Toronto Tales E-Book

KC Burn

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1026

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

KC Burn presents Toronto Tales: three novels of romance where men risk their livelihoods—and lives—for love.—Cop Out (Toronto Tales: Book One): Detective Kurt O'Donnell must face the prospect of coming out, but his job and his relationship with his Catholic family are on the line. Can he risk destroying his life for the uncertain possibility of a relationship with a newly widowed man?—Cover Up (Toronto Tales: Book Two): When Detective Ivan Bekker comes across clear evidence of his lover's criminal involvement, he has to choose: protect their relationship, regardless of the consequences, or save his career and arrest the man he loves.—Cast Off (Toronto Tales: Book Three): Rick and Ian's attraction is immediate, electric, and mutual. Ian convinces Rick to break more and more of his rules, and his defenses crumble. But when Ian's job becomes a means to expose Rick's secret, it could destroy both their careers and their hearts.

Leseprobe

Toronto Tales by KC Burn includes:

Toronto Tales: Book One

Detective Kurt O’Donnell is used to digging up other people’s secrets, but when he discovers his slain partner was married to another man, it shakes him. Determined to do the right thing, Kurt offers the mourning Davy his assistance. Helping Davy through his grief helps Kurt deal with the guilt that his partner didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth, and somewhere along the way Davy stops being an obligation and becomes a friend, the closest friend Kurt has ever had.

His growing attraction to Davy complicates matters, leaving Kurt struggling to reevaluate his sexuality. Then a sensual encounter neither man is ready for confuses them further. To be with Davy, Kurt must face the prospect of coming out, but his job and his relationship with his Catholic family are on the line. Can he risk destroying his life for the uncertain possibility of a relationship with a newly widowed man?

Toronto Tales: Book Two

Detective Ivan Bekker has hit rock bottom. Not only is he recovering from a bad breakup with a cheating boyfriend, he’s also involved in a drug bust gone bad. Ivan had to kill a man, and his friend was shot and is now fighting for his life. Though Ivan is under investigation for his part in the shooting, his boss sends him on an off-the-books undercover operation to close the case. The timing is critical—this could be their chance to plug a leak in the department.

Off-balance and without backup, Ivan finds himself playing a recent divorcé and becoming Parker Wakefield’s roommate. He finds it hard to believe that sweet Parker could possibly be a criminal, much less have ties to a Russian mafia drug-trafficking operation, and Ivan lets down his guard. His affection is unprofessional, but Parker is irresistible.

When Ivan comes across clear evidence of Parker’s criminal involvement, he has to choose: protect their relationship, regardless of the consequences, or save his career and arrest the man he loves.

Toronto Tales: Book Three

Thirty-five-year-old Rick Haviland is a well-respected speech pathologist, but while his friends are all settling into relationships, he refuses to give up his no-strings-attached club boy sex life. For him, relationships are dangerous; he’s got a secret to hide. When he meets Ian O’Donnell, an account manager with a local tabloid, Rick figures his personal rules for relationships should be enough to keep him safe from more than a one-night stand.

When Ian comes out of the closet, tired of anonymous hook-ups and keeping secrets from his large Catholic family, Rick is right there, and he’s just the sort of man Ian might like to get to know better. Their attraction is immediate, electric and mutual. Ian convinces Rick to break more and more of his rules, and his defenses crumble. But someone watches, someone who’d like to see this new relationship fail. When Ian’s job becomes a means to expose Rick’s secret, it could destroy both their careers and their hearts.

Table of Contents

Toronto Tales by KC Burn includes:

Cop Out

Cover Up

Cast Off

About the Author

By KC Burn

Visit Dreamspinner Press

To the friends and family who’ve supported me and helped me get this manuscript off the ground, most especially Chudney, Jax, Dottie, and Alex. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Chapter One

KURT HUNKEREDdown behind the car, waiting for Ben’s signal. How bulletproof were these cars? Thirty years ago, they were built like tanks. His father still had one, called it an antique land yacht. Now… well, they sure as hell weren’t titanium.

The sun blazed, heating his face, making sweat drip down from his short hair and into his collar. His navy-blue shirt was already drenched—Kevlar vests were hot and heavy, but they were a necessary evil. Last Tuesday in May, but the temperature rivaled the middle of July. He fucking hated midday busts on sunny, summery days. The sunshine meant they had no visibility advantages, and a sudden glare could blind someone at a critical moment.

He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. At least if he were undercover, he could be wearing a bandana to soak up the sweat. The acrid scent of the tar heating in the asphalt battled with rotting fish and garbage from the nearby market district. He wished they’d waited for backup. But he’d only been a detective for three years—Ben had been doing this for a lot longer, and he had to bow to Ben’s greater experience. His partner might be taciturn and reticent, but he was a dedicated and effective officer. Kurt trusted him with his life.

As it should be.

Ben slipped into position by the front door of the building and gave him the signal he’d been waiting for. Tugging the collar of his vest one final time, Kurt crept around to cover the rear of the building, holding himself close to the wall, out of any of the windows’ sight lines.

Gustav, one of Ben’s informants, had contacted Ben with a tip about a suspect. Ben said they had to follow up immediately, and Kurt trusted his partner to do what was best, even though the tip was for a case that wasn’t even theirs. But Ben had contacts everywhere, and it couldn’t hurt to get a few kudos from the drug squad.

Glock poised, the familiar grip kept him grounded while he waited for the inevitable dash for the back when an officer announces himself at the front. He stretched to peer through the dirty window. There were no people. No movement. Nothing to suggest the room he observed had been used in a long time. A layer of dust coated the table and chairs.

Ben demanded entrance loudly enough for Kurt to hear, bringing his attention back to the door. Almost simultaneously, Ben booted in the front door and the building exploded, throwing Kurt backwards.

THELIGHThurt his eyes, but Kurt couldn’t shut them any farther than they were. He wished he could scrunch his ears shut, too, against the infernal beeping.

“Are you awake?” a strident female voice asked.

He cringed.

“Come on now, it’s time to wake up.”

The beeping was regular, rhythmic… like a heart monitor. Right. The harsh smell of cleansers should have given it away. He was in a hospital. The monitors must have alerted someone of his return to consciousness.

“What happened?” God. That didn’t sound like him—that sounded like someone who’d swallowed gravel for breakfast. Talking hurt like a bitch too.

“Can you open your eyes, Detective O’Donnell?”

No fucking way. “Too bright,” he managed to say. A throbbing heartbeat of pain started in his temples. Other body parts threatened to chime in, which he wasn’t looking forward to, but hell, it meant he wasn’t dead.

The light level dropped, and Kurt cracked open his lids. A nurse with—he strained to focus—teddy bears on her scrubs, stood over him, holding a clipboard and scratching out a few notes with the loudest pen ever created.

“Thirsty.”

Despite her glass-cracking voice, the woman smiled down at him in sympathy. “I know. But you can’t have anything until the doctor sees you.”

She patted his shoulder gently and left the room, rubber soles squeaking, making him wince.

What the hell had happened?

He tried moving each limb, gingerly, testing for soreness. Nothing screamed as loud as his head, but there were issues with his left arm and left leg. Glancing around the room, he couldn’t see anything with the date, or even the time. The last thing he remembered was getting into the car with Ben after receiving a tip. Did they have a car accident? Had he been shot? Trying to remember sent spikes of red-hot agony into his head. Heaving out a sigh, he relaxed as much as he could on the granite slab the hospital claimed was a mattress.

Although he wanted nothing more than to rip out his IV and storm out into the hallway, demanding someone tell him what was going on, in truth, he was afraid doing so would only make everything hurt worse. He’d never felt this horrible in his life—he didn’t want to know how much shittier it could get.

The unmistakable sounds of an irate Irish couple arguing in the distance wafted into the room. He relaxed even further. If his parents couldn’t convince the doctor to hurry up and see him, as soon as his brothers and sisters descended, the hospital staff would do whatever they could to get rid of the raucous brood as soon as possible.

“That’s my baby in there!”

Uh. They were getting closer, and Kurt hoped they’d either calm his mother down or let them in, because his mother was working herself into a fine state, and her voice tap-danced in his brain.

“Mrs. O’Donnell. Mr. O’Donnell. The doctor’s on his way, I promise. Come with me to the waiting area, it won’t be long.”

The firm voice belonged to his boss. What was he doing here? Did that confirm whatever happened had been related to the bust they’d been heading to? Why couldn’t he remember what went down? And where the fuck was Ben?

Kurt brought his right hand to his head, and rubbed gently. God almighty, he needed some narcotics, or hell, maybe a beheading wouldn’t be so bad.

“Detective O’Donnell.” A tiny white-coated woman entered his room. “I’m Doctor Sarwa. How’s the head?”

“Hurts.” There went that croaking voice again. “What happened?”

“In a minute. Any nausea?”

“No, not really.” Not a lie, but he wasn’t ready to eat anything, either.

Dr. Sarwa gave a curt nod and made few notations on a clipboard before she set it down and flipped back the covers on his left side. Kurt peered down, despite the strain it put on his eyeballs, and saw a huge long bandage over his arm. Was it broken?

The doctor peeled back the bandage, revealing a number of black stitches along a jagged cut extending along the inside of his arm from mid-bicep to wrist.

“You’re lucky, Detective O’Donnell,” the doctor murmured as she gently probed at the… he couldn’t call it an incision. No self-respecting surgeon in the world would make a cut that ragged and random. “You didn’t break any bones.”

That was her definition of lucky? Having seen the damage, his arm began throbbing in time with the pounding in his brain.

Kurt took a deep breath. His throat was so dry, he didn’t want to say one more word than necessary. “Leg?”

She snorted. “Just a twisted knee, not serious at all.”

“Thirsty.”

“I’ll tell the nurse when I leave. You can have a little juice.” She retaped the bandage. “Looks good. Okay, quick rundown. You conked your head, and shrapnel sliced open your arm.”

Kurt laughed, but shut it down after a second when it upgraded the tap-dancers in his head to a steel drum band. “Professional opinion?”

Dr. Sarwa smiled faintly at him. “I could get technical with you, but you’ll remember this easier once the grogginess wears off. The shrapnel was dangerous—you had to get into surgery immediately or you were going to bleed out. But it could have been a lot worse. I’ll be back later.”

He might have drifted for a few minutes, but a nurse showed up almost immediately with a cup of juice, followed by his mom and dad.

“Baby, oh, baby!” His mom flew to the side of the bed opposite the nurse. At the moment, he was more interested in the approaching bendy straw. The crisp bite of apples hit his nose, and his parchment-dry mouth salivated in response.

His mom grabbed his hand and squeezed lightly. Tears wet the back of his hand. This was the first time he’d been… certainly not hurt. With six elder siblings, he’d had his share of breaks and contusions. But this was the first time he’d been hurt on the job, because why else would he have a shrapnel wound, even if he couldn’t remember how he got it.

With his thirst eased, if not slaked, he turned his head to his mom. The nurse left, to be replaced by his dad.

“Kurt, baby….”

“Mom, I’m okay.”

“No you’re not.”

Kurt winced, and his father spoke softly. “Deirdre, not so loud. Remember what the doctor said.”

“But he’s not okay, Sean.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“How are you feeling, Son?” His father’s hand hovered over his bandage, and finally settled on his shoulder.

“Sore.” But now that he was more awake, he was ready to go home. The pain was beginning to dull, settle, now that he knew what was physically wrong. “Dad, what happened?”

His parents exchanged a glance. His mother started weeping.

“What?” They were never at a loss for words.

“Baby, you could have died.” His mom’s voice broke.

The decibel level rose outside his room. The rest of his family must have arrived. Shit, this wasn’t any worse than when Ian dared him to climb that rotting tree in their backyard. He’d broken an arm and a leg, then. This was a bad cut, a knock to the head and a twisted knee. Really not cause for all the histrionics. But they still acted like he was a baby, even though he was thirty-one. Why did he have to be his parents’ last kid?

The door opened, but it wasn’t one of his siblings who entered. It was his boss.

“Sir?” Nausea boiled in his gut, and the throbbing in his head accelerated.

“O’Donnell. Glad to see you’re awake. I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Like the somber expression hadn’t given it away.

“What, Sir?” His mother’s grip tightened, and his father stepped away, looking out the window.

“Do you remember what you were doing when the explosion occurred?”

Explosion? Now the shrapnel made sense. Nothing else did. “I don’t remember an explosion. Just getting the tip from Gustav, before I got in the car with Ben. Did the car explode?” Why wasn’t Ben telling him this? The nausea had transformed to a sharp, burning pain in his gut.

“The building your informant directed you to was rigged. We’re almost positive that one of the guys Ben put away while he was on the drug squad—guy who goes by the name of Novi, the Russian Bear—was behind the explosion. He was released on parole a couple of months ago.”

Novi. Kurt remembered stories about him—drug runner and dealer, among other things. But he could tell by Inspector Nadar’s expression that there was more to come.

“I’m sorry, Kurt. Ben didn’t make it.”

Dead? He sucked in a breath. Shards of memories filled with heat and noise assaulted him.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” his mom whispered. His parents had met Ben a couple of times. Ben had been a loner, and even after three years, Kurt didn’t know a lot about his personal life, but Ben was his partner. They’d worked well together, and he’d considered them friends. The almost fifteen-year age difference hadn’t mattered in the least.

His eyes filled, and he broke the gaze with Inspector Nadar, facing his mom. She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at his damp face.

Pulling in a deep breath, he directed his gaze back at his boss. “How long ago? Have you informed his family?” As far as he knew, there was only Ben’s mother. He wanted to be there; it was his responsibility.

“I did that while you were in surgery. I don’t have any details yet, but the funeral will likely be on Saturday. If you want to be there, you need to concentrate on getting well.”

“Yes, Sir.” He’d be there, no matter if he had to drag an IV stand along behind him. Later he’d worry about getting the Russian Bear behind bars.

“Good day, Mr. and Mrs. O’Donnell.” Inspector Nadar nodded sharply before he spun on his heel and left the room.

“That’s right, baby. You need to get better. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

His brothers and sisters boiled into the room, all appropriately sympathetic for his loss, and glad he was mostly okay. Every one of them hugged him, awkwardly to be sure, but it wouldn’t be his family if there wasn’t any hugging or kissing. One of them had to be responsible for intimidating the nursing staff, because he believed most hospital patients weren’t allowed eight visitors at a time. He truly appreciated his family, and he hoped Ben’s mother had someone to help her, if she was having a lucid day and was able to comprehend the loss she’d suffered.

“Mom, I want to go home.”

“I know, baby. The doctor wants to keep you another day, then your dad and I will take you back home with us. Erin prepared the spare room for you while we rushed right here. We’ll take good care of you.”

He’d thank his sister later. Stupid to want his mom to take care of him at this age, but the thought of going back to his sterile apartment made him want to cry more. He didn’t have a girlfriend; he didn’t have anyone he even dated regularly. But he had his big, comforting family.

THECHAPELwas small, but already his leg protested the trip from the taxi. Ben wouldn’t care if he sat at the front or the back, so he slipped into an empty seat in the very last row. Drawing attention to himself, when he survived but Ben hadn’t, made him uncomfortable.

He should have let his parents come, but for some reason he’d wanted to do this alone. Stupid. The cane wasn’t quite enough support, not when he had to use the wrong arm. He scanned the attendees for anyone who looked like Mrs. Kaminski. He needed to pay his condolences to her, if nothing else. Most of the pews were filled with dress uniforms—very few in civilian dress.

The minister strolled out, appropriately somber, to start the ceremony. There was no casket as there had been at Granny O’Donnell’s funeral—the only other person close to him to have died. Kurt hoped the lack of casket was due to choice and not necessity, but he’d been so exhausted from his injuries he hadn’t thought to inquire about the details. The service began, but didn’t hold his attention. No minister could have anything to say to comfort Kurt. Not now.

Memories of the hours they’d spent in a department-issued car together flitted through his brain. Ben may have been reticent about his personal life, but he’d imparted years of wisdom to a green detective and Kurt had soaked it up, becoming better at his job every day because of Ben.

Two people, neither of them in uniform, were seated in the front row, but off to the far right. The entire front row was open, reserved for family that either didn’t exist or wasn’t going to arrive. From where he sat, only the woman’s profile was visible, but she was around Ben’s age. So, not Mrs. Kaminski. Who was she? He could see no physical similarities between Ben and the strange woman—it didn’t seem possible that she was family, despite her position in the family pew.

Under his gaze, she wiped at her eyes with a tissue and offered another one to the man beside her. He took it, but clenched it in his fist instead of using it. The woman moved slightly, and the man’s profile became visible. Kurt didn’t recognize either one.

The congregation rose for a hymn, blocking his view. He didn’t want to tax his leg any further by constantly standing and sitting, and he even had his mother’s blessing not to. She’d been adamant he not do anything to reinjure himself.

When the inspector stood to deliver the eulogy, a small stab of regret pierced his heart. If it wasn’t one of Ben’s friends from outside the force, it should have been him giving it. Shame made him accept the inspector’s offer to speak, and shame made him squirm in his seat while he listened, trying not dishonor his dress uniform by crying. But Nadar hadn’t spent nearly as much time with Ben as Kurt had, and his words reflected that distance. He watched the strangers in the front row, expecting one of them to rise to speak when Nadar was done. But neither of them moved, except for the woman who again blotted tears from her eyes.

Fuck. Could he have worked with Ben this long and not known he had a girlfriend? The woman could be family—maybe—but Ben had never mentioned anyone besides his mother. The woman’s hand fluttered to her face, moving a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and this time he caught sight of something he should have noticed immediately. A wedding band.

What the fuck?

Why hadn’t Ben told him? Granted, Kurt probably talked more about his personal life than his partner had wanted to hear, but Ben deflected almost all personal questions. Kurt thought them friends, but he didn’t even know Ben had been married, let alone recognize the woman he should have at least met in the three years they’d spent partnered. Hell, most of the married cops he knew hung out with their partners off the job, frequently with their wives as well. Sure, he and Ben had never done more than eat lunch together, but Ben had met his parents and all of his siblings at least once, when they’d stopped by the station.

A burning pain lanced up his arm. Looking down, Kurt realized he’d rested the cane across his lap and was squeezing the shit out of it with both hands. Fine for his right, but definitely too much activity for his still-stitched left arm. Taking a deep breath, he unclenched his fingers. He’d talk to the two strangers after the service. He had a duty as Ben’s partner, and he needed to know. As long as he could keep his bitterness contained. Why hadn’t Ben asked for a transfer if he hated Kurt so much? Because Kurt couldn’t imagine any other reason for him not to mention a wife, even an estranged one, to his partner.

He couldn’t talk to Ben’s previous partner, find out if Ed had known. Ed had died of a coronary, after which Ben got partnered up with Kurt. The ache in his heart, knowing his partner hadn’t trusted him—at all—rivaled the emptiness inside where a friend had lived. It may have been a one-sided relationship, but Kurt missed his friend. God. Why hadn’t he known? Had he been too self-absorbed, or had Ben deliberately hidden the information from him? Guilt ate through him like acid, the burning pain in his gut returning. He had to have been at fault.

The service ended abruptly, or so it seemed, since Kurt hadn’t paid attention at all. The two people slipped out a side door almost before the minister had finished speaking. Without thinking, Kurt was up and out of the chapel, hobbling as best he could around the side of the church, to try and catch up to them in the parking lot.

“Wait! Wait!”

Two dark heads swiveled toward him, the man murmuring something to the woman, who nodded.

“Thank you,” he puffed out. God, he hoped he got his strength back soon. He stood before them, and shifted his cane to his left hand so he could shake their hands at least. They were undoubtedly siblings, but the woman was several years older and had that slight puffy cast to her jawline his own sisters had displayed in early pregnancy. Ben was going to be a father? He wasn’t sure if he could find words beneath the bitter guilt drowning him.

“I’m Kurt O’Donnell. Ben’s partner.” The man gasped slightly and turned away. His sister elbowed him in the arm.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kurt. I’m Sandra. This is Davy, my brother.” She would have made an excellent witness on the stand. Her words gave him only a modicum of data that he didn’t have before.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Kurt took her hand and gently squeezed it. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her face had the yellowish pallor he associated more with illness than with grief.

“I’m sorry for yours,” she replied.

He stretched his hand out to Davy, glad that Sandra at least had a brother to aid her through this, but their body language warred with his expectations. Sandra had her left arm around her brother’s waist, shoulders tilting toward him in a protective gesture. It should have been the other way around.

Davy turned red-rimmed eyes, like his sister’s, to him. But that was the only similarity.

Sandra was sad. Davy was devastated. Davy’s chocolaty eyes were filled with all the desolation in the universe. The scleras were more than bloodshot, like he’d been crying for days, and his nose was as swollen and red as his eyelids. His face had the deathly white hue of shock that Sandra’s should have had, and he didn’t appear to be focusing too well.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, Davy’s hand in his, shake forgotten. He had a sudden urge to hug Davy, but he was too busy trying to keep the shock and betrayal off his face. The world spun dizzily as all his preconceptions and conclusions vaporized, to be replaced by the new information now in his possession.

Davy’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. He dropped his gaze, but he left his hand in Kurt’s. Sandra separated them.

“We need to go now, Kurt. Thanks for introducing yourself.” She tried to smile.

They got into a car, Sandra behind the wheel.

“Wait!”

Sandra twisted around in her seat.

“What about Ben’s mom?”

“Oh, well, she wasn’t having a good day. Sunshine Manors advised against bringing her.”

Kurt stood back and let them—there was no other word for it—escape. He steadied himself on his cane while the taillights receded. Assuming Ben hadn’t lied about his mother, it was entirely possible she’d been too ill or too disoriented to attend the funeral. But Sandra had been lying. He’d been a cop too long. He knew.

Chapter Two

THATNIGHT, his family tried to cheer him up. His eldest sister, Erin, brought over her daughters before his mom went to the restaurant. Now that all of their children were grown, both his parents spent the majority of their time at the family-owned Finn’s Frolic, a cross between a family restaurant and a pub. Since Kurt’s surgery, his mom had been home almost constantly, with other family members either taking him to doctors’ appointments, visiting him, or taking extra shifts at Finn’s to allow mom to stay home.

He sat at the kitchen table, longing for the solitude of his sterile, joyless apartment.

“Kurt, honey, the girls wanted to see their favorite uncle. You up to playing a board game or two?” Erin kissed his cheek and set a couple bags of groceries on the kitchen counter.

“Sure, yeah, no problem.” As long as they picked something simple, he could play and still digest the information he’d received today. He scratched at a flaw in the bright yellow tablecloth. “You’re my nursemaid today?”

“Kurt!” Erin could have doubled for his mother. He blushed. They were only trying to help.

“I’m sorry, it’s been a difficult day.”

Erin squeaked a little, and came to hug him, long hair brushing over his forearms. If he ever grew his hair out that long, it would look exactly like hers. Out of all of their siblings, Erin was the most similar to him in appearance: auburn haired, golden skinned, and deep-blue eyed. When she stood next to him, probably anyone could tell she was his sister, like Davy and Sandra today.

“Hey, when you’re pregnant, how far along are you when you get all fat-cheeked?”

Erin turned and threw a dishcloth at him. “Haven’t you learned yet not to call a pregnant woman fat? After five nieces and nephews?”

Kurt tossed the cloth back at her. “I’m not calling you fat. No, I saw a woman at the funeral today. She had that same look on her face.” He gestured vaguely around his lower jaw. “You know, puffy. I’m sure she was pregnant, but I don’t know how far along she was.”

She wrinkled her brows. The question was odd, no doubt, but he was finding he had a lot of latitude since the incident. Which was fine by him. He wanted to keep Davy and Sandra to himself for the time being—at least until he’d decided what to make of them. Not realizing Ben had a baby on the way with a wife Kurt didn’t know about was one thing, but suggesting anything about a connection to Davy, if it were untrue, wouldn’t go down well with his colleagues. He must have been mistaken about the source of Davy’s grief. Either way, Kurt had to be the worst detective ever.

“Well, mine comes around the fourth month and leaves by the fifth, but Colleen and Caitlyn both had it from about the fifth month until they gave birth.” Just like the twins, always had to be the same.

“What about Heather?” Mike was the O’Donnells’ second-eldest child, and his wife of three years was still getting used to their large brood. She didn’t share everything like his sisters did and her pregnancy last year was well advanced before she confirmed it for anyone. It was the puffiness that had his sisters and mother speculating, though, which is why he’d noticed it so quickly on Sandra.

“It was hard to tell with Heather. But I think we all suspected in her fourth month also.”

“So, not before you know you’re pregnant, right?”

“No. You know by then. Are you sure you’re talking about a woman at the funeral? Wait…. You didn’t get some poor girl in trouble, did you?”

Okay, not as much latitude as he thought. “No, Erin. I haven’t gotten a girl in trouble.” He had to date for that to happen, and he’d gotten so tired of the scene, he hadn’t bothered in weeks… months. His brother, Ian, was practically addicted to dating, but Kurt didn’t know why he went to all the effort. Kurt missed sex, but it wasn’t a whole lot better than jacking off, and it was always fraught with stress over whether he was doing it right and…. Fuck. He was not going to think about sex while sitting in his mother’s kitchen with his sister.

“Nothing more than a cop’s natural nosiness, I promise. But it’s not important. I thought I was supposed to play games with my nieces.”

Erin called the girls to the kitchen, and he played while she cooked. But he couldn’t shake the idea that Ben had to have known about the baby. Kurt never sensed a day of elation in him, or conversely, depression. Not once. How long had Ben been married? He positively itched to call in the plate number he’d memorized, but if his boss found out he’d used department resources for personal reasons, he’d be in deep shit.

FORAweek and a half, Kurt went through the motions. He went to all his physiotherapy appointments, saw the department-mandated psychiatrist, filled out forms for his short-term disability, discussed with his doctor when he could return to work, spent time with his family, and visited with friends from the force who dropped by. But he couldn’t shake the memory of Davy’s haunted brown eyes.

When he woke Tuesday morning, three weeks to the day from Ben’s death, he found his brother Mike in the living room reading the paper.

“Don’t you have to work today?” He needed to go back to his apartment. His arm was fucked up still, and his knee unsteady, but he wasn’t a baby, for God’s sake. Since getting out of the hospital, he hadn’t had one minute to himself.

“Took the morning off. I’ve got lots of time accrued.” His brother was an investment banker, and a damned good one. Like the rest of the family, he was a hard worker, and rarely took vacation. As irritating as it was, it warmed him inside to know his family was here for him. “I’ll take you to your doctor’s appointment.”

Although he didn’t need his left knee to drive, no one wanted him getting behind the wheel and risking tearing the stitches in his arm if he needed to react in a hurry. Made him feel even more like a helpless child, getting chauffeured around everywhere. This appointment was to remove the stitches, but he probably wouldn’t be cleared to drive yet.

“Can we stop by the station first?”

“What for?” Mike set his newspaper aside and narrowed his eyes. He was the most outspoken, besides their mother, about Kurt not going back to work before he was ready. But that wasn’t why Kurt wanted to go in. He wasn’t in a hurry to go back to a desk job, to sit staring day after day at the seat Ben should have filled, until he was cleared to go back on active duty. Or even worse, to sit across from a new partner.

“I need to talk to my boss. About forms and stuff. Whether Ben’s desk needs to be cleared out.”

“I’m sure that’s done, squirt.” Mike’s tone was gentle. “But just in case, let’s go after your appointment, so you don’t have to rush.”

His brother stood and gave him a quick, gentle squeeze around his shoulders.

“Thanks, Mike.”

HE STAREDat the blocky building. Had he ever come here off duty? Not since he’d dropped off the final paperwork when he was hired on. “Can you pick me up later?”

Mike patted his shoulder. “No problem. There’s a coffee shop around the corner. Give me a call when you’re ready. You’ve got your cell with you?”

Kurt rolled his eyes. He was a cop, a detective, for God’s sake. His cell was almost as important as his gun. He hadn’t carried his gun since the incident, so he’d kept his phone almost obsessively close.

“Yeah, Mikey, I’ll call when I’m done.”

With the cane, he was able to maneuver out of the low-slung vehicle without too much struggle. He shut the door and walked slowly into the building.

THEGREETINGSof his coworkers and friends were an uncomfortable mix of happy-to-see-him and sad-to-see-him-alone. Resolutely, he made his way to Nadar’s office without looking at the corner that housed his and Ben’s desks.

“O’Donnell. What are you doing here? Ready to get back on the desk? Because I think you should take some more time.” The shuffling papers gave away Nadar’s nervousness. Which made Kurt nervous in turn.

After closing the office door behind him, he sat down across from his boss. “Sir, I need Ben’s home address.”

Eyebrows rose into Nadar’s hairline. “Care to elaborate?”

“You said you went to inform the family. I think you informed someone else besides Ben’s mother.”

“Well, you are one of my best detectives. Are you sure you want this? If you’re asking, I can only assume Ben didn’t trust you with this information.”

More fucking tears welled up in his eyes. “And I’m sick about that, Sir. He should have. I am… was… his partner. And I need this. Please.”

“As long as I don’t hear about you doing anything stupid.”

“No, Sir.”

A few pen scratches later and his boss passed him a sticky note with an address.

“Thank you, Sir. What about Ben’s personal items?”

“I already looked. I was going have them boxed up, but aside from his case notes, there was nothing more than snack food in his desk. There were some spare clothes in his locker, which I returned already.”

This wasn’t new information, but it held more portent than it had before. Kurt tucked the note into his pocket and headed to Ben’s desk. He sat in the chair. None of the chairs were comfortable, but sitting in Ben’s chair, viewing a different angle of the department, was odd. The other detectives were considerate enough to pretend he wasn’t there, keeping their eyes averted as he opened drawers and closed them, hoping to find something personal of Ben’s that Nadar missed. Even the mug was standard issue. The inspector might have called him one of the best detectives, but that couldn’t be true. Not when he missed Ben’s lack of personal items at work. There were no pictures, nothing with sentimental value, nothing denoting causes he supported or things he found humorous. Kurt should have pushed, asked more questions. Shown Ben—somehow—he was worthy of trust.

Unable to sit there any longer, he made sure he still had the sticky note Nadar gave him and called his brother.

SATURDAYAFTERNOON, he got out of a taxi and stood on the sidewalk. His physiotherapist would kill him, but he held the cane in his left hand. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but it was a hell of lot better than using his left hand to carry the heavy sack containing a Crock-Pot full of his mom’s famous Irish stew. And he couldn’t handle both in his right hand. Besides, if things went according to plan, he wouldn’t be bringing the Crock-Pot back. Not full, and not right away.

The small, single-story house in front of him had been neat and tidy. Not that it looked run down, but until recently, someone had been caring for it with almost obsessive precision. That precision had softened, or maybe it was just Kurt’s imagination. A small car he didn’t recognize sat in the drive alongside Ben’s pristine yet environmentally unfriendly classic car. Neither were the car he saw Davy get into at the funeral, and both were covered in a thin layer of dust.

He bit his lip and marched forward. The mailbox was full, overflowing even. Not a particularly safe practice even if you were at home. Criminals would see an easy target, assuming the homeowner was on vacation. He peered at the envelopes hanging out of the mailbox like feathers hanging from a smug cat’s maw. Davy Broussard. Good. Now he had a full name.

Raising the cane, he used it to stab at the doorbell. A faint chime resounded behind the door. He waited. Peeked through the window at the side. A stack of newspapers sat side by side with several pairs of shoes and a briefcase, but with the glare of the sun, he couldn’t see much else.

This time, he used the cane to rap forcefully on the door. He didn’t want Davy avoiding him.

Several long seconds later, the deadbolt slid back, and a rumpled, pajama-clad Davy peered at him. Pajamas. At three in the afternoon. His eyes—only marginally less blood shot than at the funeral—widened in alarm, but with no signs of recognition.

“Can I help you?” Wow. Did the guy ever have a nice voice. Deeper than he would have expected from such a skinny guy. He could do commercials or something for sure. And he didn’t remember Davy being taller than him, but the two inches he had on Kurt’s six feet were nothing compared to the approximately fifty pounds of extra muscle Kurt had. Kurt might be shorter, but he was a hell of a lot bigger.

“Hi, I’m Kurt O’Donnell. Ben’s partner, remember?” Davy inhaled sharply, a near-gasp, like he’d done at the funeral. Was it hearing Ben’s name that distressed him? “May I come in? My leg is starting to hurt.” It wasn’t, but it was a good excuse. He sensed Davy wanted to slam the door in his face, but he was determined to prevent that. There were questions that he needed answered, but more important was his sense of obligation as Ben’s partner.

“Oh, sure.” Politeness overrode Davy’s first inclination, and Kurt didn’t give him a chance to change his mind as he pushed his way into the house.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

“Why?” Davy pointed to the back of the house—mechanically, instead of a true willingness to have Kurt in his kitchen.

“Because I brought food.”

“Why?”

Kurt shook his head. As he walked to the back of the house, he couldn’t see anything but generic décor applied with military precision. Nothing personal, vibrant, or alive, except for the jumble of shoes and newspapers by the front door.

The kitchen was the whitest room he’d seen in his life, and that included the hospital room he’d recently spent three days in. The only speck of non-white came from the black burners on the stove and the chrome taps at the sink. After heaving the Crock-Pot onto the counter, he grimaced slightly. It was his mother’s old one, with a dark green ceramic liner and a garish line drawing of a red rooster on the front. And it looked almost obscene sitting on the white counter in the whiteout conditions of the kitchen. Was this what Davy liked? This… nothingness? Even Kurt’s shitty apartment had a blue sofa and colored dishtowels, for God’s sake.

He shrugged. He was here, he’d have to make the best of it. Hope Davy at least appreciated the sentiment. By rights, he should have been here much sooner, but his lack of mobility affected his decision as much as the fact that Davy didn’t know him any better than Kurt knew Davy.

After he’d fiddled with the pot and got everything set up, he turned around. Davy sat slumped at the kitchen table, chin propped up by a hand, eyelids at half-mast. Bags under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks spoke loudly of how difficult the past couple of weeks had been. Even more startling was how Davy, with his pale-blue pajamas and his dark brown hair, somehow managed to fade away to nothing in this painter’s blank canvas of a room. Kurt expected him to stand out like a rose among the weeds, but the whiteness camouflaged him.

“Are you okay?”

Davy nodded with his eyes, like he was too tired to move his whole head. “Sandra’s not here, you know.”

What? “Um. I know?” A light flickered on in his mind. The conclusion he’d drawn at the funeral, that Sandra was Ben’s wife or girlfriend, had been an intentional misdirection on Davy’s part. Maybe Ben and Davy lied to everyone about their relationship, not just Kurt.

“Why are you here, then?” Davy asked.

“I’m sorry, I should have been here earlier.”

A puzzled look crossed Davy’s face, and he peered at the clock on the wall. “Today? I’m sorry, did we have an appointment?”

Kurt’s cheeks heated. He’d barged in here, without an invitation, and Davy didn’t seem to know what the hell to make of him or the situation. Maybe if the poor guy had slept since Ben’s death—which didn’t look likely—his coping skills would be better.

“I’m here because you’re here, not Sandra.”

The words made Davy’s eyes open fully, and he sat straight in his chair. “What do you mean?” His chest fluttered rapidly like a frightened bird… or a man about to faint from hyperventilation.

Kurt scooted to his knees in front of Davy, pain screaming through his injured joint, which he ignored. “Breathe, man, breathe. Slowly. In. Out. There’s no reason to be afraid of me, I promise.”

He lightly gripped Davy’s knees as he spoke, getting Davy to focus on him, on breathing.

A few minutes later, Davy was no longer in danger of fainting, and Kurt levered himself into another chair. He’d just reacted, but those reactions would have his physiotherapist yelling at him for sure. He might even need to dig out the prescription painkillers he still had half a bottle of, when he got back to his mom’s. But he had more pressing concerns.

“Okay, now?”

Davy nodded, a full nod this time, his eyes full of questions.

“I know this is where Ben lived. I know… or at least, I’ve deduced you lived here with Ben.”

A slightly fearful look returned, and Davy fidgeted with fingers that looked bloodless and cold, he but didn’t reply.

Another light went on his brain. Ben’s partner. He’d introduced himself as Ben’s partner. The term had a much different meaning for Davy. “You were Ben’s partner. Life partner, right?” He didn’t see a ring on Davy’s finger, so he didn’t think they were married.

Pale pink lips compressed, as though Davy were afraid of what would fall out. Kurt had seen the action before, in guilty people who weren’t hardened criminals. The urge to tell the truth warred with fear of the consequences.

Davy’s lips parted, but instead of the confirmation he expected, Davy repeated his previous question. “Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to apologize. Because I wanted to offer my help, with anything.”

“I don’t understand. Apologize for what?”

Kurt’s eyes began burning again. More memories had returned from that day, but not all. “I should have done more. Maybe if I had, Ben would still be alive.”

Davy cleared his throat. “Inspector Nadar explained it to me. I don’t think you’re to blame. You didn’t need to bring me food.”

Kurt raised a brow as he inspected Davy from forehead to toe. He’d only seen Davy for a few moments at the funeral, but he’d lost ten pounds or more in the intervening days and was as pale as the paint on the wall. His mom would have a fit if he left Davy in this condition. He wasn’t about to let Ben’s partner kill himself through neglect.

“I wasn’t kidding about helping you out. Ben was my friend.” Even if he hadn’t felt the same about Kurt. “Wife, life partner, kids… I would offer help to anyone Ben left behind. Now, it’ll be thirty minutes or so before the stew’s heated through. Is there anything you need me to do?”

Davy’s breath hitched, once. Again. Then he startled them both by bursting into tears. Harsh, racking sobs and great gulping breaths shook Davy’s slim frame. Davy stood poised to run, rubbing his face frantically, as though he could hide his grief.

Kurt couldn’t let him suffer, couldn’t let him run and hide more than he had been. Kurt grabbed him with his good hand and hauled him into his lap like a baby. Davy’s head landed on the top of his barely healed scar on his bicep, and Kurt bit his cheek to keep from yelling. He wrapped his good arm around Davy’s stiff, shaking body, and a few seconds later, Davy curled around him, absorbing body heat into his chilly form. Kurt shifted, so Davy’s head rested on his shoulder, hot tears—the only thing warm about Davy right now—wetting his neck. He rocked, like he would with one of his nieces or nephews, and Davy’s legs pulled up into an almost fetal position. Where the hell was Sandra? Where were Davy’s parents, friends?

Crooning softly, an Irish tune his mother sung to him as a child, Kurt rocked Davy, let him cry, wishing they’d been on a couch when Davy had his meltdown. A few tears of his own slipped down and dropped from his chin into Davy’s soft hair. His loss wasn’t as profound, but hurt every damned day.

He’d had complete strangers—victims and relatives of victims—break down and need comfort. Ben never understood how he could do it, but if he sensed he could help, he did. He and Ben had seen a lot of people under a lot of distress, and a hug could go a long way to ease the pain. Although he was a stranger now, Davy shouldn’t be. No way would Kurt deny him the same comfort he’d give a stranger. Not this pale, thin man Ben must have loved.

Davy’s spine played like Braille under his palms, and each of his ribs told the story of Davy’s self-neglect.

The minutes ticked by as the edge of hysteria smoothed from Davy’s sobs. Warmth radiated back from the body in his arms, and the muscles loosened, became supple.

His shoulder was soaked, and Davy sniffled, the tearing grief easing at last.

“C’mon Davy, I think you need a nap.” If he could have avoided disturbing Davy, he would have, but his arm and leg were already protesting.

He coaxed Davy to his feet and followed him as he stumbled and swayed into a large bedroom with a king-size bed. He assumed this was the room Davy shared with Ben, but aside from a small pile of clothes heaped in a chair on Davy’s side of the bed, the room could have been found in any moderately priced hotel in the nation.

Seconds after rolling Davy into bed—thankfully the guy was wearing pajamas—he was asleep, emitting soft, snuffling snores.

Returning to the kitchen, the mouth-watering scent of his mom’s stew tickled his nose as it heated. Davy could sleep for hours after his cathartic episode, and Kurt should leave. Should. But dammit. The whole Davy and Ben situation was odd, and his overactive curiosity was a major reason why he became a detective in the first place.

Starting with the fridge, he opened up every door in the room. It only confirmed what he’d suspected—Davy hadn’t bought groceries in a while and probably had eaten very little since the funeral. Cleaning products, though, were available in abundance, which was no surprise given how perfect and white everything appeared. Confirmation of a theory didn’t appease his curiosity in the least.

Graduating to drawers, he opened each until he came to one crammed with unopened mail. He took it out and sorted through it. Every piece had been postmarked the week of Ben’s death or later. Since Davy hadn’t brought in the mail for a few days, Kurt wondered if Davy’s sister brought this in. He wished he knew which of the men was the obsessive neat freak. He’d only gone through the kitchen, but that’s what he was seeing—a borderline pathological compulsion.

He popped out to grab the mail and paused by the untidy pile of newspapers by the front door. All of them were dated after Ben’s death. After grabbing the mail, he placed it on the kitchen table, although he suspected Davy would shove it away in the same drawer with the rest. He followed up by cleaning out the rotting food in the fridge and giving it a wipe down with bleach. He didn’t know when garbage day was, so he just left the bag in the garage.

After turning the Crock-Pot to low—it could stay that way all day, and Davy would have something hot to eat when he awoke—Kurt turned his attention to the rest of the house.

Working through the house as methodically, although far tidier, as when searching for evidence, he found almost nothing. Almost nothing to suggest anyone lived here, let alone two men who were apparently committed to each other. The décor was uniformly bland, and there were no personal effects from either man. Not one ragged-edged, broken-spine book sat on the few generic bookshelves. Hell, not even a brand new book was visible. Not one photo graced a single horizontal surface. Even Kurt’s lonely apartment had pictures of his family—never again would Kurt call his apartment sterile. It was lonely, but not sterile. This house was sterile, and he was tempted to dust for prints to prove Davy wasn’t a ghost hanging around a model home.

Finally, there was only the spare bedroom and the master bedroom left to search. He couldn’t search the master bedroom without waking Davy, although he was more curious than ever to find out what—if any—secrets it contained.

The spare room didn’t appear different than the rest of the house. The dresser doubled as a linen closet, and the bed was like something out a furniture catalog. Not surprising. If Ben couldn’t even tell Kurt about his living arrangements, he sure as hell wasn’t having houseguests. Besides, houseguests were frequently messy.

He opened the closet. Dear God, there was an eternity of bad jokes in here about gay men in the closet. The small space was packed floor to ceiling with color. Shirts, pants, blankets, even what appeared to be a handmade quilt with a riot of crazy colors. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, with bits of paper or fabric sticking out from under their poorly fastened lids. Throw pillows, games, mismatched lamps, and mementos jumbled together. Blues, reds, greens, purples, and yellows met his eyes. The colors overloaded his retinas after investigating the rest of the house.

A single box near the door had a grubby, well-worn lid. He opened it. Photos. Why would anyone keep a box of photos, and not put a single one up in their home?

An old Polaroid photo, complete with overexposure, sat on top. The candid shot, about ten years old, depicted Davy and Ben, laughing. He almost didn’t recognize either of them. He’d never seen Ben laugh, and Davy was a pale shadow of the happy young man in the photo. The two men weren’t touching but they were sitting close together. Kurt bit his lip against the sudden burning in his eyes.

He quickly sifted through the other photos in the box. There wasn’t another one of Ben, but several of Davy and Sandra and other people he didn’t recognize. Sitting back on his heels, he considered the items in the closet. Going through them now would take a lot of time; Davy could awaken at any moment. No doubt, everything in here was Davy’s. Which meant the compulsion toward cleanliness and lack of personal effects had been all Ben, a carryover of his workspace at the department.

Past experience had taught him that people kept their most prized possessions close to where they slept. This room gave that a lie; this room was the exception. Somehow, he knew this closet contained all the things dear to Davy’s heart.

His investigation raised more questions than it answered; he needed to talk to Davy, but that wasn’t going to happen today. He took a spin through the basement, but other than awe at the incredible home gym residing there, it told him nothing new.

After checking in on Davy, who was still sound asleep, he left a note by the Crock-Pot with his phone number and a request for Davy to call him if needed. Phone call or not, Davy needed help, and out of respect for Ben’s memory, Kurt was going to provide that help and maybe satisfy his curiosity at the same time.

Chapter Three

ASSAILEDWITHdéjà vu, Kurt got out of the taxi and made his way up to Davy’s front door. He hadn’t even been able to stay away for twenty-four hours.

Last night, he’d been restless, snapping at his parents and pacing, wondering if Davy had eaten the stew. He couldn’t even tell his parents why he’d been out of sorts. Thinking about Davy’s empty cupboards made him do something incredibly presumptuous. Maybe he should consider going back to desk work sooner than he’d intended, keep him from thinking too much.

He left the house while his parents were at church. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and even if Davy was… judging by the dust on Davy’s car, if he wasn’t going to work, he wasn’t going to church, either.

As he’d done the previous day, he used his cane to knock on the door. Again, he waited. Again, he rang the doorbell.

When Davy opened the door this time, there was recognition in his eyes, and a wary welcome.

“Hi, Davy. Feeling better?” There was a hint of color in those pale cheeks, and the purple shadows under his eyes had faded a bit. He wore the same blue pajamas he had on yesterday, though.

More than a hint of color flashed into his face, and he looked down. “Yes,” Davy whispered to his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about. Unless you’re not gonna ask me in.”

“Oh, right, yes.” Davy stepped back.

Kurt smiled, hoping to put Davy more at ease and headed to the kitchen. Probably the living room had more comfortable seating, but most of his family hung out in the kitchen, and Davy needed to spend more time near food if he was going to put a few pounds back on.

“Thanks for the stew, it was very good.” Davy sat at the kitchen table across from him, looking like a lost little boy, for all that he might be a few years older than Kurt.

The Crock-Pot, minus the removable liner, sat garishly on the pristine white counter. Which was a good sign. If Davy had dumped the stew, uneaten, he’d have cleaned the liner and had both parts together.

“Did you make it yourself?”

“No, my mom did.”

“Oh.”

They sat, staring at each other. Kurt didn’t want to start any involved discussions, since he was waiting for a delivery. Davy cocked his head to the side, a faint frown creasing his face.

The doorbell rang, and Davy’s frown got deeper. His gaze shifted from Kurt to the door and back again. “Who is that?” Davy’s voice was heavy with suspicion.

“Don’t worry about it.” Kurt sprang to his feet and headed to the door, trailed by Davy.

“I don’t want any visitors.” A hint of hysteria replaced the suspicion as Davy’s voice rose.

Kurt opened the door and showed the grocery deliveryman where to deposit the groceries, ignoring Davy’s half-uttered protests. When the guy went out for the second load, Davy finally got out a whole sentence.

“What the hell are you doing?” Davy patted down his pajamas, as though he was going to find something in his non-existent pockets. “Who is going to pay for all this?”

Ah. Davy was looking for his wallet.

“I am.”

“I can’t let you do that. Tell him to take it all away.”

“And let you starve? I don’t think so.”

“I can get my own groceries.”

Kurt snorted. “Well, you haven’t.”

The deliveryman returned and began hauling in the next load. “Kurt!”

“Jesus, Davy, why don’t you go take a shower and let me take care of this.” He sniffed exaggeratedly and wrinkled his nose.

Davy’s eyes flared open in anger. Kurt didn’t know if the crimson flush coloring Davy’s face and neck was from fury or embarrassment, but showering would keep Davy out of his hair until the groceries were dealt with.

“Why the hell would you say that?” Davy hissed at him, with a furtive glance at the guy setting a plastic crate on the floor by the kitchen.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Because you were wearing the same pajamas yesterday. Isn’t it about time you got out of them?”

“Shut up! You’re going to give him the wrong idea.” Davy’s voice somehow got more forceful and more quiet at the same time.

“What? Hold on a second.” Kurt turned his attention to the delivery guy who needed his signature for the credit card slip. The door shut, and Kurt went back into the kitchen. It would take him awhile to put the groceries away with his bum leg and arm. Then he could start making lunch.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting away the groceries. I thought you were taking a shower.”

“I… I…,” Davy sputtered. “Aren’t you worried about what that guy thought?”

“Am I worried the delivery guy thinks… what exactly?”

“That, you know, we’re together.” Davy whispered the last word. Kurt’s heart broke. What had Ben done to this poor guy with his secrecy?

“So what if he thinks we’re together? He’s the grocery delivery guy for God’s sake. It doesn’t matter.” Kurt wasn’t gay, but there was no shame in having a gay relationship, and he sure as shit didn’t care whether the delivery guy thought he was in one. If he even had. Whatever Davy thought, the guy was more interested in a tip than speculating on their love lives.

“It doesn’t?” Davy didn’t appear to understand. Kurt wasn’t sure he did, either. Ben didn’t have to take out an advertisement in the newspaper, but shit, there were other gay men on the force. They were younger than Ben, but gay marriage had been legal for years. Why had Ben been so secretive about it, and by extension, forcing Davy into hiding as well?

“I guess I’ll go shower, then.”

Kurt waited until he’d left the room before starting on the groceries.

BY THEtime Kurt had the groceries put away and prepared omelet fixings, Davy returned, smelling of citrusy soap. Kurt smiled when he saw the worn T-shirt and jeans Davy wore. He’d been half-afraid Davy would return wearing another pair of pajamas.

“Have a seat.” Kurt turned up the heat on the burner. “These will be ready soon. You like eggs, right? I don’t know how to make much else.”

“Eggs are fine. I can cook for myself, you know.”