I'll Be Your Last

I’ll Be Your Last

Life dealt Mack Penchant a raw deal. He's hidden his sexuality, the secret he's carried since he was a teen, through the Marine Corps, and now as an undercover cop. The only relationship he believes possible for himself is the furry kind, with his dog Kiki. One young cop, though, drives him to a frenzy, and he fights his passions and needs every step of the way.

Woody Kane’s gaydar spots Mack the moment they meet. And even though Mack rejects him, Woody lusts after the perfect masculine body and wants him in his bed. Woody believes in commitment. Mack makes it clear he does not. Can Woody prove to Mack that he's worthy of love? After all, he adopted a rescue dog. Isn't that a start?

What peril will it take for Mack to accept Woody's love and join him in a committed relationship?

Genre:
Alternative (M/M or F/F), Contemporary
Length:
40,985 words

I’LL BE YOUR LAST

Jane Leopold Quinn

EROTIC ROMANCE

MANLOVE

Siren Publishing, Inc.

www.SirenPublishing.com

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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

IMPRINT: Erotic Romance ManLove

I’LL BE YOUR LAST

Copyright © 2012 by Jane Leopold Quinn E-book ISBN: 1-61926-180-4

First E-book Publication: January 2012

Cover design by Jinger Heaston

All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

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www.SirenPublishing.com

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I’ll Be Your Last
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In 1999, a local Chicago minister was suspended from his church duties because he performed same-sex weddings. I wrote a letter to the newspaper. “I find it very odd that society glorifies movies and TV shows with bombings, shootings, stabbings, and other acts of violence. But a minister who performs a marriage ceremony for two human beings who want to profess their love and commitment for each other is hated and reviled. I support the Reverend and people like him who prize love and caring over hate and violence.” The title,
I’ll Be Your Last
, was inspired by a song on the CD

from the group The Opera Band.

“I was yours before the first morn broke I’ll be the whisper of angels

And I’ll be the shadows at twilight

I’ll be your first your last”

And thank you, Irene, for your invaluable story suggestions.

I’LL BE YOUR LAST

JANE LEOPOLD QUINN

Copyright © 2012

In the pre-dawn darkness, Michael “Mack” Penchant sprinted down the alley with other TAC officers converging from the opposite direction. His mic confirmed squad cars, marked and unmarked, and three squadrols had pulled up in front of the narrow, two-story, brick Chicago dwelling. Frigid temperatures combined with the time of three in the goddamned morning made it optimal for a raid. Even criminals should be fast asleep by now.

Mildly surprised the house didn’t look as derelict as most he’d busted, Mack tugged down his signature knit cap and thanked the Kevlar vest under his jacket for keeping him warm. He and fellow TAC officers crept toward the rear of the house. Three of the cops silently climbed over the wooden fence, Mack over the garage roof to join them on the hard turf. They drew their guns, barrels down, and waited for the signal from the front.

Got it.

“Police! Search warrant!” Battering through the back door, Mack entered the kitchen first, his flashlight illuminating the space. Cop voices shouted, “Clear,” as officers moved through the main floor.

Other voices shrieked, high and frightened, and he heard the shrill frenzy of dogs barking.
Dogs. Damn.
He did
not
want to have to kill them.

I’ll Be Your Last

9

In the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, the first cop he spotted, ball cap on backward, looked like a fresh-faced kid. Pretty.

Their eyes locked for a moment too long. What the hell was
that
about?

He banished the kid from his mind and, diverted by shouts from above, charged past, taking the stairs two at a time. The scene on the second floor was a free-for-all of screams, shouted orders, and yelping canines. What shocked him most was the sight of the two elderly people cowering in the bed, their eyes blinking in the sudden bright lights, each holding back a dog, one a snarling black Lab, the other a yapping Yorkie.

“Don’t shoot!”

“Oh, God, don’t shoot our dogs!”

What a clusterfuck.

“Stand down, fellas.” The first two cops in the bedroom had already backed out, holstering their guns. Sergeant Fred Bonney addressed the couple in the bed, “What’re your names?”

“Sam and Myra. Peters,” said the old man, his voice reedy and high-pitched. “What’s going—”

“Where’s Blaine Davis?” Fred snapped.

The old man glanced at the terrified woman. “We don’t know any Blaine Davis. You have the wrong house.”

“Shit.” Fred’s expletive captured the feeling of the night.

Mack didn’t envy the sarge. He’d have to do the apologizing, sort through where the address came from, and how it could have been so wrong. All Mack had to do was leave the house as quickly as he’d entered, through the front door this time.

* * * *

The Twenty-Seventh District station house was the oldest in the city. Funds had never broken loose to do much updating of the interior, let alone the old brick exterior. A lack of tuck-pointing made
10

Jane Leopold Quinn

for the occasional draft, which in the winter meant a lot of guys layered jackets over sweatshirts. The squad rooms, offices, and interview rooms were dingy, but at least the bathrooms were relatively clean and workable. Mack’s team was housed in the smallest space, and the mixture of wooden and steel desks sat cheek to jowl. Metal file cabinets stood in a line around the perimeter and next to a desk if an officer dragged one over for his own use.

Fred’s after-op debriefing was uncomfortable, to say the least.

Once in a while intelligence broke down, and the cops were fed the wrong information. The last thing they wanted was to bust the wrong house and terrorize innocent citizens. Thank God neither the couple nor their dogs had been physically harmed.

“Woody Kane, just in from the Sixteenth, is joining our little sewing circle.” Fred indicated, with a nod, the kid Mack had seen at the house. Kane shook hands with members of the team, Arne Hood, a short, husky blond; Rich Moore, with his dark-angel, Irish features; and Sam Cooley, an African-American with corn-rowed hair and a diamond stud in his left ear.

“Penchant.” Gruff-voiced, Mack introduced himself. Shaking hands before backing quickly off, he planted his ass on a desk, rattled by his odd reaction to dark brown eyes and a warm, smooth, firm grip.
What the hell’s going on?
His head lowered, he stared at the grimy floor, hoping no one noticed his awkwardness. The kid was tall. He had to be six-two, six-three. He’d stand out if they needed to go undercover. The last thing a cop wanted was to be noticed, to be identifiable. And his hair was too neat, not shaggy like his own.

Mack hunched, pulling his plaid flannel shirt over his front, not liking the stirrings scudding through his body. Heat radiated through his balls, hardening his dick, and his belly muscles gave a sharp jerk.

All his life, he’d kept his sexual urges tightly reined, hidden first from his mother, then the Marine Corps, and now fellow police officers.

His unexpected attraction to this pretty boy could be dangerous. He’d do whatever it took to steer clear of the kid.

I’ll Be Your Last

11

Catching up with Fred in the sergeant’s cramped, paper-littered cubicle, he muttered, “This new guy’s just a kid.”

“I’m not
that
much of a kid, Penchant.” Ambushed. Mack scowled and turned an antagonistic glare on the new guy. Attack was his best option. “You need some facial hair, kid, so you don’t look like a choir boy on the streets.” He shoved down the jolt of testosterone slamming into his sex.

“Don’t worry, old man, I can cover this.” Rubbing long fingers over his shaven chin, the younger man quirked his lips in a cheerful, open smile.

“Old man?”
Fucking cocky bastard.
For all his dark hair and even darker antecedents, Mack couldn’t grow a decent beard, always coming in scraggly and sparse. He’d always depended on his hard-featured mug to demoralize the criminals.

“Okay, boys, play nice.”

Mack wanted to smack the smile off Fred’s face at their sniping.

He respected the sergeant. Yes, he did. In his mid-fifties, older than the team members, Fred was an overweight bull of a man but smart as the devil. He knew police work, how to manage a team, and how to get the best out of every member.