Well,yes, he’d really loved the part of being a hit man where he got to educate himself—and as he’d been spinning tales with a wink and a smarmy glance at a salivating car salesman, he’d sort of wanted to tell Brady that. Brady had confessed to being avoraciousreader.
He’d wondered what it was like to read bookswithsomebody. As the car salesman asked him innocently if he’d eaten yet, Eric gave his regrets, reminding the man that he had a “friend” waiting for a present at his pied-à-terre, and after a smoldering glance through his best bedroom eyes, took his leave, with one more thank you for not letting him forget his “boyfriend’s” camping gear in the back of the Crown Vic.
He thought painfully of Jai and George, cheerfully consigning their vehicle to the gods, and probably this one too, because cars they could get, but people like Brady in the world were a bit harder.
Maybe he and Brady would have started with reading Michael Connelly, he thought wistfully, although Tess Gerritsen was wonderful as well.
By the time he got back, pizzas steaming in the passenger’s seat, the roadblock had moved east about two miles. He grimaced. It was a good thing he’d switched cars. Jai would have to drive them home as he and Brady hid under camping gear in the back.
“Ooh,” Jai said as he pulled the vehicle under the garage overhang. “Good choice. See,” he said to Ace, “I told you he couldn’t fuck it up entirely.”
Ace rolled his eyes. “I toldyou, and I think Sonny and George will back me up on that.” He nodded at Eric. “But he’s right about it being a nice choice. Take the pizzas inside. We’ll clean up here shortly.” He gave Eric a brief searching look. “Spend some time with Brady. If our plan to get the phone back goes through tomorrow, you two might not have much of that for a while.”
Eric swallowed. He knew what Ace was trying not to say. He’d figured it out for himself. The plan to get the phone back had a few moving parts, but what happened after that was simple.
Get Brady to the LA FBI field office and send all the information on the phone to theseveraljournalism contacts Burton and Brady had curated during the meeting.
Once Brady was in protective custody—and that part would be tricky, Eric knew—the rest of them were going to just fade into the background.
Never to be heard from again.
Brady would be the eye of the storm—the one with the bright lights in his face, the one testifying, the one probably under a US Marshal’s care until the right people were arrested.
After the whirlwind died down, maybe they’d see Brady again.
But maybe they wouldn’t.
Brady was in law enforcement, after all, and the people in Ace’s garage were… not. It wasn’t unthinkable that once this enterprise was over, Brady wouldn’t have a reason to be a part of their little circle anymore.
There’d be no reason to crawl back in bed with Eric once Brady really knew him for who he was.
It’s okay, Charlie—you can trust me.
Sure. Sure, Eric could trust Brady not to turn him over to law enforcement—buttrusthim not to turn away when he knew what Eric was?
Probably not.
Eric mustn’t forget—mustneverforget—what Jules taught him, which was that trust usually only lasted until the come dried.
A cynical thought from a hard man, yes, but as Eric entered Ace and Sonny’s little house, the pizzas in his arms, he heard the television and soft laughter from the living room. His heart twisted a little, and he realized he liked Brady’s laugh—surprisingly deep, and deeply surprised, as though laughing was thelastthing Brady expected to find himself doing. George was in the kitchen, gathering plates, and he gave Eric a sweet smile.
“So did it have pinstripes?” he asked.
Eric chuckled. “No,” he said. “But itisgoing to go to my boy toy in my Palm Springs pied-à-terre, so maybe pinstripes would have been overkill.”
George let out a delighted giggle. “Explaining the cash?”
“Explaining the cash,” Eric agreed. “I also threw in an extra grand, which our boy will be pocketing for his own, uhm, pied-à-terre exploits. Not that I envy his wife, but I think it worked out.”
And now George winced. “Ooh—I think I dated that guy in college. I hope he gets syphilis.”
It was Eric’s turn to laugh in surprised delight. “You look so sweet!” he said as Brady came in from the living room.
“Oh, I am,” George told him complacently. “Just ask Sonny.” He lowered his voice. “He tries not to swear in front of me. We don’t tell him what I sound like in the ER.”
“I didn’t hear a single swear word,” Brady said, and while he didn’t lean up against Eric like, say, a kitten, he did brush the small of Eric’s back with his hand. Eric gave him his kindest smile while George snorted.
“You weren’t listening,” he said pertly. “You had no idea who I was.”
