Broken Protocol (Smoke & Bullets)

by A. R. Barley

  “We left before the final set. There’s a little coffee shop around the corner from the bar. We went there and talked for a while. Then I needed to catch the train home.”

  Luke shrugged. “I was about to take a shortcut down an alley—the kind of alley our asshole likes to hunt in—but Tim said it was a bad idea. We walked three blocks out of the way, past this ugly green statue. We had to loop back around. It was a pretty night. Tim was sweet, flirty. One minute we were kissing and the next something hit me from behind. I went down so hard, I thought something had fallen off one of the buildings. You always hear about air conditioners coming off the fifth floor and killing people. It felt like that. Everything started to swim. Tim was arguing. He tried to fight the guy off, but the asshole hit him too.”

  Every detail was recited perfectly. Every word was calm, and then Luke’s voice broke off. He huffed. “After that everything got fucked up. I know he was bigger than me. I know he was wearing a dark hoodie. I remember the shoes. They were red.”

  “Anything else?” Dante asked.

  “The shoes were weird. Really weird. I’ve looked at a hundred brands since then online, but I can’t find the logo.”

  “So we’re looking for a ghost in designer shoes.” They practically had the fucker cornered. “Did he say anything to you?”

  “‘Be glad your wallet and cell phone are all I want, boy,’” Luke recited with a hard edge to his voice. “‘On second thought, I’ll take that purty necklace you’ve got around your neck.’”

  “Cute,” Dante said. “Did he have an accent? Was there anything noticeable about his voice? Was he older than you? Younger than you?”

  “No accent,” Luke said. He was definite about that part. “He was—” here he got a bit shaky “—younger than me. I think. His voice was deep, but it creaked a bit on the end.”

  “So he took your wallet, cell phone, and the St. Cristopher medal. What about your watch?”

  “My watch?” Luke looked down at his watch. He blinked twice like he’d only just realized he was wearing the familiar hunk of metal.

  “It was a present from Charlie,” Dante said.

  Luke nodded. “On my eighteenth birthday. You remember that?”

  “I was there.” He’d spent three weeks stressing over a present before finally showing up with half a dozen scratch-off tickets in a shiny red envelope. “It belonged to your grandfather, right?” Passed down from father to son and then on down the bloodline. Not that Dante was racist. Just because the only thing he’d inherited from his unknown father was hair that could be seen from outer space. “It’s got to be worth a few bucks.”

  “I’ve never really thought about it.” Luke pulled a face. He fumbled hurriedly to undo the watch’s metal wrist. He stared at it for a long moment. “You think that means something. That he didn’t take my watch. Like he’s not taking the jewelry to sell. He wants trophies.”

  “Maybe.” Dante frowned. “Maybe you got lucky and he didn’t see it. I try not to read too much into some idiot’s motives. Not without a shit-ton of other information.”

  “Is this how you do it?” Luke seemed to have calmed down a little. His long legs were swinging, his feet only an inch or two above the scuffed wood floor. “How you question suspects?”

  “You’re not a suspect,” Dante said. “You’re a witness. I’m a hell of a lot tougher on suspects.”

  “The witness we need to get your captain to take this thing seriously?”

  “Not a chance. He already knows you’re involved. He’ll think it was a regular mugging. That you changed your story because we needed a witness.”

  Luke dropped the watch onto the desk beside him. It landed between a pair of empty coffee mugs, a stapler, and three different colored pads of Post-it notes: green, pink, and classic yellow. He didn’t pick it up again. “I didn’t change my story.”

  “No. You didn’t. You faced down a dangerous maniac, and you survived—”

  “I lost my stuff.” His nose scrunched up. “I let him take it.”

  “You made the smart choice, and you survived,” Dante repeated a little louder this time. “With a guy like that? You don’t fight. I tell people that at work all the time, and it’s true. But he saw your face. Tracking him down? Finding him? That’s dangerous for anyone, but he’s seen your face.” It was too dangerous for Luke to keep being part of the investigation. If they walked down the wrong street—if they knocked on the wrong door—then the lurking attacker would recognize Luke.

  And then it would be all over.

  There’d be no second meeting down a dark alley.

  The guy who’d been attacking men all over New York City was getting more violent. The next time he hit, someone could end up dead.

  That someone could be Luke.

  Not going to happen.

  Dante might be enough of an asshole to sleep with his beloved foster father’s only real son. He might even be on the verge of breaking rule one for the first time in his life, but there was a difference between breaking Luke’s heart and letting him get murdered.

  This next bit wasn’t going to be easy.

  Dante shifted forward until his toes hit the stiff leather box of his shoes. His clothes suddenly felt too small, too tight. He tugged at his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. It didn’t help. Much. “When’s your shift over?”

  Luke checked the time on the wall clock. The fire must have been something because his mouth moved as he worked out how many hours were left. “A couple of hours?” He did the math a second time. “Two and a half hours. Crap. This has been a horrible day.” His lips quirked upward. “Started out pretty good though.”

  “It was a nice run.” Dante tried to smile and failed. “When your shift’s over, you’re going home.”

  “Back to your apartment.”

  “Long Island,” he corrected forcefully. It might not be as much fun as having Luke snugly in his bed, but at least he’d be safe.

  Luke hopped off the side of the desk, stumbling awkwardly before catching himself on a small chair set up for visitors. He straightened. “Not a chance.”

  “You’re going back to Long Island, and you’re going to stay there.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve got a class tonight—”

  “Then you’ll go home after your class.”

  “I’ve got a life,” Luke objected. “We’ve got a life.”

  “It’s too dangerous. I never should have let you help with the investigation.”

  And there it was. Luke was completely and utterly pissed. More than that, he looked gutted. One eyebrow was lifted just a little bit. His mouth was crooked. “Bullshit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s bullshit,” Luke said. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not going to be coddled and protected.” He grabbed Dante’s arm, holding him in position. “You go undercover. You put yourself in danger every day, but I can’t even read a few files?”

  “It’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re Charlie’s real son.” And there it was, a universe of insecurities laid bare for everyone to see. With everything else they’d been through in their lives, it was the one difference that really mattered. “You’re blood and if anything happens to you—” Charlie would never forgive him. All those cops who’d watched Luke grow up would never forgive him. Those were hard truths, but there was something even more vital he knew down in his bones. “—I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

  “Blood doesn’t make a family,” Luke parroted for the millionth time. Dante had heard the words so many times he almost believed them, but underneath he’d always known the truth in the deep gnawing place inside: Luke was blood and he wasn’t.

  Luke would always come first, and if that meant Dante had to push him away to keep him safe then so be it. He could make do with polite words at holiday dinners and occasional smiles.

  The sex—the sex had been great.

  T
he relationship they’d started building over ramen and pizza was even better.

  But keeping Luke alive was more important.

  “‘Blood doesn’t make a family.’” He could still the hear words ringing, echoing in his ears. “Yes, it does—”

  “No. It doesn’t.” The steel-gray color had crept back into Luke’s eyes. If Dante never saw it again it would be too soon. When he spoke, his voice was ice cold. “Blood doesn’t make a family. You think Charlie started saying that when you came around?”

  “What?”

  “I’m not Dad’s real son—not that it fucking matters. In case you didn’t notice, he’s Irish and I’m black.”

  It wasn’t possible. “You’re mixed—”

  “The man’s practically transparent. I’m the poster boy for melanin.” Luke took a step closer, then seemed to remember he was angry at Dante and retreated to the far side of the room. “You’re not the only one with a shitty origin story. My mom was a confidential informant, right up until she wasn’t. Two years later Charlie gets a call from the federal pen in Pennsylvania. She was doing fifty to life on felony murder. She must have got pregnant the week before they put her away because out I popped nine months later. Not that she wanted me around.”

  This was a story Dante had never heard before. Not from Luke. Not from Charlie. Not from any of the older detectives around the station who liked to sling gossip like hamburgers at a truck stop diner. “She asked Charlie to take you in?”

  “She didn’t ask. The social workers needed a name to put on the birth certificate, and she said Charles David Parsons. They never slept together. Not before she went to prison. Not ever.” Luke spit the information out rapid-fire. “Maybe she knew Charlie wouldn’t ask for a DNA test. Maybe it was the only name she could remember. Either way Charlie was given six hours’ notice to pick me up at the prison gates or have me sent to foster care.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask. You just assumed. You and every other one of the kids Charlie fostered over the years. His chosen kids.” The floors creaked under Luke’s feet as he walked forward until he was almost—but not quite—close enough to touch. “He chose you. Me? It would have gotten around the department eventually if he’d turned me down. With me there was no choice.”

  “Blood doesn’t make a family.” The words were automatic. Dante didn’t even realize he’d said them until they were out of his mouth.

  Damn. Things were all kinds of screwed up.

  He slumped against the closest wall. The firehouse was built out of old plaster, cool to the touch. It felt good against his back. How had they ended up in this place? Arguing angrily in a borrowed office.

  “You’re Charlie’s son. He loves you,” Dante said stubbornly. “I can’t let you get hurt.”

  “Charlie loves me? What about you? I thought you cared.” Luke kicked out hard enough to make his boss’s desk shake. “I’m not that kid anymore. I’m a grown man. I can make my own decisions. I don’t need to be coddled—”

  “I won’t allow you to put yourself in danger.”

  “That’s not a decision you get to make,” Luke said. “Maybe if you were my boyfriend. Maybe if you asked me, but this? Fuck, did you ever care about me at all?”

  Dante cared so much his heart was breaking, but he wasn’t about to let that show on his face.

  He was a professional, damn it.

  And if they were broken up then Luke was more likely to go back to Long Island after his class than to hang around the city.

  He was keeping Luke safe.

  Whatever it took.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was the longest damn shift of Luke’s career. The exhaustion that had been gnawing him all day descended like a great gray monster to tear whole strips out of his flesh.

  Or maybe that was just how it felt to lose someone he cared about.

  Crud. All the time they’d spent together Luke thought he’d finally managed to squash his fear of rejection. Then Dante had told him to go back to Long Island and it had come roaring back like a wild animal finally released from a too-small cage to tear at his heart. He’d had other relationships before, real relationships that lasted more than one magical week, so why did Dante’s rejection make him feel like he was coming apart at the seams?

  Because it was more than just a week. Their relationship had been building and growing in one way or another for years.

  It had been real.

  Right up until Dante said he wouldn’t allow Luke to put himself in danger.

  Allow.

  Like Luke was still nine years old. Like he needed permission.

  Hearing it put that way was like a knife in the gut. Luke turned the words over and over again in his head for the next four days as he went about his regularly scheduled life—work, school, an hour and a half commute back to Long Island—right up until he realized that was probably what Dante wanted.

  It had been four days and he hadn’t done a single thing to help find the attacker. He’d just been wallowing in his own unhappiness.

  He missed Dante.

  Damn it.

  So, on day five he got out his best club clothes, slicked his hair back, and headed back to the one place he’d sworn he’d never go again. Toro. Dante was a smart cop, but he worked like a cop. He’d start at the most recent incident and go backward. Maybe he’d even get a lucky break and someone would recognize the sketch of the suspect he was having made up.

  Luke could be more flexible.

  It took a while for criminals to develop their skills, so he’d start at the earliest known mugging—his own—and work from there. Maybe he’d catch a lucky break and Tim would know something more about their attacker. He’d gotten close enough for the attacker to land a punch. Had he seen any identifying marks? Maybe he knew where to buy those red sneakers.

  He hadn’t been kidding when he said the nightclub was a Brooklyn fixture. It was built in a converted warehouse, stuck in between a dry cleaner and a charcuterie. The crowd had long since outgrown the venue, and on the weekend the line wrapped around the block.

  It wasn’t the weekend. Luke got in with a wink and a nod to the oversized bouncer at the door. He forced himself to keep his back straight and his shoulders raised as he walked toward the dance floor. His boots clip-clopped audibly against the gleaming cement floor. Even on a weekday at least a hundred other people had shown up looking to boogie. They looked small in the cavernous space.

  More than a few of them turned in his direction, staring covetously at his silk shirt, his perfectly faded jeans, or his tight ass. He gave them each the same easygoing, flirtatious smile. Half a dozen smiled back. Bingo. He approached them each one by one, smiling, laughing, twirling them around the dance floor with his guaranteed-to-give-a-straight-guy-a-woody moves.

  He might not have excelled at swimming lessons—and the boxing had clearly been a lost cause—but he’d aced his elementary school’s ballroom dancing classes. All it took was a swing of his hips and a little cha-cha in his step. Ballroom and club dancing weren’t exactly the same thing, but they both required a sense of rhythm and a little creativity.

  Just like good sex.

  Dante might not like to dance, but he’d always had great rhythm. He’d been fantastic in bed. Or maybe it was the way they’d moved together. In perfect synch.

  Luke wasn’t going to think about that.

  Instead he asked the men if they’d ever danced with someone named Tim. Where did he live? Did any of them have his phone number?

  It was useless. They didn’t know anything useful, and most of them danced too close. They grabbed his ass or pulled him in just a bit too tight.

  It would have been fine a few weeks earlier.

  Hell, he’d have enjoyed it.

  A lot.

  But now he was just thinking that the hand moving against him should belong to Dante. The men grinding against him, warming him with their body heat, they should all be Dante.

&nbs
p; After six different men asked for his phone number, he gave up and headed for the bar.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” The bartender was twice the size of the guy at The Golden Bow but he still managed to pull off adorable with a streak of blue in his hair and the matching neon eyeliner that rimmed his gray peepers. “You paint those pants on?”

  “Just about.” Luke grinned. “I like to make an entrance.”

  “Then you’ve definitely succeeded.” Mr. Blue Hair smiled. Dimples. Cute. “Can I set you up with something to drink?”

  “Seltzer and lime.”

  “Big spender.”

  “But I tip well.”

  “A man after my own heart.” The bartender chuckled and made up his drink, depositing it on the counter in front of him with a flourish. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Yeah.” He dropped a twenty-dollar bill onto the hardwood between them and pushed it across. “Were you here for the Dark Iris concert?”

  The bartender did a fancy bit of magic and picked up the money without seeming to move at all. “They were crazy.”

  “I met a guy here that night. Tim.”

  Mr. Blue Hair laughed. “Not exactly an uncommon name. What was he like? Skinny?”

  “Cute-skinny, not starving-to-death-in-a-third-world-country skinny.”

  “I might know who you’re talking about.”

  Good enough. Luke drank some of his seltzer water. “Know how I can get in touch with him?”

  “You looking to buy some Hucci?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a knockoff brand, you know, like—”

  “I got it.” Knockoffs weren’t exactly Luke’s thing. His clothes were either hard-wearing, vintage, or homemade, but not everyone had the patience or downtime to knit their own cardigans.

  Hucci. It was kind of funny.

  Were the attacker’s sneakers knockoffs? That would explain why Luke hadn’t been able to locate the brand insignia online. There’d been so many almost matches, but...

  This might actually be something. His next sip of seltzer water was a little fast, and he ended up with bubbles up his nose. If he could track down Tim, he might have a real lead on the attacker’s identity. Then Dante would have to realize that he wasn’t some damsel in distress.