Partners in Love

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2018 Rebecca Brochu

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-600-2

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: JC Chute

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For you, as always.

  PARTNERS IN LOVE

  Romance on the Go ®

  Rebecca Brochu

  Copyright © 2018

  Chapter One

  It’s early on a Monday morning when Dylan is jerked out of his first restful night’s sleep in weeks by a thundering crash. He jolts upright, heart racing and hand automatically going for the gun he keeps in his side table, just in time to see his upstairs neighbor’s bathtub come through his ceiling. He sits, blinking in confused shock, for a long moment before collapsing back with a frustrated huff.

  His head bounces painfully off the rather uncomfortable foldout couch he calls a bed. It’s in that moment the fact he no longer has half of his ceiling hits him like a punch, right between the eyes.

  “Fuck my entire life!” Dylan groans deeply as he scrubs a hand over two days of dark stubble and turns his eyes upwards beseechingly. “What did I do to deserve this shit?”

  There is, of course, no answer except for the sound of gushing water raining down from the burst pipes above him.

  ****

  An hour or so later finds Dylan standing outside his partner Tyler’s house in a black mood. He’s miserable because it’s barely four in the morning and he’s both sleep-deprived and under-caffeinated. He couldn’t even take a shower to wake himself up, since the water in his building had to be cut completely off. Plus, his feet are currently shoved into a pair of too-small flip-flops he doesn’t remember buying but vaguely suspects might just belong to someone he knows, because he only owns two other pairs of shoes and both of them are soaked.

  So, with a vindictive sort of glee rising in his heart, Dylan presses the doorbell over and over again as he listens to the string of low, vicious curses coming from the other side of the door. Dylan has had a fucked-up morning already, so he’s going to make sure that Tyler shares in the wealth.

  It’s how they show each other they care, after all.

  A few seconds later, Tyler rips the door open, shoulders hunched and a scowl twisting his handsome face.

  “What in the ever-loving fuck is the matter?” Tyler squints at him, voice rough and husky, still thick with sleep and annoyance. When he seems to finally process just who he’s looking at, his expression morphs until he’s glaring at Dylan instead.

  “Good morning.” Dylan smiles as sunnily at him as he can in return.

  “Good morning, my ass. It’s barely even dawn, you bastard. Seriously, what the hell, man?” Tyler practically growls the question out as he runs a hand through his bed-mussed hair. “Is there a fire? A hurricane? The sudden appearance of a previously unknown volcano? Aliens? It had better be fucking aliens, Dylan, or I swear to God ...”

  Dylan takes a moment to appreciate the sight of him in a move that’s second-nature by now. Tyler’s shirtless, the muscles of his chest and arms rippling, and his thick brown hair is in disarray. He looks warm and disgruntled, but not even the irritation in his voice or face is enough to distract Dylan from the fact that Tyler looks sexy, sleep-mussed, and altogether too inviting.

  And really that’s saying something, because on any other day the ranting would get most of his attention––that’s, normally, more his own style than Tyler’s. He’s always been the quieter of the two, which is what makes it so hilarious to watch when Tyler gets into one of his moods. Especially if he’s just woken up and it’s before his system flushes the haziness of sleep out completely, and his filter finally kicks in. He’s always so indignant and downright grumpy in those moments, so different from his normally serious and downright stoic personality when they’re on the job.

  It makes those moments that Dylan has gotten to see more and more often over the years they’ve been working together all the more precious. Honestly, Dylan likes to think the increase can be chalked up to his influence. That his own masterful wielding of the English language has encouraged Tyler to let loose more often than he used to in the beginning of their partnership.

  It probably isn’t true, but he still likes to think that.

  “Actually,” Dylan cuts in when it doesn’t look like Tyler’s going to stop anytime soon, “it was a bathtub.”

  Tyler stops abruptly, mouth slack in a surprised “O” as he blinks at Dylan in confusion, suddenly sharp eyes tracking over Dylan’s outfit in a way that makes him shift in his spot on the front door step before he shakes it off. Tyler can be more than a bit intense when he focuses in on someone like that.

  “Yeah,” Dylan drawls in agreement at the disgruntled and confused look on Tyler’s face, “that’s pretty much how I imagine I looked when it happened at two fucking o’clock this morning.” Dylan doesn’t wait for Tyler to invite him in … that’s not how they work. Instead, he ducks beneath Tyler’s outstretched arm and into the house, drops his bag by the wall and kicks his flip-flops off as well before he throws himself face first into Tyler’s semi-comfortable couch.

  After a few moments of silence, he hears the front door close and Tyler’s nearly silent footsteps head his way. Dylan purposefully ignores him when he crouches down beside him, and concentrates instead on rubbing his own stubbly jaw against the cloth of the couch, mumbling faint praise to the furniture under his breath.

  “You’re beautiful, wonderful,” Dylan coos. “I love you from the bottom of my heart. Marry me and have my sofa babies.”

  “You know,” Tyler’s voice is amused and faintly exasperated, “I’d normally be worried if someone started planning a future with my furniture, but when it comes to you, I’m pretty sure it’s par for the course.”

  “Fuck you very much, Wilky,” Dylan grumbles, “very, very much.”

  “Aw, honey,” Tyler snips back mockingly, “don’t be that way. You know you love me best, Vancarr.”

  “You, my friend, are a great big bag of dicks.” Dylan draws the last few words out with relish.

  “Still doesn’t explain why you showed up on my front step in the middle of the night dressed like a hobo and decided to lay your fat ass on my doorbell instead of using the key I gave you six months ago.” Tyler reaches out and pokes him in the side.

  “Because you touch yourself at night.” Dylan blindly swats at him half-heartedly without ever opening his eyes.

  “You do realize that makes absolutely no sense, don’t you?” Tyler sounds reluctantly amused.

  “Your face makes no sense.” Dylan grumbles.

  Dylan hears Tyler chuckle softly beside him and is forced to hide his answering grin in the couch cushions. He doesn’t even startle when Tyler reaches out, and runs one of his long-fingered hands up and down his back in a soothing motion. Dylan sighs as the tight knot of tension that’s been gathering on the back of his neck slowly loosens.

  No matter what, Tyler’s always able to make him feel better, always been able to calm him down. It works the other way around as well, with Dylan being one of the only people able to curb some of Tyler’s more unique personality quirks. It’s one of the main reasons they’ve been able to stay partners for almost a year now. The fac
t that they tend to ‘even each other out’ has been the topic of much amusement and gossip around the station.

  “Tell me what happened, Dylan,” Tyler asks him with a surprising amount of gentleness.

  Dylan turns over to lie on his back with another, softer sigh, noting distractedly that instead of moving his hand Tyler simply splays his fingers out across the surface of Dylan’s chest.

  Tyler settles fully on the floor beside the couch, one hand now absentmindedly playing with the material of Dylan’s shirt while the other props his chin up on the cushion beside him. Dylan’s own hand comes up to toy with Tyler’s thick brown hair, fingers winding through the disheveled strands and nails scratching slightly at his scalp. Tyler practically purrs, his eyes slipping closed, and Dylan smiles again, unguarded, at the sight of the guy who’s become his best friend so relaxed and at ease beneath his touch.

  “You’re like a giant cat,” Dylan teases affectionately, “all claws and superiority, but let someone scratch behind your ears and you’re putty.”

  Tyler pops one eye open and smirks at Dylan lazily before he pushes his head further into Dylan’s palm, a wordless demand for him to continue.

  “You’re still avoiding the subject of what exactly happened,” Tyler points out, voice husky and deep, and the sound of it almost makes Dylan’s toes curl against his will. “And how it involves a bathtub.”

  Dylan huffs resignedly because he can always trust Tyler not to just let things lie for a moment. He always has to push, has to find the answers to all of his questions immediately. It would be annoying if Dylan weren’t the exact same way––and if that wasn’t what made them both excellent detectives.

  Dylan has no choice but to get it over with, and go ahead and tell Tyler the tale of his latest glorious late-night misadventure.

  “So, you know that rat-trap of an apartment I had to move to after the city re-zoned my old place?” Dylan shifts to really look at Tyler, who hums up at him in agreement. “Well, this morning after finally getting to sleep for what felt like the first time since I hit puberty, I got torn practically kicking and screaming out of said sleep by the beauty of a two-hundred pound, million-year-old claw foot tub crashing through my ceiling.” Dylan makes a half-hearted ‘jazz hands’ kind of motion with his free hand. “Apparently, my asshole of an upstairs neighbor decided to redecorate and somewhere along the way, he reached the conclusion that his bathroom floor and my kitchen ceiling just had to go.”

  “Oh my god! Are you all right?” Tyler jolts upright abruptly, dislodging Dylan’s hand from his hair as his own hands go flying over Dylan’s chest and legs, his expression frantic and mouth moving a million miles an hour. “Did you get hit with anything? Why didn’t you say something sooner? Holy shit, Dylan, that could’ve killed you!”

  Dylan stares at him for a moment, faintly surprised by the panic that’s etched over Tyler’s face before his good sense kicks in.

  “Calm down, He-Man. I’m all right.” He reaches up and grabs Tyler’s face in his hands, stunning the other man into silence, and looks him directly in the eyes. “Like I said before, I was sleeping. Even though that apartment is smaller than most closets I know of, I don’t actually sleep in the kitchen, so nothing came even close to hitting me.”

  “Sorry.” Dylan watches, fascinated, as a deep blush scrawls across Tyler’s cheeks and his normally rough-edged but composed partner’s green eyes turn almost bashful. “I was just worried that you’d gotten hurt and hadn’t said anything again.”

  Dylan rolls his eyes and drops his hands, only to think better of it and reach back up to plant one of his open palms in the center of Tyler’s face, then pushes the taller man over. Tyler goes down with surprising ease, only to pop back up like one of those inflatable punching toys, all shy smiles and downcast eyes.

  “That was one time, you gigantic child.” Dylan grouses sourly. “Only reason I didn’t say anything then was because if I had, you would’ve stopped chasing the bad guy and tried to heal my fucking finger with the power of your mind or something.”

  Tyler shrugs, the muscles of his broad shoulders shifting, all nonchalant and unrepentant like it’s not a big deal, so Dylan just rolls his eyes at his partner instead of trying to debate the point. They both know it’s true, just like they both know that Dylan would have done the same thing for Tyler, so his argument doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

  It is, by now, one of the many things between them that they’ve silently agreed not to mention.

  “Anyways,” Dylan presses forward, exhaustion quickly beginning to eat away at him again, “like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I no longer have a kitchen ceiling, which means I also no longer have a place to stay while everything’s being fixed. The fucking fire marshal felt the need to explain to me, in detail, why I couldn’t stay there. Like I’m some dumbass who doesn’t know his ass from his elbows. So here I am, bag and baggage, the rest of which is in the car, by the way, hoping you’ll let me crash on your couch for the rest of the night so I don’t have to run around trying to find a motel. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow, so no worries on that front.”

  “Of course you can, man,” Tyler agrees instantly with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “It’s no problem … mi casa es su casa, and all that. Don’t know why you even bothered to ask. Should have just come in and gone to sleep. I did give you a key, remember?”

  “Yes, you idiot … for the last time, I remember the damn key,” Dylan groans. “But me checking on your place when you’re out of town, and me inviting myself over for a sleepover are two different things.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Tyler reassures him. “Besides, I know how much you hate hotels and I don’t feel like putting up with your grouchy ass any more than I already have to. So just consider my couch your couch until whenever.”

  Dylan just makes an obscene gesture in Tyler’s direction, unable to muster the energy to do much else.

  “And you call me rude,” Tyler sniffs as he practically springs to his feet, entirely too active for Dylan’s tastes at the moment. “I, for one, am going back to sleep to try and get as much out of our rare day off as I can, so if you need anything just holler … or get up and get it yourself.”

  Dylan grunts, waves a hand in Tyler’s direction, and closes his eyes tiredly as Tyler’s footsteps fade from the room. Exhausted, he rolls over until his face is buried in the back of the couch. Just as he’s gotten comfortable, body relaxed and eyes heavy, Tyler’s voice drifts out of the master bedroom, down the hall and to his ears.

  “You want me to come back and tuck you in or something, Dylan?” Tyler calls out.

  “Oh, fuck you, Tyler!” Dylan snarls loudly. “I was almost asleep, you prick!”

  Another of those husky chuckles drifts out to Dylan, the kind that always makes his toes curl and his chest tighten against his will.

  “Night, princess!” Laughter and affection are evident in Tyler’s voice.

  “Good night, you bastard!” Dylan calls back, helpless in the face of Tyler’s teasing.

  And with that, Dylan drifts off to sleep a few minutes later with a smile on his face, safe and secure in the knowledge that his partner, the guy he trusts to always have his back, is sleeping in the next room.

  Chapter Two

  That first night on the couch turns into two, which turns into a week. Before Dylan knows it, he looks up and realizes he’s spent almost a month at Tyler’s place, basically living on his couch.

  He never gets around to looking for a hotel room or anything, too distracted by the lunch Tyler had cooked, the game of basketball they’d had later that afternoon, and the first decent night’s sleep he’d had in months. After that, work picks back up with a string of homicides across the lower half of the city, keeping them running almost nonstop. They barely have time to sleep and eat, and Dylan hasn’t wanted to waste any of those precious few hours looking for somewhere else to stay.

  Tyler hasn’t protested at all––in fact
, he seems pretty pleased with the whole thing if the way he keeps leaving pillows and better quilts on the couch for Dylan is anything to go by. Still, he can’t help but feel kind of guilty about the entire thing. Can’t help but feel as if he’s freeloading off of Tyler with the way he’s been all up in his space for so long, when it was only supposed to be a temporary thing.

  Dylan finally scrounges up the willpower to say something to Tyler about a week after his realization. They’re sitting outside on Tyler’s back porch, beers in hand, watching the sunset and taking the time to enjoy another rare night off, when he pipes up.

  “You know I never intended to take over your couch for so long, man.” Dylan picks at the label on his bottle, eyes trained firmly on the sky. “We’re off tomorrow, so I’ll clear out and find somewhere to stay for a couple of days. The manager at my building says the ceiling should be done by then. Probably would’ve been sooner, but he’s a miserly bastard.”

  “Do you not like staying here or something?” Tyler sends him a confused and slightly pathetic look as he sits his beer down and twists around in his lawn chair until he’s facing Dylan head on. “I mean, do you really want to leave that badly?”

  “No,” Dylan drawls the word out a bit as he just stares at Tyler for a moment, confusion plain on his face. “I just figured you’d be ready to get rid of me, you know?” Dylan shrugs. “I mean it was supposed to be a day, two at the most, and it’s been over a month. I figured you’d be glad for the chance to see if you could get the dent my finely sculpted ass has left, out of your sofa cushions.”

  Tyler’s face clears up and he’s suddenly all lazy smiles and relaxed shoulders again. It’s as if hearing that Dylan only wants to leave because he figured Tyler wants him gone makes him feel better in some way. Tyler leans back in his lawn chair, scoops his beer back up off the ground, and turns his head to look at Dylan through heavy-lidded green eyes.