Destiny Calls

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An Excerpt From: DESTINY CALLS

Copyright © SAMANTHA WAYLAND, 2011

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Chapter One

He should have just stayed home.

Brandon swept his eyes over the crush of men around him, lingering on the more beautiful among them before turning to the man by his side. Brandon’s already snug black leather pants grew even tighter as he studied Patrick’s handsome face. Bright-blue eyes fringed with sinful black lashes, full, kissable lips, a rugged pink stain on pale cheeks. Dropping his gaze lower, he admired the strong lines of Patrick’s neck and the breadth of his shoulders. The way his thin sweater hugged the swell of his pectorals and accentuated the flat plane of his belly was sexy as hell. And those jeans. Jesus H. Christ, they looked like they’d been made to love Patrick’s body, cupping his firm ass and hugging his long, thick thighs to perfection.

There wasn’t much about Patrick that Brandon didn’t find attractive. The man was gorgeous.

And it absolutely irritated the shit out of him.

He dragged his eyes forward again. Better to admire the men waiting in line around him than the one he’d arrived with. Better to admire just about anything other than Patrick.

Cursing his raging hormones and his now-regrettable choice in clothing, he shifted, trying to ease the ache in his cock where it was trapped behind hot, unforgiving leather. His tight white t-shirt was too short to hide much of anything, so instead he struggled to get his wandering thoughts and burgeoning erection back under control. The entire situation could have been funny, but after almost twenty years of reining in his attraction to Patrick it had lost some of its humor.

He sighed, the sound lost to the noise of the crowd as they eased one step closer to the bouncer checking IDs and collecting the cover charge at the entrance to the Blue Door Tavern. Boston didn’t have a lot of gay bars and the Blue Door only catered to this crowd one night a week. In hindsight, it was a complete mystery to Brandon how he had been talked into going out to see their friend’s band play here, of all places, on a Saturday night, of all nights, with Patrick, of all the straight and beautiful people. He should have said no. He should have left town, claimed an illness, worked late, had a leg amputated—anything rather than end up surrounded by hot men he barely noticed because he was so hung up on the one standing right next to him. The one he couldn’t have.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He looked again, trying not to flinch when Patrick dug his ID and money out of his pocket, pulling the soft denim tight across what Brandon knew to be a considerably sized cock. Not that he had ever gotten any up-close-and-personal time with said member, but having gone to high school, college and the police academy together, he’d seen Patrick without his clothes on enough times to fuel a lifetime of fantasies.

Patrick glanced at him and he snapped his eyes back to safer places above his friend’s neck. Shit. It wouldn’t do to get caught staring.

With one last shuffle forward, they arrived at the door and paid the cover charge. Brandon was careful to keep his shield hidden as he pulled out his wallet and flashed his driver’s license. They weren’t here on business. They were just two old friends out to see another buddy’s band.

Once inside, they had to fight their way to the bar. The place was a mad house. Charlie’s band had a good following, but the real numbers came from the men who had so few options for a safe, fun night out on the town. Massachusetts may have been on the cutting edge of gay rights, but the nightclub scene remained seriously lame and limited. Saturday night at the Blue Door was worth the hassle, if for no other reason than the sheer number of people forced a lot of bodies up against each other. If he’d been out with anyone but Patrick, Brandon might have worked his way around the room just to check out who was there. Instead, he slid onto the bar stool next to his best friend.

“Nice work snagging this space,” Brandon said, pitching his voice to be heard over the house music. Charlie’s band wasn’t slated to take the stage for another half-hour.

Patrick smiled at him, laughter dancing in his eyes. “I can’t take the credit. I got the impression that the young men who vacated these stools were headed to the bathroom for more intimate pursuits.”

Brandon laughed and shook his head while Patrick ordered their beers. Anonymous bathroom sex—or any bathroom sex, for that matter—had always been a mystery to him. He’d had his share of short-term flings in college, with both men and women, but he’d never been a one-night-stand person. In the decade or so since college, he’d been in two serious relationships—almost two years with Nina and a little more than a year with Derek. But since the thing with Derek had ended, he’d joined the Organized Crime Task Force of the Boston Police Department, which had eaten up a lot of his time. He loved his work, but right now it didn’t allow for much in the way of a social life.

He’d once thought a man with the advantage of being equally attracted to both sexes would have little trouble finding someone with whom to connect, but it wasn’t the case. He could, of course, try harder, make more time, but he found he was comfortable with his life as it was. And countless fantasies about Patrick helped him ease the ache when needed.

Which was abso-fucking-lutely pathetic.

He sighed again, feeling like the idiot he knew he was. He had to let go of his thing for Patrick. Patrick was straight. He was also completely aware of Brandon’s bisexuality and had been since high school. If Patrick had ever entertained thoughts about trying a taste of the other half of humanity—the male half—he’d never so much as hinted at it to Brandon.

Which sucked. But on the bright side, thinking about how he’d never have Patrick was totally killing his erection.

Spinning on his stool, he leaned back against the bar. There were at least a hundred single, attractive men in the room and a handful of women too. He should find one, brush off his somewhat rusty flirting skills and see what could happen. He might just meet someone. It could be good. It could be great.

It could be that the king of unrequited love was giving himself pep-talks in his own head and still couldn’t psych himself up enough to pick his ass up off his bar stool.

Damn it. The truth was that the prospect of meeting someone left him completely cold. Someone wasn’t Patrick.

Once again, abso-fucking-lutely pathetic.

Determined not to be a complete loser, he renewed his efforts to find an interesting face in the crowd. He almost cringed when his eyes locked with those of a huge man dressed in full biker leather strutting directly toward him. Long strings of frizzy black hair hung over a beat-up leather vest, charmingly accented with nothing more than sallow, bare skin and lots of coarse chest hair curling over the neckline. Yuck. Filthy jeans hung limp, presumably from a belt that was lost beneath the swaying bulge of his belly. And while the wardrobe was regrettable, it was nothing compared to the look in the man’s eye. Yikes. His beady eyes ate up Brandon like he was the all-you-can-eat roast-beef buffet at the Elk’s Lodge.

Whirling back to face the bar, Brandon dove into the debate between Patrick and the pretty bartender about the Red Sox’s chances at the pennant this year and prayed Big Ugly Biker Dude would go away.

When an enormous paw landed on his shoulder with a painful thump, he barely resisted the urge to slump his head down onto the bar. Why him? He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with this.

He briefly toyed with the fantasy of spinning around and telling the guy to take a hike, but he knew it wouldn’t be wise. Instead he straightened, plastered a smile on his face and looked over his shoulder. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“I’m buying you a drink,” Big Ugly Biker Dude informed him and at least twenty people in their immediate vicinity.

Brandon tried not to let his revulsion show. It wasn’t easy. And it didn’t help that after casting a brief glance over his shoulder, Patrick stayed facing the bar. Some wingman he turned out to be. Brandon could see Patrick’s smirk out of the corner of his eye, his delicious dimple winking. The jerk was laughing at him.

Brandon kept his focus on Big Ugly Biker Dude, his smile and his voice courteous. “No, thank you. I’m all set.”

Completely ignoring him, Big Ugly Biker Dude looked at the bartender. “Get him another of whatever he’s drinking.”

Brandon turned to catch the bartender’s eye. “No, thank you. I don’t want that drink.” He hated the look of sympathy she sent him. Patrick’s hand came up to rub over his lips, obviously trying to suppress a grin. Brandon shot him a dark look.

Facing Big Ugly Biker Dude once more, he dropped his smile and spoke firmly. “Thank you for your offer, but I’m not interested.” Praying that the guy would take the hint when it was smashed over his head, he turned back to the bar and took a swig of his beer.

The bottle nearly fell from his hand when that huge, sweaty body pressed along the length of his spine, wet lips drizzling spittle as the Big Ugly Biker Dude spoke directly into his ear. “I’m buying you a drink, boy, and then I’m going to take you to the men’s room, bend you over and shove my entire fist up your ass.”

Brandon’s eyes automatically fell to the ham-sized hand clenching the edge of the bar. There was a black crust embedded under the jagged fingernails and thick, nicotine-stained calluses, flaked white with dead skin, lined his fingers.

Brandon shuddered. Good god, the horror.

When the butt-ugliest man in the entire bar made a beeline for Brandon, Patrick almost busted a gut trying to hold in his laughter. Only Brandon. The poor guy hadn’t gotten laid in months and the first man to offer to remedy that was this giant mass of stink and grease. It was nothing short of hilarious.

He figured Brandon, who even Patrick had to admit was blessed with the face of an angel, had plenty of practice beating back unwanted advances. So rather than help, he left his friend to his own devices and sat back to enjoy the show. Only because of their long years of friendship could he see the revulsion and he admired how well Brandon hid it from his…err…gentleman suitor, keeping his green eyes wide, his smile polite. The guy wasn’t backing down, though, and Patrick gleefully anticipated Brandon dropping his nice-guy act and telling the guy to fuck off. When he was riled, Brandon was every bit as intimidating as the hardened criminals they worked to take off the streets.

To say the guy was invading Brandon’s space was like saying the Pope was just a little bit Catholic. The man’s body pressed the length of Brandon’s, his lips brushing against Brandon’s blond curls. Patrick was actually starting to get a little irritated by this guy. Hell, maybe more than a little. It had to be pushing Brandon to his limits.

But when the guy announced his intentions for their trip to the men’s room, Patrick could do little more than sit with his mouth hanging open.

His whole fist? Seriously, that was just way over the line.

Standing, Patrick rose to his full six foot three inches, deliberately taking up as much space as possible by pulling his shoulders back and anchoring his hands on his hips. While Brandon’s strength in tense situations was his ability to play it cool and smooth things over, Patrick knew his best asset was pure physical intimidation. He was a damn big guy and he didn’t hesitate to use it to his advantage when needed. It went a long way toward encouraging assholes to leave him the fuck alone.

Looking down, he locked eyes with the creep trying to wrap himself around Brandon’s rigid torso. He had an almost violent urge to shove the man away, to force his oily hands off Brandon’s body. Suppressing that impulse tightened his chest and forced his voice down to a growl. “You need to back off. Now.”

Cold, little brown eyes narrowed. “Why should I?”

Patrick didn’t blink but his mind scrambled for a response. He needed a way to end this quickly and without creating a scene. The truth—my friend isn’t interested in your nasty skank ass and you mauling him like that is really starting to piss me off—wouldn’t do. He could just imagine the guys down at the station being called in to break up the fight at the gay bar and finding two of their fellow officers right in the middle of it. File that under “Not Pretty”.

No, a fight, though sorely tempting, had to be avoided. Instead, he tried the other obvious way out. “He’s with me, asshole, and I’m not in the mood to share.”

If he hadn’t been working so hard to look big and mean, he might have cracked a smile when he glanced at Brandon. It was hard to say who looked more incredulous—Brandon or his biker friend. Fortunately, Brandon’s face was hidden from everyone except him and the bartender.

Regardless, Brandon’s new boyfriend wasn’t buying it. “I’ve been watching you two. Your pretty boy here,” he snarled, thumping a hand against Brandon’s back, “has been scoping out the scene while you’ve been more interested in your beer and the hot number behind the bar.”

Well, crap. He had to give the creep high marks for powers of observation, but goddamn, he was not going to be caught out by this idiot. Reaching out, he manhandled Brandon from his stool and spun him around so they stood together, a united front. He looped his arm around Brandon’s waist, clenching the soft black leather covering Brandon’s hip and hauling him close.

It was a damn good thing Brandon was an expert at fronting a calm façade, since shock radiated from every inch of his body.

“Just because I like to flirt with the bartender doesn’t mean he’s not with me,” Patrick said.

The big man laughed. “If you’re gay, I’m the Queen of England.”

“Nice to meet you, Liz. You look different in People magazine,” he shot back, his mouth outdistancing his brain for a moment. Damn it. He gave himself a mental kick in the pants and told himself to shut up. As often as Brandon’s quick talking had gotten them out of a fix, Patrick’s big mouth had gotten them into one. He needed this to not be one of those times.

Predictably, his wit was lost on their biker friend. “You’re not funny. And you’re not gay.”

“I am so gay!” he declared vehemently, ignoring the stares from the people around them. They were starting to draw quite a crowd. Not good. He briefly wondered if anyone believed him. It didn’t help that Brandon’s entire body had convulsed with suppressed mirth when he’d declared his homosexuality. He shot his friend a dirty look.

“If you two are together, prove it,” the biker challenged.

He turned back to the ugly man. “What?”

“Prove it,” he said, gesturing to Brandon. “Kiss him.”

Brandon’s head snapped up, his eyes wide.

Damn. He should have seen that coming. One of Brandon’s brows lifted and Patrick could practically hear Brandon’s thoughts—What are you going to do now, you idiot? His mind raced, trying to answer that very question. Too bad he was coming up blank.

Fuck it. How bad could it be?

Turning, he speared his free hand into Brandon’s thick, dark blond hair, the curls tickling his fingers as he cupped the side of Brandon’s head. Brandon’s eyes bulged, his mouth falling open. He didn’t say a word out loud, but his face practically shouted, You wouldn’t dare.

Patrick never could refuse a dare. After all these years, Brandon ought to know that.

Tightening the arm around his friend’s waist, Patrick pulled Brandon’s long, firm thighs up against his own, their hips bumping. The crowd around them fell silent, watching. Waiting. Holding their collective breath in anticipation.

He wasn’t going to disappoint. Dropping his head, he pressed his lips over Brandon’s.

The first kiss was quick, a rubbing of mouths, Brandon’s totally immobile beneath his. It was weird but not awful. Brandon’s lips were firmer than any woman’s had ever been. And actually, it was kind of interesting, since for the first time in his life, his big frame wasn’t dwarfing the person in his arms. Brandon’s tall, lean body fitted against him perfectly.

In the spirit of wanting to end the stand-off decisively—and knowing that one peck wasn’t going to cut it—he dipped his head again, running his mouth along Brandon’s, catching his lower lip before letting it go. The fine stubble tickling his chin and his palm where it cupped Brandon’s jaw was distracting. Not bad, but…different. His heart started beating a little faster, the blood humming in his veins. He watched, fascinated, as Brandon’s gaze lost focus and his eyelids dropped to half-mast. Not pushing him away, but not actually kissing him back either.

He was about to let Brandon go, hoping their new biker friend was suitably convinced, when a wave of motion rippled through the dense crowd, emanating from the stage and forcing their audience back toward the bar. Brandon’s hand shot out, gripping the bar as he turned his back to the room, but the momentum of all those bodies crushed together was too much and the weight of the crowd pushed him forward. In an instant, Patrick’s back was pressed against the bar as Brandon’s lips, chest, hips and legs were all crushed to his.

Sweet Lord, his libido had always had a short fuse, but never in his life had anything just flipped his switch.

Until now.

Brandon’s erection ground against him, the heavy shaft straining against leather and through denim. It shouldn’t have felt so good. But it did.

A very small part of Patrick’s mind thought he should be horrified, but his own cock pressed back, surging with blood and desire to match the press of Brandon’s rigid length. Another very small part of his mind thought he should resist no matter how good it felt. Brandon was his best friend, his pal. His bud.

The rest of his mind was thinking, Fuck. Yes!

When Brandon’s mouth opened beneath his lips, rational thought fled in the face of a tidal wave of desire.

Patrick’s fingers came back up and fisted in Brandon’s hair, holding his head at the angle he wanted it, needed it, while his tongue plunged into Brandon’s mouth. Brandon met the assault head-on with one of his own. Their tongues met and clashed, warred and retreated. His muscles knotted, the need escalating, his cock so hard he could barely stand straight. He wrapped his arm around Brandon and pulled him closer, so that their hips collided again and again, the length of their cocks rubbing each time Brandon’s hips twitched in response to the thrust of their tongues. Brandon’s whimper rang through his head like a bell, drowning out the sound of their audience hooting and hollering their appreciation.

The kiss was wild. Carnal. Blood rushed from his head, flooding through his aching cock before tracing fire through his veins.

God, Brandon tasted good. Familiar and different. The strength of Brandon’s arms, his sheer size, his flavor and texture. It was like Patrick’s first kiss all over again. A world of discovery in one lip-locked moment. Heat poured through him, thrumming with rough need.

The big ugly guy was gone. The crowd was gone, the music, the bartender with whom he had, indeed, been flirting. He lost track of them all, no longer caring if they were near, if they watched, if they even existed. There was only Brandon.

Who is, Patrick thought with a last grasp at reason, my best friend. Should it feel this hot? Taste this good? He sank even deeper into Brandon’s mouth and into the kiss, even as his brain sent its last reasonable transmission.

This was probably not a good idea.

Fuck! What the hell is Patrick thinking, kissing me? Brandon wondered as he rolled his hips along his best friend’s erection one more time.

Okay, scratch that. What the hell am I thinking, kissing him back?

But, of course, he knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking that Patrick’s kiss was better than every fantasy he’d ever conjured. The feel of Patrick’s tongue sliding along his, the thrust of that fucking enormous cock as it bucked against him, was so much better than he could have ever imagined.

Crushing Patrick’s flat belly up against his, he indulged himself, deepening the kiss, relishing the feeling of Patrick’s hands fisted in his hair, his hard muscles bunched under Brandon’s hands. He was finally kissing the man he loved and, for just one totally self-destructive moment, he was going to enjoy the hell out of it.

The man he loved. Even as he angled his head to take control of the kiss again, his tongue touching all the corners of Patrick’s mouth before Patrick regained the lead, he cursed himself. He’d known for years—maybe since they’d first met two decades ago—that he was at least part way in love with Patrick, but he had managed not to admit it, even to himself.

Until now.

Which, actually, was about the worst timing imaginable. Because even with Patrick’s tongue halfway down his throat, he knew Patrick was straight. And when this kiss ended, that really heterosexual, old-school, Boston-Irish, hard-assed cop was going to return. For Patrick, this kiss would be an aberration.

For Brandon, it was a stolen moment he’d remember for the rest of his life. Even if it hurt like fucking hell.

Damn it, he really should have just stayed home.