by Rhys Ford
And when the kid swung his leg, striking his heel against the squad car’s tire, he visibly flinched in pain.
“Okay, so let’s go over this again. He came up from behind you and grabbed your hair. Did you see him in the club before? Have any interaction with him earlier?” Another ambulance was arriving, pushing through the line. From the corner of his eye, Ruan spotted an EMT pulling a gurney from the back of the bus. “And keep in mind, I’m not putting blame on anyone here. I’m just trying to get an idea of what happened and how you got there.”
“Yeah, he was inside, but he didn’t come over. Only reason I knew his face was because he told the bar guy he’d pay for my drink. Since I don’t drink….” The kid shrugged. “He didn’t seem pissed off about it. I didn’t care. I was only there to grab some water, then head back out.”
“But you remembered him?”
“Dude, I’m over six feet tall without the heels. You don’t think I’m going to remember a guy taller than me pushing up against a bar?” Ivo spat back at him with a sly smile. “He was taller than everyone around him, so I got a real good look at his face.”
“And you recall faces well?” Ruan pressed. He knew how hard it was to see in a club, despite the flood of lights flashing about, so recognizing someone again outside of that environment was something he always questioned.
“I’m an artist and I’m apprenticing at my family’s shop. Portraiture is in my wheelhouse. I mean, I’m not as good as my brother Gus, but I’m pretty decent. I know faces. People have planes and angles. Everyone looks different. Not hard to spot those differences if you know what you’re looking for.” The kid stiffened, and Ruan saw an EMT heading over from the second ambulance. “I don’t want those guys touching me, okay? I can get cleaned up and shit at home.”
“So long as you let me document your injuries and sign a waiver, it’ll be okay.” Ruan hissed. “Well, no, I’ve got to get your guardian to sign off. You’re still a kid. Law’s pretty hard on that.”
“Great, so you have to wake Bear up?” Ivo huffed. “I kind of wanted to slide by with this. He’s going to make me mop the shop floor five times a day for sneaking out.”
“Should have thought about that before you put on those heels, then,” Ruan admonished, smothering a laugh when Ivo casually flipped him off. “Let me grab an ice pack at least for that ankle. Why do you wear those things if you can’t walk in them?”
Despite all the times he’d been in a church, Ruan never once thought he was in the presence of someone touched by grace. Right then, under the flashing lights of the nearby ambulances, Ruan saw a bit of heaven in the face of the complicated young man sitting on the SFPD squad car. His beauty was unmistakable—pure enough to be captured in marble or immortalized in the stained-glass window of an ancient cathedral. Intrigued, Ruan was enraptured by Ivo’s expression, a curious blend of innocence, wisdom, and resolute strength.
If it weren’t so ironic, Ruan would have laughed at the idea of a kid teaching him about the world, but there they were, standing on a bloodied street while a crowd milled about in the light rain. He should have been witnessing that moment in someplace holy, a grotto or blessed nave where saints once walked. That or he was watching a kid’s fall from grace, right before he delivered Ruan into his own personal hell.
Either way, Ivo Rogers had something inside of him, something strong driving him to be more than what Ruan could see, and it burned from within—a bright, hard light flaring up from Ivo’s soul.
“Because I promised someone one day I’d dance in them for him,” Ivo whispered, his face going pale beneath the odd glow from the streetlamp. “Tonight was that night, and I wasn’t going to let any fucking asshole who thinks his dick is a gift from God stop me. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Two
“I AM very sorry for your loss.” The words seemed automatic, but the man who spoke them was as sincere as a finely drawn line. “Or at least, I hope this gives you some peace.”
It was his cop at the door.
There were two of them—both cops, Ivo supposed, but only one of them mattered.
The one who’d taken him home one early morning a long time ago and maybe even stolen a bit of Ivo’s heart with him when he walked away.
It was stupid. Ivo knew exactly how stupid it was to carry a torch for someone he’d only spoken to for a couple of hours. It was the kind of romantic nonsense he loved to find in books and movies, holed up in the darkness of his room, curled up on his ugly-but-comfortable love seat while a story of two lovers played out in front of him on pages or a flickering screen. He loved happy endings. He loved seeing an old couple shuffle through a farmers’ market, holding hands and bickering about the ripeness of a melon.
He’d been too young, and even as deep of a romantic as he was, Ivo knew that cop was part of his past—a shimmering, slightly sarcastic but firm masculine presence his heart skipped a beat for.
The cop—now Detective Ruan Nicholls—was older but as sizzling hot as he’d been that night. Nearly seven years older, but while there were a few crow’s-feet around his light green eyes and more silver in his deep brown hair, the passing days had stolen some of the innocence from his face, layering his handsome features with a breathtaking ruggedness Ivo felt down into his bones.
It also didn’t seem like the cop remembered him at all. There was no sense of recognition in his too-sharp, knowing gaze, and after Mace introduced himself, Nicholls’s focus was solely on Ivo’s older brother. Mace grabbed at Ivo’s wrist, pulling him back a step.
“I don’t know if you want to have this conversation in front of your boyfriend,” Nicholls said gruffly, his eyes flicking over to Ivo. “When I called your station to see if you were on shift, I spoke to a guy named Montenegro, who told me you’re up here, but he didn’t tell me you had company. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but if you want this done in private—”
“My boyfriend?” Mace looked confused, then shook his head, finally catching the detective’s meaning. “No, that’s my brother Ivo. Do you want to come inside? Is everything okay? My other brothers are down at the shop. Well, two of them are, but Luke… shit, did something happen to Luke?”
Ivo’s heart sank, suddenly startled back to reality. A cop showing up on their doorstep meant nothing good, and he should’ve remembered that. “Let’s go. I’ll get the car keys.”
He stopped when the cop shook his head, murmuring about coming inside for a moment. Mace moved aside to usher the detective in, but only Nicholls stepped over the threshold, standing near the open door. Their dog, Earl, crept around the foyer, his head and shoulders down as he bumped the back of Ivo’s legs, sniffing at the detective’s legs, then deciding the cop was a friend, set his tail to a high-paced wag. The other cop on the stoop excused himself, drawn back to the nondescript sedan parked at the curb by a crackle from the radio set loud enough to hear through the open window.
“Anything you need to say, you can say in front of Ivo too,” Mace finally said, closing the front door. With the click of the latch, the air in the foyer grew hot and tight in Ivo’s lungs and he needed to step back, giving himself some distance away from the detective’s overwhelming presence.
“Your brothers are fine. This is about your father. Your case was transferred to me a couple of hours ago. I work homicide.” Nicholls’s husky voice grew deeper with sympathy. “I know your situation is complicated, and I wanted to reach out to you in person, a personal courtesy to someone who works the line.”
There were other words coming out of his mouth, but Ivo was having a hard time focusing on what he was saying. Perhaps it was the gloomy weather outside in the darkness that clung to him, but that night rose back up and Ivo remembered when the blood lingered on the edge of his tongue and he was still shaking with adrenaline and repressed fear. It was as if it were just yesterday he sat on a cop car’s fender and let the honey, rough tone of the man’s voice roll over him, those beautiful, thick-lashed green eyes flicking down t
o Ivo’s sequined shoes, then back up to his face, his expression one of worry and concern instead of judgment.
The strength in his whipcord-lean body shone through in his confident movement, his muscular frame dressed in an expensive peacoat and worn Levi’s, more than a dash of irreverence toward his authority in the pair of beat-up cowboy boots on his feet. Even without the badge he’d flashed, Ruan Nicholls wouldn’t have been mistaken for anything but a cop. He saw everything, leaping to an assumption about Ivo being Mace’s boyfriend, then his stance adjusting as Mace corrected him, calling Ivo out as his brother.
The front hall seemed too small for the cop, which seemed silly because it was massive, large enough for all five brothers to work on its banister and crown molding all at the same time. Or maybe the air was just too hot, too tight with tension as Mace stood frozen in place, learning that death had come for the monster who raised him.
“If you need anything or if you have any questions, here’s my card.” The detective held out an SFPD business card embossed with the police department’s shield and his contact information. “I doubt his partner in crime is going to stick around, but if you do see him, call me right away. I have your phone number from the report, so I’ll let you know how the case is going in a couple of days. Until then, don’t be afraid to call, and with any luck, the next time you hear from me, it’ll be because I caught him.”
“Thanks… I—” Mace rubbed at his face, then sighed. “Shit, I don’t even know what to think here.”
“I’m serious. I’d like you to call me at any time you need me,” Nicholls rumbled, pressing the business card into Mace’s hand. “And if you feel the need to go down to the morgue, please let me know. I’ll be there with you.”
“I’m not even sure how I should feel.” Ivo’s burly firefighter of a brother sounded shell-shocked, and started when Ivo placed a hand on his back. “Kind of sick to my stomach I guess.”
“Your dad shot you, Mace. And now the cops are here to tell you someone killed him. It’s okay to be sick to your stomach,” Ivo remarked softly, rubbing at his brother’s shoulder. Mace always seemed so strong, an unmovable piece of granite in Ivo’s life, but he knew better. The second-oldest brother spent a lifetime building an impenetrable wall around his gentle soul, armoring himself against the slings and arrows of a cruel world. “I’m going to call the others. We should—”
“Let me do it. I think I need to hear Bear right now,” Mace murmured, flicking his fingernail against the edge of the card. “Ivo, can you…?”
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it. Go call Bear.” Ivo took the mangled card from Mace’s hand. “I’ll get ahold of Gus and Luke. Go on.”
Nicholls waited until Mace mumbled out a thank-you, then padded away toward the family room. There wouldn’t be any question about closing 415 Ink or getting someone to cover. One of their own had taken a hit, and the five of them—six now, since Gus and Rey Montenegro were together—would gather around, shoring Mace up. As he pondered about calling Rob, the young tattoo artist Mace was falling in love with, Ivo realized he still had the cop to deal with.
It was hard to lust after a guy when his heart was breaking for his older brother, but apparently Ivo’s desires could multitask, because the need to slake his thirst for Nicholls’s mouth nearly overrode his reason.
“This want-take-have shit I’ve got going on in my head is really not healthy,” Ivo muttered to himself, circling Nicholls to get to the front door. His fingers were almost closed over the knob when the cop leaned his shoulder against the door, his weight wedging it against the frame. “Um, thanks for coming. I—”
“I remember you,” the detective drawled. “Seems like you’re okay. What about your brother? Is he going to be okay?”
“He’ll be fine. The family will take care of him,” Ivo replied softly. “We take care of each other, come hell or high water.”
“Good. That’s what my gut told me that night when that big guy who answered the door hugged the shit out of you when I brought you home. Although I’m pretty sure he probably yelled at you too.” Up close, Nicholls smelled fantastic—a whiff of San Francisco’s cold night air and something sharply citrus. There was a bit of moisture on his peacoat, tiny dapples of water glistening under the front hall chandelier, and the silver in his hair wove a metallic sheen through the brown strands, dancing a bit of light through the dark. He flicked up a card between them, nearly tapping Ivo’s chin. “Take this. And call me if you want to or need to.”
“Do you think something’s going to happen to Mace?” Even as much as he wanted the detective to recite the phone book just to hear words spoken in his rolling, smoky-bourbon voice, Ivo’s guts clenched with a flicker of concern. “If you’re worried about him going off the rails because of his dad, it’ll be okay. We’ve got him. We won’t let him fall.”
“I know that,” Nicholls murmured, tucking the card into Ivo’s fingers. “You still owe me an explanation about those shoes, and I’ve waited a long time to hear it. When you’ve got time and maybe things have settled down, I’ll be waiting. Just give me a call.”
“HEY, MATT, I think you’ve got my pastrami sandwich.” Ruan dug through the brown paper bag his partner handed him through the unmarked sedan’s window. “This one looks like a rabbit vomited up into a hot dog bun.”
“First off, I swear to God, the next time you call me Matt, to punch you in the nose.” His junior partner, Maite Suppes, shook her fist beneath his chin. “And if you keep eating all of that processed meat, you’re going to die before you can collect your retirement.”
Ever since he’d walked into the squad room filled with junior detectives looking for their partners, Ruan took a perverse delight in calling Suppes by the wrong name someone scribbled at the top of her file folder. If he’d taken the time to actually open it up and read about his new partner, he would’ve made the connection that Matt was definitely not her name. Still, when he called it out, she’d stepped out of the small group of people chatting among the briefing desks and rolled her eyes.
Apparently Matt was one of the more common names people defaulted to when confronted by her first name.
“Let’s go over it again. My-Tay. Not Matt. Not Mai Tai. Maite.” She unraveled her bag, sticking her hand into it and pulling out a wrapped hoagie. “God, this is gross. It’s warm and smells like death.”
“That’s the sauerkraut,” Ruan said, exchanging the food. “Are these your fries too? They look like mine. Extra crispy.”
“You’re going to die from the way you eat,” she reiterated. “Then with my luck, they’ll partner me with one of the new commander’s kids. And before you say anything, sauerkraut is not considered a salad.”
Maite grew up the only daughter of a career cop. Ruan was pretty certain she cut her teeth on her father’s star. At five feet eleven and packed solid with lean muscle, she was a damn good partner—the kind of woman men would take a second glance at because her face was interesting and her lush mouth had a way with swear words. She could pitch seven innings in a baseball game from a regulation mound, then clean up nicely enough to get catcalled when walking down the street. Her dark hair was cut into a long bob, and her fashion sense ran more toward jeans, T-shirt, and a leather jacket, much like his own. She had freckles across her pert nose and high cheekbones on a classically Irish face, but her deep, soulful brown eyes and golden skin definitely came from her Mexican mother.
What he liked most about Maite was she could hold her own against him, probably a product of growing up with three older brothers. But they fit. She was the first partner Ruan had where he felt he could be honest about who he was and how he lived.
That’s when he discovered they had radically different taste in men.
She also had a thing about not eating meat often, which Ruan had difficulty embracing. They argued over stupid things like the dog-food tacos he liked grabbing at three in the morning from a California fast-food joint when she tried to push him into stopping for veget
arian soup and wheatgrass smoothies from a late-night coffee shop. They both liked the Cubs but disagreed about the Raiders and the Seahawks. Ruan had a love for the Oakland bad boys, where Maite swore up and down she would follow the coddled Pacific Northwest team to the grave.
Ruan promised her father he would have her back and make sure nothing would happen to her. Both of them swore on their mothers’ graves that Maite would never hear of this promise because she would gut them both for treating her like a little girl. For all of her protests, Ruan could see she was the apple of her father’s eye and a damn good cop to boot. He liked her, and better yet, he respected the hell out of her.
If only she would see the light and worship the silver and black like he did, then she would be the perfect partner, but he knew he couldn’t have everything.
“So talk to me about the pretty boy you took home years ago and finding him again the other night on that homicide call. And don’t say nothing happened, because I heard something in your voice when you talked about it.” Maite bit into her sandwich, moving her food to one cheek and chewing vigorously. Mumbling through her bite, she said, “Decker told me he recognized the guy’s face and name because he got a tattoo from the shop the kid works at. He also said you were in the house for a pretty long time—long enough for him to finish the dispatch call and do the paperwork. What went on?”
“That kid’s only a couple years younger than you.” He picked a bit of pastrami out of his sandwich, tucking it into his mouth while watching a man dressed in heavy layers push a shopping cart across the street. After midnight, traffic was sparse, but all it took was one idiot to come screaming around the corner and permanently ruin someone’s life. He turned his attention back to his sandwich only when the man’s foot touched the curb and he got the cart up onto the other sidewalk. “And from what the case file said, he doesn’t just work the shop, he’s a part owner with his brothers.”
