Shades of Gray (8 page)

“What does your wife think of you being stuck here?” Miller pushed back in the recliner, the footrest popping up with a squawk. “I don’t have a wife,” he said, eyes on the TV screen.

“Then who were you talking to when you called me the other night?”

Miller never talked about his personal life with informants.

Never. It was a rule within the FBI, both spoken and unspoken, and he followed it as though to break it would constitute a personal failure.

“That was my fiancée. Rachel.”

“Fiancée?” Danny scooted upright on the couch. “When’s the wedding?”

“We haven’t set a date yet,” Miller replied, wishing he’d never opened his damn mouth.

“How long have you been engaged?”

Miller scowled at Danny, who looked back at him blandly, a tiny smile working against Danny’s lips. “Five years,” Miller mumbled.

“We’ve been engaged for five years.”

“Whaaat?” Danny laughed, elongating the word with the remnants of his Kansas drawl. “What’s the fucking holdup? Damn, she’s a lot more patient than Amanda ever would have been, I’ll tell you that.”

“How long were you and Amanda engaged?”

54 | Brooke McKinley

Danny shrugged. “A couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours,” Miller parroted. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“What can I say? I’m a spontaneous kind of guy,” Danny grinned with a raise of his eyebrows.

“How’d you meet her?”

“I was down in Mexico, doing a job for Hinestroza. She was there on vacation. I met her in a bar. We danced and drank too much tequila and I woke up the next morning with a ring on my finger and this on my arm.” Danny lifted up his right sleeve, revealing a tattoo of barbed wire encircling his bicep. “Apparently Amanda wanted it to be intertwined A’s and D’s, but thank God I wasn’t drunk enough for that.”

“You’re a big tattoo fan, I take it?”

“Didn’t have much choice in the matter, actually. You work for Hinestroza, you get a tattoo. After that it didn’t seem like such a big deal to get more. At least he didn’t brand me like some of the drug bosses do.”

Miller marveled at how nonchalant Danny was, talking of being tattooed or branded as if he were discussing some vaguely unpleasant but inevitable chore—cleaning out a backed-up toilet, maybe, or doing his taxes. “Is a snake still Hinestroza’s mark?”

“Yeah. Matches his laugh.” Danny tossed his cigarette onto the saucer he was using as an ashtray. “You want to take a look?” Miller nodded without realizing he was going to, beer bottle poised against his lips as Danny hiked up his shirt, holding the bunched material over his head. He twisted on the couch to give Miller a view of his upper back, a curled-up serpent painted between his shoulder blades. It had the diamond markings of a rattlesnake, but the colors were brilliant jewel tones, dark purple, emerald green, deep ocean blue.

Miller’s eyes were riveted on the vision of the snake coiled across Danny’s tight muscles, the flickering lights from the TV making the colors shimmer and breathe. The tattoo was beautiful, really—unless Shades of Gray | 55

you knew what it meant.

“Can you see it?” Danny asked, his voice muted through the layers of cotton.

“Yeah, I can see it,” Miller replied, husky and low, his stomach pitching forward like an off-balance drunk. He was horrified by his own desire to breach the space between them and lay his hands across Danny’s marked skin.

Danny pivoted back around, his shirt inching down in a slow-motion glide as Miller’s eyes helplessly followed its descent. Neither of them spoke and the silence wasn’t easy; it popped and crackled with possibilities. Miller’s eyes swerved back to the TV, his finger stabbing viciously at the remote. He could feel the tension in his face, a furrow etched between his brows, his mouth locked up tight.

He risked a quick glance at Danny, who was watching him with steady eyes, a newly lit cigarette dangling from his lips. Miller felt sweat popping up along his brow, his breathing too rapid for his sedentary position. He reached for his FBI training, switched on his finely tuned ability to disengage, and looked away.

56 | Brooke McKinley

MILLER knew he’d overslept from the strength of the sunlight slanting in through the edges of his blinds to lay warm fingers across his face.

Jesus, only two days living with Danny and already he was on deadbeat time. Staying up late drinking beer and smoking, sleeping in past his years-old five-thirty a.m. wake-up call. Judging from the light it had to be close to eight o’clock.
Fucking pathetic, Miller.

He rolled out of bed with a groan, thankful at least that Danny hadn’t broken into the bourbon yet. Even Danny’s shaving habits were contagious, it seemed; Miller’s hand scrubbed at his whisker-rough cheeks. Miller stretched his arms up toward the ceiling, his back giving off a series of satisfying cracks. He pulled on a pair of jeans, rooting around in the suitcase he hadn’t fully unpacked for his old college sweatshirt, “Kansas State University” emblazoned on the front in peeling purple letters.

The living room was deserted, Danny’s bedroom door closed.

Something wasn’t right; Miller felt it almost immediately, the hair on his arms prickling with unease. There was a curious emptiness to the apartment, too silent even if Danny was still asleep. The bathroom was dark, the kitchen quiet. Miller crossed to Danny’s door, slapped it with the flat of his hand. No response. “Danny?” Miller called, the metal doorknob cool against his palm. “Danny?”

Danny wasn’t in his room, the only sign he’d been there the covers and sheets flung haphazardly across the foot of the bed. Miller backtracked double-time toward the kitchen, glancing out to check the Shades of Gray | 57

small balcony as he passed. The front door was locked. But the chain, which had been secured when they went to sleep, was hanging free now. A piece of white paper, the back of a take-out pizza menu, was taped to the door.

Miller, had to run out for a minute. Be back soon. Danny.

“Son of a bitch!” Miller cried, racing into his bedroom to throw on tennis shoes. He jammed his loaded gun into the waistband of his jeans and grabbed his cell phone from the clutter on top of his dresser, loose change raining down onto the floor. His keys were gone. The fucker had snuck in while he was sleeping and taken his goddamn keys.

Miller flung open the apartment door, slamming it hard behind him. He took the stairs two at a time and flew out onto the empty sidewalk. He could see his Jeep parked where he’d left it, one block down on the opposite side of the street. So Danny had gone on foot.

But where? There were a few shops within walking distance, but on a Sunday morning nothing would be open.

Just pick a direction and start walking.
Miller turned left, jogging down the street, eyes straining for a glimpse of that black hair. What the fuck could Danny have been thinking? Out in public, giving away their position, risking his life. Goddamn asshole! Two blocks under his belt and Miller had passed only a lone dog sniffing around a planter filled with dirt and a robe-clad woman making a dash for her morning paper. Miller was about to give up, head back in the opposite direction, when he saw a car idling against the curb, someone standing in the street and leaning into the driver’s window. Danny.

Miller bit back hard on the urge to sprint down the street screaming Danny’s name, grab him by the scruff of his neck, and drag his sorry ass back to the apartment. Instead, he stuck to the sidewalk, his position concealed by the large oak trees dotting the street at regular intervals, their bare branches pointing gnarled fingers skyward. Miller stopped a few car lengths away from where Danny stood.

The man driving the silver Mercedes didn’t look familiar. From what Miller could see he looked about their age, early thirties, medium brown hair, black sunglasses. Smiling at Danny. And Danny was 58 | Brooke McKinley

smiling back, one hand resting casually on the roof of the car as he tipped back his dark head and laughed, the deep sound of it trickling away to almost nothing by the time it reached Miller’s ears. The man in the car moved his left hand off the steering wheel and held it out the window, where Danny took it in his own, the gesture a mix of high five and handshake. Miller felt a slow burn against his skin, red sparks of fury exploding against his eyelids as the Mercedes purred away, leaving Danny with his hand raised in farewell. Miller was suddenly full of bile, burning and roiling in his gut, the need to spew his anger rising up like vomit thick in his throat.
Stupid asshole! Risking both our
lives to hook up with his boyfriend! I can’t fucking believe it!
He had been a fool to expect anything more from a man like Danny.

When the Mercedes was out of sight, Danny turned back toward the apartment, only the slightest stutter in his stride when he saw Miller waiting for him on the sidewalk.

“Hey,” Danny said. “What are you doing out here?”

“The question is what the fuck are you doing out here?” Miller could feel the veins in his neck bulging, fury a fast-acting poison racing through his blood.

“I had to meet someone.” Danny kept walking, forcing Miller into hurrying steps to catch up.

“Yeah, I saw,” Miller bit out. “Who was he?”

“A friend.”

“I’ll bet,” Miller sneered.

Danny stopped. “You have something you want to ask me, Miller?” he demanded, his eyes kindling temper fires of their own. “Is there something about me you’d like to know?” Miller took in a lungful of air. No way was he going near that bait, not even with a ten-foot pole and a gut full of emotion. “You put us in danger! He could easily tell Hinestroza where we are.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“No? What if they pull out
his
fingernails? Or slice up that pretty-boy face? Loyalty only goes so far when Madrigal’s holding a straight Shades of Gray | 59

razor against your eye.”

“Do you see how many buildings there are around here?” Danny asked, throwing his arms wide. “Griff has no idea which one we’re living in or even if we’re near here. I didn’t tell him shit except to meet me on that corner.”

“Griff? Nice fucking name.”

“You’re not exactly in a position to be making fun of people’s names,” Danny pointed out. “What is it you’re really pissed about?”

“I’m pissed that you’re a goddamn idiot, Danny! Putting your life on the line, not to mention mine, so you can meet up with your—” Miller snapped his mouth closed so fast he risked severing his tongue.

“Are you jealous, Miller?” Danny’s voice was smooth, his tone hovering somewhere between amusement and seduction.

“Go to hell!” Miller stormed. “What did you need from that guy anyway, huh? Was he bringing you drugs?”

“I already told you I don’t do drugs. I’m sick of repeating myself.” Danny took off, his long legs chewing up the pavement.

“Don’t you fucking walk away from me!” Miller yelled, grasping at the back of Danny’s leather jacket. “What the hell did you need from him?”

Danny moved more quickly than Miller expected, twirling out of reach, his hand closing tightly over Miller’s arm.

“Back off,” Danny growled. “You may have cornered me into rolling over on Hinestroza, but I don’t belong to the FBI. I’m my own man, Miller, and I don’t answer to you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Miller breathed. “Is that what Hinestroza would say, that you’re your own man?”

Danny sucked in a whistling breath through bared teeth, nostrils flaring, the muscle in his jaw pulsing in tempo with his heart. They stood chest to chest, only a whisper of breeze passing between them.

Miller could see the emerald rims around Danny’s leaf-green eyes, the tiny scar above his lip hiding beneath his stubble, the tip of his tongue 60 | Brooke McKinley

sliding out to caress the corner of his mouth. They were close enough to fight, close enough to touch… close enough to kiss, and for one heart-stopping, stomach-dropping moment Miller thought that’s what Danny meant to do. Danny’s face leaned forward for an instant before he stepped away, leaving cold air where his warm body had been.

THE heavy, sharp press of metal against Danny’s lower back was comforting, the gun singing its own brand of lullaby to his anxious body. It had been a long time since he’d gone anywhere without a weapon and he’d hated how naked he’d felt the last few days.

He unlocked the apartment door, tossing Miller’s keys over his shoulder. Miller snatched them out of midair with a deadly glare.

Danny slammed through the apartment to his room, kicking the door shut with an echoing bang.
Fucking Miller. Thinks I need a damn
babysitter.
He pulled the Sig Sauer from his waistband, cradling the soothing heft in his palm. Same make and model as the one the cops had taken from his glove compartment. Danny checked the safety, then lifted up his mattress and slid the gun underneath. Not the most creative hiding place, but he had to have easy access or what was the point?

When Danny returned to the living room, Miller was in the shower, the hiss of running water loud in the quiet space. Danny flipped on the TV, grabbed a Coke from the refrigerator, and tossed himself onto the couch. He tried to hold onto his anger, but it was already seeping away like smoke through a clenched fist. Danny relished a good confrontation while it was happening, had never been afraid of expressing his emotions. But, oddly enough, he hated it when people remained angry with him. As a boy he’d always tried to please his father, especially when the old bastard was feeling mean. And as a man he still hadn’t managed to outgrow that need for approval.