Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(49)

“Nick? The famous Nick?”

“Yeah. He moved in with his partner, last thing I heard.”

And you could move in with me.

“Do you have his phone number? I mean, in case that flat I’m seeing isn’t habitable.”

“Sure.” Frank picked up his trousers and fished his phone from the pocket. “I’ll text it.” He forwarded Nick’s contact details to Brandon. A few moments later, Brandon’s phone buzzed.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

“Look, I’d . . .” Hallway. Brandon looking horribly broken and sad. “Don’t commit to too long a lease. I’m not . . . ready.”

“What?” Brandon frowned. “Oh. No. No, Frank, that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m just saying. I don’t want to take over your life and everything.” Like some needy arsehole.

“It’s no big deal. At the start, moving too fast . . .” He shrugged. “Besides, I still have those crazy hours, and I’d need something closer to the club, anyway.”

Not if you quit.

Needy arsehole again.

“Call Nick and meet up with him about that studio if this one doesn’t work out.”

Brandon held up his mobile as if to remind Frank he had the info. “I will. Thanks.”

Frank showered, dressed, and filled a couple of travel mugs with coffee so they could get on the road. Brandon tried to insist on taking the bus, but Frank needed to run a few errands himself before he went to the gym.

Conversation stayed light. Brandon was well rested and in a good mood, which rubbed off on Frank, but Frank still couldn’t shake the cold, prickly feeling that had taken up residence along the length of his spine. At every red light, he stole a glance at Brandon to make sure he was still this Brandon and not the one he’d seen in the middle of the night. Brandon was unshaven, yes, his hair a little mussed because he’d only given it a cursory once-over with his fingers before they’d left, but he was well enough. Certainly oblivious to how exhausted and beaten down he’d been in Frank’s dream.

Frank pulled up in front of Brandon’s flat. “Before you go, the guys want to get together for paintball again this Saturday. You game?”

And there it was: that Cheshire cat grin, which melted all the ice along Frank’s spine.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Brandon leaned across the console and kissed Frank. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Right. See you tonight.”

He waited until Brandon had disappeared through the door, and then he drove off. With his coffee half gone, the throbbing in his temples relieved, and his eyes adjusted to the morning light, Frank felt like an idiot for being so hung up on a damned dream. He vaguely remembered some paratroopers landing in the garden at some point during the dream, probably a throwback to watching Red Dawn a week or two ago, and he hadn’t been eyeballing the overcast sky for parachutes. Because it was only a dream. Just like seeing Brandon coming out of Andrew’s room had been.

It was only a dream.



“You have any more of those grenades?” Frank overheard Brandon asking Chris as everyone geared up for the first game of the afternoon.

Chris grinned. “I have a few. You going to throw them at me this time?”

Brandon returned the grin. “Don’t want to get hit? Don’t let your enemies get so close.”

“That how that works?” Chuckling, Chris pulled a couple of paint grenades out of his bag.

“How much do I owe you?”

Chris shrugged. “Take them. We’ll call it a prize for killing me last time.”

Brandon laughed and took the grenades. “So what’s my prize if I kill you this time?”

Chris stiffened. He gave Brandon a weird look, one that struck Frank as cold and maybe even mildly disgusted, but without a word, he picked up his gear and headed into the crowded ready area.

Brandon rolled his eyes and clipped a grenade to his belt beside one of his extra hoppers.

Frank eyed Chris, then Brandon. “You two back on speaking terms?”

“Just had to sort out a misunderstanding or two.” Brandon fixed the second and third grenades into place. “We didn’t have the same expectations that first time, and . . .” He trailed off with a half-shrug.

“And now you do?”

Brandon smirked. “You’re not getting jealous, are you?”

Frank laughed. “No, of course not.”

“Sure you’re not.” Brandon winked. “But yeah, I think he thought since I went home with him that night, I was game for something a bit more serious. And I guess I didn’t make it clear enough I wasn’t. So now we’ve cleared the air. It’s all good.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want the two of you shooting each other for spite.”

Brandon sniggered. “Competitive as the two of us are? That might happen anyway.”

Frank put his hands over his ears. “The ref didn’t just hear that.”

They both laughed and continued getting their equipment together. Once they were ready—Brandon with his gun and paint, Frank with his orange tape and a whistle—they joined the others.

Geoff gave the usual pregame speech. Rules, safewords, scenario, and all of that.

The teams went out on the field, each gathering at one end. Frank watched Brandon huddled with his own team. All the team members looked down at the ground, where Brandon seemed to be drawing something with his finger. Then he gestured sharply in the air, reminding Frank of SWAT and military movies.