Prologue #3
In mutual understanding, they turned their attention back to the game.
There were four seconds left before halftime and the home team was making one last desperate attempt to get a second field goal when Beckett’s phone buzzed in his back pocket.
He automatically reached for it while keeping an eye on the kicker as the clock ran out.
The clock hitting zero really didn’t matter though, since the ball was already in the air, sailing in a perfect arc towards the goal post. It was a long kick—but it looked good.
“Thérault,” he answered without checking his caller ID. He never screened his calls. From his perspective, if it was a goddamned serial killer calling to announce he was inside their condo, then that was information he could use in tracking the bastard down.
“How’s the game?” The voice was familiar, but it took a few seconds to identify his caller.
“Franklin?” he asked in patent disbelief, pulling the phone away from his ear to check the caller ID, which just said “private number.”
“Good to know you still remember my name.” He sounded much too serious for his response to be played off as sarcasm. “How’s the game?”
“How’d you know I’m at a game?” Beckett asked, baffled as he looked around, thinking his brother must be somewhere in the stands.
“’Cause they showed your big head on TV,” Franklin explained with a laugh.
“You’re watching a football game?” Beckett asked, completely flabbergasted.
Franklin had played football in high school, so it wasn’t completely out of his wheelhouse, but, well—Beckett wasn’t sure what he’d expected Franklin to watch on TV these days.
Maybe The Bachelor? Or a documentary about how paper is made.
Something, anything, but it sure as hell would not be football.
“Is that so surprising? You’re the gay one,” Franklin said mockingly.
Beckett grunted in annoyance.
“Did you need something, Franklin? Or are you just trying to lower my rock bottom?” Beckett heard his brother chuckle.
“No such thing as lowering a rock bottom,” Franklin refuted with a snort.
“Hell, yes, there is. Every good rock bottom has a basement. Figured any halfway decent shrink would know that,” Beckett scoffed.
The cheerleaders were on the field now, entertaining the crowd while the teams headed to their respective locker rooms. Trading barbs with Franklin made Beckett miss the fallout from the home team’s scoring a field goal. Not that he really cared all that much, but still—
“I didn’t complete 13 years of higher education to be called a shrink, asshole.” Despite the annoyance in his tone, Franklin didn’t sound too terribly pissed off.
“And I didn’t survive years of deployments to war zones to be called an asshole by my shorter brother, but here we are,” Beckett replied mildly.
Loic snickered and raised his hand for a high five from Beckett before turning back to admire the prancing cheerleaders.
“We’re basically the same height—”
“Sure, if you’re not counting the four inches I have on you,” Beckett readily agreed, tongue-in-cheek. “And those extra three in my pants, obviously.”
At that, Beckett heard Hayes snort and he realized he’d forgotten that his boyfriend was still virtually sitting in his ear, listening in on everything.
“So—what’s the call for? Did you have an actual question, or were you just cockblocking the cheerleading show?”
“Is it cockblocking if you’re not interested?” Franklin asked derisively.
“Jesus! How is this so damned hard for you to grasp? I have a prime subscription to the sausage fest, bro, but I’m still down with squeezing buns.”
“Dude!” Loic scrunched up his face in disgust like Beckett’s euphemisms were too extreme, even for him.
Beckett shrugged, too busy arguing with his brother to be concerned about the possibility of offending Loic’s sensibilities.
“Classy,” Franklin responded, as if agreeing with Loic. “And, while we’re on the topic—”
“Of the sausage fest or squeezing buns?” Beckett interjected.
“Of being classy—” Franklin corrected.
“Never heard of it,” Beckett cut him off.
“Mom mandated that I call you to remind you of Jackson’s store opening.”
“Mandated? You saying she hired you, Frank?”
“You think I’ve enjoyed our conversation so far?”
If Beckett had not known Franklin so well, he might have fallen for his little act. He knew damned well that Franklin lived for chances to spar with him and emerge the victor. Beckett hated it.
“Probably,” Beckett responded honestly.
His brother suddenly went quiet. Beckett waited him out, refusing to give in first.
“Are you coming or not? Mother is quite concerned that you’ll be off—jumping out of a plane, or blowing shit up in an enemy base camp, or whatever the hell it is that you do these days—and end up forgetting that you’re expected at this shindig.”
Beckett had always thought of Franklin as a bit of an oddball.
Not as charismatic as Jackson or as personable as his sister Maggie.
Franklin’s cool reserve and quiet manner made him hard to pin down, and their relationship had always been strained because of it.
Once upon a time, that had really bothered him, but as he grew older, Beckett found he cared less and less about the lack of connection.
Franklin played the game he thought he had to play, just as Beckett had done over the years.
“Sure am,” Beckett lied smoothly. Although he vaguely remembered his mother calling him about the grand opening while helping Chase in New York, after everything that had gone down, he’d forgotten all about it.
“Ask for the dates,” Hayes ordered in his ear.
“The plane tickets are already booked. We should be arriving—” he faltered, hoping Franklin would provide the date.
“On the 18th,” his brother said with a heavy sigh, clearly not fooled at all.
“Store opening, right—yup, we’ll be flying in on the 18th,” he declared with a self-assured nod.
“We?” Franklin asked, never one to let sleeping dogs lie. “You’re bringing Hayes?”
“I am,” Beckett replied, a little too stiffly. He cursed silently, knowing he’d left himself wide open for interrogation.
“I don’t have to go,” Hayes said in his ear, reassuring and calm. His presence was incredibly soothing like it always was when Beckett’s heartrate kicked up a notch or three.
“As your work partner or—?” Franklin fished for details, his tone casual.
“Think it’s about time Mom and Dad officially met the guy I’m in love with,” Beckett replied, surprising himself with the calm confidence with which he dropped that little bombshell.
It wasn’t a new sentiment. Ever since they returned from New York—hell, ever since Hayes had opened his eyes after nearly dying in Beckett’s arms at the jail—they’d begun weaving those three little words into their daily lives.
“Ah—my big tough killing-machine is such a sap,” Hayes said fondly.
Beckett took a deep breath and allowed himself a small, pleased smile, refusing to get flustered even when Hayes couldn’t see him.
“That’s—” Franklin hesitated and then cleared his throat. “That’s really great, Beck.”
“Yeah, yeah—if you tell me you’re proud of me, I’m going to have take a nice long bath with my goddamned toaster,” Beckett grumbled.
“Should probably plan ahead and bring your extension cord, then. ‘Cause Maman is for sure going to cry, ‘My little boy, oh, I’m so happy, oh—'” Franklin mocked in a falsetto that sounded nothing like their mother.
“Now, now, don’t be jealous ‘cause you’re not the favorite,” Beckett responded with a laugh.
Franklin snorted and said, “You’re not either. That badge goes to Jackson or Maggie—they gave her grandbabies. What have we given her?”
“A French press for Christmas a couple of years ago?”
“Nothing but grey hair and wrinkles,” Franklin informed him. “At least that’s what she claimed when she called begging me to call you.”
“Why didn’t she just call me herself?”
“She thinks you’re avoiding her,” Franklin replied, and Beckett could easily visualize Franklin’s casual shrug when he said that.
“Probably because the last few times she’s asked what’s been happening in your life, you’ve given her mouth static and hung up—” Hayes commented with a mix of guilt and humour.
“I did mouth static once!” Beckett quickly defended his actions, and even though Franklin lacked the full context, he laughed heartily.
“Right, that ought to do it,” Franklin assured him.
“Yeah, well, this was nice and all, Franklin, but—if you’ll excuse me, I need to hang up and fly right off the fucking rails, so—” Beckett rubbing his forehead to ease the tension headache bearing down on him like a freight train.
“We’ll see you on the 18th. Wear something nice—preferably from Hayes’ closet since yours is total shit.”
Beckett rolled his eyes. “Guess it’s never too late in the day for character assassination after all. Goodbye, Franklin! Let’s never do this again.” Because there was sure to be a rebuttal he didn’t want, or need, Beckett cut the call promptly.
“Daisy? We gotta book some plane tickets,” Beckett said with a resigned sigh.
“You’re really going to come out to your parents during the grand opening of your brother’s store?” Loic was both perplexed and impressed. “Can I come too? I feel like I should film the whole thing—so maybe I could show it at your wedding.”
“Say another fucking word about weddings and you’ll be the one taking a toaster bath,” Beckett warned.
Loic just laughed and pulled out his phone. No doubt he was hastily composing a group chat to fill in the team on Beckett’s dumbass plan to surprise his family with a new son-in-law.
“It’ll be fine,” Hayes said soothingly. The voice of reason.
“And if it’s not?” Beckett asked, though he honestly didn’t think his parents would kick his ass or anything.
“I’ll bend you over the kitchen counter and give them something real to be upset about?”
Despite how wildly inappropriate Hayes’ suggestion was, Beckett found his worries vanished like smoke in the wind at Hayes’ twisted sense of humor.