Chapter Six
Dominic
The following week, I avoided Emerson, which wasn’t too hard as I’d heard he’d extended his days off.
It gave me the opportunity to concentrate on something other than wondering if I was going to see him in town.
First the jewelry store robbery, then him getting drunk and me taking him home.
The final straw had been meeting him at the lake.
All that togetherness was way too much damn time in each other’s personal space.
Instead of nights spent with my usual hookups and having fun flirting with women, I was thinking of Emerson Kane.
In high school I’d made the excuse that I was a horny seventeen-year-old who thought about sex constantly, which would be the truth, but there was much more to it that I hadn’t been—and still wasn’t—ready to admit to anyone but myself.
I entered the station house, and heard voices in the break room. I stuck my head inside to see Jet had returned. Tanned and grinning, he was showing everyone pictures on his phone. They were all shaking his hand, and when he saw me, he waved.
“Starr, c’mere.”
He showed me his phone, where I saw a picture of him and Harte, in white shirts and linen pants, holding hands, standing on the sand in front of the aquamarine ocean.
“We got married—that’s why I took so much time off. Flew my family—plus Emerson, Dev and Brody, Patrick Sloane and his husband, Fallon, to Kauai for the ceremony last weekend. Kept it hush-hush.”
“Lifestyles of the rich and famous, huh?” I clapped him on the back. “Congratulations. I’m really happy for you both. Seriously.” There was peace and contentment in his eyes. Jet had never looked better.
“Thanks, man. Emerson told me what happened with that attempted jewelry heist. How’re you feeling? I heard the bastard got a nice crack at your head.”
“It’ll take more than some punk to knock me down. But Emerson did a great job.” Casually, I glanced around. “Is he here?”
“No. We’re not on shift. I just came in to say hi and drop some gifts off. I got you something.” He dug into a bag at his side and pulled out a big box. “Here. I hope you like it.”
It was filled with all different kinds of macadamia nuts and chocolate. “Thanks, Jet. This is great. I appreciate it.” It actually choked me up that he’d thought about me.
“By the way, we’re having a party this Saturday night. Sort of like an open house. I know you’re not on shift, so I hope you don’t have other plans and you can come over.”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the invite.” Again, I was touched he’d thought to include me—we weren’t tight and rarely socialized unless we happened to run into each other.
**
Our tour was uneventful except for Bradford informing me that Jeanette was dropping hints to her girlfriends that I was a lousy lover.
I shook with laughter. “I’ve got plenty of satisfied women who’d disagree. I’m not worried.”
“My man, I know. Just wanted you to be aware. You gonna go to Jet and Harte McKinney’s party?”
“Yeah.” I pulled into the mall parking lot. “Why not? It’s pretty cool of them to invite me. I mean, I’m not really friends with Jet, and I don’t know Harte except to say hi and bye.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve known Jet for years. He’s a great guy, but like I said, I still can’t believe he’s gay.”
“He’s not,” I said, opening the patrol car’s door.
“He’s bisexual.” Bradford followed me as we walked to Norman’s Jewelry store.
“I’ve told you before, it’s not the same thing.
Gay guys are only into men. Bisexuals like men and women.
It’s not that difficult. What’s your issue? Why does it bother you so much?”
“It doesn’t. But I can’t imagine—”
“Because you’re straight. Dude, why does someone else’s sex life matter to you? Leave it alone.”
I opened the door to the store, and at first, I was happy to see a security guard standing off to the side.
But as he acknowledged us with a sharp-eyed nod, other details filtered through.
If I had to guess, the guy—late forties or early fifties—was ex-NYPD.
He had that watchful expression. It sent a chill down my spine.
And something about the man seemed familiar.
Shelley, the saleswoman, rushed up from behind the counter to greet us.
“I’m so glad to see you both. How’re you feeling, Officer Starr?”
“I’m well. How are you? No long-term effects with your baby?”
She cradled her stomach. “Everything’s good. Mr. Norman said he’d let me take my leave early because he feels so bad.”
“That’s great.” I caught the security guard’s eye again. “And I see you hired protection.”
“Yeah, he used to be a cop in New York City until he retired. He’s been doing security and came recommended.” Her brows rose. “Maybe you know each other.”
I laughed. “Not likely. There are thousands of police officers in the NYPD.” But she motioned for him to join us.
“His name is Becker McGill. Becker, I want you to meet some people.” A long, confident stride brought him to us, and he waited. “This is Dominic Starr and Chris Bradford, two of our deputies. Dominic was one of the deputies who helped catch the robbers. You were NYPD, weren’t you?”
McGill briefly nodded to Bradford, but his gaze lingered on me. “Michael Starr’s son,” he said, ignoring Shelley’s question. He wasn’t asking me—he already knew.
My stomach plummeted. “Yeah.” I licked my dry lips. “What house were you with?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I was IAB.”
Internal Affairs. The Rat Squad.
“Nice to meet you. Shelley, take care of yourself.” Without waiting for an answer, I left.
Shaking, I leaned against the fake-brick facade of the storefronts and gulped the humid air that did little to stop my head from spinning and my stomach from doing queasy flip-flops.
Bradford opened the door. “You okay? Starr, shit, you’re white.
Sit down.” He pushed me to one of the benches lining the walkway.
“I’ll get some water from the car.” He ran to our patrol car and returned in less than a minute.
I took the bottle and drained the cold liquid.
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve while Bradford hovered at my side.
“Thanks. Sorry. I just felt lightheaded for a second. Must be the humidity. It gets to me.” I forced a wan smile. “I’m all right,” I insisted. The jewelry store door opened, and McGill walked out with that silent, watchful face. I stood fast. “Bradford, we need to go. Let’s roll.”
I walked away with Bradford on my heels. Safety waited in the confines of the patrol car. McGill remained where he was, but his dark eyes probed me from across the parking lot.
“Dude, he knew you?”
“No. Not me. My father.” I started the car. “Let’s do our loops, ride the highway, and we’ll be finished.”
I had to give it to Bradford. He waited five whole minutes before asking. “You’ve never mentioned you had parents.”
A snicker escaped me. “You think I spontaneously procreated from a rock? Yeah, Bradford, I have parents.”
“So, uh, your father was a police officer?”
“Not something I talk about. We don’t speak. I haven’t seen him in a very long time.” A white SUV with Massachusetts plates sped by us, going twenty-five over the limit. I flipped the lights and siren. “Enough with the walk down memory lane. Time to do our job.”
**
Saturday night, I drove to Jet and Harte’s house.
Lights blazed from the windows, and music and boisterous laughter filtered all the way to where I parked my car.
Although they’d been together more than a year, I’d yet to talk to Harte at any length, aside from a hello, how you doing.
I wondered if Devlin Summers and Brody Martin would be there, and I couldn’t deny the tiny thrill of excitement that ran through me at the thought of hanging out at the same party with those superstars.
I noticed Emerson’s vehicle was already there.
Lately, as had become commonplace if Emerson’s name came up in conversation or I saw him in passing at the station, the rope around my gut tightened to a knot and my breath grew short.
I rested my forehead on the wheel, trying to get my shit together.
Not because I didn’t want to see him. The opposite, in fact.
My stupid fucking brain remained stuck on ten years earlier and what had happened in that locker room.
How turned-on I’d gotten as he’d watched me, those wide green eyes devouring me.
How good it had felt touching myself as he’d stood there.
How I couldn’t wait to do it again. Then.
Now. I’d managed to keep those thoughts and my desire under wraps for two years, but they’d been bubbling to the surface, threatening to boil over.
What the hell did you expect when you moved up here? Admit what you want, and pull your head out of your ass.
Unwilling to face the warring factions of my brain, I banged the wheel. “Fuck it. If I don’t do anything, neither will he.” That refrain playing in my head, I walked across the lawn to the house and rang the bell. Jet answered it, beer in hand.
“Starr. You made it. C’mon in.”
I entered and spotted Harte in a circle with his football buddies. Not only Devlin Summers and Brody Martin, but also Keller Williams and Elijah Randolph.
“Man, Jet, you’ve got half an NFL starting line going on here.”
“You know it. Have you met any of them besides Harte?”
Suddenly shy, I hesitated. “N-no, but I don’t want to interrupt.”
“Nah.” He brushed off my concern. “They’re just bullshitting.” With his arm around my shoulders, he walked me to them. “Hey, guys. This is another one of my deputy buddies. Dominic Starr. He was NYPD, like Em.”
Within minutes, we were all talking about living in the city, and it was as if I were talking to people I’d known for years.
Devlin was funny as hell, and Brody loved to tease him.
Keller introduced me to his husband, a quiet man named Niall, who was a school librarian.
Elijah couldn’t bring his wife, as she was home with their kids.
“No special lady for you, Dominic?” Elijah asked. “I see a bunch of the others brought a date.”