Don't Look Back (11 page)

Mike was still eyeing him skeptically, but something had changed in his face. Some of the hardness had gone.

"And those dreams ... I kept telling myself they were of Cole. Even in my dream I kept telling myself they were of Cole, but I couldn't see my ... my lover's face. I guess my subconscious was trying to show me that it wasn't Cole I was with. Once I realized"—his color heightened, but he said it anyway—"the dreams are of you, yeah. Why did you break it off with me?"

Surprisingly, there was color in Mike's face too. He said, “If you're really not planning to stay here for what's left of the night—and I wouldn't, if I was you—let's go back to my place. We can talk without getting interrupted. I have to be at the station later in the morning, but you can stay there and sleep without worrying about anyone breaking in and trying to cap you again."

As invitations went ... Well, at least it
was
an invitation, and the best one Peter had had in a long time.

Mike lived in a condo in Flintridge. On the outside it was just an innocuous, pink stucco, two-story building, and Peter was too tired to pay much attention as he followed Mike upstairs.

He remembered the inside, though—or at least it felt familiar. But maybe because it was pretty much a generic bachelor pad: comfortable furniture, plasma TV, and an impressive stereo system. There was a large tank of tropical fish against one wall and a couple of nice oils of the ocean on the other.

"You want a beer?"

Peter shook his head, watching without interest as Mike disappeared into the kitchen. He reappeared a few moments later and sat on the other end of the sofa. He took a long swallow of beer from the bottle and sighed appreciatively. “Man, it's good to be home."

Yes. It must be nice. Peter didn't think he would know that feeling again until he finally regained his memory.

He said, “So what made you change your mind?"

Mike raised a lazy eyebrow. “About what?"

"You don't think I'm guilty anymore? In the hospital you acted like you thought I was guilty."

Mike took another swig of beer and seemed to consider the question. “I'm not going to pretend. I'd have been happy if you were guilty. I was mad as hell at you. At the way things ended between us."

Peter tried to take this in. “But
you
ended them."

"Yeah. I did.” Mike seemed to weigh his words. “I liked you a lot, Peter. I thought ... Well, it doesn't matter. But before long it was obvious it wasn't going anywhere, and that it never would so long as Cole was part of your life."

"There wasn't anything between Cole and me. Cole said himself—"

"I don't know what Cole told you, and maybe you weren't sleeping together, but he had you on a very short leash. You've been infatuated with him since college, and from what I could see, he liked and encouraged that."

Peter was shaking his head, rejecting this. “He's married."

Mike said dryly, “I know all about Cole's marriage. I heard about it in detail from you. The third time you broke a date with me to go listen to Cole whine about his marriage was when I told you I'd had enough. That you were going to have to decide whether you wanted a relationship with me or with Cole. You chose Cole."

"I ... chose Cole?"

Mike said wearily, “Not in so many words. Your argument was that you weren't going to be handed any ultimatums. And my argument was I wanted a real relationship with you—or to at least to explore the possibilities of having one—but that I didn't want to work around Cole's schedule."

Peter said slowly, “But if Cole was going through a bad time..."

"Yep,” Mike said curtly. “I wasn't very sympathetic, and I'm still not. I think Cole Constantine is a user and a manipulator. And probably a closet case. I think he married Angela Rowland for money, and I think he got what he paid for. I told you then and I'm telling you now, he's bad news."

"And you couldn't—"

"No, I couldn't. Like I said, I had feelings for you."

Peter said resentfully, “You sure didn't have trouble closing the door on me."

"You have no idea how I felt. You didn't make any attempt to find out. You chose Cole, and that was that."

"I think six months of Zoloft says otherwise."

After a hesitation, Mike said, “Obviously, I didn't know that. I still don't. That is, you might have been taking antidepressants for a lot of other reasons."

But Peter was pretty sure, even if the details were still fuzzy, that the tension of trying to balance his changing feelings for Cole—his growing disillusionment and fear that he was indeed being manipulated—and losing Mike, who he knew, even without his complete memory, had been special, someone he could have really cared for, was the explanation for his turning to chemical relief.

He rubbed his aching temples, and Mike said gruffly, “Why don't you get some rest. We'll talk when I get home tonight."

Peter raised his head, scowling. “Sleep? You think I can sleep? My life is a train wreck.” He gave a sour laugh. “I've lost my job, I'm being kicked out of my home, and I've been arrested for grand theft and charged with a felony. I'm probably going to go to prison—if someone doesn't kill me first. How am I supposed to sleep?"

"What's the alternative? A thirty-day supply of NoDoz?"

"You're all heart."

Mike sighed. “What do you want from me? You're in deep shit. And if I tell you who I think is responsible for it, you're not going to be happy."

Peter stared. “You think
Cole
is responsible for my being arrested?"

"I think Cole has been stealing from his granddaddy's house of horrors for some time now. And so do you, I suspect, which is why after initiating an investigation, you suddenly got cold feet. For the record? It's another thing we argued about.” He added, “Which is why I thought you might be faking amnesia. I thought you might be trying to protect Cole."

"Faking amnesia. You honestly thought I might
fake
amnesia?"

A flicker of self-consciousness crossed Mike's face, but he said, “And if you were trying to protect Cole, I thought that putting pressure on you, making you think you were a suspect, might get you to crack."

"You deliberately let me think I was a suspect?"

"Unfortunately, my plan backfired."

"You're quite a bastard,” Peter said civilly.

"I never said I wasn't. But I'm not as big a bastard as your best buddy Cole who, I think, hired someone to try and kill you last night."

"No. No way."

"I don't think he'd have the balls to do it himself."

Peter stood up. “Cole did not break into my house. He did not hire someone else to break in. You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

Mike was unmoved. “Here's what I think is going on. I think you walked in on the middle of Cole and an accomplice carting off that mural. I think that's why you don't want to remember what you saw."

"If that were true"—Peter swallowed, and the persistent ache in his temples turned into a sick, heavy thudding behind his eyes—"then you think Cole or this accomplice attacked me. Why wouldn't he just kill me then? Why would he wait to have to hire someone?"

"Maybe he didn't know for sure what you saw. Maybe he was a little squeamish. Maybe he's even a little fond of you. But he's not fonder of you than he is himself. I think he began to worry about you getting your memory back. Or maybe it's more that he saw—or believed he saw—you were becoming the focus of our investigation, and he decided to set you up."

"By killing me? Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?"

Griffin said calmly, “I think there's been an ongoing difference of opinion on what to do about you."

"Between who?"

"Cole and his accomplice."

"Who's this accomplice?"

Mike said nothing.

Peter dropped back down on the couch. “Well? You've told me this much. Go ahead and hit me with it."

"I think it ought to be pretty obvious."

Peter fell silent, thinking. He was so god-awful tired. It was difficult to string sentences together. Let alone actually think before he spoke.

"Come on,” Mike said. “Use your head. Where did the real evidence against you come from?"

Peter said slowly, “Herschel. The guy who picked me out of a lineup. The guy who claimed I approached him trying to sell stolen goods."

Mike didn't agree or disagree. “See, the problem with Herschel's story is, if it's
not
true ... then what does he have to gain by such a lie? It could be Cole is paying him to frame you, but the fact that he coincidentally owns a pawnshop—and has more than a few unsavory connections—leads us to speculate that his motive is a little more personal. Like a useful cover story for himself."

"Cole is working with Herschel?"

"We began to look at Mr. Herschel more closely when he couldn't come up with the surveillance tape of you that he originally claimed he had. His story was they reuse the old tapes, which is common enough, but claiming he had it and then backtracking aroused suspicion—especially since I was pretty sure you weren't stealing from the museum."

"Pretty sure."

"What do you want?” Mike said irritably. “I didn't think you were guilty. But I've been wrong before."

Peter continued to work it out. Reluctantly, he said at last, “And the reason Herschel didn't have to break in tonight was because Cole gave him the key to my place?"

"I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd planted some items in your bungalow to make it look like your accomplices double-crossed you—or feared you were double-crossing them. I can't say I expected them to try to take you out."

Peter rose again, brushing against the coffee table as he went to the window, staring out.

He didn't want to believe it, but ... too much of it made sense.

He remembered telling Cole his memory was coming back, and Cole had immediately arranged for a convening of the museum trustees—and Peter's suspension. Roma and Jess were right. Cole ran that committee. Nothing happened that Cole didn't want to have happen, so if Peter had been suspended, it was because Cole wanted him gone.

"I don't believe he wanted me dead."

Mike said nothing.

Peter turned back to face him. “I don't believe it!” His own anger surprised him. “He wouldn't do that to me. He wouldn't have reason to do that to me."

"No? Would you have gone to prison for him?"

Peter opened his mouth and closed it.

"You're a good friend, and God knows you're loyal, but you're not stupid. Generally. And even if Cole was willing to take the chance that you would keep your mouth shut or even take the fall for him, Herschel isn't the trusting type."

Peter shook his head.

Mike ignored this silent protest. “I'll tell you something else. Herschel's got a case full of guns in that shop of his. I'm betting one of them is going to turn up missing. First thing today, I plan on getting a search warrant."

Peter sat down, resting his face in his hands. He wasn't crying. He felt too numb for tears. Too tired to feel much of anything at all.

How in love with Cole he must have been to have chosen him over Mike. Funny that he couldn't seem to remember that feeling at all.

"Hey.” Mike rose and went over to him. He squeezed Peter's shoulder. “I'm sorry it worked out like this, okay?"

Hadn't Cole said something similar? Peter said listlessly, “Yeah."

"It's not ... I don't enjoy this. What I said earlier? I don't really ... want you hurt."

Peter nodded, still not looking up. He ... couldn't. There was just too much to deal with, to try and make sense of. Too many losses in twenty-four hours.

Mike stood over him for a moment while Peter struggled for control.

"Don't, Peter,” Mike said at last, and there was something in his voice—a roughness intended to disguise an emotion Mike didn't want to feel.

"I'm okay. Just...” His voice cracked and he shut up because he'd embarrassed himself enough times already in front of Mike Griffin.

To his surprise, Mike sat down next to him and pulled him, with impatient kindness, into his arms. “Cry if it'll make you feel better,” he rasped. “But he's not worth it."

Peter looked up, managing an unsteady smile. “No, but you were."

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Mike stared at him, not moving—not even blinking. “You had a choice,” he said finally. “And if you had second thoughts..."

"I could have what? Are you telling me the door was always open?"

Mike seemed to experience some kind of inward struggle. “No. The door wasn't open."

"So? If I'd realized I'd made a mistake...?"

"Is that what you're saying?"

It seemed sort of odd to be cold-bloodedly discussing it when he was right here in Mike's arms. Peter angled his head and cut off anything more Mike might have had to say with a kiss. It was not the smoothest move he'd ever made, his mouth landing off-center on Mike's. But it was surprisingly sweet—and, astonishingly, Mike tasted familiar. He tasted like spearmint gum and warm male, and the memory of all those dreams came rushing back. Except ... maybe it wasn't all dream.

Mike's powerful arms wrapped around him, pulling him still closer, and Peter slid his hands into Mike's thick, soft hair, trying for a better approach this time. He could feel Mike smiling wryly against his mouth—and then Mike's lips parted.

Their tongues touched, parted. Tongue tag, he thought dizzily at the soaring rush of that contact. And you're it. He flicked his tongue again, and Mike's tongue—wet and hot—pushed delicately back. They were kissing deeply, hungrily then, kissing like it was a matter of life and breath, pressing closer, noses bumping, eyelashes skimming, teeth grazing. There was a wonderful relief in being wanted, knowing he
was
wanted.

Peter didn't have to have his memory back to understand how much that must have meant to him six months earlier. To be wanted, appreciated, desired, after Cole's careful maneuverings. Cole, affectionate and teasing and always keeping him at arm's length. Whereas Mike ... Mike held him close and kissed him like Peter was the one he'd been waiting for all his life.