Criminal Pleasures (24 page)

Karl shrugged. “I don’t think he has anyone else.”

Brendan leaned back in the chair, shaking his head. It pained him to no end, hearing these things. But if Marc wanted him to help, to comfort him, he would have called. Marc knew Brendan hadn’t wanted to stop seeing him. And he knew Brendan would come if he needed him. But he hadn’t called.

“At least go by his place,” Karl said. “You don’t have to kiss and make up. Just check on him. As a favor to me.”

“I don’t owe you any favors,” Brendan said.

Karl’s jaw tightened. “No. But you owe
him
your life. That outweighs whatever personal shit happened between you two. Daggett saved your ass. And now he’s the one who needs rescuing.”

“He’s strong,” Brendan said. “He’ll come out of it eventually.”

Karl raised his eyebrows. “Have you ever killed someone, Brendan?”

Brendan looked down. “Of course not.”

“Well I have.”

Brendan’s head lifted, and he stared at Karl. “You had to...shoot someone before?”

He nodded. “Once, many years ago. You can’t imagine what that feels like. No training can prepare you for it. It takes more than personal strength to deal with that. It takes the support of other people. But Marc’s trying to deal with it by himself.”

Karl stood and put his hat on. He picked up his coffee. “It’s your call. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he will come out of it on his own. But if he doesn’t, I won’t be the only one feeling guilty.”

Brendan looked up at him. “Don’t lay that shit on me.”

Karl scowled down at him. “I’m sorry. I thought you cared about the guy. My mistake. Sorry to have bothered you.”

Karl left the coffee shop.

Brendan sat there for a long time, twisting his cup on the table, staring into his coffee. His stomach clenched at the thought of going to Marc’s house. Not because he didn’t want to see him. Not because he didn’t want to help. It was a selfish reason. He didn’t think he could bear it. He didn’t think he could handle it if Marc turned him away, rejected him. It had taken weeks to even come close to getting over Marc. If he saw him face to face, looked into his hypnotic brown eyes, he’d be right back where he started.

“Daggett saved your ass. And now he’s the one who needs rescuing.”

“Damn it,” Brendan muttered.

He picked up his briefcase, and headed off to catch the train home.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The sun hung low in the sky, a crest of orange fire on the cloudy horizon. Brendan drove his BMW up Marc’s driveway, parking behind the Jeep. As he got out of the car, butterflies danced in his stomach. Marc’s property was quiet except for a soft chorus of birds settling in for the night. The windows were dark.

He closed the car door quietly, and slid his keys into his jeans pocket. Taking a deep breath, he headed up onto the porch. Pulling the screen door back, he knocked.

And waited.

And knocked again.

After another five minutes of this, it became evident that no one was coming to the door. Marc either wasn’t home, or wasn’t answering.

Brendan climbed off the porch and made his way around to the back of the house. He spotted a rear door. He approached warily, feeling like a stalker. But he knocked. Again he got no answer. He was sorely tempted to peek in the windows, but simply couldn’t allow himself to take it that far. Marc wasn’t coming to the door. Brendan had tried. He’d done his best.

He turned and admired the back yard and the lake, an amber glimmer of falling sun speckling the water. In an orange jacket, perched in a yellow kayak, Brendan didn’t see Marc at first, his form blending in with the sun dappled water. Head down, Marc paddled toward shore.

Brendan almost turned and left, suddenly frightened at the prospect of speaking to him. After a moment’s hesitation, he made his way down the grass to the lake’s edge.

Marc didn’t notice Brendan until he reached the shore, doing a double take. Brendan waved. “Hey.”

Hopping out of the kayak, Marc dragged it up onto land, then swiftly walked over. He looked slightly thinner, but still beautiful enough to Make Brendan’s heart stop, his eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the cold. “What’s wrong?” Marc asked. “Are you all right?”

It took Brendan a moment to recognize the alarm in Marc’s expression. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said quickly. “I just came by to check on you.”

Marc stopped before him, hands on his hips. His shoulders relaxed. “Oh, good.” He shook his head. “No need to check on me, I’m fine.” His eyes roamed over Brendan. “Shit. You look good. As usual.”

Brendan smiled. “You look thin. I was hoping I could take you out to dinner.”

Marc looked up. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, you know. Food?”

“This isn’t a good time, Brendan. You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why? Because you’re so busy?”

Marc met his eyes, frowning. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Why not? Come on, it’s Friday night. I only want to take you to dinner. What can that hurt?”

“Brendan.” He shook his head. “It hurts just looking at you.”

Brendan reached for him, but Marc took a step back, raising his hands. “Don’t.”

Brendan bit his lip, disappointment and pain punching him in the gut. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest. “So you’re gonna send me away. After I drove all the way over here.”

“Are you still in Providence?”

“Jamaica Plain. I moved. I’m working at a small law firm.”

“Oh.” Marc stared at him, indecision in his eyes. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s not bad.”

Marc nodded. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“And how are you doing?”

“Good.”

“No, you’re not,” Brendan said.

“Brendan, I’m fine. I can’t go to dinner. I’m sorry.”

“Can I at least come in for a drink? I have to use the bathroom.”

Marc hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Come on. But you’ll have to excuse the mess.”

Brendan grinned as he followed Marc up the lawn, toward the house. “Déjà vu,” he said.

Marc glanced back at him. “What?”

“The night you brought me to your apartment in Providence. The first night we met. You said that same thing. About the mess. But there wasn’t any mess.”

“Ah, yeah.” Marc opened the back door and they stepped into the dark house. “Well, you won’t be disappointed this time.” He flicked on a light, then turned to Brendan. “Well as long as we’re on déjà vu, you can pour us a drink. I’m all muddy, I need to shower and change. You know where the liquor is.”

Marc retreated and trudged up the stairs, disappearing.

Brendan moved through the house, turning on lights. This time Marc wasn’t kidding, the place
was
a mess. Dirty dishes on the end tables, socks on the floor, a pair of sweatpants slung over the back of the couch. Brendan found the stereo, and put on one of Marc’s jazz CDs. Music flooded the room, making it feel warmer. He turned on more lights, as though by brightening the house he could chase the darkness from Marc’s soul. Then he went into the sunroom and pulled the bottle of Frangelico from the hutch. He poured two glasses, then moved to the kitchen, setting them down on the island.

His eyes darted around, and he sighed. The mess was worse in here. Dishes cluttered the sink. Old scraps of diced vegetables sat shriveled and hardening on a cutting board. Brendan picked it up and used a fork to scrape them into the trash. He eyed the dishes but didn’t want to overstep his bounds and piss Marc off. So he washed his hands and picked up the drinks, then went back into the living room, taking a seat on the couch.

When something stabbed his thigh he jumped up, and scowled at an empty soda can. He picked it up and set it on the coffee table, struggling to find room amidst the potato chips bags and beer bottles.

Shit. I’ve
got
to get him out of the house
.

But how?

Finally Marc came down the stairs. His hair was damp, olive skin flushed with windburn. A brown sweater hung a bit too loose on his shoulders, the jeans a touch baggy, but even so, Brendan’s mouth went dry at the sight. “Please let me take you to dinner,” Brendan said. “Just a burger or something, come on.”

Marc picked up the drink Brendan had set down, and took the chair across from him. Anger and disappointment tugged at Brendan when Marc didn’t join him on the couch, seeming to want to put distance between them.

Marc took a sip of Frangelico, and closed his eyes, sighing. “That’s good,” he said, then looked at Brendan, a small grin tilting his lips. “I haven’t been able to drink this lately. Reminds me too much of you. But since you’re here.” He shrugged, taking another sip.

“So,” Brendan said. “What about dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Brendan nodded. “Okay. How about we go out for a drink?”

“We can have drinks here.”

“Marc, come on. You have to get out of the house.”

“Brendan, I love you, but I don’t need a nursemaid.”

A tingle ran through him, and Brendan went still. “You
love
me?”

Marc looked up quickly, and there was no mistaking the surprise in his expression. He hadn’t meant to say it. He’d let it slip. “You shouldn’t have come here, Brendan. As you can see, I’m kind of enjoying some alone time.”

“I don’t care. You still have to eat. And I’m starving.”

Marc grinned sheepishly. “Well I’d cook for you, but...” He glanced at the kitchen.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Brendan said. “Come out for one drink with me. Maybe an appetizer. After, I’ll drop you home, and you can go back to messing up your house and staring at the walls.”

“Fine,” Marc said, and Brendan nearly cheered. “But don’t try to get me to talk about...what happened down the Cape. I’ve had enough people poking around inside my head lately. Deal?”

Brendan stood. “Deal.”

****

Marc stared out the passenger window of Brendan’s car. Aside from the music on the radio, they’d been driving in complete silence for a long time. But when they crossed over the town line into Jamaica Plain, Marc looked at Brendan. “Where are we going?”

“To my place.”

Marc stared at him. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to make you dinner.”

Marc let out a breath. “Brendan!”

“What?”

“You can’t kidnap me!”

Brendan glanced at him. “Why not? You kidnapped me once.”

Marc faced front, shaking his head, then looked at Brendan again. “Don’t do this to me. Please.”

Brendan scowled. “You make it sound like I’m torturing you. I didn’t know having dinner with me was such a nightmare, I’m sorry.”

Marc growled into his fist, then sighed, his head falling back against the seat. “This isn’t a good idea. I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. But I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“I just want to make you dinner.”

“You said you can’t cook.”

“Then we’ll order something in.”

Marc shook his head. “I hope you don’t think you’re getting in my pants.”

Brendan glanced at him, then pulled into his parking spot behind the apartment building. “I won’t lay a hand on you,” he said. He shut off the engine. “Unless you want me to.”

He stepped out of the car before Marc could reply.

For a moment he was afraid Marc wasn’t going to get out of the car. Then finally, he stepped out, closing the door. Brendan clicked the lock. “This way.”

Marc followed Brendan to his door, standing behind him while he unlocked it. “This isn’t fair, Brendan.”

Brendan opened the door, then turned back to Marc. “Do you really want me to take you back home?”

Marc blinked at him, saying nothing.

“I will,” Brendan said. “If you really want me to.”

Marc shrugged. “Just...show me your apartment. We’re already here.”

Brendan turned around and headed inside, his teeth clenched in frustration. He’d expected some resistance, but not this. It hurt his feelings. Marc was behaving as if Brendan was the worst thing in the world for him. He knew Marc felt strongly about them not seeing each other anymore, but this was a bit over the top. And it wasn’t like Marc didn’t feel anything for him, Brendan could see it in his eyes. Marc still wanted him, though the desire that flashed through his expression periodically was watered down by a backdrop of misery. 

When he turned the lights on, Marc looked around, wandering through the rooms. He glanced in the kitchen, then went down the hall, peeking in the bathroom, and Brendan’s small bedroom. “It’s nice,” he said.

“It’s small,” Brendan said. He pulled out his phone. “Chinese okay?”

“Sure.”

Brendan called in the order. Afterward, he found Marc in his living room, sitting on the couch. He looked up. “I’ll be needing that drink now, Blondie.”

“White wine okay?”

“Fine. Anything.”

Brendan went to the kitchen and pulled the wine out of the fridge. He needed the drink, too. He’d been playing bold, but his hands trembled slightly. He had Marc here, and now he had no idea what he was going to do with him. The guy was already as defensive as a rattle snake. While Brendan was convinced that Marc needed the company of someone else, that he needed to talk to someone he could trust, he wasn’t optimistic that would happen.

When he returned to the living room, he stopped short. Marc was hunched over, his face in his hands. Brendan slowly approached and set the wine down on the coffee table. He sat down on the couch next to Marc, leaving a respectable bit of space between them.

“Hey,” he said softly. When Marc didn’t move, he reached over, gently placing his hand on his back.

Marc flinched, but kept his face in his hands. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. It’s upsetting, spending time with you.”

“Why? Upsetting you is the last thing I want to do. I’m not expecting anything from you. I just thought you could use a field trip. I didn’t ambush you so I could make you talk about
us
.”

“This isn’t about us. Not really.”

Brendan kept his hand on Marc’s back. “Then what?”

“I didn’t want to kill her,” Marc said, so softly Brendan almost didn’t hear him.