As I step farther inside, I glance toward the center of the activity in the room. A large group of men varying in age from twenty-something to seventy-ish are pounding back pitchers of beer in between hoots of laughter and shouted conversation. They’ve occupied most of the tables and nearly all of the floor space—an amazing turnout, and well-deserved.
Rather than spoil the mood for anyone just yet, I take a seat at the bar and nod at the squatty, dark-haired bartender I knew in high school. “Hey, Tommy. How’s things?”
He glances over with a look of surprise as he places a pair of light beers in front of a couple of young women with their gazes glued to their phones. “Gabe, shit. Look at you. Civilian life’s treating you real good, I see.” He doesn’t say it with judgment, nor does he expect a reply. “What can I get you, man?”
“Irish ale. Whatever you’ve got on tap.”
He pours my beer and brings it over. When I put my money on the counter, he shakes his head. “It’s on me. Haven’t seen you in here since before you deployed. Fuck, dude, that’s gotta be what—”
“Long time.” I spare him from doing the math, even though I know damn well when I left for Afghanistan.
It’s been seven years and a lot of road in between. Most of it littered with shrapnel and a million pieces of smoldering flesh and fragmented bone. Not all of itbelonging to me.
“Yeah,” Tommy says quietly, glancing at me as if he’s looking for visible evidence of the injuries that got me medically discharged and ended my military career one year into my second tour. “Anyway, it’s good to see you again, Gabe. Welcome home, since I haven’t gotten to say that to you until now.”
I nod and lift the glass to my mouth. “Thanks for the beer.”
Before he decides to travel any further down memory lane, I swivel around to look at the gathering. One of the men seated at the center table stands up to deliver a long-winded toast and congratulations for the newly promoted police commander.
Through the tight cluster of bodies of all shapes and sizes, I spot the man of the hour. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a deep laugh and a crown of thick ginger hair that gleams like fire in the low yellow lights of the bar, he holds court over the rest of the room like a king.
Pride tugs at my mouth as I watch my oldest brother, Shane, soaking up his hard-earned glory. Part of me wants to just get out of here and leave, let him enjoy it. I’m the outsider at this party, anyway—never mind that many of these cops are my family.
There’s a deep blue line running through five generations of Noble men. I was the first, the only one, to break the chain.
For a lot of reasons, I’ve never fit into the Noble mold.
That’s never been more evident to me than since I came home from the desert and my entire life blew apart. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to collect all of the piecesof who I used to be.
And I sure as hell don’t belong back home in Bayside anymore. Not that I ever did.
I exhale a curse under my breath and down the rest of my beer. Just as I’m about to lever myself off the barstool to make my exit from the pub, one of the guys from the party approaches from the fringes of the packed gathering.
Twin dimples that mirror mine bracket his mouth as he walks up to me smiling. “Christ, I thought I smelled Armani cologne back here. Look who finally made it.”
Of all three of my older brothers, at thirty-six Jacob’s the closest to me in age, even though a full nine years separate us. We’re roughly the same height and build, but he’s got Mom’s sable hair and big brown eyes. Everything else about him is all Dad—except for the affection my brother has always shown me.
He sets his empty mug on the bar and cuffs my shoulder in a gesture that usually passes for an embrace in our family. His black T-shirt strains across his muscular chest, the short sleeves wrapped around solid biceps inked with tattoos. Even half-hidden, the body art betrays the rebellious side of him, since tats on a Noble are almost as cardinal a sin as turning one’s back on the family law-and-order business.
If I have one ally among my brothers, Jake’s it.
As he drops onto the stool next to mine, I smirk at him. “Armani, my ass. Unlike you, dickhead, I haven’t worn cologne a day in my life. You’d think a guy aiming to make detective one day would have better skills at, you know, detecting.”
He chuckles and motions to Tommy for another round of beers for both of us. “You were supposed tobe here an hour ago.”
“Something unexpected came up at work.”
Talk about an understatement.
For what isn’t the first time since I left Baine headquarters, I think abouther. The leggy brunette with the buttery light-brown skin, silvery-green eyes, and curves that made me want to peel off her dark purple dress and run my hands over every inch of her.
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women since I took the job in Manhattan, but to say Evelyn Beckham is beautiful is putting it mildly—and then some.
Maybe I pushed it too far with her, playing the inflexible cop in the garage, then insisting on riding up with her to the thirty-fourth floor. I could have taken her word that she was, indeed, who she claimed to be. There was enough family resemblance between her and Andrew Beckham to back her up, even if I’ve never once considered that Beck might have a sister with the face of an angel and a body that had my cock’s full attention the instant she stepped out of her car.
Her fiery, confident personality only added to her appeal. If she’d bent rather than pushing back when I confronted her, I would have done my best to put her at ease. I’m not a total dick, although I’m sure she’d never believe that now. I told her I was just doing my job, but if I had been, I would have used my access card to clear her for the executive suite, then sent her on her way alone in the elevator.
The truth is, I was glad for the interruption in my day. Glad for the excuse to delay the inevitable family reunion here at McGilly’s. If I didn’t respect and admire my brothers so much, I wouldn’t have needed any excuse to skip the festivities completely.
