Page 142 of Bulletproof

“Oh.” Fallon’s breath caught, and he looked horrified. He had just screamed at easily one of the richest men in the state, if not in the entire country. “Mr. Sutter, I⁠—”

“Sorry.” He gave Fallon his dazzler. “I was just trying to piss off Jory.”

And when Fallon did the slow pan to me, I had no idea why I was on the receiving end of the look until later.

“You shit!”

Such an outburst from unflappable Fallon Strauss seemed completely out of character for him.

“What?”

“You’re buddies with Aaron Sutter?”

I made a noise.

“They used to date,” Dylan said, cackling.

“Jesus,” he said, falling down into the chair in front of my desk.

“Why don’t you go faint in your office?” I told him.

He just looked at me. “I swear to God, from one day to the next, I have no idea what’s going to happen with you.”

The wheelchair had surprised him when he first saw me, but not as much, apparently, as my relationship with Aaron Sutter.

“Fun, huh?” Dylan smiled at him. “Welcome to the show.”

He looked back and forth between the two of us.

“We could go for yogurt,” I offered.

“We love yogurt,” Dylan seconded.

He just shook his head.

When Sam got home that night, having started his new job, bringing home mountains of stuff to read every time he came through the door, he was startled to see me.

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “Why’re you wearing my catcher’s mask?”

Sam had played baseball on a city league with the other guys in the department, and it was nice that when he resigned from the department, they made him promise to come back and play ball. He was surprised at the response from a lot of his fellow officers, especially the other detectives. They had not wanted him to go.

It turned out the bisexual piece didn’t really matter in the big picture of doing your job, backing up your brothers in blue, and just being an honest cop did. Sam had a reputation for being fair and hardworking and loyal, and that was all, in the end, that mattered.

His captain asked him to stay, but the Northern District of Illinois, in Chicago, was counting on him. His new boss, Chief Deputy Tom Kenwood, had already made sure to pay Sam a visit as soon as we got home. The marshals service wanted him, gave him a grace period for completing his marshals training since I was getting used to being in a wheelchair, and Sam had given them his word when he accepted the position. I could not have been happier.

“J?”

I lifted the mask to look at him. “Your folks are coming for dinner, and I’m deep-frying empanadas to go with the rest of the meal since your dad likes them so much.”

“Sure.”

“And since I’m lower now, closer to the stove, I didn’t want to get hot oil in my eye.”

“Oil can still splatter through the holes,” he offered logically.

I held up the round frying screen I had as well. “It’s my second line of defense.”