Big Hard Sun
brADY HAD somehow been the recipient of some appearance stipends for all the stupid news shows he’d been asked to appear on, and he’d also, laughably enough, continued to collect his paycheck as a deputy.
He’d used some of the money to have his stuff put into storage—courtesy of the FBI—after he’d abandoned his apartment, and the rest of the money on, well, a car.
A fast car.
A dark blue Ford Mustang to be exact, because, well, he thought maybe Sonny could do something with a car like that.
But that was a question for another day.
One of the first things they’d tried to confiscate from him had been his personal phone, and he’d blessed Burton for demanding that before Brady had even thought about it.
He’d gotten a dirty look from Jessica when he’d been asked to surrender his personal effects, but he hadn’t cared. As far as anybody official was concerned, he was the sole proprietor and perpetrator of all the mayhem involving that phone and Arlen Cuthbert.
Fortunately, he’d been right. There’d been a whole lot of whales to fry, and nobody had been too worried about bringing charges against one small law enforcement fish.
Which was why he’d had the balls to ask for one meager concession when all was said and done and he’d found himself upright, walking upon the jobs and reputations of the fallen.
“Really?” Jessica had asked. “Some people want you to run for Congress—you sure you want to aim so low?”
Brady had scowled at her—by the end of this thing, they were on each other’s Christmas card list, not least because he’d been right. Cuthbert had threatened her family, personally, and Brady had assured her that he wouldn’t trust a person who didn’t defend their family.
He’d said it with a level look, and after that, whenever there was an obvious question or evasion about how in the hell he’d gotten that phone onto the airwaves and who in the fuck had helped him do it, he’d given her that face again, and she’d helped him cover.
She understood the assignment.
She helped him protect his family, and he wouldn’t betray that she’d neglected her duty because she’d been protecting hers.
It was a partnership that had gotten them both through the worst of the questions—many of them hostile and misleading—as they’d set the freight trains in motion to squash the people whose names had been on that phone.
But at last, as the May sunshine began to blast the desert for certain, Brady felt safe to return.
God, he hoped he was still welcome.
What kind of welcome could he hope to have after leaving his lover bleeding by the side of the road?
But he couldn’t stay away anymore.
He’d dressed for the occasion—a new leather jacket, some slacks, some shiny shoes. He’d had to be on television enough that he’d taken Jessica’s help with his hair, and even a little bit of moisturizer to combat the constant desert burn.
Suddenly, it had become very, very important that he not be ragged and sad and dejected when he showed up on Eric’s doorstep. He was holding his heart in his hands—not his hat.
Still, he fidgeted nervously with his hair after he parked alongside the house that the Winnebago used to be parked in front of.
There was a brand-new Subaru there. Lime green, which made Brady smile.
The front yard had been landscaped—drought resistant, with lots of succulents and some fruit trees and with friezes and arbors in strategic places to keep the direct sun from baking the front porch in the morning.
And a porch swing that looked out over the neighborhood in the cool of the evening.
Brady peered into the shade where the swing sat and saw him, wearing khaki shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. His hair had grown out of its chic cut and was trimmed simply around his ears, and he seemed a little less… groomed than he had.
But a lot more at peace.
Brady swallowed, took his courage in both hands, and got out of the car.
“I was wondering if you were getting out,” he said as Brady drew near.
“I felt overdressed,” Brady told him, standing diffidently on the porch. “I thought about going somewhere to change, but the closest place I could go was Ace and Sonny’s, and… well, I wanted to see you first.”
Eric smiled and waved a hand that showed battered mechanic’s knuckles and grease embedded in the fingernails. “I’m not as fancy as I used to be,” he said with a sort of pride. “But I can appreciate a man in a sharp outfit.”
Brady bit his lip. “I… I wanted to impress you.”
“You’re famous now,” Eric said dryly. “Aren’t you impressive enough?”
“No,” Brady said softly. “Not for you. I needed to be real. Famous doesn’t cut it. I needed you to see I meant it when I said I’d come back. I’d come home.”
The expression he turned toward Brady was heartrendingly vulnerable. “Home?” he asked softly.
“It had better be home,” Brady told him, hoping, finally hoping. “I… I just got a job nearby.”
“Yeah?”
“Apparently they needed an interim sheriff to rebuild the department before they elected a new one,” Brady said. “I thought I’d give it a shot.” What was left of the department, anyway. An awful lot of the names on that phone—and pictures—had been the guys who’d never had Brady’s back.
“I’d vote for you,” Eric said.
“But would you ask me in?” Brady pleaded. “C’mon, Charlie, throw me a bone here—”
He was on his feet then, pulling Brady into his arms, his mouth hard and hot and real.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked, voice rough and breathy.
“God, I thought you’d never ask,” Brady murmured. “Can I stay?”
In answer, Charlie kissed him again.
Brady took that to mean “Forever.”