Destiny Calls

by Samantha Wayland

  Hours later, he fought his way clear of the fog still holding him under from that second pill. He succeeded only long enough to see the sun was setting, to feel his shoulder was indeed much better and to wonder if he"d imagined being woken by a loud crash from downstairs.

  Destiny had no idea how she"d managed to get through the day at work, since she"d been in a stupor for most of it. The only time her body could shake off her absolute physical contentment was when she thought about getting home and seeing Patrick and Brandon again.

  Slack muscles trembled. Destiny knew her smile would remind anyone of the cat that ate the canary, which was why she had worked with her office door shut. Even the eighty-year-old department administrator could see “completely satisfied” stamped all over her face. Not that she cared if they knew, but for today, she"d wanted to lock herself away and wallow in it all by herself.

  Most of the office, including her boss, was aware she had a friend who had been hurt and that she was helping to care for him, so they weren"t going to knock her for ducking out early. What they didn"t know was that Brandon was very definitely on the mend and feeling pretty darn good.

  Scratch that. He felt great.

  Several times on the way home, Destiny scolded herself to stop daydreaming and to pay attention to the road. She tried to think about work, her next project—anything—

  but her ever-creative imagination was too busy cooking up all kinds of scenarios. And her libido loved every single one of them.

  She wasn"t surprised when she pulled in the driveway and saw she"d arrived before Patrick, although she had hoped he"d be home. And naked.

  Shaking her head, she climbed from the car, her sex-muddled brain slow to register the scene before her.

  Why was Farley cowering under the porch?

  Then she saw the kitchen door wide open, pale splinters of wood spiking from the shattered door frame. Her heart stopped, her feet frozen to the cobblestones beneath them.

  Hands shaking, Destiny fumbled for her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. She barely had the presence of mind to tell them it was Patrick"s house and that Brandon should be inside. Not that they would respond any faster, but it couldn"t hurt that they were cops.

  The operator instructed her to get away from the house and stay on the line.

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  To hell with that.

  Hanging up, she called to Farley quietly, coaxing him to her as she dialed Patrick"s cell.

  “Hey, Kitten.”

  “Patrick, I just got home. Farley is out. The back door is kicked in. Patrick, I don"t know where Brandon is. I don"t know if he"s okay.” Her voice cracked and she cursed when Farley crawled back under the porch.

  “I"m on my way,” he said, the change in his breathing telling her he was already running. “Stay out of the house, Destiny. Do you hear me? You wait for me.” She agreed before hanging up and shoving the phone in her back pocket.

  She called to Farley again, scanning what parts of the yard she could see, one eye always on the open door. Creeping forward, she snagged his collar and pulled him gently to the driveway. She"d just shut him into the back seat of her car when she heard a shout from deep inside the house.

  Her accursed imagination ran countless possible situations through her head. None of them good.

  Fuck it. She wasn"t waiting for the cops.

  Kicking off her heels, she ran stocking-footed up the back porch stairs, jumped the creaky fourth step and tried to plant her feet on the landing where the nails shone through. All the stupid tricks Patrick had taught her to sneak out of her house in high school once again proved helpful, though for all the wrong reasons.

  Moving carefully, she eased through the back door and saw there was no one in the kitchen. She padded to the hallway door and beyond, her heart galloping in her chest, then lurching after a loud crash from above. She looked up at the ceiling, wishing like hell she could see through it. It sounded as though someone had fallen to the floor in Patrick"s room.

  Another shout and the bellow of rage that followed propelled her forward. She prayed Bran was winning whatever the hell was happening upstairs. She felt the pinprick of tears and ruthlessly squashed them.

  Moving as quickly as she dared, she peeked around corners and carefully made her way to the den. She hoped like hell the cops would get there soon, but she couldn"t risk it. Behind the sofa, she fell to her knees and shoved aside the console table and the rug beneath it.

  There, built into the floor, was Patrick"s gun safe.

  The boys had been taking her to the gun club since they"d been old enough to be members. She didn"t own a gun, didn"t really want one, but at this precise moment she was glad she"d tagged along.

  Now she just had to figure out the fucking combination.

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  Scrambling, she started with the obvious, knowing Patrick hated memorizing passwords and PINs, but that he wouldn"t be careless with something as important as this, no matter how well hidden the safe. Six numbers between one and nine.

  Patrick"s birthday? No.

  Ethel"s birthday? No.

  Shit, what if it was his mother"s birthday? She shook her head. He didn"t like his mother. He wouldn"t choose that.

  She tried Farley"s birthday. No. Her birthday. No. Fuck!

  There was another loud clatter from upstairs. She was pretty sure Patrick"s bedside lamp had just bit the big one.

  Christ. Her hands were shaking so hard she couldn"t hit the buttons and screwed up Brandon"s birthday. Her second try, though, brought victory.

  Click.

  Cranking the handle, she yanked the door up and peered into the lockbox, unsure what she would find. To her relief, the 9mm Glock she favored was right in the middle.

  Pulling it and a box of bullets from the safe, she closed the door and reset the lock. God help her, if the bad guys won, she didn"t want to be the idiot who armed them.

  If they weren"t armed already.

  There was a rafter-shaking crash from above her, followed by a hoarse shout that she recognized as Brandon"s. Adrenaline surged. She cursed the time it took her to load the gun, her hands shaking. Her mind raced with every lesson Patrick or Brandon had ever taught her as she loaded the clip, chambered a round and then violated the most sacred rule of all. Never put your finger on the trigger until you"re ready to shoot.

  Since she didn"t know what or who she"d find, or where, she guessed she needed to be ready now.

  She sprinted back down the hallway, desperately aware of the gun in her hand, and crept silently up the stairs. Darting a look around the bend, she saw the upstairs hall was empty and heard the clear sounds of a struggle from the bedroom. Fear clamped around her chest, restricting her already shallow, uneven breathing. As she moved forward, she prayed the thick runner carpet beneath her feet would mask her approach.

  Pressing her back to the wall by the bedroom door, she dared another quick look.

  Oh Christ.

  A large man was on top of Brandon, their backs to her as he covered almost every inch of Brandon"s body and smashed his face to the floor. Brandon bucked beneath him, thrashing to get free. He wore nothing but his thin boxer briefs, his mostly naked body achingly vulnerable even as his strong body fought, muscles bulging. As she watched, his assailant wrapped his arm around Brandon"s neck and pulled back. Hard.

  She knew with absolute certainty he was trying to kill Brandon.

  Fear, conviction and desperation combined to create a confidence Destiny never would have imagined possible. She could do nothing but act.

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  Lunging through the door, she fell to her knees on top of their tangled legs, pressed the muzzle of the gun to the back of the stranger"s knee and pulled the trigger.

  The gunshot sounded like a cannon going off in the small room.

  The subsequent howl of pain from his attacker was music to Brandon"s ringing ears.

  As soo
n as the arm loosened from around his throat, he lurched to his knees, ignoring the blinding pain in his ribs and shoulder as he threw the man off him.

  He was on his feet in an instant, pivoting, ready to fight in spite of his injuries, but ground to a halt when he found Destiny sitting by the door, a gun in her hand pointed at the man now writhing and bleeding all over Patrick"s bedroom rug.

  Holy shit.

  Before he could act on the startling realization that Destiny had just saved his life, his cop brain kicked in and he got down to business. Yanking open the drawer in Patrick"s bedside table, he grabbed the handcuffs Patrick kept there. He"d been amused when he"d initially made that discovery. Now he was damn grateful.

  After patting him down, he flipped his attacker onto his back and stared down at the familiar face. He was one of the men who"d jumped him on the street.

  “What the fuck did I ever do to you?”

  Even as he shackled the idiot"s wrist to the leg of the bed, his attacker didn"t have the sense to keep quiet. “The Lord will judge me. Not you. You are an abomination.” Destiny gasped, but Brandon just shook his head.

  A religious nut. How had he gotten lucky enough to turn up on this freak"s radar?

  Dropping to one knee, he grabbed the man"s thrashing legs with the intent of assessing the damage. The man cringed away. “Do not touch me! You are unclean!” Brandon forced his hands to his thighs and took a deep breath, resisting the urge to throttle this asshole. He heard sirens in the distance, coming in fast. Maybe there would be an ambulance with the cruisers. Maybe there wouldn"t. Either way, if the dumb fuck wanted to bleed to death, he could. He would rather take care of Destiny, anyway.

  Crawling across the floor, he heard the squeal of tires out on the street. Destiny was staring at the man she"d shot like she was considering doing it again, only aiming higher this time. Her face was pale, her cinnamon eyes huge. When she realized he was coming to her, she pointed the gun at the floor and tried to hand it to him.

  He wanted badly to take her into his arms and soothe the stricken look from her face, but he held back. “No, honey, don"t give me the gun. I don"t want my fingerprints on it, it will only confuse things. Put it down next to you then push it away, okay?” Destiny nodded, doing as he"d instructed. The moment the gun was far enough away that he couldn"t accidentally touch it, he reached for her and she lunged into his arms. Dragging her onto his lap, he wrapped himself around her, holding her as close as he could, burying his face in her hair as her legs came around his waist, her arms 105

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  around his neck. It hurt to hold her, but he needed to anyway. He didn"t know who was comforting whom. It didn"t matter.

  He heard the roar of a truck engine and the crunch of the driveway gravel as big wheels skidded to a halt below the bedroom window.

  He smiled grimly and squeezed Destiny closer. The dumbass had pulled into the driveway, ignoring all safety protocols when he had no way of knowing what was going on in the house. Though he wanted to be mad, he couldn"t be. He was just relieved.

  Patrick was home.

  Patrick was fit to be tied.

  Leaping from his truck, he pulled his gun and charged up the back stairs and past the broken door, ignoring the shouts of the officers standing in his driveway, still preparing to enter his home. Proceeding as quickly as safely possible, perhaps a little faster than that, he swung around each corner gun first, then charged to the next. He"d just begun to climb the stairs when Brandon called out to him.

  “Patrick, it"s all clear! We"re upstairs!”

  Relief almost took him to his knees, but he grabbed the banister and hauled ass.

  Barreling through the door to his room, hardly noting the scene before him, he dropped to the floor to wrap his arms around Destiny and Brandon.

  He held on for dear life while staring at the man bleeding on his floor. He was a complete stranger. What the fuck was he doing in Patrick"s house? And why was he bleeding?

  The acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air, so he could guess on the bleeding thing. He"d find out the rest soon enough. Right now he just wanted to hold on to Brandon and Destiny. He pressed his face to Brandon"s hair and drew a deep breath, capturing the combined scents of his lovers in his head, grateful beyond words that they were safe and unharmed.

  Brandon"s hand pushed him back, but he held on tighter. Finally, a particularly hard shove forced him to let go.

  “Patrick!” Brandon growled, heaving him away.

  Only then did he register the footsteps in the hall.

  Holy shit. What was he thinking? Brandon"s stare told him he was wondering the same thing. But still, he didn"t want to let go. Forcing himself to move away, he had barely regained his feet, Brandon pushing, Destiny clinging, when half the fucking department stormed through his bedroom door.

  The chaos of police business quickly set in.

  While Bobby Wilkinson, as his driver"s license identified him, was loaded up and carted away in an ambulance, Brandon pulled on some clothes and spoke with Detectives Carter and McGuire. Patrick couldn"t resist drilling holes in Carter"s head 106

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  with his stare. When McGuire caught his eye for the third time, lifting one eyebrow in a silent plea to back off, he sighed. Walking out into the cool night air, he let Farley out of Destiny"s car and tried to clear his head. It wasn"t easy.

  Eventually, it was time to make official statements and he followed the cruisers carrying Destiny and Brandon back to the precinct, leaving behind a swarm of lab guys and Carter, who McGuire insisted should stay at the scene while McGuire went in to handle the paperwork.

  Patrick didn"t like leaving that asshole in charge at his house, but he was just as glad not to have him along.

  As soon as they walked through the doors of the station, Sully came to greet them, offering to stash Farley in his office and taking Destiny to wait with him while Brandon gave his statement. It drove Patrick bat-shit crazy that the three of them were separated, that he couldn"t keep an eye on both of them, but Destiny and Brandon had to tell their stories without being allowed to collude.

  He knew he should sit with Destiny until it was her turn, but he was desperate to hear Brandon"s statement. He opened his mouth to offer to stay but she shook her head.

  “Go,” she whispered firmly.

  He sent her a grateful look and ran to the observation room.

  It was a battle to sit still and keep his shit together as Brandon recounted being awoken by a man dragging him out of bed. His painkiller-dulled mind hadn"t been able to respond quickly enough, allowing the asshole to get a jump on him. He"d landed hard on the floor, the pain in his bruised ribs and wrenched shoulder pushing his mind almost to the point of unconsciousness before he was able to get his head screwed on straight and fight back.

  Patrick mentally kicked himself every which way. He knew perfectly fucking well that Brandon had taken those damn meds because he"d overdone it the night before during their gymnastic lovemaking. Brandon should have told them he"d been hurting.

  Patrick was livid with himself for not having seen it and for leaving Brandon home alone all day.

  It was a damn good thing Brandon"s story was riveting, holding everyone"s undivided attention, because Patrick didn"t think he was doing a good job of masking his growing rage. Not that he had to—everyone appeared furious as they listened to what had been done to one of their own—but god knew what might show on his face if he lost control. He could see Brandon was shaken, though he doubted anyone else understood how badly. He was also obviously, to Patrick at least, in pain. New bruises were beginning to surface along Brandon"s neck and right cheek, but he held himself rigid, never once reaching up to touch what had to hurt like hell. Patrick kicked himself again for not thinking to grab Brandon"s meds before leaving the house.

  Then again, it wasn"t like he could trot in there and pamper Brandon, for Christ"s sake. Wouldn"t that set all the tongues to wagging? No, instead he had to s
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  reach out and offer him comfort, offer him something more than a weak smile and the expected three-foot personal-space zone.

  He wanted to hold him.

  By the time Brandon joined them in the observation room to watch Destiny give her statement, Patrick couldn"t even look at his best friend, too afraid of what the others in the room would see on his face. He felt like his shoulders were locked up around his ears, he was so freaking wound up.

  If Brandon"s story has been riveting, Destiny"s left them all agape. He listened with awe as she recounted her foolhardy and courageous charge into the house and how she"d guessed his gun safe combination after four tries.

  Everyone in the room turned to look at him with silent admonition in their eyes.

  “What? It wasn"t that easy to figure out. She got lucky, thank god, and I"ll change it.” The last part was a lie. It would always remain Brandon"s birthday, goddamn it. The only two people on earth who knew that were the same two people he had no issue with having access if they needed it.

  Destiny went on to describe what she had seen, her face pale as she stated clearly that she was certain the man was attempting to kill Brandon when she"d acted to stop him. Patrick looked around the room at the heads nodding. No one was questioning her story. No one should. She"d maimed the man trying to kill a cop. In the state of Massachusetts, equal and opposite response was accepted under the law. She could have killed him and walked out of the precinct without any charges. As it was, Patrick wasn"t concerned she"d have any issue.

  No, he was much more concerned about her state of mind than her legal situation.

  The captain came to tell Patrick that she was cleared to go and that the forensics guys were almost finished at the house. He offered his office to Patrick and Destiny for a few minutes of quiet before they headed for home. Patrick clapped Brandon on his good shoulder in a fair imitation of their usual buddy-ness and pulled him into the office with them.

  Huddled in the three guest chairs, Farley"s big head resting on his knee, Patrick was acutely aware of the number of eyes peering at them through the windows. Christ, his boss worked in a fishbowl. He wished he could shut the blinds, but could only imagine it might start a riot in the bullpen.