Broken Protocol (Smoke & Bullets)

by A. R. Barley

  “I thought she liked me! I got a B in her class. It was a miracle. Your dad started talking about how I had a talent for it. After that, he thought I was going to be a doctor. Like I could get into medical school.”

  “You’re smart enough. You just need follow-through.” Luke’s perfect lips twitched up into a smile. He picked up the weekly special and took a bite. “Oh, damn. This is good. Anyway, I’m not into doctors. I like cops. You still got your uniform from when you graduated the academy? We could do some role-playing.”

  It was one hell of an offer. Dante shifted in his seat, suddenly all too aware of the cramped space underneath the table and all the families who’d poured in behind them. “Let me guess, I’ll be the beat cop at the end of a long shift. You can be the daring criminal just begging to get handcuffed?”

  “The whole point of role-playing is to pretend to be someone you’re not. You can be the criminal. We’ll use your cuffs. I’ll wear the funny hat.”

  Dante frowned. “You’re calling a police cap a funny hat?”

  “What else do you call a brimmed hat that doesn’t protect you from the sun? It’s freaking useless. A useless hat is always hilarious.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “Uh-huh, then explain those square things people wear on top of their heads at graduation.”

  “I’m pretty sure those are called mortarboards.”

  “And what about deerstalkers?”

  This was insane. After so many years spent running away from his feelings and avoiding the truth, he was finally where he wanted to be—sitting across the table from Luke freaking Parsons—and he wasn’t staring into his beautiful green eyes or concentrating on full, pillowy lips. He was talking about hats.

  Funny hats.

  “Deerstalker’s the thing Sherlock Holmes wears, right?”

  “Not in the books.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yup.” Emerald eyes twinkled. Luke spoke around bites of pizza. “Sherlock Holmes wears a deerstalker in the movies and the TV shows, but it’s never mentioned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  “What kind of hat does he wear in the books?”

  Luke cocked his head to the side and considered for a long moment. “Not a damn clue. Maybe some kind of top hat? I don’t think he ever gets specific about chapeaus.”

  “Too bad. The angle of the brim might have told us if he was a left-handed masturbator or a fan of auto-erotic asphyxiation.”

  “Not a fan of Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I’m not a fan of anything that makes police work look silly.” Dante picked up the veggie slice next. His favorite. “Or easy. This detective shit is hard work. It’s not like being undercover.” Nothing was like being undercover. “No one solves cases by recognizing the type of cigarette ash stuck to the suspect’s collar.”

  “You leave all that to the crime scene investigators?”

  “Fuck you. Crimes get solved by knocking on doors and talking to witnesses. They get solved because most of the time the suspect’s hiding in the room next door with blood on his hand. We go twenty-four hours without a break in the case? Most of the time that means we have to move on.”

  “Twenty-four hours,” Luke repeated.

  “That’s the general rule of thumb.”

  Luke’s expression soured. “It’s been more than twenty-four hours since the last time the mugger hit. We’re not going to find him.”

  “Someone will,” Dante said. “Eventually.” He stretched his legs out, not caring this time when they ran into Luke’s knees. “This guy’s not going to stop anytime soon. He might be waiting right now, but he’ll do it again as soon as his hands start itching. He might have done it already and we just don’t know about it.”

  “Cheerful.” Luke’s lips drooped. His eyes darkening, he dropped his pizza on the table. “This guy hits in the middle of the night. He attacks people who aren’t going to report anything, and those who do report on him...” His Adam’s apple bobbed under the thin skin at his throat. “No one believes them.”

  “We do.” Dante frowned. He’d been right there with Luke in the alley, listening to the club kids as they told their story. It wasn’t something he’d forget anytime soon, but it hadn’t affected him in the same way it had Luke.

  Investigating crime and tracking down evil bastards was his job.

  Luke had made it clear he didn’t want to be a cop. He didn’t want to investigate cases. He didn’t want to walk a beat or manage crowd control at Time Square. He definitely didn’t want to get shot before his thirtieth birthday.

  Hell, Dante’d been surprised when he heard Luke was signing up with the NYFD. They both wore uniforms and they were both on the city payroll, but apparently fighting fires was different enough to catch the younger Parsons’s interest.

  After confronting the asshole in the alley, something had changed. Luke had walked into a police station of his own accord. He’d spent hours poring over files and questioned the crowd at the nightclub like a pro.

  He might not have a lot of experience, but some things were in the blood.

  He was a natural born cop with a talent for the job, but the hard work and tenacity he’d shown over the past few days? That was something else.

  Dante filed the information away for further consideration at a later time. Right now he had more important things on his mind, like getting Luke to smile again.

  He wiped his hands clean. “Don’t worry. We’re going to find him. We’ll chase his ass down and nail him to the wall.” If it made Luke happy, he’d chase the mugger to the gates of hell itself.

  Some of that determination must have come through in his voice because Luke grinned. The expression was weak, it didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was definitely there.

  “You going to eat the rest of the special?” Dante asked.

  “Arm-wrestle you for it.”

  “Not a good idea.” Dante cracked his knuckles. “I used to be a professional arm wrestler.” Luke was staring at him like he’d sprouted two heads. “I’m serious.”

  “Were you undercover in a frat house?”

  “’Sup, bro?” Dante shook his head. “Nah, I used to hustle tourists in the park when I was a kid. Back when I met your dad.”

  Luke leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “You don’t usually talk about your childhood.”

  “I’m not talking about it now. I’m talking about arm wrestling.”

  “Teach me how.” Luke flexed his fingers.

  “Fine. You got twenty dollars?” Dante unbuttoned his right cuff and rolled up the sleeve. “I’m not doing this for pizza.”

  “I’ll owe you.”

  “Not a chance.” He braced his elbow against the table. “First rule of the con: no credit. You’re hustling some lunkhead out-of-towner from a flyover state, he’ll be back in Ohio at the end of the week. Even if he does remember to pay you before he goes, that’s in a few days. It’s not going to fill your belly or get you a warm bed to sleep in tonight.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “If you’re lucky, you’re faster than your mark. You run out of the park, wait twenty minutes, try your luck with the next schmo to come along. If you’re not lucky, he breaks your nose and takes your money.” Dante smiled. “Still want to play?”

  “Damn straight, but I don’t have any cash on me.” Luke didn’t need to roll up his sleeves. He was wearing a sage green T-shirt that gleamed under the dim lights and brought out the golden highlights in his eyes. He put his elbow on the table, imitating Dante’s stance to perfection. “You want to make it interesting? Winner gets to choose what we do next.”

  “Not afraid I’ll run away?”

  “I know where you live.”

  “It’s a deal.” Dante grunted as he leaned forward in his seat and wrapped his hand tight around Luke’s. He wasn’t a bastard. He’d been arm-wrestling with guys twice his size when he was a skinny tween. If he won, he wouldn’t make things too hard for Luke. They could get hot chocolat
e and walk down to the river.

  “Are we counting off to start?” Luke asked.

  “Damn straight.”

  “One,” they both said in a single voice.

  “Two,” Luke said.

  “Three.” Dante slammed his hand down toward the table while he said the word, stealing a half second’s advantage. Luke’s hand wobbled, it dipped, and then—two inches from the table—it stopped entirely.

  For a moment Dante thought he was seeing things. No way Luke was stronger than him. He gave a second surge. Nothing happened. “What the hell?”

  “Firefighters have a lot of time on our hands between calls,” Luke explained. “We like to arm-wrestle.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dante shifted forward in his seat, changing his grip ever so slightly until he was exerting maximum force on Luke’s knuckles. It had to be painful. The idiot grinned like it was nothing.

  He might actually lose this thing.

  “I’m not wearing a damn tutu,” Dante said.

  Luke snorted. “The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. You don’t have the legs to carry off pink tulle. A taffeta ball gown on the other hand...”

  “Bite me, Parsons.”

  “That’s the idea, Green.” They stayed there, hands suspended in air, for a good minute before Luke sighed. “I’m not a damn kid anymore.” Muscles tightened all the way up his arm and he began to slowly lever Dante’s hand back in the other direction. “This isn’t a prank, and I’m not going to humiliate you.”

  “Last time we bet on something, you made me eat crickets.”

  “I was eleven, and you thought the Mets were a shoe-in for the World Series.”

  “They were bugs.”

  “They were dipped in chocolate.” Luke picked up speed as Dante’s hand tilted back toward the table. Dante strained against the opposing force and—nothing. His hand landed on the cracked linoleum with a thud. “You going to congratulate me on my victory?”

  “You going to tell me what I lost?”

  “You’ll like it.” Luke’s smile was genuine now. Happiness buzzed and fizzed around him like his halo of crazy curls. “Trust me.”

  “Maybe.” Dante yanked his hand back. For the first time in years, he had the urge to run away. He throttled the impulse. “What are we doing next?”

  “I’m going to eat the rest of this pizza.” Roses bloomed on Luke’s cheeks as he picked up the slice in question. “You’re going to eat the rest of the veggie. Then you’re going to take me back to your apartment and fuck me. In the morning you’re going to bring me pancakes in bed.”

  “The deal was you get to decide what we’re doing for the rest of the night. Not the morning.”

  “Does that mean I’m not getting pancakes?”

  “Only if you’re good.”

  “And if I’m bad?”

  “You’re doing the dishes.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The taxi ride from the East Village to Inwood should have taken half an hour, except they were diverted a few blocks around the Empire State Building. “Some idiot thinks he’s going to jump off the top,” the driver explained. “Third time it happened this week. Cops are useless bastards.”

  “You could try calling the fire department,” Dante suggested.

  “I could teach those assholes a thing or two about getting around the city. Maybe then they’d actually arrive somewhere on time.”

  Peachy. Luke shifted further back in his seat. They should have taken the damn subway. At this time of night, it would have been faster, and there’d be a lot fewer insults from the peanut gallery.

  Dante had dropped his hand when they got into the taxi and hadn’t picked it up again when the doors closed. Now, they were sitting on either end of the long bench seat. Like strangers who’d decided to share a cab from the airport.

  To hell with that. They were on a date, damn it. A real date.

  If Luke wanted to thread his fingers through Dante’s and touch palm to palm, then he’d do it. Not that it would kill Dante to make the first move.

  Luke waited another beat before grabbing Dante’s hand and giving it a squeeze. This was what he wanted. It was what he’d always dreamed about, but it was more than that. Over the past few days he’d gotten to see another side of Dante; underneath his hard-as-nails exterior was a slightly less hard interior. If he stripped down enough layers then he might eventually find something ooey gooey, sticky, and delicious.

  It’d be nice if that gooeyness was emotional, but Luke wouldn’t mind actually getting sticky while they were at it.

  If only he knew more about what Dante actually liked. It was one thing to say everything was gravy, but Luke would sell his left nut for a binder full of Dante’s sexual dos and don’ts. Color-coded, tabbed, and indexed would be his preference.

  Was he into vanilla? Chocolate? Double fudge chocolate with nuts, whipped cream, and licorice whips?

  Did he have toys? What about a mango?

  He’d seemed interested enough when Luke suggested handcuffs, but that seemed a little forward for their first night together. Besides, they’d have to negotiate who was going to wear the handcuffs, what they’d be cuffed to, and a safe word.

  Luke might like the occasional kink in his custard, but he wasn’t going to spend half the night talking about sex instead of having it.

  Besides, Dante had never been much of a talker.

  Maybe they could just start with the basics. The hand job the night before had definitely worked for both of them.

  They could do that again.

  Definitely.

  Dante’s callused thumb scraped against the inside of Luke’s palm. It was such a small gesture, but it still sent a flicker of awareness—and arousal—down Luke’s spine. He swallowed hard. “Don’t worry.”

  “Uh-huh.” That didn’t help. At all. “What if I changed my mind? I won, right? That means I decide what we do next. I changed my mind—”

  “I still can’t believe you won.” Dante snorted. “I think there was something hinky going on back at that restaurant. The table wasn’t steady. You were cheating. I want a rematch.” There was a small but oh so meaningful pause. “Tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. He wanted a rematch tomorrow.

  Which meant he was willing to let Luke set the parameters for the evening’s activities.

  Which meant sex.

  Dante was going to have sex with him.

  Dante wanted to have sex with him.

  Damn. Luke was finding it hard to breathe. Not in an “oh, god, my lungs are going to give out” kind of way, but in a way that left him feeling like a statue carved from rough hammers and smoothed by rain.

  He didn’t remember the last half of the cab ride or Dante swiping his credit card.

  They must have walked upstairs. They certainly didn’t levitate.

  His brain didn’t turn on until the front door to the apartment was swinging shut behind them and then it only flickered.

  He dropped his jacket on the floor and turned to lean against the hall wall. The lights were off. The room was dim except for the flickering glow of the streetlights through the window, but he could just make out Dante’s bright smile.

  A switch flicked in the back of his mind. This was really happening, and he didn’t want to forget a single minute of it. He dropped his hand down to undo the button of his jeans. The denim shifted slightly, making room for his hard cock.

  Dante’s gaze dropped down. His smile widened. “Excited to see me?”

  “Always.” Luke wasn’t going to stammer like a schoolboy or flutter his lashes. He kept telling Dante that he was a man. Now was the time to act like it. He took a tentative step forward. The next one was surer. Then he pushed Dante back against the wall and kissed him with a confident surety that came from years of experience.

  He might be a major fan of vanilla with the occasional sprinkles, but he’d been known to indulge in all thirty-one flavors. He was
going to make this good for Dante if it killed him.

  Another kiss, harder this time. Luke tilted his mouth slightly to swipe his tongue across the bottom of Dante’s lip, swallowing his lover’s moan. Luke kneed apart Dante’s legs, leaving him open and vulnerable as he dropped a hand down to run across the bulging seam of his jeans. “I’m not the only one who’s excited.”

  “Damn straight.” Dante groaned. “We need to get out of this hallway.”

  “And here I was thinking it could be our thing.”

  “Not a chance.” Dante surged forward. “We’re going to bed.” Strong muscles forced Luke through the apartment until the back of his legs slammed into the metal bed frame. Dante didn’t stop there, pushing him back onto the bed.

  Luke didn’t usually let men manhandle him. Then again, he didn’t remember the last time he’d been with someone big enough to push him around. It was kind of hot. He moaned happily as Dante pulled his shirt off over his head then dropped down to run his tongue across Luke’s chest. Really hot.

  His hips bucked up and he thrust up awkwardly against Dante, searching for friction. Another few minutes of Dante’s attention and he’d be coming in his pants for the second night in a row. Damn it.

  “Pants off,” he growled. “We need to get our pants off.”

  “Right.” Dante’s long fingers slipped under the waistband of Luke’s jeans and tugged hard, dragging the thick denim, forcefully stripping him down to his briefs. His rough hands sent sparks of electricity across Luke’s skin. Dante stood for a moment, shucking off his own jeans before rolling down his underwear. Black cotton boxer briefs. The kind with the longer legs. Nothing fancy, but they fit just right.

  Luke pulled down his own slightly fancier pair. Now he was naked and Dante—

  Dante didn’t take his shirt off as he leaned back down to grind his mouth against Luke’s. Oh, hell. Luke needed to take control. He was supposed to be showing off his sexual prowess, but somehow it was Dante who was directing the rush of heat between them.

  Dante reached down to cup Luke’s erection, his hips ground forward against Luke’s leg, and his lips turned up into the little half smile that haunted Luke’s most erotic dreams. Somehow Dante’s hand never left him. He just kept touching, rubbing, his grip never too soft or too hard. Always just right. He kissed his way back down the side of Luke’s neck to suck at the tender skin on his collar bone and oh—