Agent Bayne: PsyCop 9

by Jordan Castillo Price

  Had it really been less than a day since I’d blown him off? I jammed a breadstick in my mouth to save myself from asking it out loud.

  “I think I see some improvement already,” he added.

  I highly doubted it. The targets in the analysis room were just closer. “How’s your other training going? Hang up on anyone lately?”

  “Not today—knock on wood.” Patrick rapped on the tabletop, which I suspected was actually a plastic laminate. “But everyone’s used to doing things at the speed of Laura. It’s going to take some time before all those codes and sequences just flow out my fingers like touch-typing. Or like you pulling the trigger of your Glock. That three-shot sequence you did at the range…wow. Bang-bang-bang.”

  I pushed aside a vision of Triple-Shot doing his eternal pirouette and said, “Can’t take that much credit—it’s a semi-automatic. So how is it, working with Laura?”

  “Given that she sometimes needs to explain things more than once, I think she’s pretty patient.”

  I might have thought so too, once. But lately it seemed like a single strike landed me on her no-call list. “Funny how busy she always seems. Back when Dreyfuss was in charge, he had all kinds of time to make my life miserable.”

  “I didn’t know the guy. But I’m sure once Laura establishes herself, things will settle down.”

  In fact, for someone with the highest clearance in the agency, Patrick didn’t know all that much. Too busy trying to figure out how to keep the hamster wheels running smoothly. He entertained me (marginally) with stories about his mistakes and near-misses while we waited for our pizza, and I found myself wondering how I could get him to start focusing on juicier inside information…without seeming too obvious about it.

  Finally our food arrived, all gooey and cheesy, with a buttery crust and delectable puddles of cheese-grease pooling on top. My mouth was watering already. But you had to let a good deep dish settle. Otherwise the filling would just slide right out. While we were both focused on the pie, Patrick said, “I was worried.”

  Didn’t sound like he was talking about the pizza. “About what?” I asked casually.

  “That the only reason you cashed in our rain check was to pump me for information.” Fuck. What was my face doing? I clamped down on my expression, hard. “But the night’s half over and you didn’t so much as hint at what I thought you were going to ask. Not even close.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “After everything you’ve been through, I can’t blame you for being curious about Elaine Kleinman.”

  * * *

  I gripped the edge of the table so hard my knuckles went white.

  “Your therapist wasn’t named,” Patrick said. “Or, more accurately, the name was there, but blacked out. The thing is, I think there might have been more than one. The earliest reference I found, you were five. Your kindergarten teacher wanted to hold you back, said you couldn’t grasp numbers. Said they should’ve waited until your next birthday to enroll you in school. I guess that wasn’t uncommon in households with multiple foster kids to start early. Made sense to get you in school as soon as possible and get you out of the house.

  “The school figured you would catch up. They checked in on you at the end of every academic year to see how you were doing—and eventually the whole number issue did hold you back—but as far as I can tell, they didn’t start really scrutinizing you until you were older.”

  My God, what if the pattern Andy saw in my records was nothing more than my shitty aptitude at math? It was so tempting to think I’d freaked out over nothing.

  But then I remembered the hockey ghost. And I was forced to admit that in all likelihood, my past was just as messed up as I suspected.

  “So over the years, you’ve had more than one therapist,” Patrick said. “If you were ten years younger, maybe things would’ve been handled differently. By then, they knew about mediums. They wouldn’t have been so quick to label you as schizophrenic.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. He nodded gravely and said, “I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah. Seems like I always manage to take the roundabout route.”

  Patrick finessed a hefty slice out of the pizza—it’s no mean feat with all those tethers of melted cheese—and almost managed to land it unscathed. But at the last minute, the pizza’s traction gave way and the piece nearly slid off his plate. He course corrected, but not before a spattering of chunky tomato sauce inaugurated his bare hand.

  “Agh, jeez, it’s like lava.”

  I tipped some ice water onto my napkin and handed it over.

  “Good thing it’s not my shooting hand,” he joked.

  “So these annual psychiatric visits, they didn’t get more frequent ’til I was, what, twelve?”

  “Something like that.”

  The timing jibed with everything Andy posthumously told me. Only the motivation was different. In one scenario, a gaggle of proto-FPMP researchers was waiting to see when my dubious gifts would manifest. In the other, I was just a problem child who couldn’t keep his numbers straight.

  I’d buy either story…which meant the veracity hinged on the storytellers. The way Andy Parsons always stared at me got under my skin, but now that I knew what it was about me that spooked him, I was more apt to forgive his scrutiny. Hard to say if my kinship with Patrick was based entirely on the new-guy bond, or if there really was something about him that I could identify with. Or maybe it was just refreshing to not be the first one to spill dinner on myself.

  Patrick snagged our waiter and asked for more napkins, then turned back to the table and considered me. He said, “I can’t imagine it was easy having these supposed authority figures telling you who you were. Even though it turned out they were completely wrong, given the power differential, the deck couldn’t have been stacked against you more.”

  “Enough about me,” I said, before the conversation left me feeling sorrier for myself than I already did. “I’m not the only one who has trouble with fractions. What about you?”

  I’d been hoping to turn the conversation back toward his job, to get some sense of whether Laura really was as busy as she claimed, or if she was being distant and weird. But apparently Patrick thought we were still sharing horror stories about our early therapy experiences. “Me? Well…my family over-intellectualized everything. A normal parent would’ve just taken away my Nintendo. But no. Instead of punishing me for acting up at school, they shuffled me off to a series of analysts. If I hear ‘how does that make you feel?’ one more time, I’ll lose it for sure.”

  I suspect a high proportion of mental health professionals are empaths or telepaths, even if they don’t have a government certificate proclaiming their talent and level. I was just about to ask him if he thought those headshrinkers found his True Stiffness confusing, but stopped myself when I realized he’d never confided in me about his talent. It wasn’t worth letting on everything I knew about the subject for the sake of keeping the conversation flowing, even if that observation pointed to the fact that Patrick and I had a hell of a lot in common, two psychs who grew up groping their way through a world that didn’t understand them.

  I said, “At least at the FPMP, we know everyone else is being put through the same psychiatric grind. Although it’s hard to imagine anyone dumb enough to screw up the mental health questions on the intake forms.”

  “I know we’re not supposed to discuss it…” Patrick leaned in conspiratorially. “But, seriously, no one with half a brain would answer, Sure! It’s totally appropriate to shoot an unarmed civilian.”

  “Or, Bribe? How much are we talking?”

  We smiled at our own wit as we got busy with the pizza, which was now at that perfect temperature. Still oozy melted, but no longer molten enough to take the skin off the roof of your mouth. Once our smiles faded and we had some food in us, I admitted, “Frankly, I am a little worried that I won’t be able to deliver whatever it is that Laura’s expecting of me.”

  “What s
he’s really concerned about are those Agents, Lipton and Garcia. You’re sure they’re safe?”

  “I haven’t heard otherwise.”

  “How is it that Agent Marks managed to hide them at such short notice?”

  “He has his ways. I don’t ask—the less I know, the less likely some nosy telepath can pick it out of my head.”

  “My offer still stands,” Patrick reassured me. “Anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  Chapter 33

  It was late by the time I got home, but the downstairs lights were still on. When I’m the only one home, that doesn’t mean much. But, come bedtime, Jacob is compelled to rid the house of artificial light. I guess it makes all the crap he’s left on the floor easier to trip over. I stomped off my shoes, locked the door behind me, and called out, “I’m not so convinced good ol’ Andy knew what he was talking about after all.”

  When Jacob didn’t reply, I figured he was either sequestered in the basement gym or tucked away upstairs in his office, but when I rounded the living room I found him on the couch with his finger pressed to his lips. I’d need to give Agent Garcia a good talking to and figure out if the cannery was bugged, once and for all. But then I saw the ball of gray fur nestled in Jacob’s lap, and realized the gag-order had nothing to do with listening devices.

  Not gonna lie. Seeing Jacob in his sweatpants and reading glasses, unwilling to disturb a stranger’s cat…it was disconcertingly cute. I loosened my tie and slipped onto the couch beside them, carefully, so as not to bother our guest.

  Jacob had half a ream of paper printed with something that looked like random alphanumeric garbage. “Andy’s email records—the source code. It was the best I could do without anyone knowing specifically what I’m looking for. I’m sure the agents in Data Analysis could tell me exactly which part of the transcript correlates to the email I want. But I can’t risk it.”

  I picked up a sheet from his discard pile. Just looking at it made my brain hurt.

  Jacob took off his glasses and set them aside. “Learn anything from Patrick?”

  “Only that Andy might’ve been dead wrong about my permanent record—the part where I’m under someone’s microscope from the get-go.” I laughed bitterly. “Newsflash: turns out I suck at math.”

  The gray cat, annoyed by our talking, leapt to the floor with a thump. It stretched one leg behind it, then the other, then arched its back dramatically toward the ceiling, flicked its tail, and strode off.

  Jacob’s empty lap looked like it had been hit by a fur bomb. “I think you need to lose the sweatpants,” I said sagely. “Seeing as how I’m allergic.”

  My opportunities to initiate sex with Jacob are few and far between, mainly because every time we stumble across a spare minute, he’s already floated the invitation. We stole off to the bedroom, stripped down, climbed under the comforter, and rolled to face each other. Jacob regarded me with such seriousness, it was hard to endure the scrutiny. “Are you okay, really? All this stuff from your childhood being dredged up, if you need to talk about it….”

  I didn’t. Hell, wallowing in my past was the last thing I wanted. I trailed my fingers down his stomach and slipped them between his thighs, where his skin was hot, and my touch made his breath catch.

  We kissed. Our tongues reacquainted themselves with each other while our bodies fit their planes and valleys together. My skin must’ve been cold against his—my car heater won’t win any awards for keeping the winter chill at bay—but we reached an equilibrium soon enough. It was as if the physicality of our bodies was always striving for balance…when it wasn’t straining for release. I eased a fingertip down his ass crack and felt his cock thicken against my thigh. Our kisses grew more insistent.

  I pressed lower. As much as Jacob revels in topping, he gets a charge out of being poked and prodded, too. He groaned into my mouth, grasped our stiffening cocks together. I had a bellyful of grease and mozzarella, but if he wanted me to do him, I supposed I’d manage. But when he slid his mouth from mine, instead of telling me to fuck him, what he said was, “I just want to make sure you’re all right. Between all that redacted information and the memories you dredged up with Stefan, it must be a hell of a lot to process.”

  I shoved a couple of fingers into his mouth to shut him up. He gave a grunt and started sucking, and jacked us both harder. This old dance of ours might only be a distraction, but was it really such a bad way to avoid myself? When my fingers were wet, I squeezed the hand between his thighs and started petting his hole.

  “Damn, that’s hot,” Jacob said.

  I guess when you really want to change the subject, you’ve gotta be assertive.

  We did a quick scramble, him for lube, me for an old T-shirt to slip under his rump to minimize the potential wet spot. He bent his knees and canted his ass toward me. I led in with just a finger to prime the pump, then assumed the position, mostly under the comforter. But plenty of light leaked in around our heads that I could see Jacob staring up at me, watching intently while I sank in.

  Normally, I secretly dug it when he murmured those embarrassing come-ons about how much he wanted it. But tonight, I was hoping to skip the commentary and get right to the part where the pursuit of an orgasm blotted out everything. I pressed my mouth to his while I bore down inside him, and something shifted. It was like I’d fumbled through a password a bunch of times and finally keyed it in right. I felt Jacob surrender beneath me. And the power was intoxicating.

  I may never fully shed the anxiety that I’m probably doing something wrong, but I knew Jacob well enough to know when he’s enjoying himself and not just stroking my ego. Or maybe I’d been nailed so many times myself, I couldn’t help but pick up a few pointers. I angled myself to make sure I was hitting that sweet spot and got busy. It took a fair amount of concentration to move past the so tight—so good stage and make sure we were both getting what we wanted out of the deal. But once I found the angle and the rhythm, I could plow ahead and lose myself.

  It’s frighteningly easy to lose myself in him.

  He gazed up at me, all big, dark eyes and killer cheekbones. And those lips. I’ve seen pre-facial-hair photos—I know his mouth is so sensuous, no one would take him seriously if he didn’t camouflage it with is goatee. His lips were especially flushed now from kissing, gently parted. I stared at that hot mouth of his while we fucked, because it turned me on, and because it was easier than looking him in the eyes. And whenever it seemed like he might kill the moment by saying something, I treated him to a deliberate grind that chased the intrusive words away.

  What would it take, I wondered, for moments like this to actually be our lives? To come home to a house that wasn’t potentially bugged, from jobs where the worst thing we had to worry about was meeting a sales quota? To befriend people only because you enjoyed their company? To bury yourself inside each other for the simple reason that you wanted to come?

  Jacob tangled his fingers in my hair and arched against me. Sure, in bed he was a hot bod and a pretty face—but, honestly, without the mind behind the man-candy, I wasn’t sure I’d be willing to sacrifice my independence and settle down with him for the long haul.

  For now, though, as he angled his hips up to meet me thrust for thrust, he was doing a damn fine job. When it was clear I’d finish without him if I kept hurtling down the path I was taking, I wedged a hand between us to start beating him off. I was worried for a minute there that he’d bring up the conflicting revelations about my past and kill the mood—it would take some serious flexibility to fuck, jack and kiss him at the same time, so I had to settle for two out of three—but when he spoke, it was nothing more earth-shattering than a heartfelt, “God, yeah….”

  He started his climb for real. I could tell by the way he was clawing at the sheets, by the feel of his whole body tensing, yes, even his ass. As if it wasn’t gloriously hot and slick and tight already. When he was so taut he started to quiver, I knew I was safe enough to let loose and pound away. I came inside hi
m, hard, hammering him for all I was worth, lost for that one moment of sheer pleasure, the half-second where I shed the knowledge of my own inadequacy just long enough to bust a nut. It was a lot to ask for such a short span of time. But that single moment of anonymity and weightlessness was worth it. Always.

  Chapter 34

  Note to self: if you’re gonna be banging it out with such wild abandon, set an alarm.

  I never oversleep. But when I do, it’s because I’m glued to the sheets with a smile on my face. The first clue that I should’ve been awake long ago was that I sensed the room lightening through my closed lids. My eyes were so crusty, my eyelashes were cemented shut, but I could pry them open just enough to see by the wan daylight that our three furry houseguests had wedged themselves between Jacob and me. When I rolled over, the black and white one stood and stretched while the other two repositioned themselves in the warm spot I’d left behind.

  The digital clock beside Jacob’s head was a blur. As I scraped the gunk from my eyes, I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and said, “What time is it?”

  The phone ignored me. And then it didn’t acknowledge my morning scowl, either. I supposed I should be grateful it had lasted as long as it did without me charging it even once. I rounded the bed, picked up Jacob’s alarm clock and squinted hard through my firewall of crust. “Fuck, it’s after seven. Hey.” I jostled Jacob. I might as well have been plumping up the pillows. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty, get up. It’s way late.”

  Once he muttered something marginally word-like, he was on his own. I grabbed a clean suit and shirt, and charged downstairs to the shower. The tabby did its best to trip me on my way down, but I managed to swerve around it.

  I could’ve stood under that showerhead all morning, but there just wasn’t time. I hopped out, threw on my clothes, blasted my hair with a blow-dryer, and lamented the fact that my coffee hadn’t managed to make itself.

  Jacob hustled past me as I knotted my tie. Not very well, but it would have to do. “Listen to this,” he said, and stuck his phone in my hand. Director Kim, according to the screen, and the time of the message was just after 5 a.m.