It hurts to see someone you love suffer, regardless of the type of love.
Speaking of hurts, James winces as he shifts again and becomes aware of another need. “I need the bathroom,” he says, keeping his voice low, and Genevieve puts the tray down before crossing the room to him.
“Let’s get you up,” she says softly, getting her arm around his back and helping him up onto his good leg. She brings the crutches around, guiding them up under his arms. “Clinton had Jerry pop that bar up in there, so we’re all set.”
James hates the crutches, but he looks across the room at Derek’s sleeping face, takes a deep breath, and gets on with it.
Brock blinks across the table at Daniel and Roger. “You’re telling me that someone in the NYPD gave James and Derek up to Fairhall?”
“Not only that, but you’re looking at the two people in the NYPD who actually knew where they were going,” Roger says. “Callahan and I were the only two who knew their location, and, for the record, I don’t believe for a second that he gave them up.”
“I know you wouldn’t have either.” Daniel clinks their glasses together, then drains what’s left of his in one gulp. He raises a hand, looking toward the bar. “Can we have another round?” he calls, his voice rough.
“Someone has to have bugged the office,” Cohen says. He hasn’t looked up from the beer in his hands since Roger started talking, but he looks up at Brock when he says that. “Maybe the conference rooms too. We can’t trust anyone who isn’t at this table.”
Brock knocks back what’s left of his own drink, setting the glass down on the table with a thud. His phone dings in his pocket and he checks it, lighting the screen briefly, and putting it back when he sees Evan’s name. “Is there anyone that comes to mind?” he asks. “Someone with a grudge against James, maybe? It’s got to be someone with some weight to throw around, right? That was privileged information.”
“Someone who came out to the meet with me,” Cohen says suddenly. “We didn’t tell anyone in the bullpen, they couldn’t have overheard it.”
“If they bugged the office, they would have heard about it when you came in to tell me, kid.” Roger folds one of the thin cardboard coasters in half and then presses it flat against the table with his fingers. His shoulders droop, a sigh escaping his lips. “But, doesn’t mean it wasn’t one of them all the same.”
“I trust Rhys.” Daniel taps against the side of his empty glass with his knuckle. “He’s been loyal to James as long as he’s been with us, not to mention that they blew up his car.”
“Crooked cops usually turn for the money,” Brock says. “They get tired of risking their lives and busting their asses for less than they think they deserve. Riches and glory are what get them, and there are plenty of less legal ways to get those that are wide open to you, when you’ve got a badge and a gun.”
“Someone new to the precinct but not the force?” Cohen suggests. “We’ve had a lot of transfers in the last year.”
“Has to have been here at least half the year,” Roger points out as the waitress comes over with a tray. She swaps out their empty glasses for full ones wordlessly, offering a smile, but leaving as quickly as she arrived. “Since the beginning of the thing with Fairhall.”
Brock fumbles in his satchel for the small notebook he keeps in there, then digs deeper for a loose pen. He puts them in the middle of the table, flipping the notebook open to a clear page. “Names,” he says, tapping the paper and uncapping the pen. “Think.”
The diner they end up at for a late lunch is conveniently close to the precinct. Peter manages to cajole Tia into dropping by with him, even though the expression on her face makes it clear she doesn’t believe it was at all accidental.
“The only way you two are going to get along is by spending time together,” he says, linking their arms.
She lets him pull her against his side, but then pinches the skin above his hip so hard that he yelps, jerking away. Tia holds him tight even as she lets go, lifting her chin.
“I’ll continue to make him afraid of me as long as I like.” She sniffs, but there’s a hint of color high on her cheeks. Peter knows, especially now that he’s realized loneliness has really set in, that she gets prickly when she’s emotionally invested in something. He can’t bite back the smile at the thought that she’s nervous about Daniel liking her. “That’s my prerogative as your best friend, even if he is trying to steal you.”
“He’s not stealing me,” Peter says with a sigh, leaning against her as they settle into a dawdling pace. “No one else can match our passion for D-list celebrity gossip and trashy reality TV, so he doesn’t stand a chance. Plus, he has a best friend already.”
“Who, his silver-fox boss?” Tia snorts. “Because that’s healthy.”
“No!” Peter bites back his own snort; he’s made more than one unhealthy comment about Daniel’s relationship with James before, and the tips of Daniel’s ears always go redder than a tomato. “You remember Derek, right? They went to college together. Best friends.”
“The other lawyer guy? The one who was getting stalked?” Tia frowns, but then her eyes light up with recognition. “Oh yeah, the hottie who is dating his boss, right?”
“You could try to make it sound less like you’re objectifying the people who keep our city safe, Tia.” Peter sighs. “They are real people, but yeah, that’s Derek.”
“Of course hot people are real people,” Tia says. “Doesn’t make them any less hot. Don’t tell me you don’t still agree that they’re all too pretty to be doing anything but modelling or acting or, like, posing for nude paintings all the time.”
“I’m rethinking all of my choices,” Peter says, looking up at the sky. “Please, whoever’s up there, give me strength. Please, Tia, don’t tell the cops they should sit for nude paintings. Or the lawyers. Just—just don’t tell anyone that?”
“I can’t make any promises.” She grins at him, and he’s torn between relief that the sparkle is back in her eye, and dismay.
By the time they make it to the precinct, he’s pretty firmly settled on dismay. Especially when he sees Kay at the desk. The way her eyes light up at the sight of him is kind of flattering, but mostly alarming.
“Bambi!” she says delightedly.
Peter has no idea why he thought integrating the two halves of his life would be a good plan.
“He is super fluffy, isn’t he?” Tia says, and fluffs his hair up with her free hand. “His eyes could definitely be wider and more woodland-creature, but there’s a certain charm there.”
Kay’s grin only gets bigger. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We’re here to see Daniel!” Peter blurts.
“Déjà vu.” Kay shakes her head with a laugh. “Danny has clocked out and gone for a drink, I’m afraid, with Bailey, Murphy, and the illustrious Mr. Hart. Looked very official. They didn’t say when they’d be back.”
Peter can’t help the sigh, but it’s more relief than disappointment.
“While you’re here, though, I am dying to see photographic evidence of Daniel with that cat,” Kay says. “I’ll let him know you’re here, and won’t tell him you showed me?”
Tia starts pushing Peter around the other side of the desk, already cackling.
Daniel pulls his cell out of his pocket when it trills with a message notification. It’s a picture message, from Kay, and he isn’t sure what he expects when he opens it. Something catastrophic, maybe, considering the rest of the day. Not a selfie of Peter squished between Kay and Tia. He must make a sound without realizing it, because Cohen’s hand lands on his forearm.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Daniel shakes his head, turning the cell so Cohen can see. “Kay’s got her claws in my boyfriend,” he mutters, pushing himself up off the stool. “It’s not going to end well for me. We aren’t going to solve this today.”
“We aren’t going to solve anything today,” Roger says, tilting his glass. “Today is for another co
uple rounds and then a good night’s sleep. We’ll deal with the mole tomorrow.”
“Hear, hear,” Brock says, tipping his head toward Roger.
“Nope, that’s it for me.” Daniel shakes his head again. “I gotta go rescue Peter, and whatever’s left of my secrets.”
Cohen laughs at the picture and Peter’s wide-eyed panic. “Tia’s a character,” he says, as Daniel tucks his cell back in his pocket. “Don’t even want to think about her and Kay teaming up.”
“Don’t say it.” Daniel holds up a finger, and then pulls out his wallet and drops a twenty and a ten on the table. “I’m out. We’ll meet at the diner tomorrow and go over it again.”
8
Brock wouldn’t label them as drunk, not exactly. They’ve paced themselves admirably well considering the events of the day. It would have been easy, he thinks, to go too hard too fast and write themselves off, between the alcohol and the overwhelming sting of betrayal. The three officers, more than him, he knows. The idea of a leak in the NYPD upsets him on principle and professionally, but not on a personal level.
Cohen and Roger look like they’ve both taken a two-by-four to the balls, and Daniel had looked much the same before he’d left. Brock’s prosecuted more than a few dirty cops over the years and knows there’s always a trail. Sometimes they hide it well, but it’s always there. They’ll find this one too, whatever it takes.
Roger bows out not long after dark, when there’s a basket of wings mostly decimated on the table and they’re amassing quite the collection of empty glasses. “Don’t make me have to bail you boys out in a few hours,” he says, wry grin tugging at his cheeks and the corners of his eyes belying the haunted look still in them. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Yes, sir!” Cohen says, and Brock can’t hold back a snort, a real laugh escaping him when Cohen turns away from Roger’s departing back to shoot him a furrowed-brow glare, deep with betrayal.
“Boy Scout,” Brock says, and it comes out far softer and fonder than he meant it to.
Cohen’s face clears, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “I was in the Scouts,” he says, and Brock’s eyes are drawn to the way his fingers flex around the condensation-spotted glass. “Good practice for policing.”
“I am not surprised at all.” Brock tips his glass forward, then brings it to his mouth. The beer soothes the sudden dryness in his throat, and Cohen laughs across the table.
When Brock looks at him, he can see the faint flush high on the younger man’s cheeks. Against Cohen’s olive skin, the flush doesn’t look as red as the one he knows is spreading from his cheeks to his ears, an unfortunate tomato-red stain stark against his own pale skin. Brock would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it a couple of times, caught up in the stretch of dark fabric across muscles and the glint of silver against the strong line of Cohen’s neck. He doesn’t know what hangs on the chain that is always tucked into Cohen’s shirt, and hasn’t even caught a glimpse of the shirt pulled tight enough to even guess at it, but he suddenly wants to find out.
“Want to take this back to mine?” he asks, putting the empty glass down on the table between them with a thud. “I have a six-pack and some whiskey, and case notes. We can sweep for bugs.”
Cohen’s grin is wide enough that the crinkles in the corners of his eyes get deeper than Brock’s seen them go before. “A little paranoid, aren’t we?”
“Hey,” Brock protests. “Paranoia is only paranoia when it isn’t warranted. I think this is warranted.”
“I doubt they’d bug your place,” Cohen says, the grin softening to something smaller and more private. The light catches his eyes, turning them from dark and intent to warm and bright. “But I’ll check it over for you all the same.”
The cab ride from the bar is very different from the one to the bar. There’s a comparable amount of touching across the much smaller amount of space in the back seat, but none of the anxiety. Brock thinks about trying to disguise it, some small part of his brain urging common sense and restraint, and a much larger part marveling at the strong thigh twitching under his palm when it settles there as they lean toward each other. Cohen stretches his arm out along the back of the seat and his fingertips brush against the curve of Brock’s neck and shoulder, catching bare skin above his collar.
The cab driver looks like he couldn’t care less about whatever happens in his back seat when he zips out into traffic, the momentum pushing Cohen back toward Brock until Brock is practically tucked into his side. It’s a strange feeling, being pressed up against someone as broad and strong as he is. Most men his height are leaner, and his taste has always leaned that way. The thigh under his hand is thick and ropy with muscle, and he can see Cohen’s sleeve straining over his biceps. He moves just far enough away to keep his hand curled around Cohen’s thigh, right above the knee, and can see out of the corner of his eye Cohen’s dark gaze lingering on the side of his face.
The lights are red, the cab idling behind a shiny silver Mercedes Benz, when Cohen’s palm curves around the side of his neck as he leans in. The contact is solid and grounding, the heat searing against the vulnerable skin. “Am I reading this right?” he murmurs, his breath tickling at the short hairs behind Brock’s ear.
“I sure hope we’re on the same page.” Brock slides his hand further up, fingertips brushing over the inside of Cohen’s thigh. He relishes in the tiny jolt, the muscles jumping beneath his hand and Cohen’s grip on the side of his neck tightening for the briefest moment.
All of the anticipation before had been quiet and buzzing, a faint possibility hovering in the background of their tentative touches. Now the air in the back of the cab is thick and heavy with promise, lines of heat spreading from every point of contact between them.
He marvels at it for the rest of the trip, and then as they climb out of the cab, the way they orbit each other between the sidewalk and the doorway. Brock reaches out and tangles their fingers together when they’re on the front steps, and he’s looking back at Cohen, backlit by the headlights and streetlamps, when they reach the lobby.
That’s probably why he doesn’t see Evan waiting by the bank of elevators until it’s too late to drop Cohen’s hand without being completely obvious.
Evan takes a couple of steps toward them, his eyes fixed on Brock and Cohen’s linked hands. Brock’s cell phone is suddenly an enormous, obvious weight in his pocket, the previews of all the ignored messages flashing up in sequence behind his eyes.
Cohen goes rigid, the tension obvious as he tries to jerk his hand out of Brock’s. Brock holds tight, anger surging through him suddenly. “Evan,” he says through gritted teeth.
Evan’s mouth twists downward, eyes glittering in the lobby lights. “Brock,” he says, and then turns his glare on Cohen. “New toy.”
The sound that leaves Cohen is somewhere between a punched-out huff and a sigh, and he pulls again at Brock’s hand. Brock lets his grip fall this time, taking a step toward Evan. “What are you doing here?” he demands.
“I’d ask you the same,” Evan sneers. “But I think I can tell.”
“You know the score,” Brock shoots back, something sour at the back of his throat. “If I wanted to see you, I would have told you.”
Evan flashes a smile that’s more a baring of teeth than anything warm or kind. “Oh, this message is received loud and clear,” he says. “I see you’ve found a younger model. Bit rougher than your usual fare, isn’t he?”
Cohen snorts, the sound coming from a lot closer than Brock expects, the heat of him right behind Brock’s shoulder. “Rough the best you can come up with?”
Evan’s eyebrows arch higher, and Brock’s fingers itch, curling into fists at his sides. “You sure you want me to go there?” Evan says, taking a step forward. His eyes are fixed on Cohen now, instead of Brock. “You want to know about how easy it is to catch his attention? How it’s a few days every few months, and radio silence the rest of the year?”
“You’ve known how it is fro
m the beginning.” Brock takes a step forward too, and Evan’s eyes flick to him. He doesn’t know what exactly is behind the flush rising in his face, only that his blood is burning hot with something, and that he kind of wants to punch Evan in the face. Cohen’s fingers close around his wrist.
“You want him to leave, Brock?” It takes a few seconds for Cohen’s words to filter in.
“Yes,” he manages to grit out, eyes still locked with Evan’s. He’s never seen them that cold and remembers the unease from that first night back in the city. He should never have let whatever it was go this far.
“You heard him,” Cohen says, and he steps around Brock, looming in the small space between him and Evan. “I’d leave if I were you.”
Evan makes a sound, sharp and biting and unamused, and turns his eyes on Cohen as he starts backing away. “Oh, he will,” he says. “Probably sooner rather than later. Pretty will only get you so far, take my word for it.”
Only Cohen being between them stops Brock from lunging toward Evan at that. The words cut at something soft and vulnerable, but then Cohen turns around, and blocks Brock’s view of Evan as he leaves.
“Hey.” Brock blinks a couple of times, until Cohen’s face comes into sharper focus. He’s not quite smiling, but his mouth is softer than it had been, and one of his hands settles against Brock’s hip. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” It takes a second, and another couple of blinks, before he realizes it’s true. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting him to be here.”
“Got that vibe,” Cohen says, and his lips quirk up. “You still want me to come up?”
“Yes.” Brock grabs his hand, surprised by the vehemence in his own voice. “I do.”
Cohen’s fingers ghost over the dips and peaks of Brock’s bared chest, dipping to touch fleetingly in places and barely grazing in others. There’s warm, soft skin giving over to hard muscle beneath his fingertips, dusted with sparse, wiry hair. The definition is faint but there, enough that Cohen can see as well as feel when Brock’s abdominals jump as he presses lightly on a particular spot.
Over and Again Page 8
