Chapter Three
Donovan
Ah, so I’d flapped the unflappable Dr. Hamish McAllister. My inner child danced a jig of joy.
Now I had to figure out Tyson.
Funny, I’d figured the man with the PhD in psychology would be tougher to crack. With his protective walls and professional ethics and all. Yet I’d wormed my way into his psyche, and if those reddening cheeks were any indication, he liked what he saw.
I would’ve been happy to take them both home with me and have my way with them. Or even better, take them to Cole’s dungeon. He wasn’t using it right now.
On which thought, I sobered immediately.
Jesus. Your best friend was shot yesterday and almost died…and you’re fantasizing about what you could do with these two men bound and at your mercy?
This was so wildly inappropriate, and yet, frankly, I was.
I wondered if Hamish would capitulate easily—or if he’d try to talk me out of those dangerous games.
And Tyson might put up a good front, but I sensed something within him.
My Dom senses went on high alert around him.
He needed to submit. His grip on reality was too tight. He was hanging on—but by a thread.
Yet I had no rational explanation for why I saw this. He’d given me no indication of being anything other than a competent police officer—would have to be to make detective, right?
Yeah, except people often got promoted who didn’t deserve it. They kissed the right ass, did the right favor, looked the other way…
Tyson bit into his sandwich, and I caught the hint of gray scruff in the weak winter light streaming through the window. Sexy as fuck described the man accurately but also didn’t encompass anything. I wanted to know so much more. “How old are you?”
Great, just blurt it out?
“Thirty-seven, although I admit I appear much younger. Good genes, right?” Hamish blinked.
Both Tyson and I turned to look at him.
His soft-green eyes widened. “Oh, you didn’t mean me. Sorry, I—”
I placed my hand on his. “It’s all right—I would’ve asked you next.”
He didn’t startle under my grip—which surprised me. I would’ve figured the deer in the headlights. Instead, he curved his hand against my palm.
“Sorry, sometimes I jump in. I’m trained to sit back and observe, but sometimes I get ahead of myself.”
Tyson smiled, little lines crinkling around his eyes. Lines Hamish certainly didn’t have. “I’m thirty-five. Went gray at twenty-two. I considered dyeing my hair, but what a fucking hassle. So yeah, what you see is what you get.”
The swear word caught me off guard for a moment—likely as he’d intended. He was downplaying any officious nature of this discussion—we were just three guys sitting around a table warming up with hot drinks after having been outside in the cold. Just shooting the shit.
A meeting that crossed many ethical boundaries, I suspected.
I didn’t have two fucks to give. “And I’m thirty-two.
So we’re all about the same age.” I didn’t—in my thirties—see a five-year age gap as significant.
And I was beyond thinking I was immature because I did make-believe in the movie business.
I had a solid career and a stellar reputation.
Oh, and I’d sort of saved a life yesterday.
Well, almost.
Speaking of which… With my good hand, I extracted my phone and checked my messages. A text from Michael assured me that Cole was making slow but steady progress. Still in the ICU—would be for another day or two—but wasn’t on the critical list.
“Hamilton?” Tyson inclined his head.
I nodded. “Yeah. He’s still in the ICU.” I eyed my bagel. “I don’t think he’s up for company.”
He waved me off. “If we were still trying to track down a suspect, then me talking to him would be critical. We have the shooter. With several witnesses to the shooting and the aftermath. Your testimony—along with Ms. Reyes’s—will be crucial.”
“If it goes to trial.” Hamish sipped his tea. “Trials are still rare these days. Less than ten percent of cases.”
“Yeah,” Tyson agreed.
That, I hadn’t known. “So like, plea deals and shit?”
Hamish nodded. “Quite frequently. Most people can’t afford the cost of a trial. So they plead guilty—often for a reduced sentence.”
Tyson grunted. “Yeah. Pisses me off sometimes.”
“If everyone had a trial, the system would grind to a halt.” Hamish tried for a smile but faltered. “I agree some people shouldn’t be entitled to reduced sentences and recidivism is a thing. That’s why I’m a firm proponent of restorative justice.”
Another grunt from Tyson.
I cocked my head toward the doctor.
“Restorative justice occurs when victims can confront their perpetrators in a safe setting and where the perpetrators can…apologize…for lack of a better word. They can—”
“Give a sob story.” Tyson’s voice had an edge to it.
Hamish pivoted to him. “We both know the recidivism rate goes down after a perpetrator has been through the restorative justice process—they are forced to face the consequences of their actions. Some really do turn their lives around.”
“And some use it to curry favor with the parole board. Oh, I apologized. Let me out so I can be a good person. All the while, they’re planning their next crime.” Tyson tossed his sandwich down in obvious disgust.
I pressed my hand to his.
He startled.
“Maybe Hamish can provide some statistics to back up his claim.”
“I can.” He grabbed his phone from his coat pocket.
Tyson held up his other hand. “I get it. You’re right—there are some who are helped by the program. And sometimes victims feel better. Like they’ve been heard. But do you really think Meggibeth sitting down with Cole would be a good idea? That it would satisfy either of them?”
“I think it’s a terrible idea.” I squeezed his hand, cocked my head toward Hamish, and spoke when it appeared he wasn’t going to.
Hamish held his hand up, clearly meaning to object.
Giving him a slight shake of my head, I continued, “But if months or years from now, that’s what Cole wants, I’d support him.
Look, his father was an abusive alcoholic who made Cole’s life hell.
Cole would’ve had every right to walk away and never look back.
When the old bastard got sick, though, Cole chose reconciliation.
I wouldn’t have done it.” Just thinking about my father caused a shiver to run up and down my spine.
“But Cole’s his own man. He’ll do whatever he wants.
As for Meggibeth…” I shrugged. “If it means she’s less likely to do something stupid again, how is that a bad thing? ”
Tyson’s mouth set in a grim line, but he didn’t shake off my hand. Eventually, he picked up his sandwich and took a bite.
I pulled my hand back.
He met my gaze.
The world stopped in that moment. Down to the core of my being, I saw his pain. Over some wrong committed to him? By him? I didn’t know—but I sure as shit wanted to find out.
“What are your plans for tonight?” Hamish drew my attention from Tyson.
“I’m stopping by the hospital to check on Cole and then heading home.”
“Where’s home? Do you need a ride?” His green eyes flashed compassion. Likely as he remembered I couldn’t drive.
“Where do you live, Doc?” Turning the tables on him felt like the right thing to do.
He flushed.
From the nickname or the personal question?
He cleared his throat. “Downtown.”
“Ah, well, I live in Renfrew.”
“I can still drive you—”
“I’ll take you.” Tyson fidgeted with his sandwich wrapper, which felt incongruous. He should, of all of us, be the most confident. Cop and all. He held the power in every relationship—except perhaps with his superior officers.
“It’s not necessary—” Although I really want you to.
“I live in New West.” He held my gaze. Steely determination. Like he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Okay, then. I was pretty much on the way home for him.
“I think it’s a good idea.” Hamish also fidgeted with his wrapper.
What’s with these two? “I sense a but, Doc.”
“But…” He cleared his throat. “Ethical boundaries. He’s investigating your case. It’d be horrendous if the case were jeopardized by…” He waved back and forth between the two of us.
“I’ve driven victims home before.” Tyson clearly wasn’t going to be deterred.
I nearly blurted out I wasn’t a victim, but that might’ve put an end to my potential ride from the handsome cop, and I was somehow looking forward to this. “And anyway.” I pivoted to Hamish. “Isn’t it a little beyond the counselor/patient relationship for you to drive me home?”
“Well…” He bit his lower lip.
I laughed. “Guys, I don’t want these professional relationships. Yes, I got shot. Yes, that makes me a victim. But I don’t need counseling. I’m fine.”
Hamish held up his hand.
I was not giving him time to give his objection. Because clearly he had more roadblocks to throw up. “Or I’m sure you can find someone. That lady with the dog looked nice. She works for you, right? Does it matter which counselor I see?”
He cleared his throat. “Marianne is a great counselor, and Ollie’s undoubtedly very special.”
“So I talk to her and pet the dog, and life’s good.” This doesn’t have to be complicated. Just…trust me. I know what I’m doing.
“It’s not that simple.” He furrowed his brow. “Marianne is—”
I cut him off. “Good enough. If I need more—like something intensive—I’ll ask. I’m sure you don’t run the place all by yourself.” I arched an eyebrow at him.
“Well, no, but—”
“And you.” I pivoted to Tyson. Rudely cutting Hamish off. “This might be trickier. But if you wrap up the investigation and—”
“What kind of personal relationship are you suggesting?”
Tyson’s light-brown eyes flashed something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He was pretty cagey—but I was also getting a read on him.
I eyed them both. Slowly. So they’d both know how seriously I took this. “I like both of you. Am attracted to both of you. I’m going to go out on a limb and say you both like me. And I’ve seen you eyeing each other. We’re all gay—”
Tyson glanced around while Hamish flushed scarlet.
Interesting.
“I’m going to go out farther on that limb and say you’re both gay.” I eyed Tyson. “Well, you might be bi.”