by Josh Lanyon
Unfortunately, this was no illusion. More like a conviction of cops—and an imprisonment of thieves.
He had dinner at his laptop and worked steadily until about ten thirty when he turned off his computer, made himself a Kamikaze, and sat down to wait by the fire. At eleven, Sam had still not shown up. Jason had another drink.
The red and yellow dance of flames in the fireplace, the mournful howl of the wind beneath the eaves, and the lack of sleep from the night before caught up with him. He closed his eyes. The next thing he knew he was coming awake to the sound of Sam’s key in the lock.
The front door swung open in a gust of cold night air. Jason sat up. Sam stepped inside the house.
Caught off-guard, still half-asleep, Jason felt like he was seeing Sam almost as a stranger would. He saw that Sam was tired, that the lines around his eyes and nose were more pronounced, that there were shadows beneath his glittery eyes. He looked thinner too. Sharper. All cutting edges and lethal points. He looked hard and cold and dangerous.
Then Sam looked across the room and saw him, and something changed in his face. It wasn’t so much that his expression softened, more that it warmed. Like a light came on behind his eyes.
He said, “Hey, you didn’t have to wait up.”
It was the note of surprised pleasure that got to Jason. Undermined him. The idea that Sam was surprised he wanted to stay up to see him… People said he was arrogant and overbearing, but there was this side of Sam too.
Jason rose and went to him, and Sam dropped his carryall, hooked an arm around Jason’s waist, and drew him in for a long, deep kiss. Jason wrapped his arms around Sam’s neck, kissing him back hard. He thought, If this is that last night, let it be a good one.
“Christ, I missed you,” Sam muttered when their lips parted enough for words, for breath.
“Same,” Jason said. “Always.”
Probably a strategic mistake, but the simple truth. He did miss Sam all the time they weren’t together. Something to keep in mind before lines were drawn in the sand.
Sam scanned his face as though looking for signs of wear and tear. “You okay?”
“Yes. How was your trip?”
“Unnecessary,” Sam said wearily. “The flight was a bitch. I think we bounced the whole way from Colorado Springs to Cheyenne.”
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“I could use a drink.”
“I’ll fix it for you.”
Jason thought Sam might head for the bathroom to wash up, but he followed Jason into the kitchen and leaned against the counter as Jason prepared his drink. Jason squeezed lemon juice into the ice and whisky mixture, and nearly jumped as Sam reached out and gently traced one of the healing cuts near the corner of his eye. Sam smiled ruefully at Jason’s flinch, but it was such an uncharacteristic gesture from Sam. He was tender in the bedroom, but he was not one for intimate gestures where the rest of the floorplan was concerned.
“You look a lot better. You’re not limping as much.”
“I told you I’m a fast healer.”
“You did, yeah.” He took the glass Jason handed him. “You’re not drinking?”
“I’ll have a drink.” Jason hastily slopped together his own drink.
“Cheers.” Sam touched his glass against Jason’s.
Jason knocked his drink back in two gulps. Sam made a sound of amusement. “Feeling a little stressed?”
“It’s been a long two days.”
“It has that.”
They drifted back to the fireplace and sat down on the sofa. Sam stretched his arm along the back, and Jason moved closer. More than anything, he’d have liked to rest his head on Sam’s shoulder, close his eyes, and put off until tomorrow any conversation that was liable to ruin the quiet contentment of the moment.
But if he put it off tonight, it would be harder, maybe impossible, to challenge Sam tomorrow. He would keep putting it off, keep stalling, until it all blew up again.
Sam’s fingertips lightly tickled the back of his neck. Jason shivered. Sam made a soft, knowing sound. Indulgent, intimate. Jason’s heart ached. He did not want to lose this. Couldn’t bear to lose this.
He tried for a neutral approach. “Were you able to interview Bamburg again?”
Sam’s fingers stilled. He sighed. “Yes.”
“How did it go?”
Sam moved his head in negation. Which meant?
When he didn’t continue, Jason asked, “Why did you want to talk to him again?”
“Partly because I’m older and a lot more experienced now. The first time around I just wanted to catch him. Convict him. Not just convict him. Put him away forever. My perspective on a lot of things has changed through the years.” He absently shook the ice in the dregs of his drink. “Though not on putting psychopaths like Bamburg away forever.”
Jason looked down at his hand resting on Sam’s muscular thigh. It was not easy to get the words out. His voice was very quiet. “It wasn’t because you think he might be soliciting someone to kill you—or people close to you?”
He counted two heartbeats before Sam said carefully, “Where did you hear that?”
Jason met his gaze. “I didn’t hear it. I read it in the files in your office.” Jesus. Despite all that mental rehearsing, it was still coming out badly, baldly.
Sam’s brows lifted in inquiry. He said nothing. His eyes were watchful.
“I wasn’t going through your things,” Jason said. “I want you to understand that. I did not have any intention of looking through your files.”
Sam made an unamused sound. “Okay.”
“I’m not even sure why I opened the door to your office. Honestly, I think I was missing you.” Sam’s eyes flickered. He didn’t speak. “But when I opened the door, I saw the whiteboard with my name on it.”
“I see.”
“And I realized that you do believe that someone from your past could be the one who came after me.”
“I told you it was a possibility.”
Jason’s smile was twisted. “Yes. You did. But you made it sound like a long shot. Whereas in fact, you think it’s a very real possibility. Maybe the most likely possibility.”
It was another second or two before Sam said, “You feel that I lied to you.” That detached observation was Sam the Psychologist. The guy who had a master’s in criminal psychology, but who wasn’t always so great with normal personal relationships.
“That’s how it feels. I know that it was—at most—a lie of omission, but it still feels like you deliberately kept me in the dark.”
Sam leaned forward to put his empty glass on the coffee table—which meant taking his arm from around Jason’s shoulders. Jason felt the loss of that comfortable weight like the reverberation of a slammed door. Sam was not looking at him as he said, still even-voiced, unemotional, “Let me ask you this. Do you think it would have helped you immediately after the accident to know that there were multiple suspects—people you refer to as monsters—who might wish you harm?”
Jason closed his eyes. He tried to keep his voice level. “Could you…please not use that analyst’s couch voice on me?”
Sam said, “Sorry.” And then, “You haven’t answered the question.”
Jason’s eyes snapped open. “I don’t know, Sam. Maybe it wouldn’t have been the thing to say when I first regained consciousness, but once we were here, once I asked you about it? Then I think the correct course would have been candor. I have a right to know where the danger might be coming from.”
“I don’t know where the danger might be coming from. That’s the problem.” Sam’s voice was flat.
Jason moved so they could face each other. “It’s a problem that at the very least, we should share. Look, I know that what happened to Ethan has some bearing. That maybe because of that you feel you have to—”
Sam’s expression grew closed, shuttered. “You don’t know anything about it,” he cut across Jason’s words, but he did not sound angry. His face and voice we
re cold. No. Worse. Bored. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
It was effective. It made Jason feel he was being dramatic and emotional—as well as prying into things that were none of his business.
This is how he fights people he dislikes.
But as the thought formed, Jason realized he was wrong. The adult Sam simply annihilated his opponents. This was how the boy Sam had fought. Hiding his own insecurities, his vulnerabilities, behind dismissiveness, derision.
“Not just a rich rancher. A very rich rancher.”
Why should that memory close his throat? Bring that sting to the back of his eyes? It did.
Jason said in a low voice, “You’re right. I have no idea because you’ve barely said a word about Ethan since that night at the Buccaneer’s Cove two months ago.”
Sam’s eyes were dark with anger. “Why would I? Ethan has nothing to do with us.”
“Really? Because his photos and paintings still hang in your mother’s house.” He could hear the hurt in the huskiness of his voice, and that was the very thing he had not wanted to do—not say those words, not show that pain. But the words came anyway. “Because we broke up over him once already.”
Such a mistake, because Sam’s expression tightened. He said in a cold, clipped voice, “What do you want to know?”
“Jesus, Sam.” Jason struggled to put it into words. He felt he had one shot at this and was already blowing it. “It’s not— I don’t have a list of questions. It just feels strange to me, wrong to me, that we talked about him that one night and he’s never been mentioned since. No, I take it back. He was mentioned the night we arrived and your mother said I looked like a ghost.”
There was no softening in Sam. If anything, he was getting angrier. He bit out, “What do you imagine is left to say?”
Not pleasant being on the receiving end of that hostility. Maybe annihilation wasn’t so far behind after all.
“Nothing you don’t want to tell me. But…” Jason tried to keep any more accusation or hurt from his tone. “Can you not see— I can’t help feeling like some of your attitudes, behaviors, whatever, stem from what happened to Ethan. Are you seriously telling me you don’t think Ethan’s death has any influence on our interactions?”
“I don’t think it has as much influence as you imagine.”
“You told me you became an FBI agent because you didn’t want Ethan to have died for nothing.”
“And?”
There was no relenting, no leniency—not even understanding. This was private property all right. Posted and protected. Walking out onto that minefield had been one of the biggest mistakes Jason could have made, because there was no going back from this. No possible retreat to safe ground. He was on his own now.
Something flickered and then died inside him. Hope? After a moment, he shrugged. “Okay. None of my business. Fair enough.”
Sam’s face turned toward the fire.
Jason stared at him.
The firelight wavered across Sam’s stony profile.
Jason waited, giving it time, hoping Sam would say something.
Nothing.
Finally, Sam glanced down at his glass as though only then noticing it was empty. He rose and went into the kitchen.
Jason listened to the sounds of ice clinking, spoon against sugar bowl, liquid being poured. Unhurried. Deliberate.
He got up from the sofa and left the living room.
Chapter Eighteen
When he reached the bedroom, Jason stopped, staring at the bed, at their partially unpacked suitcases, unsure of what his next move was.
He could not imagine lying in bed—the three of them—that night. But the idea of sleeping on the sofa seemed overly… What was the word Sam had used in the hospital? Operatic? Anyway, there was a good chance Sam would sit up drinking all night.
He was suddenly exhausted. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and stared out the window at the enormous full moon. Then he remembered Terry Van der Beck sneaking around the house the night before. He rose and snapped shut the blinds. When he turned from the window, Sam stood in the doorway.
Sam did not speak.
Jason met his look steadily. He couldn’t read Sam’s expression, but he thought maybe he looked a little less arctic and a lot more tired.
“Jason.”
Jason shook his head. Because what could he say? Sorry? He was sorry. He was sorry to do anything that gave Sam pain. He was sorry to wreck things between them. Maybe his timing could have been better, but he did not believe he had been wrong. He did not believe he really had a choice.
“It’s not easy for me to talk about…any of this.”
“I know.” It wasn’t easy for him either. The difference was, he cared enough about Sam to try—and keep trying.
“Were you like this with Ethan? Were you…” They had fought to reach a somewhat precarious balance. He didn’t want to tip them back into another argument.
“Withdrawn?” Sam asked drily. “Uncommunicative? Secretive?”
“I was going to say guarded, but okay.”
Sam was silent, seeming to think it over. His blue gaze lifted to Jason’s. “Yes,” he said at last. “I was. Which is why I don’t want to make the same mistakes with you.”
That helped. A lot.
“I’ve never been good at this part of relationships.” Sam’s mouth twisted. “If Ethan were here, he would say the same.”
That…was less helpful.
When Jason didn’t reply, Sam said, “What is it you want to know?”
“Sam, I don’t have a list. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to know. Any of it. Anything to do with Ethan. But the fact that you can’t talk about it. About him. Won’t talk about him. Worries me. And it’s not just Ethan. In fact, Ethan is probably the least of it. Walking into that room last night and seeing that whiteboard and those files… It makes me feel like I don’t know you.”
“I don’t talk about Ethan because it was a long time ago. Not because it’s too painful to think about or because he was too important to share my feelings about him.”
“You went into the FBI because of Ethan.”
“Yes. Ethan’s death changed my life. But that happened twenty years ago. We were very young. My life was going to change anyway.” He observed Jason for a second or two, then continued reluctantly, “To some extent, I’ve used Ethan as an excuse not to get too involved, not to care too much for anyone. Until you. I was a man on a mission. Emotionally, that’s a safe place to be.”
That was unexpectedly honest. It surprised Jason.
Watching Jason’s face, Sam said, “I know you don’t believe this, but what happened to Ethan is not a factor in our relationship.”
Jason opened his mouth, and Sam amended, “It was a factor in my decision as to whether there would be a relationship. We’re past that now. From my perspective, we’re past it.”
“Okay.” He wanted to believe it.
Sam must have read his uncertainty because he gave another of those pained grimaces, and said, “If it does factor in, it’s only in that Ethan’s death taught me how quickly everything can change. People are…fragile.”
“Yes.” Jason understood. He worried about Sam. Worried about some psycho coming after him. Worried about the emotional and mental toll of working the cases Sam specialized in.
“Which is why it is…” Unexpectedly, Sam’s voice shook. “…unbearable…to think…” He stopped. Jason looked closer, saw the impossible too-bright shimmer of Sam’s eyes.
His heart stopped, speared in place like an unlucky fish, and he left the window and went to Sam.
He didn’t know what to say, but words were not needed. Sam’s arms locked around him. Jason held him tight. Sam said into his hair and collar, “If I opened that door… If I made you a target…”
It was the last thing Jason had expected to hear. That Sam felt responsible? Guilty?
“Jesus, Sam. This isn’t your fault.”
&nbs
p; “If you’re— If something happens—through me—”
Jason pulled back, trying to see Sam’s face. “Don’t. What happened to me is not your fault. You can’t think like that. You can’t take that on yourself. We don’t even know who came after me.” He remembered who he was talking to and added doubtfully, “Do we?”
The softness of Sam’s mouth straightened into its usual hard line. “Not yet. We don’t. Jonnie has photos of Kyser in Toronto.”
“Kyser was at his conference in Toronto?”
“It looks that way.”
“It was not Kyser who came after me?” It was a jolt. Jason had been almost convinced Kyser was his assailant.
“It doesn’t appear so.”
For a moment Jason was lost in his own thoughts.
Sam used the edge of his hands to irritably wipe the wet from his eyes. He said brusquely, “Jason, whatever you think—whether you think it’s enough—I love you.”
Jason believed him. He knew that Sam loved him. Love wasn’t always enough, but it was surely three quarters of the equation.
“I love you too. Maybe I’m just out of my depth.” For sure, he couldn’t ever remember needing reassurance from a boyfriend before.
“I am who I am. I can’t promise that I’m going to change for you.”
Jason’s smile was crooked. “I’m not asking for a personality transplant.”
No answering smile from Sam. He was as grim as someone swearing to uphold the laws of the land. “But I will try. It’s worth it—you’re worth it—to try.”
Jason said, “Just don’t shut me out. At least, don’t shut me out of the things that concern me. That’s all I’m asking. And if you can’t trust me to make the right decisions, at least accept that it’s my right to make the wrong ones.”
Sam nodded bleakly. Not happy, but willing to acknowledge it was a fair request.
Jason bumped his face against Sam’s, seeking his mouth, and Sam kissed him back. His lips were so soft. There was something heartbreakingly sweet about that kiss, as though Sam was apologizing—not simply for past hurts, past misunderstandings, but for the future ones. The inevitable wounds ahead.
