Page 37 of Under Cover
Crosby watched bemusedly as Garcia made his way to the jukebox in the corner and put in a pocketful of ones. By the time he came back, the first few chords of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” were starting to echo through the bar, and Swan gave Garcia a droll look.
“You can keep up?” he asked.
“Game on,” Garcia said. The two of them locked eyes, and as a table all of them began to rock in time to the music.
Manny Swan knew everyword, and in a rhythm notoriously hard to capture, he hit every beat.
Garcia kept up for the chorus—and Crosby was impressed as hell—but Garcia wasn’t the only one. As Chadwick and Carlyle walked in, Gail and Crosby were shouting the chorus too, and the table burst into cheers as the song rollicked to a close.
The next song up was Tupac’s “Gangsta’s Paradise,” followed by Linkin Park’s “Bleed it Out.” By the time Sam Cooke showed up on the rotation, Denison and Harding had shown up, and Crosby had relaxed fully into the beer and the pizza that Calix had ordered, and the day, the terrifying, horrible,shittyday, had been pushed into the background.
THEY ALLhad to work the next morning. They didn’t close the place down by any means, but by ten o’clock the others had left, and Garcia had quietly promised Harding he’d see Crosby home.
“Is he okay?” Harding asked as Garcia put more money into the jukebox as a farewell gift for the bar, and Garcia felt honored by the trust—and protective too.
“I think it was rough,” he evaded. “The little girl, me… he knows what a bullet can do.”
Harding looked surprised. “Of course he does. That’s one of the reasons I put him on my team.”
Garcia nodded, aware that Harding’s craggy features were looking more tired than usual.
“It’s been a tough year for our boy,” he said at last, and Harding nodded.
“I don’t think he’s healed yet from what happened in Chicago. You know what I mean?” Harding asked.
Garcia nodded again, casting a surreptitious glance to where Crosby sat. He’d been quiet all night—unless they were singing. There was a passion, afuryin the way Crosby had been belting the lyrics out from his diaphragm that told Garcia he wasn’t okay.
Crosby met his eyes then, and he gave a faint head tilt, probably indicating it was time to go. Garcia gave Harding a sideways look, and Crosby nodded understanding and turned back to Gideon Chadwick, who wanted his attention. The lean academic-looking man had been dry and funny all night, and Joey Carlyle had been devilish per usual. Garcia appreciated them both.
“I do,” Garcia said, in answer to Harding’s question. “I think it hurt him—bad.”
“And today he killed a bad cop,” Harding told him. “It’s going to eat at him. I’m glad you can read his mind, because I think someone needs to.”
Garcia tried for swagger. “It’s what partners do.”
Harding’s expression softened, and his eyes—a soulful brown—went incredibly gentle. “The good ones,” he said, and Garcia felt as though he had missed something.
It didn’t matter. Harding turned away and went to catch a car, and Garcia came back to the table and made a big deal out of needing to pour a drunken Crosby into bed.
Crosby protested—fairly, since Garcia had kept track. He’d had a couple of beers, not enough to impair his judgment, and that… that was important to Garcia.
That Crosby be in full possession of his faculties.
Garcia couldn’t admit to himself why, not even after they’d put their coats and hats back on, gloves too, and made their way out into the chilly night.
“Lead the way!” Crosby said, keeping his strides purposeful and slow. Garcia stayed half a step ahead after that, although they bumped shoulders a lot. Every time they did, the power of Crosby’s muscles shuddered underneath Garcia’s skin.
Oh God. Could he really do this? He… he wanted to do this. Could he really do this?
But he had to. His partner’s heart… it was growing thin, thinner every day. Garcia wasn’t sure if it was his time in the hospital or TJ whatsisface threatening to kill his little girls in the cemetery or that awful choice about whether blowing a guy’s head off was going to kill the man’s victimandGarcia, or maybe it was all of it, plus Chicago, plus a sort of infinite loneliness that Garcia longed to soothe.
They did a hard, dangerous job, one that broke people’s hearts routinely. Garcia used to get by on one-night stands, on dancing in mosh pits, on screaming songs like “Sabotage” to the sky.
But he couldn’t do the one-night stands anymore, not after having a partner like Judson Crosby for the last six months. And he couldn’t stand to watch such a good man, such a goodpartner, float in the New York tides without an anchor. Crosbyneededsomeone tonight, and Garcia… well, Garcia was getting desperate to see if the hugs, the arms over his shoulder, the unabashed touching… was that what he thought it could be?
Crosby was such a Boy Scout! Garcia couldn’t read him for desire, for sex, for need. But he hoped. He hoped becauseheneeded.Hewanted.
And he trusted, more than anything, that if he made his needs and wants known, Crosby wouldn’t hate him, wouldn’t reject him cruelly, but would simply say, “Sorry, man. I wish I swung that way.”