“Maybe it’s the ice,” Forest lied. “I’m okay. Really. Jules will have your ass for being back here.”
“Really? Because she’s the one who told me to come check on you when we saw you foaming up your hand with milk.” Connor’s fingers were warm on Forest’s wrist, and Forest wondered if the man knew he was stroking at Forest’s pulse point. “Can I trust you to hold the ice pack there while I go see if there’s burn ointment in that first-aid kit on the wall?”
The man was way too close. He filled every inch of Forest’s awareness, stretching out to touch even the darkest corners of his soul. Connor was too much—too vibrant—too fucking male for Forest to wrap his mind around. The only thing he wanted to do was fall into the sweet promise of Connor’s brogue and forget everything pressing in on him. He needed the cop to be away from him—anywhere away—away from lingering over his skin or so near Forest could feel Connor’s breath on his face. It was just too much and made Forest feel guilty for forgetting about Frank’s death—even if it was only for a moment.
“Look, I’m fine. I’ll do it,” Forest insisted, edging away from Connor and responding with the only thing he knew he could use to drive someone off, his sharp tongue. “You want to help me out? Go find out who put a fucking bullet into Frank’s head.”
The cop jerked his head back, and from the shocked expression on his face, Forest could have punched him straight in the mouth and gotten the same reaction. He wanted to apologize. The words were at the edge of his tongue, but something insane seemed to be nesting in his brain, and instead of I’m sorry for being an asshole, something much meaner came out.
“You guys have been about as useful as tits on a fish, dude.” Forest tried to yank his hand away from Connor’s grip. “Fucking hell. Let go, dude. I can do it myself.”
The man held on. Even through the violence of Forest’s harangue, the cop held him in, keeping his fingers wrapped tight around Forest’s arm. It was a brief, unsuccessful struggle, and short of screaming for help, Forest should have felt trapped.
He hated being trapped. It reminded him of different times. Back before the apartment over the studio, before Frank lured him in and called him son. The clench of Lt. Connor Morgan’s hand around his wrist should have thrown dark memories into his face—of being slammed up against walls, the pain of his empty stomach folding in on itself, or having his jaw ache from being used. That was how trapped usually felt—staked through his body with a metal pin as he fought to get free. Even when he’d known it was useless, he still fought.
This time—this man—didn’t serve all that up on a silver platter to him. Instead, the damned hand around his wrist made him feel—cared for—tended to. It made Forest want more than that simple touch, and he kind of maybe hated Connor Morgan for making him feel that way. Fighting the man off should have been like breathing—something he did automatically—but with Connor, he couldn’t quite make that break.
And throughout it all, Connor Morgan’s deep-ocean gaze never left his face.
Sighing, Forest gave up and wilted against the counter. “Really, man. What the fuck do you want from me? You come in here every other day, and it screws with my brain. I don’t know what to do with you. It’s not like you say anything about… my dad, and the inspector they assigned to the case hasn’t even called me back. I left a fuckton of messages, but nothing. I just want to know what the hell they’re doing—”
“What’s his name?” Connor asked softly, still holding onto Forest’s wrist. “The inspector. What’s his name?”
“Her. Um…. Devorsky? Something like that. I wrote it down from what the uniformed cop told me, but I probably spelled it wrong.”
“I don’t know her.” The cop frowned, his dark eyebrows closing in over his strong nose. Those fingers began anew, stroking away the cold. “But I’ll see what I can find. She should have called you. At least to take your statement. I’m sorry—”
“Look, I’m sorry. I was a dick,” Forest rubbed at his face with his free hand. “I just don’t know—”
The window behind them blew in, an explosion of glass and sound. Forest’s heart pounded once, a scared, fluttering tight beat. Then he found himself on the floor, the blue-eyed cop’s body stretched over him. Connor’s weight pinned him down, and his fight-or-flight response kicked in. Forest squirmed, unable to see what was going on.
A rat-tat of gunfire sprayed the air, and there were screams—so many screams—too blended and horrifying for Forest to pick out individual voices. The panic burbling in his stomach flowed up his throat and hit his face before spreading out to his spine. People were dying out there, lying in their own blood, and he lay safe behind a bank of short refrigerator units with a man he’d just lusted for pressing his crotch into the curve of Forest’s ass.