Shades of Gray (31 page)

“He wasn’t there.”

“I hope not. Because I hate to think we let someone like that get away. Let him go when we could have contained him. That would be a sad and sorry day in my book.”

“Mine too,” Miller said wearily. It felt like the first time in three days he wasn’t telling a lie.

DANNY’S whole world was pain, agony so strong he could smell it on his skin, feel it beating behind his closed eyelids. Every few hours, never often enough, a nurse would come in with drugs that were sucked down eagerly by Danny’s starving veins. They kept him flying under the pain for a little while, but too soon he’d smack against the ceiling of hurt, groaning into the empty room.

His only visitors were Colin and some big, meaty agent with flinty blue eyes. Danny couldn’t seem to hold the man’s name in his head. They asked him question after question, although the doctor only Shades of Gray | 243

let them stay for an hour at a time, twice a day. Colin’s voice was always low and soothing, his eyes full of apologies he didn’t voice. The other one was angry; Danny knew from the way his hands kept curling into fists that he’d like to smack Danny around, and probably would have if he thought he could get away with it.

Danny told them he didn’t remember anything after Madrigal pulled out the first fingernail. He said he and Madrigal were alone in the house. No matter how many ways they came at the questions, his answer was always the same: I don’t remember. But he
did
remember most of it, at least up until he was shot. He could picture Hinestroza’s dark, glittering eyes, his gold tooth the brightest spot in that gloomy kitchen; he could still taste the flood of blood when he’d bitten through his own tongue as Madrigal had taken his second fingernail. He remembered looking up, dazed and confused, into Miller’s face and feeling no joy—knowing only sorrow because the one good thing he’d tried to do in his life, saving Miller, had not worked. Miller had been there, in danger, and Danny had failed again.

Danny felt raw inside and out. He knew he should be relieved at the way things had turned out, but he couldn’t seem to move past the guilt and fear. He understood what Miller had done for him. He couldn’t picture any scenario in which Hinestroza had walked out of that kitchen without Miller’s consent. Every time Danny thought of what Miller had sacrificed, it was like sandpaper on his heart, scraping rough against a bleeding wound. He wished Miller hadn’t done it.

When Hinestroza had left that kitchen, he’d taken more than his own freedom with him. Danny knew how strongly Miller valued his belief in right and wrong. He could only imagine the toll letting Hinestroza go would take on Miller’s soul. If Miller had let Hinestroza walk, the part of Miller that believed in his own goodness, his rightness, was gone, and Danny couldn’t stop thinking about all that had been lost.

“Danny?”

Danny’s eyes shifted toward the voice, found Griff standing in the gap of the slightly open door, his face nervous and worried.

“Griff?”

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“Yeah, it’s me,” Griff said, venturing all the way into the room.

“Fuck, Danny, look at you,” he breathed.

“I’m trying not to,” Danny joked, his voice hoarse. “How’d you know I was here?”

“They released me from protective custody yesterday. Agent Sakata, the one who’d been staying with me, told me what happened.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Where else would I be?” Griff smiled. “It’s not every day I get the chance to see handsome Danny Butler laid out like this. Might be the only time in my life I’m better-looking.” Danny laughed, the movement sending red fire up through his shoulder and down into his kidney, killing the smile on his lips.

“Shit, Danny.” Griff’s face was pinched. “What can I do?”

“I’m okay,” Danny wheezed. “I’m due for some painkillers soon.” He paused. “Can you stay for a while?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Griff pulled over a large chair covered in faded blue upholstery, tossing his hair off his face as he sat. He touched Danny’s hand through the bed rails, holding it in his own, careful to avoid the weeping bandages over Danny’s fingertips. “Go to sleep,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Danny was glad to have someone sitting beside him. It wasn’t so scary falling asleep now that he wasn’t alone. And having Griff there was so uncomplicated, Danny’s feelings for him crystal clear. Thinking about Griff didn’t add to Danny’s torment; hearing his voice didn’t tear at Danny’s wounds; seeing his face didn’t remind Danny of all the things he had ruined.

MILLER had been sitting in his Jeep with the heater running for over thirty minutes. The last time he’d seen this car, he and Danny had been trying to outrun Madrigal, the back windshield disappearing in a bullet’s wrath. The window had been repaired since then, the glass Shades of Gray | 245

swept away, but Miller imagined he could still smell Danny against the leather seat, and God knew he remembered the way Danny had felt in his arms when they’d finally made it to that motel room.

Miller cracked the driver’s side window, letting in a hint of bitter winter air and allowing his cigarette smoke to escape. The early evening sky glowed pink behind the hospital’s dark brick walls, the cotton-candy clouds wispy against the setting sun. Miller folded one leg up to rest his foot on the seat and leaned his head back, closing his eyes with a sigh. Sleep had not been finding him lately. He could feel exhaustion all the way through his body, settling somewhere beyond the flesh.

He’d made it through those hours of waiting to hear about Danny’s condition by imagining the moment they would be together again, alone, just Danny and Miller. But that moment had never come.

One hour had turned into one day, one day rolling into twelve. Almost two weeks since he’d seen Danny’s face. And now the scene Miller had pictured so clearly in his mind in the hospital emergency room, being reunited with Danny, would no longer come into focus, like some wonky television screen cursed with so much static that the image refused to gel.

Miller was scared—not terrified the way he’d been when Madrigal took Danny, nothing that specific or immediate. But saddled with a kind of low-level dread, a pervasive feeling that things were not right and might never be again.

He opened his eyes, returning them to the line of revolving doors at the front of the hospital. It took another fifteen minutes before Griff Gentry emerged, pulling the collar of his jacket up against the wind, cupping his hand to light a cigarette before making the trip across the parking lot.

Miller got out of the Jeep, meeting up with Griff as he stepped into the lot, the streetlights blinking on above them. “Griff,” Miller said, his voice coming out hard and angry, although he’d promised himself he wouldn’t allow jealousy a seat at this meeting. But he hated knowing Griff was seeing Danny when he couldn’t, hated that Griff 246 | Brooke McKinley

was the one to offer Danny comfort. Danny’s words about never loving Griff sounded hollow when faced with the flesh-and-blood man.

Griff’s steps slowed as he recognized Miller. “Agent Sutton,” he drawled, coming to a full stop.

“Have you been in with Danny?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Why don’t you go see for yourself?” Griff said, flicking ash onto the pavement.

Miller looked away, stomping down the urge to do battle with Griff’s handsome face. He wanted to do better than replay the script they’d followed during their first meeting, acting like dogs marking their territory. He owed Danny more than that. And the bottom line was that, if not for Griff, Danny would be suffering all alone. Miller made an effort to temper the rough edges from his voice. “They won’t let me see him. An agent I work with told me you’ve been here most every day.”

Griff studied him for a long moment, awareness flashing through his clear blue eyes. “He’s getting better. But it’s slow going. His shoulder was infected, but they got that under control. They had to take his kidney three days ago.”

Miller’s stomach contracted, a steady beat of sorrow taking up residence in his chest. “Christ,” he breathed, his voice unsteady.

“It’s been rough. He’s not talking much. He sleeps most of the time.”

“When’s he getting out?”

“They’re not sure. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.” Miller shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Where’s he going to go?”

“My place,” Griff said. “He doesn’t have anyplace else, and someone’s got to take care of him for a while.” Like Miller’s anger, the cockiness was retreating from Griff’s voice. He sounded tired and sad, Shades of Gray | 247

and Miller realized with an anguished jolt that, whatever Danny’s feelings, on Griff’s end it had been love and probably still was.

“Will you tell him… will you tell him I was here, that I’m thinking about him?”

Griff paused, looking away for a moment, his face stiff with reluctance. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said when he turned back. “For Danny.”

Miller nodded, shamed a little by Griff’s words. He’d thought the man had no redeeming qualities when they’d first met, couldn’t imagine what Danny had ever seen in him beyond his face. But Griff was putting what Danny needed above his own desires, letting Miller breach a space he coveted for himself. Miller didn’t know if he’d have it in him to do the same if he were in Griff’s shoes. “Tell him I’ll call him once the FBI investigation is over. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Okay.” Griff stood there for a moment, rolling on the balls of his feet. “Listen, I’ve got to go.” He pointed toward the lot.

“Sure, sure.” Miller stepped out of his path. “Thanks.” Griff nodded, moving away. Miller stood in the lot as darkness crept in, watching the hospital windows light up. He wondered which room was Danny’s, if he had any idea of how much Miller missed him, how strongly he was wanted. It cut Miller’s soul to think that he probably didn’t. He wanted to burst into the hospital, to hell with regulations, and touch Danny’s face, make sure he was all right. But fear held him back, and guilt over so many things. Hinestroza, Danny, Rachel, Colin. He was caught in a straightjacket of regret, and he couldn’t manage to pull his feelings for Danny clear of the tangle.

THIS time the park was virtually empty: no joggers, no overworked moms pushing strollers full of screaming children. Just Miller on a desolate wooden bench, the ash-colored sky so low and heavy he imagined he could feel it pressing against the back of his neck, holding 248 | Brooke McKinley

him down.

He’d left a hesitant, stuttering message for Danny two days ago on Griff’s machine, telling him the FBI investigation into Madrigal’s shooting was complete and no one was being charged. He’d asked Danny to call him back. This morning he’d woken up to his own message from Danny, asking Miller to meet him on the park bench where they’d had their first debriefing. Danny had said he’d be there around noon. It was the first time Miller had heard his voice in more than three weeks, and it had brought a lump to his throat so thick he’d felt like he was strangling.

Miller heard the familiar thump of boots against the pavement. He took a deep breath as he turned his head, steadying himself before gazing on Danny again. He stood and watched Danny approach, his steps not as confident as they’d once been. This time Danny’s injuries did slow him down, his body still suffering; Miller could tell by the way he held himself tightly as he moved. He’d lost weight, his skin pale, a livid purple scar on the left side of his face just in front of his ear, his broken arm in a full cast half-hidden behind his jacket, which he had draped over one shoulder.

Danny stopped just in front of Miller, not speaking, their eyes locked. Danny looked tired, his face drained, but he was still the most beautiful thing Miller had ever seen. “Danny,” he said quietly. And then Danny was against him, Miller’s arms closing around his body.

But they didn’t fit together the way they had before. Danny’s cast denied Miller the contact he craved, Danny’s injuries causing him to hold his body stiff and unyielding, anticipating pain. “Miller,” Danny whispered against his cheek. Miller turned his head and breathed in the skin of Danny’s neck. His smell, at least, remained the same, and the familiar ache of it almost brought Miller to his knees.

“Hey,” Danny said gently, pulling back. “Thanks for meeting me out here. I’ve been inside so much; I just wanted to get some fresh air.”

“It’s okay,” Miller’s voice was gruff, his hands still wanting to touch.

“Sorry it took me so long to call you. I’m back at my place, and Shades of Gray | 249

Griff didn’t tell me you’d called right away.” Danny gestured at the bench. “Can we sit down? I get tired out.”

“Yeah, sure,” Miller said. He waited until Danny was seated and then took his own spot on the bench. “How are you?”

“I’m doing okay. The cast will come off in a few more weeks and the gunshot wound is pretty much healed.” He wiggled his bandaged fingers. “These will take longer. I keep them covered up so I don’t gross people out.” He attempted a weak smile. “And I’ve got a few more scars.”

“I heard you lost your kidney.”

Danny leaned back against the bench, his eyes on his hands.

“Yeah, Griff said he told you. That Madrigal, he sure knew how to pack a punch.”

“Not anymore,” Miller noted grimly.

“No, not anymore.”

Miller squinted at Danny’s profile, hearing the heaviness of Danny’s words. “You don’t feel bad about that, do you? He deserved to die.”

“I know he did.” Danny turned his eyes to Miller. “But it’s still a hard thing, killing a man.”

Miller didn’t know; he’d never taken a life. But he imagined it would weigh on your soul, no matter how justified.

“I was glad to hear the investigation’s closed,” Danny said, changing the subject. “You didn’t have to take the heat for everything, you know.”

“Yes, I did. I couldn’t risk them charging you with something because of Madrigal’s shooting.”

“I remember, Miller. I remember that Hinestroza was there. You let him go, didn’t you?”

“Danny.”

“How are you going to live with that? I know you. I know what that must have done to you.”