The lights come on, a sharp click and a flood of sun flare.
The alarm shuts off, the silence that follows deafening.
Lee barrels into the room, gun in one hand, walkie-talkie in the other, dark face shining with sweat and the smell of charred rubber rolling off his suit. He brings with him an overwhelming sense of having-things-under-control, or nearly so.
“Hal,” he barks, all professionalism.
Hal stands over the prone, gray-clad body of Malcolm Davis. Even with his eyes shut and his nose mashed into the floorboards, Luke recognizes him right away. Hal puts a bare foot on the back of the man’s neck and says, “You got cuffs?”
Lee holsters his walkie and produces some from his waistband.
Hal kneels and cuffs the bomber’s hands together behind his back.
Lee radios to someone: “Suspect is contained. Direct the cops up here to the house.”
Luke isn’t aware of sitting down. Suddenly he’s just parked on his ass in the middle of the hall, someone gripping his arm.
It’s Matt. “You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah…fine.”
~*~
At ten ‘til midnight, Malcolm “Muhammed” Davis, dressed in dark clothes and carrying a dark backpack, crept through the five-acre swath of forest that borders the Maddox property. He moved slowly, cautiously, making as little noise as possible in the dry leaf litter. He lingered for long moments when he reached the tree line, evaluating the security measures put in place. His backpack was heavy with homemade bombs, a knife, and a handgun. In the woods, hidden beneath a rotted log, was the other fifty-grand of his hit payment; he’d brought it with him this time, planning to flee on foot and use the cash to buy a one-way bus ticket to Atlanta.
He noted the sheriffs in their patrol car, and two Breckinridge security guards melting in and out of the shadows around the house.
He moved low, keeping to the deepest shadows, until he reached the black Tahoe parked in front of the carriage house. He set a fuse in one of his homemade bombs, lit it, rolled it beneath the vehicle, and then ran toward the house.
He felt the heat of the explosion licking at his back when he reached the house. Used the chaos as a chance to kick the door in.
This is the timeline they piece together in the kitchen, based on what Davis spilled to them when the FBI showed up to take him off the sheriffs’ hands.
“Is he gonna rat out Maxwell?” Tara asks.
“I feel sure,” Matt says. “It only helps him to confess at this point.”
“Plus what I told the cops,” Luke says, and takes another slug of his heavily-whiskeyed coffee. He shouldn’t mix pain killers and liquor, but the moment calls for a little liquid courage. “That’s two against one.”
Matt gives him a look. “I meant what I said about not wanting to drag you into this, Luke.”
“And I said I’m not letting some criminal get away with trying to kill you just ‘cause I’m a pussy.”
Maddie’s eyes widen.
Tara snorts into her own mug.
“Pardon my French,” Luke adds.
“Someone’s gotta have heard what Maxwell was up to,” Diego says. “Another senator. One of his aides. His wife, maybe.”
“Or mistress,” Mitch puts in. “If he’s got one of those.”
“He can’t hide,” Hal says. “However we get him, we will get him. His life as he knows it is over.”
“Thank you, boys.” Sandy surveys them all in turn, her gaze meaningful, thankful. “I mean it. You’ve…” Her voice, always so sure, catches a little. “You’ve saved my family. I can’t thank you enough for that.”
Luke ducks his head, though he isn’t deserving of her gratitude. He does it for the same reason all the other guys do it: because the full force of Sandy Maddox’s appreciation is something vulnerable and awesome they don’t feel worthy of receiving.
Hal says, softly, speaking for everyone, “It was our pleasure, ma’am.”
~*~
Dawn’s only an hour off when they return to their room. The FBI are scouring the yard, and a whole new Breckinridge crew has arrived, along with yet more Leesburg sheriffs. Hal walks out to survey the damage and comes back looking exhausted. “Try to get a little sleep, if you can,” Sandy urges. Luke expects Hal to shrug that off, get dressed, and throw himself into the chaos. Instead, he leads the way back upstairs and into their borrowed bedroom.
“You’re not going to help?” Luke asks, because he just can’t believe it.
Hal sits down heavily on the side of the bed, like his body is a weight he no longer wants to carry. He rakes a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. “Help with what?” He isn’t looking at Luke, but at his own bare feet, as if he’s just now realized he’s been walking around outside the house without shoes. Little bits of dead grass cling to the soles; a wedge of brown leaf, slimy with melted frost.
“Here.” Luke finds a sock sticking out of the top of his bag and kneels in front of Hal. His own sore muscles protest the move, but he tells them to shut up. He rubs at the bottoms of Hal’s feet, cleans off the moisture and debris. “With the investigation,” he explains. “That seems like the sort of thing you’d do: stay involved.”
“Oh.” Hal sounds spacey. “I’m not a cop.”
“Yeah, but you’re…” He trails off when he lifts his head and finds Hal’s face chalk-white, lower lip caught between his teeth. He sets Hal’s feet back on the rug and says, “Hey, what?”
Hal doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then he drags a breath in through his nose and meet’s Luke’s gaze with the wildness of fear in his own. “Twice,” he says. “Twice my boss almost got killed. He’s my boss, and he’s a husband, and a father, and a US Senator, and he’s a good man. And he almost got killed twice on my watch.”
Luke puts his hands on Hal’s knees. “Almost doesn’t count. From where I’m sitting, you saved his life twice.”
Hal shakes his head. “That’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that both times, the whole time, I was scared out of my mind that something was going to happen to you.” His hand covers Luke’s, and slides up his arm, ghosting over the bruises there. “Something did happen to you,” he says in a small, broken voice.
If he’s honest, Luke is scared shitless to hear his invincible, unflappable best friend talk about fear; to hear him suggest that somehow he hasn’t done enough to protect the people in his charge. But he also understands burden, and the way it eats at all your confidence.
“No,” he says, quiet but firm. “Don’t think about it that way. Matt, and the family, and me – we’re all okay. And that’s because of you. Like I said: almost doesn’t count.”
Hal’s hand tightens a fraction, pressure on the shadowy contusions along Luke’s forearm. “You never would have been here. These are because of me.”
The fear winds tighter in his belly – he really doesn’t like hearing Hal like this – but he says, “No, you listen. These? These are because some crazy asshole let some other crazy asshole pay him to try and kill a senator. A US Senator. Dude, do you understand how much bigger than us that is? Some big powerful Washington guy tried to have another big powerful Washington guy he doesn’t like killed. Tried to have him killed. Because they don’t agree on some bullshit bill or something. And you? Little ol’ you from Roanoke, Virginia, you stopped it. You stopped it hard. So I don’t want to hear a whole lot of ‘I fucked up’ or ‘I almost’ whatever. Okay?”
Hal groans. “You’re full of shit.” But a smile catches at his mouth. He pulls his hand away and rubs at his eyes, though there are no tears.
“I’m a writer,” Luke says. “I’m full of so much shit.”
Hal takes his wrist again and gives it a gentle tug; he wants Luke to come to him. But Luke stays on the floor. Lays his head down on the solid muscle of Hal’s thigh. “No. You sat just like this with me on the worst day of my life. It helps, trust me.”
Hal’s fingers card through his hair. It fee
ls nice. Hal’s hand is steady, for what that’s worth, but he’s always had surer nerves than Luke.
“That was a bad day,” Hal says, remembering, and writer though he is, there’s no darker synonym for “bad” that Luke would ever use. The day of Sadie’s funeral was a bad day.
“It was,” he agrees. “But it helped that you were there.”
Hal’s voice cracks. “I feel like we’ve lost so much time.”
Luke wants to tell him that no, they haven’t. They weren’t ready for this yet, all this raw honesty that lies between them now. But “no” isn’t the truth. There were chances before. Places in their past when they could have reached deeper into the well of their friendship and found the comfort they’d always feared might wreck the gentle, platonic love they already had.
What Luke knows now, though, is that there was nothing that could wreck it. It had just taken a while to figure that out.
“We have time now,” he says.
This time when Hal tugs on his hand, he climbs up onto the bed beside him, leans into Hal’s chest and wraps his arms around him. Hal holds him tight, breathing into the crook of his neck.
“You really scared me,” Luke admits, “being all brave like that.”
Hal manages a choked laugh. “Right back at you.”
Hal moves them around, gets them on their sides, facing each other, covers pulled up over their heads like when they were little boys reading after lights-out. They lie pressed together, toes to nose, the air warming and growing humid in the dark of their little makeshift cave. Hal’s arm loops around Luke’s waist, holding him there. Luke tangles their legs together, snuggles his face into the hollow of Hal’s throat.
“What happens now?” he asks.
Hal sighs. “Now the media circus starts. There’s gonna be arrests, and investigations, and it’s gonna be all over the news for the next six months. Shit, we’re probably gonna be on the news.”
“Maxwell’s going to jail though, right?”
“If there’s any fairness left in the justice system, he will.”
“What are Matt, Sandy, and the girls going to do?”
“Go back to the city,” Hal says, like it’s obvious.
“Matt’s going to run for president one day, isn’t he?”
“I think so.”
Luke gives them both a moment to envision that: the hectic, volatile, vicious process of a primary and then a presidential campaign. No guarantees, and no holds barred. Matt going bare-knuckled with career politicians bent on winning a prize that isn’t a prize at all, but a responsibility to an entire nation, and the rest of the world.
Then Luke pushes all of that aside, and focuses on this moment. The delicious closeness, and the comfort of body heat, and the fantasy realized of being pressed up against Hal.
He stretches his neck in search of Hal’s mouth, kisses along the underside of his jaw, up his chin, and finally finds his lips with his own.
A kiss that starts gentle on Luke’s part, but which Hal quickly deepens and intensifies, nipping at his lips and licking between them. A desperate, hungry, life-affirming kind of kiss: we’re okay, we made it. Kiss me again.
But there’s a sweetness to it, too, the way Hal’s lips cling to his, the way he’s murmuring gentle things in the back of his throat that Luke swallows before they can become proper words.
Hal’s hand migrates down Luke’s spine, presses in at the small of his back and draws them even closer together. In that moment, hip to hip, Luke feels the sudden spark of arousal, the shift from comfort to lust.
Hal kisses his cheek, his ear. “You okay, baby? Are you hurting?” he asks, a low, worried whisper laced with want.
“I’m fine. Just touch me.”
Hal palms his ass, hesitant only a moment, and then bolder, his hand warm and grounding.
Luke flexes his hips, ruts into Hal, and their cocks touch through their pajama pants.
“Oh,” Hal breathes, right in his ear.
“Good ‘oh’?” Luke teases, nibbling at Hal’s throat. Hal’s pulse leaps under his tongue, vibrates through his teeth. He snakes a hand down between them, Hal’s hard stomach against his knuckles, and reaches right down into his pants, touches him for the first time.
“Oh,” Hal says again, breathless. “Shit. Good, it’s good.”
Hal is thick, and warm, hardening in Luke’s palm, skin like velvet. Luke strokes him root to tip, steady pulls like he enjoys himself. Hal’s spine curls and he thrusts into the movement, breath leaving him in a quiet, ragged sound.
“I – I don’t–” he stammers, and Luke freezes.
“Change your mind?” Luke wants to sound wry and resigned, but the question comes out tiny and devastated. “You can–”
Hal kisses him. Hard. “No,” he says, fervently. “Luke, no.” His voice wavers. “It’s just…I don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”
Luke pulls back and strains to see his friend’s eyes through their undercover gloom. Hal looks…nervous. And precious. Absolutely adorable in his uncertainty.
“I want it to be good for you,” he confesses. “And I haven’t…” He winces, his voice just a sliver in the space between their faces. “Show me?”
Luke feels his blood surge, his pulse reckless and throbbing. He kisses Hal again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll show you.”
He urges Hal onto his back, and he goes down easy, totally compliant and trusting, a small act that makes Luke’s eyes sting. Sex has always been either cold, or furious in his past. The men he’s hooked up with timid, like maybe they weren’t completely sold on their own sexuality, or aggressive, like they were supposed to be out-manning one another.
But Hal is nothing but sweet now, reaching up to cup his face, drawing him down for another kiss. Luke can feel the energy and arousal running in currents beneath his skin, but Hal wants him to take the lead here. Show me. No one’s ever, ever said that to Luke before, and he can’t believe how much it touches him.
He lets Hal steer the kiss and props himself up on one arm, reaching between them with the other. His aches and pains and soreness fade into the periphery, pale in comparison to the red wash of want that floods his veins.
His shoves down first his own pants, and then Hal’s, fumbling with the elastic waistbands because his hand trembles, and then finally they’re both bare, and touching one another.
Hal gasps into their kiss. “God…”
Luke gives him a few strokes and then aligns their cocks, wraps his hand around both. It’s dry, but it’s them, and they’re together, and so it’s electric, shocks rippling through his pelvis and up his spine, bottom to top.
“Here, gimme your–” Before he can finish the question, Hal’s hand is there too, both of them gripping. And Luke starts an easy rocking motion with his hips, grinding them together, pumping with his hand.
Hal surges beneath him, a wave, tightly coiled and ready to come apart. He tips his head back to breathe and he’s the most beautiful thing Luke’s ever seen: shirt rucked up, stomach carved in stark relief by the predawn light, pecs clenching and tendons leaping in his neck.
He increases the pace, panting now.
“Oh,” Hal says. “Oh, oh–” And he comes, hot wetness on their hands, their stomachs.
His expression – total reverence, mouth parted, eyes trained on Luke like he’s the best thing in the world – and the slick heat send Luke tumbling over the edge after him. His arm gives out, the soreness and tension overwhelming in the aftermath. Hal catches him, holds him on his chest, the sticky mess gluing them together at their stomachs and hips.
Hal pets him in a mindless way that’s intimate for its unselfconsciousness. Through his hair, down his neck, across his back. Their heartbeats seem to touch, through bone and flesh and damp cotton shirts.
After a moment, Hal says, “I promise I can last longer than that. How embarrassing.”
“Well, you were a little excited,” Luke teases. Meaning the job, the bomber, the take-down on the front lawn.<
br />
But quietly, lovingly, Hal says, “Yeah, I was,” his fingers buried in Luke’s hair. And Luke thinks he means them, and together, and finally.
19
“Home sweet home,” Hal says as he pushes the apartment door open, and that’s what it feels like, in this moment: home.
Luke follows him in, carrying only his messenger bag because Hal had insisted (the life of an invalid is rapidly getting on Luke’s very last nerve), breathing deep the clean-closet smell of a place that hasn’t been lived in for almost three weeks. It’s possibly the best thing he’s ever smelled.
In the wake of finding Davis, the Maddoxes decided to stay in Leesburg for a couple weeks and let the worst of the media storm blow over before they came back to the city. Sandy insisted that Luke and Hal stay until Luke was “better,” a state she only just deemed him this morning. Luke didn’t feel that hiding out was necessary…until he caught sight of the news van trying to creep up the driveway. Lee got Channel Five turned around fast, but it was only the first of dozens of attempts. Calls came in to the house, big name TV journalists looking for the first scoop. Luke had inquiring emails stacking up on his phone, and a few calls to boot, interviewers wanting to talk to the “star witness.” He sat quietly hyperventilating in the library after talking to CNN for ten minutes one day, until Hal found him and pressed a hot coffee mug into his hand. “Ignore them,” he instructed.
They stayed in Leesburg for as long as possible.
“I can carry my own shit, you know.”
Hal relocks the doors and lifts both heavy totes to carry them into the bedroom. “Are you going to be this much of a pain in the ass every time I do something nice for you?” he calls over his shoulder. The duffels hit the rug with a thump and Hal returns, in the process of shrugging off his coat. He’s in a baggy red sweater and jeans, and Luke silently laments the fact that this is Hal’s last day looking like a comfortable, rumpled L.L. Bean model before he goes back to work, and suits, and ties, and firearms tomorrow.
Walking Wounded Page 27
