by Tinnean
Huh? Oh, the waiter. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Perhaps not, but I could hear you thinking it.”
I turned my head so he wouldn’t see me grinning. Quinn had no idea what I was thinking about. I also knew Cesare might say he was straight, but how could anyone look at Quinn and not decide switching teams might be a good idea? Still, it was late and I didn’t want to get into it with him.
“Are you joining me?”
“As soon as I uncork the merlot.” He grinned at me through the pass-through. “You can start if you like.”
I looked at the platter. Usually I’d wait for him, but I was really hungry. I put about half of it on my plate—no point in being greedy—sat down, and picked up my fork.
Quinn came into the dining room. “It’s too late for either of us to drink much, Mark. Just a glass to complement the meal.”
“Whatever you say,” I mumbled around a final mouthful of salad. Then I started in on the main course.
He reached for my wine glass, poured some merlot into it, and swirled it to help it breathe before putting it on my placemat. After pouring a glass for himself, he took some of the pork and gnocchi. “Breadstick?”
“Already have one.”
“Raphael’s does make very good breadsticks.” He put one on his bread plate. “What do you—” He started to laugh.
“What?”
“I was going to ask what you thought of dinner.”
“It was good.” I mopped up the last of the sauce with a piece of breadstick.
“Did you even taste it? I’d swear you inhaled it.”
“Sorry.” My cheeks felt hot. “Is there enough for you?”
He reached over and ran his fingertips along my cheek, as he had just a short while ago. “I’m glad you like it, and yes, there’s plenty. I ordered extra.” He rose and went to the sideboard, bringing back another container.
“Sorry,” I said again. “I was starved.”
“Obviously. Help yourself.” He did the same. “Just please don’t eat so fast you give yourself indigestion.”
“I’ve got a cast iron stomach.”
“Having shared that bit of information with me,” Quinn said, a faint smile on his lips that I didn’t buy for a minute, “if you did have some kind of attack, my first thought would be it was your heart. And I’d be busy telling you you’d be fine, while I dialed 911 and internally kept assuring myself over and over, ‘He’s got a cast iron stomach. It’s not a heart attack. It’s nothing more than gas.’”
Or gall bladder. Mine had acted up once while I was still in the Army. It hadn’t happened since then, which was a damned good thing. The pain had been so bad I’d been ready to remove it with my pocketknife.
I looked into his eyes. “I don’t want you having a panic attack, babe.”
“I don’t have panic attacks.”
“And I don’t have heart attacks.” I covered his hand with mine and rubbed my thumb over his knuckles.
“See that you don’t.” He turned his hand beneath mine and squeezed my fingers before letting go. He picked up his fork and began to eat. “When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
“Lunch.” I put more pork and gnocchi onto my plate.
“I thought the WBIS took better care of its agents.” He cocked his head and observed me thoughtfully. “No, I know you won’t talk about it.”
I stared into his eyes. “You know as well as I do there are rotten apples in every bunch.” It was obvious he was surprised that I’d admit that, but he didn’t say anything, just waited to see if I’d continue. I put down my fork. “There are two directors who are interfering with my department.”
He raised an eyebrow and put down his own fork. “Are you going to kill them?”
“No. Mr. Wallace wouldn’t approve.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know you, Mark. If he did approve, you’d take them out without thinking twice about it.”
I didn’t respond to that, just resumed eating, although at a slower pace.
He sighed. “It wouldn’t make any difference to me.”
“No?”
“Mark, we had this conversation on your island. You do whatever you feel you have to do, but just remember—no matter what that is, you’ll be part of my life forever.”
“Okay.” I stabbed some of the pasta and put it in my mouth.
“Okay. So, what will you do?”
I didn’t have to give that any consideration. I finished chewing and said, “I want them gone. I’ll see if I can encourage The Boss to change his position on this.”
“Is there a possibility he won’t?”
“There always is.”
“In that case, what would you do?”
“Walk away.”
That seemed to surprise him. Did he think I’d use that opportunity to stage a coup?
“Mark, you’ve been WBIS for the past sixteen years.”
“I know. I’ve got a pretty decent 401(k).” And there was always my off-shore Fuck You account. But no longer being WBIS…. I moved the food around on my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. “I hate like hell the thought of leaving.”
He reached over again, this time resting his hand on mine. “But you would.”
“Yeah. I can’t do my job if I have to worry about my back.”
“I’d….” He shook his head and asked again, “What would you do?”
“Freelance.” I wondered what he’d been about to say. That I could work with him, he’d have my back? I knew that, but the CIA hated my guts, and the FBI and the NSA didn’t care for me much either. It didn’t matter that I’d be stuck in a desk job—I already was. But they’d give Quinn a hard time and I’d have to hurt them for that. Not that I minded.
I did have another option: the cold op, Pierre de Becque, and the interrogation specialist known as Femme would see I got a position at—
“Not the Division!”
“No?” I was startled at the vehemence in Quinn’s voice, although not by how in sync our minds ran.
“Mark! I’m serious. I… I don’t want you in Europe.”
“What have you got against Europe?”
He scowled at me. “Lynx is there. The man’s a raving lunatic!”
“Don’t get so bent out of shape, baby. It was just a thought.” I could tap into my Fuck You account until I found something local.
“If it comes to that—not that I think it will. From what I’ve learned of your Mr. Wallace, he’s a smart man, and he won’t want to lose you. He won’t let things reach critical mass.”
“No?”
“No. But if he does, I don’t want you to let the question of money deter you. I’ll support you until you find something suitable.”
I was touched. “You want to be my sugar daddy?”
“Why not? Mother was your sugar momma, after all.” He brought his napkin to his mouth, but I knew he was trying to hide a grin.
“I don’t know what to say.” I’d told him how Portia and I had done a bit of role-playing when she’d come with me last fall to look over this condo. Instead of Quinn scowling at me for daring to drag his mother into something like that, he’d almost fallen off his chair, laughing so hard he hadn’t been able to catch his breath.
“‘Thank you’ will suffice. Speaking of Mother… Do you have anything planned for the second Sunday in May?”
“I doubt it.” Since I wasn’t in the field anymore, I had most weekends off. “If this has to do with going horseback riding….”
“No.” He took the last breadstick, tore it in half, and used it to mop up the sauce on his plate. “It’s Mother’s Day. I was wondering… Would you have any objection to spending it with Mother and me?”
“And Novotny?” I groused so he wouldn’t know how affected I was by his suggestion. I’d never had the opportunity to celebrate the day, since my old lady wasn’t much of a mother. My teachers had us make cards and sometimes plant seeds so we
’d have a flower for our mothers, but since mine usually spent the day either drunk or recovering from a hangover, I’d never seen any reason to give them to her. Even if she was sober for a change, she’d tear up the card and toss the flower into the trash.
“Gregor will be making dinner, so yes, you’ll have to spend the day with him as well.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? No argument?”
“You want an argument?”
“No.”
“There you go, then. Uh… thanks for giving me enough time to come up with a gift for her.”
“Then you’ll come?” He grinned into my eyes. “And please don’t say ‘Don’t I always.’ You know what I mean.”
“I do. Looks like I’ll be there.”
“Great!” And yeah, he meant it. “Mark…”
“Hmm?”
“May I stay the night?”
“Yeah.” Did he really think he had to ask, that I’d send him home at this time of night? “Can you stay tomorrow night as well?” I frowned. No, it was Saturday, so it would be tonight. I opened my mouth to correct myself, but fortunately, Quinn followed my drift.
“Yes, I’d like that. I made a list while I was waiting for you to come home.”
“Before you fell asleep?”
“Obviously.” He nudged my ankle under the table.
“A list for what?”
“Groceries.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” I reached for my wine and brought it to my lips. “Now suppose you tell me how your day was.”
He studied my eyes thoughtfully. “In spite of that incident with Drum, it was better than yours, I’m willing to bet. Why don’t we finish our wine?”
“And then?”
“I believe I mentioned having plans for you.” His lips curved and his eyes lightened. “And then we go to bed.”
***
“How was your day?” I asked.
“It was a day.” He shrugged, and I started getting steamed.
“Is that asshole Holmes…” No, he wasn’t with the CIA anymore, so he couldn’t be bothering Quinn. “Who’s busting your hump?”
He met my eyes. “Mark, I assure you that I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Okay, so is it Cooper? Is he still bugging you to find out who you’re seeing?
“No.” He smiled. He’d worked with DB Cooper for a lot of years, and had been friends for about as long. Cooper was in a relationship with two CIA officers—women—but he wouldn’t tell Quinn who as long as Quinn refused to tell Cooper who he was involved with.
“Goddammit, Quinn, don’t play Twenty fucking Questions with me!”
“I’ve been assigned temporarily to our office in Sydney.”
“Australia?” Fuck!
“I’m afraid so.”
“How long?”
“A few months at most.”
“When do you leave?”
“Monday.”
Fuck it. Three fucking months. Ninety-fucking-one days, give or take a….
“Mark.” My name was a warm breath in my ear. “Mark!”
“Huh? What?” I sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. “Quinn, what’s wrong?”
“I was going to ask the same thing of you.”
“What?”
“You were having a nightmare.”
“I never have nightmares.” I had no intention of telling him about the nightmares that had plagued me when I’d tried to walk away from him last year.
“Just like you have a cast iron stomach?” Quinn suddenly became serious. “Do you feel all right? Your chest? Your stomach?”
“I’m fine.”
He sighed.
Ah, fuck it. He was right. “I was having a nightmare.”
His arms came around me and he rested his cheek against my hair. “Tell me about it.”
“You told me you were being sent to Australia.”
“Australia? Why?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Mark, that was hardly a nightmare.”
“Yeah, it was. You were flying out on Monday, and you were going to be gone for three months.”
His grip tightened. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”
This would be the perfect time to tell him that yes, he was, he was coming here, he was moving in with me.
I opened my mouth to tell him that, but what came out was, “If you do go, I’m fucking going with you.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. Human Resources is still giving me a hard time about all the time I have coming. They’d be overjoyed if I took three months off.”
He tightened his arms around me. “Well, I’d love having you with me. You could be my personal assistant.”
“Emphasis on personal?”
“Yes.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “And I’d chase you around my desk.”
“You wouldn’t have to chase me too hard.”
“I’d be counting on that.” He stroked the stubble on my cheek and murmured, “I like this. It reminds me of when we were on your island.”
“It was nice, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” He dropped a kiss on my hair. “Do you want to try to get back to sleep?”
“I’ve got a better idea.” I turned my head and licked his nipple, and heard the rumble of his groan under my ear. “What do you say?”
“What do you think I’ll say? Of course!”
Chapter 9
Weekends with Quinn were always great, and his presence took the taste of Friday night’s events out of my mouth.
But come Sunday, he’d have to leave—he had his scheduled ride with his mother, and I didn’t want to interfere with that.
I’d planned to be in the office by eight Saturday morning, but between dinner at 3:00 a.m. and the hot sex afterward, I was running late. I walked into the office at nine.
Quinn was still asleep—I’d worn him out, I couldn’t help thinking smugly—and then I yawned. He’d done some wearing out as well.
I started a pot of coffee brewing, hung up my jacket, and turned on my computer, to find I already had an e-mail from Winchester. The time stamp on it was Friday, 11:46 p.m.
Well, he hadn’t wasted any time.
Attached to the e-mail was a jpeg. He was right about Davies. The expression on his face as he stared after Honeycutt’s retreating back made it clear that they might have been friends in college, but at this point in time, not so much.
A few minutes later, Winchester walked into my office.
“Jesus, Winchester, did you even go home to bed?”
He yawned and scrubbed his hair. “I slept on the futon I set up in my office.”
“Uh-huh. Well, go back and write up your report. What’s this?” He was holding out a handful of papers.
“The report. I thought I should get it done last night while everything was fresh in my mind, and then I printed it up for you.” He handed me a thumb drive. “This has a copy of the report, all my notes, and all the pictures I took.”
I’d returned to the WBIS after spending the holidays with Quinn, and found I had a new computer. Apparently Huntingdon, the company that fronted for the WBIS, had been feeling generous this past Christmas and had given the WBIS a hefty bonus. That enabled Finance to purchase the latest computers, and after Romero and his people did a little work on them, every computer in the building had drives not only for floppy disks and CDs, but USB ports for flash drives as well.
I took the papers and scanned the report, then sat back in my chair and stared at him. “Have you had breakfast?”
“A cup of coffee?”
I shook my head. “Go get something to eat.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes?”
“No, this looks good. Take the rest of the weekend off, but keep your cell phone turned on.”
“Okay.” He turned and walked out, and I started reading his report.
Thorough and succinct. I was impressed and pleased.
<
br /> Maybe he would turn into a decent agent.
I uploaded the data on the thumb drive to a file in my computer and checked the time.
I was done here for the day.
Quinn was waiting for me at home, and nothing Davies did was going to keep me away from my lover.
***
The DC rent boys felt they owed me for what I’d done for Paul Stark, formerly known as Pretty Boy—Jesus, all I’d done was see he got a room in the hospital. It wasn’t as if I’d personally taken out the man who’d sent him there.
So after I got back from the WBIS, and while Quinn was working on something in the study, I took my cell phone into the master john and made a call to the boy who was this year’s executive administrator of DC’s rent boys. Mostly the job entailed seeing the smooth running of all the balls, parties, and other affairs that were thrown throughout the year, but they also kept track of the boys who were in the capital. Theo had told me there had been some kind of coup, and the rent boy who’d originally had the position had been overthrown.
Politics. Even rent boys had them, and even for rent boys they were fucked up.
“Kory, it’s Vincent.”
“Vincent who?”
I sighed. “Mark Vincent.”
“Vince! Why didn’t you say so? What can I do for you?”
“I need a favor.”
“It’s yours.”
“Uh… thanks.” It always left me disconcerted that they were so willing to help me without knowing what I wanted from them. “I need the location of a boy going by the name of Bailey. If it helps, he’s been with a client whose name… is... Alfred Honeycutt.”
“I know Honeycutt.” Kory’s voice took on a cold note. “And if one of my boys is with him, it’s not good.”
“I don’t think that’s the situation. Honeycutt told me the boy left him.”
“You talked to Honeycutt?”
Shit. I’d been careful not to refer to him in the past tense. How could I have let that slip?
Kory noted my silence. “Never mind, I didn’t hear that. And if Honeycutt turns up in the morgue fried to a crisp, I won’t have the slightest idea how that happened.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “Can you give me a description of Bailey?”
“He’s blond, with hazel eyes.”
“He could be wearing contacts. And his hair could be dyed.”
