Duty and Devotion Page 2

  “Oh right, I forgot to tell you. Those brochures from the convents in the Swiss Alps finally came.”

  Katie snickered.

  * * *

  Between the four of them they got the SUV unloaded pretty quickly. Matt turned on the small television in the kitchen for some manly ESPN as he rearranged the fridge and pantry to accommodate all the food. This kitchen was slightly bigger than the one in Evan's old house; it was part of the reason they chose it. Well, that and the facts that the kids could stay in their schools and there were enough bedrooms and two entrances. Which meant that should the “roommate” story be needed, it would seem plausible.

  Not that anyone believed that. Matt was amazed at just how quickly their neighbors figured his and Evan's relationship out. If he'd lived next door to them, he wouldn't have noticed unless they were doing it on the front lawn—and Matt happened to be walking by. Apparently in the suburbs—people noticed. At a professional level.

  No one said anything to them, but he did note just how few barbecues they were invited to and how many playdates did not happen at their house. He tried not to take it personally. Plus he really didn't want to go to barbecues to make small talk with strangers, or have other people's kids running around.

  “I'm ordering the pizza,” Katie announced, walking into the kitchen and grabbing the cordless. “By the way, Danny is doing that not talking, sulking thing in the sunroom. Do you want peppers?”

  “Okay, okay, and okay.” Matt crammed the last box of cereal in the pantry and shoved the door closed. “Any tips on what to say?” Of all the children, Katie was Matt's second-in-command. Calm and levelheaded where her older sister Miranda chose the dramatic, Katie shepherded her younger siblings and Matt through the complicated routine of everyday life. She was also okay with Matt asking her stupid questions—like what to say when tween angst hit the only Cerelli boy child.

  Katie shrugged. “I don't know. Mom used to tell me that what Dad did was important, that he was helping people who needed it and stuff like that.” She paused thoughtfully. “Then she'd give us all twenty dollars!”

  “You're kinda evil,” Matt pointed out, almost admiringly. “Order a salad and some broccoli and something for your dad.”

  “'Kay.”

  And Matt went off to deal with his least favorite form of almost stepparenting.

  * * *

  For about twenty minutes, Matt just lounged on the second old couch they'd thrown in the extra room. It housed anything that didn't fit in the rest of the house, which meant two couches, four bookcases, and three assorted tables wedged under the windows plus an old wooden toy chest for a coffee table. Danny remained on the other couch, seemingly engrossed in his DSi. Matt looked at the ceiling, pondered repainting, and then finally cleared his throat. He wanted to get this over with before the food got there.

  “So…”

  “What?” Danny looked up at Matt, all scowl and averted eyes. Matt didn't take it personally. Apparently nine was the new thirteen.

  “Listen, I know you're pissed about your dad working,” Matt began, drumming his fingers on the obnoxious rose pattern of the upholstery.

  Danny snorted, his fingers never stopping work on the buttons of his handheld game.

  “Well, am I wrong?”

  “Whatever.”

  “His job is important.”

  “Right.”

  “He'd rather be home.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Matt sighed. “I know you know all of this, and it doesn't matter anyway because it sucks. Period. You don't care about his job—you want him home. I get that. You want me to give you twenty dollars, and we'll call this little talk over?”

  That made Danny look up. “Twenty bucks? What do I have to do?”

  “Not be all upset and scarred for life because your dad is working late?”

  A ghost of a smile made a guest appearance on the corner of Danny's face. “Do I have to sign a paper or something?”

  “No, just don't set fires or end up in juvie.”

  “Deal.”

  Matt dug into his pocket for his wallet as Danny shook his head. “I'll remind you later.”

  “Thanks; I gotta go to the ATM.” Matt rolled off the couch. “Hey, good talk.”

  Danny snickered, still shaking his head.

  All in all, Matt thought that went well.

  Chapter Two

  New York City

  Detective Evan Cerelli checked his watch for the tenth time in a span of about five minutes. He knew this was important, he knew he shouldn't be so irritated, but shit—he was.

  The stakeout of a suspected underground gambling club was rookie work, and he was irritated that a high-profile mayoral election was pushing it to be the problem of senior detectives. He looked through the binoculars, saw nothing—yet again—and sighed noisily.

  “You're like a restless five-year-old tonight. I should have brought coloring books,” yawned Helena Abbott, Evan's friend and partner, who sat in the driver's seat, occupying herself with a bridal magazine. “Anything?”

  “No. Nothing. Why are we doing this again?”

  “Because our boss told us to. Because his boss told him to. Because the mayor wants a big bust for the headlines during the elections and cracking down on illegal gambling is PR safe. These headlines need to imply that we're doing our job, but not scare people. Illegal gambling bad—but not scary.” She clucked her tongue as she glanced over at him. “Are you new?”

  Evan grumbled as he slouched in the uncomfortable passenger seat.

  “Everything okay at home?”

  “It's fine. The kids just didn't sound too happy when I talked to them.” Evan resisted the urge to stomp his feet.

  “And Matt?”

  “Matt understands. He was a cop.”

  “Now he's a househusband. I'm betting it's different.” Helena held up an opened page under the dim dome light. “What do you think about these shoes?”

  “Huh?” Evan squinted. “They're shoes.”

  “You're a lousy gay person, can I just tell you that?” Helena gave him a glaring look of affection. “Listen, why don't you call Matt, and I'll pretend I can't hear you talking dirty to him.”

  Evan's face heated up, even as he tried to form the words protesting the “gay” label but came up with nothing. Labels made him nervous, even as he struggled with his own vocabulary on the matter. “Helena, remember that line we talked about?”

  “No.” She flipped through a few more pages. “My mother is threatening to pick out my dress, Evan. We need to stop her! She's gone hog wild with these wedding plans.”

  “It's an exciting event for her. You should be understanding.” Evan was glad to get the subject off Matt in general. He was mired deep in too many thoughts right now, and he didn't want Helena accidentally (or on purpose) poking him with a stick.

  “Well what about me? I am a part of this, remember.” She muttered to herself, then tossed the magazine in the backseat. “I realize it's not every day a person gets married, but she needs to chill.”

  “How's the groom handling things?”

  “He hides. The coward.” Helena gave her short black hair a quick look in the mirror, fluffing out imaginary things which Evan assumed needed to be gone. Her hair looked the same when she was done.

  “The man is a decorated police officer, Evan. Why won't he stand up to her?”

  “Because Vic is a smart man?” Evan offered. The upcoming marriage of Helena's mother, Serena Abbott, and their captain, Vic Wolkowski, was at once joyous and mind-blowing. Helena was going to briefly be the stepdaughter of their boss, though his retirement was already in the works, much to Helena's relief. How awkward would morning meetings be with your stepdad?

  “Humph. I'm not wearing periwinkle. I don't care if she thinks I'll look like Liz Taylor,” Helena mumbled, reaching over for the binoculars. “Still nothing. Oh my God, this is ridiculous.”

  The ridiculous waste of time—and the wedding talk—lasted
another three hours. Evan parked his car in the garage and checked the dashboard clock.

  It was 12:07 a.m.

  Cursing under his breath, he stepped out of the car, grabbed his briefcase, and headed through the garage into the mudroom off the darkened kitchen. He could smell the remnants of dinner and hear the rumble of the television set—but no kids, no family noise. He'd missed another evening with his kids.

  The house was different, but the reality was the same. During all those years with his late wife Sherri, he'd experienced this moment over and over. She'd held down the fort—ran the house, raised the children, made a happy loving home for all of them. After she died, he tried to do that, tried to make the same sort of place for their four children, but that didn't work so well.

  More and more he was realizing that Matt saved them all from Evan's fumbling attempts to keep it all together. More and more he was realizing that things falling into place meant Evan had failed as a father—lover? boyfriend? He still hadn't hit upon a term that worked—and someone else picked up his slack.

  Matt was the one who did the food shopping and made sure everyone got where they needed to on time. He helped with homework; he broke up arguments over the remote and the last cookie and the bathroom.

  Evan just floated in and out when he had the time, like his time in the house was a guest appearance. He knew the kids went to Matt with their problems, big and small. Even Miranda, the eldest and least enthused about her father's choice of partners, spent more time on the phone with Matt than Evan.

  The guilt ate up at his stomach like an angry ulcer.

  He knew Matt was up waiting for him, but he didn't call out, not just yet. His coat was hung up in the mudroom, shoes under the bench. (Was that new? He didn't remember it.) He plugged his BlackBerry in, then dragged his feet into the kitchen.

  Dinner was, indeed, in the microwave. Evan pressed one minute and waited for the noise to pull Matt into the kitchen. But even after the annoying tone that signaled his lasagna was warm, Matt still didn't appear.

  Evan took his dinner, silverware, and a beer into the living room, following the sounds of voices. But what he presumed was the television was actually Matt chatting away on his cell phone.

  Pausing, Evan waited to catch enough of the conversation to guess who it was. It didn't take long or much skill; their East Coast friends would all be asleep by now. The only person Matt talked to regularly who'd be awake right now was Jim Shea.

  Evan swallowed a scowl.

  He'd never been the jealous type, more because he married the first person he loved than because of any superior character trait. And yes, he understood he and Matt were technically broken up when Matt and some cop from Seattle named Jim hooked up for one night. He understood their (albeit strange) subsequent friendship.

  Okay, he tried to understand their subsequent friendship. He felt entirely out of sync with the idea of “ex-lovers,” being as he didn't have one. He had a dead wife and Matt—nothing else to compare his current situation to. Nothing else to incorporate into this annoyed feeling of having someone else intimately know Matt. Sometimes the “intimate” part bothered the most; he had way too many questions about what they'd done and what it was like and how it felt—and not from an erotic “let's talk dirty” point of view either. He wanted to know that Jim was lousy in bed and Matt never wished he was sleeping with someone far more experienced. Far more—free.

  Matt was sprawled on the couch in his sweats and a tight T-shirt. Staying home meant he was busy, but there was also plenty of time for running and the gym while the kids were in school. Evan was pretty sure he'd never looked better. And he was laughing, relaxed, and clearly amused by whatever Jim was saying from the other side of the country. Evan thought he looked good and happy, and it wasn't him making that happen and that felt shitty.

  He was now officially the jealous type.

  “So seriously—Hawaii until you're bored of it? Color me envious,” Matt was saying. He must've realized that Evan was standing there staring at him, because he turned his head and grinned.

  “Hey,” he mouthed, moving his feet so Evan could sit down.

  “So listen, Evan's finally home.” Matt made a face as Evan settled onto the sofa and laid his dinner on the coffee table. “Thanks for keepin' me company. I'll talk to you in a few days—keep me updated okay? All right, man, later.”

  And with that the call was over. Evan flipped the top off his beer and drank so he could avoid his need to be in a conversation a little bit longer.

  “Hey,” Matt said again, tossing his cell phone onto the coffee table. He leaned over for a kiss, his hand sliding over Evan's neck. Evan could feel a wave of heat from Matt's body, feel the purposeful press of his palm.

  It aroused him. And it made him connect his lover's reaction to the phone call and that—that stupid jealousy clamped down on the moment.

  “Hey.” Evan returned the kiss quickly, keeping his body forward and not turning toward Matt for more. “Thanks for waiting up—and dinner.”

  “Katie picked.” Matt's voice was neutral as he leaned back on the couch. “How'd it go?”

  “Big fat nothing. Which makes for interesting report writing, let me tell you.” Evan got his fork, picked up the plate and started eating—more avoidance than actual hunger at this point.

  “Uh-huh. Ask me about my exciting day as househusband,” Matt deadpanned even as Evan winced inside. “On a less lighthearted note… Danny had some issues tonight.”

  “Again?” Evan put the plate back down with a heavy sigh.

  Matt shrugged. “He's going through puberty. He's the only male child in the house. His dad's boyfriend is the go-to guy on a daily basis, and yeah, I'm the coolest human on earth, but still. He needs to spend a little one-on-one with you.”

  Evan knew that Matt wasn't saying any of this to make him feel guilty. He wasn't giving him shit for being gone so many nights lately, but it didn't matter. A defensive wave rose up with the guilt.

  “He has to understand…”

  “He's nine. He doesn't understand anything except sports trivia, video games, and how to open the refrigerator.” Matt got up and headed for the kitchen. “Why don't you hang with him on Saturday. I'll take the girls into the city to harass Miranda.”

  Evan rubbed his socks against the carpet until sparks pricked his soles. Picking a ridiculous fight because he felt guilty was asinine. He missed Matt like crazy—he should be making up and making out instead of making an ass of himself.

  Deep in self-recrimination, he didn't hear Matt come back—until the bottle of cold water whacked him in the head.

  “No more beer for you. You have to get up in six hours,” Matt said, settling back down.

  “Yes, dear.” Evan drank the water, studied the bottle in his hands. “Saturday—sounds like a good idea. We'll go play ball or something, meet you guys later, and have dinner.”

  “Deal.” Matt picked up the remote and switched on the television; his night-owl ways didn't change, even with an “early-rising” family now.

  “Staying up?”

  Matt shrugged. “I guess.” He gave Evan a glance. “Unless you want to do something else.”

  “That's a line? Seriously?”

  “I have to use lines now? We share a mortgage, dude. Get upstairs, take a shower, and come to bed naked. Jesus.”

  For the first time since he got home, Evan smiled.

  Chapter Three

  The weekend activities got things back onto an even keel; Evan hung out with Danny at the park and the batting cages, Matt took the girls into the city to drop off foodstuffs at Miranda's dorm and go shopping (aka, Matt handing out small amounts of cash and standing on the street out front reading sports news on his phone). They met at the end of the day for a rousing meal in Little Italy, where the gnomelike waiters fussed over the children and murmured behind Evan and Matt's backs.

  Matt didn't care. He mentioned the NYPD a few times in conversation while they were refilling wat
er glasses and supported that with a glare as he laid his arm on the back of his boyfriend's chair.

  They gave them free desserts. Matt was pleased. Pleased until they reached the street and he realized Evan didn't find the whole thing amusing.

  So Matt got annoyed with Evan's annoyance. Who cared if the waiters knew they were a couple?

  Then they went home, settled the kids, and swapped blowjobs.

  The usual process these days.

  * * *

  Matt had a fairly consistent romantic history with women; the ones that lasted past a pick-up and one night followed the same path—get together hot and heavy, have a lot of sex, don't talk, fight, break up. For a good thirty-plus years, that worked well. He could pinpoint the moments in the relationship with things were going well (i.e., fucking like bunnies) and then bad (i.e., screaming fights in front of a restaurant, in a cab, in his apartment, in her apartment). Things with Evan were different, and not because he was a man. Not just because he was a man.

  Evan didn't scream or throw things at Matt's head. He didn't do passive-aggressive, which Matt might be qualified as a professional reader of, thanks to his mother. Evan wore a mantle of guilt, a cloak of stress, and a few faces of love and want, switching around and depending on the day of the week and the mood of his children.

  So Matt learned the signs, knew from Evan's tone or the set of his shoulders what today would bring. Sometimes it was easy—he could placate him with space or food or sex. When Matt's needs lined up with those, it was perfect.

  Sometimes it was perplexing. Frustrating. Matt found it easier to manage puberty and teendom and the drop-off line at the middle school than Evan's moods. Sometimes he felt like—Jesus, things were pretty good and why not just appreciate it? Why not just eat some dinner, hang with the kids, watch a game, fuck around, and go to sleep? Why wasn't that enough of a life?

  Then Matt felt guilty and shit for minimizing Evan's problems and worried it would lead to the same feelings that had broken them up before. That led to being fearful, to watching every step, every move Evan made to see if the hammer was going to slam down once again.

  That made him guilty and angry.