“Here, see if these fit,” Ellen offered, stepping out of her conservative blue flats.
Destiny kicked off her high heels and jammed her feet in the other woman"s shoes.
They were at least a size and a half too small, but she could walk the ten feet it would take to get her to Bobby. She"d walk through hell barefoot for Patrick.
Taking deep breaths to still her rioting fear, she pulled her hair back and twisted it into a knot. She didn"t have anything to clip it and Ellen"s hair was about an inch long all over. She"d just have to hope the bun stayed in place.
A quiet cough from the back corner of the room brought her attention around. One of Brandon"s coworkers pulled the elastic from his ponytail and passed it to her.
It was clear from the face of every man in the room that they had no idea what the hell she was doing, but Brandon"s quiet support and Ellen"s outright collusion had convinced them to let her try.
She faced Brandon. “I love you,” she said.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard on the lips. “I love you too.” 182
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She held onto him for a moment and considered trying to make him understand how she meant it. How much she meant it. But now wasn"t the time.
Someday, she was going to give herself a world-class lecture on being thick-headed.
For now she just clung a little tighter before stepping back.
He nodded. “Okay, go get him.”
She had one hand on the doorknob when Captain Sullivan put an arm against the door to hold it closed.
“If I think you"re in any danger, I"m going to bang on that window and you will come right out. Do you understand me?”
The old-fashioned gentleman she admired looked down at her with hard eyes. She understood now how he"d gotten his job and it wasn"t by being chivalrous or fatherly.
Her regard for him went up another notch.
“Yes, sir.”
His gaze softened and she could see he was worried. For her. For Patrick.
She touched his cheek gently. When this was all over, she was inviting Captain Sullivan over to the house for supper. Maybe if she got him drunk enough, he would agree to adopt her.
The thought made her smile a little, she hoped reassuringly. Then she sucked in a deep breath and went through the door.
She jumped when it closed firmly behind her.
Bobby immediately looked at her with concern. Not “what are you doing in this room with me” concern, but “oh, the poor little lady is frightened” concern.
She felt a flash of hope, his reaction offering a small confirmation of what she believed to be true about Bobby Wilkinson. Her heart rate accelerated and she had to take a moment to rein in her racing thoughts, fighting to appear completely passive.
When she was settled, she smiled shyly, staring at his hands on the table instead of into his eyes. She hoped like hell she was being meek as she slowly made her way to the table, keeping her eyes cast down as she sat across from the man she had shot. She bit her lower lip, knowing she was at risk of pouring it on too thick but needing to test the waters.
“Hi,” she offered quietly, studying him through her bangs to gauge his response.
“Hi,” he replied automatically. She caught his gaze and his eyes immediately dropped to the table.
He was shy. She wondered how naïve he must have been to be fooled by the person who"d filled his heart with hatred.
She shifted in her seat, as if uncomfortable. It felt weird to fidget, she never did normally, but the way his eyes followed her movements told her it was the right thing to do.
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“I guess I should say… I mean, I want to start by saying that I"m sorry I shot you.” She didn"t choke on the lie.
Bobby, to his credit, looked disbelieving.
She dialed up the desperation. “I didn"t know. I mean, I know I had the gun and how to use it, I can"t lie about that. Well, about anything. But I didn"t understand. I"ve been haunted by it ever since. I thank God every day that you will recover. That you didn"t die. I couldn"t take that stain on my soul.” She watched his response to her careful choice of vocabulary. His eyes had returned to hers when she mentioned his supposed employer. His disbelief faded in the face of her fervor. Her concern for her soul.
She pressed her advantage, curling back in her chair and into herself. She started to cross her legs but stopped herself, clenching her knees together instead, her hands clasped on the table. “I just thought, you know, that in order to find forgiveness from Him, I ought to start with you.” She looked up into his eyes, hopeful. “Does that make sense?” She dropped her gaze again. “Maybe I"m not making sense,” she sighed, defeated.
“No, you"re making sense. I understand,” Bobby offered, leaning over the table to pat her hand. “I forgive you. I must. Matthew laid out for us the prayer to our Father and in it he says, „For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you."”
Destiny risked cutting him off, finishing one of the only verses she knew in the entire Bible. “But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.”
Bobby was clearly delighted with her.
She was going to have to go to Aunt Ethel"s grave and take back every bad thing she"d ever said about being forced to go to five o"clock Mass on Saturday nights with Patrick before they could go out and have fun.
“You are on the path,” he said, surprise ringing in his voice. “You walk with Jesus.” She nodded, her eyes wide. Bobby continued to smile at her like a teacher regarding his prized pupil and she ducked her head.
Gotcha, asshole.
Then she burst into tears.
Brandon started for the door the moment Destiny began to cry. Her first sob, though, stopped him in his tracks. Her second had him blocking the door from the eight other people prepared to barge through it and save her.
She was totally faking it.
Destiny might be a kick-ass marketing executive, but she"d missed her true calling as an actress. He remembered the first time she"d been pulled over for speeding. By the 184
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time she was done, the officer had been apologizing to her. And that hadn"t even been her best performance.
This, on the other hand, was Oscar-worthy.
Turning back to the window, he stilled her restless audience with a silent request to wait. She had them all fooled. Even Ellen Spencer. But none more than Bobby Wilkinson.
The poor nutjob appeared completely flummoxed by the hysterical woman before him. If Brandon hadn"t been ready to beat him to a pulp, he might have found sympathy for the stupid slob as he awkwardly patted Destiny"s hand. His efforts to console her were pathetic.
“I"m sorry. I"m so sorry. Look at me going on like that!” She wiped her eyes on Ellen"s sleeve and offered Bobby a watery smile, her hand coming to rest on her stomach. “I"m just having such a hard time right now. Trying to do what"s right. For me and the baby.”
Brandon almost swallowed his tongue.
Fuck the Oscar, she was going to get the Academy"s Lifetime Achievement Award.
Bodies moved restlessly behind him and he considered explaining. Fuck it. He was transfixed by her performance, some part of his brain churning on the idea of Destiny having his or Patrick"s baby. His and Patrick"s babies.
A fierce and unexpected longing lodged like a fist in his chest.
“Baby?” Bobby choked out, for the first time looking genuinely alarmed. Brandon hoped like hell guilt was working its way into Bobby"s black heart. Destiny was a genius.
She nodded sadly. “I made a mistake. But I"ve been trying to live a better life. I truly have. And Patrick, he said he was going to marry me. Do the right thing, you know?” Her voice hitched and she glanced up at Bobby. Brandon could just imagine those big brown eyes brimming with tears. The expression on Bobby"s face would have been comical in other circumstances. “I d
on"t know what I"m going to do if we can"t find him, Bobby. How can I raise this baby alone? Without a father? How can I explain to Momma that I"m pregnant and have no husband?”
Brandon"s lips twitched. Momma? Last he knew, Destiny addressed the woman who had given birth to her as Carole.
Destiny may have been laying it on thick, but their friend Bobby was practically licking it up. He squirmed in his chair, staring at the Bible in his hand, his expression a mask of confusion.
Destiny watched him closely, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face, then returning to desperate in the blink of an eye. Brandon was suddenly very grateful he was one of the two people on earth who could tell when Destiny was up to no good.
Leaning forward, she put her hand over one of Bobby"s.
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The young zealot nearly jumped out of his skin. His eyes met Destiny"s, caught like the proverbial deer in the headlights.
“Please, Bobby. Please help me find Patrick. He"s a good man. He loves me and I know he"ll love this baby. Don"t take him away from us. I"ll make sure he lives a good life. I want my son to have a father. Please, Bobby. Help me.” The silence that stretched was excruciating. Bobby swallowed hard a few times, his expression turning from fear to despair. Destiny held onto his hand, never releasing him from her wide, wet-eyed stare.
“I…” Bobby started, and the entire audience behind Brandon took a step forward.
Brandon had forgotten about everyone else in the room, they"d gone so completely silent and still.
“I…I don"t know,” Bobby said, desperate.
Destiny"s hand fell away from Bobby"s and her head dropped. She started crying again, this time the tears real. Brandon pressed a hand to the glass between them, wishing he could comfort her.
“I"m sorry,” Bobby said quietly.
Destiny nodded and began to push herself to her feet.
“You might try talking to—” Bobby stopped, clearly conflicted. Destiny stood motionless, looking down and away from Bobby.
Brandon held his breath.
“The preacher gives his sermons down in the warehouse,” Bobby blurted out quickly. “On the harbor in East Boston. Off Bay Street.” The door behind Brandon opened and the sound of feet fleeing the room couldn"t tear his eyes from Destiny. She turned back to Bobby and smiled sadly. “Thank you.” Then she looked directly at the mirror, at Brandon, and winked.
She"d done it. She"d fucking done it!
When she opened the door, those remaining in the observation room burst into applause.
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Chapter Seventeen
Listening to “Mass” being offered by a whackadoo preacher to a scraggly bunch of misguided zealots was about the scariest shit ever. And Patrick had seen some bad, scary shit. But this was the worst. Every invocation sent chills down his spine. His head lolled on his shoulder, still not completely within his control. He could turn it enough to watch the show, though, and it wasn"t pretty.
He was in a bad way. A really fucking bad way. While his mental faculties were making a steady, if somewhat drunken, comeback, the pharmaceutical cocktail was still running the show physically. Trying again to gather enough strength to pull against the duct tape binding his wrists to the arms of his chair, he fought a growing panic when he could do little more than twitch his fingers.
The preacher called for everyone to pray. Patrick"s eyes closed automatically and he remembered all the times he"d knelt in Saint Sebastian"s. He remembered what he"d asked for then.
The same thing he asked for now.
Health, happiness, stability. Not for him. But for Destiny and Brandon.
He knew they were together—wherever they were. No way Brandon was going to let Destiny out of his sight once they figured out he was gone. Patrick had no idea how long he"d been out cold from the drugs, but based on the dark outside the high windows above the altar, it had been a couple hours at least. Long enough for them to know something was very wrong.
He felt sorry to be causing them so much pain. He could imagine the terror he"d feel if it had been one of them goddamn fucking stupid enough to be kidnapped in the parking lot of the shopping plaza. He"d be out of his mind with worry. With fear.
Instead he was doped to the gills, somewhat calmly accepting that the old looney preacher and four young men standing not twenty feet away from him intended to kill him before morning. Not that he had a choice about the calm or the killing. Damn drugs.
He tried his hands again. More finger twitching uselessness. He hoped fervently that he could drum together enough control to flip his killers the bird as they tossed him and his perfectly innocent chair out the big door at the back of the room and into the frigid waters of Boston Harbor.
He closed his eyes again. Prayed some more.
He thought God might have heard his pleas when a bolt of lightning exploded behind his eyelids, the air thick with smoke and brimstone. That damn preacher needed smiting, but Patrick hadn"t really thought the Almighty would answer so readily.
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He heard the shouts, the terrified calls of the flock crying out to their minister, who was busy attempting to flee damnation without them. Nice guy.
Patrick lifted his head, delighted to suddenly be able to do so, and opened his eyes.
From the clouds of smoke he would later identify as the production of the SWAT
Team"s flash-bang grenades, came the most welcome sight imaginable.
Brandon.
He was beautiful. Like an angel. Only instead of wings and a loincloth it was Kevlar and blue jeans. Way sexier than any of the angels he"d seen before.
Brandon fell to his knees beside Patrick and radioed for the EMTs. The alarm in Brandon"s voice, the panic on his face, proved quite sobering. He drew a deep breath, taking in Brandon"s scent as he studied Patrick"s eyes before cutting his arms loose.
Brandon"s hands shook against his wrist as he took his pulse, continuing to bark their location and his medical condition into the radio on his shoulder.
Patrick opened his mouth to reassure him, instead saying what was most on his mind. “I love you, Cub. You and Kitten,” he said with a clearer, louder voice than he would have dreamed possible.
Brandon grimaced and quickly released the talk button on his radio.
He smiled at his boyfriend, so damn happy to see him, knowing full well he looked dopey. Brandon"s lips twitched.
A gurney and two medics appeared out of the smoke. Then Brandon"s boss and two other task force members followed close behind. Then Carter. McGuire. Geez, apparently everyone was in on the rescue.
“Where"s Sully?” he asked while he watched Brandon"s colleagues slap him on the back, sharing mutual relief and victory.
“With Destiny. He knew I wouldn"t leave her with anyone else.” Patrick nodded, pleased to discover he now had the head control of a six-month-old.
“Okay, I need to tell her I love her too,” he offered. It was really important that she knew. That she understood.
Brandon"s cheeks turned pink, but his face stayed passive. Their colleagues, on the other hand, looked like they thought something was really funny.
Brandon looked at the men around them and sighed. “It"s okay, Patrick, I"m pretty sure she and half the department heard you over my radio when you said it before.” Patrick couldn"t for the life of him figure out why Brandon seemed distressed about that. Everyone else was laughing hysterically.
Patrick grinned, pleased with himself.
And then he passed right out.
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Brandon thanked his lucky fucking stars that Patrick passed out when he did. The man was as high as a kite. And had been dead weight in his arms.
He watched the ambulance pull away, roaring toward the detox team waiting for him at Mass General. It was nothing short of terrifying to feel how his big, strong ox of a friend had been as weak as a
baby. The paramedics had assured him that the fact he was regaining consciousness and the ability to move without any medical intervention meant Patrick was fighting it off all on his own. With a little help, he"d be fine by morning.
Brandon, on the other hand, was sure he"d aged twenty years in the past four hours.
Christ, this had been the longest day of his life.
He hadn"t planned on entering the building behind the SWAT guys. He"d been honored when two of his task force colleagues had volunteered for the entry team, along with Carter and McGuire. Well, McGuire had volunteered and Carter had stood up with his partner so he didn"t look like a complete asshole.
But then Sully had offered to stay back with Destiny and the SWAT guys had offered him a seat in their truck, and the next thing he knew, he"d suited up and gone out.
It seemed everyone had known he needed to be there, even if he hadn"t figured it out. And hell, they didn"t know the half of it.
Or, at least, they hadn"t until a stoned Patrick had declared his love over the police band radio.
Brandon"s mind began to spin with the consequences of that. He was pretty sure he could blame the drugs, chalk it up to old friends loving one another in the buddy-like way. Maybe he could sell it that Cub was a childhood nickname or something.
It could work, even if it really fucking sucked.
He might have stood in the street all night, staring at the point where the ambulance had disappeared around the corner, but a couple of his and Patrick"s friends from SWAT grabbed his arms and hauled his ass back into the truck. The ride to the station was boisterous, the lingering effects of adrenaline making for lively conversation and ribald teasing. Even the normally subdued Anna Hernandez, their best sharpshooter, was in on the color commentary. She joked she hadn"t seen Patrick that drunk since the Department won the annual softball game against the firefighters.
No one mentioned Patrick"s declarations of love, though Brandon knew every single one of them had heard it through their ear piece.
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