Page 117 of Under Cover
In the end, Harding had won, simply by putting the whole thing on the federal government’s tab. “I’m calling it a team-building exercise,” he’d said shortly. “Given how much grief they’ve given me over the years forbuildingthis team, I think they owe me some steak dinners.”
“And a bunch of salads,” Crosby said in disgust. “I can’t believe Pearson ate salad.”
“She got steak on it,” Harding defended, but he too sounded baffled. “But Harman had the vegan meal, so, you know, we have to love them for who they are.”
Crosby had laughed then, liking the little peeks of human being that they’d been allowed to see in their boss. He would neverstopbeing their boss, but God, he was such a good human being.
Finally they made their way to the club, where the bouncers—Junior included—let them cut the line.
“How you doin’?” Crosby asked, taking a moment to talk to Junior.
Junior looked better. Dressed in a suit, he’d taken his natural warehouse muscles and—with Kurt and Jesse’s help—had bulked up a little, tightening his body. His complexion—which had been spotty after an endless diet of pizza and soda—had cleared up, and his teeth were clean and white. His hair was cut short—Crosby wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it without his gray stocking cap to cover—and it was dark, like his father’s, but a nice foil for his blue eyes.
“Doing good,” Junior said, and his voice, which had been crisp and professional as he’d greeted dancers at the bar, dropped now, became vulnerable. “I… I miss my dad. Is that wrong?”
Crosby grimaced. He hadn’t told Junior yet that he’d been the one to fire the bullets that had killed Creedy and wounded McEnany, but it didn’t matter. Creedy was dead because he’d pulled a gun on a cop instead of surrendering, and he was pretty sure Junior knew that. He didn’t think it was what Junior was talking about anyway.
“Hey,” he said gently. “My dad—he’s not talking to me right now. I lost him two years ago when I said I couldn’t be the kind of cop he wanted me to be. The kind who’d gun a kid down in cold blood ’cause of the color of his skin. I started missing him then. I’ll keep missing him, even if he outlives me. The dad we had as a kid—he’s kind of a… a god, you know?” Crosby remembered seeing his father in uniform, having that pride. “And I guess, if you’ve got a good dad, once he’s a person again, it can be a good thing. ’Cause we can’t grow into gods, but wecangrow into good people.”
“But if they’re not a good person…,” Junior pondered thoughtfully.
“Then we gotta make our own good people.”
Junior gave him a smile then, and it may have been a little battered and a little bruised, but it had the makings of a whole and healthy heart. “I’ll tell Kurt and Jesse that. They’ll like the sound of it.” He glanced into the club and gave Crosby a sly look. “So, that girl you were always texting—she in there? Is she the tiny blond one, ’cause she’s cute.”
Crosby grinned and leaned over to speak softly in Junior’s ear. “Got news for you,” he said, winking. “It wasn’t a girl.”
Junior gaped at him, looking pleased, and Crosby gave him a little salute before joining the others in the bar.
Toby had the place rocking, and Crosby gave him a wave as he walked in. Toby’s perpetual professional smile went shy and personal, because they were friends and Crosby would protect him like a brother till the end.
The team was on the floor, dancing, but not like couples would. Harman and Natalia were doing a graceful swing to the bouncy, almost ska beat, and Emily and Carlyle were trying to keep up. Chadwick, Doba, and Henderson stood by the bar, waiting for drinks, and Gail and Swan were doing the basic dance floor bop, grinning as they cut loose a little.
Garcia was standing by the bar, talking to Chartreuse, who couldn’t seem to stop smiling. Crosby moved up behind him, standing intimately close, and moved his lips along the curve of Garcia’s ear.
He didn’t have to see Garcia’s face to know he smiled.
“And I can see our conversation’s over,” Chartreuse said with a wink. “But you boys need to come back and talk to me some more, when it’s not your song, okay?”
“How do you know it’s our song?” Garcia asked, but his voice had dropped, gone throaty, the same tones that had driven Crosby wild in bed all day throbbing beneath the surface.
“’Cause look at his face, cute boy,” Chartreuse said. “It’s definitely your song.”
Garcia turned in his arms then and, hips moving, backed Crosby to the dance floor. Together they danced their way to the center, close enough to talk to Gail and Swan if they’d been so inclined.
Harding arrived and took over dancing with Natalia, while Harman joined them in the middle, as did Carlyle and Natalia’s wife. With a colossal jump, Joey Carlyle popped over the heads of the dancers and whistled loudly, getting Chadwick’s attention, and Gideon moved Doba and Henderson to the center too.
Because this wasn’t just Crosby and Garcia’s dance, this was their team’s dance. Their family’s dance. And they could live a lot longer and do a lot more good with their family to watch their backs.
Crosby gave Garcia a spin, and he smiled, ducked, and gave Crosby Gail’s hand so she could spin back. With another turn, he was dancing with Carlyle, who stuck out his tongue and gave him Natalia. The dance spun them all into each other’s space, and because they trusted, they kept dancing.
Later tonight, it would be just the two of them again, Garcia’s tight body tucked into Crosby’s arms as they drifted off to sleep, still humming their song, ready to dance—and fight—their way into tomorrow, with their team on their six.
Keep Reading for an Excerpt from
The Tech,
Book #5 in the Long Con series
