Will had been up front chatting pleasantly with the teenaged pink-haired receptionist, and sizing things up. Taylor was supposed to be out back scoping the alley and neighboring businesses — just getting the lay of the land. They had nothing to move on at that point; it was just intelligence gathering. But Taylor had wandered around to the back of the salon and slipped in through the delivery door, apparently deciding all on his own to take a look around. And whatever he’d spotted amidst the boxes of acrylic powders and foam rubber toe separators had encouraged him to poke around a little more in the stock room — which is where two juvenile members of the local Phu Fighters gang had found him.
The first clue Will had was the sound of shots from a back room in the salon. Two shots — and neither of them the familiar and distinct bang of Taylor’s .357 SIG — and he’d known. Known instantly that Taylor had been shot.
He’d mown through the screaming, hysterical women, racing for the stockroom, and finding it — for one bewildered moment — empty. Then his gaze moved past the wall of boxes and metal shelving units and he’d spotted Taylor slumped on his side, blood spilling out of his chest, pooling on the cement floor. Taylor’s face had been bone white with shock, his eyes huge and black and stunned. Will had knelt down beside him, kneeling in the puddle of Taylor’s blood, and for one instant of sheer blind terror, he couldn’t think beyond the fact that Taylor was dying. That any one of those shuddering, faint breaths might be his last.
It had never crossed his mind to go after the shooters. Not until later.
“Hang on, Taylor,” he’d said, and he’d yelled at the terrified faces grouped in the doorway of the stockroom to call 911. His voice shook when he said, “Stay with me, Taylor. Stay.” The words had seemed laden, charged with fears and feelings he’d never considered — never allowed himself to consider. And he’d shrugged out of his sports coat, putting it around Taylor, shouting at the women to bring him towels, clean towels to try to stanch the bleeding. And the frightened women had scattered, a couple of them returning with freshly laundered towels that he jammed up against the bullet wound in Taylor’s chest.
Taylor’s lashes had flickered. His colorless lips parted but no words came out, and Will didn’t even know if Taylor could hear him or not. Taylor’s eyes were open, pupils huge and black, but there was no other sign of consciousness in his chalky face, no response to Will. Will had taken Taylor’s icy hand in his and chafed it, feeling the long, lax fingers twitch feebly; maybe it was response, maybe it was just…a dying nervous system shutting down for good. And it was the worst day, the worst hour, the worst moments of Will’s life waiting for the paramedics — waiting for Taylor to stop breathing, for his eyes to fix and glaze before help could reach them.
But then, afterward, when it was clear that Taylor was going to live — and recover fully — Will had been…angry. Why not admit it? He had been angry. About as angry as he’d been terrified — which was about as terrified as he’d been in his life.
Because the truth was Taylor had brought it on himself. His ego hurt, he’d gone looking for trouble, and when he found it, he’d charged right into it without following procedure or using common sense. He hadn’t waited for backup, and he sure as hell hadn’t waited for Will. Taylor was a little headstrong and he was a little arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t reckless — why had he done such a reckless, stupid, stupid, potentially fatally stupid thing?
And Will knew why. Because of David Bradley. Because Taylor found out Will was seeing David Bradley, and he’d been…jealous. Which didn’t make a lick of sense. Taylor knew Will dated. Taylor dated. It was one of the first bonds between them: the fact that they were both gay. Not a lot of gay special agents in DSS. They’d have been a good team in any case, and they’d probably have been good friends — they shared a similar jaded worldview and sarcastic sense of humor — but the fact that they also shared the same sexual orientation… Yeah, it forged that bond between them into reinforced steel. They were practically brothers. Brothers-in-arms.
Less than two months ago Will would have said no one knew him better — no one was closer to him — than Taylor. That was assuming he’d have been willing to talk about his feelings — which he wouldn’t have, of course. They didn’t talk about that kind of thing.
Will glanced over at Taylor. Profile hard, he was staring out the tent window at the rain thundering down.
The last thing he’d ever meant to do was hurt Taylor.
He still wasn’t clear exactly where he’d gone wrong.
He’d mentioned David in passing a few times, mentioned that he was seeing him. Taylor had seemed — well, he hadn’t seemed anything in particular. Why would he? But that last afternoon, Will had mentioned he had seen David the night before, and Taylor had got kind of quiet and weird.
“You’re seeing a lot of him,” he’d said, bringing it up a couple of hours later when they stopped for lunch.
“Yeah? So?” Will had known immediately who Taylor meant; he knew Taylor too well to have missed that odd moment in the car earlier.
“You…getting serious?” And Taylor’s face had been — well, frankly, Will still couldn’t quite describe what Taylor’s face had been. Troubled? Uncomfortable? Hurt?
