by Austin Bates
"Well," Anne said, turning to her computer. "You should convince him to get a tattoo next time you see him. It'll be good for business."
"I won't be seeing him again." The words ripped their way out of Tommy's chest, hurting more than he thought possible. It wasn't that he wanted to see Damien again. He just remembered now how much he'd lo... liked hanging out with him. How much it had hurt to stop the first time, cold turkey without any warning. There was no patch, no gum, no 12-step program to get over Damien King.
"That sucks," Anne said, her back still to him. "Today sucks. I say we eat cookies and talk shit about people."
"We don't have any cookies."
"That's where you're wrong," she said, turning to dig in her backpack. "The Sacred Heart was holding a bake sale yesterday, and Charity, the girl in A9, bought too many. She gave me her extras as a thank you for watering her plants while she was out of the country last month." Brandishing a Tupperware, she fished a chocolate chip cookie out and stuffed it in her mouth. "Chocolate cures all of life's ills."
"All of them, huh?" he said, taking one of the cookies. Maybe the sugar would make up for the lost sleep.
"It's science," she said, spraying crumbs everywhere. "Sorry, I'll clean that up in a minute." Reaching out, she caught his arm and met his eye with a sympathetic expression. "I'm really sorry you won't get to see him again. He seemed important to you."
Tommy dropped his eyes, staring at the cookie. "I'm sorry, too," he said, an idea forming in the back of his head. "I'm sorry, too."
Chapter Eight
"You look like shit, man."
Damien scrubbed a hand over his face. His eyes were still crusted with sleep, and his mouth tasted sour. "Thanks," he said, pushing past Rafe into the garage.
"Don't shoot the messenger," Rafe called after him.
"Who's shooting Rafe?" Lucas leaned out of his office, eyes narrowing when he caught sight of Damien. "Your shift doesn't start for six more hours."
"Couldn't sleep," Damien snapped. "Figured I'd do some of that paperwork you're always getting on us about."
Leaning against the door, Lucas raised an eyebrow.
Damien growled in frustration, taking a deep breath and rocking back on his heels. "Sorry. I had a shitty weekend."
"Anything I should know?"
"No," he said, looking away from those knowing eyes. Ever since Nick had learned how to talk, Lucas had gotten too good at seeing through bullshit.
"Anything you want to talk about?"
"Hell, no," Damien said, laughing a little hysterically.
Nodding, Lucas retreated into his office. "Keep me posted."
Damien stalked past, waiting until he had his head in his locker to mutter, "When hell freezes over."
He hadn't planned on doing anything but distracting himself from thinking about Tommy Laurence when he'd headed into the station, but paperwork would be perfect. The stack of reports was overflowing the milk crate they used to store it, and it never got any smaller because the Jakobsons were the only ones who willingly did the work. After the situation with the police commissioner, they were banned from handing reports in without someone else looking them over.
Dumping the stack out onto the empty desk in the corner, he started sifting through the oldest reports. He made a note to make sure the Fairlane fire had been processed and turned over to the insurance company already. He'd driven by the hotel yesterday on his way to the grocery store. He'd heard the inspectors had pronounced the frame solid, but he hadn't realized how quickly they were going to get to work. The collapsed shell of the kitchen was already gone, even the ruined foundation nothing but a memory.
Sign and stamp, sign and stamp. Damien scratched out Tolliver's error-laden incident summary and translated it into something the brass wouldn't kick up a fuss about.
The wind beat against the big garage doors, cold air creeping across the concrete floor. It was going to snow later. He could feel the ache deep in his leg, the old break always acting up in bad weather.
"So, rumor has it you're voluntarily doing paperwork." Mica sat down on the edge of the desk, his coat still buttoned. His hair was sticking up where he'd pulled off the hat he was fidgeting with. "I thought for sure that it was a lie, but here you are. Are you feeling okay?"
Damien set the pen down and crossed his arms. "Did Rafe call you?"
"Funny, he's the only one who didn't," Mica said, crossing his own arms. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Must be a pretty big nothing," the omega said, leaning forward. "You look like shit."
"So I've been told," Damien said, looking away from those too perceptive eyes.
Humming to himself, Mica turned his head to look out the window. "Well, if nothing is going on, that's going to be a pretty dull story. Why don't you tell me about those scars on your hip, instead? The ones you tried to show me the other night." He tipped his head at Damien's lap, the devilish leer at odds with his angelic features.
Astonished, Damien leaned back in his chair and laughed. "I had forgotten about that," he said.
"With as much alcohol as you put back," Mica said dryly, "I'm not surprised. You kept insisting that everyone go get tattoos."
Damien grinned, the expression slightly unfamiliar on his lips after the last few weeks. "But you already have one, apparently. Where is it? Your ass?"
"We're talking about you right now," Mica said, sticking his nose in the air.
"Show me yours, and I'll show you mine," he said, resting his hands on his belt.
Mica shook his head, his hair waving around like a Medusa. "Better luck next time."
"I'm going to see eventually," Damien said.
Smiling sweetly, the omega batted his lashes. "You haven't managed to for this long."
There was a commotion at the front, and Mica glanced that way, the bulk of his coat blocking Damien's view.
"Why don't you come with me to get some coffee?" Mica said. "I'm still worried about you."
"I'm doing paperwork. Or I was until someone sat their cute little butt in the middle of it."
"Someone will finish it later." He glanced over his shoulder again, his fingers tangled in the yarn of his hat. "I think Lieutenant Allen was talking about running drills again today, so you're going to need the caffeine."
Stretching, Damien groaned. "It might be Rafe's lucky day. I'm definitely not going to beat his time on the stairs."
Laughter echoed through the garage, and Mica tensed, glancing guiltily through his lashes at Damien. "Come on."
"Are they having a party or something?" Damien asked, scratching his stomach as he got to his feet.
"You didn't have to come all the way out here just to say thank you," Olivia said, standing in the doorway and talking to someone in the lobby. She had half a cookie hanging out of her mouth.
"I'm in town for a few days to talk to a contractor."
Damien grabbed for his jacket and missed entirely, and Mica cursed.
"Come on, Damien. Let's go." The little Italian leaned on Damien's arm, but he planted his feet and didn't budge.
"You knew Tommy was here?"
Mica chewed his lip. "I saw the bike parked in front of the Hilton just off the highway as I headed in. I didn't know he was going to come here."
Rubbing his hands on his pants, Damien stared at the back of Olivia's head. "Is he here to see me?"
"I don't know," Mica said. "You don't have to see him if you don't want to."
Lucas, buried behind the paperwork on his desk, looked up and caught Damien's eye as Mica leaned his whole body weight against the taller alpha. "Is there a problem?" he asked, getting to his feet.
Damien swallowed hard. "I don't think so." A flash of pale skin, lines of ink twining over it, appeared through the doorway. "I need some air."
"Hey, guys," Olivia said, smiling as she turned in the doorway. "Motorcycle guy brought cookies as a thank you for keeping him from getting cooked." She wasn't bothering with
her phone voice, her accent almost as heavy as Kieran's. She faltered as she caught sight of him, the lines around her lips deepening. "Isn't that nice of him?" she added, more softly.
Rafe appeared in the doorway behind her, his face serious. "Is there an alarm? You need us to head out?" he asked, exchanging a silent conversation with Mica.
"We're just going for coffee—"
"No," Damien blurted, straightening his back and pasting a smile on his face. "It's okay. We'll catch up some other time. Don't want to be rude..." Striding across the garage, his feet felt like lead, but that one tantalizing glimpse had only whet Damien's appetite. Warmth was coiling in his belly, and he slowed his movements to hide his eagerness, rolling his hips in a way he knew drew the eye. "Tommy," he said, keeping his voice light, "I didn't know you were coming."
Tommy's chin came up, and he smiled, a baring of teeth that didn't show his crooked tooth. "I realized that I never had a chance to say thank you to everyone for rescuing me, so I thought I'd come by and do that. Since I was in town..." His blue eyes seared into Damien's brain for a long heartbeat. He didn't breathe until they dipped.
"That was nice of you," he said. He could feel the heat of Rafe's body, smell his terrible aftershave, as the other alpha took up a place at his shoulder. "And you brought cookies."
"Mom's recipe," Tommy said, holding out the plate.
Damien swallowed hard, his hand frozen in the act of reaching for one. "My favorite," he said, his voice softer than he'd intended. Tommy smiled, and he had to look away, taking the cookie just to have something to do with his hands.
"They're really good," Olivia said, wringing her hands as she stood in the no-man's-land between them.
"They are," Damien agreed, taking a bite. The flavor exploded on his tongue like fireworks at the 4th of July barbeque, Jenny Baker's famous lemonade clutched in his hand and Tommy lying beside him on the grass. He'd been twelve when Tommy's mother had died. "You figured out the secret ingredient." He stuffed the rest of the cookie in his mouth and grabbed another one off the plate to keep from saying anything he'd regret.
Tommy smiled sadly, his eyes on the plate. "Yeah."
"It was really nice of you to come visit," Mica said, shoving his way around the bottleneck in the doorway to plant himself in front of Damien, facing off with the other omega. The height difference between them was comical, Tommy coming up to Mica's sternum. "I'm sure you have better things to do than hang out around this place. It's a pig sty."
"Not really," Tommy said, frowning slightly. "I'm not meeting with the contractor till tomorrow, and I don't really know anyone in town anymore."
Mica crossed his arms, ignoring the plate of cookies. "That's too bad. Well, it was nice meeting you. We were just on our way out to grab some coffee."
Damien let the other man drag him a few feet toward the door, still clutching the cookie in his hand. He couldn't stop himself from looking back at Tommy, standing alone in the middle of the lobby, the guys huddled in the doorway watching him like he was going to snap at any second. He looked small and alone, and he remembered what Maria had said.
"You can come with us if you want."
Mica stopped so suddenly that Damien ran into him. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "This guy is making you miserable."
Shrugging, Damien stuck the other cookie in his mouth.
"Fine. You two go get coffee, but I swear, King, you and I are going to have a conversation. Soon." He threw his hands up and stalked back into the garage.
Damien grimaced. There was only so long that Mica could be put off without exploding. Damien had met his mother; it was the Italian blood.
"If you need to deal with something," Tommy said, setting the plate of cookies down on the front desk. Rafe grabbed it before he'd even stepped away to pull on his coat.
"He can wait," Damien found himself saying, his eyes taking in the way Tommy shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his cargo pants and smiled shyly. "He just wants to gossip, anyway."
"Gossip? In a small town? Never," Tommy said, smiling when Damien laughed.
"I know, right?" Against his will, some of the tension slid out of his spine, and there was no awkwardness as he held the door open for Tommy. "I was probably going to head down to Morton's, but there's a chain coffee shop near the highway." He let the door swing shut behind them, ignoring the looks that Rafe and Lucas were exchanging and the way Olivia was chewing on her thumbnail.
"Morton's is fine," Tommy said, the cloud of his breath whipping away on the wind.
They walked in silence, bundled up to their eyebrows against the wind. The mountains loomed, already coated in white, and the weak sunlight struggling through the clouds did nothing to warm the day.
"So..." he said as they passed Jerry's. "Are you remodeling your mom's house?"
"Renovating," Tommy said. "I found a contractor in Denver who specializes in turn of the century homes. It's going to look great."
"If you're not careful, the Historical Society will slap a plaque on it and turn it into a museum. Mrs. York has always wanted to play hostess in that entry hall." Damien shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and stared at the clouds blowing by overhead.
Tommy laughed. "Is she still running that? I thought she retired?"
"From teaching. I don't think they'll let her get away from everything she does. I'm pretty sure she's the only thing keeping this town running," Damien said, a smile stretching cheeks achy with the cold.
"Do you remember that time the seniors decided to toilet paper town hall, and she smacked Nathan Cooke upside the head with her purse?" Tommy giggled into his scarf.
Damien laughed loud enough to startle a rabbit out of the bushes in front of the post office. "She thought he was a burglar. I remember his Dad's face when he showed up at the police station. I thought Nathan was going die of embarrassment."
Tommy could barely talk, he was laughing so hard. "That was great, but remember the time Hunter gave out all those temporary tattoos, and Pembrooke's mother grounded him for a year because she thought it was real?"
"If she saw you now, she'd probably faint."
"She was at the funeral," Tommy said, stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk as he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes. "I thought she was going to swoon like a Victorian heroine."
Damien steadied him with one hand. The thick fabric of Tommy's jacket was between them, but he still imagined he could feel the heat of Tommy's body burning against his palm. "Take it easy, sweetheart, or you're going to end up in the gutter."
"Been there, done that," Tommy said, taking a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, I'm calm." He giggled and slapped his hand over his mouth, eyes wide.
Shaking his head, Damien patted his shoulder. "Cool as a cucumber."
Morton's was only another block, the smell of coffee carrying on the wind. It mixed with the fresh baked smell of Morton's famous muffins, and Damien's stomach grumbled. Beside him, Tommy kept giggling to himself and then breathing deeply until he could walk straight.
"Speaking of tattoos," Tommy said as they pushed into the heavenly warmth of the coffee shop, "I wanted to talk to you about what you were looking for in yours."
Damien frowned. "Oh, no. I'm not getting a tattoo."
"You asked for one last weekend," Tommy said, eyebrow raised in challenge. "A Tommy Laurence original, you said."
"I was drunk, Tommy." Damien smiled at the clerk behind the counter. He didn't recognize her, but she had the same nose as the twins, which made her one of the vast Jakobson clan. She didn't smile back as she took his order, also a hallmark of the family.
"You were very insistent." Tommy smiled at the Jakobson girl, loosening his scarf against the heat of the room. Her eyes caught on the red ribbon peeking over the top of Tommy's t-shirt, and she stared at it unmoving until he'd repeated his order twice. "Is it just me," he said as they moved away, "or was that a little extreme?" He grabbed sugar packets and a tiny tub of creamer, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm used to p
eople staring at me, sure, but usually only when I'm showing a lot more skin than that. She acted like she's never seen a tattoo before."
Quirking his lips, Damien watched her fumble through making the drinks, her eyes drifting their way every few seconds. "I'm pretty sure she hasn't. She's a Jakobson."
Tommy cocked his head to the side. "I remember them, I think. They homeschool their kids, don't they?" He snapped his fingers. "Those guys from the fire station," he said, glancing back at her. "They're the twins from AP English. The ones that Mr. Martin loved to rub in everyone else's faces."
"That's them." Damien chuckled at Tommy's excitement. "I asked around. They're the ones who had your bike towed."
"I'll have to thank them," Tommy said, ducking his head and glancing at Damien through his lashes. The warmth and steam were bringing a flush of red to his cheeks, and it made Damien's fingers itch.
"Good luck with that," he muttered, grateful when the barista set their drinks on the counter. He handed Tommy's over and led the way outside.
"Back to that tattoo," Tommy said as they sipped their coffee, the steam billowing off the cups.
"There is no tattoo, you stubborn brat," Damien groaned, shaking his head. "I was drunk, and I seem to recall you being dead set against drunken tattoo stories."
"I never said that. I don't tattoo while people are drunk. If the idea comes to you while you're so smashed you can't see straight, and you still like it when you're sober, then I'm happy to stab it into your skin with every needle I own."
Damien winced, staring at his former best friend with a disgusted grimace. "That sounds horrifying."
Tommy smirked, his head tilted at a jaunty angle. "I tell it like it is."
"I'll pass, thanks."
"That's a pity." He dug in his pocket for a moment, pulling out a business card and tucking it between Damien's fingers on his coffee cup. "In case you change your mind. Anne was looking forward to having all of your virgin skin to work with."
Damien sputtered, hot coffee burning his sinuses as he choked. Tommy winked at him, sipping nonchalantly on his own drink. "I said I wanted a Tommy Laurence original, baby. I'm not letting you foist me off on your assistant," Damien said, clearing the last of the coffee out of his throat. "I only know one artist whose art I could stand to wear for the rest of my life."
