had to admit—to his bitter disappointment—that he couldn’t talk. He probably would’ve said yes even if he didn’t have to.
But then, to Embry’s shock, Brogan pulled away. He got up, saying, “Go wash your face. You have sauce on your chin.”
He checked. “I do not, you dick.”
Brogan snickered as he disappeared down the hall. Embry went to the bathroom anyway, flossed, brushed his teeth, took his asthma medicine, and stripped, folding his clothes once he was down to his boxer briefs. Then, deciding it was a little coy to pretend like he didn’t know where this was going, he took those off, too, and headed for the bedroom.
His stomach hurt. He ignored it. Maybe it wasn’t how he would have wanted it, but he was old enough now to know that romance was for fools and tragic French novels.
He stood naked in the doorway for a few seconds and watched as Brogan finished changing the sheets. The room was pretty much what he’d expected—a boring blue duvet, a weathered dresser, dirty clothes piled in one corner next to an overflowing hamper, a chair covered in what was probably clean clothes, even if they were unfolded.
When he lifted his eyes, he found Brogan staring at him. His jaw was clenched, his fingers knotted into fists on the pillowcase he was holding.
Those pale eyes were tracing the lines of Embry’s body, as hot and palpable as a hand on his skin would be, and nearly as affecting. He curtailed his instinctive urge to shiver and waited while Brogan looked his fill.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” Brogan said hoarsely. His eyes lingered in the predictable spots—shoulders, nipples, hips and cock, but also on Embry’s hands and feet and knobby knees.
Growing up, Embry had been skinny and delicate, and although his jaw had hardened and his cheeks had hollowed since puberty, he still couldn’t help seeing it in the mirror. His physical training had added considerable lean muscle to his frame, and he was closer to wiry now, although that didn’t seem like enough to earn him the adjective beautiful. Attractive, maybe, but not beautiful.
The expression on Brogan’s face convinced him that it wasn’t a line, though—the guy looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. Embry’s pulse thundered in his ears at the slow, thorough slide of Brogan’s gaze, at the intensity there.
Embry set his clothes in a neat pile by the door, then went around to Brogan’s side of the bed. Brogan watched him the entire time, his expression shifting, becoming strained, almost angry. Embry forgot about his disappointment, thinking about Brogan touching him instead, and he was ready for it, even wanting it, if he was honest. His cock was hardening.
Then Brogan turned away, shoving the pillow into the case with quick, jerky movements.
“That should do it,” Brogan said. He dropped the pillow onto the mattress. “Extra blankets in the closet if you get cold.”
Embry frowned. “What?”
“Good night,” Brogan said, not looking at him. He eased around Embry, walked out and shut the door behind him.
Embry didn’t move for a long minute. The heat inside him stuttered and died. He padded to the door and opened it in time to hear the shower start. Embry went out to the living room, collected his duffel, and returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He considered putting on underwear, but decided against it.
It was doubtful Brogan meant all that stuff about love. People wanted perfection and fantasies and romance. They wanted simplicity. They didn’t dream about the ugly, complicated truth, made murky by mistakes and violence and loss, even if that was where love shone most brightly. Embry had learned that the hard way. It was why he would fight tooth and claw to get his family the vengeance they deserved, because even when he was wordless and difficult and vulnerable, they’d loved him anyway.
There was nothing perfect or romantic about Embry—he was made up of hate and rage and cheap, filthy fucking with a man whose touch made his skin crawl, and even those who’d once valued him would find him lacking as he was now. Someone like Brogan, someone good and kind and warm, did not fall for someone like Embry. Brogan probably only said that love stuff to alleviate the guilt of bargaining for sex. He’d probably just lost his nerve.
Brogan had been decent, though, and they had a deal. Maybe Embry should ask for it. Brogan would no doubt sneak into the bedroom after his shower, using the excuse of needing clean clothes, and Embry would end the charade and ask Brogan to fuck him. They’d have a nice, uncomplicated fuck. No guilt or build-up or disappointment on either side.
And then he could get back to what he should be doing: ruining those who had ruined him.
So Embry climbed under the covers naked and turned out the light. His eyes adjusted, and he listened to the rush of water through the pipes as he waited.
He fell asleep waiting.
* * *
Sunlight shone through the slats in the blinds, and Embry woke up disoriented. He tensed and rolled over, looking for his gun, and it wasn’t until he saw the stack of his clothes on the chair by the door that he remembered he was at Brogan’s.
After drinking Brogan’s beer and playing Brogan’s video games, he was sleeping in Brogan’s bed. Naked, but undisturbed, because he suspected that Brogan had slept on the couch.
Embry had walked in here without a stitch on, making it undeniable that he was willing—more or less—and Brogan had left to sleep on the couch.
Which made Embry’s head hurt. He conceded that Brogan did like him, but Brogan would have to be a fucking idiot to h
elp Embry in this situation out of the goodness of his heart. He could get fired or even arrested for conspiracy or as an accessory to murder, and that was a hell of a lot of risk to undertake for a crush. He must want something, and the only thing Embry had to offer was his body. So why wouldn’t Brogan take it? He obviously wanted to.
He dressed and brushed his teeth, then walked down the hall. Brogan was sprawled on his too-short couch, big bare feet propped up on one arm, a gray blanket wrapped around his legs, a towel twisted around his hips. Brogan was broad-shouldered and well built, muscular without being too overdeveloped, and Embry’s attention was torn between staring at all that warm, smooth skin and following the trail of dirty blond hair from Brogan’s navel to where it disappeared beneath the towel. It would be sexy, but for the sleep crease on his cheek and the snoring.
Embry was curiously reluctant to wake him.
He poked Brogan in the face. Brogan startled upright, blinking up at him in confusion before rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“I’m hungry,” Embry informed him. “If you’re keeping me prisoner here, you have to feed me.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, stumbling to the bedroom wrapped in both the towel and blanket, his eyes half-closed. He looked like a zombie burrito.
It wasn’t remotely adorable.
Ten minutes later, Brogan was dressed and brushed and drinking the cup of coffee Embry made for him.
“You’re aware that all you have to eat in this house is plastic?” Embry said, scowling into the fridge.
“Yes,” Brogan said. “I like plastic.”
“You should drink skim milk, not whole.”
“Oh?”
“You’re almost thirty. It’s time to move away from fat-laden fluids.”
Brogan laughed as he put his mug in the sink. Embry closed the refrigerator, turned, and Brogan was right there, slipping one arm around his waist to pull him close and using the other to cup his cheek. He leaned down, brushed his lips chastely against Embry’s once, twice, and then, on the third, he deepened it, licking his way into Embry’s mouth with warm deliberation, keeping it slow and languid and overwhelming. He tasted like coffee and the faint remnants of toothpaste.
