The Boss

by J. Calamy

  “Slow down,” Graves muttered. “Don’t want—push you—don’t—” Nick bit him on the neck, a firm press of teeth and then licked the spot. He ran his mouth up under his jaw, feeling the rumbling groan under his lips.

  Graves’s fist tightened in his hair and he drove Nick into the back of the couch again. For a moment they were eye to eye, but then Nick laughed, and Graves kissed him, and his tongue curled over Nick’s upper lip, making him shiver. Nick’s mouth opened, tongue darting forward, trailing over Graves’s and up, the tip touching each of his canines. Graves took full advantage, lapping steadily at Nick’s mouth, nipping his lower lip, kissing him hard and rough. Nick thought his toes would curl right off his feet. He couldn’t seem to move a muscle, felt like Graves was the only thing holding him up.

  “You can be rough,” Nick said. Graves rolled over him, sucking Nick’s lower lip and giving it a little nip. He ground his thigh hard between Nick’s leg.

  “You hard for me boy?” he growled. “Curiosity getting the better of you?” Nick could only nod. He was achingly hard, wanted it rough, wanted Graves to push him. It felt right. It didn’t matter that Nick’s thighs were sliding apart, or that he liked Graves getting pushy, kissing along his throat, teeth and tongue and dragging lips. I’d do whatever he told me. What is wrong with me? Nothing. He isn’t in the usual categories. He repeated Morris’s words to himself again. Nick’s whole body shivered in goose bumps. Graves could overpower him, could crush him, but he was going slow and rumbling in that deep chest, his mouth on Nick’s throat—Nick was light-headed in a way he never imagined.

  Graves kept one arm wrapped all the way around Nick’s shoulders, pulling him close. Nick’s head was resting on Graves’s bicep, his arm barely able to reach around to Graves’s back. Graves’s free hand went from holding Nick’s jaw to sliding down his side. He grabbed Nick’s thigh and hiked it up over his hip, reaching lower to knead Nick’s ass, hard and a little mean.

  “Oh, Jesus, yes.”

  Then his hand was up under the back of his shirt, splayed wide, pulling Nick close to him. It felt so good Nick could barely think straight.

  “You’re twisting me into knots,” Graves rumbled into Nick’s mouth. “Any other time I’d spoil you rotten.”

  Any other time—Nick was drawing breath to ask what Graves meant when there was a clatter of dishes and the stewards came in with the tray, completely bursting their bubble. Graves snarled something loudly in Malay, but between the interruption and the smell of coffee, there was no getting back to where they had been. With what sounded suspiciously like a curse, Graves swung himself around and reattached his legs. He got to his feet and charged over to the stewards, sending them away. Nick forced himself up, running his fingers through his hair.

  Jesus. Jesus! That happened. I kissed him. We kissed. But any other time? What does that mean? What—

  The smell of coffee, the sight of Graves’s huge back by the table, pouring a couple of cups—Nick was drawn forward like iron to a magnet. Graves had a cup in his hands even as he reached for it, laughing at Nick’s expression.

  “You’re as bad as I am,” he said. “Utterly uncivilized before coffee.” His phone rang and he answered it, giving Nick a chance to get his breathing under control, to cool off, to try to gather his scattered wits. They stood just inside the open doors, watching the sun come up across the bay. Even as he talked to whoever had called, Graves wrapped Nick in one arm. When he hung up, he let go to refill his cup.

  “This is nice,” Nick said, feeling shy and uneasy and happy and nervous and a host of other emotions he couldn’t even name. What are we supposed to say to each other? Do we talk? Like normally? What if I want to kiss him again?

  “Certainly the nicest wake-up I’ve had in a long time,” Graves replied. “Didn’t know I’d be expected to teach a virgin some—”

  “Stop man, this is weird enough for me,” Nick said. He could feel his ears turning red.

  “What is?”

  “I’ve never done this, I told you,” Nick muttered.

  “We don’t have to do anything, you know. Except enjoy our coffee.”

  “Good. I mean, not like that,” Nick said, seeing Graves’s raised brow. He sighed. “It’s just been a strange weekend.”

  “Are we going to talk about yesterday?”

  “Do you know who did it?” Nick countered. His thoughts had been so focused on the kiss he had forgotten the reason he was here in the first place. Forgotten how close he came to revealing his secret.

  “I meant you,” Graves said. “I didn’t say anything but—”

  “Hey, thanks for that by the way. That was a classy thing to do,” Nick poured himself another cup to buy time, his mind scrambling.

  “You can tell me,” Graves said earnestly. “I may not be—”

  “Tell you what?” Nick said, cutting him off. He could feel sweat forming on his back. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Nick.”

  “What?” Be cool. He doesn’t know.

  “You had a panic attack.”

  “We were almost killed! I think my reaction was pretty normal, actually,” Nick said, sitting on the couch again. He tried to decide which position looked more casual. Should he lean back? Sit up?

  “Except that wasn’t why you panicked.” Graves was persistent, Nick had to give him that.

  “We were being shot at,” Nick said reasonably. It was all reasonable. Very reasonable.

  “You’ve never served and—”

  Nick shot to his feet, cut to the quick. Coffee slopped over his hand, and he turned away. A sudden memory of group therapy in prison, the realization that the other men had legitimate reasons for their flashbacks, their nightmares. They were soldiers, or firefighters, not murderers. Nick had never gone back.

  “So what?” Nick said, his voice cracking. “I never served! You’re acting like I overreacted to a terrorist attack in a public street in the safest city in the world? What the fuck? I mean why didn’t you freak out? Is this normal for you?”

  Graves drew back, color rising up the back of his neck. It was his turn to be flustered, which was satisfying.

  “What are you two shoutin’ about then?” It was Bishop. In the dawn light he looked haggard and angry, with dark rings under his eyes. But seeing Nick changed his face completely.

  “Morning, our Nick, it’s nice to see you, eh?” he said with a smile. Nick didn’t answer, just passed the guy some coffee. But he leaned in when Bishop rubbed a hand over his head.

  “Sweet Nick, such a good lad…”

  “What do you want, David?” Graves snapped. Bishop took a slow, deliberate drink before answering.

  “Turn on the TV; we need your okay on some things,” he said.

  The headlines were all the same.

  Terrorist attack! Assassination attempt!

  Dozens of theories floated. Partisans from Timor, Red Sky, rival telecom giants, Malaysian military…

  There was footage of the attack, the street blocked off, the cars crashing and men with guns converging on Anatoly Morozov’s car. Nick leaned forward, scanning the screen.

  “Wait. Why aren’t we in any of the news footage?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Graves gave him a tight smile.

  “There is CCTV footage of every angle on that street,” Nick said. “And yet we aren’t in any of it.” Nick crossed his arms over his chest. He felt like all his nerves were misfiring. I’m here. I’m safe.

  “You couldn’t pick out a stupid one?” Bishop said, gesturing to Graves.

  “Didn’t nobody pick me out,” Nick snapped. “Knock that shit off. I want to know.”

  “I did that,” Tony said, coming up behind them. He was holding a tablet and had the same dark rings under his eyes as Bishop. “No one sees the boss if I don’t want them to. I’ve been up all night working on that.”

  Graves cleared his throat.

  “I prefer to stay out of the public eye,” he said to Nick, r
ubbing the back of his neck. “In my line of work it’s important to avoid a scandal. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. A scandal. Like the fact that you are playing spin the bottle with a child-murdering failure? Like that you mean?

  “Tony protects me as much as David does,” Graves was saying, arm slung over the young Algerian’s shoulders. Tony looked pleased but Graves gave him a little push toward the stairs.

  “It all looks good but we’ll talk about it later. You two get some sleep, all right?” They took the hint and left. Bishop patting Nick’s shoulder as he passed.

  When they were gone, Graves and Nick faced each other across the table.

  “Listen,” Graves said.

  “About this morning,” Nick said at the same time.

  “Maybe you’re right—”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  They were speaking over each other. They paused and Graves cleared his throat.

  “I simply can’t,” Graves said. “I have an organization to run that needs all my attention.”

  “Yeah, of course. You’re an important person,” Nick said.

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to!” Graves rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes searching Nick’s face.

  “Of course not,” Nick said with a wave. His gaze was firmly on the table. “Me too. It’s just one of those things.” He gestured to the TV. “This is pretty crazy. I should probably stay out of it.”

  Graves flinched, looking away, his hands curled to fists.

  “Listen,” Nick said fussing with his cup, arranging it on the tray. “I’d better shower before Jeanne gets here.”

  “Of course,” Graves said. He turned back to the doors and pulled out his phone. Nick took the hint and headed down to the shower he was used to. Down to the main deck, off the upper deck where he had no business being.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Graves paced in his study, or what passed for a study in this ridiculous little canoe. It had none of his books, except the few his stewards had brought. None of the pictures of his children, none of his things. All the details that made Scimitar home and this no more than a fancy hotel room. Still she was fast enough. Maybe he should head out again?

  “Bishop and Rook to the tops” he said into the radio. A moment later Charlotte came up, coffee in hand, and sat in the chair facing his desk. Graves continued to pace.

  “He tried to kill me, Charlotte,” he said finally.

  “Again,” she replied, unmoved.

  “I need to respond.”

  “You do.”

  “You all want me to kill him,” Graves muttered.

  “No,” Charlotte snapped. “We want you to let me kill him, or better yet, let Tony kill him. Tony can kill him from here, without even getting out of his pajamas.”

  “No,” Graves said and went back to pacing.

  “No to Tony killing him? Or no to killing him at all?”

  Graves dropped into his chair.

  “I can’t,” he said, his face in his hands. “I can’t.”

  “So what is your reply then?”

  “I want to send Louie Tang a message,” Graves said. “Something big. Something loud and clear. I am tired of that son of a bitch. Him, we can kill.”

  Bishop poked his head through the door.

  “Sorry, Boss,” he said. “I was making our Tony turn off his screens.”

  “I won’t keep you long, David. I had our Joe on the line, and he has some interesting news.”

  “Oh, what now…”

  “Alessandro Benitez has managed to get himself involved with an American agent.” Rook and Bishop looked at each other. Graves tried to remember Joe’s exact words “He called while Nick was here so I couldn’t react. But apparently our little money genius is dating an American counterterrorist expert. I don’t have time for this,” Graves said. “Someone call him and set him straight. Alex has always been a good lad. He may just need reminding.”

  He stood up and turned, but it was too abrupt of a movement and he collapsed sideways as a spike of agony shot through his hip.

  Next thing he knew he was sitting on the floor, Charlotte at his back, her lean, strong arm holding him still.

  “Easy there, Sonny, easy,” she said. He groaned and leaned his weight on her, breathing through his nose. The pet name calmed him as much as the wiry strength of her.

  “Get me…up…” he gasped.

  They levered him upward and he leaned on the desk, feeling the cold sweat on his neck.

  “Bloody hell,” he said.

  “When are you getting that bit out?” Bishop asked. “I thought Simpson and Gomez were coming?”

  “New Year,” Graves said, taking deep breaths. “Just after the new year.”

  He managed to straighten and felt the AI in his left prosthetic trying to compensate for his shaking leg. More deep breaths, and he was able to walk out to the stateroom to his chair. And his pipe.

  “Tell the crew to take us out. I want to go home,” he said. “We’ll make for Timor first.”

  “That will be a hell of an answer,” she said. She kissed his sweaty forehead and left.

  *

  Nelson Graves considered himself a simple man. The things that made him happy tended to be physical, sensory, sensual. Those he indulged in whenever the opportunity presented. Life was too short to do otherwise. But intellectual challenges were few and far between. And his favorite was shooting. Impossible shots, the kind of shooting that had made him famous in the military, shots like this one. But a difficult shot was one thing. This?

  “The rain is a bit much…” he muttered.

  “It’s the rainy season, Boss.” Bishop sighed through the radio.

  “You must admit it’s a bit much, though isn’t it?” Graves asked. “It reminds me of the scene from the movie. The one with the elves?”

  “The what now?” Bishop sounded tired. Which he likely was. And annoyed. Which Graves knew he was.

  “Damn. Nick would know…where there is the battle, and they are waiting for it to start, and then rain starts…with the…what are they? The little elf things.”

  “Are you planning on talking the whole time?” Bishop snapped.

  “Don’t I usually?”

  Bishop sighed. That was true enough. Graves couldn’t maintain radio silence to save his life. And Bishop also knew, though he politely didn’t mention it, that his boss was nervous. Not about the shot, though that would be natural enough—a damn difficult shot. No, Graves was nervous because it was Mac; tangling directly with Mac was always risky. The wily old operator was perfectly capable of setting all this up as a trap. Graves didn’t think so, in this case—but it was possible. And that didn’t even account for his shared history with Graves and all the baggage there.

  “An entire cargo-hold worth,” Graves muttered.

  He adjusted his scope over his eye again. Bishop had the view Graves didn’t. The spotter’s view. In this instance he had the only view. Graves was shooting blind. He was perched high on a cell phone tower above Bishop’s head. Graves’s only target would be a reflection and a shadow.

  Graves heard Bishop humming as he watched the room. Mac and his contact were drinking a couple of beers and talking at the rickety table. Graves saw the movement but waited—they weren’t where he needed them to be.

  “Okay, get ready,” Bishop said. “You are—oh. Oh no. Oh, come on.”

  “What is it?” Graves asked, shifting his view slightly. “I have no reflection visible.”

  “No, it’s not that. I hope you don’t mind staying up there a bit longer.”

  “What?”

  “You have a firm grip?”

  “What?”

  “They’re fucking.”

  He wished with all his heart that Bishop had lied to him. Fifteen years on and still. Still. Bloody hell.

  “Send me the feed,” he said. Bishop groaned.

  “Boss, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” B
ishop tried. He tried.

  Graves didn’t answer; he wasn’t in the habit of repeating himself.

  “Yes sir,” Bishop sighed. He fiddled with the camera’s lens and sent the feed.

  The view of the room wasn’t clear, but enough to show the two men on the bed. Graves closed his eyes, memories swamping him.

  “You should get married!” Barry laughed, pushing at Graves’s shoulder. The skinny monk nearly toppled him into their bonfire.

  “We’d need a priest,” he answered back. Mac was laughing so hard he couldn’t even sit up straight, lying back on their blanket. They were on leave, roaring drunk.

  “I can do that, you know,” Barry said, raising his voice to be heard over the singing. “I really can! I’m ordained. I’m Father Barry!”

  “Just ’cause you a priest, don’t make this legit,” Mac snorted. “A dude can’t marry another dude. That ain’t real.”

  “It is if we want it to be, Tommy,” Graves declared. “This is Bali! Anything can happen here!”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, sure then,” Mac laughed. “Let’s get married… I can’t wait to tell General Cunningham I stole his daughter’s husband. He’ll be tickled. Buy us a goddamn toaster.”

  “Do you take—what’s his name again?”

  “I’m Mac!”

  “His name is Thomas Tommy Macauley Mac.”

  “Stop—its Mac”

  “Do you take Mac as your husband? For all the good and bad, no matter what, until death divides you?”

  “I do,” Graves said. Drunk or not, he meant it. He meant it.

  “Do you take this Sonny guy as your husband? For all the good and bad, no matter what until death divides you?”

  “Yeah, sure I do,” Mac said. Barry was holding his hands up to the stars, the crackling fire illuminating his skinny arms.

  “Then by the power invested in me by the Lord Gawd, I pronounce you, Tommy and Sonny, married, with this ocean and these stars as witness. Now kiss!”

  They kissed; it was messy, and they couldn’t stop laughing. It was the happiest day of Graves’s life.