by Lisa Henry
Mac turned to him.
“So . . . maybe leave it a day or two? Because getting arrested for stealing a car is a hell of a better option than broadcasting our location to a hit man, right? And it gives your office more time to sort its shit out. Risk versus reward.”
“You’re learning.”
“About that . . .” He lifted his shirt and showed Mac the bag of candy sticking out of the waistband of his jeans. “I may have been a very bad boy.”
Mac pulled the car keys out of his pocket. “Get in the car, Henry. When we get back to the cabin, you can make me some eggs.”
“Apology eggs.” He slid off the hood. “Those are my favorite!”
The eggs turned out well. Henry poached them, and the irony helped rid his mouth of the bad taste that came from having paid for them in the first place. It wasn’t that he objected to paying for groceries in general. In fact, he rarely stole anymore. Conning was one thing; stealing outright was another. But who knew how long he and Mac might be on the run? They needed to conserve money.
Mac was in a better mood than he had been that morning, which made Henry happy. He liked to rattle Mac. But he was also starting to enjoy the feeling of having someone on his side. Someone with legitimate power. He always had Stacy and Remy and the rest of the gang to help him out of a scrape. But Mac was different. Mac wasn’t supposed to be on Henry’s side, and that made it all the more exciting that he sort of was.
“These are good.” Mac speared some egg with his fork.
“I know.” Henry leaned against the counter. He wanted to see how long it took Mac’s gaze to slide to his ass. This time, less than three seconds. So big, bad, buttoned-down Special Agent McGuinness really wanted to fuck him. Cool. Henry would have been down with that, except for the voice in the back of his head that told him after guys fucked you, they usually left. Unless they were Remy, in which case they didn’t physically leave. But you could see in their eyes the point where they got hungrier for smack than they were for you.
Not that Henry minded the fuck-and-run. Preferred it, usually. Not as if he’d wanted the johns of years past to hang around in his bed, snoring till morning. Nor had he wanted to hang around in their beds. A lot of them had smelled bad. Like, a surprising number of them. Even the ones who’d put on cologne and shaved and showered for Henry. The ones who showered were usually the nervous ones, the ones who felt at least a little guilty about what they were doing. And the sweaty scent of their fear overpowered whatever they’d put on to mask it.
The ones who paid with confidence for an underage rentboy were usually guys who’d done it before, who didn’t feel guilty about it, and who had specific and/or eclectic tastes. They were the ones you couldn’t convince to talk about their lonely lives while you jerked them off, instead of sticking their cock in your ass.
They were the ones who made you feel worthless, no matter how much money they handed you.
“Candy?” Henry pulled open the bag.
“No thanks. I don’t want your stolen goods.”
“You ate the tuna.”
“I don’t need the sugar.”
“You know what you should try?” Henry tossed a couple of candies into his mouth.
“No advice necessary.”
“Quinoa.”
“Please.”
“Have you ever had it?”
“What?”
“Quinoa.”
Mac sighed. “No.”
“It’s good. It’s a pseudocereal.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“And the grains look like little sperms when you cook them.”
He watched Mac try hard to keep eating his eggs without any shift in his expression. “Good,” Mac said. “Because I want to feel like I’m eating little sperm. The only thing that could make this god-awful diet better is if it included something that looked like sperm.”
Okay, now Henry was thinking about Mac blowing him. And yeah, he’d gotten hard earlier when Mac had put on his alpha pants and pinned him against the tree. And hey, maybe it would be fun to keep pushing Mac to fuck him, and see how long it took Mac to give in to his baser instincts.
So, speaking of pants . . .
“I need new clothes.” He shifted a little. “This shirt’s still not dry, and it’s been hours since I washed it. And I’ve been wearing these pants too long.” He shifted again, deliberately swinging his ass as he leaned over the counter and searched the bag of candy for the yellow ones, collecting them in his hand. He’d always gone after the yellow ones. Viola had taken the green. At the end, when there was only one of each of their colors left, they would swap, and he would eat one green candy, and Viola one yellow. “They’re really tight.”
“I’d noticed.”
“I might need help getting them off. A little elbow grease and a pair of strong hands . . .”
“Henry.” Mac pushed his plate forward and wiped his mouth. “Let’s agree not to take each other’s pants off while we’re here. Okay?”
Henry was disappointed. “What about when we’re back in Indianapolis?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Can we take off our own pants but touch each other’s junk?”
“No. You’re a witness; I’m an agent. End of story.”
Sure it was. He made a mental note to sleep nude tonight. And stage a violent nightmare that would draw Mac to his bedside and prompt Henry to kick off all the covers. He tipped the handful of candy into his mouth.
“Why don’t we think of some nice, platonic activities we can do for the rest of today?” Mac said. “You like cards?”
“Love ’em,” he said with his mouth full. “Don’t think you’ll be much competition for me, though.”
“Have you ever played cards without cheating?”
He felt a strange spike of embarrassment at that, even though Mac had only said it like a mild tease. He finished chewing and swallowed. “Once or twice.”
“There’s probably a deck here somewhere.” Mac ran a hand over the scruff that had sprouted on his face over the last twenty-four hours. He had a little fuzz on his head too. His scalp wasn’t nearly as shiny as it had been when Henry had first seen him.
“You should shave your head first. I could help you.”
“Yeah. You, me, and a razor. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Well, at least let me watch.” Henry licked the yellow smudges off his fingers. Slowly.
Mac stood and carried his plate to the sink. Rinsed, turned the faucet off, and stood there a minute as water glugged down the drain. “Okay, fine.”
Watching was fun. Particularly the part where Mac took his shirt off so it didn’t get wet. Henry leaned in the doorway of the small bathroom, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. Which was not the only reason they were suddenly feeling tighter. Mac was a good-looking guy. A little out of shape maybe, but not much. His abs weren’t exactly defined, but they weren’t hidden by a flabby gut either. Mac had a nice amount of chest hair, not enough for a guy to get lost in, and a thin treasure trail that led into his pants. He was a little darker than Henry, almost olive skinned. Had a mole on the back of his left hip.
“You ever worry about nicking your ears?”
Mac dragged the razor over his head. “No. I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
“How long have you been doing it?”
“Long enough.” Mac rinsed the razor under the tap and raised it again, staring intently at his reflection in the mirror. “You know what annoys me? My dad has a full fucking head of hair at sixty-eight, and I go and inherit from my mom’s side.”
“Well, if it’s good enough for Vin Diesel, it’s good enough for you.”
It was good enough for Henry too.
They played cards, sitting on the floor. He even let Mac win a couple of times. Actually, the times Mac won were the times he wasn’t cheating. So it was possible that Mac didn’t require Henry to “let him” win; he simply required Henry not to stack the game.
Mac checked his watch. “It’s not even five. What do you want to do?”
“I told you what I want to do. But you don’t want to do it.”
Mac picked up the cards. “Think of something else, then.”
“Uh . . .”
“I’m not reading Club Werewolf,” Mac said.
“Why not? There might be sexy werewolves in it. You like sexy werewolves, don’t you?”
“No.”
“What do you like?”
“I told you, I like realistic—”
“I mean, what’s your type? Or who’s your type, I guess I should say.”
“I don’t really have a type.”
“Just not me. That’s your only requirement?”
“Christ, Henry, it’s not a matter of being—being attracted to you.”
“No?”
“You’re my witness.”
“We already made out. So this is just, like, finishing what we started. So we can put it behind us.”
For a second, Mac’s expression was longing. Then he shook his head. “No. It could ruin our case.”
“Our case? So we are working together?”
Mac shoved the cards back in the box. “We’re stuck with each other.”
Henry offered to take the cards back to the bedroom closet. While he was there, he found an old green sweatshirt in one corner. He shook it out. It read, “I Got Lucky at O’Dell’s Pub.” Definitely a little dusty. But dry, loose and dry. The mesh was starting to chafe. He took his shirt off and put the sweatshirt on. Folded the shirt neatly into a small square and set it on the stand beside the bed. He kept just about anything Remy gave him, out of habit. Part of him was convinced there’d be a day when Remy was no longer around. He guessed he wanted things to remember him by.
Stupid, because someone like Henry needed to travel light. Couldn’t be toting Pocket Shakespeare or ripped-up shirts around wherever he went. But Stacy had given him his own room at the Court, and he had a locked drawer there with things from Remy, a couple of things from Viola, and his mother’s ring.
Henry returned to the main room. “This yours, Mac?” He pulled the sweatshirt straight for Mac to see.
Mac squinted. “Must be Brian’s.”
“Oh.” Privately, he was disappointed. He’d sort of hoped he’d have something from Mac to add to his drawer.
Oh well. Maybe he’d snag the card deck before they left.
“You know. . .” Henry swiveled his hips. “You could get lucky right here at—”
“Save it, Henry.”
“Okay.”
Mac went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk. “You want anything to drink?” He took a swig.
Henry stared at him. He looked good, all clean-shaven. He’d looked good with scruff too. He just looked good. And for just a second, Henry wanted Mac to think better of him. To think he was something more than a liar and a cheater. “Maxfield hung out at the Carmel Mall.”
Mac continued to gulp his milk, but looked at him over the rim of his glass and raised his eyebrows.
“Twice when he came over to Gloria’s, he had a bag from Sammy’s Pretzels. One time he came in and Pete was with him. Pete had a bag too. They talked about meeting someone else ‘by the water.’ I wondered if they meant the fountain on the west side of the mall. Because there’s no water in Carmel. Or anywhere in the state, except for pathetic puddles like the one out there.” He nodded in the direction of the lake.
Mac set his glass down and smacked his lips. “You’re telling me Maxfield’s boys enjoy pretzels and throwing pennies into the fountain by Belk? How does that help me?”
“I don’t know. You asked if I remembered anything about Maxfield. I remember that.”
Mac leaned on the counter. “I’ve got the names and descriptions of two other guys we think are in Maxfield’s gang. No idea about their location.”
“You’re not gonna get Maxfield to rat.”
Mac didn’t respond.
“I know guys like that. He’s not the ratting type. No matter what you offer him.”
“Then I’ll settle for putting him away.”
Henry stood there for a moment, hands jammed in the sweatshirt’s front pockets. “How’s a guy like him end up with a buddy in the FBI? This clan’s not exactly the Gambino family, am I right?”
“Never underestimate the power of the Indiana mob. Just because they’ve done more racketeering than shooting, up to this point . . .”
“Up to this point. Until they shoot us.”
“They’re not gonna shoot us.” Mac put the milk away.
“You sure?”
“You scared?”
“Nope. Just wonder what you think our chances of survival are.”
“You’re wondering now?” Mac moved the glass into the sink. “But you weren’t wondering when you clogged the toilet and ran?”
“Fight or flight. I always chose flight. But since you’ve taken that option away, then yeah, I want to know what you think our chances are.”
Mac’s face was somber. “They’re good. Because at least we know we’re in trouble, right? We could be in an FBI safe house right now with our guard down. So yeah, I’d say we’re good.”
“You are the most unhappy optimist I’ve ever met.”
“And you are the—” Mac snorted. “I don’t know what the hell you are.”
Neither, for a second, did Henry. And he wasn’t sure he liked the speculation in Mac’s eyes. He turned away. “So anyway, I’m gonna catch up on Club Werewolf.”
“Okay.” Mac washed his glass. “I’ll call you for dinner. Don’t go outside again, Henry.”
“I won’t.” And for once, it wasn’t a lie.
Mac cooked pasta for dinner. Nothing fancy. Just noodles and a store-bought sauce. He rattled around in the kitchen for a while, every bent utensil and dented pot a reminder of all the times he’d spent here, all the years. The family sitting down together to eat, teasing his dad and asking where the fish was, and listening to the story of the big one that got away. When he was twelve, Mac had been convinced that there were no fish in the lake at all. None whatsoever. But that night, his dad had come back from fishing with enough to last for days. It took Mac until he was fifteen to see the point of fishing. It didn’t matter to his dad if he didn’t catch anything. He just liked sitting out by the lake, dangling his legs from the jetty, and thinking. So did Mac, from that time on.
Having Henry here felt wrong, somehow. This was Mac’s quiet place. This was his sanctuary. He came here to get away from work, not to bring it with him. And all that teasing about whether or not they should fuck . . . what the hell was that about? Henry was just needling him. Again. Constantly. Just playing with him because he was bored. And maybe because he was scared as well.
Mac took the pasta off the stove and drained it. He stirred the sauce through, and went to get Henry.
Henry was asleep on the bed, curled up with a book hugged to his chest. Still wearing Brian’s old, ugly sweatshirt, even though his bag was open on the floor and he’d pulled a few items of clothing out. Mac shook his head. Typical. Borrowing someone else’s clothes when he had his own on hand, which was more than Mac had. Although maybe there were a few things of his in the closet as well.
Mac opened it quietly and began to search.
A T-shirt of Cory’s. A blouse that had to have been his mom’s. A pair of jeans Mac didn’t remember ever having owned. They were turned up at the bottom. Old man jeans. His dad’s, definitely, but at least they would fit him. A shirt of Brian’s that wouldn’t be too tight across the shoulders, and a few pairs of underwear that were at least clean. His dad’s or Brian’s, Mac didn’t really want to speculate. It was better than wearing the same pair for days, anyway.
Shit, he hoped none of them showed up at the cabin. There was no reason they would, but Mac still worried. He didn’t want to
drag them into this. The cabin was supposed to be for family, not for work. He had known that since he was a kid and his mom had smacked his dad over the head with the newspaper he was trying to read and told him to shut up about the price of corn. The farm would still be there on Monday.
There had been a time, when Mac was eight, when nobody had been sure of that. The memory of his dad crying at night still made him sick inside. There came a time in every kid’s life, he guessed, when they realized their parents weren’t invincible. Weren’t superheroes. Didn’t have all the answers. He knew his father’s words that night, choked out around his sobs, would stay with him forever.
“What are we gonna do, Ana? If we lose this place, what are we gonna do?”
If he’d been braver, maybe he would have walked in and given his dad a hug. But he hadn’t. He’d pretended he hadn’t heard anything, and kept his shattered faith to himself. Could never look at his dad the same way after that. Couldn’t love him any less—loved him even more fiercely, he supposed—but couldn’t worship him the same way anymore.
He’d done a lot of growing up in those weeks.
Mac looked at Henry. It wasn’t Club Werewolf he was hugging. It was his Shakespeare. He wondered when Henry had done his growing up. His terrible, awful growing up. And wondered what sort of kid he’d been before.
Was it presumptuous to wonder if Henry had nightmares? Or maybe he was as cold and calculating as Mac had thought initially, that mask only slipping when his life was in danger. Maybe he didn’t give a fuck what had happened to him when he was a kid. Not everyone, Mac knew, was the same. He’d had that lesson smacked into him during his first few months with the FBI, dealing with both perps and victims. Some people’s idea of normal was so fucking out there that he could hardly wrap his head around it. He’d taken it in stride since, or at least learned to school his features better.
He picked up his armful of clothes, and kicked the end of the bed. “Henry.”
Henry jolted awake, his eyes round. “What?”
“Dinner.”
Henry stretched, the sweatshirt riding up and showing his abdomen. “Cool. What’re we having?”
“Pasta.” Mac headed back to the kitchen.
