by J. Calamy
That was it, wasn’t it? Being with Nick could be good. Really good.
Chapter Ten
The ship was a kicked anthill. Bishop and Russ both came running out as soon as the car reached the marina garage. Bishop ripped the door open.
“Where the fuck have you been? We got trouble!”
Graves glanced at Nick, then stood.
“What happened?”
“Hong Kong has blown up, and we couldn’t find you! The ship is gone! Jesus, you don’t even have your phone on you?” Bishop was furious.
“Stinton and his lads are already moving, Boss. It may be too late,” Russ said, handing Graves a tablet. “The ship’s been taken. Stinton’s on the run. It’s been over an hour…”
Nick was standing by the car, hands shoved in his pockets, unsure what to do. Graves scrolled through the tablet, the glow casting deep shadows on the lines of his face.
“Graves?”
“Not now, Nick!” Graves turned to run up the gangplank with Bishop.
“I’ll take you back to Jeanne’s,” Russ said kindly. “Best be there tonight, lad.”
*
Graves paced back and forth, making call after call, organizing every possible effort—but it was too late. Whatever mole was operating in Hong Kong—the port agents had come down on their ship the moment it cleared the channel—nearly catching Joe Stinton and his lads red-handed. A shoot-out started before the local police chief, who reported to Louie Tang but was in Graves’s pocket, could get there to diffuse the situation. All because Graves hadn’t been where he was supposed to be. All because Graves thought he could take his hand off the tiller.
He finally managed to catch Stinton on the phone. He had made his way to one of their safe houses in Macau, taking the ferry with some laborers for the casinos.
“Russ said they looked everywhere for you,” he said. “I’m sorry, Boss. They were on us so fast. It’s like they knew exactly which ship. Chow is dead. So is his brother. Benitez is shot… I think he is home.”
“Anyone caught?” Graves asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. A fiasco. An absolute disaster. What this would do to his credibility in Luzon?
“No, Boss. I only had three with me, trying to keep things quiet?” Stinton sounded exhausted. His voice was slurred.
“All right, Joe,” Graves said. “I’m glad you’re all right. You get Alex Benitez; go to Sri Lanka. Lay low and let’s see what Louie Tang does. I must get to Luzon, see how I can move more product there. Thank God, it was just dope. Plenty of that.”
“Okay, Boss,” Stinton said. “I’ll reach out next week.”
Graves hung up and made a special effort not to throw his phone into the sea.
“What now?” Bishop asked.
“Get us out to sea,” Graves snapped. “Make for Luzon.” He was furious, but the anger was all self-directed.
You fool! You stupid bloody fool! Sneaking out like a boy! Running off and trying to impress someone you know bloody well you can’t be with. Fool! Twice-damned fool! Six million euros in heroin lost, not to mention what would have happened if Louie Tang caught Stinton. Did you learn nothing from last time?
Last time. Ramona. No. He was not going to think about Ramona now. He glanced out the window. It was nearly dawn. His hip was throbbing in time with his pulse.
Loyalty is earned! It is you who has been disloyal! It is you! You left us!
He showered and collapsed in his chair and lit his pipe, deciding that getting well and truly stoned was the best way to get the images of Mona, Theroux, and Nick out of his head. He dialed the steward for an ice pack while he cooked the opium. He was ready to check out.
“Let me have one day where I am not obsessing about that stupid boy,” he muttered to himself.
“He isn’t stupid,” Rook said. She came into the room, carrying his ice pack. “But you are. I’m worried about you, Sonny.”
“What do you mean?” Graves said. Rook sat on the arm of his chair, looking down at him. She put a hand on his brow. It felt good, cool from the ice.
“You’re tied in knots about Theroux, and about what happened in Chiang Rai,” she said softly. “And then you’re pushing the little ginger away. He’s sweet. He’s funny. He makes you happy. What is happening?”
Graves settled the ice pack against his hip, tapping his signet against the side of his pipe while he thought.
He and Charlotte Rook had an intensely personal relationship. While the Kiwis had all been together in the service, were brothers in every sense—Rook, an MI-6 sniper who joined them during their last tour, was closer to Graves in many ways. It was her lap he cried in and her ear that heard his innermost workings. The dope was kicking in, though, making it hard to focus.
“I had such a good time with him, Charlotte. But then I was punished for it. I took my hand off the wheel and—”
“You simply cannot think this way,” Charlotte said gently. “You’re alone too much. It isn’t good for you. It isn’t wrong to want someone, Sonny.”
“You know what I mean,” Graves said. “What I want doesn’t matter.”
“That isn’t true,” she said. Graves blinked at her, trying to understand her words. She said more; he could see her mouth moving, but he couldn’t follow. He dropped down…down…down…the high twisting his spine in pleasure as much as the absence of pain.
Luzon. See Guzman. Doctors. Plan an answer. Hong Kong. Maybe Bangladesh? Did we really go to a secret bar and play piano? Raced my car. What a car… He liked it. A sweet boy. God, that was fun.
*
Nick lay awake, thinking about the evening and smiling to himself. While the night had ended badly, or at least…disappointingly? Still. It had been a great experience. And Graves. He had almost kissed him. The idea that he would kiss a man stirred a whirlpool of emotions in Nick’s belly. He tried to think if there had ever been other men he was attracted to. His swim coach? Maybe a little. But his coach had been a two-time Olympian. Maybe it was just admiration. This…this felt different. When Nick thought about Graves kissing him, his heart began to speed up and his breathing got shallow.
“That’s lust,” he said to the ceiling in his room. “You got hard, you rubbed your face on him. That’s lust.”
Nick shivered, rubbing his cheeks where they ached from smiling. He hoped whatever had happened at the end, something about a ship, that he would see Graves again soon. He wondered if he would feel the same way sober. Deciding that was a problem for next time, he snuggled down to sleep.
He dreamt the accident dream, of course. Perhaps if it were the same dream every time, it could get predictable; he could learn to adjust. But the dreams seemed to have a strange inner consistency, developing their own plot lines and changing stories.
The little boy in the red jacket sometimes lived. He walked up to Nicholas and talked about his parents, about their life while Nicholas frantically tried to pull the woman’s broken body from the van. Or the dream would be about something altogether different, like swim meets or college. But the boy would be there—on the side of the pool, in the lecture hall, lurching around the background, dragging his crushed body. Or the father would be beside Nicholas on the train, his blood drip, drip, dripping on the floor.
This time Nicholas was standing at the bus stop closest to Father Anderson’s house. The dead boy, shedding chunks of gore as he walked, accused Nicholas of forgetting them. Of thinking he was free. His red jacket dripped and oozed.
“You don’t get to forget us and be happy,” the boy said. Nicholas spun around and backed away in horror. The people around them screamed and ran, pointing at Nicholas with disgust and fear. Nick woke crouched on the floor with his hands over his ears. He collapsed against the side of the bed, gasping for breath.
“I can’t forget you,” he rasped. “I can’t. I won’t.”
*
After a long swim to clear his head, Nick told Jeanne about the race over breakfast.
“And so he raced on the highway—
blasting out of the KPE tunnel—Graves creamed them,” Nick said, gesturing with his hands.
“Creamed?” she asked, a little frown on her face for the new word. “Pass the butter, cheri.”
“It means he won big. He beat them to dust,” Nick said, handing over the little crystal dish with its perfect slivers of butter.
“Oh, of course he did,” Jeanne said. “Was he racing the Lamborghini?”
“A Bugatti something,” Nick said, unable to remember the rest of the car’s name.
“The one he ran you over in?”
“Almost ran me over, yes. I guess he is a part of these race clubs?” Nick helped himself to more coffee.
“Graves? Oh yes. He is an incredible driver—though he does smash up the cars more than Bishop would like…” Jeanne smiled as she buttered her toast.
“Smash them?” Nick asked.
“Well, yes,” Jeanne said with a laugh. “It enrages Bishop to no end. How much of the race did you see?”
“All of it?” Nick said through a mouthful of croissant.
“Oh, where did you watch from? I know Anatoly Morozov was there,” Jeanne asked, stirring honey into her tea.
“I don’t know—I was in the car,” Nick said with a shrug. Jeanne caught Nick’s eyes, her hands paused in their task.
“You were in the car?”
“Yes?”
“With Graves?”
“Yes.”
“He let you stay in the car when he raced?” Jeanne asked with an incredulous stare.
“Yes, why do you look like that?” Nick asked.
“Well, my goodness, he must like you!” Jeanne said. “No one but Bishop has ever seen him drive in one of those races.”
“Maybe,” Nick said. He considered saying something about Leon’s but didn’t. No matter how the night ended, Graves had been happy. And deserved his privacy.
When he didn’t hear from Graves or anyone else in the crew for a few days, Nick swung by the marina on his way to an errand and saw the deep-sea slip empty.
They were gone.
*
Graves spent four days in Luzon, sorting the question of the missing dope and organizing shipments of arms, mostly of the shoulder-fired variety his contacts seemed to be snapping up these days. Bishop forced him to see Dr. Gomez to have his leg checked. The ache of the last few weeks was only getting worse.
“I think some shrapnel has moved in there,” Gomez said, cradling Graves’s thigh. His fingers were deft and gentle, but Graves absolutely loathed the process. The left leg ended just above the knee, and the scarring from the shrapnel made strange shapes and patterns—the highest one up by his belly button. He knew there were more pieces in there. This meant surgery again. The pieces that could pop out through his skin already had over the years. Gomez said he would call Simpson—see if they could come to Singapore for an operation. Graves agreed glumly, trying not to think about it.
“You need to quit smoking so much dope, my lord,” Gomez said.
“You let me worry about all that,” Graves said. The last thing he needed was a lecture now.
In the end, he left the Luzon team and took the helicopter to Scimitar. She was almost out of range, but once he stepped into his own room and felt the swelling waves, he realized she was what he needed. After scrubbing down in his own bloody shower, he collapsed in his own bloody chair and lit his own bloody pipe and smoked his own bloody dope until he was out of his own bloody mind.
He wanted to get back to Singapore, knowing he should do the opposite, go back up the mountains, disappear into Myanmar for a time. Especially with Hong Kong in such an uproar. But the chance to coax Mac into the open was too good to pass up. That was reason enough to go back. Freckles and big blue eyes had nothing to do with it.
Days later, he realized if the idea was not to think of the American twink, then bloody hell he was failing miserably. Here he was, in his customized shower, again fisting his shaft, thinking of wide shoulders and that filthy mouth of his. He remembered pushing Nick against the car when they left the bar, how the boy had pushed back, rubbing his face against his chest. Nick had full lips and Graves was having no trouble at all imagining them wrapped around his thick cock. In fact, he was having trouble not thinking about it. He had trained hard, fighting with the lads until Bishop told him to fuck off and Russ threatened to cut off the resupplies. Charlotte Rook took him up on some shooting practice, pinging off coconuts floating out in the water. But Graves was so distracted he only hit one in five until she laughed him off the deck.
And still here he was in the shower, again, thinking about Jeanne, or trying to—but then images of the pale-skinned boy, with his strong shoulders and long legs intruded again. When Nicholas had rubbed against him, Graves’s mind had nearly short-circuited. He stroked himself, remembering.
Mine. Oh God, I’ll be his first and only. He’ll fit me and only me. He made his fist tighter, pushing into it, imagining Nick’s hole spreading, barely able to take him… When was the last time I had a man? Three years? Carlos, the Columbian come to negotiate shipments of heroin. Opposite of Nick, that one—more like me. Christ, I beat him black and blue. Nick though… I’d be so careful with him. Graves’s mind had no trouble imagining it. Nick, with those miles of pink and cream skin, arching up into Graves’s hands. Smiling up at me, wanting me, the real me, as much as I want him. He came, imagining Nick’s face.
Chapter Eleven
The bar had a long line, watched over by a huge bouncer under an umbrella that covered half the alleyway. The door to the place was open, and the smell of beer and wet jackets wafted out toward Graves and Bishop as they eased around the bouncer and in. It was barely eight o’clock, and the place was starting to get loud.
“I found this place through the lads at the embassy,” Bishop said. He was in street clothes—jeans and boots and a bomber jacket beaded with rainwater. Graves had agreed to jeans, but still wore a good shirt and jacket. He had standards, by God. A few days of scruff on his face and head would have to do for coverage.
I’m two bloody meters and shaped like a brahma bull—I can’t hide anyway.
“It’s perfect, David. He would have loved it,” Graves said. It had been a terrible week. They needed a break. Sadly, this wasn’t it.
They pushed into the main part of the bar. It was dark and crowded. There were American Marines and British sailors and plenty of longshoremen from the docks. Music played from dusty speakers barely audible over the scrum of expats at the bar. No one looked at them twice.
It was ideal. This was a tough anniversary for them. It was one they preferred to honor in public. Being taller than everyone helped in this case—Graves saw Russ waiting in the corner and nudged David that way. They maneuvered their way through the crowd of off-duty soldiers and sailors to the back and slid into the round booth beside their friend. There were four drinks already set on the table.
They all hesitated a moment, staring at the fourth glass.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” Russ said finally. Graves felt a squeeze in his chest. Of all the losses they had suffered over the years, it was fair to say this one had cut them the hardest. No, they would never get over it.
Colin. Their stupid, gallant, big-wave surfing friend had lost his fight with his demons and taken his own life two years ago—ten years after his last deployment to Iraq.
“I miss him,” Graves said finally. He held up his beer. “To Colin.”
“To Colin,” the others echoed and they all drank.
“Do you remember the cockroach caper?” Graves asked. The memory had surfaced as he was waking, untangling himself from Jeanne’s long limbs. Even his subconscious mind had been aware that it was Colin’s day. The other two grinned. Russ tried not to snort his drink.
“Or the time he took that American Jeep…”
The stories came like clockwork, and so did the beers, brought by a pretty young thing who tried flirting with Graves before she caught the table’s mo
od. Now, she just kept the beers coming. The three men, the lone survivors of their unit—told stories, laughed, and if a few tears were shed—no one saw or commented.
“He was the best of us,” Russ said, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes. Graves slung an arm over his friend’s shoulder. Russ and Colin had been frequent co-conspirators.
“Kept us from a lot of stupidity,” Graves agreed. “Imagine if he had been there in Dhaka.”
“We would never have done that police station,” Bishop agreed. “What a cock-up.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Graves started. “It was the—”
“Oi!” Russ said. He banged his elbow into Graves’s ribs, cutting him off and nearly spilling his beer. “Look!”
“What?”
“It’s the American!” Russ said and elbowed Graves again. Graves flinched as he saw the familiar mop of red curls. Nick was there with an older woman and Morris, the security deputy.
“Who’s the bird?” Bishop asked.
“That’s Elena Jarrett from Special Branch. Intelligence,” Russ said darkly. Graves didn’t care. The Americans were not their problem. Well, Thomas Macauley was their problem. But that was a whole other issue. And in the meantime—
Christ. Why is he here? And he has no right to look so good. Nick was in jeans and a tight gray T-shirt, dappled with rain. He must be furious with me. I left him hanging; we had such a nice time too.
He stared at his hands, hoping Russ wouldn’t notice, or Bishop wouldn’t comment—anything. Sadly, Bishop and Russ were on to him. As always.
“You should take him somewhere nice, Boss,” Russ said, his scar making his grin as lopsided as ever. Graves shot him a dirty look.
“Yeah,” Bishop agreed. “I like that kid. And he could use a big, strong, brown—”
“Shut it,” Graves snapped. “N-n-not tonight, lads, please.” And, damn it all, he was starting to stammer. Just when he needed his words, aphasia was going to screw him; wasn’t it? Of course, it was.
Russ and Bishop schooled their faces but they were already drunk, and they knew him too well. And Graves had to admit Nick’s smiling face, the way he was leaned back in his seat, wide shoulders resting on the back of the booth, happy and comfortable— It twisted something in Graves’s chest.
