by J. Calamy
“Stop it,” he said. “You’ll fall over.”
He pushed Nick unceremoniously onto the shower bench and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature with a practiced twist before leaving Nick alone. Nick sat stupefied a moment, letting the water clean off the sweat and stink of fear. He folded over, recognizing the physical reaction from so strong a flashback. His muscles ached and his limbs shook with adrenaline withdrawal. He felt embarrassed and sick.
And, as always, there was grief. Grief for the family he had killed. Always. They were there in his mind, on his conscience, always. So he cried, wrapping his arms around his head and rocking his body until he calmed. He had murdered three innocent people. A family on their way somewhere, minding their business. Was it any wonder he was cursed like this? He didn’t even question being caught in a shootout in a public street. Of course, he was. These things happened to him. Every terrible thing that happened to him was because of this simple fact: he was a murderer. It didn’t matter how far he fled, or how many times he reinvented himself. There was no happy ending for him, no way out of his own head.
It took most of the hot water to pull himself together. He felt drained and empty, as numb as he had in the early days. But numb was all right. Numb would allow him to be around people and not react, or show any signs of what was wrong with him. Numb was hiding.
Nick emerged from the shower to find a T-shirt and a pair of shorts on the toilet seat. The shorts fit, but the shirt was so big it could only be Graves’s. It smelled like pot and good coffee and Nick breathed deeply as he put it on. He paused there, the shirt over his head, pressed against his eyes.
His first thought was me. Getting me out. The first thing he did was cover me. I was never in any danger. Not with him. Not with him and Bishop and Russ.
This was an idea Nick wasn’t used to. Something that had never happened to him. He pulled the shirt down, unsure what to do with the idea of someone protecting him.
He found the man in question waiting for him outside the bathroom, holding a bottle of water. He had changed out of his suit into shorts, old and worn, that hung low on his hips, below the hard barrel of his belly. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and had apparently only started buttoning it since it hung open except for one button on the bottom.
As much as the glimpse of Graves’s big chest with its soft brown hair should have distracted him, not to mention the flash of a gold ring in Graves’s nipple, it was the sight of his legs that stopped Nick in his tracks.
Graves’s left leg ended midthigh, the right midshin. And while his right leg looked ordinary enough, the prosthetic at the base was a gleaming shin and ankle with a complete foot, articulated down to the toes. The left whirred slightly as Graves shifted, looking impossibly futuristic. It had a mix of carbon fiber and metal; Nick had no idea what he was even looking at. Graves’s shorts covered part of the cap, though Nick could see it was painted with the same kinds of markings as his tattoos. The skin above his waistband was a mosaic of scars trailing all the way up his hip. Even as Nick stared, Graves pulled his shirt closed, looking away and shifting again. It was clear the scars bothered Graves almost more than the missing limbs.
“How did you lose them, Graves?” Nick asked. “I never asked you.”
“A landmine, as close as I have ever come to dying, and that is saying something,” Graves said ruefully. He buttoned a few more buttons and tugged the hem of his shorts. “You can ask Bishop about it—he was there.”
He didn’t say anything else, merely handed Nick the bottle and put a large warm hand in the middle of his back while he drank.
Nick finished the bottle and did what felt like the most natural thing in the world. He stepped forward and leaned on Graves, pushing his face into the big man’s chest. His forehead fit right in the opening of his shirt, against his warm skin. He smells good. Must have showered.
Graves’s hand twitched, but then he wrapped his arms all the way around Nick’s shoulders, his breath warm in Nick’s hair.
“Thank you,” Nick mumbled. There wasn’t anything else he could add.
“I’m sorry for putting you in this position,” Graves said.
This position seemed to include everything from the car ride to the shootout to Nick’s flashback to the way they were standing. Nick didn’t comment. He wasn’t ready to share more with the boss yet. He straightened and took a step back. Graves hands slid back down his arms and let go, leaving a trail of goose bumps. He tilted his head to look Nick in the eyes.
“Jeanne is here. We’re already underway. Come onto the deck,” Graves said. “I think we could all use a drink.”
The last of Nick’s terror sank beneath a steady application of Jeanne’s affection and her deadly gin punch. The stars were obscured by clouds, underlit pink and orange by the city. Nick didn’t say anything, not ready to speak yet. Lying back on a deck chair, he listened as they talked about Anatoly Morozov and the attempts on his life and fortune. They seemed to be an accepted feature of the lives of the super-rich. Especially someone like Anatoly, whose palm oil plantations on Timor L’Est were being attacked by insurgents on an almost weekly basis. Graves mixed drinks, talking about various attempts he had heard of.
“You remember when that man came for me in Yangon?” Jeanne said. “Absolutely terrifying. Thank God, Jojo isn’t as easily distracted as some people.”
“I was looking at the hideous sculpture, as you told me to, ma chere,” Graves said, pointing the ice tongs at her. Nick smiled at this but didn’t get sucked into the bickering that followed.
Gradually, he realized the only person with any idea he had suffered “an incident” was Graves, and the man certainly wasn’t talking about it. Nick didn’t even tell Jeanne, letting everyone assume he was rattled by the gunfire and attack. He drew a shaky breath and let it out. He is protecting my privacy. I need to thank him for that too. Maybe this is part of that gentleman thing.
Nick watched sleepily as Tony sprawled on Bishop, the two kissing lazily. It was…strange…to see David Bishop so affectionate and sweet. Tony was also in shorts, and Bishop clearly liked them, sliding his hand up Tony’s thighs any chance he got.
Nick had to look away, staring out at the lights while he considered how he felt about it. Did he want the same? He glanced over at Graves, who had put his glasses back on and sat at the piano, tapping out some quiet songs. He had taken his prosthetics off and was peacefully stoned, balanced on the piano bench and talking to Jeanne. Nick let himself look, really look, trying to imagine it. Could he be with a man? Was that real? He sighed. It didn’t matter.
But he can’t. I mean. He has this multibillion-dollar shipping empire. I’m just some asshole who never even finished college. An ex-con. Nobody. And he’ll find out soon enough. The publicity for him? Head of a huge company has a…boyfriend? Like me? I don’t think so.
It made Nick sad. Which told him everything he needed to know about whether he wanted this to go any further. He rubbed his eyes, trying to understand himself. The adrenaline, the gin, his mind was actively avoiding thinking about what happened. Logic wasn’t exactly top tier at the moment. He wanted… He wanted what? Uncertain, he got up and made his way carefully to sit on the piano bench next to Graves. He didn’t look too closely why. The terror of earlier made it seem right to be tucked into the lee of the big man’s side. It was warm out of the wind, and Graves smelled like sweat and dope and Nick breathed it in. Enjoying it while he could.
He saw Graves’s prosthetics and picked up the shorter of the two. It was heavy and the ankle joint rolled in perfect articulation. Up close Nick could see how the foot could be replaced with other attachments. The foot itself was remarkable. Even the toes could bend.
“This is amazing technology, Graves,” Nick said. “Your legs are really cool.”
Graves slowed his playing, peering down at Nick over the top of his glasses. Jeanne snorted.
“I tell him this but he does not believe me, le con,” she said.
“How do they work?” Nick asked.
“Artificial intelligence, mostly,” Graves said.
“What powers them? Do you have to charge them?”
Graves gave him a tight smile. He shook his head.
“They are powered by the re-resist, re-re—by the movement. They are essentially bionic, respond to my nerves.”
“Let me see,” Nick said and turned sideways. Graves shifted a little and then pushed his left thigh to the side so Nick could see. His neck was dark with embarrassment, but he was staring at Nick, blinking in confusion. One hand was still tapping away, the other braced on the bench, forearm muscle bunched as he balanced.
Nick ran his hand over the cap and up Graves’s thigh. The skin was rough and smooth at once, the scars dipping and crossing one another. They were lighter in some places, darker in others, the reddish undertone of Graves’s skin clear where the scars stretched. They were broken up by small patches of whole skin, with hair and goose bumps, which chased up his muscled forearm as Nick’s fingers dipped between ridges.
“And they connect here?” He traced the caps and their steel rings. “These are electronic too?”
“Implants,” Graves muttered, pulling away again. His voice was rough, and Nick gave him a flat look.
“What are you embarrassed about? This is incredible tech. Incredible… It’s like something out of a science-fiction movie. Do people really care that you don’t have legs?” Nick said. Graves pulled his shorts down over his leg, clearly uncomfortable.
“Some people care a great deal,” he said. “Myself included.” Graves turned back to the piano and played again, the set of his shoulders warning Nick he was done.
Off duty, Russ and Charlotte came up from below and they all sat happily together around the deck. The stewards brought up snacks, crisp rolls, and steamed buns with different sauces. The lurid orange sky over the inky water was its own show. Refilling his stomach, Nick recovered enough to start talking, finally describing Leon’s to Jeanne. Apparently, Graves hadn’t shared the story with the horsemen either, based on the reactions around the deck. He rejoined them outside and paused with a hand on Nick’s shoulder. If it was an apology, Nick accepted it as such.
“I thought this was the dark alley I would die in,” Graves laughed. “Murdered and covered in old fish.”
“Then we see Nick tonight,” Russ said, refilling Charlotte’s glass with punch. “Causing a scrum in the dockside bar!”
“You should have seen him, Jeanne,” Graves said. “We were ready to help, but he didn’t need us. Brave as a terrier. Bishop and I looked like a couple of fish.”
“Oww—that’s true,” Bishop said. He turned to Tony, handing him his drink so his hands were free. “Our Nick grabbed this bloke by the tie, eh, and snapped his face down, like this! Smack! On the table. We shouted, cuz.”
“Tu meke!” Russ laughed. “And the boss’s face! Once we found them again, he was watching Nick like he never seen him!”
“They said I looked like a bull with a bee on its nose,” Graves said dryly. He winked at Nick though. Nick threw a piece of bread at him, then turned to Jeanne so she could look at his eye. It was completely closed, the pain a distant throb.
Nick wasn’t stupid. The talk of the fight, the story of Leon’s—all these turned everyone’s attention away from the attack. Away from Nick’s reaction. No one even discussed it. Graves had single-handedly moved the conversation into safer waters. To give Nick time, to give him space to join in without having to address anything he didn’t want to.
Watching out for me. Still. Without even making a big deal out of it. Just watching out for me. Watching my back.
He glanced over again, shifting so his good eye could see. Graves was talking to Tony. Drawing something out on his tablet. Nick took in Graves’s hands, the heavy signet gleaming against his creamy brown skin. The width of his palms and forearms. Now that those arms had been around him—Nick wasn’t a disinterested observer anymore.
I guess—this is what Morris meant—he isn’t in the usual categories. And Jeanne saying I am in a new life. Whoever I am now—notices. Likes to look. I wish I knew what it meant.
He let the talk flow over and around him. Graves stayed close to him, even as the others left. He and Jeanne sat on either side of Nick on his couch, speaking softly over his head. They spoke in French, something about a hotel, Nick thought. He was trying to puzzle out the words even as he drifted to sleep, the day finally catching up to him.
Chapter Thirteen
Nick woke slowly, rising gently on a growing awareness of being warm, surrounded by slow movement and a strong steady rhythm that made him want to keep his eyes shut as long as possible. They blinked open anyway, and Nick realized he was lying on top of Nelson Graves with a blanket pulled up almost all the way over his head. Graves was asleep and the steady up and down of his breathing mixed with his beating heart—that was the sound and movement that held him where he was.
The sky was barely turning gray with the dawn and the hush over the ship felt like a dream. Nick tried to gather his thoughts. They had been attacked. Nick had had a flashback. A bad one. And then… And then fell asleep. Idiot. He must think you are a disaster.
The self-admonishments didn’t have much weight. It was hard to feel anything but calm and content in his current position. But still… Gradually, he became aware that not only was he curled on top of Graves but he was straddling the man’s hips, his head tucked under his chin. It was a…compromising position. Is that his dick? Oh, my God, it is. The big man’s cock slotted perfectly under his ass. It felt like sitting on a handrail. He can’t be that big. Yes, he can. Fucking look at him, it’s like you’re lying on a sofa. Oh, Jesus…
Slowly Nick tried to shift, at least bring one leg over, blushing furiously. He managed to do that, and while it wasn’t ideal (he was now straddling Graves’s right thigh), it was better than before.
“Hey big guy?” Nick whispered, hoping he was asleep enough that Nick could sneak off—splash some water on his face—something to collect himself. Graves sighed and smacked his lips, his hand coming up to pat Nick on the back.
“I’m here, Nick,” Graves answered. “Do you need to get up?”
“No. Do you?” Nick’s voice was the barest rasp. He needed water. And coffee. But he was so…comfortable.
“No,” Graves said. “I am as comfortable as I have ever been. Can I get you anything?”
“I should go,” Nick started, but Graves gave a loud rumble and rolled them sideways so Nick was trapped against the back of the couch, tucked tight against his chest.
“No,” he said. “You stay here. I’ll call for some basics.” He fumbled around a little, and then Nick heard the beep of a radio and Graves giving instructions in Malay.
“There. Coffee is coming,” he said.
“Okay,” Nick answered. His eyes wanted to close again.
“How are you feeling?” Graves asked.
“Good, I think,” Nick said. “Comfortable.”
Graves scooted down so they were eye to eye.
“Nick,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you last week. It was unforgivably stupid of me.”
He closed his eyes and pushed their foreheads together. Instinctively Nick pushed back, his eyes sinking closed, face tilting up. His heart jumped in his chest, making his breathing rough.
This is happening. He felt like there should be more ceremony, or that he should make some kind of statement. Straight his whole life, or so he thought, Nick was sagging in a man’s arms waiting to be kissed for the first time.
He didn’t feel different, but shouldn’t he?
It started softly enough, the barest graze of lips. Graves pressed a little closer, his lips warm and slightly chapped. Nick felt his hand cupping Nick’s jaw and opened his eyes. Graves was smiling, his eyes doing their vanishing trick. His nose bumped Nick’s, forehead rubbing lightly. Firm fingers came up and trailed over his cheeks. A press of lips to lips
, and Nick could feel his own face smiling, the kind of smile that would make his cheeks ache later, the kind of smile that was one nervous push from laughter.
“Sweet boy,” Graves murmured against Nick’s mouth. “I’ve wanted this.” Flashes of his first kiss, Tammy Jenkins behind the coat rack in the rectory basement. His first kiss with Amber, leaning over a table. This wasn’t as different as he expected it to be, as he felt it should be.
“Yeah?” Nick said, kissing back. Kissing—not only being kissed, upper and lower lip in turn. “I did too. I mean. I’ve never done this.”
“What’s that?” Graves said, trailing his lips over Nick’s cheeks, his eyelids, down along his jaw.
“Kissed a guy,” Nick said. Graves pulled back a little, his face warm and relaxed.
“I’d better make sure I do it right then,” he said. He pulled Nick tight and kissed him more urgently, his tongue swiping across Nick’s lips. His heart was hammering in his chest. Nick pushed forward, wanting more and the kiss got rougher, Graves shoving, using his weight, grabbing fistfuls of Nick’s curls, and tugging lightly.
“Christ, Nick, what is this?” Graves said, pulling back for a moment before diving in again. Nick had no words. His worldview was crumbling away around him.
“No idea,” he gasped. “Don’t fucking stop.”
“Absolutely not,” Graves laughed.
Nick was overwhelmed with the contrast between the softness of Graves’s lips and the scruff on his face. He found himself tracing it with his fingers, making himself feel it, feel the square jaw and thick bull neck. Graves’s shoulders were so big they blocked the view of the room. Not a girl. Not even close. He smells like a man too. Pot and sweat and cologne and—not a girl.
Nick pushed back. He gripped the big man’s shoulder and bit his chin, feeling the little hairs moving under his tongue. Graves shuddered and Nick pressed his advantage, shoving again until Graves was almost on his back.
“Christ, Nick,” Graves said. This close, Nick could see the flecks of gold and dark brown in his eyes—the way the tattoos around his mouth moved as he spoke. “What is this?” Graves asked. He was smiling, breathless, and Nick bit him again. Graves arched his neck and Nick followed, dragging his teeth down the long muscle on the side of his throat.
