Destiny Calls

by Samantha Wayland

  He was hurting. Bad. But goddamn if he was going to complain about it and send Patrick off the deep end. Or make Destiny cry. Again.

  He wasn"t being selfless—it was purely an act of self-preservation. He knew if either of them lost it, he would too.

  By the time Destiny pulled into Ethel"s old cobblestone and gravel driveway, he was barely managing to keep the shock at bay. He"d always assumed going into shock was something that happened to people without them being aware of it. Only, he knew 60

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  exactly what the uncontrollable shaking in his hands meant, could feel his eyes were wide and unblinking in his face and that his breathing was becoming increasingly irregular. He promised himself that if he could get into the house and settled into whatever guest bed he was assigned, he would be able to fall apart. He just had to hold on. He"d made it through the ambulance ride, the doctors patching him up and giving his statement. He could make it five more minutes.

  When Patrick opened the door to the back seat, Brandon knew he"d lost the battle.

  The last five minutes of his control had come and gone. One look at Patrick"s face told him that Patrick knew it too.

  “You okay to get in the house on your own, Bran?” He didn"t know if he"d ever heard Patrick use that gentle tone of voice in his life.

  Ever. God, he must look pathetic. And what was Patrick going to do if he said no?

  Carry him? Sweet Jesus. Not in this lifetime or the next.

  Nodding, he muttered, “Yeah, I got it,” before trying to swing his legs off the seat and sit up. He"d almost succeeded, the pain forcing his eyes closed and the air from his lungs, when Patrick"s warm hand wrapped around the back of his neck, steadying him, easing him vertical.

  Shit, he was a mess. The pinprick of tears burned his eyes and he clamped down on them, hard.

  With Patrick"s help, he managed to get out of the car. Once he was standing, he put all his focus on the door to the house, avoiding looking at Destiny"s face when he took her hand, knowing that if he saw even one tear, he"d start blubbering like a stupid baby.

  Walking hurt but he was grateful for it—the pain helping him stay aware and upright as he moved one foot in front of the other. Patrick jogged ahead to open the door and snag Farley"s collar so the big, affectionate dog wouldn"t jump all over Brandon.

  Brandon followed blindly, not stopping or changing pace as he traced Patrick"s steps through the kitchen and up the wide, curved staircase. Patrick disappeared into his own bedroom and Brandon stopped and waited in the hall.

  “What room do you want me in?” There were six bedrooms in the big, old Victorian and he didn"t give a crap which one he was in as long as he could get horizontal. Fast.

  “This one,” Patrick called though the open door.

  Destiny moved forward, towing him in her wake. He crossed the threshold and stumbled the last few steps to the side of the bed. He felt awful that Patrick was giving up his room. Any of the other bedrooms would have been fine. Patrick was probably putting him in here, though, because of the en suite bathroom he"d had installed a few years ago.

  Why did Patrick have to be so damn considerate? His eyes started burning again and he swallowed hard.

  He let Destiny gently remove his blood-stained t-shirt, wrapping a hand around the footboard of the massive sleigh bed to steady himself while toeing off his sneakers. Her warm fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, working the button and lowering the 61

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  zipper. He closed his eyes, his head hanging down. It wasn"t sexual. It was defeat. He needed her help. Was both grateful to have it and ashamed he needed it. The nurses had gotten him dressed and now he couldn"t undo their work without hurting so badly it took his breath away. Even with her help, it was excruciating. And lowering.

  Standing in his underwear in Patrick"s bedroom, he felt safer than he had in hours.

  It was then the shaking started in earnest. His skin felt waxy where it stretched over his bones and he could feel the blood draining from his head, leaving him lightheaded and nauseous.

  “Patrick, hurry,” Destiny called.

  He couldn"t bring himself to open his eyes and see the pity in hers.

  “Shit,” Patrick muttered as he strode back into the room. “Come on, Bran. Let"s get you in bed. You"ll be warmer there.”

  He didn"t doubt that Patrick understood that cold wasn"t causing his shakes. When Patrick"s hand came to rest on his back, urging him forward, he finally opened his eyes.

  He was surprised to see Patrick was also only wearing his boxers and that Destiny was stripping off her clothes and tossing them on the chair in the bay window on the far side of the room. Patrick tossed her a t-shirt from his dresser and she pulled it on, doing that weird bra-removal-under-the-shirt-and-through-the-sleeve thing that woman do, leaving only her thong beneath. He didn"t understand what was happening until Destiny climbed up onto the tall bed and held her hand out to him.

  “Come on, honey.”

  He clenched her fingers, carefully crawling up onto the bed with her. She held on tight, letting him use her as an anchor as he gingerly lowered himself onto his more-or-less injury-free side. His teeth chattered, the shakes rattling his entire body and sending pain singing along his bruises. As soon as his head hit the pillow, the first tears fell from his wide eyes. Destiny looked over his shoulder at Patrick, a wealth of worry in her eyes before turning away and snuggling back until her warm, soft curves nestled against Brandon"s chest and thighs.

  The tears kept coming, but the shakes were dampened by Destiny"s presence. Her warmth.

  He was grateful when Patrick shut off the light, hiding Brandon"s tears, and pulled the heavy covers up over them. He couldn"t remember the last time anyone had tucked him in. It was nice. With a little time and Destiny"s warmth, the shakes might ease enough for him to sleep.

  Then the mattress dipped behind him and Patrick"s big, hard body came up against his back, gently, being careful not to do more than brush his injuries and the bandages covering them.

  Crap. The tears were coming faster. Patrick inched ever closer until his warm skin was pressed along his entire length, a wall of comfort.

  He was safe now.

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  Brandon wrapped an arm around Destiny, his hand resting on her soft belly where her t-shirt had scrunched up, and held her as tightly as his injuries would allow.

  Patrick"s arm came around them both, sliding along Brandon"s arm until his hand came to rest on Destiny"s hip. Patrick"s thumb traced a soothing pattern over Brandon"s elbow.

  It took a while, but the shaking eventually eased. The tears slowed.

  And he slept.

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  Chapter Seven

  Destiny took Monday off to sit with Brandon, while Patrick spent the day hounding Carter and McGuire. Especially Carter. He told himself they were good officers, good men. Under normal circumstances, he would have trusted them, but this was different.

  He"d seen the look on their faces when Brandon had told them he was bisexual. They"d done a damn poor job of hiding their shock.

  Every time he pictured the expression on Carter"s face in particular, he was torn between his desire to punch the asshole and his growing fears about what this would mean for Brandon and his work with the Task Force.

  He was disappointed, but not surprised one bit, to arrive at work that morning to discover everyone already knew. A bunch of gossipy old women with nothing to do couldn"t spread a story as fast or as effectively as the officers of the BPD. Holy shit, what a bunch of blabber-mouths. He fervently wished they"d just mind their own business.

  The story of Brandon"s assault had run in that morning"s Globe, although the hate crime aspects had intentionally been omitted. It had only given Brandon"s name and cited both him and Patrick as Mario Benedetto"s arresting officers, which readers could learn more about in another article.

  Jesus
, what a day it had been.

  Patrick tried to slog through his email, but his focus was shot. He caught the eye of yet another detective staring at him. The other man immediately looked away.

  He forced his gaze back to his monitor and told himself to breathe.

  It really didn"t help his confidence in his fellow officers or his fucking bad mood that he was on the receiving end of so many speculative looks. So fucking what if he was Brandon"s best friend? That didn"t mean he was making out with him at every opportunity.

  Except… shit.

  That was exactly what he had been doing.

  It was moments like these he really wished he could get that good old denial train back on its tracks. He was even enough of a jerk to wish Brandon could be shoved back into the proverbial closet. What kind of friend did that make him?

  It wasn"t about shame. It was about fear. It was about a lot of stupid old-fashioned thinking that remained the norm on the police force. He has no idea what Brandon"s outing would mean in the long run, but he wasn"t optimistic about Brandon"s future with the Boston Police Department.

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  Patrick thought back to the night before, with Brandon shivering in the tight cocoon Patrick and Destiny had made around him. Patrick had laid there, wide awake, forcing himself to be calm until Brandon"s breathing had evened out and he"d fallen asleep.

  Only then had he slipped out of the bed, kissed Destiny and made her promise to stay put while he walked Farley and locked up for the night.

  He"d sat in the quiet dark of the staircase for a long time, his stomach churning when he"d thought about how close they"d come to losing Brandon. Damn fucking close to losing him forever.

  Then he"d thought about Destiny"s crazy idea. Christ.

  He couldn"t be bisexual and a Boston cop. And he couldn"t not be a cop. What the fuck else would he do? It was all he"d ever wanted, all he"d ever worked toward. It was in his blood, though it was about the only thing he gladly admitted to having inherited from his father.

  Shit, he had to stop thinking about it. This wasn"t about him. It was about Brandon.

  And someone had to look out for him and his interests. If it turned out, as he suspected, that the department was jam-packed full of ignorance, then that person would have to be him.

  He threw himself into doing some investigating of his own—interviewing the witnesses, questioning the detectives" every decision and generally making a giant pain in the ass out of himself. It was great. He"d hold every damn person on this case accountable until they found who"d done this to Bran.

  The good news was that he"d made a difference by inserting himself in the process.

  The bad news was that by the end of the day, they still had little to go on and he"d been called into Captain Sullivan"s office. Now, for the sake and sanity of all parties involved, Sully was insisting he take a couple days off.

  Damn it.

  Sitting at his desk, shutting down his computer, he tried hard not to question his boss"s decision, but it was damn difficult. Sully had worked with his dad back in the day and prided himself on being an old-school cop. Patrick had always liked that about him, but today he wasn"t so sure it was a good thing.

  His father had been dead for years, having drunk himself into an early grave, but Patrick could clearly remember what his opinions had been on those people, his not-so-charming euphemism for gay people. The bastard would have been horrified to discover Brandon was one of those people and Patrick"s friendship with him would have made him guilty by association.

  Guilty of what, Patrick had no fucking idea.

  So now the question was this—did his Captain, who was also his friend and mentor, hold those same opinions? Patrick hoped to hell not, but as he shrugged on his coat and departed for his forced vacation, it was hard not to think he might.

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  By the following morning, Patrick was willing to admit it was a relief to be at home.

  The truth was he"d wanted to spend Monday sitting by Brandon"s side, keeping an eye on him, which was probably part of the reason he"d fled the house yesterday at the crack of dawn on almost no sleep. He wasn"t used to having these kinds of protective urges and raw feelings for anyone but Destiny.

  Settling in the comfy chair Destiny had drawn up next to the bed, he spent Tuesday sitting quietly, watching Brandon sleep.

  Wednesday morning, Brandon woke with clear eyes and begged for Tylenol and an end to the heavier pain meds the doctors had prescribed. He seemed markedly improved. Thank god.

  They shared a quiet breakfast and an easy lunch watching Red Sox classics on the big plasma TV hidden in the armoire at the foot of the bed. While Brandon rested, Patrick tried to read, but he couldn"t stay focused on the pages for long. Inevitably, his mind, and his eyes, would wander back to the man lying in his bed.

  They"d removed his bandages the night before. The cut on Brandon"s forehead was healing well and the bruising had turned all kinds of attractive shades of green. They"d unwrapped his ribs to find the clear impression of a boot print beneath. Patrick had nearly flipped his lid all over again. It was a damn miracle those ribs hadn"t punctured something.

  His anger had only been slightly mollified by Destiny and Brandon finding the boot print fascinating and joking that if they lived in a world where CSI episodes were real, they could find the bad guys based on their shoe size and tread-type alone. He had laughed with them, knowing they wouldn"t let it drop until he let it go. So he had.

  Looking at Brandon now, he could see his shoulder, back and thigh were also blooming all the colors of the bruise rainbow, sure signs that they too were healing. As was the fact that he slept comfortably, able to put pressure on his various injuries, and was moving more easily when he sat up or walked to the bathroom.

  His relief at knowing Brandon was getting better, that he was going to be okay, was huge. Seeing the boot print, having heard the statement from the witness, who had been delighted to see Patrick again and kind enough to keep their previous encounter to himself in front of the other officers, had reminded him again just how close he"d come to losing Brandon. Too damn close.

  Watching the rise and fall of the sheets where they covered Brandon"s chest, he forced the fear back. It would cloud his judgment. Look what it had done in the past two weeks. It had sent him running from his own best friend. And why? Because he liked kissing him. He liked the feeling of his hands in Brandon"s hair and Brandon"s hands on his hips. The feeling of their cocks rubbing, their chests bumping, their tongues warring and tasting.

  He wanted Brandon.

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  It was simple when he didn"t let his fears about what others would think, what would happen if the precinct heard about it, what it would mean for him and Destiny, consume him.

  The fears were still there, still real, but it turned out he could live with the fear a hell of a lot better than he could live without Brandon.

  Brandon woke to find Patrick sitting by his bed, staring at him. He wasn"t sure what the emotions running across Patrick"s face meant, but they made his heart beat faster.

  Mindful of his sore ribs, he sat up slowly, the sheets dropping to his lap as they slipped off his chest, his eyes never leaving Patrick"s.

  “You didn"t have to sit with me all day,” Brandon said. “If there"s something you"d rather be doing…”

  His voice trailed off when Patrick got up from the chair and sat on the edge of the bed facing him.

  Brandon"s heart beat faster still. “Really, you shouldn"t worry about me. I"m fine.” He watched, fascinated, as Patrick"s big hand came up, moving toward his face. “In a day or two I"ll be up and…” The words died on his lips again when Patrick"s fingers traced the bruise on his forehead, gently bumping over the cut.

  Oh boy.

  The brush of Patrick"s fingertips sent a shiver down his back that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the heat burnin
g in his friend"s eyes. He sat motionless as Patrick"s thumb rubbed over his nose and across his cheek. Patrick"s other hand came up to run the backs of his fingers down the side of his face. The tenderness in his touch and his eyes was completely unexpected. Even after the kisses, even after the past three nights curled up together in the bed, even after everything, he had held his defenses, protecting his heart from hoping for this.

  Not just sex. Tenderness.

  Patrick leaned forward, cupping the side of Brandon"s head in one hand, bringing his face closer. He couldn"t tear his eyes away from Patrick"s deep blue gaze. His heart thundered. His cock hardened, reaching up and away from his body and toward Patrick. The realization of twenty years of anticipation was sweet, thrilling and so powerful it hurt.

  Patrick"s lips brushed over his and Brandon"s entire body tightened, his hands fisting in the sheets, anchoring him as he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Patrick"s. The tastes and smells were so achingly familiar. Spice and soap and something uniquely Patrick. For a moment they stayed like that, their lips pressed against one another, savoring.

  Patrick slid closer and Brandon released the sheets, cupping Patrick"s face in his palms. Tilting his head, he slid his tongue along the seam of Patrick"s mouth, holding Patrick still as he licked across his full lower lip, then pulled it into his mouth. He bit it before soothing the spot with his lips and tongue.

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  The flush staining Patrick"s cheeks, the breath panting out of his mouth, exhilarated Brandon. He could only guess what Patrick was feeling, but it looked to be all good. He relished how Patrick held himself in check, enjoying the kiss while controlling the need radiating from every inch of his being.

  God, Brandon wanted Patrick to let that control go.

  Brandon was doing the most amazing things to Patrick"s mouth. When he"d told Destiny that Brandon had some serious kissing skills, he hadn"t been kidding. But apparently, he"d also spoken too soon. He"d experienced only the tip of the iceberg.

  He closed his eyes and traced his thumb over Brandon"s cheekbone, fascinated by the firmness of the skin, the softness until he came to the line where Bran"s beard would begin. The stubble running along his jaw tickled Patrick"s palm as Brandon"s mouth moved over his, torturing his lips with a thousand kisses, licks and bites. Patrick was a kissing kind of man—he loved to kiss—but he"d never in his life been kissed like this.