Page 15 of Donovan's Men

I would’ve been happy to take them both home with me and have my way with them. Or even better, take them to Cole’s dungeon. He wasn’t using it right now.

On which thought, I sobered immediately.

Jesus. Your best friend was shot yesterday and almost died…and you’re fantasizing about what you could do with these two men bound and at your mercy?

This was so wildly inappropriate, and yet, frankly, I was. I wondered if Hamish would capitulate easily—or if he’d try to talk me out of those dangerous games. And Tyson might put up a good front, but I sensed something within him. My Dom senses went on high alert around him. He needed to submit. His grip on reality was too tight. He was hanging on—but by a thread.

Yet I had no rational explanation for why I saw this. He’d given me no indication of being anything other than a competent police officer—would have to be to make detective, right?

Yeah, except people often got promoted who didn’t deserve it. They kissed the right ass, did the right favor, looked the other way…

Tyson bit into his sandwich, and I caught the hint of gray scruff in the weak winter light streaming through the window.Sexy as fuck described the man accurately but also didn’t encompass anything. I wanted to know so much more. “How old are you?”

Great, just blurt it out?

“Thirty-seven, although I admit I appear much younger. Good genes, right?” Hamish blinked.

Both Tyson and I turned to look at him.

His soft-green eyes widened. “Oh, you didn’t mean me. Sorry, I—”

I placed my hand on his. “It’s all right—I would’ve asked you next.”

He didn’t startle under my grip—which surprised me. I would’ve figured the deer in the headlights. Instead, he curved his hand against my palm.

“Sorry, sometimes I jump in. I’m trained to sit back and observe, but sometimes I get ahead of myself.”

Tyson smiled, little lines crinkling around his eyes. Lines Hamish certainly didn’t have. “I’m thirty-five. Went gray at twenty-two. I considered dyeing my hair, but what a fucking hassle. So yeah, what you see is what you get.”

The swear word caught me off guard for a moment—likely as he’d intended. He was downplaying any officious nature of this discussion—we were just three guys sitting around a table warming up with hot drinks after having been outside in the cold. Just shooting the shit.

A meeting that crossed many ethical boundaries, I suspected.

I didn’t have two fucks to give. “And I’m thirty-two. So we’re all about the same age.” I didn’t—in my thirties—see a five-year age gap as significant. And I was beyond thinking I was immature because I did make-believe in the movie business. I had a solid career and a stellar reputation. Oh, and I’d sort of saved a life yesterday.

Well, almost.

Speaking of which… With my good hand, I extracted my phone and checked my messages. A text from Michael assured me that Cole was making slow but steady progress. Still in the ICU—would be for another day or two—but wasn’t on the critical list.

“Hamilton?” Tyson inclined his head.

I nodded. “Yeah. He’s still in the ICU.” I eyed my bagel. “I don’t think he’s up for company.”

He waved me off. “If we were still trying to track down a suspect, then me talking to him would be critical. We have the shooter. With several witnesses to the shooting and the aftermath. Your testimony—along with Ms. Reyes’s—will be crucial.”

“If it goes to trial.” Hamish sipped his tea. “Trials are still rare these days. Less than ten percent of cases.”

“Yeah,” Tyson agreed.

That, I hadn’t known. “So like, plea deals and shit?”

Hamish nodded. “Quite frequently. Most people can’t afford the cost of a trial. So they plead guilty—often for a reduced sentence.”

Tyson grunted. “Yeah. Pisses me off sometimes.”

“If everyone had a trial, the system would grind to a halt.” Hamish tried for a smile but faltered. “I agree some people shouldn’t be entitled to reduced sentences and recidivism is a thing. That’s why I’m a firm proponent of restorative justice.”

Another grunt from Tyson.