by BA Tortuga
There was complete silence for a long moment, and he was going to scream and scream and scream until his throat exploded. Then a heavy sigh came across the line. “Okay. Okay, Rick. Here’s what you do….”
He whimpered softly, but he listened. He was scared and sick and empty, but he was going to listen.
He was going to listen and find his Neil.
If it was the last thing he ever did.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
SONNY WATCHED MJ pace for a few long moments.
That phone call had been bad. Bad, bad. Hell, Sonny had known it would be bad when it was Red on the line. MJ and Paddy had gone through quite a confab, and when MJ finally hung up, well…. The explosion was imminent.
“Bad news, Precious?”
Big blue eyes rolled over at him. “Bad? Why would anything be fucking bad? Barring of course that there’s a crazy little firebug in motherfucking Scotland who just had his telekinetic lover kidnapped and thinks it’s my fucking fault because it didn’t fucking occur to me that they were tagging the lab rats!”
Sonny blinked and corrected automatically. “Telepathic.”
“Tele….” MJ stilled, stared at him. “That doesn’t make it better. They have him. The English fuck knows things about us.”
“Yeah. I know, Precious.” This was just not good. Not good.
“Sorry, stupid son of a bitch. Goddamn academic jackoffs.” MJ turned, snarled at the little professor, hands waving. “Explain to me how the fuck you have a goddamn homing device in you and you don’t know it!”
Duncan blinked. “You said all the rest of the people like me were dead.”
“They are. Rick’s not like you. He didn’t have to get fucked with. So why did they tag him? Why the fuck did they send Neil for him?”
“I believe the question you really want the answer to is why the fuck didn’t you think about it in time?”
Oh, fuck. MJ was going to shoot the professorial little fuck.
Sonny stepped in just before MJ laid hands on Duncan, deflecting him. “So where are we meeting him? Paddy.”
“Saint Maarten.” MJ’s muscles were rippling, jerking, jumping under his hands. “You two are coming with. Congrats.”
“No way. You let us off in Florida.”
MJ’s muscles went hard-hard. “I’m going to kill him, Sunshine. Okay?”
“Okay, Precious.” Except he couldn’t last time, so they’d end up helping. “I’ll help.”
“Okay.” The gun appeared out of nowhere, the muzzle somehow right in the center of Duncan’s forehead. Ah, fuck.
Somehow he’d lost the thread, because he’d thought for sure MJ meant Paddy, not the Doc. Cowboy was fixing to get postal, and the safety was off, so MJ meant it. Sonny sighed and stepped into the fray, pushing MJ’s chest. “Not yet, Precious.”
“This isn’t helping, Sunshine.”
“No? Well, do you want to clean up the mess? ’Cause you’d have to shoot old Cowboy there too.” He blocked the gun with his own body.
“We could wait for a storm.” That weird dead look was fading some, but man, there was some high-dollar worry in those eyes.
“It would draw flies and stink, Precious.” MJ was pretty fastidious about their little yacht.
“Flies are an important part of the ecological cycle. I hate maggots, though.”
He saw Cowboy, out of the corner of his eye, waving a syringe.
“I know. I remember.” There was that whole rotting partner thing. Sonny ignored Cowboy for now. If he needed the drugs, he’d use them, but he’d rather not.
“Rick’s torn up. I might have rage. These assholes are starting to really aggravate me.”
“Well, all right, then. What do you say we put all that rage to use?” That laser focus could work for them, instead of against them.
“You going to let me blow the boat up?”
“Right now?” Sonny raised a brow, going for coolly ironic. “That might be counterproductive.”
“You think?” MJ was going to blow a gasket. It was hot.
“It just might. I mean, I’d hate for you to have to fly to Saint Maarten.”
“I could just sit on your ass and let you paddle, really hard.” MJ was playing with the pistol now. That was either really good or a sign of incipient boredom.
“My ass isn’t that buoyant.” They’d figured that out that one time in Barbados, when MJ had decided to drown him. He’d woke up three hours later with salt water still in his nose.
“Yeah, it’s all that muscle mass. Makes you heavy as fuck. I guess we could blow up condoms and attach them to your balls with fishing line….”
“Are you two out of your goddamn minds?” Lord, the professor had crap timing.
That gun swung out again, aimed at the Doc again.
Definitely boredom. Waving the syringe-holding Cowboy off, Sonny grabbed the gun, stroking it like he would MJ’s cock. “You can find better things to do with them.”
MJ’s eyes were on his hand. Oh, he had someone’s full attention now. Pervy little fucker. They should go practice yoga—that was supposed to be relaxing, right? Relaxing.
Stretchy.
Bendy.
Sonny had never thought he would learn to love yoga. He had, though, as long as MJ was the practitioner. “Come on, Precious,” he said, tugging the gun barrel.
MJ followed him, eyes on his, just one step after the other.
Soon enough they had left Cowboy and Doc behind, heading down to their little bed. Hell, if MJ followed and calmed down, Sonny would fellate the damned gun.
“You know, eventually this ‘distract the surfer with sex’ will stop working.”
“Then it will have to be drugs, food, or explosions….” He could do all three, concurrently or consecutively.
“Mmm. Explosions.” MJ handed him the Glock, shoulders working and rolling.
“Mmm-hmm. I know the way to your heart.” Sonny rubbed the barrel of the piece along MJ’s belly, teasing a little.
The safety was on now.
“Mm-hmm. Through my rib cage.” MJ didn’t hesitate at all. The man had an unnatural peace around weapons.
“Yep. Crunchy.” Sonny set the Glock aside, making sure MJ could get to it easy. Then he dropped to his knees and pulled MJ’s shorts down. “’Course, you like when I suck you too.”
Those bright eyes stared at him, burning up. “Sonny, I’d cut down a redwood tree for your mouth.”
Oh, damn. That was…. “What, no whales?” Sonny didn’t wait for MJ to answer. He just sucked. That was his job.
“Sunshine.” MJ wasn’t fucking thinking about Paddy or guns or fucking Cowboy or trees now, was he? No fucking way. Now MJ was his.
He swirled his tongue around the head, his fingers drawn to the ink at the base, tracing patterns. He was MJ’s too, lock, stock, and barrel. Sonny loved the way MJ felt, looked, and tasted. He even loved the crazy rage.
MJ arched, hips pumping, nice and easy, eyes on his lips. “Fucking love your mouth on me. It makes me stupid.”
He reached back and pulled at MJ’s ass, urging the man to move faster. MJ started thrusting like he meant it, taking him like it was the only thing MJ needed. Sonny figured sometimes his mouth was MJ’s savior. That kind of rocked.
MJ’s fingers rubbed over his scalp, not pushing, just touching, stroking him. There was something magic in the way MJ loved on him, even in the worst of times. Christ, it was hot as all hell.
“Sunshine.” Fuck, yeah. Just like that.
“Mmm-hmm.” He moaned around MJ’s cock, needing more, needing to taste and feel it when MJ came. MJ arched, humping fast and shallow, before that pretty cock swelled, spunk spilling onto his tongue. That was the ticket. MJ was already relaxing, he could feel it. Sonny had what he wanted too, even if his cock was just going to explode. MJ rode a few seconds longer, then slipped down, pushing him to the floor and yanking his jeans open. It took maybe two seconds before those hands were around his prick, tugging good and har
d.
Sonny thrashed, the sudden increase in friction making him buck into MJ’s touch, his body needing every little bit of it. Christ. “Like that, Precious.”
“Yeah. Look at you.” MJ was doing enough of that for both of them, watching every move he made.
His hands and feet drummed on the deck, pushing him up to get more, harder, faster. “Need…. Oh, fuck. MJ.”
MJ shifted, moved, slid just like a snake before that mouth fell over his cock, dropping on him like a ton of bricks. Sonny shouted, his hips punching up, his hands tangling in that too-long and almost-white hair. “MJ. Precious. More.”
Two fingers pushed right into his ass, stretching him, filling him up as MJ sucked.
God Almighty, he was gonna explode. Boom. Then MJ would get orgasms and get to blow things up.
It was damn near a perfect solution.
MJ’s fingers quirked, pegging his gland good and hard. Sonny bucked, his body trying to get more, his ass clamping down on those fingers. “Fucking love how you touch me.” Blue eyes flashed up at him, and then MJ started working his gland—over and over, pushing him hard. “I’m. Precious. Gonna.” He was too hot, too full, his breath heaving in his chest. Sonny grunted, his cock jerking madly when he came, his body shaking like a fucking leaf.
“Mmm.” That satisfied little sound around his cock was almost too much.
Sonny stroked MJ’s cheeks with his thumbs, rubbing in little circles. “Fucking A. Better.”
“Uh-huh.” MJ looked at him, eyes serious all of a sudden. “They’re going to do bad shit to the Brit, Sonny, and it’s my fucking fault.”
“It is?” Neil had been all wrapped up with Rick long before they’d met, right? He wasn’t sure how that could be MJ’s fault. “What do we need to do?”
“We go get Rick and find the Brit.”
“Okay, then, Precious.” He nodded, willing to go and do anything to help MJ get shed of these people once and for all. They were retired, damn it.
“Then we kill that motherfucking Greg and lose the cell phones. I’m tired of company.”
“We keep saying that.” This time it was his turn to stare into those eyes, so like the damned ocean the man loved. “Promise me this time we’ll just go.”
“You have my word, Sunshine. This time we’ll just disappear, like smoke.”
That suited him down to the bone. Him, MJ, the open road and/or water. They just had to do this first. “Okay, Precious. Time to go, huh?”
“Yeah, man. Let’s get gone. There’s a bad fucking moon rising.”
They’d head out, get the job done, and get disappeared.
And they weren’t going to take anyone with them when they were gone, damn it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
OKAY.
He was in Saint Maarten.
Like, in the Caribbean, but with Dutch people and shit.
Oh God.
There was this weird, awful blankness in the back of his head, which was better than the periodic spikes of pain that left him puking and shaking, sweating like he’d run a mile, and needing to scream in the worst way. That sucked.
Especially when you were on a plane with a bunch of bitchy American suits and stuffy English guys that weren’t Neil and were, therefore, neither hot or cool or….
Neil.
His Neil.
Paddy groaned, his knees buckling a little, eyes rolling as an oily film filled his mouth, the rush of guilt and complete and utter panic overwhelming him again. The only reason—the absolute only reason—that he didn’t scream out loud was because he hadn’t slept and he couldn’t think, and if some policeman came over to find out what was wrong, Padraic was very, very afraid that his mouth would open and all of the sudden he’d tell them the truth—possibly in pig Latin or Portuguese, but maybe in Dutch—and he’d just say that his Neil was hurting and lost and it was maybe (or not really maybe at all, was it. No. No, it was most very surely definitely not maybe, but was incredibly absolutely positively) his fault.
Oh. God.
He stood in the middle of Front Street in Philipsburg, which he thought was the major city on the Dutch side of the island, but might as well have been Mars. Paddy was sure it was pretty. There were hills. Resorts. Brightly painted houses and fruity drinks.
Something jostled his elbow, the force of it sweeping him along toward a red shuttle bus. He didn’t know the man who was pushing him, but when he opened his mouth to protest, the guy squeezed his elbow, and his whole arm went numb.
“Dude.” He was going to lose it—plop. “No…. Uh. Is it money? Guilders? I don’t have any, and if you rob me, I’ll just….” Wasn’t it guilders? Maybe it was euros now.
Another spike of pain hit him, and his throat went dry.
“Shut up.” The man was American. No native spoke with a Texas accent, so that had to be someone with MJ. “I’m taking you to the guy you want to meet. Just do what I tell you.”
“Who? Who do I want to meet? I want a name.” He tried really hard to brace himself. There were scary people looking for… well, not him, he didn’t think, but somebody, because they had Neil, and damn it, he was going to get his lover back.
Cold gray eyes cut to his. “Boomer says hey. Now shut up and come on. Here’s your ticket.”
The bus said they were going to Marigot.
“Okay.” He didn’t flinch, not even a little. He was tired of being scared.
The bus steps were bumpy and squishy and a little weird and incredibly high, and Paddy was really, really grateful when the Boomer-friend guy’s hands landed on his butt and boosted him up. He was grateful too, when there was nothing more to it than that. The guy pushed him toward the back, moving to sit next to him on the aisle, staring straight ahead.
Paddy sat and thought non-throwing-up thoughts and kept his eyes open, because if he closed them, even for a second, he was going to sleep, and he wasn’t sleeping until he got Neil back. Maybe he couldn’t, anyway. Maybe if he did close his eyes, he would just see things, horrible things, and that…. Ow.
An elbow jabbed into his ribs. “Stop whimpering. You’re drawing attention.”
How could the man talk without moving his mouth?
“Back off. I’m not scared of you.” He was going to punch MJ in the nose.
“I’m not the one you should be scared of, for sure.” He thought… thought he saw a smile for a second.
“No. No, you’re not.” He shifted his pack down onto the floorboard, keeping one strap around his leg. There were a lot of trees and a lot of clapboard buildings and a lot of weird flowers. Neil would like it here. Neil would like the little houses and the terraced gardens and the weird floweriness of it. Neil would sit out in the garden and read a book and drink tea and….
Neil would.
He shook a little, his jaw clenching, his hand opening and closing where it rested by the window.
The Boomer-dude just stared at the seat ahead of them, like there was nothing wrong at all, like the world was still spinning.
Of course, what if Boomer hadn’t sent him? What if Boomer had been kidnapped? What if this guy was from back at school and had known MJ and then followed him to the Caribbean and was taking him somewhere to hurt him? “Why did Boomer send you?”
“I’m taking you to meet him. I’m just the courier, huh? The big redneck wanted to come, but Boomer figured you’d break down on him.”
“He’s a good guy. Not Boomer, Sonny.” He closed his eyes a second, but opened them when MJ’s face sorta floated up in the blackness, all scarred and scary. God, he used to think MJ was hot.
“You talk too much.” A water bottle got handed over. “Try to rest. It’s about another half hour on the bus.”
“I can’t. Thanks, though. I don’t even know what day it is.” His hands were shaking hard enough that he spilled the water on his fingers, and the little droplets fascinated him suddenly. “Did you know that you can make the neatest bullets from water?”
Or you could make it int
o steam and run the whole world.
“I did.” Those eyes met his again, just for a split second. “You can make them out of old nails too.”
“I don’t work with metals, much. I mean, I like them, especially copper.” He took a deep drink, the water sweet and cool enough to tempt him into draining the bottle, the liquid hitting his belly with a splash. “Could you hear that? Neil could have, I think. I like copper to use for heating and as a conduit. It’s got the pretty factor too. Some people say that doesn’t matter, but I never got things being ugly just to be ugly.”
He thought that well-shaped mouth twitched a little.
Huh. The guy was pretty. Like, well made all over. Did Boomer know anyone who was ugly? Aside from Boomer? Who was more scary than truly ugly, he guessed.
“So, do you think Boomer picks friends that are hot because he’s sorta scary or because he likes pretty things? I guess it could be that dangerous jobs attract good-looking men. Or because guys that are hot get into trouble? Maybe it’s just that you like being around smart men, because mine likes me, and he is. Hot. Well, and smart. Not as smart as me, maybe, at least not in that ‘too smart for your own good’ way that is more geek and less cool, but still smart.” Padraic blinked hard, the world sort of having light trails.
“I think Boomer picks his friends based on what they can do for him, honey.”
Sonny had called him honey too. He thought. Something like that. Maybe kiddo. That had to be a Southern thing. Huh. MJ wasn’t Southern….
“That doesn’t seem very nice. Why would you want a friend that did that?” He swallowed hard, the bus bouncing really badly. “He likes, uh, plants and the oceans and clean air and plastic explosives.”
“Uh-huh. He also likes surfing and Scorpios.” Long fingers drummed on the back of the bus seat ahead of them.
“I can’t surf. He has the hair for it. I like Pop-Tarts and laboratories.” Oh, he’d had the coolest lab ever. Big and clean and fully stocked and functional and not exploded.
“So you were a lab rat, huh?” The guy’s voice seemed to come from far away, and somehow Paddy thought he shouldn’t answer questions, but Boomer had sent the guy, no doubt.
