Shattered Glass (33 page)

Neither Peter nor I said a word as Wicks left. I stared at the metal trashcan, Peter stared at me.

“Do you even have money for a hotel?” I ground out.

“I can get money.”

Another moment of pathetic tension enveloped the space between us. I wasn’t sure how much more of this my heart could take. It was already on the verge of collapse. One more soul-crushing event short of deadened. The thought of Peter turning tricks again, or ‘a gig’ would be too much to bear. “Just stay at the fucking house.”

“Home,” he said.

“Whatever.” I answered despairingly.

“I liked it when you called it home.” My stomach released a swarm of fluttering. I squinted up at him, trying to understand how he could pack so much into words without a single emotion showing on his face. Then the flood of understanding showered over me. “You could have asked me when I got home.”

A hint of a smile passed over his lips. He looked to the curtains, either in hope or worry that we’d be interrupted again.

What was his smile indicative of ? That he cared? Peter was robotic only when certain emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

“Come here,” I ordered, the same soft tone I used way back when I realized he hadn’t stolen my money. He didn’t immediately step forward, waiting a few seconds before his hips were parked in front of me. His eyes turned down to watch my thumb brush against the breadth of skin visible between the cargo shorts and t-shirt. “Are these my shorts?” “My clothes were dirty.” There was no missing the quiver in his voice, even as he tried to muffle it by barely moving his lips.

“You’re such a little shit sometimes,” I said, tugging at his shirt until he crouched in front of me. I searched futilely for anything in his face to tell me what he was thinking. “How many hospitals did you call before finding me?” A one shoulder shrug, then, “This one was closest to our house.”

“Is it so hard to admit you care?”

I’d never seen such a direct, expectant gaze from him. “You tell me. Is it?”

“Touché,” I replied, pushing still-damp hair off his brow.

“You scare the hell out of me.”

“You have all the power, Austin.”

My laugh was rueful. “Is that what you believe? Do you think I have any power when it comes to you?” Footsteps and a tentative, “Officer Glass?” from the other side of the curtain made Peter straighten and move back. The fist in which he clenched my keys was covering the spot my thumb had traced. I also noticed the ridge of defined flesh above the waistband of his boxers. My clothes, it seemed, were just a bit too large for him. I resolved to buy him a closetful in my size.

And…were those my underwear?

“All clear, doctor,” I called out.

With Peter in the room, I stopped taking an interest in how attractive Doctor Wicks was, or what he was saying.

“Let me just get you on your way with the prescriptions. A nurse will be by with some scrubs you can wear home.” My gaze was constantly floating to Peter’s bare legs and stomach. I succeeded in retaining less than half of the instructions for caring for my wound because of the distraction.

Wicks left with his jovial smile and a small chuckle as Peter took the prescriptions and instruction sheet from my hand.

“Are you hard?” Peter eyed my crotch.

“No,” I lied.

“Because of the doctor?”

“I just said I wasn’t hard.”

“He’s a lot older than I am.”

I couldn’t help but smile at Peter’s insecurity. It was about time
he
had some for a change. “He also smiles a fuck-load more than you. But you’re the one I’m taking home.” “We could try—”

Nurse Jackson interrupted Peter this time. “Here you are,” she announced, handing me a pair of green scrubs, slippers stacked on top. The cost of both combined could be around $.50, but I had a feeling my bill would move the decimal two places to the right. Good thing cops had decent health insurance. Which only served to remind me, I was probably going to be out of work longer than the week’s suspension.

“How long did he say for these stitches?” “Seven-to-ten days,” Peter and Nurse Jackson said simultaneously.

Shit.

“No showers for 48 hours, officer,” the nurse added as I toed off my bloody sneakers. “Unless you can tape a plastic watertight seal over the stitches.” The clunk of my sneakers hitting the ground was like a cue at the end of a joke.

A trail of darkened blood caked my ass from cheek to foot, and soot speckled like mold across the rest of my body. The only clean spaces were where the cat claws had ravaged it and the attendants had cleaned around each gash. I leveraged to get a better view. The doctor had warned me to be careful while I was numb, but I hadn’t expected to only feel the slight tug of flesh as I sat up, gingerly leaning to one side. Looking down at my filthy legs and chest, I could only imagine the fun of sponge baths.

“We’ll help him,” Peter assured Nurse Jackson, smirking at me when I raised brows at him.

“He’s lucky to have a brother like you,” she said with a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder. I choked out a noise that sounded remotely like Jeffrey the Tailor.

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter grinned.

Little shit.

“You’re ready to go, officer. An orderly will be by in a few minutes to wheel you outside. Oh, and before I forget, there’s another officer here to take your statement.” “Thanks,” I said, thinking decidedly non-brotherly thoughts about Peter.

The nurse exited, leaving the curtains trembling in her wake.

“Who’s ‘we’, Peter? Because that better be me and you, and not me, you and Darryl. Or me, you and Rosa. Or me, you and

anyone. If I wanted that many people to see my ass, I’d become a wh— stripper.”

At the correction of my language, Peter’s smile became one of those moments that threatened to stop my heart.

“Turn around so I can get dressed,” I said, twirling a finger at the ground.

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re going to need help.”

He was right, but I was still suspicious. I was right to be. The scrubs took longer than necessary to put on, mostly because Peter kept breathing onto my skin when he had to lean forward to tug up my pants or when he assisted in lifting my hips. At one point I would have sworn to almighty God that he blew into my ear. I nearly fell off the table.

Fucker.

I had to meet the officer taking my statement with a raging boner. And wearing scrubs.

With no underwear.

When I was stopped by an officer Briggs, I succinctly told him the story from when I entered the building until the ambulance took me away. I made sure to mention the strong odor of turpentine, which I was certain had something to do with my dizziness. Peter waited for a few minutes, listening in stoic silence, then exited to retrieve the Jag. Neither of us told the officer that Peter was the homeowner. Maybe he just wanted to get home. Or maybe he didn’t care about Joe’s house. Or maybe neither of us trusted the police
not
to arrest him.

Briggs asked a few pertinent questions, fishing for

information that I had anything to do with the fire. Satisfied with my responses, he left me his card and then left me longing for my badge and gun as he radioed in. I wheeled past him, feeling a little sorry for myself.

Hump Day Goes Down in Flames

Standing outside the hospital doors, waiting for Peter to pull my car around—the car no one but me was supposed to drive—I filled in the time by calling Luis. It was better than thinking about someone else handling my baby and one true love, Arturo.

“Happy Hump Day, Luis.” I grinned. His slow sigh was music to my ears.

“The whore staying with you?”

“Peter,” I corrected defensively. “His name is Peter.” “Is Peter staying with you?”

“Not even a, ‘Happy Hump Day’?”

“Can it, Glass. This is important.”

Luis’s tone narrowed my eyes at the ambulance bay, my smile twitching downward. “Yeah, he’s staying with me. What’s up?” “Was he there last night?”

“Yeah, all night until I left at five-thirty-ish this morning.

Going to tell me what this is about?” “There as in, you saw him, or there as in he was around?” “First time you’ve questioned my honesty, Luis,” I said quietly. My Jag pulled up, and I held a finger up for Peter to wait, turning my back on the car.

“Not questioning your truthfulness,” Luis said after a few seconds. “Your judgment, but not your honesty, Glass. Now did you see him or not?”

“Give me a time frame.”

“Three to three thirty.”

“He came up to bed at twenty after three,” I said, squinting in remembrance. “And he was still there when I woke up again at four, and after I took a shower. I’m guessing his brother and Darryl will vouch for him before that.” “A murder suspect and another whore?” Luis huffed. “What about the other one? Darryl.”

“Ask the two cars of feds outside my house if either of them left. Black SUVs, no shame and no technique.” “You’re under surveillance?”

“Their witness is under surveillance,” I said. “Protection most likely. Now will you tell me what happened.” “The diner’s toast. Five injured. Fire started in the kitchen.

Alarms were disabled.”

I silently tumbled this information around. “Ask me why I called you, Luis,” I said, pondering how I was going to tell Peter this news.

“Your place in flames?”

“Joe’s house,” I corrected his guess, and then told him what happened.

“Fire alarms disabled there, too?” he asked.

“Until you mentioned it, I didn’t even think about it, but, yeah.”

“Same doer. He hits the diner first, house next.” “Couldn’t get to my house past the feds,” I speculated.

“Or didn’t know they were all there.” “Or that,” I agreed. “But the feds weren’t trying to hide their presence. Maybe the fire starter wasn’t after the kids. Maybe the

doer was after someone else. Any of the injured names released to the press?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe our fire starter was after some
thing
else?” Luis grunted. “Get that kid here to look over the evidence.” Looking down at the disaster that was me, I sighed. “Give us fifteen minutes.”

Sliding into the passenger seat was an adjustment in attitude.

Immediately, I went for the steering wheel, and bit back a curse when my hands came up empty.

“Buckle up,” Peter ordered and waited to pull out until I had complied.

“Head to the station downtown. The big building on 14th.” “Police plaza?” He frowned and swerved off the road, parking the car near a stop sign. “You need to take a shower and get into bed.”

“You can get me into bed later. Right now, we need to look over that evidence box.”

“You want Darryl there, too? He looked through most of the stuff.”

“Is he at home?”

Peter’s smile killed me. “Yes. He’s home.” “Was he last night?”

“Sure.” Peter answered. “I carried him to bed before coming up to you. Why?”

“He was drunk?”

“Asleep. He takes Ambien and Benadryl because of his weird

shifts at the club. Doubled the dose last night because he hadn’t slept since Cai got arrested.” Peter tapped the steering wheel. It was so like what I did when my mind was buzzing, I had to check his face. A miniscule wrinkling of his lips as they pressed white was my only clue that he was puzzling things together.

“Why? Did someone get murdered?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Don’t do your fucking interrogation thing on me.” “I wasn’t.” Yes, I was. “The diner’s gone.” “Another fire?” His fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanched.

“I’m sorry.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Yes. We need to drive. Now, Peter.” “Fine. To the restaurant.”

“No. We get Darryl and then to the police station. You both need to interview with Luis and stay out of the way of the cops at the scene.”

“My friends are there.” It was the second time I’d heard a tremble in his voice.

“Peter, you can’t help them. All you’ll accomplish is getting in the way, or getting questioned under suspicion of arson for the insurance.”

“I was with you.”

“Darryl wasn’t, and I didn’t see you for part of the evening.” “He needs a lawyer.” The white knuckle grip threatened to break his fingers, I put a hand over his, gently prying them away.

“Peter,
you
need a lawyer.” The way I was positioned, angled off my stitches, prohibited leaning across, but I wanted to grab

him and shake him senseless. “Get out so I can drive.” “You can’t sit properly,” he argued.

“Then get moving.” He pulled onto the road and took my hand.

I picked up the phone, intoxicated by the way his hand stayed in mine, shifted gears and returned to lace our fingers together.

As awkward as it was to speak into the cell and hold his hand, I refused to move it after I’d dialed.

My Father, The Philandering Asshole I didn’t miss the way Peter looked at me when I asked to speak to Desmond Glass.

“Whom shall I say is calling,” Nina, my father’s assistant with bigger boobs than brains, asked.

“
Who
shall I say is calling,” I corrected spitefully.

“That’s what I asked,” she replied, wheezing her squeaky voice into my ear.

Oh, Lord.

“Nina, tell my fucking father I’m on the fucking phone or I’ll fucking wring your fucking gold-digging neck.” The fact that she had slept with me behind my father’s back may have played a part in my assholeness.