The Start of a Beautiful Friendship
Page 5
I wanted to get that expression off his face. “So next you’re going to tell me that you’re not a top?”
He burst into laughter. “Oh la la! Mon cher Rick, I am a bottom seulement, and that is all I desire to be! What made you think otherwise?”
“You led that… Beau… around by his tie. And he looked intimidated.”
Louis patted my cheek. “And so he should have. Although I prefer to take another man into my body, I am not one to….” He shook his head and grinned. “Did you think you were really introducing me to a form of lovemaking I was so unfamiliar with?” His amused expression vanished, and he frowned. “Did I strike you as that inept?”
“No, but you were so fucking tight!” I knew how uncomfortable it was for me when I had a prostate exam done, and that was just a finger up my ass. As for what my partner had done to me…. I pushed that out of my mind.
“I am not a choirboy, Rick, but it has been a while since I got such a thorough workout.” He got up. “I will be leaving in the morning. I need to make sure my clothes are in readiness.”
“You can take the clothes I bought you.”
“Merci.” He sounded amused. Even if he wasn’t a rent boy, was he used to men buying him clothes?
“Fuck you. Do what you have to do and come back to bed.” We’d pushed the two beds together, but I still made sure I slept on the one that had my gun tucked into the springs. Good thing I didn’t have royal blood in my veins. I’d never have gotten any sleep. “And turn off the fucking light.”
XII
I WAS dreaming of Casablanca, which made sense in a weird kind of way.
Victor Laszlo led the patrons of Rick’s Café Americain in “La Marseillaise,” and I sang along. “Allons enfants de la Patrie….”
“Shhh. Go back to sleep, Rick.” Louis kissed the corner of my mouth. “C’est rien.”
“Mmm.” I pulled the duvet over my shoulder, but I had no intention of going back to sleep. It wasn’t “nothing,” and it wasn’t a dream. I realized “La Marseillaise” must have been the ringtone on Louis’s phone.
I kept my eyes closed and listened hard, and then I heard Louis snarl quietly, “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, Tactics?” followed by a soft snick.
The only person I knew who went by that name was the man who ran the Division, the antiterrorist organization that had let the Archbishop slip through their fingers. Why was he calling Louis at this hour of the morning? Why would he call Louis at all?
And I realized Louis had never told me what he did. Not that I’d told him my job.
I had a bad feeling about this.
I opened my eyes and raised my head. The room wasn’t pitch-black—light spilled from under the bathroom door—but it was still dark enough that I couldn’t see the hands on my watch. I risked pressing the button that lit the face.
It was 4:37 a.m. Sunrise wouldn’t be for almost another four hours.
I slid to the floor and reached under the bed to retrieve my Glock. I left the holster on the bed and approached the bathroom door, then pressed my ear against it.
“Merde! Anacapri knew I was returning today,” Louis spat in rapid-fire French. It was a good thing I understood more than seven days’ worth of pillow talk. “I told her I needed the time to—Well, excuse the hell out of me if I needed to grieve a fallen comrade!”
I tightened my grip on my Glock.
The voice on the phone hissed and snarled and generally sounded pissed, although I couldn’t distinguish his words. Tactics was obviously tearing Louis a new one. What the fuck was Louis involved in?
“Just remember that,” Louis snapped now, his voice rising slightly. “Did the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure return Claude’s body to his family?”
I could almost see the quotes around—
What the fuck? Claude might be a common enough name in Paris, but how many with that name also worked for the DGSE and were dead?
“Very well.” Louis sounded resentful. “If you must know, I’m at—”
Jesus, what a stupid fool I was! I shoved open the door before he could name the hotel and aimed the Glock at his head.
“Say good-bye, Louis.” I just hoped the Division’s equipment wasn’t sophisticated enough to trace the call to this hotel.
He froze. “Am I going to die?”
“No. You’re going to tell whoever is on the phone that you have to go, and then you’re going to hang up. And if you say anything more than that,” I continued in French, “I’ll blow a hole in you big enough to drive an eighteen-wheeler through. Now say good-bye.”
“Au ’voir, Tactics.”
The head of the Division was even more unhappy. I could hear it over the line. “Pierre, goddamnit, don’t you—”
Louis disconnected the call and met my gaze steadily. “Now what?”
“Now we have a little talk.” I backed away and used the Glock to gesture toward the bedroom.
“I imagine we will need a light.” He stepped out of the bathroom and crossed to the switch by the door. “I regret you were involved…. Just a second. You speak French.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. I understand it pretty damn well too. Who the fuck is Pierre?”
“C’est moi.” His smile was wry. “You also carry a gun. Where did you have it hidden?”
“Under my bed.”
“Ah. I thought that was too obvious.”
I studied him carefully. “Who are you, Pete?”
He grimaced at the nickname. “Pierre de Becque.”
Fuck me sideways with a spoon. “I’ve heard of you.”
“That’s not possible.”
“No? Then how do you explain that I know you’re a top-level operative for an antiterrorist organization known as the Division, which is headquartered here in Paris?”
A line appeared between his brows. “But how could you know that?”
“Because that’s part of my job.” I looked him up and down. “Slumming, de Becque?”
“Mais, non. I was ordered to take some time off.”
The same way I’d been ordered to take time off? “I have to say I expected you to be taller.”
He shrugged. “And who are you, mon ami? I can assume your name isn’t Rick?”
“No. It’s Mark Vincent.”
“Ah. And I have heard of you.”
“You want to tell me what this whole thing was about?”
“Would you believe it was supposed to be a way to deal with the death of my friend?”
“Claude Pluie.”
He stared into my eyes. “How did you know Claude?”
“He was the guy I was talking about.”
“Vraiment?” He sighed. “His death was such a waste. Claude was a good top.”
“He was a good bottom too. Guess that made him versatile in more ways than one.” I thought about how easily he’d slipped into the Archbishop’s organization. De Becque was right—what a waste. I crossed to where I’d left the holster and picked it up. “I’m sorry about his loss.”
“As am I. I was to pull him out of that situation. Claude had done all he could for the DGSE, and I was to bring him home.”
“What?”
He went to the desk, where a bottle of wine and two glasses had been placed. He held up the bottle, and I shook my head. That bottle had sat out all night, and at any time Louis—de Becque—could have doctored it. He shrugged and filled a glass for himself. After the time we’d spent together, he knew I was an infrequent drinker at best, but would he assume I’d refused to drink with him because of that, or because I didn’t trust him?
He’d be a fool to assume it was simply the former, and from what I knew of Pierre de Becque, he was no fool.
He took a sip of the wine and finally addressed my question about bringing Claude home. “The intel I had indicated the Archbishop was in Tirana.”
“Albania? What the fuck would he be doing there?”
“As it turned out? Nothing. The intel was faulty.” He gave m
e an irritated look. “What was he doing in Prague?”
“His plan was to assassinate the head of the Ministry of Security Information Service.”
“Obviously he didn’t succeed.”
“Obviously. I lost two good men and two more were being hospitalized when I left to find Claude.”
“Yes, it comes back to him. What will you do?”
“The Archbishop knows I’m coming after him. I’ll get him sooner or later, and he’ll pay for Claude and everyone else he’s terrorized.”
“I heard about what you did for your partner.”
“Yeah? I won’t do less for Claude.”
“Neither shall I.”
“I seem to remember the Division going after Abendroth with no luck.”
“This time it will be me going after him.” He paused with his glass raised halfway to his mouth, and then he shook his head. “And I ask myself how it is you know the Archbishop’s name.”
“And what does yourself tell you?”
“It has no answer.”
It better not have. “Tell me something. What were you doing in Le Petit Homme last week?”
“I was being truthful when I told you I was looking for someone to help me forget. And you?”
“More or less the same.” I wanted to ask why he hadn’t chosen to approach me, but instead I asked, “Was his name really Beau?”
“Who? Ah, the man I left with? I have no idea. I pushed him up against a door to kiss him, and he panicked and ran.”
“Poor baby,” I mocked. Pete—somehow that name felt easier in my mouth and thoughts than Louis—would have done better to pick me.
“Eh. What do you Americans say? You cannot win them all?”
“No, I guess you can’t.”
“I would have gone back for you, you know, but you were leaving. And then the next morning I found you again, and I was not going to let you go.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered by that?”
“Actually, you should be.” He grinned faintly. “I imagine one could say things worked out for the best.”
Yeah, we’d lucked out. “Although it could have gone the other way and I could have killed you.”
“C’est vrai? You do not think we each recognized what the other was?”
“No. Fuck no!” I was insulted. “You are not going to tell me that somehow, deep inside, we knew it was safe!”
“I’m not? But truly, Rick—Mark—I have never been more comfortable with anyone away from work.” He observed me solemnly, his words saccharine, but there was the devil in his eyes. “It is too dangerous for us to have a relationship on the outside, so we created an outside that was safe for us both. Perhaps that is why we took each other at our word. Don’t you think that alone should have told us—”
“Fuck you, Pete.” He was yanking my chain. “That’s bullshit on toast. It might have been serendipity, but there was none of that knowing instinctively what we were.”
“Perhaps not for you—”
“Not for you either. And if you keep insisting on that, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Wouldn’t you rather fuck it?” It suddenly occurred to me that Pete and I had been having this conversation stark naked.
“Y’know, if we had more condoms, that would sound like a good idea.” We’d used the last of them earlier.
“We could do other things.” He gave me a salacious look.
Yeah, we could. “There’s enough lube left to jerk each other off. Why don’t you—” “Bad to the Bone” suddenly began playing.
Pete dropped his glass, fortunately empty by this time, and glanced around the room.
I’d turned my cell phone back on earlier in the day, when Pete had gone out to get me a pack of cigarettes, and I’d called Good Sam to check on UB’s status. “He doesn’t have much longer,” the somber voice on the other end told me. I was sorry to hear that, but the only thing that surprised me was that he was still hanging on.
Before I could respond, I’d heard the key in the lock, said, “I’ll be in touch,” and then I’d stuffed the phone back into the tissue box.
Now I went to the box, moved the tissues, and pulled out my cell phone.
Pete’s eyes grew huge and his jaw dropped. “I had wondered….”
“You really thought I was a businessman in a bad suit?”
“Merde.” He picked up his glass and returned it to the desk, while I answered my phone.
“Yes, sir?” Of course it was The Boss.
“I need you home as soon as possible.” He didn’t tell me why, not that I expected it.
“I was going to check out in a few hours.”
“Check out now. Your flight leaves in two hours. Your ticket will be at the Air France counter at Charles De Gaulle Airport.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a click as he hung up, and I hung up on my end. I’d planned to fly into JFK and drive out to West Islip to see UB, probably for the last time, but that would have to wait. “Well, I guess we’re done here.”
“So it would seem, mon ami.” He crossed to the armoire, where he’d placed his clothes earlier.
“I was serious about you keeping the suit if you want it.”
“Merci. One never knows when it will come in handy.”
No, one never did. I went to the armoire myself and took out clean underwear. I’d have bought him shorts also, but it seemed he only wore them when he wasn’t in rent-boy mode.
“Want to share a shower one last time?” I asked. It had been snug, but that made it all the more enjoyable.
“What makes you think it will be the last time?”
“We can’t do this again.”
“Why not? The next time you are in Paris, if I also am in Paris…?”
I stared at him thoughtfully. “Yeah, why not?” It was odd how comfortable I was with him. And then I realized: not only did I know of Pierre de Becque, but after the week I’d spent with him, I knew him.
We showered, sharing kisses when we could. “I am going to miss your kisses, Mark,” he said as he turned off the water, and we stepped onto the mat the hotel provided.
“I’ll miss yours too.” I could give him that. He did have a clever mouth. Most of my one-night stands kissed like they wanted to suck my lips off my face. I took a towel and dried him off, then ran another towel over my torso and legs, while he rubbed my back dry, peppering my spine with those kisses.
We went back into the bedroom and dressed in silence. I slid my arms into my shoulder holster as Pete examined my Glock.
“I prefer a Sig Sauer myself,” he said.
“No accounting for tastes.” I held out my hand, but instead of placing my gun in it, he slid the Glock into its holster himself. He wound his hand around the base of my skull and pulled me down for one last kiss, then let me go.
“Finish packing,” he said. “We’re running short of time.”
To keep up the charade that the airline had lost my luggage, I’d purchased a small pilot case, and now he watched as I folded the clothes I’d bought two weeks ago and packed them into it.
“You do that every well,” he observed in French, a slight grin on his face. “But then I had noticed you are very… tidy, Rick.”
“English, Louis!” We both laughed, and I looked into his gray-green eyes. I held out my hand to him. “It’s been an experience, Pete.”
“It has indeed, Mark.” He closed his fingers around mine, tightening his grip briefly before releasing my hand. He slung the garment bag containing his suit over his shoulder. “The start of a beautiful friendship?”
Grinning and shaking my head, I followed Pete out the door and let it close behind me.
In spite of what he’d said earlier, he should know the odds of us coming into contact again were slim.
But even if we never did, we’d always have Paris.
About the Author
TINNEAN has been writing since the third grade, where she was inspired to try her hand at epic poetry. Fortunately, that epic p
oem didn't survive the passage of time; however, her love of writing not only survived but thrived, and in high school she became a member of the magazine staff, where she contributed a number of stories.
It was with the advent of the family’s second computer—the first intimidated everyone—that her writing took off, enhanced in part by fanfiction, but mostly by the wonder that is copy and paste. While involved in fandom, she was nominated for both Rerun and Light My Fire Awards. Now she concentrates on her original characters.
A New Yorker at heart, she resides in southwest Florida with her husband and two computers.
Ernest Hemingway's words reflect Tinnean's devotion to her craft: "Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure, only death can stop it."
She can be contacted at tinneantoo@gmail.com, and can be found on LiveJournal at http://tinnean.livejournal.com/ and on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/Tinnean. If you'd like to sample her earlier works, they can be found at http://www.angelfire.com/fl5/tinnssinns/Welcome1.html.
By TINNEAN
NOVELS
Bless Us With Content
Two Lips, Indifferent Red
SPY VS. SPOOK SERIES
Houseboat on the Nile
Not My Spook!
Forever
NOVELLAS
The Best
Call Me Church
Greeting Cards
No One Should Be Alone
To Love Through Space and Time
SPY VS. SPOOK SERIES
The Start of a Beautiful Friendship
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Spy vs. Spook Series
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also by TINNEAN
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also by TINNEAN
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Copyright
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