Criminal Pleasures (22 page)

Brendan’s gut clenched, and he pushed Marc off of him just before rolling to the side, vomit shooting from his lips in a sticky stream.

“All right,” Marc said softly, his arm sliding under Brendan’s chest, holding him. “You’re okay,” he said, rubbing his back. “It’s okay.”

Pushing himself up onto his knees, Brendan wiped his mouth. “No, it’s not,” he said, his voice quivering. “This is not okay.”

Marc eased him into a sitting position, setting his gun down on the sand. He grasped Brendan’s face in his hands. “Let me look at you.” Marc examined his chin, then trailed his fingers down Brendan’s body, stopping at his knee. “I saw your blood on the steps. I thought...” Marc took a hitched breath, then grabbed Brendan in a strong embrace. “I thought you were dead.”

Brendan winced. “My arm. She kicked me down the stairs.”

Marc released him and gently touched Brendan’s elbow. “Can you move it?”

Brendan stretched his arm out. “Fuck. Hurts.”

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Marc said. He touched Brendan’s face. “Sit here a minute, catch your breath. I have to call it in. Okay?”

Brendan shook his head. “What are we gonna do? Gina’s dead. What are we gonna do?” He could feel shock stealing through his body, making his muscles twitch with small jerks. “This is because of me,” he whimpered. “She followed
me
.” He spat blood onto the sand, wiping his mouth. “It’s my fault,” he whispered, teeth chattering.

“Easy, Brendan.” Marc stroked his hair. “I’ll take care of it. I’m gonna say she was after me because of the raid, that she figured out I was a cop. I’ll try to leave you out of it. I’ll try. You don’t have to do anything, okay? It’s okay, baby. Just try to relax and breathe. You’re shaking. Try to calm yourself down. Can you do that for me?”

He looked into Marc’s wet, puffy eyes, then he glanced over at the shadowy form of Gina’s body. “This isn’t happening,” he whispered. “This is a bad dream.”

“Don’t look at her,” Marc said, turning Brendan’s face away. “Just be still a minute, can you do that for me?”

“Holy shit, Marc.” Brendan’s face fell into his hands, his body jerking. He was no longer sure if it was the cold or shock, but the combination made his muscles twitch beyond his control.

“I know, but it’ll be all right. Please, Brendan. I need you to stay calm, okay?”

Brendan nodded. “Okay,” he whispered.

Marc took out his phone and stayed close, pacing a circle around Brendan as he made his calls. Brendan fell back and lay on the sand, looking up at the stars. He couldn’t seem to feel the cold anymore, his body going numb. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking long, slow breaths.

Maybe when he opened his eyes again, he’d be in bed. He’d snuggle into Marc’s warm body, and tell him he had a terrible nightmare. And Marc would kiss him. And say it was all right. It wasn’t real.

Everything’s going to be okay, he’d say. You’re safe, Brendan. Everyone’s safe.

Chapter Twenty-One

“I want to know his name.”

Curled up on his sofa, a blanket tucked around his knees, Brendan remained silent. His father’s silver hair was mussed up from running his fingers through it, his eyes tight and lined, face stiff like a statue carved of stone. He paced in front of the sofa, hands on his hips, his broad shoulders slumped. He took the seat across from Brendan and leaned over. “Brendan? Am I speaking to myself here?” He snapped his fingers.

Brendan looked at him. “I heard you, Dad. And for the last time, I can’t tell you his name. Can we change the subject now?”

“No.” He shook his head. “We cannot change the subject. I’m your father, and I have to hear from Cal Whitehead that you were involved in a
shooting
?”

“Cal shouldn’t have called you.”

“No? Well thank God he did! No one else thought it important enough to tell me my son was involved in a fucking shooting!”

“I’m not involved anymore. But I’m not allowed to talk about it. The police were very specific.”

“The police?” His father slammed his fist down on the coffee table, making Brendan jump. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what the police said. I’m your goddamned father!”

Brendan shook his head. “Please, Dad.”

His father sighed and slumped over, his head in his hands. He looked up and pointed. “You’re moving back to Boston. I’m putting Gregory in charge of the Providence branch.”

Brendan scowled at his father. “You’re...you’re
firing
me?”

“You can come back and work for me in Boston. But you are done with Providence.”

“I’m not a kid, Dad, you can’t
ground
me!”

“You’re not staying here!” He shook his head, his thick jaw clenching. “You’ve been in this lousy city less than a month, and you get involved in some
homosexual
relationship with some dirt bag cop, nearly get yourself killed!”

Brendan stiffened. “What did you say?”

“Oh, you didn’t think I knew about that part? My son is sleeping with a
man
and I knew nothing about it. Because like everything else I’m learning, he didn’t think he could tell me. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

Brendan tossed the blanket off his lap. “What did Cal tell you?”

“He told me enough.”

Brendan nodded. “Just not his name, right?”

His father’s fists clenched. “Oh no, can’t tell me that. Can’t
talk about it
. It’s like a broken record with you two. I guess I don’t matter at all, who the fuck am I, right? I’m only your father, why should I be let into the fold? Why should I have the name of the man who nearly got my son
killed?
”

“Dad...”

“Why should that be any of my business, right? Well I’ll tell you right now, Brendan, I’m not going to sit by and do nothing about this. I’m
making
it my business.”

“And what exactly do you think you’re going to do? It’s over, Dad, something bad happened, but now it’s done. It’s in the past.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to find out who’s responsible for putting my son in danger, and I’m going to sue their asses. And get that scumbag cop fired while I’m at it. Now tell me, Brendan.
What
is his
name
?”

Brendan growled, rubbing his temples. “I’m asking you, as your son. To please. Let it
go
.”

His father stared back at him. “After all I’ve done for you. You shut me out.” He stood, grabbing his jacked off the chair. “Your whole life, I’ve given you everything. I’ve given you
everything
, Brendan. And you want to shut
me
out?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, Dad. But it’s not all about you. My life is falling to pieces around me, and I need some time to figure it out. Can you understand that? Please?”

“Fine,” he said. “You call me when you feel like letting me in. Get your shit together. But my decision is final. I’m removing you from the Providence branch. You want to shut me out? Find your own job. You’re on your own.”

His father left the loft, slamming the door.

Brendan fell onto the sofa, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. He closed his eyes as the tears came. He didn’t need this. For three weeks since the shooting, he’d been going through this nightmare. After grueling hours with the police, piles of paperwork, and recovering from his injuries, he was spent up.

Gina DiPietro’s death was dealt with, and after an investigation, most of which Brendan was left out of, Marc was finally in the clear. They’d confessed they were away on a romantic weekend where Gina followed, but as far as most everyone believed, it was Marc she was after, not Brendan. Marc insisted on keeping Brendan out of it as much as possible, and Brendan readily agreed. Not for himself, but for Marc. No one knew that their relationship started while Marc was undercover. No one but Marc’s boss, and he fortunately had no desire to reveal his detective’s fuck up, especially after ignoring Marc’s concerns about Brendan’s safety.

There would be a watchful eye on Carmen and the rest of Poppy’s relations from here on, which was supposed to make Brendan feel better about things, make him feel safe now. But it was little comfort, didn’t even seem important anymore.

Cal was the only other person who knew the whole truth, and he wasn’t talking. At least not about
that
.

Except to blab to my father that I’ve been sleeping with a man
.

Or
had
been sleeping with a man.

Since the initial interviews with the detectives, Brendan hadn’t spoken to Marc. And not for a lack of trying. He’d left countless messages on his phone. But his calls were not returned.

Brendan wiped his eyes, hissing through his teeth. “Fuck.”

He already knew what was coming, though he hoped he was wrong. Marc’s guilt was palpable during the investigation. The weight of it had been in his eyes every time he looked at Brendan, nearly wincing in pain at the sight of him. And Brendan could guess his thoughts.

After what happened, Marc would have decided that he was bad for Brendan, that it was his fault he’d gotten hurt, that he’d come close to being killed. He’d have told himself that his selfishness was to blame. But his nobility infuriated Brendan. If Marc cared for him so much, he’d realize that Brendan needed him right now. That Marc’s voice, his gaze, his touch was the only thing that would drive away the demons.

But no. Marc had abandoned him for the greater good. And now Brendan had nothing. Shit, he didn’t even have a job now. He knew it was because his father was frightened by what happened, and he understood. But like Marc, his father didn’t consider the fallout of his actions, told himself he was looking out for Brendan while simultaneously destroying his life.

And to top it all off, every night when he closed his eyes, images of Gina DiPietro’s stiff, blood-stained body played like a Tarantino movie in Brendan’s mind.

Abruptly, he threw the blanket off and got up from the sofa. His knee still hurt. It had needed stitches, but it was only a flesh wound, he could walk without a limp now. His arm was tender, but not broken. And he had a healing scar under his chin. One that matched Marc’s, a detail that would be amusing if he wasn’t feeling so tragic.

 He went into the kitchen and poured himself a whisky. He held it before his eyes, thinking of Marc, wishing it was Frangelico in his glass. How could Marc just walk away? Okay, extenuating circumstances to the third power, fine. But Brendan had thought what they’d shared was powerful enough to overcome it. He’d been wrong.

His phone rang and he jumped. Taking his whisky with him, he went into his bedroom and picked it up off the end table, his stomach lurching when he saw Marc’s name on the display. Climbing onto the bed and leaning against the headrest, he answered. “I was wondering if you were ever gonna call me back.”

“I’m sorry,” Marc said, and Brendan’s eyes closed, soothed just by the sound of his voice. “It’s been crazy. But you know that.”

“So you’re okay?”

Marc sighed. “Yes. I mean, well enough. They’re going to let me back to work finally. Had me go through all this bullshit counseling. Like they think I’m a loose cannon now or something.”

“I’m sure that’s not what they think. They probably just want to make sure you’re all right.”

“Well shit, or course I’m not all right. But I’m not gonna curl up in fetal position, and I’m not some basket case that needs all these sessions with a psychologist. I wish they’d just leave me alone and let me get on with things.”

Brendan felt a twist of guilt. He’d been feeling sorry for himself, and in the midst of all he’d been going through, had neglected to fully ponder how this had affected Marc. “Was that the first time...I mean, have you ever shot anyone before?”

Marc grew silent for a moment. “No.”

“I’m sorry. I want you to be okay. I want that more than anything.”

“Don’t worry about me, Brendan, please. I’ve got enough people doing that. How are you?”

Brendan huffed. “Well, my father’s revoking my privileges and spanking me. I’ve been pulled from running the office. It’s no longer my practice. He knows about...what happened. Just not details. He wants me out of Providence.”

Marc cursed softly. “I’m so sorry. Can you talk him out of it?”

“It doesn’t look that way.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Brendan took a sip of whisky and eased back on the pillows. “Drink. Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. I’ve got money saved. I’ll be okay for a while.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Marc fell silent, and irritation tapped at Brendan’s temples. Marc was being too formal, too polite, and it made Brendan want to scream at him.

“Well, I just wanted to check on you,” Marc said.

“And to tell me you don’t want to see me anymore. Right?”

Seconds passed in silence.

“Brendan, I can’t in good conscience keep seeing you. I almost got you killed.”

“No. Gina DiPietro almost got me killed. You saved my life. Asshole.”

“Don’t be pissed at me, Brendan, this isn’t easy for me, either. You have no idea.”

“It’s all right,” Brendan said, anger and rejection muscling down his sympathy. “It’s my fault for forgetting how easily you can lie.”

“That’s a low blow. I haven’t lied to you since the day you came to the station. You know that.”

“You said you wanted to keep me. That night at the cottage. Did I imagine that?”

“Damn it, Brendan, that’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.” Brendan hung up, and threw the phone across the room.

He waited, hoping Marc would call him back. Change his mind. Beg Brendan to come see him.

But the call never came.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Brendan ground coffee beans, then poured the sift into the filter. He added water then flicked the switch. Moving to the window, he looked down onto the street. People shuffled into the bagel shop across the road, in and out of the small cafés. The Boston commuter train rumbled in the distance.