by J. Calamy
It’s the bloody gift that keeps on giving. One misstep. One single misstep and my whole life becomes a series of bloody doctors.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. That was just the pain talking. It wasn’t like him to be maudlin. The landmine that took his legs had also put him on the path he walked now. The private jet, the villa in Shan, the yacht in Singapore, not to mention Scimitar herself, cruising out somewhere beyond the Straits…the cars. Maybe he could get in a race or two in Singapore? He pulled out his phone and made a note to have the Bugatti sent from Macau. As usual, the thought of racing cheered him immeasurably. The plane banked slightly before leveling off. They were well on their way. Below them, just visible through the gathering clouds, he could see the blaze of the warehouse. It would likely take half the neighborhood with it. Chiang Rai was in for a rough night.
He stood, pulled off his suit jacket, and hung it on one of the other chairs. He undid his tie and hung it up as well. Next came the underarm holster and the big gun. Those he placed on another table; he could clean it once he was royally stoned. He dropped back into his seat with a grunt and prepared his pipe. The lighter he cooked the dope with was custom to the process and had his sun crest etched into the steel. He hummed snatches of songs, trying to keep the pain at bay long enough to get his pipe going. His hip was yowling at him and so was his right knee. Luckily, he was an old hand, and soon enough the little ball of opium was smoldering, tucked into its nook in his pipe.
And this from my own fields! Damn it all, Theroux stole from my private stash—can’t fault his courage there.
By the time he took the first long breath he was stretched out in the reclined seat, his body sinking slowly down. The pain slipped away, and he grunted in relief. Soon enough he was floating in a haze, letting his body check out. He was too strict and too canny of opium’s effects to lean heavily on it. But he had to admit—as the pain drained away, replaced by a muted pleasure—it was bloody tempting.
Six hours, he thought muzzily.
Six hours and I’ll be coherent enough to get to Jeanne’s. Do hope she is home. I miss her terribly. The lads are right: I need to get laid. Make me less of a bastard. Damn Russ, I didn’t want to think about Ramona today. I wonder how she is? What time is it in Miami right now?
He tried to look at his watch but couldn’t make heads or tails of it and gave up. Six hours without thinking. Surely he could take that long?
Chapter Two
After a completely fruitless hour of wandering, Nick left the botanical gardens and turned back toward the embassy. He was still deep in shock and barely aware of his surroundings. Napier Street merged with Holland Avenue and Nick crossed, squinting in the blazing sun. He tried to think of what to do, where he would be sent. If they would send him home.
God, please no. I can’t go home. Whatever else happens. I can’t go back.
Nick decided to stay in the shade and went a little farther on Holland. He could cross Minden Street instead. A quick glance showed no cars coming and Nick stepped into the road.
Screaming brakes spun Nick around. He tried to dodge as a black and red supercar bore down on him. He wasn’t quite fast enough, and it clipped his knee, flipping him onto his back. His shoulder hit the road with a flare of pain.
The car, its brakes smoking, veered across the road, scraping the concrete barrier that blocked the drainage ditch. Nick propped himself up on his elbows, trying to understand what happened. The car was a Bugatti, he noticed, trying to gather his wits. There were lots of supercars in Singapore. It had been unbelievable at first. But Nick didn’t think he had seen one of these before. It was red and black and shone like a mirror in the glare. Nick sat up, rubbing his shoulder.
The driver’s door opened and a huge man hauled himself free of the cockpit. He was silhouetted against the sun, a giant from a fairy tale. His face was hard to see in the glare.
“Bloody hell! Are you all right?” The giant said in a deep English voice. Nick shook himself. All his anger from earlier—the confrontation with Peterson, the threats of being sent God knows where, and now this? This—
Nick popped to his feet like a jack in the box.
“You fucking asshole!” It felt good to shout, to curse. “You almost killed me!”
“What in the blazes? You’re the one who stepped into the road!” The giant shot back. He stood a foot or more taller than Nick, and now that he was out of the sun, Nick saw his shaved head and face covered in tattoos under a pair of aviator sunglasses. Despite the smooth scalp, he had a couple days of scruff: dark-brown shot through with gray. He was in jeans and a black T-shirt, torn at the collar. A patch of gauze was taped into the crook of his elbow—a flash of white on his reddish-brown skin.
“Bullshit! How fast were you going that you didn’t even see me? This is a pedestrian crossing, you fucking asshole!” Nick’s temper was billowing out like a thunderhead. Here he could stand up for himself. Here he didn’t have to take whatever bullshit someone handed him. Here, his anger was righteous, and it felt good.
“You stepped into the road!” the giant shouted. “Stupid American, you looked the wrong bloody way!”
“Fuck you! This is a fucking pedestrian crossing! It don’t matter what way I looked!”
Nick gave the giant a shove. It did exactly nothing but felt good enough that Nick was ready to do it again when a big SUV came roaring up, driving onto the sidewalk to cut behind him. He took in no more than it was black and had tinted windows before the doors burst open and men with guns were suddenly filling the street.
“Step back! Get down! Get down! Get down on the ground!” Voices barked from all sides as Nick whirled to face them.
“I said get on the ground! Get your hands up!”
Looking down the barrel of the snub-nosed machine guns pointed at him, Nick did exactly that. He dropped to his knees, hands in the air, panting with fear.
“What the fuck? I didn’t do anything!”
His vision blurred again—adrenaline making the road wobble.
No. Not now. I’m here. I’m safe. I’m here. I’m safe. The idea of being safe with a gun to his head was absurd. Still—the road steadied, and he stayed in the present. The completely illogical present.
What the fuck is happening?
Nick forced himself to breathe as an older man got out of the front passenger seat and went directly to the giant.
“You all right then, Boss?”
“I’m fine, Bishop, fine.”
“And the car, eh?” Bishop said.
“Don’t start…”
Bishop ran a hand over the side of the hood.
“Look at that scrape! Oww—my baby! What the hell were you doing, eh?”
“Your baby? What?” the giant barked. “And I was trying not to run over this stupid American!”
“It’s a pedestrian crossing! Didn’t you see him?”
“No! Listen. David—” The giant pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I told you this was a stupid idea!” Bishop said.
“It’s my car! Why can’t I drive my car?”
“Look at it! And you! What if you’d crashed? You’ve just been out of the hospital for—”
“Totally unrelated!”
“Your safety is my—”
“Oh, stop it! You sound like an old hen.”
“You act like this is Luzon! Singapore isn’t for—
The argument went on in this vein. Bickering and shouting and pointed fingers. They switched to Malay before slipping back into English again. Nick wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. He glanced up at the men holding guns to his head. No, they were real…and definitely not police. They were all in suits and earpieces. Nick’s American brain provided “secret service.” But that didn’t seem right either. Their weapons were well worn and mismatched. The giant sounded like something out of Masterpiece Theatre, but everyone else seemed to have some other accent. Australia? The Aussie embassy was next door—Nick knew plen
ty of Aussies—this wasn’t it. He shook his head to clear it.
“Please?” he said to the men with guns. “I’m sorry. I’m real sorry. Please let me go?”
The giant decided he had enough.
“Stop,” he snapped and turned away from Bishop. He saw Nick, shaking from head to foot, despite the amused looks of the men holding him at gunpoint.
“Bloody hell, Russell!” he said. “Why is the American still here? Let him go on his way, for Chrissake! He wasn’t attacking me.”
“Oww, little ginger looked ready to throw hands to me, Boss,” the man said but he was cracking a wide grin, stretching the scar on his lip.
The giant threw up his hands and stormed over. He grabbed Nick’s shirt and hauled him up.
“Look… I’m terribly sorry about all this,” he said. “The lads are a little…excitable.” Nick slapped the man’s hand away.
“Don’t you fucking touch me! What in the hell is your problem?” Nick asked.
“Just a little misunderstanding,” the giant said. “No harm done.” He didn’t even glance back before turning to the sports car and getting in.
Bishop gave Nick a long hard look, rubbing his chin like he was thinking about where to stash his body. But the Bugatti screamed to life and swerved between them before tearing off down the road. Bishop cursed and jumped into the SUV, which peeled off in the Bugatti’s wake.
“Just a misunderstanding?” Nick said, watching them go. “What an asshole. I hope you smear your British ass all the way along the West Coast Highway!” He shook his fist after the car and turned for home.
*
Nelson Graves broke all of Jeanne Kyaw’s rules for herself. He was neither submissive nor sweet, despite his impeccable manners. He knew far too much about her. He never obeyed her in anything. And worst of all: she was absolutely, passionately attached to him. If she were not so sure that he felt the same way about her, she would have him killed. Not that it was possible, given who he was and who he surrounded himself with, but the temptation would have been there.
Now was a perfect example: he had her nearly upside-down, his face buried between her legs, thighs draped over his broad shoulders. He was up on his knees, which was complicated enough with two artificial limbs, but he managed it with perfect balance.
Jeanne had already come once, but apparently Graves had decided she was going to come again. He was diligently pushing her closer, and damn any trace of dignity or respect. He pushed one of her legs over and down, spreading her impossibly wide. She could feel his leaking cock smearing on her back and the idea of one of her usual little submissives seeing her like this pushed her right over the edge. Graves clamped down on her clit with his full lips, and she came with a graceless yell, her hips bucking uselessly in his arms.
He fumbled a condom on and slid between her thighs, burying his cock into her sensitive channel without giving her so much as a chance to catch her breath. But he was gentle, so gentle, kissing her and murmuring endearments.
“Oh, Jeanne, how I’ve missed you,” he said. “I wish you would come home, dearest.” He rolled his hips in that way she loved, barely thrusting in and out. He was so thick she felt like he took up her entire pelvic floor. Every upward roll pushed into the nerves at the top of her channel, her G-spot almost aching from the compressions, but his hips would come down again and push on her clit. Back and forth between the two, and in no time at all, she was moaning and thrashing in his grip.
He was talking to her in a mix of French, English, and Mandarin, pouring out all the things she needed to hear—things she never allowed herself to even think with other lovers—that he loved her, wanted her.
“My darling, when will you give up and come home with me? Let me keep you, Jeanne; let me be that man for you. I’ll make you a queen—give you anything you want. Anything, anything…”
She came like that, between his rocking hips and his mouth at her ear, and, oh, she could kill him; he knew her too well. The danger of even being seen with him, even knowing his name…that he could destroy everything she built with a word…
He came as well with a deep rattling groan, like a man coming home, like a man settling into his own bed after a long journey. She could feel his cock flexing as he emptied himself into the condom. Maybe I should, maybe I should say yes the next time he asks me to marry him, have his child. The images floating in her dazed mind, of carrying his child, living on the ship, back in Myanmar… A baby boy, brown-skinned and almond-eyed…
She sighed and shook herself with a little laugh. Yes, marry Nelson Graves, a person who doesn’t exist—I would have to disappear—or pretend my child was fatherless. I would never be able to see my family. So much for Myanmar, so much for my business…
“What’s so funny?” he murmured, kissing her cheek. He rolled to his side and lit them a joint.
“You get me to think such impossible things,” she said ruefully. “Then I think of the practicalities, and I pop right out of your web.”
He laughed, understanding exactly what she meant.
“I don’t think I’ll ever stop asking you,” he said. “But heaven help us both if you ever said yes!”
Chapter Three
Nick walked slowly, his knee and shoulder aching. He didn’t take the bus; he needed the whole walk just to slow the shaking in his hands.
“Maybe this is all a dream?” he thought. His phone buzzed. It was Owen Morris.
Morris: why is Peterson on my ass about you?
Seeing Peterson’s name was like ice water down his back. He had forgotten his predicament in the incident with the giant. Now Nick chewed his lip while he thought about what to say.
NICK: He says I gotta stick to you like glue—do everything you say this week.
Morris: JFC—why? What did you do?
NICK: No idea. But I’m already detailed to you, anyway, right?
Morris: Yes—it will be fine.
NICK: You home?
Morris: Nah—My turn to get beer
Owen Morris and Lena Jarrett were good housemates. They were both quiet, Lena because she was having a torrid affair with one of the Marines and Morris (Never Owen, always Morris) because he did nothing but play video games with his headphones on all evening. He was tall, obsessively clean, something held over from his days in the Navy, and made excellent chicken out on their patio grill.
Lena and Nick frequently had coffee together in the embassy gardens. Nick was crazy about her. She was beautiful, ambitious, and hard as nails. The only woman in the intel branch, she sometimes told Nick she felt like she was under a constant microscope.
“No offense, Nick,” she said when they first became friends. “The fact that you are such a low-level cog means I can be myself around you.” Nick was not insulted at all. He found their little household, which included the Marine, whose name was Robbie, and the occasional neighbor was the exact amount of social interaction he wanted or needed. No more, no less. Nick reached their little apartment and closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief.
“Okay, now you can fall apart all you want,” he muttered, heading up the narrow stairs. He heard voices as he turned the landing. The acrid smell of cheap pot caught his nose. Lena was home and apparently had Robbie over. Robbie was younger than Lena and wrapped tight around her perfectly manicured finger.
“You’re beautiful.” Nick heard Robbie’s breathless voice.
“Aw, baby, you’re so sweet. I’m so lucky to have you. Do that again…”
Nick felt an unexpected twist in his chest. He put a hand over it and rubbed, like a cramp. Images of Amber came into his mind, sweet and dark-haired. The ring he’d bought her. The promise of a better one. But that memory only brought the others. The last time he saw her—she was coming out of a restaurant, smiling over her shoulder at someone. She looked radiant until she saw him. Then fear and disgust had transformed her face. Loathing. The same as everyone else.
Nick shook himself—pushing the memory away. Intrusive th
ought. Breathe and focus on something where you are. He squeezed the wooden rail under his hand until his knuckles went white. The wood. The smooth solid wood. He breathed in again. Out. In and out. And again. He slipped up the rest of the stairs to his room. It had been a long time since a memory that strong had caught him unaware.
Today is the day for it, I guess.
Nick wanted to lie down until dinner. He hung up his clothes, groaning at the road dirt on the back of his shirt. It would have to go to the cleaners today. Which meant he had to borrow a shirt again. Damn it. Time to lie down and forget the entire day. The dream came immediately. The screech of brakes, the snap of branches. He was on the side of the highway in the dark, huge trucks roaring by, looking for the van down in the brush. He ran up and down, trying to see but blinded by headlights, slipping in blood and rainbow-sheened oil, hearing the little boy’s screams… Peterson was there, yelling at him to find them! Help them! What are you doing, Erickson? He skidded down the bank, as he had in real life. But instead of the blue van, it was the red-and-black Bugatti. The little boy in the red coat stood to the side, staring. The giant was the one impaled on the steering column, not the father whose gurgling death haunted Nick’s usual dreams.
“Stupid American,” the giant said.
Nick woke with a shout. It was dark and he had tangled himself in the sheet on his bed, nearly falling off the edge. He lay back, trying to breathe, working on his grounding exercises. The dream slipped away, breath by breath, until Nick felt solid enough to get up.
“I’d rather be with CIA any day…” Morris was saying as Nick came and sat down. Morris was cooking and Robbie was picking stems out of their little stash. Nick helped himself to a beer but waved off Robbie’s offer of pot.
“So, join,” Robbie said. They were talking about the drug war of course.
“Morris ain’t stupid,” Lena said. “He’s better off with us. Even if Peterson is a bitch to work for.”
“Thank you,” Morris said, waving his tongs at them. “Besides, those teams are a total sausage party.”
