by Sidney Bell
He distracted himself from that crazy-making line of thought by showering with a plastic bag over his arm so his bandage didn’t get wet, and then brushing his teeth.
The sound of Embry’s key turning in the lock came then, followed by the quick scrabble of Gizmo’s nails on the floor as the dog ran to greet him. Brogan’s stomach lurched happily.
It was amazing how deeply he’d fallen, and how fast. He couldn’t even be frightened of it. But then, it had always seemed stupid to him to feel fear after you stepped off the roof with only a cape around your neck. It was too late to do any good and it only ruined the trip down.
He went into the living room. Embry was staring out the picture window, Gizmo beside him, licking at his fingers.
Brogan walked up behind him and put his hands on Embry’s shoulders, about to press a kiss to the tempting line of his neck, but Embry’s entire body stiffened. Brogan released him immediately. “Embry—”
“Sorry,” Embry said. He stepped around the couch, putting furniture between them, still giving Brogan only his back. “It’s nothing.”
“Are you all right?” Brogan asked.
Embry made a humming sound—contemplative and noncommittal at once. “Long day.”
“Sure.” Turn around, Brogan ordered silently. The distance between them could be measured with a yardstick, but hell if it didn’t feel like a whole football field. He wondered if Embry was about to break it off. There was no reassurance in the taut lines of his spine.
“Hey,” Brogan said, through a closing throat. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”
“You would, wouldn’t you? If you could?” Embry cleared his throat. “You’d help. Even if it cost you your job or got you arrested.”
Lost, Brogan could only say, “I’d do anything.”
“You’re an idiot. You shouldn’t—you’re too good. Don’t you know people are going to take advantage of you?”
“I wish you’d take advantage,” Brogan replied, confused and a little exasperated. “You’re always pushing me away for my own good—which fucking sucks, for the record—and maybe that’s part of why I love you, because you’re different, but I wish you’d let me help.”
Embry nodded, and then replied, very softly, “I really wish I could let you.”
Embry turned around, and for a second Brogan couldn’t make sense of what he was looking at. Then the colors resolved into fresh bruises, and he was taking Embry’s face gently into his hands even though he didn’t remember crossing the room.
Embry’s temple and lip were both discolored. The marks were on the same side as his earlier fracture—Brogan wanted to ask if there’d been an X-ray or a CT scan or something to make sure that the orbit break hadn’t gotten worse.
“What...fuck, are you okay? What happened? Did he do this to you?”
“I—it—no, I’d explain—” Embry stopped short. “I can’t.”
“It’s okay, baby, if you can’t tell me—”
“No, I can say it, I really can, and that’s—you have no idea how good that feels, but I can’t.” Embry hit the back of the couch with a closed fist in frustration—not very hard—and made a tiny, rough sound that had Brogan’s gut clenching. He stroked his thumb along Embry’s jaw soothingly and Embry settled.
“I can tell you want to,” Brogan said, trying not to push even though he wanted to. “That’s a good step. Maybe if I—”
“I said I can’t,” Embry shouted, and Brogan pulled his hands back without thinking. Embry’s expression had changed, become alien to him, as impenetrable as a diamond and every bit as cold. This wasn’t the man who’d lain warm and approachable in his bed two days ago. This was the Embry whose landlady and the guy at the dojo had spoken about in such wary terms. This Embry was made of razor blades, and if Brogan touched him, his hand might well come back cut to ribbons.
Then those big dark eyes blinked and it was only his Embry standing in front of him, weary and quiet. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his mouth turning down, and Brogan wanted to kiss him, wanted to be sweet to him and make it better, but he wasn’t sure if he would be welcome. It pained him to admit it, but that flash of unforgiving rage had unsettled him.
Something was very, very wrong.
Embry muttered, “Can we lay down for a while?”
“Of course,” Brogan said helplessly, and followed him to the bedroom.
Embry didn’t turn the light on—only the yellow glow from the living room let Brogan see as Embry removed his vest and tie. He kicked off his shoes, then opened his belt, dropping it on the floor with a clang before lying down on the bed.
He moved like he ached, favoring his right arm. He lifted his eyebrows at Brogan, a silent prompt, and Brogan sat beside him.
The air was weighted. Drowning them.
“I’m all right,” Embry said eventually. “I’ve got everything under control.”
“Why are you lying to me?” Brogan asked. Behold his magical powers of conflict resolution—the words were completely bare of judgment.
Embry sighed, a sound that would’ve been a laugh if not for the sadness in it. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m not... Can we do this tomorrow?”
“You’re scaring me.”
Embry didn’t reply.
After a while, when he saw that Embry wasn’t going to answer, Brogan lay down. He wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon, but he tugged the covers up over them anyway. He wormed his hand around under the blanket until he found Embry’s. For a heartbeat he thought Embry would pull away, but then those long, graceful fingers clamped down on his hard enough to hurt.
They were quiet for a long time.
When Embry spoke, it startled him, as did the nearly imperceptible plea in Embry’s low voice.
“When I was five or six, we took a road trip to Florida. Thirty-five hundred miles of cheap motel sheets and congealed diner eggs. We had this loaded-down old station wagon and the shock absorbers squeaked constantly. I mostly remember the sun—white and blistering hot for hours and hours. Like instead of two weeks, we were there for one unending day. That’s a kid’s memory for you, though.”
Brogan closed his eyes, tried to picture it. In his mind, child Embry was a skinny waif in shorts and a T-shirt, eyes too big for his face, cautious and shrewd as he watched the world around him.
“Amy snuck away from the motel pool one afternoon while our dad was snoring in his lawn chair. He always snored.” He tilted his head to one side, considering, and then said, “It doesn’t hurt to say her name anymore, not to you, anyway.”
“Embry,” Brogan said, almost noiselessly, and Embry cleared his throat again, and hurried to add, “Anyway, she came back with this ancient, pink plastic flamingo lawn ornament under her arm. She’d stolen it from the little patch of dead grass in front of the motel office.”
Embry’s tone shifted. He sounded like he could be smiling. “She was so proud when she showed it to me that I couldn’t tell her that it was the ugliest thing I’d seen in my life. It didn’t even have any legs, just these wire things that you stuck in the ground so it would stand up.”
Brogan could imagine the look on Embry’s childish face—nose wrinkled, eyes doubtful, mouth twisted. He’d seen it before, usually whenever Brogan mentioned eating junk food.
“She managed to keep it hidden until Kansas City, when Mom went through our stuff to find clothes to take to the Laundromat, and Dad said it had to go back. Amy...well, I guess the polite way to put it would be that she threw a temper tantrum. It was a thing of beauty, too, screaming and tears and kicking. It wasn’t really her style—she was better with charm. I think she scared Mom a little. Dad pulled her into his lap and asked her why it was such a terrible thing that the flamingo had to go back home. And she said we couldn’t send him back to them because the motel people were mean to him.�
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Brogan squeezed Embry’s hand.
“Dad tried to tell her that the thing wasn’t real, which she knew. She was six, not stupid. That wasn’t the point for her. In her mind, if you cared enough to buy a thing, to make it yours, you should take care of it, not treat it like garbage and let it get weather-beaten and rusted.” Embry shifted on the bed, tipping his forehead against Brogan’s. “You’re like that. If someone belongs to you, then you...that’s...it’s one of the things about you that I... I mean—”
“I understand,” Brogan said, some of his fear dissipating, and Embry nodded, looking relieved.
“Anyway, they made her go with them to the post office to mail the bird back to the motel. They seemed to think that was the end of it, but I knew better.” He laughed under his breath. “She waited until Dad went out to pick up dinner, and Mom was in the bathroom. Then she grabbed my hand and dragged me out the door.”
“I’m sure the two of you made excellent fugitives.”
“Amy, maybe, but I was fucking terrified. I thought for sure we were going to get arrested.”
Brogan chuckled, and after a second, Embry did, too. But his laughter died, and Brogan, staring at him in the darkness, saw him swallow. The rest of it was delivered half-choked, dead words offered in a nearly dead voice. “When I told her that we were gonna end up in prison, she gave me this smile, this smile of huge, overwhelming...delight, I guess you’d call it...and she says, in this eager voice, like she can’t think of anything better, ‘Maybe they’ll put us in handcuffs.’”
He said it again, much more softly to himself, like he was listening to her voice in his mind, trying to emulate the way she’d said it: maybe they’ll put us in handcuffs. “Dad caught up with us, of course. It felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. She raised holy hell the whole way back, and Dad had to throw her over his shoulder. She was so loud it was killing my eardrums, shrieking over and over that she’d made me go with her.”
“Loyal,” Brogan mused.
“Yeah. I couldn’t be mad at her for any of it, even though I didn’t get dessert for a whole week right along with her.” Embry was quiet for a long time. “I’d have given up a lot more than that to see her smile like that. I think I knew, even then, how rare it was to find someone capable of loving anyone as blindingly as she loved me. She was—she deserved to be taken care of, Brogan. She matters.”
There was a begging, desperate quality to the words. Please, he seemed to say.
“I understand,” Brogan promised. “She matters to you, and that means she matters to me. I understand, Embry.”
Embry shuddered, his eyes closing, and Brogan rolled onto his side, trailing his thumbs over Embry’s cheeks, collecting tears. Embry caught his hand, kissing his damp fingertips. “You matter, too,” he added fervently, and pressed their foreheads together.
“Thank you,” Brogan whispered, for the story even more than the sentiment—it was an apology, an explanation, a gift even, the truth of Amy, the most precious thing Embry had to give.
His fear faded. This was his Embry, warm and soft and here. Whatever was going on, Brogan would help him fix it in the morning.
Brogan snuck their feet together, and Embry let him, smiling faintly, so they lay there curled toward each other like parentheses. Brogan watched Embry for as long as he could keep his heavy lids open, focused on the way the muscles in that elegant face went slack, the way his lips fell open, innocent as a child’s.
Stay with me, Brogan thought but didn’t say, just before he slept. Belong to me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He was startled awake when the bedroom light went on. Instantly on guard, he tried to sit up, but his arm caught overhead at an awkward angle. He looked up, confused, and realized his right wrist was handcuffed to his headboard.
“I’d apologize for that,” Embry said, “but it’s necessary.”
Brogan wrenched back around and stared at the slender man tying his tie in front of the mirror.
“If I’d known how much you enjoyed handcuffing me to my oven, I’d have suggested this sooner,” Brogan said. “You’re going to need to be a little more naked for sex games, though.”
“This is about keeping you out of trouble for the next twelve hours,” Embry replied. He seemed alert, like he hadn’t slept at all. “And before you get excited, I took your pistol out of the drawer.”
“What happens in twelve hours?”
“You miss work and Mario gets worried.”
“What if I get thirsty before he saves me?”
Embry nodded in the direction of the nightstand where a large glass of water, two granola bars, a big glass bowl and a roll of toilet paper rested. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you get hurt.”
“You’ve got a crappy way of going about it,” Brogan pointed out. “You’re hurting me right now.”
“You’ll get over it,” Embry said. His hair was damp and his cheeks stubble-free—he must’ve taken a shower. “Now, if that’s all—”
“Of course that’s not all, dumbass.” Brogan forced himself to pull it together. “Five minutes. Okay?”
“No,” Embry said. “Not this time, Brogan.”
Panic beat like wings in his chest as Embry sat on the bed to put on his shoes. “You hate me this much?”
“You know I don’t hate you.” He rose and shrugged into his vest, tucking his tie behind the fabric and closing up buttons with quick, economical movements. He was still favoring his right shoulder—his elbow stayed against his side whenever possible. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“You remember how it felt to lose Amy? That’s how it would feel if I lost you. Don’t do this. Please.”
Embry stood up. The mention of Amy didn’t even cause a flicker in his eye, which was what really freaked Brogan out—and it hurt. Shit, Embry’s dispassion in the face of Brogan’s fear hurt a lot.
“You needn’t worry. I can handle myself.”
“Even the best soldier needs backup sometimes.” Brogan couldn’t imagine what Embry was planning, but it was a safe bet that it included killing Henniton and Coop. “Whatever your plan is, you’re taking out at least two criminals who have at least three murders on their hands, and one of them is an experienced soldier. Not to mention all those armed guards if you’re going back on Touring property. This isn’t a damn action movie—that’s too much for one man to do safely.”
Embry picked up his briefcase and set it on the bed, popping the locks and withdrawing an envelope. He dropped it on the duvet before closing his briefcase once more. “I am sorry for this, but I don’t have a choice.”
“I’m not asking you to give it up. I’m asking you to let me help. Please let me help you. I just...fuck! All right, look, you’re worried about getting me hurt? I’ll stay in the car.”
Embry’s eyebrow jogged up a hair’s breadth in scorn, as if to say, how stupid do you think I am?
Frustration clawed at Brogan’s throat, vicious and thick. He yanked at the handcuff, ready to gnaw through the metal or the bedframe—fuck, maybe even his own wrist—if it meant he could get free and sit on Embry until he saw reason. Pain jangled up his arm, but he remained caught fast.
“Just let me help, you jerk!” Brogan yelled.
“No,” Embry said. “Now, if that’s all—”
“I’ve killed before, Embry, and I’m good at it.” He choked this part out, because he couldn’t yell anymore—he felt small and ashamed and sick at the idea of what he was offering, but at this point, he wasn’t sure there was anything he wouldn’t promise. “I’ll help you kill them, okay? I-I’ll help you h-hurt them, okay? And I’ll go with you after. Anywhere you want. We’ll run together, we’ll live together. Please take the handcuffs off.”
Embry studied him for a long moment. “No. Even if I believed
you, killing to save a life is very different from murder. It would ruin something in you to hurt someone this way.”
“And it won’t ruin you?” Brogan asked incredulously.
“I’m already ruined,” Embry said, as indifferently as someone might say the sky was blue. He pulled his jacket on, tugged at several invisible wrinkles. “More than that, I’m looking forward to it.” He didn’t move for a long moment, his hands still in the air as if he were checking off a mental list—take a shower, handcuff Brogan, get dressed, go kill people. He seemed to have gotten everything but the last, because he then added, “None of this is your fault. You couldn’t have stopped me.”
Brogan heard the words, but he discounted them. Of course it was his fault. He’d had opportunity after opportunity to fix this, and all he’d done was fuck up. Like now. There must be an argument that could get through to Embry, but he was freaking out and his brain was blank. He could think on his feet, he reminded himself frantically. He could do this.
Except that he couldn’t do this. Nothing came to him.
Embry stopped in the doorway. He spoke to the far wall rather than looking back. “I wish things could be different. You... I...” He sucked in a breath. “You’ll forget me, you will.”
“If you do this, you will break me,” Brogan said. He’d never felt fear like this before, not in Iraq when he was under heavy fire, and not even when Vindler was taking aim on Embry. In both of those cases, Brogan could do something to stop the train hurtling toward him, and now, now all he could do was wait for the impact. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. Christ, Embry, I can’t breathe. You’re everything to me.”
“I’m nothing.” Embry’s lips twitched into a grimace of sympathy, but his eyes didn’t change. It was more of that fucking mask. “There’s nothing left.”
“Baby,” Brogan whispered. “Please.”
“You deserve every happiness, Brogan.”
“Then don’t leave me.”
Embry walked out, so he didn’t hear the low, embarrassing sound that Brogan couldn’t help making. He immediately began yanking on the handcuff, not that Embry would ever make such a dumb mistake as not securing the restraints well.
