Fair Chance

by Josh Lanyon

He waited until they were nearly done with their meals before returning to business.

  “It’s not that easy to take down a healthy young male. Corian used animal tranquilizers on some of his victims, and he’s a big guy, but even so there are logistical problems with transporting and disposal. He had a full-time job, a thriving art career and a busy social schedule. There would have been time constraints.”

  Tucker made a noncommittal noise and caught the eye of their waitress. He pointed to his glass and Elliot’s.

  “I’m good,” Elliot said. Tucker was drinking more than usual, a sure sign of stress.

  The brass accent lights and chandeliers glowed warmly, softening the lines around Tucker’s eyes. Through the window, the pink-and-blue sunset had deepened to purple and indigo and at last turned to night. The lights of Tacoma glittered below.

  The waitress delivered Tucker’s third drink. He sipped it and said, “Obviously, it’s not outside the realm of possibility. It’s not something I want to hear either, but... Pine’s right. We’ve got to pursue it as we would any lead.”

  Now, that really was progress. If Elliot had still had a drink, he’d have said salut!

  The conversation moved to less sensitive channels: Elliot’s fall semester classes, the paper he was writing for the Journal of American History on the cache of Confederate gold lost at the end of the Civil War, and another of Tucker’s cases, the investigation into the murder of Assistant United States Attorney Robert Dice Thompson.

  The murder had occurred back in 2001. At ten-thirty on the night of December twelfth a lone gunman stood in the backyard of AUSA Thompson’s home and shot him multiple times through a basement window as he sat at his computer. Thompson died in hospital the next day.

  Thompson had worked for the Western District of Washington prosecuting white-collar crimes for over a decade. Every few years the Bureau assigned a new agent to take a fresh look at the cold case. Elliot had been working it right before he’d been shot, so he was glad the file had not finished back in the freezer, although it had been disconcerting—even a little painful—to learn Tucker was the agent picking up where he had left off.

  Because Thompson had been African-American, Elliot had been investigating the possibility that the killing might have been racially motivated. Tucker, on the other hand, firmly believed Thompson had been killed because of a case he had either been in the midst of prosecuting or had just finished prosecuting.

  They finished their meals and ordered coffee. Elliot filled Tucker in on the phone call from his father regarding Nobby’s hearing.

  “You declined.” Tucker sounded surprised.

  “Yes.” Tucker’s reaction was unexpected. “Why? You think I should testify as to Nobb’s value to the community? His sanity? What?”

  “You sound defensive,” Tucker said. “I’m on your side, remember?”

  “I feel defensive. My dad blames all of this on me.” He also probably sounded aggrieved, which was juvenile. Knowing he had Tucker’s sympathy, however ridiculous his own feelings, had a way of disarming him into sharing things he normally wouldn’t.

  “Nah. Come on.”

  “He’s—Things haven’t been right, really right, between us since this whole thing went down, and today made it worse. But... I can’t be so forgiving.”

  Tucker listened closely to all of that. He said, “Do you think Nobb still poses a threat to the community or your dad?”

  “How the hell should I know? I don’t think he’s the most stable of my dad’s old cronies—which is saying something.”

  Tucker considered this.

  Meeting his blue gaze, Elliot grimaced. “My dad asked me where my compassion was.”

  “You’re compassionate. You’re also afraid for your father.”

  “I am, yeah.” Elliot sipped his coffee and brooded.

  “Why don’t you talk to Roland about this part of it?” Tucker asked.

  “What part of it?”

  “The part where you feel hurt and shut out and blamed unfairly for acting out of love and wanting to protect him.”

  Elliot must have looked fairly horror-struck because Tucker laughed. “Listen, your father gets caught up in this stuff, in his causes du jour, but I guarantee you he has no idea you feel like this.”

  “I don’t want him to know I feel like this,” Elliot said. He gave a short laugh. “I’m not sure I want to know I feel like this.”

  Tucker shook his head. “As your father would say, you’re one uptight cat, Mills.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Elliot said gloomily. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad was planning to put some distance between them. But no. He plans to continue living over at Nobb’s while his own house is being rebuilt.”

  “It makes sense on one level.”

  “What level is that? The no-parking level?”

  Tucker made a sound of grim amusement. “Roland does need a place while his own house is being rebuilt. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to stay with us, and he’s been out there running that farm while Nobb’s been in jail. They’re both lonely. They can both help each other.”

  “My dad’s not lonely.” Elliot frowned at the idea.

  “You don’t think he’s lonely?”

  “He’s got a million friends. A million, as you say, causes. He belongs to...” Elliot’s voice petered out. “You think he’s lonely?”

  Tucker lifted a big shoulder. “All I know is you’re the most important thing in your father’s life. If he knew you were feeling like this, he’d want to fix it.”

  Elliot mimicked Yamiguchi. “Respectfully, Special Agent Lance, you’re not a profiler, psychiatrist or psychologist.”

  Tucker laughed. “True. You know how I know this, Professor Mills? Because it’s how I feel about you.”

  Chapter Six

  By the time Elliot’s Nissan rattled off the ferry and onto the steep, sharply sloping road that led toward home, it was nearly nine.

  The silver-faced moon peered over the tops of the trees as the car wound through the deep woods of Goose Island. Every now and again headlights caught the gleam of eyes near the side of the road. There were a lot of deer on the island. Deer and other critters.

  “Is that what you call a harvest moon?” Tucker broke the weary silence that had settled on them during the brief ferry ride from the mainland.

  “Yep. The full moon closest to the autumnal equinox.” The moon’s spotlight pinpointed a tree stump here, a fallen log there.

  “Summer seems like a long time ago.” There was a note Elliot couldn’t quite define in Tucker’s voice. Not melancholy exactly. Well, they were both tired. It had been a long week. A long month. Summer did feel like a lifetime ago.

  In August they had traveled to Montreal. Their first real vacation together. And possibly the best vacation of Elliot’s life—not counting the trip to Disneyland for his eighth birthday. Few things could compare to meeting Prince Charming in person, but Tucker gave the prince a run for his money.

  He wanted to reassure Tucker that there would be other vacations, that summer would be back before they knew it, but that was nothing Tucker didn’t already know.

  The porch light of the two-story cabin shone in cheery welcome as the Nissan topped the hill.

  They parked in the garage and went through to the kitchen. This was one of the only rooms untouched by Tucker’s presence—Tucker’s only interest in kitchens was where the forks and knives were kept—and the room looked as it had a year ago. Warm wood, granite counters, latticed wine rack and a few expensive and well-used gadgets. Elliot liked to cook and his FECA disability benefits had been generous. The FBI took care of its own.

  Tucker poured himself a glass of water from the sink taps. He drank the water, gazing out the window at the moonlit cove below.

 
Elliot considered unloading the dishwasher and decided he was too tired to bother with it. He would be on his own that weekend and any house chores that needed catching up on could be dealt with then.

  “Your knee okay?” Tucker asked suddenly. “You’ve been rubbing it all evening.”

  “Have I? I think I wrenched it when I was at Corian’s.” Elliot studied Tucker’s face. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. Just thinking of the reports I should be typing up.”

  And to think at one time Elliot had been fed up with all the paperwork that went with the job of FBI agent. “Are you planning to...?”

  “Hell no.” Tucker set his empty glass in the sink. “Let’s go to bed.”

  * * *

  Elliot groaned his relief as he dropped into the nest of pillows piled against the headboard of their new and very comfortable king-size bed. His knee was hurting like hell by now and he’d popped a couple of pain pills in the bathroom. He glanced at the clock, mentally counting down the minutes until the pills would take effect.

  He sighed. Christ, it felt good to finally lie flat. The pale gray sheets were soft Egyptian cotton and felt cool and comforting against his bare back. From outside the open window came the night sounds of crickets and frogs and an owl looking for a midnight snack. From the bathroom came the sounds of Tucker brushing his teeth. Elliot smiled faintly. Tucker was a guy who took his grooming very seriously.

  He didn’t talk a lot about his childhood, but he’d told Elliot once that he’d been a big, ungainly kid who had been teased and pushed around until he’d taken up boxing as a teenager. Now Tucker looked like he’d strolled out of the pages of Esquire and did the pushing around.

  The bathroom door opened and Tucker, wearing blue boxers with a pattern of tiny yachting pennants, said, “We’re out of toothpaste.”

  Elliot could smell the arctic-fresh from across the room. He said mildly, “Again? What the hell are you doing in there?”

  Tucker looked obligingly manic and Elliot chuckled.

  Turning out the yellow ginger jar lamp next to the bed, Tucker climbed between the sheets. He muttered, “Do you ever wish...”

  He let it trail, not finishing the thought. Elliot eyed his silhouette. “What?”

  “That it was a year from now and everything that was going to happen had already happened?”

  Elliot thought that over. The statement sounded uncharacteristically pessimistic for Tucker. “What do you think is going to happen?” he asked finally.

  Tucker didn’t answer. Or at least not in words. He leaned over Elliot and kissed him.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Elliot told him. Maybe he didn’t come right out and say the words, but he was still communicating reassurance in the best way he knew.

  He’d been thinking Tucker was probably too tired for more than a kiss and a cuddle—or maybe Elliot was too tired—but Tucker, as it turned out, was—in the words of lounge singers across the world—in the mood for love.

  The smell of damp, clean skin filled his nostrils and the heat of Tucker’s nakedness warmed him. Elliot’s hands rested on Tucker’s broad shoulders, smoothing knotted muscles, welcoming him, holding him close; the hair of Tucker’s chest and underarms was scratchy-soft against Elliot’s bare skin.

  “I love you,” Tucker muttered.

  Elliot whispered back, “I love you.”

  Tucker murmured approval, and their lips brushed, sharing quick, uneven breaths, before Tucker’s mouth moved on, grazing Elliot’s jaw, neck, the curve of his shoulder, setting Elliot alight. Every nerve in his body was hypersensitive to those moist, lingering kisses. He wrapped his arms around Tucker’s neck, surrendering himself to Tucker’s embrace, surrendering to whatever Tucker needed from him.

  Tucker’s large, caressing hand swept down Elliot’s chest, over his belly, yanked the elastic band of his shorts and came to rest on his cock, and Elliot pressed up helplessly, wanting, needing Tucker to take him in hand, literally and figuratively, closing his eyes as longing bloomed inside his chest.

  “More...”

  Tucker’s head lowered and he nibbled and licked at the delicate points of Elliot’s nipple, first one then the other, taking his sweet time. Very sweet time. Turning this attention into a kind of delightful torture.

  Elliot’s cock throbbed, pushing its way into Tucker’s grip, already pearling and slippery with anticipation. Elliot groaned relief as Tucker’s fingers closed with purpose around him. Tucker’s mouth swallowed Elliot’s cry, kissing him strongly, deeply, hard, until Elliot was gasping for breath.

  In the moonlight, Tucker’s eyes were dark and glittery with passion and possessiveness. He seemed to need the reassurance of Elliot’s submission, his mouth parting Elliot’s again, his tongue pushing against Elliot’s even as his free hand tugged at the waistband of his own shorts.

  Not that Tucker was forcing Elliot into anything Elliot didn’t want. A certain amount of having his wishes overruled was part of Elliot’s kink, so while he had been tired and not entirely in the mood, Tucker’s ruthlessness excited him, and Elliot opened to him, opened in every way, his tongue twining with Tucker’s even as he slid down, shifting instinctively, bracing himself on his elbows, lifting his hips so that Tucker, his cock now springing free—stiff as a flagpole—could push inside.

  Christ, the slick, tight shock of entry.

  There was nothing like it. Exquisite and devastating to be so thoroughly...breached. Overpowered, overcome, owned.

  And now he was completely into it, implicitly obeying Tucker’s commands both verbal and physical, pushing feverishly back against Tucker’s cock, thrusting into Tucker’s grip. It didn’t get much more submissive than this: his dick in Tucker’s hand and Tucker’s prick up his ass.

  “God. Tucker. Whatever you want, Tucker. Whatever you need. Tell me...”

  Tucker stared down into his face, a study of moonlight and shadow, powerful and yet vulnerable in this moment too as he moved deep inside Elliot, piercing him over and over with that slow sweet rhythm.

  He said roughly, “I want to hear what you’re feeling when I fuck you.”

  “Feels good. Feels great.” Elliot moaned as Tucker shoved deep, deeper inside him, pulled out, and pressed home again.

  “Why do you want it like this so much?” Tucker whispered.

  “Feel connected...” The silky slide of skin on bare skin continued, inside and out, picked up speed, they were catching light from each other...the transference of energy...and any minute now would come the best of all possible chain reactions.

  “Like we’re in synch.” The sex-talk was not Elliot’s favorite part. He had zero wish to articulate what he was feeling when they fucked. But it did something for Tucker. Listening to Elliot losing control seemed to turn him on, intensify the experience, and the more turned-on Tucker was, the more Elliot enjoyed himself, so...he was learning to offer more than a few terse words and moans.

  “I know why I like it,” Tucker muttered. “Jesus, the way you move, those sounds you make...so hot, so needy.”

  Elliot shuddered.

  Tucker urged, “More. What else? Tell me.”

  “Weak,” Elliot groaned his admission. “I feel weak. Helpless.”

  “Jesus, Elliot.” Tucker’s entire body seemed to go rigid.

  “Need you so much. Need to know you’re here...in control.”

  Tucker echoed Elliot’s groan with a desperate, mortal sound as though he’d been shot—and began to come. It went on and on—an incandescent, heated flood of sticky wet. His powerful arms shook, folded, and he collapsed onto Elliot. They landed in a tangle of damp sheets and perspiring limbs.

  Tucker buried his face in Elliot’s hair, and muttered something heartfelt and emotional.

  “I’m here,” Tucker said. “I’ll always be here.”

 
; Chapter Seven

  Elliot’s eyes jerked open.

  His heart was still hammering in the aftermath of the dream. Nightmare. That’s all it was. Not real. His unconscious mind twisting memory with fearful imagination.

  “You okay?” Tucker mumbled into his pillow, still half-asleep himself.

  Elliot unstuck his lips. His throat felt raw. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m awake now.”

  He could feel Tucker struggling to reach him through the fog of exhaustion. “Bad dream?”

  “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

  In answer, Tucker looped a muscular arm around Elliot, and the hard bump of a brawny shoulder against his cheekbone woke Elliot fully. He clumsily patted Tucker’s back and made himself lie still so as not to disturb him further. Tucker was running full-out these days to keep up with his workload. He needed his rest.

  They both did.

  Elliot’s heart still thudded with fear and anger. He closed his eyes and tried to will himself back into unconsciousness. His skin was chilled with perspiration and his breathing was as hard as if he’d been running.

  It was so quiet he could hear his wristwatch ticking on the nightstand.

  Tucker heaved over onto his side and tried to pull Elliot closer. “Corian?” He sounded more awake now, a note of quiet anger in his raspy voice. He thought his fears were coming true and Elliot’s involvement in the case was already taking a toll.

  Elliot shook his head. “No. Ira Kane.”

  Tucker let out a long breath.

  Elliot rarely dreamed about the shooting at Pioneer Courthouse Square. The nightmare had probably been triggered by Connie Foster aiming a shotgun at him.

  He lifted his head to better see the luminous face of the clock. Four forty-five. Not quite two hours to sunrise. Once Tucker fell back asleep, he’d get up and work in his office for a bit.

  But Tucker did not appear to be drifting back into unconsciousness. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it always the same?”

  “The dream? Pretty much. I’m wrestling him for the gun. But that never happened. I never got that close to him.”