Page 36 of Under Cover
His breath started coming in fast and hard, and it took him a moment to calm himself down as Garcia deftly managed the Queensboro Bridge.
“You okay?” Garcia murmured. “You’re sounding sorta rough.”
Crosby breathed out slowly. “This,” he said, “is the reason they put us on leave after a shooting.”
“Yeah, buddy. How about you and me, tonight we go out, drink too much beer, pass out in my house, and pretend today didn’t happen.”
Crosby gave a harsh laugh. “Sure,” he murmured. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
THE BARwasn’t a dive.
Crosby noticed after Calix had parked, using the government sticker to make sure the SUV was secured, in a local pay lot. They were in one of the fun, trendy parts of Queens, sort of kitschy, sort of eclectic, very ethnic. Crosby was probably one of the few Irish white boys in the area, but that never bothered him. The Park was full of brass and dark wood and a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen. Bottles of every stamp lined the walls, including some of the top-shelf brands that would need a step stool and possibly an acrobat to access. A mixture of accents babbled around them as they plowed through, but mostly it was men and women there for no-nonsense drinking.
Garcia led the way to a table big enough for eight, and Crosby frowned.
“Everyone else coming?”
“Yeah, I texted. Harding and Denison might not be able to get away until later, but you and me—we’re the advance guard.”
Crosby gave a weak chuckle. “Let’s get a pitcher and some food and get started.”
He really didn’t feel like a beer and chatter, but he also didn’t feel like being alone. His insides were jumpy, edgy, and he felt like he needed something, someone, to hold on to him and keep holding on, to ground him or he’d jump away forever.
Don’t take the shot if it’s not good.
Or maybe he could just grab hold of Calix and crush him to his chest and make sure he didn’t let go.
“Hey,” Garcia asked, coming back to the table with a pitcher of beer and some glasses. God, Crosby hadn’t even realized he’d gone. “You okay? The food’s coming.”
Crosby nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. Not sure what I’m doing when I tune out like that. Just….” He looked anywhere but into Garcia’s brown eyes. “Today sucked,” he finished weakly.
“Yeah.” Underneath the table, Garcia patted his knee in what was probably supposed to be a gesture of comfort and camaraderie, but Crosby shuddered and held his hand there, not sure if it was sexual or animal or what but just… needing to be touched.
When Garcia gave his knee a squeeze and then turned his hand up to lace their fingers, his heart stopped. He turned his head, not sure what to say, and saw instead Garcia’s expression, infinitely sad, expecting rejection. His brown eyes were overbright, and his lower lip trembled faintly, and for the first time since the trigger had given under his finger, Crosby knew exactly what he wanted. His lips parted, his breath froze, and he wasn’t sure what they looked like, sitting so close, hands laced under the table, eyes locked, but the bell over the door sounded unnaturally loud, and both of them jumped as though shocked.
They turned toward the entrance, and Garcia waved and flagged down Gail and Manny with his outside hand, but he squeezed Crosby’s hand under the table before disentangling their fingers.
Crosby managed a smile and a wave of his own, but neither of them moved away from the other, so their upper arms were touching and their thighs were touching for pretty much the next two hours.
Crosby thought that contact was the only thing that kept him from spacing off, from bursting into tears, or from rage-trashing the very nice bar during the course of the night. It kept him human, kept himgrounded, and he was so grateful he couldn’t stand it.
Gail and Manny Swan were good companions, though. Swan was young—fresh out of the academy young—and not sure what he was doing in the company of people who had cut their teeth in the military, like Gail, Garcia, Chadwick, Carlyle, or Harding, or alphabet ops like Denison, who had been to Quantico. Crosby was the first one to tell him that he’d been a flatfoot too, on track to being a detective, but he hadn’t made it yet.
“Really?” Swan said. “How’d you get to be the designated sniper?”
Crosby had shrugged. “Harding believes in training. All the training. You’ve seen that. My dad and I used to hunt when I was a teenager, and one of the first training sessions Harding had after I got posted here was long-distance shooting.” He shrugged. “I’ve got a knack, I guess.” He didn’t sound proud—not even to his own ears.
“I get the feeling it’s not a, uhm, comfortable skill,” Manny said softly.
Crosby looked away. Under the table, Garcia bumped his knee against Crosby’s, and Crosby remembered to breathe.
“It saved my partner today,” he said, realizing it was true. “I’m grateful.”
Manny nodded and rubbed his close-cropped hair. “Yeah, I’d be glad for piano training if it kept this one safe and sound.”
Gail sent him a look of mock outrage. “Piano? You think that’s going to save me?” She turned to them, obviously sensing they needed a mood shift. “He sings. He sings to the radio. Hip-hop, blues, even rock. And the thing is, he’s got adynamitevoice, but it’s incessant! I can’t listen to Green Day anymore without hearing the Manny Swan rendition!”
They laughed, and Garcia patted Crosby’s knee. “Stay right there. I’m gonna go test this out.”