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El let herself and Satchmo into the house and looked around. “Hon? Peter?”
He must still be at the wine tasting. She left her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and went to fill Satchmo’s food and water bowls, grabbing the stack of mail from the dining table on the way. She’d only meant to be away a few days while the house was rewired, but her sister Grace had spontaneously decided to paint her apartment, and El hadn’t had any urgent business to come back to so she’d elected to stay and help.
It was fun, painting and gossiping in old clothes with the stereo turned up, like being teenagers again. Grace dished the dirt on her last relationship, which had (in her words) “gotten complicated and imploded” after a drunken game of Never Have I Ever, and El reciprocated with an account of Peter’s adventures with Neal, from the comics vault with no air to Mr. Magic Hands and Neal being drugged by the bad guys. “You know,” she said, “Neal’s quite the artist. We should’ve got him up here to paint you a mural. Van Gogh’s sunflowers in the kitchen, perhaps?”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Thanks all the same, but I don’t actually want any con artist-thieves let loose in my house.”
“He’s not like that.” El paused, trying to find words to explain Neal, and accidentally dripped yellow paint on Satchmo’s neck. Which was a convenient distraction. Neal was Neal, and El had a lot of faith in him—especially when it came to having Peter’s back—but she doubted there was anything she could say to convince Grace he was a good guy. Not that it mattered, really: Neal was Peter’s CI, not a member of the family. Grace didn’t have to like him.
All the same, El tried again once or twice over the week, until finally Grace eyed her sternly, as only an older sister could, and said, “Something is going on. When you get back, I want you to send me a photo of this Neal guy.”
“What? Nothing’s going on,” said El, wide-eyed with innocence, but Grace insisted. So now that was on El’s to-do list.
It was a relief to be home, away from Grace’s scrutiny… especially since the trash was full of takeout containers, and there were half a dozen empty beer bottles in the recycling. Someone had to make sure Peter took proper care of himself. She put water on for tea and opened the mail. Ten minutes later she heard the front door open and close.
“El?”
“In the kitchen.”
Peter came sweeping in, looking unusually sophisticated, and swept her into a bear hug. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me too,” said El, and kissed him. Then she saw his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” He kissed her again, then let her go and bent to pat Satchmo. “I’ve just been wanting to talk, in person.”
“Well, I’m here now. Do you want tea? Coffee? Is that a new tie?”
“It’s Neal’s.” Peter picked up the end of the tie and regarded it mistrustfully.
El’s heart skipped a beat, but she just grinned. “It’s snazzy, but I’m not sure it’s really you.”
Peter opted for coffee, and they took their drinks and the cookie tin and settled in together on the couch. Satch followed them through and curled up on his bed with the satisfied snort of a dog in his own home. He yawned, scratched and settled his head on his paws.
Peter removed the tie and set it safely aside, and El pulled his arm across her shoulders and snuggled into his side. “It’s so good to be back,” she said. “Now, what do you need to talk about? Is it Neal?”
“How did you guess?” Peter’s tone was wry, bordering on embarrassed. He rubbed his hand over his face and let it drop to his lap, frowning. “It started with stealing the security tape from the Howser Clinic, and this evening I colluded in trespass and theft from a private vault. And they were both the right thing to do in the circumstances, but I’m crossing some lines. It’s like Neal warps the laws of morality without even trying. What if it’s getting out of hand, affecting my judgment?”
“Oh, hon.” El took his hand, putting aside her own epiphany from the drive home. “Is it—Do you think it’s because you’re responsible for him?”
Peter looked down at their joined hands. “I’m responsible for keeping him on the straight and narrow. I should be setting an example, not conspiring with him. I’m—I can’t tell if I’m making the right calls anymore.”
El bit her lip, feeling the bedrock of her life tremble and shift. She owed Grace an apology; she hadn’t even mentioned the stolen security tape, but Grace had seen through her anyway. Something was going on. And she’d been telling herself it was no big deal, but if it was unmooring Peter’s stubborn sense of justice, of all things, it was likely to be cataclysmic.
She’d been distracted all week—now she wondered how much her feelings were amplified or even influenced by Peter’s. They were always so in tune. Perhaps it was a shared madness. She forced herself to be brave. “Okay, I know this is going to sound shocking, but just trust me. Close your eyes.”
Peter did. A crease formed between his eyebrows, and El wanted to kiss it away, but she gripped his hand instead.
“Now,” she said, “picture you and me and Neal, and Neal and I—we’re kissing.” It was the least confronting of the two options. At least, she thought so.
But Peter’s eyes flew open. “El?”
“I love you,” said El, hastily, and pressed her face to his side. “Neal’s morality-warping superpower—you might be right about that.”
“Could you be more specific?” Peter’s arms came up around her, holding her.
“I missed him while I was away,” confessed El. “I kept wanting to tell him things that had happened—as well as telling you. I actually talked about him so much Grace got suspicious something was going on.”
“You could friend him on Facebook.” Peter’s tone was strange. El couldn’t tell if he was upset.
“I have this image in my head I can’t shake of you and him kissing,” she blurted before she could think better of it. Their relationship was rock solid; they could handle the truth.
Peter tensed, his arms tightening around her. “That’s not what you told me to picture.”
“Well, I didn’t want to give you a heart-attack,” said El. “He’s your CI.”
“He is,” said Peter. “My male CI. I swear nothing’s going on, hon. I’m not—I don’t have feelings for Neal.”
Had she mistaken her own wishful thinking for intuition? El let out a silent sigh, trying to hide her regret. “Are you sure?”
“Wait, you want me to?” Peter moved so they were facing each other, and she saw his expression, knew his denials were only for reassurance. Her mouth went dry. Her Peter—her husband—felt the same attraction to Neal she did. He was drawn to someone else, to a man. To Neal. Even if he didn’t look terribly happy about it.
She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. “It feels like he’s already part of our family, you know? Like he’s ours. And he’s beautiful and sincere… I know, I know, con artist. But I can’t help how I feel. When I picture the two of you kissing, it nearly blows my head off.”
Peter’s mouth opened, but no words came out, just a choked sound. He swallowed and visibly composed himself. “You know we shouldn’t even be talking about this.”
El cupped his beloved face. He was flushed too and obviously self-conscious, but he didn’t flinch from her regard. “Morality-warping, remember? Does it feel wrong?”
It wasn’t a fair question, and a smart person would shy away from this entirely. Would shut it in a box and tuck it away safely out of sight until the glamor had dissipated. But it was Neal they were talking about, escapologist extraordinaire. El wasn’t sure she could shut him away, even metaphorically, even if she wanted to. Not if there were a chance.
“It feels illicit, which should be the same as wrong, but these days…” Peter waved one hand in a helpless gesture. “You’re really okay with it?”
“I am.” She kissed him, to anchor them both. “Do you know if he feels the same?”
That was the key question really, or one of them. If Neal wasn’t attracted to them, to both of them, then whether their marriage could survive a third person, a felon, and how it might work were irrelevant.
“I’ve been doing my damnedest not to think about it,” said Peter gruffly.
“Hon, we don’t have to pursue it if you don’t want to.” El’s feelings already ran deep—she’d admitted that to herself on the way home—but she’d sacrifice them in a heartbeat for Peter’s sake.
“How can we pursue it?” said Peter. “How would we even start? There’s no way I can ask him how he feels without abusing my position, and you and I—we’re married, El! That’s more important than anything.”
“We’ll always be married, that’s not even up for debate,” said El fiercely. “And as for Neal, you could, I don’t know, try flirting?” Peter groaned, and she grinned, despite the stakes. “Just to test the waters. A little harmless flirting, see if he reacts. If he doesn’t, we drop it.”
“El.” Peter’s eyes widened in horror. “You know me: I can’t flirt—I get tongue-tied, and the more I mean it, the worse it gets. Neal would never let me live it down.”
“Relax, babe.” El took his hand and kissed his palm. “You know, flirting doesn’t have to be witty banter. You could try eating something in a sexy way and see if he responds.”
“Other than laughing his ass off.” Peter looked preemptively mortified. “Sexy eating?”
“Draw attention to your mouth, lick your lips.” El gave him an encouraging smile. “Come on, you know what I’m talking about here.”
“I know what you’re talking about when it’s some slinky seductress with a banana or an ice cream cone.”
El bit back a laugh. “Oh, don’t try to pretend you can’t be sexy, Mr. Magic Hands.”
That had the desired effect of making Peter laugh too. And laughing relaxed him a little. “That was a whole different thing. That was for a case. I didn’t even like her.”
“I’m just saying,” said El. “You don’t have to fellate a banana. Just do what comes naturally. Although—”
“What?” Peter narrowed his eyes.
El bit her lip and tried to look encouraging. “Well, let’s just say I’d steer clear of devilled ham, just this once.”
*
The next night, El’s pulse leaped when Peter arrived home, and not just because she was pleased to see her husband. She put her book aside and beckoned him over. “How did it go? Did you see Neal?”
He sat next to her on the couch. From his deflated demeanor, she could already tell what his answer would be, but she couldn’t extinguish a small, persistent spark of hope.
“It was a bust,” said Peter. “Mozzie was there too, and they were working on their bottle, and that just reminded me…”
“Kate.” El swallowed around the sudden tension in her throat.
“Yeah.” Peter looked tired. “I know he’s still obsessed with her. I’m fooling myself if I think he’ll ever get past that.”
El fought disappointment. Peter was right. Neal was out of reach, and it was chasing rainbows to think otherwise. Her hope flickered and died. “So, I guess that’s that.”
“I have to—” Peter pulled her close. “I love you. The next thing I have to do is find Kate and help her out of whatever she’s gotten herself mixed up with.”
“For Neal,” said El, and when Peter nodded, she felt a bright surge of love for him. “You’re a good man, Peter Burke. I’m so proud of you.”
“He deserves to be happy, even if it’s not with us.” Peter had clearly made his decision, and El did her best to put her longing and regret aside and join him in his resolve. It was good she hadn’t told Grace the whole truth about Neal, after all—explaining this predicament would be too much, too hard. But Peter was right: saving Kate was the only true path. Neal should have his chance at happy ever after with the woman he chose. And if Peter and El couldn’t be his true loves, perhaps they could play the role of deus ex machina, reuniting the lovers.
El stroked Peter’s hair and snuggled in close, comforting both of them. “If anyone can rescue Kate, it’s you. And if there’s anything I can do to help, you have to tell me.”
“Always,” said Peter, and she knew he meant more than he was saying. That it would always be the two of them. And that that was enough.
END