Free When Tony Met Adam (Short Story) by Suzanne Brockmann Page B

should matter this much, but all my life, I’ve been such a fucking liar. The truth is a variable. It becomes true if I can sell it, if I can convince you. But this time, I’m not lying and—”
    “I believe you,” Tony told him. “And I happen to really like needy little fucks.”
    He tugged Adam closer to him, and the other man didn’t resist. So he pulled him in for a kiss. Gentle at first, then hotter, deeper. Ah, God …
    Adam pulled away, but only to make sure that the door was tightly closed. Not for himself, but for Tony, for whom it mattered.
    Adam kissed him again, but again only briefly before pulling back to look into Tony’s eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For believing me and … for
not
believing me when I said what I said …”
    “Whatever
,” Tony whispered back. “I knew what you meant.”
    “Still,” Adam said, echoing the very words Tony had used before leaving all those weeks ago. “It means everything to me.”
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
    Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell
is repealed, almost three years to the day after the cold winter night that Tony met Adam.
    They’re planning a summer wedding in Tony’s hometown in Connecticut.

 
    If you loved
When Tony Met Adam
, then you won’t want to miss Suzanne Brockmann’s
New York Times
bestselling novels that tell the story of openly-gay FBI agent (and kick-ass romantic hero)
Jules Cassidy:
    Hot Target

Force of Nature

All Through the Night
    “Jules Cassidy is one of the most charming and original characters in popular fiction today.” —
Library Journal
    “[Brockmann] brilliantly combines superbly crafted, realistically complex characters with white-knuckle plotting.” —
Booklist
    “Sterling prose.” —
Publishers Weekly
    Read on for a sneak peek of
Hot Target
.

 
    Jules Cassidy hated L.A.
    He hated it for the usual reasons—the relentless traffic jams, the unending sameness of the weather, and the air of frantic, fear-driven competition that ruled the city. It was as if all four million inhabitants were holding their breath, terrified that if they were on the top, they’d fall; if theywere climbing, they wouldn’t make it; and if they were at the bottom, they’d never get their big break.
    It was called the City of Angels, but the folks who gave it that name had neglected to mention that the particular angels who lived there didn’t answer to the man upstairs.
    Jules could almost hear one of those satanic types laughing as he gazed at his current number one reason why he hated L.A.
    A kid, barely out of his teens, was pointing a handgun at Jules’ chest. “Give me your wallet!”
    There had been a sign saying, “Park at your own risk” posted at the entrance to this parking garage that was cut into the hillside beneath his West Hollywood hotel. But Jules had foolishly assumed any risk would occur at night, not during broad daylight. Of course, in here it was shadowy and dank. The small lot was only half-filled, and no other people were in sight.
    The garage walls were concrete block, and the ceiling looked solid, too. A bullet would ricochet off rather than penetrate and injure someone on the other side. The open bay doors on his right, however, led directly to the street. It wasn’t a major thoroughfare, but there was occasional traffic.
    “You don’t want to do this,” Jules said, carefully keeping his hands where the kid could see them, even while he inched his way closer. He was glad his sidearm was in a locked suitcase in the trunk of the car, so he could hold his jacket open and take his wallet out of his pocket with two fingers without flashing his shoulder holster. “Just turn around and walk away—and do yourself another favor while you’re at it. Wipe the gun so your prints aren’t on it and—”
    “Shut up,” the kid ordered him. He had primitive tattoos on his knuckles—despite his tender age he’d already done prison time. His hands were also shaking, another badsign. He was