When Things Fail
BAILEY HAD spent five years trying to remember the last time he and Emmett had so much as kissed.
It wasn’t that they hadn’t loved each other.
They’d loved each other very much; he knew that was true.
But they’d been exhausted, physically and mentally, and both of them had been coming off of their own bouts with COVID.
A brush of hands, a rub of two cheeks together, a lingering glance or, hell, so much as a wink was practically porn for them by the time Emmett had gone to work, collapsed, and died.
But Emmett had known Bailey loved him. Of that, Bailey had zero doubts.
But Dean had kissed him, then given him to Marcus, who had shoved him out of the airplane, and that had been that.
Bailey kept reliving that moment for the rest of the day after he left Reg’s frighteningly up-to-date computer room and retreated to his own bedroom, where Mr. Bumble waited for him to lavish attention upon his soft, white-furred body.
He’d been told the room had once been Laure’s, and she’d told him over dinner that the best part of being the only girl was getting her own bedroom, even if it was small.
Once she’d moved out, it had been furnished with a queen-sized bed and a dresser and—her mother had been happy to point out—a new area rug in wild shades of purple and green.
The comforter on top was worn, with purple flowers, and the walls were cream with some faded, framed prints.
It was a comfortable place, much like the house itself, and because it was one of the few places in which everything matched, Bailey wondered if it was for special company.
The thought sent a wave of affection for Dean’s family roaring through his heart. They weren’t rich or educated—but by God the Royal family was fine . And noble. And all of the things a family was supposed to be.
He sat on that bedspread—soft, cotton, practical, and pretty—and wiped his burning eyes on his shoulder as he petted his cat and fell painfully in love with Dean’s family.
He wanted to share this revelation with Dean himself, and the fear—the reality—that he might never get a chance to almost leveled him.
Which was when something in him snapped.
He took out his phone and pulled up Val Royal’s number.
He got Rory McCauley instead, which was fine, because that’s who he wanted to talk to.
“Heya, Doc,” Rory said. “Val’s driving. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s been five days,” Bailey told him.
“I know it.”
“Is this normal? I don’t think this is normal.”
“For two agents to be out of contact? No, it is not normal,” Rory replied, and he sounded cagey, but he was probably trying to not freak Val out. Bailey could appreciate that, but he was so far beyond freaked out, he thought he’d rather like Val to join him.
“Where are you?” he asked bluntly.
“About to drop off a load to El Paso,” Rory said. “Why?”
“Because Dean and Marcus have been stuck about a hundred miles south of Juarez for the last four days,” Bailey said bluntly. “And I want to go find them.”
“And you would know that how ?” For the first time Rory McCauley sounded surprised, and Bailey was so far beyond terrified that he didn’t care what secrets he spilled.
“Because Reg tracked his phone, on his computer with all this special unregistered stuff I’m not supposed to know about. But we can see a little blinking dot that is Dean. And it has been more or less still for the last four days.”
“So…,” Rory said slowly, “what is it you propose to do?”
“I propose to charter a small plane to Juarez, rent a car, and find that motherfucking dot !” Bailey almost shouted. “But if you guys are closer, you might be able to beat us there.”
Rory grunted. “Son, I’ve got a number you can call for an outfit in Napa. Tell Glen Echo it’s me and that he owes me, and I can pay whatever he wants. Tag us with your ETA—we’ll meet you in Juarez.”
Bailey managed to breathe for the first time in three days, and he almost cried when the text came through with the contact. “Thank you,” he all but whimpered.
“Dean’s family,” Rory said simply. “Which reminds me—have Reg call Anthony. You’re not doing this alone. The two of them should come with you, but, uhm, you know. Don’t tell Ed and Julie, okay? Just tell them you’re meeting us in LA.”
“Course,” Bailey said. After spending four nights under their roof, he got it.
Protect the parents, protect the peace. Maybe, if he’d been in the family for a little longer he might have protested—but right now, his entire heart was beating in time to that pulsating little dot in Reg’s illegal computer.
THE AIRSTRIP was midway between the Royal family house in Bakersfield and Anthony and Rory’s gun range about forty-five minutes away.
Bailey packed a small bag, apologized to his father for his blowup that morning, and left explicit instructions for how to care for the white cat he was leaving in these nice people’s spare room.
And then he and Reg got the hell out of dodge—but not entirely unscathed.
“Chance,” Reg was saying as he floored the poor family-mobile, “there is no guarantee there are enough seats on the plane.”
“Then I’ll drive the minivan home,” Chance said stubbornly.
“You will not,” Reg snapped. “You’ll leave my body in the back and take my spot on the plane. I know you, you little shit!”
Bailey had never had a little brother—he’d had no idea they had supersonic hearing and some sort of sixth sense for any trouble going down that did not involve them.
He’d been throwing his and Reg’s bags in the back of the minivan and suddenly Chance had booty-bumped Bailey’s ass to the back and was buckling into the front seat and giving his brother hell.
Bailey was thirty-four years old—he’d thought he knew how to handle himself with adults, but he’d never come face-to-face with true love before.
“I would not leave your body in the back of the car,” Chance was saying now, sounding hurt. “I love you, Reg. It’s hot outside—you’d die . But I would totally leave you on the tarmac after convincing you it should be me who goes to rescue Marcus and not you.”
“We’re not rescuing Marcus—”
“Oh, the hell you’re not!”
“Okay, so we may rescue Marcus, but don’t forget, the person paying for the plane, you blockhead, is Dean’s boyfriend . So you need to give him some deference because he’s actually in a relationship with our brother, and he gets to call the shots.”
“Well, was it his idea to call Anthony?” Chance shot back, sounding as childish as Bailey had heard him.
“Rory told him to. What does Anthony have to do with this?” Reg asked—and Bailey wanted to cry, because in this area only, Reg was literally the dumbest Royal, and he wasn’t sure if Chance had the maturity to—
“Nothing,” Chance muttered, crossing his arms. “Never mind. It’s fine. I’ll take the minivan home. Just….” His voice cracked. “If I can’t go, tell Marcus I… you know. Thought about him.”
Bailey’s heart cracked a little. This family— this was why you had brothers. So they could give up their heart’s desire to cushion their brother’s heart for a breath longer.
For a moment, he loved Dean so hard he couldn’t breathe.
Dean hadn’t just pushed him out of an airplane.
He’d pushed him into this . Into this mess of love and kindness and fun and entanglements and life .
Dean had pushed him into the arms of his family, and not Bailey alone—Bailey’s father, Bailey’s cat, and Bailey’s father’s dog .
Dean wanted them to be safe. He wanted them to be loved . And Bailey wanted nothing more than to be safe and loved with Dean by his side.
But first they had to find that pulsing dot on the screen.
THEY WERE met on the tarmac by a couple of male models, or at least that was Bailey’s first surprised take.
Glen Echo—six-foot, slender, blond, and blue-eyed, with one hell of a rakish swagger—took one glance at the three of them, and then at Anthony who had beaten them to the small, private airstrip by about four minutes, and shook his head.
“You’re looking for how many people?” he asked.
“Two, maybe three,” Bailey said, wondering if he was the only one who knew about Birdie.
“Mm… I can take two people there, with three possibly injured in the cargo part of the plane,” he told Bailey. “However, I understand you’re meeting McCauley in Juarez, amirite?”
“Yes,” Anthony said, drawing up near them, “but he’ll probably be in the semi—they left their trailer in El Paso and were heading that way.”
Glen gnawed his lip and glanced at his flight partner, another specimen of rakish swagger, with dark hair, golden skin, and deep-set, liquid brown eyes. “Damie?”
“Take ’em all to Juarez,” his copilot said. “Leave one or two to watch the plane and make plans depending on what we find.”
“Damien Ward, for the King Solomon solution,” Echo said, giving Damien a high five.
He turned his game face toward them when he spoke next.
“Okay, Damie’ll show you where to park. You two—” He gestured to Bailey and Reg with his chin.
“—bring the bags. Damie and I have a fairly extensive first aid kit—”
“I’m a doctor—I brought my black bag with pain killers and antibiotics,” Bailey said quickly.
“Good,” Glen said with a solid nod. “We’ll take stock and stow the gear.” He paused in the middle of turning around and pinned his gaze on Anthony. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Do I know you?”
Anthony shot Glen a grin and extended his hand. “Little McCauley,” he said. “I’m Rory’s son. We met about ten years ago when Dad was still in the Bureau.”
“D’oh!” Glen said. “Damie! You remember him? God, he was a precocious little shit!”
Anthony held his hand to his heart. “I carried a torch,” he said. “My mom drove us out to see Dad take off, and I was, like, ‘I’m gonna marry that man someday!’”