Broken Protocol (Smoke & Bullets)

by A. R. Barley

  “You’ve got to stop getting shot.”

  “It’s not like I’m painting a bull’s-eye on my chest.”

  Luke huffed. He leaned back on his heels. “I’m not feeling hungry any more. You got work today?”

  “I’m off.”

  “Me too. Why don’t we pack this up and hit the showers? Then we can go down to Time Square and you can get your picture taken with a real live superhero. We can go shopping. I still need to get dad something for his birthday.”

  He kept talking as he tugged Dante to his feet and led him through the apartment and into the bathroom. Most of what he said was nonsense, planning a day that would tire out even the most fervent tourist in an I <3 NY shirt, but in among the double-decker busses and high tea were softer words of reassurance.

  By the time Luke finally quieted, the water was on and steam was rising out of the bottom of the claw-foot tub. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he promised.

  And for the first time in a long time Dante actually thought it might.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Four hours later and Dante was ready to happily strangle Luke if he suggested one more crappy tourist trap or romantic hidey-hole. He’d finally pulled the plug on their day of madcap adventure when Luke suggested going over to Central Park to rent a rowboat. No, thanks. Not going to happen. He wasn’t about to risk capsizing in fifty-degree weather with wind coming at them from every direction. That romance stuff was for the birds.

  Instead, he packed Luke up and took him over to Smoke & Bullets for a late lunch. “You really going to keep that on in here?” He glared at the gleaming tiara with the pretty green stones that matched Luke’s eyes. They’d found it in the Mardi Gras store while they were searching for something for Charlie’s birthday. It was bright and excessive, and completely useless.

  “Sugah.” Luke drawled like a Southern belle on bowling night. “Where else am I going to wear something this fabulous?”

  Next year’s Pride Parade sprang to mind.

  Or any one of the nightclubs Luke claimed to frequent on a regular basis.

  Not a dusty bar full of drunk cops and firefighters. Hell. Dante took a deep breath, struggling to suppress the sudden flutter of panic low in his gut. It wasn’t like Luke kept his sexuality a secret. He was practically a poster boy for LGBTQ inclusiveness. No one had objected when he was flirting up a storm the other night.

  But that had been before...

  Before Dante had lost his goddamn mind and fallen into bed with his foster brother. Would Luke expect him to dress up in feathers and jewels? To call attention to himself like that?

  Worry gnawed at his insides. What if someone took the tiara the wrong way? Luke had taken all those boxing lessons, but lessons weren’t real life and some of the guys who frequented Smoke & Bullets were pros. They could do real damage.

  “Just don’t push it in anyone’s face.”

  “Uh-huh.” Luke sidled up to the bar and winked at the pregnant woman behind the counter. “Hey, Nikki. What do you think of my tiara?”

  “It’s fabulous, darling.” She grinned and rubbed a hand across her full belly. “Not as nice as the baby hats you gave me last week. It was too much. I’m afraid to use them. I’m sure they’ll get dirty.”

  “That’s why I made them out of superwash wool, sweetie. They get dirty, you just throw them in the washing machine with your delicates.” Luke gave her a fond smile. “You taking food orders?”

  “For you? Let me guess: a mushroom burger and a side salad.”

  “And another for my friend.”

  It was disconcerting watching the two of them interact. Luke was comfortable and familiar in a place that Dante had always thought of as his own, but between the undercover assignments and the long shifts at the precinct he hadn’t been there more than a handful of times in the past few years. When the food order had finally been placed, he followed Luke over to a nearby table, the tiara glittering proudly on top of his head, but the few people who glanced in their direction just waved. “Parsons,” someone called. It took Dante a moment to identify a detective from the gang task force. “Your pansy ass still owes me a rematch on our last game. I want my money back.”

  Luke flipped him the bird. “Don’t bet what you can’t afford to lose, Donny.”

  And that was it, no sharp comebacks or bigoted remarks.

  Dante didn’t kid himself. Not for one moment did he think that the combined forces of the FDNY and the NYPD had suddenly become enlightened, there were still bad apples in the bushel, but none of them were passing judgment on Luke. Because they knew he could take care of himself? Or, because he was one of theirs? He’d grown up with the policemen, attending department picnics and babysitting for other cops. He’d proved himself to the firefighters, working side by side with them day in and day out in situations that would make most sane men run away in fear. He was still standing and he was unashamed.

  And if they found out Dante was sleeping with him? If they discovered that he’d seduced Charlie’s son, the darling of two departments, his foster brother, none of them would understand.

  Shit. Dante wanted to turn and run. Instead, he followed Luke toward the back.

  The table they sat down at was in the far corner. Luke kicked his long legs out across the dirty floor, crossing his booted feet. “You really don’t like the tiara?”

  “I love it.” Dante allowed himself a deep breath. “You really knit the bartender baby hats?”

  “Yeah. I do my homework in here most nights, and she’s a sweetheart, always makes sure to put the coffee on when I walk through the door. Her fiancé’s a total tool.” Luke shrugged. “Between the fire station and my commute, I’ve got a lot of downtime. Sometimes I study. Sometimes I’m too tired to think. Knitting’s meditative. It helps me chill out after a bad fire.” He grinned. “I’m actually pretty good at it.”

  Dante believed it. Luke had very capable hands, and a good eye for color when he wasn’t distracted by shiny gems. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his coat and his fingers connected with something soft, something not too fancy and not too plain, something that had clearly been chosen with him in mind.

  Unless it hadn’t been chosen at all.

  “My hat,” he said. “It was in a box of Christmas presents from your dad. It doesn’t have a tag on it. I thought he picked it up at a craft fair somewhere, maybe the Brooklyn Flea.” His fingers clenched tight in the densely knitted fabric. “You made it, didn’t you?”

  “The cables were a bitch. We were in the middle of those warehouse fires. I didn’t sleep for three weeks solid. I don’t think anyone really slept. No matter how hard I tried, I kept fucking up the stitches.”

  “It’s not the first hat I’ve gotten.”

  Luke’s gaze slid away from him. “Yeah.”

  “There were some gloves one time, when I was undercover. They were brown.”

  “Hazelnut.”

  “Pretty sure that’s a coffee flavor.”

  “It’s also the name of a colorway from this indie dyer out in Pennsylvania. She works with this merino cashmere blend. It’s expensive, but worth it. Especially in the middle of winter.”

  “I was in Arizona with a biker gang. It was a hundred degrees in the shade, but they felt like butter.” Dante leaned back in his chair as Nikki delivered two full plates of food to the table. It looked good, but when he took a bite it was a rote thing. He couldn’t really taste the food, and he didn’t really care. “I’ve still got them in a box somewhere.”

  “Glad to know you appreciate my hard work.”

  Luke might be joking, but there was a grain of truth to what he said. The hat and the gloves had been hard work. They’d taken time and effort to make. They’d been thoughtful and well chosen, specifically crafted to Dante’s taste, and—fuck, they’d been romantic without being flashy. Caring without being overdone. Familiar without being oppressive.

  The knowledge was enough to melt something inside Dante. He wanted to s
wing Luke into his arms like some sucker in the park. Instead, he shifted his seat a little bit closer until their knees were knocking against each other under the table. Luke’s body was hot through two layers of thick denim, but he didn’t pull away. “I appreciate everything about you.”

  “Nice to hear.”

  They ate their lunch in comfortable almost-silence with Luke only putting down his burger long enough to wave at suited detectives and firefighters in comfortable clothes. He used the same easy smile with longtime buddies of Charlie’s and friends he’d made only a few weeks earlier. It was a look Dante had come to recognize, genuine and well-intentioned but almost as forced as the smile Dante wore while he was undercover, nothing like the heavy-lidded half smile he used when he was truly happy, or playful, or horny.

  Dante was just finishing when Finn walked in. The younger detective collected a drink from the bar before throwing himself down in the seat across from them. “Fancy meeting you here.” He winked at Luke. “You’re still hanging out with this big lug. You know I’m the fun one, right?”

  “I have fun,” Dante objected. Both men snorted. Fuck them. He had fun, really. He tried to think of an example and failed. How long had it been since he’d done something just for himself? Something that didn’t have to do with the job?

  Real fun.

  The date the night before, trying out a new bar, dinner with someone he cared about, and the arm-wrestling match afterwards. “Don’t bet anything you can’t afford to lose,” Luke had told Donny, but when he’d set the terms the night before Dante hadn’t thought twice before agreeing. Anything Luke wanted him to do, dancing until midnight or skinny-dipping in the East River, would be okay.

  Better than okay.

  Fun.

  And then Luke had taken him back to his own apartment for a night beyond his wildest imaginings. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, but he still managed to swallow down his nerves. “I know how to have fun.”

  “Uh-huh.” Finn sounded doubtful.

  Luke’s eyes met his and there was a moment’s awareness, like Luke knew exactly what he was thinking about. Luke’s lips tipped up at the side. Clearly Dante wasn’t the only one who thought their night together had been fun. He cleared his throat. “You run down any of those leads we got from the club?”

  “Knocked on about a dozen doors. Eight of them weren’t home. Par for the freaking course, am I right?”

  “And the ones who were home?” Luke asked.

  “They weren’t able to add anything substantial to the initial description: dark hoodie, deep voice, ugly shoes.” Finn shrugged. “I figured I’d get some food and try again.” He winked at Luke. “Want to come with?”

  “Sorry. I’ve got a class that starts in—” Luke wiped the last bit of burger grease on a napkin and checked the time “—forty-five minutes. But I’m pretty sure Dante can join you.”

  “You could skip it,” Dante suggested before catching himself. He chuckled at the very idea. “I guess you’re not really the skipping-class type. Remember that thing in seventh grade—”

  Luke’s dark skin didn’t quite hide the rush of blood to his cheeks. “You can forget all about that thing in seventh grade.”

  “Sure.” Dante’s fingers circled Luke’s wrist under the table, callused fingers rubbing against surprisingly soft skin. “You coming back to my place afterwards?”

  “Four nights in a week.” Luke’s gaze shifted away again, the same way it had when he’d talked about the knitting. Like there was something he wanted to ask but he couldn’t find the words. “Most guys might not want their little brother hanging around that much.”

  “I’m not most guys.” And Luke wasn’t just his little brother. There was a longer pause, Luke was giving him a pointed look now. He wouldn’t say the words out loud in front of Finn, but he was talking about commitment. Four nights in a week was a commitment that should have Dante running for the hills. Instead, he was smiling. “Unless you don’t want to come over?”

  “It’ll be late. Especially if I’m going to pick up some clothes and make a pit stop for supplies.”

  Supplies. Condom and lubes. Dante knew his cheeks were neon red now, and he didn’t give a damn. “I’ll get the supplies and you can borrow my clothes. Just get home as fast as you can.”

  Luke’s eyes lit up at the word home, but he didn’t say anything. He just squeezed Dante’s hand tight then pulled away. He stood up and tossed a few bills onto the table. “Detective.” He gave Finn a nod on his way out.

  And then he was gone, like a lithe miracle in his faded jeans and a button-down shirt he’d stolen from Dante’s closet, the tiara still perched daintily on top of his head.

  The money on the table covered the food and a large tip, but Dante added to it before buttoning his jacket closed. He nodded at his partner. “Let’s go double-check those leads.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  They finally found what they were looking for at the third door they knocked on. A slim man with dark hair and bright eyes who’d gotten a halfway decent look at the attacker’s face while he’d been handing over his watch. The asshole had been so confident in his disguise he hadn’t bothered to wear a mask. Dante had set him up with an appointment to come down to the station and sit with a sketch artist, then gone home to make dinner for Luke.

  The pancakes from that morning were rubbery and stale. Dante tossed them out and started again, making a fresh batch. The slow familiar motions helped to calm his nerves. By the time Luke finally knocked on his apartment door, the food was ready and warm. Dante poured orange juice to go with the breakfast-for-dinner theme.

  They ate quickly without much talking, and when it was all over Luke waved him away so that he could do the dishes.

  Dante stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair. “I could get used to this. Eating with someone else. It’s nice. Comfortable.”

  “Don’t hide the truth. You just hate having to wash up afterwards.” Luke had managed to get himself elbow-deep in soap suds. He really was a failure in the kitchen. He made a face but didn’t say anything. At least the dishes would be sparkling clean when he was done, along with half the kitchen.

  “How was class?”

  “More math.” Luke sighed. “We’re learning about point of origin and accelerants. How to tell where a fire started and how fast it was moving. Sometimes it’s easy enough to tell, but then you get a secondary point of origin—the fire runs across a can of gasoline or something and it makes it hard to figure out where it was coming from originally. They’ve got some cool software to help you run models, but mostly it’s just a guy sitting around with a graphing calculator doing the math.”

  Secondary points of origin. Dante considered for a long minute. He could understand that. “You’re really going to be an arson investigator when you’re finished?”

  “It pays better than firefighter.”

  “That something you’re interested in? A pay bump?”

  “I can’t live with my dad my entire life.” Luke dumped a plate onto the dish rack. “I want a place of my own, family, the whole nine yards. An apartment like this—” He gestured around. “It’s not cheap. Not for those of us without good buddies.”

  Luke should move in, although it was too early to make that offer. Just because they’d known each other forever didn’t mean they should jump over the slow parts of their relationship.

  If they had any chance at lasting, they needed to take things slow. That didn’t stop his teeth from digging deep into his bottom lip as he struggled to keep from making the offer. He’d never stayed in an apartment for longer than eight months, but he could see himself in the Inwood two-bedroom with its view of the Cloisters for longer than that.

  If Luke was with him then he could stay years.

  It took Luke twice as long to do the dishes as it would have taken Dante, and when he was done his fingers were wrinkled and pruny. It was absolutely freaking adorable. “You going to smile at me all night?” Luke ask
ed. “Or are you going to take me to bed?”

  “Pretty sure I can do both.”

  They turned off the lights and wandered back to the bedroom. This time there was no need for Luke to give directions. Dante had to tug his pants out over the jut of his erection, but they came off easy enough after that. The lights were dim, but his cock waved a little greeting as he watched Luke strip off his dark jeans, briefs, and forest-green Henley.

  Damn, he was magnificent. All long lines and hard angles. There was muscle under his skin. Real muscle, rippling and taut, that he’d built up through years of hard work in the gym and at the fire station. And it wasn’t just for show either. Dante had felt that during their arm-wrestling match.

  But arm wrestling wasn’t just about strength; Dante remembered that much from his days hustling tourists in the park. It was about leverage, timing, and thrust.

  Just like sex.

  Damn. Saliva pooled in Dante’s mouth as he tangled his fingers in the bottom of his T-shirt. There was no point in hiding now. Luke had already seen the intricate tattoo that wrapped around his torso. He’d felt the scars and he knew the story. That did nothing to ease the tension working its way through Dante’s bones.

  How long had it been since he’d taken off his shirt in front of another person? Years, and that had been for the last set of photos for his tattoo artist. He’d taken off his shirt that one last time, easing his pants down over his hips to display the last few inches of ink, and never shown it to another human being since. Even when he did have sex, it was always with his shirt on.

  “You ready to do this?” Luke asked, and the smile on his face wasn’t mocking or sorrowful. It was joyful, damn it. And Dante wanted to accept that joy into his life.

  He wanted to touch every inch of Luke’s skin, from the tips of his ears to his muscular chest to his hard cock.