by Josh Lanyon
He laughed again—and I could taste that too—and withdrew. “That bad?”
“That good.” And I covered his mouth once more.
The screen door banged and I was suddenly sitting on the back porch swing, throwing a tennis ball to Buck, and avoiding thinking about all the things I should have been thinking about.
“Doctor Thorpe calling for you,” Lena said crisply. She brought the phone to me and I pushed the button. I took a deep breath, let it out. “Hullo,” I said. “I believe I owe you an apology.”
After a beat, Stephen said, “How are you feeling?”
I was astonished at the way my heart had sped up at the sound of his voice. A Pavlovian response if there ever was one. “Much better, thanks. Listen, Stephen, I’m sorry about yesterday. Sorry for forcing my company on you. I…haven’t…been myself for a few days.”
I read wariness and surprise in his silence. He said finally, “No, I realized that. You made it clear enough four months ago that this was the last place you wanted—or intended to be.” He didn’t sound angry…just stating a fact.
I said, “Maybe my subconscious knew something I didn’t.”
That time he barely paused, saying briskly, “I’ll be home for supper, but I’ll be out again this evening. Anything you’d like me to bring you? I can rent a movie or something.”
I said over my disappointment, “Thanks, yes. A film would be terrific. Nothing with guns. Nothing set in the Middle East. Something from Merchant and Ivory, perhaps. I’ve got some catching up to do.”
That was a little obvious on my part. We’d watched Maurice together the first night I had come to dinner here—started to watch it, anyway. We never did get through the film. The evening had ended upstairs in Stephen’s bedroom. We’d fucked, slept, woke around midnight and ate the pecan pie and ice cream that we hadn’t had for dessert. Then we’d fucked again—only by then we’d been making love.
“Got it,” Stephen said. “Some kind of costume drama about a handsome Englishman fucking up his life and everyone else’s. I’ll see what I can find.”
It was my turn to pause. Into my silence, he said—still crisp and businesslike, “Stay off the leg as much as possible. I’ll see you tonight.”
He rang off.
Lena insisted on fixing me lunch, although I’d only had breakfast a few hours earlier. I ate enough to avoid insulting her, and then realized I was dead tired again. My body craved sleep like a drug. I’d never experienced anything like it.
Hauling myself upstairs, I stretched out on the four-poster bed. I wondered how long it would take for our lads to track me down. Not long. The Old Man probably already knew where I was. I wondered what he would do—and why I wasn’t more worried about it. I was still wondering when I drifted off.
“You’re not seriously worried about the age difference?”
“I could be your father.”
“I like older men. I like the fact that you’re experienced.” I kissed the bridge of his nose. “I like the fact that you’re wise.”
He snorted. “If I was wise I wouldn’t —”
I didn’t want to hear that. I cut him off, covering his lips with mine, distracting him and losing myself for a few seconds in that sweet mingling of breath and lips. “And bloody sexy,” I added.
He was smiling, but ruefully. “Then again you’ve got a thing for older men, don’t you?”
“Only you. I’m saving my thing for you.” I nipped his lower lip, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to see my thing, Stephen?”
It was after five when I woke again. The shadows in the room had lengthened, and I could smell something mouth-watering cooking downstairs. I realized that Stephen must be home, and I felt that mix of anticipation and anxiety as I rose and made my halting way downstairs.
He was in the kitchen pouring a glass of wine. He looked handsome and successful—and absolutely untouchable—in charcoal trousers and a pale blue shirt with sleeves pushed up to bare his tanned, muscular arms.
He glanced up as the floorboard squeaked, instantly on guard. But his voice was pleasant enough. “Well, you look about a hundred percent better.”
“I feel about a hundred percent better.” I took a chair at the table under his critical eye. A DVD lay next to the bowl of fruit: The Fellowship of the Ring.
“How’s the leg?” he asked.
“Mending. The ribs hurt more, tell you the truth.” I picked up the DVD. “Lord of the Rings?”
“Have you seen it?” He sipped his wine, observing me with those elven-green eyes.
“No.”
“You’ll enjoy it. There’s a lot of dragon slaying.”
“Sounds like my kind of thing.”
“That was my thought.”
“May I have a glass of wine?”
“You shouldn’t.” He went ahead and poured a glass for me. I sipped it while he returned to the stove.
“Dinner is just about ready,” he said. “Beef stroganoff.”
I wasn’t hungry. I hadn’t been hungry in months, although he was a very good cook—off-hand I couldn’t think of anything he didn’t do well. “I could have fixed myself something,” I told him. “Since you’ve got plans.”
He didn’t respond.
“So do I get to meet him?”
“Who?” He was frowning.
I said lightly, “The new man in your life.”
“Conducting a surveillance op on me now?”
I said, “Believe it or not —”
“I don’t believe it,” he cut across. “So let’s not go there.”
“I’m…trying to be civil.” It was harder than it should have been to dredge up a smile. For someone who made a living dissembling I was having a hell of a time.
“I don’t need you to be civil. I just need you to tell me exactly what your plans are.”
It was a simple enough question but it felt as though someone had unplugged me from the mains. I could feel the life and energy draining away. Some of it must have shown in my face, because his brows drew together. When he spoke again, his tone was quite different. “Mark, what the hell has happened? It’s obvious something has.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing. I’m…burnt out, is all. Need a holiday. A rest cure.” I smiled. “I already feel loads better. You noticed yourself.”
To my surprise, he pulled out a chair and sat down cattycorner from me—close enough that our knees brushed. “You said you were in trouble on the phone. What kind of trouble?”
It wasn’t fair. He was close enough to pull into my arms. I could see the reluctant concern on his face, the kindness there—despite his desire and intention to remain detached. And I was desperate enough to take kindness tonight—if it came from Stephen. I was acutely aware of the way his hair curled over the back of his collar, of the broad muscular shoulders and smooth chest beneath the tailored shirt, of the scent of faded aftershave and mint which on him was peculiarly erotic.
I swallowed down my yearning, my loneliness—and surprised myself by telling the truth. “I’m…not ready to talk about it yet. Can’t. Not even to you. Is that all right?”
His face changed, and fleetingly there was something there that made my own heart light with hope. “Of course it’s all right.”
“Thank you.” And there was no doubt I meant it. Embarrassing.
He nodded, squeezed the knee of my good leg, and rose.
The meal was good. Noodles and beef made a pleasant change from lamb and chicken and rice—you eat a lot of rice in Afghanistan. Rice and stews. Qormas, they call them. I did my best to eat because I knew Stephen was observing me with that professional eye. Inexplicably, telling him I couldn’t talk to him was finally the right move because he was much more relaxed, almost friendly. He talked about his work at the hospital, and about his day. It was all very ordinary and normal, and it gave me a chance to pull myself together. I was realistic enough to know that that was probably why he was doing it, that he was now viewing me in a professional light, putting
aside his personal antipathy for the time being.
And I played to that quite shamelessly. I let him win tired smiles from me, let him distract me from my preoccupied silences, made myself swallow food I didn’t want when he glanced at my plate. Except…it wasn’t really playing. The guile here was in deliberately lowering my guard to let him see…the truth. That I was worried and afraid. And I was…except that I couldn’t feel it. But I knew how to act it, and so I did—for Stephen’s benefit.
It seemed to work. After the meal he showed me how to operate the new VCR/DVD player in the den, got me settled on the wide sofa with extra pillows and a throw rug, and told me where to find the microwave popcorn or the ice cream should I be so inclined.
He wasn’t warm, but he was more than the grudging host he’d been. It was nice for a change, although I couldn’t help remembering the nights we’d cuddled on this same sofa watching films and talking about nothing. Nothing more important than what we were going to do with the rest of our lives. At that time it had seemed a joint decision.
I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t left. If I hadn’t let the Old Man talk me into one last job. That was rather funny to think of two years later. One last job which had somehow turned into…eleven assignments. So in the end, Stephen had been right. I wonder if he got any satisfaction out of it. Maybe he’d convinced himself it was all for the best. Maybe he told himself there was no proof we’d have stayed together even if I hadn’t left.
Having got me settled to his satisfaction, Stephen went upstairs to change, and I turned on the film I had no desire to see, and let my thoughts roam. They didn’t roam far. They seemed knobbled these days.
“I’d pretty much given up on you ever showing up.”
I shivered. He pulled me close, chuckling. I liked the fact that he was physically demonstrative, open about his feelings—just the opposite of me. Just the opposite of nearly every man I knew. I rested my head on his shoulder, lulled by the tenderness he offered so easily.
He murmured against my ear, “Of course it hadn’t occurred to me that you were still growing up.”
I sat up, punched his shoulder. “Leave off, Stephen. I’m not a bleeding toddler!”
And he’d laughed. We’d laughed a lot. More than I could remember laughing with anyone.
Stephen came back downstairs, but didn’t come into the den. I heard him moving around in the kitchen, heard him go out the front. I wondered if he was slipping out without saying goodnight, but a few minutes later he was back—and he had company.
“Mark, this is Bryce,” he introduced. “Bryce Boxer, Mark Hardwicke.”
Bryce. Christ.
I got up fast from the sofa—ignoring the wrench of ribs and leg—and startling them both. Even before I saw Stephen’s expression or heard Bryce’s, “Oh hey, we shouldn’t have disturbed you, Mark!” I had myself back under control.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I said, offering my hand.
Bryce was nice-looking. Attractive, not handsome. Thinning blond hair, blue eyes, about my height but stocky, midforties. He looked successful, assured, and happy. You don’t see a lot of happy in my business.
Easy target, I summed him up.
His handshake was firm, his fingers and palm uncallused. So he didn’t do a lot of driving or any manual labor. Stockbroker, teacher, architect—I could see him in any of those positions. I could see him face down in the dirt, too, with a hole blown through his back.
“Nice to meet you too,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
What the fuck did that mean?
“You have the advantage of me,” I said ruefully, and he laughed with me. Stephen did not laugh. Stephen watched me closely.
“So you’re English,” Bryce observed. “I love your accent. My college roommate was English.” I waited for him to ask me if I knew a bloke named X, but he refrained. “Stevie said you had some kind of accident.” There was curiosity in his eyes.
I cooled down a fraction. It was all right—that part of it anyway—Stephen wasn’t going to say anything to compromise me. He’d grown up in Washington. He might not approve of what I did for a living, but he wasn’t going to burn me. And of course he’d have had to say something to explain my presence.
“Yes,” I said. And unobligingly left it at that.
Bryce’s brows rose, but he was still smiling. “It’s a shame you’re not getting to see any of the sights.”
Stephen had told him about me, and Bryce was relaxed, friendly, and unthreatened. He was confident of Stephen. Confident they had something I couldn’t touch. It worried me like nothing else had.
“I’ve seen the best ones,” I replied, and I smiled at Stephen.
“We should be going if we don’t want to miss the start,” Stephen said.
Bryce glanced at his watch. “You’re right.” To me he explained, “We’re seeing the Smithsonian Jazz Masterworks Ensemble.”
“Oh, jolly good!” I said.
“Okay, let’s go,” Stephen said, reading me correctly.
Bryce shrugged, untroubled at being hustled away. “Nice to have met you, Mark. Take care now.”
“Always,” I said.
Stephen was back a few moments later.
“He seems nice enough,” I said, having resettled myself carefully on the sofa. “Does he know you hate jazz?”
He ignored that. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
“Not planning on coming home?”
“If you’ve got any sense at all you’ll be asleep before then.”
“Oh, but I’ll want to hear all about the Smithsonian Jazz Masterworks Ensemble.”
He said flatly, “I knew this was a mistake. But Bryce wanted to meet you.”
That brought me up short. “Of course. Why shouldn’t we meet? Come on, Stephen, I’d like to think we were friends—at the very least.”
He looked unconvinced.
“How long have you been seeing each other?” I asked.
It was a perfectly reasonable question, and I asked in a perfectly friendly tone of voice, but apparently Stephen knew me pretty well.
“Mark.” I could see him thinking of how he wanted to say it: how to make his point without destroying the fragile truce between us. “Let’s get something clear. You don’t…have any rights here. I let you come because you begged, because you’re in some kind of trouble. For old time’s sake, that’s all.”
I smiled. “How long?”
Irritably, he answered, “Seven weeks.”
Seven weeks. Not long. Not…established. And practically on the rebound. Still vulnerable to attack whatever Brent—Bryce, whatever it was—though.
I smiled again—and, reading that smile, Stephen said, “Don’t think it, Mark. You’re the one who’ll be hurt this time.”
Chapter Four
Machine gun fire ripped through the night, I could hear it hitting the Jeep. Arsullah Hakim’s face was illuminated in the headlamps, his blackened teeth, the scar through his eyebrow, flecks of spit in his beard as he cursed me. My fingers slipped in the blood from his broken nose as I tried to gouge his eye out. Dimly, I was aware of Arabic voices crying out and Shelton yelling, of the rocks jabbing into my back as the Taliban and I rolled around in the dirt, grappling for the screwdriver. The driver lay dead a few feet from us—his gaze fixed and staring. I didn’t know about the third man. My leg pulsed with dull pain where Arsullah Hakim had stabbed me once already. I sank my fingers into the tendons and nerves of his wrist trying to force him to drop the screwdriver…
Someone was speaking to me. A calm, quiet voice cutting through the confusion and desperation, speaking right over the shots and screams—and the dream died away, faded out like someone turning down the volume.
The voice said clearly, “You’re dreaming, Mark. Open your eyes.”
I opened my eyes.
The reality was violet-sprigged wallpaper and soft-shaded lamplight and Stephen sitting on the edge of the bed, his silver hair ruffled,
his green bathrobe gaping open to reveal the hard brown planes of his chest. Beyond him the window was open. Through the screen I could see the golden moon peeking over the sill, and beyond the gently stirring curtains, the sound of crickets.
The hushed ordinariness of it was shattering after the violent chaos of the nightmare.
“All right now?” Stephen asked, and my gaze jerked back to him.
“Storming,” I managed.
He rose from the bed, went into the bathroom. I heard the taps running. My heartbeat slowed. I wiped my face. It was wet with sweat.
“That was some dream,” he said, coming back into the room carrying a glass and a hand towel. His low key acceptance made it easier.
I elbowed up, wincing, and he offered a corded forearm. I grabbed on, pulling myself the rest of the way upright, taking the towel and mopping the perspiration off my face and chest. “I don’t dream.”
“Then you’ve got some unpleasant memories.”
I gave him a twitchy smile and relaxed against the pillows, handing back the towel. He exchanged it for the glass of water.
“How was the concert?” I asked when I’d drained the glass. The clock next to the bed read 3:22.
“Fine. What did you dream?”
I shook my head. “I never remember my dreams.”
Stephen said, “I know that’s what you always said. I don’t think I ever believed it.”
“It’s true.” I started to shrug but re-thought it. “Images, impressions. That’s all.” If I could have had my dreams made to order, I’d have dreamed of Stephen, but I didn’t even dream of him. That I knew of. There were mornings I woke up rock-hard and rarin’ to go, and I always figured Stephen had played a starring role in the night’s brainwaves. I said, “Sorry I woke you.”
Stephen sighed. He looked tired—and he was a bloke who badly needed his sleep. “It’s okay. If you’re all right now —”
He turned and I got out, “Don’t go.”
His face closed. He said wearily, “Mark, I don’t have the energy for games.”
“No games,” I said with an effort. “I just…don’t want to be alone. If you could see your way to sleeping here tonight….I promise to stay on my side of the Mason-Dixon line.”
