Criminal Pleasures by Darien Cox

humorless laugh. “You’re from fucking Boston, aren’t you?”
    “I grew up in Newton,” Marc said, his eyes flicking nervously to Brendan. “I won’t bother to apologize, I know we’re way beyond that. But I’d like to at least try to explain, Brendan, if you’ll give me a chance.”
    Brendan took another step toward him, shaking his head. “You knew that I thought you were someone else. You knew this. And yet you kissed me and you... humped me. With a fake accent !”
    Marc flinched.
    “Nothing you can say makes any difference!”
    “Brendan—”
    “Oh don’t bother, Marc, if that’s even your name.”
    “It is,” he said quickly. “But it’s Daggett, not DiPietro. But I guess you know that.” He tilted his head. “How did you find me?”
    “No.” Brendan paced a circle, then pointed at Marc. “No, you don’t get to ask me questions.”
    Marc held his hands up. “Fair enough. Will you come into the restaurant with me, so we can talk?”
    “I think I can put it together on my own. You were undercover, trying to trap Poppy DiPietro in some fucking something or other and blah blah blah. But why did you sleep with me?”
    “Brendan—”
    “With a fake accent! Do you know how humiliating that is?”
    Marc ran his fingers through his hair, cursing under his breath. “Brendan, I know what I did. I know how fucked up this all is. I can’t change any of it.” He took a step closer. “But please, give me a half hour. Don’t take off again. A half hour Brendan, please .”
    “All right,” Brendan said. “A half hour. But only because I need a beer. Badly.”
    Marc’s relief was palpable as he let out a breath. “After you.” He gestured toward the restaurant.
    Brendan sneered. “After you. Detective .”
    Marc’s eyebrows pinched together, and he looked so troubled Brendan almost felt bad for him. Almost. Marc turned and headed for the doors of The Pub. Brendan took a deep breath, unclenched his fists, and followed.

 
     
    Chapter Eleven
     
     
    The pub was fairly crowded, a small cluster of people waiting for tables. “Wait here a second,” Marc said to Brendan.
    Brendan couldn’t get used to the difference in Marc’s speaking voice. He watched him bypass the waiting customers and lean in to speak with the hostess. Brendan tried to eavesdrop, stepping closer. He heard the words ‘police’ and ‘privacy’. Then Marc opened his wallet and gave her some cash after showing her a badge.
    Brendan turned way, rubbing his temples. This is so fucked up .
    “Come on,” Marc said, touching Brendan’s arm.
    Brendan looked up and met his eyes, a thrill running through him for a split second. He was disappointed in himself for still feeling that rush of desire, but damn it, he was still attracted to the guy.
    The hostess led them past a bar and through a rustic dining area, then down a small hallway to another doorway, blocked off by a chair. She moved the chair, and they followed her into another small dining room, empty of customers. “This room is closed until later on, you’ll be alone in here,” she said. “Can I bring you something?”
    “A pitcher of beer, please,” Marc said. “Whatever you’ve got on tap.”
    The hostess left.
    Marc chose a booth in the back corner, and Brendan slid in across from him. He watched as Marc removed his suit jacket and set it down beside him on the bench. He glanced at Brendan, then clasped his hands as if in prayer, resting his forehead on them.
    Brendan didn’t say a word. If Marc wanted to talk, so be it, but Brendan didn’t feel compelled to help him out. They were interrupted when a waiter came in with their pitcher and two frosted mugs. Marc thanked him, and the waiter left the room. They were alone again.
    Picking up the pitcher, Marc filled their glasses, sliding one over to Brendan. He didn’t meet his eyes as he spoke. “Three years ago a man called Paul Quinn was arrested in Boston for various charges, including money