As promised, there’s lots of Starsky h/c in this story. But hey - - I’m a Hutch girl, so I had to squeeze in some h/c for him too! A very grateful thanks to Theresa for doing the beta on this, even though the timing could have been better. It just wouldn’t have felt right posting this without your usual meticulous eye, my friend! Thanks to Kass for such a snazzy fic home and a special thank you to Nancy for the “inspiration.”

Also, a special thanks to all of my readers. Yeah, I know this isn’t exactly the right place to be doing this, (pardon my gaffe on ‘Net etiquette) but as I’m not active on the S&H lists, it’s the only “public” voice I have. So . . . I just wanted to express my sincere thanks for all those Torinos in the 2005 awards. To say I was overwhelmed is an understatement! WOW!!!! It’s truly nice to know my vision of S&H is enjoyed by so many others.

That said, I hope you like this tale just as much . . .

The Jade Club

By Kate (CMT)

Yawning widely, Starsky scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and he felt like he could sleep for a week. Strangely enough, it was a good kind of tired - - the kind that came from over sixteen straight hours of exhaustive police work. It told him he was back in full swing, on the street, doing the job he still loved to do. Over the years he’d had a lot of mishaps and near-misses but Gunther’s assassination attempt had almost put him out of commission permanently. He’d spent three long weeks in the hospital, followed by three months of intensive physical therapy and another three months of deskwork. Now, almost eight months after a hail of gunfire had nearly ended his career in the police garage, he was finally back on full-time active street duty.

Maybe it had only been two weeks and maybe he was already overdoing it, but he felt invigorated and alive. Even if he was exhausted and bothered by an occasional cough. At least he was accomplishing something, contributing again to his partnership with Hutch. It didn’t matter how tired his body was, this time the fatigue came from his own physical exertion and not the result of a debilitating injury.

“How ‘bout tacos or pizza?” he said to the silent figure beside him. “Or there’s that new burger joint over on Nineteenth. They got something called a ‘colossal burger’ - - piled with fried onions, tomatoes and some kind of ranch dressing.”

“I don’t think so, Starsk.” Hutch palmed the wheel of his Olds Cutlass and took the final turn toward Starsky’s apartment. The black sedan had replaced the short string of mostly disposable cars that followed his doomed LTD and Bess to the scrap yard. Like its predecessors, he’d bought the Cutlass used and, although it came with a number of dings on the left rear panel and a backseat that had already been converted into the inevitable Hutchinson garbage can/stray junk bin, it was semi-reliable and not too overly appalling in appearance - - once you got past some mismatched paint on the passenger’s door and trunk.

“You need to eat something a little healthier,” Hutch continued, sparing a quick glance for his partner as he maneuvered through afternoon traffic. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, the lenses tinted with a gradient-mirrored effect.

Which is just a clever way to disguise the fact he’s fried too, Starsky reflected. “I don’t feel like cookin’,” he groused aloud.

“I will,” Hutch said quickly. “How ‘bout I do some chicken? Or broil some steaks with a salad and potatoes. You can’t be eating pizza and tacos, Starsk. You had one of those burrito-egg things for breakfast and donuts and tacos for lunch . . .” Frowning, Hutch twisted his right arm to look at his watch. “ . . . and ‘lunch’ was at 8 a.m. this morning.”

“So?”

“So,” Hutch persisted. “I’m going to make us a decent dinner. This case and these hours have us all fouled up.”

“But nothing’s defrosted,” Starsky whined, hating to think of the delay and the fuss. All he wanted to do was eat and tumble into bed. “Think of the mess . . . and all that cleaning up afterwards.”

“I’ll do it,” Hutch said without missing a beat.

It didn’t surprise Starsky. For the last eight months his friend had been doing everything and anything needed relative to Starsky’s health and general well being. Foolishly, Starsky had thought the excessive fussing would stop when he was back on active street duty, but Hutch was still hovering a little too closely, worrying and scrutinizing his every move. Starsky tried to overlook it as much as possible, but sometimes his partner’s constant mother-henning was suffocating.

The last eight months had been grueling for him, but they’d been equally taxing on Hutch. They’d both dropped weight, but at least Hutch was trying to offset the loss with healthy eating and daily workouts. He’d taken to running again each morning and working out at Vinnie’s gym whenever he needed to unwind and blow off steam. He’d even gotten Starsky out on the beach for long hikes up and down the sand, telling him the fresh air and routine walks would do him good. In the end, it had paid off for both of them. It helped rebuild Starsky’s diminished lung capacity to a near 100%, and it helped Hutch deal with the daily stress of nurturing his partner back to physical and mental well-being.

Hutch was a little quieter than before, but he seemed more at peace than he had in the days before Gunther’s hit. If he still had reservations about remaining on the force, he didn’t voice them to Starsky.

“Tell you what,” he said, smiling a little as he looked at Starsky. His time outdoors had once again bleached his long hair to an excessively pale shade of sun-whitened gold, his neatly trimmed mustache just a few tints darker. With his mirrored sunglasses and platinum-streaked hair, he looked more lifeguard or professional surfer than a veteran police sergeant. “I’ll drop you off and you can catch some sleep while I run down to the store. I’ll pick up something for dinner and - -”

“No,” Starsky said flatly. He frowned. “Come on, Hutch, admit it - - you’re tired too. Let’s just order a pizza so we can both crash and catch some Zz’s. It took sixteen hours to wrap the final phase, but we finally nailed Lynch. I wanna celebrate with a few cold beers and a pepperoni pie. Besides - - ain’t you suppose to have a late dinner with Janet?”

“Yeah.” Hutch heaved out a tired sigh. “I wonder how disappointed she’d be if I cancelled.” The Olds rolled to a stop in front of Starsky’s apartment. Hutch sat for a minute, staring straight ahead before killing the engine. “Okay,” he decided. “Pizza and beer, but tomorrow I’m cooking, and you’re going to eat an actual meal - - not something from a paper bag or cardboard box. Deal?”

Starsky grinned broadly. “Deal.”

Forty-five minutes later he sat on the couch contentedly munching a slice of pepperoni pizza, a cold can of Coors just a few inches away on the coffee table. He was on slice number four to Hutch’s one, but then his friend still had to eat dinner three hours from now with his steady girlfriend, Janet Morrisey - - a critical care doctor who had been one of the attending physicians on Starsky’s case after the incident with Gunther. In the beginning she and Hutch had butted heads over his care, his blond friend making anything but a favorable first impression. After some initial antagonism they’d developed a cordial relationship that unexpectedly veered into romance a few months down the road. Now, six months later, Hutch and the red-haired doctor were still going strong. Unlike a lot of his previous girlfriends, Janet tended to be understanding of Hutch’s long and often bizarre work hours, mainly because her own weren’t that much better.

When Hutch had told his father he was dating a doctor, the seasoned physician had dissolved into laughter, citing it as poetic justice.

“I finally make peace with the fact you abandoned med school to become a cop,” Starsky remembered overhearing Grant tell Hutch during his last trip to Bay City. “And you end up dating a doctor.”

It was funny when he thought about it, especially given Hutch’s initial hostility for the woman he now professed to love.

“So . . .” Shoving the last bite of pizza into his mouth, Starsky licked his fingertips. The combination of food and alcohol was beginning to exact a toll, a pleasant feeling of drowsiness washing over him. “Where are you and Janet headed tonight?”

Hutch yawned, filtering long fingers through his pale hair. “I don’t know. Maybe the Galaxy Pub.”

“Galaxy, huh?” Starsky gave a low whistle. “Kinda pricey - - and definitely too artsy if you ask me. You two goin’ dancin’ later?”

“Not if I can help it.” Hutch chuckled softly. “I’m beat, Starsk. I should probably cancel but we haven’t seen each other in almost two weeks, and phone calls just aren’t cutting it anymore.”

Intrigued, Starsky raised a brow. He snatched his beer from the coffee table and swallowed a gulp, feeling it spread a numbing lethargy through his sore muscles. “If you’re too beat to go dancin’ you probably ain’t got the stamina to do much else, pal. Maybe you should take a raincheck. I mean you wouldn’t wanna end up lookin’, uh . . . incapacitated.” He grinned brashly. “Especially not with a doctor who’s liable to get all clinical about why you can’t perform.”

“Stuff it, Starsky,” Hutch countered, but grinned all the same. “For the record, I don’t know the meaning of the word incapacitated. At least not in the sense you’re talking about.”

“My, my. Ain’t we cocky?” Starsky’s grin turned toothy with his play on words, one brow waggling into his hairline.

Hutch dismissed him with a chuckle and a weary shake of his head. “You are such an ass sometimes.”

Having too much fun, Starsky kept the conversation rolling. “Well, we were talkin’ anatomy and your prowess with certain parts of it, right?”

“We were talking about you getting some rest,” Hutch contradicted, standing and confiscating the pizza box from the coffee table. “Or at least we should have been.” Flipping the lid shut, he carried the leftover slices to the kitchen and slid the whole mess into the refrigerator. “I can’t wait until we’re back on a regular work schedule,” Starsky heard him call from the vicinity of the sink. “These double shifts are getting old. At least we have tomorrow off.”

“Yeah.” Starsky yawned and stretched. Initially he was going to protest he didn’t need any rest, but he could feel his muscles stiffening now that he wasn’t moving around. Occasionally, he still felt a residual pain in his back and chest from the bullet wounds he’d sustained in the hit . . . a phantom ache that served to remind how perilously close he’d come to dying. If he was honest, he’d been pushing it the last three days as they’d worked on bringing down Rufus Lynch, a commercial real estate developer suspected in the murder of his partner. There were a number of times he could have opted to handle paperwork and let Hutch track down street leads on his own, but he’d stubbornly insisted on mirroring his partner’s workload. Neither of them had gotten much sleep over the last few days, and while Hutch was clearly fatigued, Starsky knew he couldn’t allow himself to become equally winded.

His endurance and stamina were different post-Gunther. Janet had told him he’d probably never get 100% of his lung capacity back again, but keeping it in the mid 90s was a realistic goal. Unfortunately, when he overdid things, he had a habit of developing a raspy cough . . . something he knew could easily slide into bronchitis or pneumonia if left unchecked. Rolling his hand into a fist, he pressed it against his lips to stifle an urge to hack out loud.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked the sound of closing cupboards and running water coming from the kitchen.

A few seconds later Hutch appeared, drying his hands on a towel. Exhaling tiredly, he dropped to a seat on the couch, turning so his back was wedged in the corner and his left leg rested half on the cushions. “How ‘bout you and Bonnie and Janet and I head up the coast to Shelter Pointe? There’s a Renaissance Faire going on - - music, games, wine, a little romance . . .” He shrugged and grinned. “Could be fun.”

“Bonnie was three weeks ago, Hutch.”

“Oh . . . I guess I meant Brenda.”

“Brenda was last week.”

Hutch’s brow dipped in a frown. “Then who are you seeing?”

“No one,” Starsky said flatly. He scuffed a hand through his hair. It had been hard enough going through physical therapy and tedious months of desk duty without the added complication of a steady girlfriend. Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to find one even now, his last four or five relationships glaringly superficial. Maybe it was nearly dying that changed his perspective, but suddenly he wanted something more from a girl than just giddy laughter, a swimsuit model figure and the ability to enjoy herself at a disco. He actually envied Hutch his grounded and mature relationship with Janet. The downside was not being able to do “couple things” when he was currently coupleless.

“I’m officially unattached,” he told his friend. “Up until two days ago there was Sharon, but she didn’t like being stood up when our last shift went over sixteen hours.”

“No problem,” Hutch said, completely unfazed. “The three of us will go. Janet always says we’re her two favorite men anyway. Uh . . . that is if you feel up to it, buddy.”

“Renaissance Faire.” Growing increasingly sleepy, Starsky scrunched down in the couch, twisting to stretch his legs across Hutch’s lap. “Is that one of those things where the guys run around in tights and wave fake swords?”

Hutch snorted. “Something like that. Janet’s brother is one of the actors in the knight tournament.” He slipped a hand onto Starsky’s leg, molding the back of his calf just above the ankle, rubbing gently.

The sensation was wondrously relaxing, an addictive narcotic that seeped through Starsky’s veins and tugged on his eyelids. Nothing like a full stomach, two beers and an attentive partner to have him teetering on the threshold of sleep. The apartment was quiet and soothing, the light low and dusky with the faded gold of early evening. Barely audible, the TV droned in the background, a commercial advertising the buttery taste of pancake syrup lodging in the corner of his mind. The sound of passing traffic faded into white noise, the warm touch of Hutch’s hand sliding now to track up his leg and massage his knee.

The next thing he knew he was floating, blissfully content, pillowed by cottony clouds of drowsiness. He woke an hour later, a blanket draped over him. Cracking his eyelids, he spied Hutch sitting in an adjacent chair, scribbling on a tablet.

“What’re ya doin’?” he asked sleepily.

Hutch looked up, startled to find him awake. “Writing out a grocery list. When’s the last time you went to the store, Starsk? Cupboards are pretty bare, and the refrigerator and freezer aren’t much better - - aside from an endless supply of fudge sickles.”

“I like fudge sickles,” Starsky countered. Groggy, he dragged a hand over his face. “What time is it?”

Hutch returned to writing. “Time for you to go back to sleep.” His pencil scritched over the tablet then stilled as he raised his head. “You’d probably be more comfortable in the bedroom. How about it?”

Starsky rolled onto his side. “I thought you had to leave . . .get ready for your hot date?”

“Soon,” Hutch countered. “And you didn’t answer my question. How ‘bout going in the bedroom?”

“How ‘bout I stay here?” He smiled. His friend really was a worrywart at times. He should have been used to it by now. Hutch had practically lived with him during his long convalescence, doing everything from helping him bathe, to assisting with his therapy exercises, to cleaning his apartment, doing his laundry and running any multitude of errands. He’d had to juggle doctors, family (on both sides) and co-workers, all of whom required varying levels of attention. And in the midst of the upheaval, he’d had to hold down his job, mucking through with a temporary partner while Starsky struggled to heal.

Unfortunately Hutch hadn’t completely disengaged “hover mode” or his mother hen instincts.

Starsky coughed weakly but this time there was a loose rattle in the sound. Hutch immediately stood and prowled closer.

“That doesn’t sound good.” He frowned, staring down at Starsky. “I should’ve never let you do those double shifts. Come on, Starsk - - let me help you back to the bedroom.”

Because he knew the cough had doomed him and Hutch would now stubbornly refuse to back down, Starsky consented. Wearily he climbed to his feet, letting his friend take control and guide him to the bedroom. Stripping to his briefs with Hutch’s help, he crawled under the blankets, secretly admitting it wasn’t such a bad idea. His body felt achy and stiff, limp with exhaustion at the same time. It felt strange to be going to bed - - the gold-tinged light of late day still streaming through the windows - - when the rest of the world was just gearing up for the glitz and sparkle of nightlife in the city.

Long accustomed to seeing the ugly scars left by the bullets on his partner’s chest and back, Hutch pulled the blankets up without flinching. In the back of his mind he wondered if Starsky’s revolving carousel of short-lived relationships didn’t have something to do with the disfigurement. Was he uncomfortable, possibly embarrassed or just self-conscious and awkward about letting someone else see those hideous reminders of what had almost been? Their long work hours and rotating shifts were obstacle enough to most relationships, but throw in the psychological impact of being permanently disfigured and suddenly, connecting on an emotional level became a lot harder.

If Starsky had just been looking for a sexual, feel-good relationship, no strings attached, Hutch knew he’d have little problem in scoring. His friend had a kind of swaggering, magnetic charm that practically oozed sex appeal. Most women couldn’t resist Starsky when he was on the prowl. The problem was he rarely craved gratuitous sex, unlike Hutch who’d had his fair share of one-night stands before hooking up with Janet. Starsky almost always engaged his heart when he was involved in a relationship, letting his natural innocence and vulnerability bleed through. It meant he could be hurt a lot easier, a painful predicament he appeared to studiously avoid lately. So there was Bonnie, Brenda, Sharon, and probably two or three others Hutch had forgotten about.

Eight months down the road and Gunther was still impacting their lives.

“You need anything, buddy?” Feeling deeply protective of his tired partner, Hutch sat on the edge of the bed. Reflex made him brush a hand through Starsky’s hair, the near-black curls creating a tumultuous mass on the crisp white pillowcase. Beneath his fingertips, Hutch could feel the familiar texture of impossibly thick ringlets, soft and coarse at the same time. He knew that texture with the same intimate familiarity as the satin cascade of Janet’s long cinnamon-gold tresses.

“Starsk?” Concerned, he fingered one inky curl, watching the dance of natural light arc across the tip. “Do you need some water . . . maybe a pain pill?”

Starsky sighed. “No, Hutch. I don’t need a pain pill.”

Like you’d admit it if you did. You’re getting as bad as I am, buddy.

Starsky had pretty much been off the pills for months now, but every once in a while they were still needed to help him sleep comfortably through the night. Especially after a grueling workday - - and two back-to-back double shifts definitely qualified. Rufus Lynch hadn’t gone down easy. They’d been working the case for two weeks, but had intensified those efforts over the last three days, finally gathering enough ammunition for an arrest warrant. Lynch’s high-priced, double-talking lawyers were still screaming things like “entrapment.”

Hutch was about to push the pill again when the doorbell interrupted his thoughts. Starsky gave a jerk, frowning at the intrusion. Maybe he wouldn’t admit to needing a pill, Hutch thought, but he was clearly existing on fumes.

“ . . . ain’t expectin’ anyone,” he mumbled sleepily.

“Don’t worry about it, babe. I’ll get it.”

Pushing from the bed Hutch walked swiftly toward the door, hoping to catch whoever it was before they rang again, disturbing Starsky’s rest. He was almost there when the unknown caller pressed their thumb over the bell and held it down, sending an annoyingly shrill ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong reverberating throughout the quiet apartment.

“Knock it off!” Hutch called, certain he was going to find some kid playing a practical joke. Irked, he wrenched open the door and came to an immediate halt, shock rapidly replacing anger. “Nick.” Stunned, he stared at Starsky’s younger brother.

Nick stood on the threshold, a suitcase in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other. Dressed in navy slacks, an open-necked pink silk shirt and a fitted burgundy jacket, he looked like he’d just stepped off the dance floor. A trio of gold chains, each progressively larger than the last, encircled his neck.

“Hey!” Nick’s smile dimmed, losing its blinding wattage, becoming abruptly forced and plastic. “Hutch. Um . . . what’re you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Hutch returned, ignoring the question. With effort he forced silent his dislike of Starsky’s brother. From the very first time Nick had arrived in Bay City, dragging his brother into the middle of his unscrupulous problems, he and Nick had been at odds. Once Starsky was injured, that brittle distance and aversion only increased.

Nick had called as soon as he’d heard the news of Gunther’s hit, but he’d been too busy with his own life to fly in until weeks later when Starsky was out of the hospital and at home. Even then, he’d seemed disappointed his brother couldn’t cruise the streets with him, party-hopping from disco to disco. He’d been looking for fun and a good-time high, doing the dutiful brother role only because it was expected. He’d asked after Starsky’s health, then spent the rest of the trip talking about himself, a recent foray into real estate, and the three “hot babes” he’d met at the LAX terminal.

Hutch had put up with his selfish indulgence for two nights, quietly seething while Nick carelessly ignored his brother’s restless agitation and pain. Frustration eventually funneled into aggravation, prompting him to kick the freeloader out in search of a hotel while Starsky was in therapy. His partner had been miffed at first, but the anger hadn’t lasted long. Both men knew he was in no condition to tolerate the strain of a houseguest, much less one who was glaringly high maintenance. Hutch sometimes found it hard to believe two people from the same bloodline could be so diametrically different. Throughout their partnership, Starsky had talked so fondly of Nick that Hutch had truly wanted to like him. But within minutes of meeting him just over a year ago, Hutch had formulated an opinion of a selfish, shallow man who didn’t know the meaning of the word “responsibility.”

“What about it, Nick?” he prompted, trying to keep his voice neutral. For Starsky’s sake, he forced himself to be nonjudgmental. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think? I came to see my brother.” Recovering, Nick brushed past him and breezed into the apartment. He dropped the suitcase with a thud. “Hey, Davey! Davey, where’re ya hidin’?”

“Quiet!” Hutch hissed, trailing behind him, quickly grabbing his arm. “He’s sleeping.”

“Nicky?”

Hutch groaned mentally when he saw his friend in the doorway to the bedroom, bare-chested and barefoot, just zipping his faded jeans. “Perfect,” he muttered. Nick gave a delighted whoop and scrambled forward to embrace his brother, still clutching the bottle of champagne. For his part, Starsky looked truly elated, his blue eyes sparkling with a burst of animation that had previously been lacking. Hutch felt a strange twinge in his gut watching the two together, both so closely matched in height, build and appearance. He hated the reactive instinct that told him Starsky’s reasoning ability went soaring out the window where his little brother was concerned. Even now, tired and mentally drained, he’d put his own discomfort aside and focused his energy on Nick.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Starsky asked, pushing his brother to arm’s length with a delighted grin. “Why didn’t you call?”

“What - - and ruin the surprise?” Nick was beaming, flawless and smooth. “I just wanted to breeze in and visit for awhile. See how my older brother’s doin. Ma said you were back fulltime on the streets again.”

“Two weeks ago,” Starsky confirmed. “Come on, sit down. You wanna drink or something?”

Nick hoisted the bottle of champagne. “How ‘bout some of the good stuff? I just closed a high-end deal that netted me a five-figure commission.” He grinned shamelessly, waggling his dark brows. “How d’ya like them apples, big brother? All legal, nice and neat, and I’m rolling in the dough, while you’re doin’ what - -?” He glanced back and forth between his brother and Hutch. “ - - workin’ double shifts by the look of you two. A single commission check and I probably cleared your annual salary in one transaction.”

“I’ll get the confetti,” Hutch snapped acidly as he walked past, snatching the champagne from Nick’s hand. He carried it to the kitchen where he plunked it on the counter. “Looks like Starsk is all out of glasses, Nick. Too bad.”

“Don’t be such a sourass, Blondie,” Starsky called from the living room, but there was humor in his voice. “The good glasses are in the cupboard next to the fridge.” Hutch heard him steer his brother to the couch. “Too bad we don’t got any of those fancy hors d’oeuvres to celebrate.”

“Too bad you aren’t in bed,” Hutch countered, returning to the living room with the champagne and three glasses. Not bothering to look at Nick, he shoved the bottle at him, his gaze locked on Starsky. “I thought you could barely keep your eyes open?”

Starsky frowned. “I thought you had a date?” This time there was a trace of underlying annoyance.

“Hey, that’s great!” Nick exclaimed, snatching the bottle from Hutch, beginning to peel away the foil wrapping over the cork. “That leaves Davey free to go cruisin’ with me. I met this really hot chick in the terminal and she told me about this hotspot up the coast. You know - - one of those glitz discos where they pick and choose who they’re gonna let in - - like you gotta know somebody and be part of the in-crowd. It’s for the ‘beautiful people.’”

“Guess that leaves you out,” Hutch muttered before he could stop himself. He felt Starsky glare at him, but Nick continued as though he hadn’t heard.

“She gave me four passes - -” Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of slender tickets, each about the size of a standard bookmark, produced in gold foil and stamped V.I.P. Pass in looping green ink. “It’s called the Jade Club,” he continued, waving the passes in the air. “About thirty miles north of the city line, but well worth the drive if what Brandi says is true. I’m supposed to meeter there around 9:00.” He winked at Starsky. “If you don’t got anyone you wanna bring, big brother, I’m sure you can find a date there. Plenty of girls.”

A little uncertain, Starsky shrugged. “Okay.”

Hutch felt his mouth drop. “Starsk! What happened to going to bed and getting some sleep?”

Uncomfortable, Starsky hedged. “Well, that was before Nicky got here. I mean come on - - it ain’t like I never did a sixteen hour shift before, then went clubbin’. I’ll take a shower. It’ll wake me up.”

“Great!” Nick popped the cork on the bottle, launching it into the air with a loud crack. Foam immediately bubbled over the side. Laughing, he licked it off his hand then quickly tilted the neck to fill the waiting glasses. “And I’m drivin’,” he continued. “I sprang for a Firebird at the rental window - - puts your aging Torino to shame, big brother. Tonight’s my night to play chauffeur and cart your butt around town.”

“You can cart his butt back into the bedroom,” Hutch countered icily, not moving to take the glass Nick offered him. He knew he was being difficult, knew he needed to tone down his anger for his friend’s sake. Already he could feel contention creeping into the room, brewing between him and Nicky. No matter how much he tried to the contrary, he just instinctively disliked Starsky’s brother.

“Hey,” Starsky said, the edge in his voice harder than before. “I think I can make my own decisions.”

Surprised by the frost, Hutch shot him a frowning glance. Starsky’s expression softened when their eyes met, a silent plea to be understanding and supportive of Nicky coming through in the non-verbal communication. Relenting, Hutch accepted the glass, feeling much like a traitorous in-law who wasn’t open-minded enough to see the potential residing in a poor, misunderstood black sheep. “I’m going along,” he told Nick through gritted teeth.

Surprised, Starsky blinked. “What about Janet?”

“Nick has four passes,” Hutch countered mildly, offering a flawlessly staged smile. He found it amazing he could perfect such a pleasant demeanor while inwardly seething. He really had been looking forward to a quiet evening with the woman he loved, but there was simply no way he was going to entrust Starsky to Nick’s care when his partner was operating at a subterranean level. It wasn’t that he faulted the brothers wanting to spend time together, but rather Nick’s usual disregard of everyone but himself. With a single glance, it was obvious to any sane individual Starsky needed rest, but in typical Nick-fashion, having a good time took precedence over his brother’s health.

“You could just stay here,” Hutch tried again.

“And miss a V.I.P. event?” Nick cracked, waving the notion aside as if it were absurd. He thrust a glass of champagne at Starsky. “Come on, Davey. We’re celebrating!”

“Okay.” Starsky grinned, pushing from the couch to stand at his brother’s side. “So what’re we toastin’? A successful career in real estate?”

“How ‘bout ‘new beginnings?’” Nick suggested. He glanced slyly at Hutch, the corner of his mouth crooking upward.

When Starsky seconded the toast, Hutch complied, taking a sip of the bubbly drink. From the corner of his eye, he could feel Nick watching him, a slow almost predatory curl spreading over the younger man’s lips. Starsky was oblivious to the glance, too wrapped up in the euphoria of the unexpected visit. If Hutch knew anything about Starsky, his friend was bursting inside, secure in the knowledge his younger brother was making a success of himself in a legitimate profession.

Nicky had gotten involved in real estate shortly after his first disastrous trip to Bay City. For a man who wanted quick money without investing forty hours a week, it seemed like an ideal occupation. Except that Hutch had a few friends involved in the field, and it was hardly the “work-when-I-want-and-make-big-commissions” trade most people thought it was. Some of his friends, while admittedly very well off financially, were also putting in close to fifty hour work weeks. Most associates who didn’t invest ample time simply fared as middle-of-the-road producers. Nick liked the highlife far too much for an average income, but he also struck Hutch as being too lazy to invest the time necessary to get a career off the ground - - especially in a time frame as short as fourteen months. His supposed windfall just didn’t make sense.

So was he boasting, lying, or doing something unethical?

“Where’re ya stayin’?” Hutch heard his partner ask. He cringed in anticipation of the answer, remembering the suitcase Nick had carted in with him. For someone who’d recently fallen into a lot of money he was traveling very light and had clearly decided not to pamper himself with a costly hotel suite.

“Don’t got a place,” Nick returned brightly. “Thought maybe I’d bunk with you.”

Welching off your brother, like normal.

“Perfect!” Starsky blurted.

Hutch took a slow sip of champagne. “With all that money, Nick, I’m surprised you didn’t want to stay at The Plaza or some other swank hotel.” He smiled disarmingly. “You know - - Jacuzzis, room service and hot tubs. I mean, you’re on the road to success now, right?” The smile stayed in place, but all three men knew the observation was anything but innocent. Hutch was clearly testing the waters, fishing for cracks in Nick’s story.

For a second as their eyes met, Nick’s gaze went flat and cold. The hostility vanished just as quickly, an effortless grin sliding across his lips. “Nah. Where would the fun be in that? A Jacuzzi’s great, but it can’t compare to quality time with my big brother.” Still grinning, Nick looped an arm around Starsky’s neck.

Hutch fought the instinctive urge to gag. Instead he sat his glass down and looked around for his jacket. “I better go shower and pick up Janet,” he mumbled. The swill in the room was getting a little too thick, and as always where his younger brother was concerned, Starsky couldn’t see through it. Snatching his coat from the back of a nearby chair, Hutch looped it over his arm. He paused on the way toward the door, letting his hand rest on Starsky’s shoulder. “See you back here in a little while, okay, pal?”

Starsky parted with a loopy grin. “Can’t believe you’re passin’ on a hot romantic evenin’ to stagger around on a dance floor.”

“I can’t either.” Hutch gave his arm a squeeze and headed for the door.

An hour later, he was back at Starsky’s apartment - - alone.

+++++

“Starsk, will you quit worrying. I told you everything is fine.”

Hutch stood in the doorway of Starsky’s bedroom, one shoulder braced against the frame, arms folded across his chest. He’d showered and changed, opting for a pair of snug black jeans, a sky blue button-front shirt, open at the throat, and a black sport coat. Janet always told him she loved the contrast of ebony against his sun-whitened hair, which was why he’d chosen the outfit. But Janet had bowed out of the evening after he’d phoned and explained Nick’s unexpected (and not particularly welcome - - at least from his viewpoint) arrival.

She’d listened to him rant, then remained silent while he apologized for wrecking their evening. Afterward she’d told him she loved him and to go to the club without her. He’d been hesitant at first, but quickly realized she was bowing out so he could concentrate on his partner. There weren’t many women who’d willingly take a back seat to a best friend, but Hutch knew his worry over Starsky had come through in his voice even when he’d been trying to silence it. Intuitive enough to sense his concern and secure enough in their relationship to know he wasn’t going to cheat on her, Janet had given him the green-light to enjoy the evening without her.

“As long as you promise me tomorrow night, Kenny.”

The words bounced around in his head even now, sending a streak of unexpected desire through his groin. He could almost smell the flower-fresh scent of her hair, the subtle jasmine of her perfume . . . feel the enticing brush of petal-pink lingerie across his chest as he lowered her to the bed.

“Uh . . .” Coughing awkwardly, he straightened and shoved the erotic thoughts from his mind. After two long weeks apart, it was amazing how quickly his hormones could take over. “I’m telling you, Starsk,” he said, refocusing with effort. “Janet is okay with everything. She wanted us to have a ‘boys’ night out.’ She and I are getting together tomorrow - - after the three of us do the Renaissance Faire like we planned. And yes - -” he said with an overly theatrical, long-suffering sigh. “We can even drag Nick along if you want to . . . maybe throw him in front of a few archery targets or hope a band of outlaws makes off with him.

Adjusting the collar on his white button shirt, Starsky frowned from his spot in front of the bedroom mirror. “Quit beatin’ up on my brother, Hutch.”

Grinning, Hutch plopped onto the bed, tucking one long leg, bent at the knee, onto the mattress. “Killjoy,” he tossed back. “You take all the fun out of life. Where is the little vermin anyway?”

“In the bathroom.” Starsky gave a jerk of his thumb to indicate the direction. “And he ain’t that bad, Blondie.”

“I know, I know.” He’s worse. Sighing, Hutch rifled a hand through his long hair. “Sorry, Starsk. I just like to ride his butt. I’ll ease up - - I promise.”

In the mirror his friend flashed a grin and Hutch felt his spirits lift. Nicky had definitely soured his mood and worrying about Starsky wasn’t helping. His partner looked more alert since he’d showered and changed clothing, but he was still coughing occasionally, and the loose rattle troubled Hutch more than he wanted to admit. Wearing tight-fitting dark blue jeans with a silver-buckled black belt and crisp white shirt, Starsky looked vibrant and alive even with that sporadic cough. “You got a jacket, Gordo? It’s gonna be cold tonight, especially north, up the coast.”

Starsky nodded, rounding the foot of the mattress to snatch a black leather jacket from the bedside chair. “You ever hear of this place Nick got tickets to - - the Jade Club?”

Hutch shook his head. “Leave it to Nick to scope out the new local hot spot before he even leaves LAX.” Pausing, he bit his lip, sending his partner a guarded glance. “How’re you feeling, Starsk?”

“Will you quit worryin’ already? I told you a shower would wake me up.” Scowling, Starsky nudged him on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, huh?”

“Okay.” Hutch stood. “But aren’t you forgetting your brother’s still in the bathroom making himself pretty?” Unable to stop himself, he flashed a wide smile.

Starsky glowered. “Hutchinson!”

“Okay, okay.” Hutch held up both hands. “No more cheap shots. At least for awhile.”

He was still grinning when Nick breezed into the room, having changed into ridiculously tight white slacks offset by a gold silk shirt and navy jacket. He’d left the shirt unbuttoned to the waist and added six or seven new gold-link chains to the three already looped around his neck. The ends of a long white aviator scarf dangled on either of the jacket’s lapels, his heeled shoes, white patent leather.

“Time to par-tay!” Nick proclaimed, with a flamboyant grin for his brother. “Come on, already - - I wanna dance the night away!” The last four words were sung in verse to the popular song as he did a quick one-two-three step and hip swivel.

Hutch bit his tongue to keep from making a sarcastic comment. It was already going on 8:00. By the time they reached the disco, it would be almost 9:00. It irked him to think Starsky should be in bed sleeping off their double shift but was instead indulging his selfish younger brother. By the time they came home, it would likely be after midnight and that was far too long for an ailing Starsky to be out. If he let Nick drive, he’d never get Starsky home at a semi-decent hour. “How ‘bout I drive, Starsk?” he said conversationally as they headed for the front door. “I’ve got the largest car.”

Starsky gave a mild snort. “No offense, Blondie, but I don’t think your Cutlass is ready for the V.I.P. scene. We’ll take the Torino, and you can drive on the way back while I sleep. Deal?”

Hutch grinned in appreciation, catching his partner’s glance from the corner of his eye. The outcome was pretty much as he’d planned, his sole intent keeping Nicky’s hands off the wheel. “Deal.”

“Hey!” Nick protested loudly. “I thought I was driving?”

They’d reached the bottom of the outside steps now, Hutch and Starsky immediately heading for the Torino, a stunned Nick stopping a pace behind. Opening the driver’s door, Starsky flipped the seat forward. “Come on, Nick. You’re holdin’ things up. Get in the back.”

Nick balked, clearly appalled by the thought. “You’re shovin’ me in the back?”

Standing on the passenger’s side of the car, Hutch glanced across the roof at his partner’s younger brother. He supposed he could concede his usual seat and offer to ride in the rear, but Starsky clearly didn’t intend that.

“But . . .” Half angry, half miserable, Nick glanced at Hutch. “I thought he would ride in the back.”

Hutch felt a finger stab in his direction. The heat on the word “he” was a little hard to miss, but Starsky remained oblivious to the strained undercurrent. “Hutch’s legs are too long to squash into the backseat. Besides, he always rides up front with me. Come on, already, will ya?”

Muttering beneath his breath, Nick complied, shooting Hutch a hostile glare. Unfazed, the blond detective shrugged and slid into the car. There was no love lost between him and Nick despite the forced niceties he tried to maintain for Starsky’s sake. Niceties that sometimes made him gag with the effort, biting his tongue when he wanted to launch into a blistering tirade about responsibility and the duties of a brother - - all foreign concepts in the selfishly superficial world of Nick Starsky. The best Hutch could hope for was to get through the night without taking the little twerp’s head off. Hopefully, once Starsky spent a few hours at the disco, he’d come to his senses and be ready to head home for some much-needed rest.

Which is where he’d be right now, if not for Nick’s party-central lifestyle.

As if on cue, Starsky coughed, wincing beneath the spasm as he pulled the Torino onto the street. Hutch peered from the corner of his eye, inwardly cringing at the loose rattle he heard burbling from his friend’s chest. He tried to assure himself it was nothing more than the fatigue of the last sixteen hours catching up with Starsky, but a gnawing voice in the back of his mind fretted it might be more. Restlessly, he tapped the fingers of his left hand against his thigh. It was a means of anchoring himself when he really wanted to reach across the seat and soothingly rub his partner’s arm. Touch had always been an integral part of his relationship with Starsky, something they’d shared from the early stages of their friendship. It had been a strange, awkward barrier to cross, an oddity for two heterosexual men, but once crossed, it had deepened into an unshakable forever-bond. Even now he felt the tug, wanting to calm his own frazzled nerves by brushing his fingertips across Starsky’s sleeve . . . assuring himself his partner was fine and the cough was just an annoying fluke of the moment.

He knew Starsky wouldn’t stand for it, especially with his brother in the car. Hutch’s partner hadn’t minded comforting during his recuperation, but now that he was officially back on active duty, his tolerance for coddling had bottomed out. Eight months of having someone fuss over him made him all the more determined to function on his own. Unfortunately, Hutch couldn’t switch off his protective instincts on the spin of a dime. Job or no job, Nick or no Nick, he hadn’t outgrown the obsessive need to safeguard his partner.

Gunther had almost succeeded in taking Starsky from him, a grim reality that terrified him on a level he never wanted to experience again. He’d been crazed, suffocated by fear as Starsky’s life had hung in the balance. Thankfully, through the infinite grace of God, they’d been given a second chance, a situation Hutch was determined never to take for granted. If Starsky so much as sneezed, his anxiety shot through the roof. He should have been used to the coughing, something that routinely happened when his partner overexerted his weakened lungs. Yet despite that common frequency, he couldn’t help cringing at the loose cough.

Nick, on the other hand, was totally oblivious to his brother’s discomfort. Leaning forward from the back seat, he rambled on about how much he was looking forward to hooking up with Brandi and cutting loose on the dance floor. His inane chatter was endless, covering everything from the latest dance craze to a woman in New York named Carla who couldn’t keep her hands off him. Next came details on the hot car he’d just bought and his flashy new apartment, complete with wet bar, skylights and hot tub.

When he got bored talking about his sexual prowess and his overflowing bank account, Nick gloated over his skyrocketing career as a top-producing real estate agent. For five minutes Hutch listened to the nauseating particulars of how the CEO of a major financial institution wanted to buy a resort property from Nick, the price tag sickeningly obscene.

Unable to stomach the boasting any longer, he ground his teeth together and silently counted to ten. “Get your ass back on earth, Nick, before somebody sticks a pin in your ego. And you might wanna ask your brother how he’s feeling since you haven’t seen him in almost seven months. News flash, kid - - the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Oh - - hey!” Nick managed to sound mildly affronted.

“Play nice, Hutch,” Starsky warned with a reproachful glance. He coughed weakly, as if the mere act of talking aggravated his lungs.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Hutch muttered. This time he couldn’t stop the reach, his hand settling on Starsky’s thigh. “I don’t like the sound of that cough.”

“Yeah, well . . .” A flicker of annoyance crossed Starsky’s face. “I don’t like the sound of you mother-hennin’ me to death either.” Irritably he butted Hutch’s hand aside. “I ain’t a toddler and I ain’t an invalid. Quit treatin’ me like one.”

From the corner of his eye, Hutch saw Nick’s lips curl in smug satisfaction. Suddenly quiet, the New Yorker was also clearly attentive, thriving on the brief spat of friction between them. The realization he enjoyed the discord made Hutch swear silently. For his friend’s sake, he attempted to keep his emotions under control.

“Starsk - -”

“Forget it.” Starsky waved a hand in the air before he could speak. “I’m sorry I snapped at ’cha. Let’s just enjoy ourselves tonight, huh?”

Nick scowled, apparently not relishing apologies anywhere near as much as contention.

“Yeah, okay,” Hutch told his partner neutrally. He could feel Nick’s gaze, suddenly hostile, on the back of his head. It was a shame when he thought about it. They should have been allies, working together to do whatever was best for Starsky, instead of constantly finding themselves at odds. Yet at the moment, he just wanted to shake a healthy dose of reality into the conniving little weasel.

Forcing himself to relax, Hutch eased back in the seat, determined not to be on the defensive all night. Nick had a way of making him respond impulsively, turning his normally precise and cool demeanor into instinctive reactionary behavior. He closed his eyes briefly, loathed to admit he was exhausted too. He’d done the same sixteen-hour shift as Starsky. The last thing on his mind was partying at some out-of-the-way disco reserved for A-listers, suck-ups and wannabes.

After a while Nick’s chatter started all over again, this time flavored with an excess of obnoxiously fawning “Daveys,” plainly designed to irritate Hutch.

“Davey, remember when we were kids and . . .”

“You’d be proud of me, Davey. Real estate’s not hard, ya know? I bet you could even do it . . .”

“Know what we should do, Davey? We should take a trip together. Just you and me. You know, like a brother thing . . .”

“Ma misses you, Davey. She really wishes you’d come home to New York . . .”

Hutch ground his teeth together on that one. Not “back” to New York, but “home” to New York. It was amazing how slippery and skilled Nick could be with word choices and inflection of voice when he wanted. Of course throwing a reference to Rachel Starsky into the mix didn’t hurt either. Although Starsky talked to his mother every week over the phone, a part of him had always felt guilty they were separated on opposite coasts. Nick knew that. He also knew New York hadn’t been “home” to Starsky in roughly twenty years.

Turning his head, Hutch looked out the side window. The climb up the coast road was scenic, peppered with sheer cliffs and a yawning expanse of ocean on one side, treed hillsides on the other. They’d left the city limits behind about twenty minutes ago, canyons and ragged terrain replacing the congested sprawl of urban and metro areas. Cranking his window down, he let a stream of fresh air into the car, feeling it tug through the edges of his sun-bleached hair. It smelled of dry earth, tangled undergrowth and the sharp salt-tang of the Pacific. He couldn’t conceive of a disco buried so deeply out of the way, an oddity that kindled a momentary twinge of doubt.

“Nick, you sure this Brandi wasn’t just feeding you a line? Who puts a disco thirty-some miles outside of town?”

Gulping breath in the middle of yet another “Davey” line, (“Davey, you wouldn’t believe how much things have changed back home. You’d really like it . . .”) Nick blinked owlishly. “That’s the point,” he said as if speaking to a slow-witted child. “The drive makes the whole thing worth it. Jeez, Hutch - - it’s friggin’ exclusive! Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

Yeah - - like you’re a frigging vain idiot who’s working on my nerves.

Tightening his hand over the door handle, Hutch applied pressure until his knuckles grew white. Deciding it was better to keep his mouth shut, he turned his head and silently stared out the window.

+++++

Starsky sighed.

He could feel mounting tension in the car, though he knew his brother was totally oblivious to it. It wasn’t Nicky’s fault. Not really. He just wasn’t astute enough to pick up on Hutch’s moods or interpret body language. The kid was all about having a good time - - and why not? He’d lost his father when he was five, then his brother a few years later when Starsky had been sent to California. If Nicky was a little egotistical and gratingly cavalier, who could really blame him? He’d had a miserable childhood.

Starsky hadn’t been there - - the wise and sheltering older brother helping Nicky navigate through life’s rough spots. No matter how many times or how many ways he’d tried to rationalize that truth, it always ended in guilt. He hadn’t been there to look out for Nicky, steering him in the right direction. Instead, because of his own rebellious youth, he’d been shipped off to his uncle in California when his brother was only eight.

Nicky had adored him then, but the last thing he’d cared about was a little brother’s fawning adulation. He’d been too focused on his own pain - - angry, reckless and wild, pissed at the world for the loss of his father. He’d vented that hostility in the streets, running with the wrong crowd, always one step shy of some blatantly criminal act. His uncle had eventually made him recognize and come to terms with his self-destructive behavior. But by the time he came to his senses, the years had gouged a massive gap between him and Nicky.

Starsky had been able to heal his relationship with his mother. She’d always loved him unconditionally, even at his worst. But Nicky was different. The long separation had made them virtual strangers with shockingly contrasting value systems. Nicky was out for the quick buck and easy score - - the most for the least effort. He craved instant gratification, and if he had to trample someone along the way to get what he wanted, he thought nothing of it. Plain and simple, he was a consummate survivor. A skilled game player who thought nothing of changing convictions to suit the whim of the moment. Beneath the bluster and showy façade, Starsky truly believed Nicky was redeemable. He could overlook the egotistical ramblings and thoughtless remarks. He owed his brother that much.

But Hutch was another story.

Starsky turned one ear to his brother’s tale of making it with a cocktail waitress during intermission at some pricey New York play, while glancing unobtrusively at his partner.

“This chick was hot, Davey! She couldn’t get my zipper down fast enough.”

From the corner of his eye, Starsky saw Hutch’s mouth strain in a thin line. His partner’s hand was wrapped tightly over the door handle, his knuckles bleached almost as pale as the sun-whitened highlights in his fair hair. Starsky wanted to tell him to ease up but was afraid he’d get only a cold glare or snapped reply in return. Hutch had clearly moved into coiled-tension-mode. Rather than spit out what he was thinking, he’d chosen to seethe quietly, letting his anger fester and build.

Not good, Hutchinson. ‘Specially ‘cuz I don’t wan’ you playin’ pit bull with my kid brother.

There was no question Nicky was high maintenance even for him, but allowances had to be made, and Hutch had to learn to make them. Starsky had adjusted to the multiple and highly complex layers of Hutch’s ever-evolving relationship with his father. The least his temperamental partner could do was to make the same attempt with Nicky.

Starsky knew mixing his brother and his partner was a little like ringing the bell between two Siamese fighting fish. Left alone, they’d be at each other’s throats in a matter of seconds - - or more correctly, Hutch would be at Nicky’s throat, the younger man loudly squealing his innocence.

Sighing, Starsky scuffed damp fingers through his hair. Hutch had the window down, but it still felt overly warm in the car despite the cooler January evenings. Either that or his partner’s stony silence was getting to him, working his fatigue-fried nerves into a growing sweat. He knew he probably should have stayed home and slept off the double shift the way Hutch wanted, but how often did he get to go clubbing with his younger brother? Okay, so he was coughing a little, but that tended to happen when he got tired. Over the last eight months he’d become intimately acquainted with how far he could push his body. He knew his limitations inside and out, and a few hours at a disco weren’t going to land him back in the hospital. It was time Hutch let go of the strings and turned off his instinctive need to hover.

Then again, Hutch was pretty much everything he had. Yes, Starsky loved his mother, but she was clear across the country, and Nicky, well . . . Nicky was his younger brother but, in truth they barely knew each other