Page 75 of Donovan's Men

“Seriously?” Tyson shook his head. “I’ve never had a friend close enough who owned a key—let alone had my alarm code and an open invitation.”

“Yeah. When I say Cole and I were tight? There’s really no way to underplay that. Yes, he was close to Caressa—she was working overseas. Yes, he was close with Michael—but he had a life of his own. Working his way up the ladder at the construction firm where he’s an engineer. Also, his schedule rarely allowed him to get together with Cole. Actors often work weird hours. Just as often at strange locations. Like the few days we filmed out in Mission City. Much ofVigilante Justiceis filmed on location. And given the nature of the show, much of itat night. Those hours aren’t conducive to getting together with people who work the nine-to-five grind.”

Tyson nodded. “Kind of like being a rookie cop. Before I moved up, I was working crazy hours. That didn’t, I think, help my marriage. So are you going to text Cole or something? Like, I bet he’ll be glad to see you…but you might arrive at an inopportune moment.”

“Like you showing up the night they exchanged rings and committed to each other.”

He snickered. “Yes. That.” He gestured to my chest. “Make the call.”

“Or send a text.”

“That works.” He stopped at the red light on the corner of Fraser Street. “I get tight. I mean, you’re his stunt coordinator. And college friend.”

“And fellow BDSM Dom.”

“Well, yeah, okay.” The light turned green, and after checking both ways, Tyson proceeded into the intersection. “I’m still not clear where I fit into your vision of BDSM, but we were discussing Cole. On top of all the other stuff you’ve been though, the dynamic has bound to have changed.”

“Because of Caressa and Michael?”

“Sure.” He said the word slowly. He signaled to switch to the left lane so he could pass a slower-moving minivan. “I meant because you saved his life.”

“Bullshit.” I growled the word.

“So you say.” He passed the minivan, returned to the right lane, only to be stopped at the red light at Cambie Street. “This was why you seeing Hamish professionally was so important. Why I wish you’d listen to me once in a while. I do know of which I speak.”

“I didn’t save his life. If I’d acted faster, he might not have been shot at all.”

“Now I call bullshit. That bullet was always going to hit him. You just ensured there wasn’t another one. He pushed Julie to the ground and lay on top of her. That made him an easy target for another shot. You subdued and disarmed a woman with a gun. Never underestimate the courage that took. That’s freaking hero-level stuff. Like something Justice would do.”

Justice. Cole’s character on the show. The hero. The one who would put himself in the path of a bullet to save another.

I considered. In fact, Justice had done that several times and had been wounded often. Nothing as serious as a bullet nicking his heart, though. “I wish it’d been me.”

“I know.” The light turned green, and Tyson headed toward Kitsilano. “I wish I could’ve been the one who suffered—instead of my dad. Cancer’s a bitch. He suffered so damn much.”

“Can I ask a personal question?”

“Sure.” Another red light—this time Granville Street.

“How do we keep catching red lights?”

“Who knows? I’ve been driving these streets for almost twenty years, and I still haven’t figured it out.” He chuckled. “That your question?”

“Oh, no. Uh…rather personal.” I winced.

“Go ahead. We don’t have many secrets.”

Even as he said the words, though, I detected something in them. I drew in a sharp breath. “If your dad knew he was dying—and likely knew you were suffering while watching him—why didn’t he choose MAID?”

“Medical Assistance in Dying?”

I nodded.

He proceeded through the intersection when the light turned green. “Against his religion. You wouldn’t know this by meeting me, but my father was a devout Catholic. I mean mass every day.”

“Seriously?” Tyson was right—I would never have guessed.

“By the end, he couldn’t go. The priest came to visit once a week. I tried to talk the guy into giving my dad permission to, uh, hasten his death. No dice.Suicide is a sin. No equivocation. Therefore, no alleviation of suffering. And yeah, I hurt too. But only because I didn’t want him going through that much pain. The end wasn’t merciful, either. He was awake and conscious right until the end. Every fucking breath.” He swallowed. “The silence, after he took that last breath, was deafening. I’d lived with that rattle and wheeze for so long that I thought it would never end. Then in a moment, it did. And I wept. Not because he’d died—that was a blessing. But because I’d never hear that sound again coming from him.”