Bad Habit Page 2

  “Fuck you.” Scott didn’t take the bait and touch the short tips of the inch-high mohawk he had glued up this morning.

  Jamie had been ragging on him for almost ten years now, ever since he’d busted Scott for possession of stolen property when he was seventeen. Despite being a cop, Jamie wasn’t a complete asshole. They got together to work on their cars often enough, though lately Scott couldn’t do any work that wasn’t bringing in cash.

  Jamie sat back down like he’d been shoved. “Shit. It’s the whole fucking circus. Sorry about this, Scott. Maybe they didn’t see me.” He rocked his shoulders back and forth as he tried to disappear under the car.

  “Huh?” Scott looked over his shoulder. From Jamie’s sudden panic, he expected bill collectors, process servers, zombie hordes. There wasn’t anything out of place in the crowd of sunburned and sweaty people flooding the field at the East and Beast Car Show.

  As Scott watched, a big guy built like the Rock but with long hair and a beard caught Scott’s gaze and stared back, then nodded. Scott glanced to either side of him to see who the guy was nodding at. He sure as hell didn’t know anyone who looked like he was starring in an action film franchise. Then he realized the guy was nodding at someone with him.

  “Are they coming this way?” Jamie called from under the car.

  The big guy was weaving through the people in their direction, along with whoever he’d nodded at. Maybe Jamie’s overcompensation for being short had led him to pick a fight with the big man.

  Scott studied the group. “If you mean a pro wrestler, two pretty preppy types, a Mr. Studly Salt-and-Pepper, and some goth kid with a camera, yeah, they are.”

  “Fuck,” Jamie spat.

  The goth kid in black jeans, black T-shirt, and a spiked leather cuff got to the Galaxie first. He tossed his black hair off his face and kicked Jamie’s ankle with a black-sneakered toe. “Why’d you ditch us, asshole?”

  “Because I hoped you’d fucking take a hint.” Jamie hauled himself out, movements slow and sullen. “Uh, not you, though,” he said to one of the preppy guys in an apologetic tone Scott had never heard Jamie use before.

  However fun it might be to watch Jamie get harassed by this circus, it was more drama than Scott needed. People were starting to stare.

  He bent down and grabbed his phone out of Jamie’s hand. “Gotta run. I’ll keep an eye out for that induction hood you wanted. Catch you around.”

  The goth kid took Scott in with an assessing stare. “Nice sleeve.” The kid nodded at the ink on Scott’s left arm.

  Each one of the designs meant something special, but they flowed together into one. He was used to people commenting on it, though every time, he flashed back to getting that first small tattoo. Everything else he’d added had been to distract him from that symbol.

  “Thanks.” Scott nodded back.

  That precious fucking moment went on exactly a half second too long, so instead of being ten steps away, Scott was standing right next to the pale, sweaty preppy dude when he wobbled. Scott tried to steady him, but he was dropping too fast. Mr. WWE got involved, lunging across the space. His bulk drove Scott a step back, and he fell backward over someone’s cooler. Next thing he knew, all three of them were going down. Scott landed ass first on the puddle made by the overturned cooler. The prep and WWE knocked out one of the poles from a shade canopy, and it collapsed on them.

  There were splashes of applause; then people crowded around the entertainment, offering help, but mostly taking pictures with their phones.

  WWE growled as he threw off the canvas canopy. “Damn it, David. I told you to drink the water, not carry it around. He’s okay.” The force of his assertion—along with his size—moved some of the onlookers back.

  Scott studied Preppy David. He wasn’t passed out, but he was pasty and shaking.

  “He’s not used to lifting anything but a drink outside air-conditioning,” Jamie said from behind Scott.

  Scott extracted himself from the mess, jeans cold, wet, and muddied.

  “I’m fine,” Preppy David said. “It’s just fucking hot.” He gestured at the destruction around him. “We should probably try to put this tent back up.”

  Preppy David tried to move, but there was a reason Scott had named the other guy WWE in his head. His grip on David meant he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “You are getting out of the heat and getting some fluids into you.” WWE had what Scott knew all too well as a cop voice.

  Hell, two of ’em. Now would be a good time to retreat.

  A John Deere Gator pulled off onto the grassy edge where they stood, and people with first aid bags jumped out. Definitely time to go.

  He took a step toward escape and ended up face-to-face with one of the first aid workers.

  No.

  Face-to-face with Liam.

  The hair that always used to flop onto his forehead was shorter now, his jaw clean of familiar scruff, but it was Liam. Six years since Scott had last seen that face, since he’d woken up to a five-word note instead of the man who’d been sharing his bed. His life.

  Rage flashed bright and hot.

  Scott punched Liam right in his clean-shaven face. His knuckles made a satisfyingly solid connection to the side of Liam’s nose as Scott followed through, driving from his shoulder.

  Liam sprawled backward. The shock of anger fizzed out, leaving Scott with a flat hum in his head. He reached for Liam, maybe to shake an answer out of him, maybe to apologize and help him up. Scott would never know what he’d planned because his arms were barred behind his back and someone was shoving him, forcing him away from the chaos on the ground.

  “I’m a cop. I got him.” Jamie snarled the words along with some revolting moisture into Scott’s ear. Jamie had to be talking to someone else, though, because Scott already knew what Jamie’s job was.

  A guy in a ball cap and flag T-shirt slammed his fists into Scott in a boxer’s quick uppercut and gut jab. His body tried to curl in to protect itself, but Jamie still had his arms. Blood flooded Scott’s mouth from a split lip, breath trapped in a spasming diaphragm. That hurt, was going to hurt a lot more in a few minutes, but in that instant there was too much adrenaline in his system to feel much.

  Jamie spun Scott away from the free swinger. “Police, asshole. Back off. I got this. You want an assault charge too?”

  Without waiting for a response, Jamie marched Scott down the grassy center aisle between cars. A snapped-out “Baltimore County Police” cleared the way through startled faces. Scott stumbled along, his brain absurdly focused on how Jamie, a good five inches shorter, could completely control Scott with that grip on his arms.

  At a point where a lone maple interrupted the line of cars, Jamie shoved Scott forward, releasing him to battle tree roots and momentum for balance. He caught himself, palms smacking into the rough bark.

  He pushed away to get the tree at his back, not sure where the next attack might come from.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole?” Jamie’s face was as red as his hair. Scott was surprised fire wasn’t shooting from Jamie’s nostrils along with his heavy breath. Jamie had no way of knowing this was the third time Liam had dropped in on Scott’s life, like the whole thing was some kind of fucking game. Hey, look, me again. Surprise.

  Okay, Scott’s random punch in the face of an apparent stranger deserved an explanation. Though he couldn’t help thinking Jamie should have grabbed the guy who’d punched Scott instead. He brought his thumb to his lip, ran his tongue over his teeth to see if they were all there. As always, he caught on the one Liam had chipped. That had been an accident. He remembered Liam laughing in triumph, then the horror on his face. Shit, I’m so sorry, Scott.

  Where to start with the explanation? Back at St. Bennie’s? Or a couple years later, Liam coming out of nowhere, walking up and tapping Scott on the shoulder as he looked up into the undercarriage of a Grand Am at a Sears Auto Care Center in Towson. Scott had almost punched him that time too, though j
ust in self-defense from someone being up in his space. A week later Liam had talked Scott into getting that apartment together.

  Or the big kick in the guts? When he’d woken up to that fucking note after the best two years of Scott’s life. What the fuck did any of this matter to Jamie anyway?

  Scott settled on “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated?” In two steps Jamie had Scott pinned up against the bark of the tree. “You punched a paraplegic, probably a vet, in the face for no goddamned reason. Now you give me complicated?” Jamie shoved him harder and stepped away. “If I hadn’t hauled you out of there, they’d be mopping up your remains for a week.”

  Scott latched on to a single word in the spew from Jamie’s lips. Paraplegic. But that was crazy. Liam wasn’t in a wheelchair. He’d stepped out of the cart. He’d walked. “He wasn’t a paraplegic.”

  “Quadripl—” Jamie waved both arms. “What the fuck ever. Guy has a metal leg.”

  Scott didn’t know how it happened, but he was on his ass staring up at Jamie. None of this was real. Some fucked-up version of the night terrors he hadn’t had since he ran away from St. Bennie’s.

  No. Unlike in a night terror, he could move. Focus, McDermott. A text from Jamie asking him to come check out that ’65 Galaxie, so Scott met him and—

  How did that end with him sitting in the grass thinking about Liam missing a leg?

  What did you do, Liam, you dumb impulsive fuck? Shit. What did I do?

  Scott scrambled off the ground. He had to find Liam. Find out what happened.

  “No way.” Jamie shoved him back down. “I’m telling you, people back there wanted to gut you. I thought about it myself. Poor guy goes to war and gets his leg blown off and you take a punch at him for….” Jamie squinted at him. “You gonna finish that sentence for me sometime?”

  “No. Gonna arrest me?”

  Jamie shrugged. Scott reached for the cigs in his pocket, then realized the denim shirt was back on the ground next to the Galaxie.

  He glanced up at Jamie. “Got a cigarette?”

  Jamie’s hand moved reflexively to his chest, then dropped to his side. “I quit.”

  “Fuck this.” Scott shoved his hands into his hair, fucking up his ’hawk.

  Jamie leaned over him. “You make a habit of punching handicapped people?”

  “No.” Scott bit off the rest of his response. No, asshole. He had a feeling he wasn’t talking to the Jamie who shot the shit when they worked on cars together, but Officer Donnigan and his damned badge.

  “So why’s he special?”

  Scott looked away.

  “Don’t give me more of that ‘it’s complicated’ crap, McDermott.”

  Scott ripped up some grass, less painful than ripping out his hair. “He had both legs last time I saw him. Honest to God, Jamie, I didn’t see that—” He swallowed. “I didn’t even notice. Fuck, how could I not notice?” His guts clenched and spasmed, bile coming up sharp to burn the back of his throat, his sinuses.

  Liam. Torn apart somewhere on the other side of the world. Blood pouring onto pale dusty ground. How could Scott not have known about it somehow, not have felt it?

  Jamie sighed and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. Did he carry a spare set of cuffs? He knew Jamie’s job these days was more about cleaning up after drunk assholes in the harbor than chasing down teenagers who had only been trying to earn some cash, but he wondered if he was going to get to hear Jamie tell him You’re under arrest. Again.

  “So, I’m guessing you’ve seen more of this guy than just his two good legs?” Jamie arched his brows.

  “Yeah.”

  Every hard inch. But it wasn’t just that. Once, Scott had known everything about Liam. How he laughed. How he rubbed his left eyebrow with his thumb when he was thinking, the way his jaw jutted out just before he came. Every taste and touch and smell and sound.

  Scott had thought he’d known the rest of Liam too. Who he was. What he thought. What he wanted. Until he disappeared like he’d never existed. Like they had never existed.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Jamie blew air noisily through his lips. “The fuck I need another round of some gay soap opera. What happened to just getting your dick sucked?”

  “This from the guy whose truck I just helped clean up because it went off a pier after a fight with his—”

  “Finish that and I swear to God I’ll arrest you right now.” Jamie took a deeper breath, steadier. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go back and check on the fallout, find out if he’s pressing charges.”

  Liam wouldn’t press charges. If it hadn’t been a sucker punch, he’d have come back swinging before Scott could shake out his hand. But Scott didn’t really know this Liam. And he definitely didn’t know the Liam who’d been to war, had come back without—Scott had to see Liam.

  Jamie grabbed Scott’s T-shirt. “Oh no. You are not coming with me. You are going right home, where you will eat, sleep, shower, and shit with your phone next to you so if I call you, you better pick up.”

  “Fine.”

  “That does not mean go home after you go looking for the ex you just punched in the face, you got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Anything on your record I should know about?”

  That trip to the tank after the bar fight didn’t count since he hadn’t been charged. “Shouldn’t be.”

  “Why the fuck do I keep ending up in the middle of all this shit?”

  Maybe because you’re an asshole wasn’t going to help Scott out much. And it was only half true. Jamie could act like a total asshole, but he actually did give a crap. Had when Scott had been seventeen, did now.

  Scott shrugged. “You know what they say. Look for the common denominator.”

  “And for those of us who failed algebra?”

  “Maybe you’re a shit magnet.”

  “Eat me. You stay the fuck out of this, McDermott. Stay far, far away. Go home, you got me?”

  “Absolutely,” Scott lied.

  Chapter Three

  AIR-CONDITIONING WRAPPED a chill around Liam and Kishori as they steered the gurney into the fairgrounds’ first aid building.

  Their patient, still pasty and shaking, let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, excellent. Five minutes in here and I’ll be good as new.” David call-me-Beach Beauchamp hadn’t wanted to get on the gurney, but a look from one of his friends had cut his argument off midsentence. Good thing, because Beauchamp wouldn’t have made it ten steps before collapsing again.

  “Walsh,” their supervisor snapped at Liam from behind the dispatch desk.

  “With a patient.” Liam wrapped the arm cuff around Beauchamp’s upper arm while Kishori pulled out an IV kit.

  Gillespie came out to stand behind Kishori’s shoulder, towering over her. “Prakash here can handle him.”

  Liam stared at Gillespie in shock. The guy was a micromanager, but mostly about paperwork.

  “She might not even bleed on him.”

  At Gillespie’s words, Liam became aware of the copper filling his mouth, the drip of blood from his nose. Everything he’d forced out of mind to concentrate on his job slammed back into his consciousness.

  Scott.

  Just as angry as he’d been the first time Liam had seen him.

  And twice as fucking hot.

  Liam stopped himself from bringing his hand to his face. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sure you are, but you’re not working on a patient until you clean up.” There was no arguing with the glare behind Gillespie’s glasses.

  Kishori gave him an I-got-this look with her brows. “I’m sure Mr. Beauchamp won’t complain.”

  “Not about being left in your lovely hands, ma’am.” Beauchamp’s voice was thin, but the drawl was clear.

  “Walsh.” Gillespie jerked his thumb toward the bathroom.

  Liam barely had time to take off his gloves and turn on the tap before Gillespie shouldered through the door.


  “What the hell happened out there? Victim clip you?”

  “No.”

  Liam soaped up his hands and then let himself examine the damage in the mirror. It was pretty gory. His nose was still bleeding. Fat drops, bright with fresh oxygen, rolled over his mouth and chin to join the spreading stain on his light blue uniform shirt. It throbbed and stung, pain forcing itself into notice now that the hyperfocus on his patient was gone. He soaked some paper towels and wiped off the blood.

  “Walkies lit up with chatter about a fight breaking out. That you?” Gillespie passed Liam some gauze.

  “Don’t know. I was focused on the victim.” Liam felt his nose, no popping or shifting, just pain that radiated into his eye sockets. The right nostril had stopped bleeding already. He rolled the gauze and stuffed it up the left. “Anyone else come in with injuries?”

  “No. Apparently there was a cop on the scene.” Gillespie folded his arms. “So get your statement ready.”

  Liam wiped his face off again, then washed his hands and spoke to the mirror. “When the victim fainted, he took out one of those pop-up canopies. Maybe I got whacked with a pole. There were a lot of people crowding around.”

  Gillespie still blocked the door. “I know you’ve got stuff to prove”—he glanced down at Liam’s prosthesis—“but that doesn’t mean you gotta put up with crazy bastards taking a swing because they got issues.”

  Issues. Interesting way to put it. He and Scott were a long way past issues. Or proving themselves. Had Scott seen Liam’s prosthetic? It shouldn’t be possible but sometimes Liam forgot about it himself, until he tried to take a step. “I’m sure it was some kind of accident.”

  As they walked back down the hall, Gillespie’s walkie spat out a call about someone’s foot getting run over in front of the Miller Building. “Copy. On our way.”

  Liam reached for fresh gloves. “I can ride—”

  “You can stay here and not run into any more poles, clear? I’ll call Saunders and have her meet me.” Gillespie went out the back.

  As the door closed behind him, a rush like the opening gates at the track hit the front door.