Chances Are #4

Ghost of a Chance

Chance thought he knew true heartache when Cannon walked out on him. He finds out
how wrong he is when current lover Rory decides he's done waiting for Chance to
return his love.

After two months of seeking amnesia in the bottom of a bottle, Chance is on the verge of
resurrecting the protective shell that kept his emotions safe for so long. Then the past
comes knocking on his door again, and he has no choice but to own his mistakes.

Odds are fifty-fifty he’ll get a second chance…will he make the same mistakes all over
again or does he stand a ghost of a chance?

Pulp Friction Presents

Ghost of a Chance

By

Lee Brazil

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the

author's imagination or are used fictitiously. As such, any resemblance to any persons,

living or deceased, businesses, events, or locales is coincidental.

Cover Art photo by © Laura Harner

Editing by Jae Ashley

Copyright July 2013 © Lee Brazil

Acknowledgement

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Trademark Acknowledgements:

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the
following trademarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Chuck E. Cheese: CEC Entertainment Concepts, L.P.
Cuervo Gold: Tequila Cuervo La Rojena, S.A.
Delray: General Motors, LLC
Ferragamo: Salvatore Ferragamo S.P.A.
Flintstones (including Yabba-Dabba-Doo): Hanna-Barbera Productions, Inc.
iPhone: Apple, Inc.
Jack (referencing Jack Daniel beverage): Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc.
Levi's: Levi Strauss & Co. Corporation
Peapod: Peapod, LLC
Speedo: Speedo International

Ghost of a Chance

Part One

I pushed a shred of paper into the flame on the citronella candle, watched it

blacken and wither. Heat like a thick cotton blanket hung heavy over me in the late

Georgia afternoon. Sweat beaded on my brow. "No, Darrin." Even after two months

back, it felt strange to sit on my patio and look at a lawn of vibrant green grass instead

of the black asphalt of the bar's parking lot. The air was cleaner. Mrs. Philpot's roses

sent their sweet scent over the chain metal cyclone fence on the left with every stray

breeze, and the heavier, more cloying odor of Phil the mailman's pot hung in the

intervals between breezes.

My neighborhood was a lot like the one behind the bar, except quieter and there

was no bossy homeowner's association telling people what color they could paint their

shutters and where to put their mailboxes. All together there were about two hundred

homes mostly built in the sixties in an odd sort of style Cannon had once called colonial

ranch. My place was a three bedroom single floor of red brick that reminded me a little

bit of my grandmother's house. I bought it when I got out of the academy, and the

payments were a stretch for my meager salary then. Once I'd rented a room to Wick, but

we sucked as roommates. Thankfully, he'd gotten his own place renovated pretty

quickly, and for the last fifteen years, with the notable exception of the period when I

avoided the place like the plague because of the memories of Cannon it housed, my

house had been my sanctuary. At one time I'd thought that Cannon would share it with

me. The sharp edges of the memories I'd run from had softened with time.

The lesson I'd learned from bringing Cannon into my home was one reason why

I'd never brought Rory here, I suppose. Damn good thing too, because now that Rory

had gone…left me, might as well say it out right. Now that Rory had left me, the house

gave me a place to hide and lick my wounds while I got back into the right mind-set. Of

course, I couldn’t seem to bring myself to go back to the bar, so it was the same old

game on different playing field.

Sunlight glinted on the amber whiskey in its clear glass bottle. A lawn mower

droned quietly. The kid next door had noticed I'd moved back home and was up to his

old tricks. He was out in the heat mowing the lawn in a Speedo, letting the sun beat

down on his oiled skin. The boy was looking for something his accountant father and

school teacher mother would never understand, but he was looking in the wrong

direction. I wasn't up to playing daddy to some naïve virginal kid. It wasn't even really

my scene, whatever vibe he might have picked up.

Even if I couldn't explain what exactly I wanted, I could close my eyes and put a

face to it. I wanted Rory. With us, it was not a game. It wasn’t a scene. It was how we

were, and I should have fucking told him that. Maybe if I had, he wouldn't have gotten

tired of waiting and he'd have stayed and we'd be spending Friday night in the usual

way, putting off gratification as long as possible while I sat in the bar and he knelt on

the bed, and an invisible thread of arousal thrummed between us, ratcheting tension

higher and higher until the whole bar seemed to snap with sexual tension.

Instead, I sat on my back patio watching a sexual disaster in the making cut his

dad's grass and giving one of my oldest friends the brush off while I concentrated on

getting drunk as efficiently as possible in the vain hope that I'd be able to sleep tonight.

"Come on, Chance. The kid's been working seven days a week trying to cover for

you. It's been two months. Come to work and give Gerry the night off." Darrin was at

the bar. In the background I could hear people talking and dishes clanking. Metallic

jingling indicated he was seated close to the register, probably monitoring Gerry's

handling of the funds.

The reminder that it'd been so long since Rory walked out on me was like a knife

to the gut. I hadn't managed to numb the pain yet, and I refused to go back to the bar

until I had. You mean until he comes back.

"Your sex life hurting, Darrin?" My eyes don't leave the boy next door. He was

shit out of luck, with his not so subtle flexing and stretching as he paused for a drink.

"What if it is? That's not the point and you know it. It's not fair to Gerry."

Truth there. Gerry had a brother with kids that he helped out, and his presence

was probably missed. The solution was easy enough. "Fine. Tell him he's promoted to

manager and I'll give him a raise. His first job as manager is to hire someone to help

out." Hanging up on Darrin felt good. I sipped a bit of whiskey then topped up my

Flintstone glass with another shot. "Yabba-Dabba-Doo," I muttered, raising the glass to

the sunlight in salute. I had an entire set of six. Wick had found them for me as a house

warming gift and even though I could afford the finest crystal now, drinking out of the

glasses was as much a security crutch as holing up here and ignoring the fact that I

owned a bar and had employees.

The mower cut off and the neighbor's boy trundled off to store the machine in

one of those prefab tin sheds. My shed blocked the view of their shed, so I watched the

laundry hanging on the line of the house behind mine instead. The bleep of my cell

phone came again. I picked it up with more alacrity than I'd set it down. "Wick, have

you found him?"

"Cool your jets. Hello, Chance, how are you, Chance, long time no see."

"Bite me, Wick."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Fine as the offer is, Chance, I'm going to have to

turn you down. Now, if you'd asked me that eight months ago, my answer might have

been different. Now? I think sex, even as mind blowing as sex with me is, isn't the right

thing for you. Besides, you're kind of my only long standing platonic friendship. I'd

hate to ruin that with the two of us arguing over who gets to top."

My lips twitched. I couldn't help smiling at Wick's snark. Wick Templeton

wouldn't let up until he got his way, and I was too tired of the struggle to keep him at

bay to fight it. "How are you, Wick?"

"I've been better, but we'll get to that later. To answer your question, not yet. And

that's not why I called."

I frowned as the jailbait next door reappeared with a garden hose in his hand

and hosed himself off. "I got to put up a privacy fence. This chain link shit isn't cutting

it." Following the stream of water down the smooth well-muscled chest to the taut

nylon bikini swimsuit distracted me from Wick's response.

"Chance? Damn it, man! Snap the fuck out of it!"

"Huh?"

"You're worrying me." Flat out honesty wasn't Wick's style, and I immediately

felt guilty for destroying his insouciant veneer.

"I'm fine. Or I will be. Gerry's managing the bar and they have orders to call me

when Rory shows back up."

"Fuck that, Chance. I'm looking for him. I'll find him. Which brings me back to

why I called. I need some help. I'm working on this thing for you, and I have a few

other loose ends to tie up, which means that there's this case that I can't take on, but it's

right up your alley."

"I'm not interested in investigating any cases right now." Police work hadn't ever

been much solace from the wounds of the heart.

"Whoa. Not even an I'll think about it? Just flat out no, huh?"

"No. I have to go, there's another call coming through." I flashed to the next call,

ignoring the faint voice that hoped it was Rory. That idiot had been saying the same

thing every time the phone rang for the last two months. The asshole was never right.

He'd make a fabulous fucking weatherman. "Chance."

"I’m coming over."

Fuck. If there was one person I didn't want to talk to more than Wick at that

moment, it was Cannon. "Cannon, no."

"I'm pulling into your subdivision now."

Of course he was. Because he knew when Rory did not, exactly where my little

three bedroom colonial ranch was located. The house was mine, bought long before the

bar was even on my horizon, and Cannon, of course, had spent more than one stolen

moment here with me in the glory days of our relationship.

The kid next door had apparently given up on his show, and I scooped up the

whiskey bottle and my glass. Cannon wouldn't approve of my panacea for pain and

much as it irked me to give a fuck, I didn't want to see the disappointed look on his

face.

When it came to alcohol, his views were stringent. Once during our relationship,

Marcus and I had been called to the scene of a gang fight straight out of The Outsiders.

We weren't new to our jobs even then, but we'd both been shocked by the level of

violence two groups of teenagers could inflict on each other.

We'd ended the night in a bar with a fifth of Jack and had to call Wick to play taxi

driver. Wick had come to the rescue with Zack and Cannon in tow. They'd driven

Marcus off and turned me over to Cannon's not so merciful hands.

There might have been a story behind his abhorrence, it might have just been a

medical thing, he never said. What he did say was that if he ever caught me in that

condition again he'd break things off between us. A year of sobriety later he'd broken

things off between us anyway, and damn it all if maybe that wasn't why owning a bar

hadn't seemed like such a brilliant fuck you at the time.

I shoved the glass in the dishwasher and the bottle in the freezer. "There's no

reason for you to come here, Cannon."

"I’m parking in your driveway now. Come let me in."

Cursing under my breath, I hung up and dropped the phone into my pocket. I'd

rather have faced Wick than Cannon right now. I opened the front door to find him

standing there in one of his designer suits, indicating he'd been at his office or a hospital

board meeting. "I don't want to do this now, Cannon."

"Too bad." He pushed past me into the foyer and I let the door shut. He was

studying the place, noting every change, looking for things that were the same. I fancied

I saw his shoulders droop when he realized that it was all different. "You remodeled."

"Yeah." I plopped into my recliner and watched his brows twist into a scowl. "It

was overdue."

A sardonic grin twisted his lips and his brow smoothed out. "You mean you

couldn't stand looking at the couch we fucked on?"

"I mean the upholstery was stained and it was cheaper to buy a new one than to

fix the old one."

He wasn't buying it, I could see that. In fact, he'd regained his cocky aura and the

smile on his face. "This one's leather. You won't have that problem."

"No, I won't."

"It's been two months, Aaron. That's enough time to mourn a relationship."

I gaped at him incredulously. "I waited five years for you, mourned five years for

you."

"And now, I'm here. Let's not waste any more time, Aaron. Give me a chance to

remind you how good things were between us."

"Oh, fuck no." I'd known that was what he was coming for, he'd made no secret

since coming back into my life a few months back that he wanted to rekindle our

relationship. It seemed he seriously thought it was a timing thing, or a who the fuck

knew what kind of thing?

"Aaron, Chance, please. I love you, and you loved me once. What we shared, that

sort of passion, that sort of emotional connection, it doesn't go away."

"Yes, it does. Cannon, I really wish you hadn't come."

"He's gone, Chance. He was never right for you in the first place. We were right

together."

My heart was beating so hard and fast in my ears I thought my head would

explode. What did it take to get through to this stubborn asshole? "Cannon, I'm doing

my best, out of respect for what we shared, to refrain from strangling the shit out of you

right now."

He looked startled, and I realized that I'd practically yelled the last part of that.

"Chance…Don't." One long, lean hand raised in entreaty then fell to his side. He rose

with liquid grace and his smile faded. "I didn't wait long enough. I’m sorry. You’ve

always been very intense, and I should have given you more time. I'll see myself out."

Part Two

The phone bleeped again as I was shutting the screen door behind Cannon. I

debated turning off the AC and letting nature have her way. I didn't mind the heat so

much as the humidity that made my scalp damp and my hair curl. In the end I shut the

door, just because it was easier.

The tile floor was cool under my bare feet as I returned to my lonely family

room. The shades were drawn. My grandma had always lectured about the evils of

sunlight on furniture and carpeting, and even though my floors were rustic Italian tiles

and the furniture leather not fabric, I'd never deviated from her dictates.

The heavy pieces were covered in mahogany leather, soft, welcoming, and as

Cannon had noted, stain resistant. Not that anyone had had the chance to test that.

Since I'd redecorated the place, I'd stopped bringing anyone here. Oh, sure, Wick and

Marcus and Zack and even Archer had been over for poker or fight night. But sex?

Sex hadn't happened in these hallowed halls since the walls were 1960s aqua and

the floors had been covered with gold shag carpet. In other words, since the last time

Cannon had dropped by when a hospital board meeting was cancelled and his wife was

off playing bridge.

Memories had given me the impetus to redecorate. I wished now I had memories

to share the space with me, but not memories of Cannon and gold shag. I wished I'd

brought Rory here, had eaten with him at the huge oak dining table, shared a cup of

coffee with him on the patio out back, or in the huge king size bed in the back bedroom.

Maybe then it wouldn't feel so lonely. The phone bleeped again, insistently. I

checked the carriage clock on the mantle. Eight fifteen. Time was dragging on with its

usual snail's pace. A weary sigh escaped as I picked up the phone and crossed to my

recliner. I knew who it was. He'd called at the same time every day since he'd been

released from the hospital in June. Regularly as clockwork, poking and prodding and

insisting that I answer, that I be present. Not answering wasn't an option. Dogged

determination had seen Marcus Prater solve more than one impossible case, break

down more than one inflexible informant. Being the focus of that intensity had sort of

anchored me to reality for the last few months. Thumbing the phone, I answered the

call.

"Marcus, I'm fine. You don't have to call every day." I slouched down deeper into

the depths of the recliner, let it cradle and mold me. The leather was cool against my

skin, cool thorough the thin fabric of my T-shirt, the worn denim of my jeans. I picked

at a frayed thread and wondered how much longer this particular pair of 501's would

last. My relationship with these jeans had outlasted any of my relationships with men.

"Please. It's one of the few things Benjamin will allow me to do without

supervision." The deep voice lowered to a whisper. "I have a favor to ask you."

"Anything, you know that." Marcus had been shot while pursuing his lover a few

months back, and it had been touch and go for a while. Facing my oldest friend's

mortality brought home to me more than my own brush with death years earlier just

how fragile our grasp on this earth was.

Not that we hadn't already seen ample proof of that. Seemed like more than half

our investigative past focused on murder. Homicide. Most of the time it was easy. Most

of the time a murder was a crime of passion, and the killer was someone the victim

knew. Find the missing boyfriend, wife, co-worker, next door neighbor and the crime

was solved.

"Wait! You want me to what?" I'd zoned out on Marcus. While I'd been

ruminating on all the murders we'd solved, he'd continued talking.

"I got a call today from a friend of Jeremy's."

I winced even though Marcus sounded pretty hale. In fact, the way he said

Jeremy's name…Maybe he was finally getting over the trauma of his loss. I'd met the

new guy in the hospital of course, and he'd seemed awfully young, but no younger than

Rory. "Yeah?"

"Seems he and his partner owned a bar together, you probably know it. The

Nexus."

"Goddamn right I know it." Fiery anger sizzled to life faster than you could say

Fred Flintstone.

"Thought you might." Marcus stopped talking, and from the muffled sound of

voices, I realized he'd covered the speaker of the phone while he talked to someone in

the room with him. Ben probably. He and I were old dinosaurs when it came to the new

technology. He'd no more think to use the mute button than I would have.

I waited patiently, watching a giant mosquito eater flit across my popcorn

ceiling.

"Sorry about that." Marcus was back on the line.

"No problem. How's Ben doing?"

"He's driving me fricking insane." There was joy behind the impatience, a sudden

softness that tugged at my aching chest and brought a mist of tears to my eyes. "Won't

let me do a damn thing."

"Can't say as I blame him for that, Marc. I know I'd feel the same way. Wouldn't

you?"

"Quit being logical." There followed a few scratchy, shuffling noises, and I could

picture Marc sitting in his own recliner, probably a damn close match for mine, while

Ben handed him a glass of water and a pain pill. Closing my eyes, I could see Rory

doing the same, walking up beside my chair, passing me a glass of whiskey and resting

his head on my knee. "Goddamn it, Chance!"

Startled, I jumped, eyes flying open as I realized I'd gotten lost in my fantasy.

"Sorry, I just…"

"I fucking hate this. If I could drive right now, I'd be over there, you know that?"

"You don't need to be here, Marc. I've got it all under control." If drinking too

much, not sleeping, and …Fuck a duck. "Your calling, it helps."

"Don't fucking do this to me again, Chance. Last time, with Cannon, you zoned

out, hid, avoided me. Don't think I don't know why, either."

Shame roiled in my empty belly and I wondered if the whiskey would burn on

the way up as much as it had on the way down. "I…"

"I shouldn't have let you do it then, and I won't let you get away with it this

time."

"Tell me about this guy who owns The Nexus." I cut him off. Guilt and shame

were poor bedfellows, but they'd been the most constant of my companions.

"I'm letting it go for now. But if you fucking disappear on me again, I'll get Wick

and come over there whatever Benjamin says."

"That's not gonna be necessary. I'm better. This isn't like last time. I'm…Fuck. I

think I liked it better when you were doped up and soppy and not so demanding. Tell

me about the bar."

"Strange coincidence. This guy and his partner are splitting up, and everything is

going well, all friendly and amicable and shit. Then in the wee hours of the night on

Sunday the place burns to the ground."

"Good. I hope you're not expecting me to be heartbroken over that." Hell, I'd

have torched the place myself if I'd thought of it. The Nexus was a sleazy, fourth rate,

watered down version of the exclusive club that Archer Wilde had run with Zack before

the two of them retired. Guys pranced around in leather and metal and pretended they

knew what the fuck end was up while trash metal eroded their eardrums and their

brains. It was also the place where Greg and Rory had their ill-fated hook-up. Blaming

the club was illogical, I knew it was my fault. The club gave me a target, and besides, it

was a cesspit anyway.

"No. I know better than that. But this guy, he and his ex were going to sell the

place and split the money down the middle. Had a great deal all lined up with some

entertainment outfit out of Las Vegas to do some kind of revue type thing. Might have

brought some class to the old building."

I whistled softly. "That sounds like a lot of cash changing hands."

"Yeah. Corey said he stood to make a quarter mil once the debts had been cleared

and his partner would have had the same."

"Then poof, it all goes up in smoke?"

"Right after the partner finds out that the Vegas outfit plans to tear the whole

thing down and build from scratch."

I stood up and wandered into my kitchen, suddenly hungry. A big thick burger,

one of Blake's blue cheese and mushroom specials sounded real good right about now.

Of course, I didn't have any such thing in the fridge. "Damn. I need to go shopping."

"Peapod."

I stared at the limp celery and lump of moldy covered something. "What?"

"You can order groceries online. Scratch that though, it would be good for you to

actually go out and squeeze the produce yourself."

"I told you, that's how you tell if they're overripe!" I snorted, fighting off

memories of the three of us shopping for some damn APD barbecue where we'd been

expected to bring a potluck dish. "You think that clerk has recovered from the trauma

that is Wick Templeton shopping for melons yet?" Images of Wick fondling honeydew

melons and tossing out words like succulent and luscious while leering at a blushing

young clerk flashed in the back of my head like a movie.

Marcus roared with laughter, and I stood like an idiot, smiling into the empty

depths of my fridge, soaking up the sound while the icy barrier I'd spent the last few

months trying to rebuild around my heart melted in seconds. Damn that sound was like

magic. "You gonna help me out on this one, Chance?" Marcus finally sobered.

"Why? You could solve this like that Nero Wolfe guy, never leave your arm

chair."

"I can tell you the who but not the why, that's where you'd come in."

Slamming the fridge door shut, I tried the freezer. The half empty bottle of jack

I'd shoved in there to hide from Cannon, a few ice trays, a bag of frozen spinach.

Typical luck. When I finally got my shit together, there was not a ghost of a chance that

the powers that be in this universe would play along with me. "You remember the

name of that place we used to get the barbecue delivered when we played poker? The

one with beans and the purple cabbage slaw?"

"You keep changing the subject, Chance. I'm not going to go away."

"Damnit, Marc! I'm hungry. That's all. I got shit here and I …Okay fine. The guy's

ex torched the bar; that much is plain as the nose on your face. Why?"

"That's what I'm asking you to find out."

"And you aren't going to back off until I say yes, are you?"

"Well, if you just can't do it, I'll go out and look at the site myself." Manipulative

bastard.

"Fine. I'll go and check it out."

"It was Whiskey Pete's."

"Yeah…yeah. It was." I grabbed a phone directory from the junk drawer and

started flipping through the restaurant pages.

"So you'll go over there tomorrow and nudge the investigator in the right

direction?"

"I don’t think they really need me, Marcus. But if it'll make you happy, then yes,

I'll go and tell him there's bodies buried on the premises."

"Yeah. Okay, but just as long as you remember that we really need you."

My breath caught in my throat and I cleared it loudly. "Yeah, yeah. Tell you

what. I'm not going to go tell the fire marshal how to do his job, but I'll come over there

and see if Ben'll let me hang out with you."

"If you're gonna do that…" His voice lowered again and I had to strain to hear

him. "Get me some of those barbecue sausages…the ones that always tasted better a day

later and some beans…and corn bread. God, I miss good food. You wouldn't

believe…That sounds fine, Chance. I look forward to seeing you."

His voice returned to normal abruptly and I chuckled as I realized Ben must

have entered the room. "Will do. One clandestine barbecue dinner it is."

I ended the call with a smile on my face and realized that this time really would

be different. I wasn't feeling the same as I had after Cannon left. How much of my

overreaction at that time had been due to things other than Cannon's leaving?

I'd been injured in what should have been a simple case, but my backup hadn't

arrived when he should. The strain of the injury, the physical trauma, and Marcus's

happiness with Jeremy, maybe all of those had something to do with it. Because losing

Cannon had left me angry, hurt, desperate to avoid the pain of living to the extent that

I'd avoided the joy of living as well. I'd left the hospital a roiling ball of black emotion.

Anger at Marcus and Jeremy's happiness, at Wick's continued irreverence and bravado,

at the guys in the department who weren't where they should have been when they

should have been.

There was the white hot hurt that I was experiencing now, yeah. But there was

also the bitter green jealousy over Marcus's relationship, the gloating self-affirmation

that Wick and Zack hadn't made it even though that had been years earlier, because

love wasn't supposed to be real and lasting if I couldn’t have it.

This was different. I wasn't angry at anyone but myself, and I was damned glad

that Marcus had Ben. Against all the cynical, black-hearted, I-am-an-island bullshit that

I'd spouted over the last few years, Zack and Archer had made it too. The addition of a

third to their arrangement just made it all seem so much more intense and right.

And Wick…well that blond guy had it bad for Wick, and Wick's attitude around

him was sharper, his wit more razor keen than ever.

Love was in the air.

And thank god for southern barbecue and friends who cared enough to call and

remind you what was real. It felt good to know that I had something to do, even if

Clarkson, the fire marshal, wouldn't welcome my interference.

Part Three

I went to bed that night with a belly full of barbecue and beans thinking I'd sleep

soundly. It felt like one of those moments in a movie where the background music gets

all significant. It was a momentous realization that this was different. Given that, I

expected that sleep would come easily. You should get to rest after an epiphany,

shouldn't you?

After stripping off my Levi's and shirt, I pulled on a pair of thin cotton boxers

that were comfortable and cool for sleeping in. The other things I tossed in the laundry

basket, making a mental note that before I went to Marc's I needed to do a load of

washing.

The room was a disaster of discarded bedding and clothes. The shades were

pulled against the blinding early morning light, the heavy drapes tightly closed. In the

far corner of the ceiling, a giant spider sat in a fragile web of silk threads. I'd noticed

him a month earlier, but hadn't had the will to brush his webs away with my straw

broom. I felt a certain sympathy with his precarious position, to be completely honest.

After moving back to this place two months earlier, I had debated moving a

television into the room just so I'd have noise for company. I never got around to doing

it though, so for the past four weeks company had been just the spider.

I crawled between my white cotton sheets, still wrinkled from last night's

venture into not sleeping, and pulled them up to my chin. I closed my eyes and I waited

for sleep to come.

And waited some more.

Always the fucking waiting. My eyes snapped open in the darkness and I saw

the faint stirring of darkness that was the spider responding to some unseen force

sending vibrations down the threads of his web.

Maybe that was my problem. Something was brushing against the threads of my

web, and until I secured it, I wouldn't have peace. More likely, maybe it was the

continued absence of something that should have been in my web. I thought maybe

things had changed, but I still couldn't sleep. I was worried about Rory who had

walked out of my bar and apparently walked away from everyone and everything he'd

known to disappear. His roommates hadn't seen him, his therapist wasn't saying—Wick

had someone watching, and he definitely hadn't entered that office—and his family

hadn't seen him.

He went from the Chances Are to nowhere in the hour it took me to get my shit

together and go look for him. And I accepted the blame for that.

Accepting blame was something that maybe I should have done before. I picked

up the phone by my bed and dialed by instinct, not realizing until a sleepy, gruff voice

barked in my ear that it had passed from today into tomorrow while I was thinking. My

answer came too slow, and the voice continued.

"You again? Look, what you're suggesting isn't even anatomically possible, and

you can trust me on that, I'm a doctor."

What the fuck? "Cannon?"

"Chance?" I heard bedclothes rustle and an audible breath. "Jesus, I thought…"

"Cannon, what's going on?" I switched on the bedside lamp and sat up. The

spider scurried into his corner, and I imagined I could feel the glare of tiny eight-sided

eyes cursing me.

"What's going on? You tell me. You called me, I didn't call you."

"You know what I’m talking about, Cannon." Stubborn bastard.

A stony silence came through the phone and I sighed. Raising a knee, I plucked

at the sheet. "Who were you thinking I was?"

"No one. I've been getting some crank calls, that's all. I told you Craig doesn't

care for the divorce idea and I have a feeling he's fucking with me. Why'd you call,

Chance?"

The longing in his voice, the loneliness called out to me. It occurred to me I

should have done this face to face. Then I could have touched him, and let him feel the

truth of my words. Let him see in my eyes the way I felt. As it was I had to say it,

speaking had never been my strong suit. "I had to say I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" He sounded wary now, and more sheet rustling noises were

accompanied by a muffled thump. He must have knocked something off his bedside

table. He was a gatherer, Cannon was. I could picture the stand by his bed, crowded

with things…a water glass, his watch, a book or two, a magazine, reading glasses. He

was probably wearing a pair of those linen pajamas with the collared shirt and elastic

waisted pants. As intimate as we'd been you'd think I'd know what he slept in, but we'd

never actually slept together.

I looked at my nightstand. A roll of antacids. The lamp. The contrast had always

been there. "I never should have said it. Coming out was up to you, and what I said, it

amounted to emotional blackmail."

"It wasn't, Chance. I knew that."

"The truth was that we never should have been together in the first place,

Cannon." The guilt had probably been part of the allure. I could admit that, now that I

was finally being honest with myself.

"Don't say that, Chance. How you can apologize in one breath and eviscerate me

in the next?"

"Because it was wrong. You were married, and I should have respected it."

"Why should you have when I didn't? Hell, Hazel didn't. It's not the way we

were raised, Chance. You know how it is. You come from money. Don't tell me the

senator isn't like that."

"The senator didn't raise me, Cannon. My grandma would be disappointed in

me. She was an old school southern aristocrat and honor meant something to her. It

means something to me."

I could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and

forefinger as he sighed heavily. "All right. I accept your apology, as long as you take

back the part where you regret what we had because, Chance, that was the best part of

my life."

Things were loosening, things I hadn't known were tight. "I don't regret it,

Cannon. I regret my actions, not the feelings."

"I can't help noticing you're still talking in the past tense. I hoped when I realized

it was you on the phone that maybe you'd been thinking things over." Stubborn,

stubborn Cannon, he wasn't going to make this easy on either of us.

"I have been. But…We were right together five years ago, Cannon. The intrigue

of meeting illicitly, the sheer intensity of the physical attraction, I don't know. I can't say

today that it would have lasted. On a day to day basis? The dynamic between us…Don't

you think it would have gotten old?"

"It's not too late to find out, Chance. We're both single now."

"Yeah, that's another thing I’m sorry for. It is too late for us, Cannon."

Could you feel pain across a phone connection that wasn't even based on wire? I

didn't need to. There was a painful lump with sharp edges gouging at the inside of my

throat, digging in as each of Cannon's long, measured breaths came.

I waited for recrimination, for avowals and protestations, for a reminder that

he'd given up his family, risked his career, changed his life for me.

They didn't come.

His voice when it came was tinged with just the hint of a plea and a chill of

sorrow that caused the hair on my body to prickle. "I'm sorry I made you wait so long

this time, Chance, but I had to be sure."

"It's not about the long wait, Cannon."

"You were always there waiting for me, whenever we had plans. I'd drag in late,

but you were always there, on time." He sighed. "I'd be late on purpose sometimes,

drive around the block a few extra times, or leave the hospital later than I knew I should

have, just to see if you'd still be there."

Back then, I'd spent a lot of time sitting in sleazy hotel rooms or the front seat of

my squad car waiting for him. I'd occasionally suspected him of being late intentionally,

but knew the hospital atmosphere enough to never voice that suspicion. "What would

you have done if I'd left?" I was curious, because more than once the temptation to get

up and walk away had nagged at me. I'd stifled my sense of pride, deliberately chose

Cannon over my ego. And that was probably the crux of why his leaving had hurt so

much.

"I'd have told myself that it was bound to happen, that you weren't worth it. It

would have given me the excuse I needed to say no." Glass clinked on wood. He

swallowed. "I wasn't ready, Chance."

"When it's right, Cannon, you won't be looking for excuses."

We sat in silence, me staring at the slowly revolving ceiling fan, him doing who

knew what. "Chance, you know I'll wait for however long you want. I owe you that."

"You're a smart man, Cannon. You know it's not just about the waiting."

"Your little twink—"

I laughed. Couldn't help it. At six foot one and one seventy, all thick muscles and

golden skin, calling Rory a twink was a bit of an exaggeration.

"Okay, your boyfriend said that you make him wait for you. That's all about

payback for me making you wait, isn't it? That tells me that you haven't forgotten,

haven't gotten over us."

I considered my answer carefully. "Cannon, is that what you said to him? That

what's between him and me is about you?" Damn good thing for him that I wasn't right

there and we weren't having this conversation face to face.

"Not exactly. I told him I never waited for you."

"Fuck." Maybe that was the crux of the problem for Rory. "It's not the same."

Rory had to know that, didn't he? Maybe not. I'd done precious little explaining of

anything except what I expected in the bedroom. But if I couldn't find Rory, then I

couldn't explain it to him, could I? Still, the words wouldn't have stung if I had been

more open and honest with Rory in the first place. "Okay. Bottom line time, Cannon. I

love Rory. I like you, and I'd like to be friends with you. But if you do some deep

thinking, you'll realize that I'm not what you want or need. You…"

"Need someone who lays down the law instead of giving me choices. I know. I

thought that someone would be you."

"I was never that type of guy, Cannon. If I had been, we'd never have split up. I

wouldn't have let you choose safety and society over me."

"I never thought you would, you know."

Stunned, I closed my eyes, remembering years of heartache and pain. "What?" I

didn't even recognize my own voice the word sounded so strangled.

"I thought you'd get tired of waiting and come and get me. When you never

showed up, well, I took that as the sign I'd been looking for."

Suddenly the thin sheet was too hot and I kicked it aside, letting the cool air

brush over my skin. "Cannon. I…"

"You're in danger of making the same mistake again, aren't you, Chance?"

And he hung up on me.

Part Four

Two realizations chased themselves around in my waking thoughts. One,

barbecue and beans before bed was a very bad idea. Two, Cannon was right. I was

making the same fucking mistake all over again.

Waiting sucked. So I wasn't going to wait this time. I kicked back the covers and

stripped the bed, balling up the sheets and piling them into the laundry basket with my

clothes. Picking up the rest of the mess took a few more minutes, and I thanked god for

having the foresight to install a second hot water heater in my craze of redecorating.

The washer kicked into gear with a steady, tuneless hum. I watched the sheets

tumble with my T-shirts and whites until suds obscured them from view. On impulse,

and against my grandma's years of conditioning, I pulled back the drape and raised the

shade. Bright morning light filed my laundry room, and my mood lifted just the tiniest

bit.

I tracked my way across the tile floor to the kitchen where the coffee pot sat

empty. In all the emotional excess of the previous night I'd forgotten to fill the thing.

Measuring out a healthy dose of grounds was second nature. Soon the rich aroma of

brewing coffee filled the kitchen and I sat in my boxers with a page of paper and a

pencil scratching out a shopping list the old fashioned way.

Wick always told me I could do it on my iPhone. He'd even gone so far as to

download an app that supposedly would point me in the right direction once I got to

the store. Seemed like more work than it was worth.

I scribbled English muffins on the list and contemplated switching it to bagels

because of the complexity of what was needed to go with the muffins. Bagels are easy.

You get some cream cheese and you're good to go. Muffins? You need butter, jelly,

ham…eggs…Muffins are a whole smorgasbord of breakfast opportunity waiting to

happen. I didn't need those kinds of options in the morning. Then again, I remembered

Rory at the brunch buffet at Chances Are, like a kid sampling a little of this and a little

of that. Rory was kind of fond of choices. I added bagels, ham, jelly, eggs, and butter to

my shopping list.

It felt good to imagine Rory here at the table with me, eating muffins and

drinking coffee. The light on my coffee pot finally turned orange, and I had just risen to

pour myself a cup when my phone rang again. I thumbed it on and set it to speaker so I

could drink my coffee.

"Marcus, it's barely noon. I’m bringing your food, I swear." I smiled and defiantly

pulled the string to raise the blind over the kitchen sink. Let there be light. So there,

Grandma. If the wood got bleached by the sun and the napkins I never used faded on

the table, who the fuck cared? I had enough money to replace them all.

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it. And I'm glad to hear you're getting out." The grin

stretching my lips became nearly painful as I recognized another of my old friend's

voices.

"Zack. How are you and Archer doing up there?" When I'd first met Zack fifteen

years ago, he'd been assisting in a case, despite Marcus's disapproval and with Wick's

full encouragement.

"We're fine. So's Jeremiah."

Wincing at my faux pas, I poured the steaming brew into my mug. "Sorry, man.

You caught me pre-coffee." It wasn't entirely the truth. I had a feeling, since I'd gotten

this newfound determination to be honest with myself, that I didn't quite get the

Jeremiah thing. Then again, given that Zack was about as Dom as a guy could get when

I met him, I didn't quite get the Archer thing either.

"You can make it up to me in two ways. You're only allowed to say no to one of

them."

The dulcet tone hid a core of steel. I knew better than to agree to anything Zack

was peddling with that voice. "I'm not some malleable boy who thinks the only two

choices I have are the two you're offering me, Zack."

He snorted. "Drink some more coffee there, big boy. I'm not trying to dominate

you. You're invited to dinner tomorrow. If you don't show up, Wick has orders to

kidnap you."

"Dinner I can manage."

Quiet satisfaction, almost like he was savoring the victory hanging in the air

between us. "At the manse at seven, no need to dress."

"You didn't tell Wick that, did you? I can see him arriving au naturel."

"As a matter of fact, no. I was very specific in my invitation to Wick. I've learned

something since we worked together way back when."

I sipped my coffee and stared into the backyard. A rare Peregrine falcon perched

on a clothes line in Pete's backyard, staring intently into my yard. The bird of prey was

a thing of beauty, and I felt a bit sorry for any stray rodent it tracked through my grass.

"Yeah. I was just thinking about that last night. You know, it's kind of funny that of all

of us involved in that sting are now out of police work entirely? If you'd told me then

that this is where we'd be today, I wouldn't have believed you."

"I'm not surprised. Police work is hard for men like us, and I don't just mean

because we're gay. Besides, I'm more of a cop now than I ever was then what with this

recovery business."

He hadn't been a cop at all then, just a concerned citizen who couldn't be

convinced to sit back and wait. "You were better backup than any of the men on the

force, Zack. If you hadn't picked up that call…" I'd have died five years earlier. I

recalled the icy knowledge that backup wasn't going to arrive in time, that the ambush

I'd walked into could have fatal consequences. The world had been going fuzzy when I

managed to get my cell phone out of my pocket and hit the first speed dial I could find.

I choked out a street name and passed out.

Zack put it all together and rode to my rescue like a cowboy in a seven thousand

dollar suit and Ferragamo loafers. He saved my life. There was a time I hated him for

that, but now… "Dinner is a done deal, Zack. What else?"

"There's a guy, a friend of a friend. He lost his wallet during a…delicate

situation. He wants it back."

"Tell him to report it to the police. You and I both know he doesn't have a ghost

of a chance of seeing that wallet again."

"He can't report it to the police, it's a sensitive issue. You know better than I how

these politicians are."

I put my mug in the sink and unplugged the coffee maker. "Oh, hell no. Politics

and I do not mix. I'm going to say no to that one. But you knew I would, didn't you?"

"Yes. I think we're going to let Jeremiah handle it on his own, as a matter of fact.

It's simple enough. The guy wants the wallet, not the cash. Jeremiah can deal with the

trans street boy on a level I cannot."

"Trans street boy? That who stole the wallet? I completely see why the police are

out of the question, but not why the guy can't just let the wallet go."

"Who knows? There's always more than the client wants to tell, for all we know

his wife gifted the wallet to him."

"True. There's always more to the story." I waited. He was quiet on the line. "Are

you going to make me ask?"

"Ask?"

"What's the party in honor of, Zack?"

"It can't be just because I'd like to see my old friends together under one roof

without any of us being shot at?"

"It could be, but it isn't."

"A mutual friend is receiving a promotion at work. I promise you, that it will still

be a small gathering, a dozen people total, mostly couples."

"Who's the friend? I didn't hear about this."

"Cannon is being named chief of medicine at the hospital."

Just as devious as Wick, in a more subtle, elegant way. "Fortunately for you,

Cannon and I have got things settled between us, though not in the way you're hoping

for."

Zack's sigh signaled his disapproval. "He needs you, Chance. You two were good

together."

"We were, but it wasn't the kind of good that lasts, Zack. It was the kind of good

that you wake up from one morning and realize you've outgrown. I need different

things now than I did then, and Cannon…well. I can't speak for Cannon, but if you

think about it, you'll realize he needs something a hell of a lot more intense than I was

ever into. Maybe you should add a few more eligible bachelors to your guest list,

because I’m not single."

Hadn't been since one cold January day months before when a hot young cop

with wicked tongue stud sucked me off in the back room of the Chances Are.

Suddenly, I wanted to go there, to sit in my office and remember Rory on his

knees in front of me, eyes sparkling with youthful confidence. "Hey, I'm going over to

the bar after I see Marc. Why don't you and Wick and Jeremiah meet me there?"

I hoped he'd give up on his campaign to reunite me and Cannon, that I'd gotten

through to him. Grim silence hung between us for minute, then he huffed out an

amused breath. "I'll ask Jer. You call Wick. If I keep calling him, he's going to think I

want him bad. Seven okay?"

"Perfect. And Zack?" I dragged in a breath to steady my nerves. "Thanks. I know

you want what's best for me, and for Cannon, because you care for us. The feeling is

mutual, but I love Rory. I hope when he comes back you can give him the same loyalty

you're giving Cannon."

"Chance, I like Cannon's spirit and his intelligence. I'd have liked him and been

proud to count him as a friend if he hadn't been with you when we met. If you want the

same for Rory, then he's going to have to show he has more mettle than running away

and acting stupid."

"He's my choice, Zack."

"I can respect that. And I expect you to do the same as regards Jeremiah."

Part Five

Because I'd spent the afternoon snooping around the arson site, I arrived at the

bar before any of my friends, and gave brief thought to sneaking up to the apartment

via the back fire escape. I tried to tell myself it was in order to avoid Gerry and Darrin

and anyone else who might want me to work, but in reality, I knew it was because I was

ready to soak up the leftover bits of Rory that were sure to linger there.

Maybe the pillows on my bed still smelt like him, the mix of aftershave,

shampoo, sweat and skin and musk that was my man. Maybe, if I crawled into that bed,

and wrapped myself in what was left of Rory, I'd sleep better. And maybe if I went up

there, I'd end up red eyed and mopey and neither Wick nor Zack would believe I was

okay. Which I was.

So instead, I locked the doors of my 1958 Delray and entered the bar via the

kitchen entrance. Blake stood at the grill, a range of burgers and steaks in front of him

sizzling away. The kitchen ran like a well-oiled machine under Blake's guidance, and I

didn't spend a lot of time back here. He was probably overqualified for running my

grill, and could have worked as a chef in any five-star restaurant. Why he chose to work

here where his creativity was limited to a Sunday morning brunch, I never asked. I

figured that was his business.

Something about the slender figure this evening nudged at me though.

"Hey, Blake." I gingerly crossed the kitchen floor. It was clean and neat, and

organized, but any place that ran a fryer ten hours a day had slippery floors.

He spun around, green eyes wide in surprise. Hadn't he heard me open the

door? It wasn't normal I suppose, for me to enter via the kitchens, but it wasn’t

absolutely unheard of either.

"Oh, hey, boss."

He seemed to relax a bit and turned back to his grill. A timer dinged over the

fryer and Hector, one of three "assistants" appeared from the walk-in freezer to lift a

variety of fry baskets full of greasy potatoes, mushrooms, and zucchini spears out of the

hot oil. While he arranged a few of the red plastic baskets that our bar food was served

in, Jordie, another assistant refilled the baskets.

"Something bothering you, Blake?" I stood close enough to see the pulse beat in

his throat, and to realize that the redness of his eyes wasn't from the heat and smoke of

the grill.

"Me?" He swallowed and his eyes closed briefly before he flipped a few burgers

over and then made a grand show of checking the tickets on the counter. "Nothing a

more up to date system of inputting orders wouldn't cure."

He was lying, but I recognized it as an urge to save face and let it go. A man had

to respect the privacy of others or society wasn't worth shit. "Tell me what it is and

where to get it and it's yours."

His head snapped around and his mouth dropped open. I waited.

"You mean it? While you're here, I have some ideas about expanding the lunch

menu to include healthier, organic selections."

I backed away. "Um…write up a proposal and tell Gerry to put it on my desk. I'll

look it over, I promise." He nodded, his face going blank.

So much for that. I pushed through kitchen doors and paused to look out over

the Chances Are from behind the bar. Some part of me expected it to be different, as I

was different. But Gerry had managed to keep it all the same, to keep it all going in my

absence. To my surprise, I didn't even have the urge to check over the deposit

paperwork.

Automatically my gaze went to the two stools at the end of the bar where Rory

and I often sat. They were empty, and I squelched the disappointment I felt. I hadn't

really expected him to be sitting there, had I? How can you harbor hope and not know

it?

Darrin sat in the seat nearest the cash register, sipping whiskey and frowning

blackly at a plate with the remains of a hamburger and fried mushrooms on it. A

stranger with crazily long blond hair stood behind the bar, flirting with a couple of

neighborhood guys while he mixed drinks with blue curacao, vodka, and triple sec.

Bemused, I watched him garnish the concoctions with skewers of fruit.

He turned to face me and amazing violet eyes went wide. "Who the fuck are

you? You can't be back here!"

I let my gaze travel assessingly over his form. He was trim and well-muscled,

like a tennis player or a runner, without the bulk of rougher contact sports. His eyes

really were purple, and his tan skin was clear. A tiny soul patch under a pouty lower lip

was topped with a silver ball. Several other piercings marred the pristine purity of his

face, but he was sexy as all get out. And I wasn't the least bit tempted to drag him off to

my office.

"I'm Chance. Who the fuck are you?" I threw it back at him to see how he'd react

and was fairly impressed with the results.

"I'm Sin."

"I'll just bet you do." One of the guys he'd been flirting with called out.

"Sinclair Hastings," he corrected with a chiding smile for the patrons. "Gerry

hired me this morning. You're the absentee owner?"

I cracked a smile. Over Sin's shoulder I could see Gerry hustling toward the bar.

He'd clearly caught sight of me. "Absentee? I've been out of touch for a few months is

all. Normally, I'm here daily."

"I look forward to that." There was invitation in his smile and his tone. I shook

my head at his persistence.

"Not happening, kid, but I’m flattered."

"Chance!" Gerry pushed past Sin who gave me another smile before turning back

to the crowd that had gathered at the bar.

Gerry's expression of relief made me feel guilty, but I hardened my heart. The

way I saw it, he owed me after his little stunt in January. "Hey. Tell Blake we want four

Wick specials and bring a bottle of Cuervo Gold to the back booth."

"You just came through the kitchen. Why didn't you tell him yourself?" His

brows knitted together in a frown and he cast a veiled glance at the kitchen doors.

"Because I didn't think of it, that's why." I walked to the flap door that kept the

patrons on their side of the bar and lifted it. A glance at my watch showed that it was

nearly seven, and I could count on Zack to be punctual even if Wick was perpetually

tardy.

"Chance…I have to talk to you."

I glanced back impatiently to find that Gerry had followed me.

"Not tonight, kid. I’m just here to socialize. Ah…" I caught sight of a trio of

familiar heads in the doorway and excused myself. "Come on back, guys." Wick, Zack,

and I exchanged back thumps and handshakes while the young sub stood slightly off to

the side, eyeing Wick through narrowed eyes.

There was something up there, something tense in his expression and the way he

held himself, shoulders stiff, spine straight. I watched him out the corner of my eye as

we made our way to the back booth that Wick had long ago claimed as his.

It took a few minutes of jostling and muttering and bumping, but we were soon

seated in the booth. I looked across the table and found the kid—Jeremiah watching me

quietly. He was penned in by Zack's big body and looked comfortable and relaxed in

his lover's shadow. There was a spark of quiet intensity in his eyes, like he was

inventorying me, trying to figure me out.

The similarities of our positions struck me. Both hemmed in protectively by

stalwart, dominant men who made no secret of their protective instincts. I laughed.

"Don't bother trying, kid. I've lost more than one boyfriend who couldn’t see beneath

the surface." I'm not vulnerable, not dependent, I don't crave authority. Whatever

similarity he was looking for, he wouldn't find it.

"I heard." His pretty lips moved slowly and he leaned into Zack. "I'm sorry about

that. But sometimes people aren't meant to be together. They aren't right for each other."

His gaze flicked from me to Wick and back again. Something told me the comment

wasn't intended just for my ears.

"Jeremiah!" Zack scolded him, and I shook my head.

"It's okay. Rory is mine, Jeremiah. I didn't make that clear enough, but I will. As

soon as I have the opportunity." His head tilted to the side and one hand slipped

beneath the table. I could imagine that he'd rested it on his thigh and that Zack's hand

covered it calmingly under the table. The kid vibrated with repressed emotion and I felt

like I sat opposite an armed weapon that could go off any second. My fingers twitched.

It was what I'd have done had Rory been sitting next to me instead of Wick, who'd have

way too much fun at my expense if he realized how vulnerable I was feeling.

"You can't own people who don't want to be owned." Jeremiah's gaze flicked to

Wick and the veiled aggression in his tightening lips and narrowing eyes intrigued me.

Again, I had the feeling that his message wasn’t for me. I looked at Zack

quizzically. He shook his head slightly, brows raised. "I don't know what he's going on

about."

Wick scowled sourly at all three of us. "Well, isn't this just dandy. Kid, if you

didn't want to be here, you could have stayed at home with the old ball and chain."

And the true object of Jeremiah's aggression became clear instantly. "No, I

couldn't. Not after I heard you were coming."

Wick winked saucily at Zack's boy. "I'm flattered that you just had to lay those

pretty little eyes on me, but there are two bad motherfuckers that would probably take

my favorite body part if I even attempted to take you for a spin. So why don't you just

sit there and play pretty while the grown-ups have their chat."

It was like throwing a match on a powder keg.

"Why you…" Something snapped and the kid lurched forward.

I shook off the placid contentment that the kid's jibes hadn't shaken. Accepting

his vitriolic commentary on my love life was one thing. I'm an easy going sort of guy

after all. Plus, I didn't really give a damn what anyone but Rory thought at this point.

But running off at the mouth in front of Wick, who I hated to think still had a thing for

Zack…well

.

I kicked his shin under the table. "Have you got some kind of death wish?"

Jeremiah dragged in a deep breath and visibly shook off his ire. The glare

transferred to me. "What the fuck? Did you just kick me?" I nodded in approval. Zack

had a good man in this one.

Gerry slammed a bottle of tequila on the table. "I placed your order with Blake.

Hetty, the new waitress I hired"—he sent a fulminating glare in my direction—"will

bring it when it's ready. Is there anything else you require?"

"Yeah." Wick cast a taunting glance at Jeremiah and another one at Gerry. He

was all bristling with sarcasm. "A little less attitude from you and bring our little friend

here a Shirley Temple and a bib, would you? A bowl of salt, a dozen lime wedges, and

if you're real good, you can blow me in Chance's office later."

Gerry stalked off without acknowledging Wick's offer of backroom sex or asking

for Jeremiah's ID, and Zack leaned over close to whisper privately in Jeremiah's ear.

I turned to Wick. "What's going on here?"

He shrugged and took out his phone, thumbing through a few messages. "Fuck if

I know. If I'd known it was a kid's party, I'd have reserved us a table at Chuck E.

Cheese."

I'd met Jeremiah with Zack at the hospital when Marcus was being operated on.

Wick had too, I thought. But nothing I could recall of those meetings would account for

this hostility. "No really, why's he got a hard-on for you?"

Wick smirked and I knew I was going to regret the way I'd phrased that one.

Rescue from his wicked sense of humor came in the form of a cute blond girl with a tray

full of burgers.

Her gaze went immediately to the much calmer Jeremiah. Smiling broadly, she

passed around the red plastic baskets full of burgers, fries, and onion rings while

staring at Jeremiah. "Is there anything else you'd like?" The flirtatious tilt of her head

and the not so subtle way she shifted the tray to tighten the fabric of her T-shirt over her

ample bosom made her interest clear.

Zack raised his hand, still clasped with Jeremiah's, to the table top. "No. We’ve

got everything we need."

We all watched her flounce away, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

"You're crazy. Why'd you hire her?" Wick demanded. Nothing in his posture changed,

but I saw the way he looked anywhere but at those two clasped hands.

"I didn't." The food was a welcome distraction and we ate in the appreciative

silence that Blake's burgers deserved. As our appetites were satisfied the conversation

mellowed into talk of current events, sports, and the most recent burned body

discovered in a remote neighborhood.

When they all stood to go, I stayed. "I’m going to hang here for a while. Gerry

needs to talk to me about something."

Wick stood, separate from the other two, and his solitary nature struck me. He

was the last of us…the last single man.

The perceptive Jeremiah was noticing as well, and as if a giant wave of

understanding washed over him, Jeremiah leaned in to Zack's side. Zack automatically

slipped an affectionate arm around the younger man's waist. "I think I begin to

understand. It must be hard to see the one who got away looking so completely

satisfied when all you have is—" He came to an abrupt halt, and I thought I'd learned

enough about his nature in this evening to know that while part of that silence was

probably owed to a silent command from Zack to shut the hell up, part of it was from

an innate reluctance to cause pain.

Wick's mouth tightened briefly as he went very still. That was definitely a low

blow. And while I, having seen Wick with the blond fed, had my doubts about his

current relationship status, Jeremiah wasn't to know that. I put my hand on Wick's arm,

and I swear there was a physical current running through my old friend. Then Wick

smiled, an unpleasant, vaguely threatening smile that I'd only seen him turn on the

most vicious of criminals before.

"Relationship commentary from a hooker on an extended contract?" His laugh

was long and loud as he sauntered away. It was flavored with genuine amusement, but

I fancied there might have been a bit of self-mockery there as well.

Part Six

I followed their exit, prepared for Gerry to pounce once he saw I was alone.

"Yes?"

"I can't be your manager, dude. I mean…"

"You can do it."

"You can't know that I won't steal from you again." He looked so miserable,

sitting across from me in the booth, fists clenched on the table top, nostrils pinched and

tense.

"Yes, I can." I watched him practically writhing on his seat. "You know where I

spent the afternoon, Gerry?"

"Holed up in your lair?"

"No. I spent the afternoon at The Nexus." He flinched. "Or what used to be The

Nexus. It burned down, arson."

Gerry squirmed under my intent gaze. "I had nothing to do with that."

A little bit of guilt goes a long way. I snorted and poured two shots of the tequila

on the table into unused shot glasses. "I never thought you did. And I never thought

Rory did either."

"Well, that's an improvement," he muttered, playing with the shot of tequila I'd

shoved his way. "What's this got to do with the bar, Chance?"

"It doesn't. Well, sort of. I spent the afternoon getting in the fire marshal's way

and inhaling the bracing scent of ash and burnt plastic." I swirled the tequila in my glass

then swallowed it all. The glass hit the table with a thud. "We found charred bones in

the debris, Gerry."

He blanched. "God, Chance. You don't think?"

"No. I don't. Rory wouldn't have gone near that place, and besides, the fire

marshal and the coroner both said they thought the remains were older, like years old."

The chilling sight wasn't the worst thing I'd seen. Years on the force had exposed me to

more violence, perversion, and filth than most people could even imagine. "My point,

Gerry, is that these two guys who owned the club? They'd been together years, and all

along, one of them was hiding this disturbing secret, this darkness. They were splitting

up, the building was going up for sale, and everything was good."

I paused to consider pouring another shot. Gerry had fallen still at last and

seemed to hang on my every word. I pushed the bottle away. I didn't need it. "Then the

buyer says he's going to tear the building down and start from scratch, and boom. It all

goes up in smoke."

"Uh…"

"The timing made the owner suspicious." Gerry nodded as though he were

following, but he was twitchy again, eyes roaming the bar, checking to see that

everything was running smoothly. "He asked Marcus to look into it, and Marcus sent

me over. And Gerry, I learned some important things this afternoon."

"Yeah?"

"One, there are a lot worse things you could have done to me than try to steal a

few thousand dollars. I trust that you'll never do that again. I trust Darrin to keep you

in line, that's what he's doing here every night, right?"

"He thinks I'm going to do it again…"

"He likes you, Gerry. He needs an excuse to hang around and watch you. I doubt

he really thinks you're going to rip me off. When he called last night he wasn't worried

about you stealing me blind. He was worried about you needing time off to relax and

get out of this place."

A spark of hope lit his blue eyes, "Are you sure? There's Blake."

"I don't know what the fuck is going on with that. I didn't see Darrin in the

kitchen when I came through there. I saw him at the bar, watching you like a starving

man looks at a burger, but I know he wasn't hungry because he had an empty plate in

front of him."

"Okay." He nodded again, clasping his hands. "Okay. But what's that got to do

with anything?"

"Another thing I learned today, is that I really miss police work. Looking over

that scene, putting the pieces together, it all felt right. So even though I'm not going to

go back to hiding at home, I'm not going to be here twenty-four seven either. I need a

manager. I want it to be you, because I trust you."

"I don't see how you can."

"When I was a kid, I lived with my grandma, because the senator and his wife

were too busy to raise kids, then well, she was gone and it was just him. My grandma

was about as old fashioned as they come, kid. If I told you that I sneaked money out of

her purse to buy cigarettes once when I was fifteen would you think I was a criminal for

life?"

"No. That was just a mistake."

"Right. And when she busted me, I paid my dues by mowing acres of grass. You

know how many lawns a cheapskate like that old bird made me cut to earn back that

twenty?"

He smiled tremulously, but I could see that I was getting through, that he

wanted to believe that he could have this job, that he deserved it. "It's not the same."

"Bullshit. You made a mistake. A small mistake. Not a mistake along the lines of

killing someone and hiding the body in the walls of my bar. That's a big mistake. That's

an I'll-never-trust-you-again mistake. I watched Corey Purdue fall apart this afternoon

when he understood that his suspicions were more accurate than he'd ever dreamed,

that the man he'd lived with and loved for seven years was a monster capable of evil

he'd never imagined. And I realized that what you did? It was nothing."

"Nothing? Chance, it was a life altering moment."

"For you maybe. For me? I'm not so sure. Let me ask you this. Are you ever going

to steal from me again?"

"No!"

"End of story. I trust you not to screw me over on the scale of what Nathan

Barnes did to Corey Purdue. And I trust you to stop beating yourself up about it, too.

I'll be here some, I'll help you. But I'm finally ready for life outside this bar."

My phone bleeped but I maintained eye contact with Gerry who chewed his lip. I

held up a finger indicating I wanted him to wait while I answered. "Chance."

"I found him."

My heart stopped then lurched forward in high gear. I snapped my fingers at

Gerry and made writing motions. He passed me a pen and a ticket pad from his back

pocket. "Spill it."

Wick was silent on the other end of the phone. "Are you sure that you want to do

this, Chance? The guy's flaky at best."

The concern was welcome. "Just tell me what you know."

"Banyu got a phone number and an address not far from here."

I wrote down the information and disconnected the call. It was decision time.

What to do? Waiting without contact wasn't an option.

"Rory? What are you going to do?" Gerry had always liked Rory, then again they

were of the same generation and had a touch of the same mental framework. They were

both strong, healthy young men, capable of doing for themselves. Yet each of them was

drawn to older, more authoritative males. Darrin, me…

"If you were Rory…" I looked up from tracing over the letters and numbers over

and over again. "What would you want your lover to do?"

"I…" He glanced over his shoulder to where Darrin sat at the bar, sipping from a

glass of whiskey and staring dubiously at Sin. "I'd want him to come for me."

"Just show up at the door, huh?"

A frown crossed his face as he remembered more of my interactions with Rory.

"Um… Maybe given, you know, how things were with you two, you might call first. He

might…"

"Not be alone." I finished the thought. It had only been eight weeks. "Surely

not…"

"He fucked around with other guys while you were together, Chance."

"But that was before…We both…" Doubt crept in, and I wondered if I'd be better

off just waiting. That way I'd always have the hope that he'd come back one day. If I

went after him, and Rory had moved on, then I wouldn't even have hope.

"I'm not saying don't go. I'm just saying call first and make sure you'll be

welcome."

It all came down to that same word again. Trust. "We were exclusive."

"Were is a key word, Chance. You broke up."

"No. No, we didn't." Made up my mind and picked up my phone. Pausing with

my thumb over the touch screen, I eyed Gerry. "Am I paying you to sit on your ass? Go

tell that long haired hippie you hired that if he expects a paycheck to go with the tips

he's earning from flirting he's going to have to bust ass cleaning up that mess."

I watched Gerry walk away, saw him exchange words with the new bartender,

and then defiantly seat himself on the stool next to Darrin. Sin threw a smirk in my

direction and began collecting used glasses from the bar. Satisfied, I typed in the

number Wick had given me and waited while it rang.

When he picked up, his voice was subdued but steady. I had no idea what I was

going to say, what the right thing to say was. I owed him an apology or ten. I owed him

the words…love, forever, always…but it wasn't right to say them over the phone.

"Pack your shit. I'll be there in forty-five."

To Be Continued

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