by Jez Morrow
“Oh yeah? Nice rescue you arranged for me, team,” Martin shot back. “Great to be home. Where were you looking for me? Up your…mail slots?”
“We knew you were in Colombia,” Moo Park offered, defensive.
“Oh. Colombia.” Martin nodded significantly. His smile turned dangerous. “You knew that much?”
“Yes,” Moo Park insisted. “We looked for you.”
“That’s great, because I was in fucking Guatemala! Which is like, maybe…the wrong continent?”
The inner door clicked again. Opened. An older man came out. He was probably not as old as his job made him. His black, woolly hair was heavily salted with white. A quiet figure, he commanded instant respect.
This was Executive Assistant Director Cobb, a grandfatherly, ox-patient, knowing man.
Jack recognized the name Cobb. Martin had mentioned him several times, warmly. Frederick Cobb had become the father figure that Martin’s real father never had been.
“Sounds a little lively out here,” said Cobb in a low voice like soft wind over sandy rocks. “Shall we move this discussion into my office?”
Cobb’s office was a stately, paneled, carpeted place that induced civilized behavior. Cobb made them all sit in armchairs, the harder for them to grab each other by the throat.
Martin accused Ann Jefferson, Larry Hunter and Moo Park of trying to imprison him. Jefferson, Hunter and Park defended the idea of taking Martin into custody because of his sensitive position in the department and his very long, unexplained absence.
Cobb listened without interrupting.
At the end of all the accusations, Cobb addressed none of them. He looked to Jack curiously. “And you are?”
Jack rose. “Jack Reed, sir.” He passed the executive assistant director his card across the desk.
Cobb studied the card which identified him as Lieutenant Commander Jack Reed, intelligence analyst at the Department of Defense.
Cobb’s tired eyes within wrinkled, papery lids looked up. “I may have heard this name.” Then he placed it. “Jason Reed’s boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martin said, “Jack has SCI clearance.”
Sensitive Compartmentalized Information, “SCI”, was security clearance higher even than Top Secret.
“Impressive as that may be, your clearance, Lieutenant Commander, doesn’t clear you for this department’s information,” said Cobb in a stern grandfatherly voice.
“And I have no idea what Martin is working on,” said Jack.
“None?” Cobb challenged, a reasonable tone to his challenge.
“None,” said Jack.
Cobb’s brow furrowed in confusion, concern. “What is the DOD’s interest in this matter? Are you here in an official capacity, Lieutenant Commander?”
“No, sir.”
Ann Jefferson suddenly placed Jack’s name. “You’re the one who came out to meet Martin the night he disappeared,” she said like an accusation. “Why did you do that?”
“Martin told me to come, so I came.”
“Without knowing why?” Cobb asked.
“Without knowing why,” Jack affirmed. “I trust him.”
Cobb nodded. “Trust is a wonderful quality in a friend,” he said. “But as an intelligence analyst, you must recognize that when a special agent disappears for over a year, one ought to wonder what he was about and whose side he is on by now.”
“I would wonder,” Jack allowed. “But you can’t detain a U.S. citizen without more than that. Martin is one of your own. He was kidnapped, shot and now you want to detain him when he comes back to you of his own free will?”
The grizzled head nodded. The executive assistant director gently scolded the others for their overzealousness.
Moo Park looked fit to burst. Larry Hunter chewed the inside of his cheek.
Ann Jefferson blurted, “If you’re still one of ours, Martin, why did you run? And how the hell did you evade security this morning!”
“Hell if I’m telling you,” Martin shot back. “Do your own job, Jefferson.”
“That’s enough,” said Cobb.
Martin told Cobb, “Annie is throwing a lot of suspicion my way when she is the only person who knew what I had uncovered on the night the goons came to get me.”
Ann Jefferson’s mouth opened to protest then shut without speaking.
Cobb spoke for her, evenly, “And Special Agent Ann Jefferson told me. Will you be accusing me next, Special Agent Winter?”
“No, sir,” said Martin, resentful.
Cobb assured Martin, “My agents are loyal and incorruptible. I have the same faith in Special Agents Jefferson, Hunter and Park as I have in you, Martin. The enemy must have had sophisticated surveillance on you to know your movements. We underestimated them. You do understand that debriefing is required after an absence this long?”
“But not detention,” said Martin. “And I want to choose who does the debriefing. And I want witnesses. Not them.” He pointed at Ann Jefferson, Larry Hunter and Moo Park.
The three look murderously insulted.
Cobb nodded, “I will indulge your paranoia, Martin. You have earned it.”
The executive assistant director rose and they all rose with him. Cobb reached across the desk to shake Jack’s hand. “Pleasure, Lieutenant Commander. Martin can escort you out.”
Cobb’s tired eyes fell on Martin’s jeans. “And Special Agent Winter,” Cobb said witheringly, “do not show up here dressed like that again.”
Out on the street and free, Martin allowed himself to smile. “I owe you big, Jack.”
“That you do,” said Jack breezily. He was grateful to see his car had not been towed. He looked for Martin’s Volvo. “Where’s your car?”
“Hell, Jack, I lost that a year and half ago. I took the Metro here this morning.”
“Where can I take you?”
Martin had to think about that. “Home,” he said.
* * * * *
Jack followed Martin up the front steps to his condo. Martin had lost his key. But he had thumbprint entry, which still recognized him.
The doorknob turned. Martin glanced over his shoulder. “Brace yourself.”
Jack took a step up. He put his hand alongside Martin’s hip. It seemed a natural thing to do. He hadn’t even thought about it. He felt Martin tense.
“You haven’t been home yet?” Jack asked.
Martin inhaled. “No.” He pushed in the door.
Stale air met them walking in.
“Not too awful,” said Jack.
The space was modern, open, urban, all uncluttered clean lines in stainless steel and simply fashioned wood. Martin’s bed was a futon. It was currently folded up to serve as a couch. A haze of dust lay on its wooden frame.
“I guess I haven’t been declared dead,” said Martin.
“I’m guessing you have automatic bill pay,” said Jack.
All Martin’s automated payments had continued to happen in his absence. The mortgage was drawn from his account every month. And the electric and the gas and the water. The refrigerator was still running. Some of what was in it was fairly loathsome by now but it was cold.
Martin’s houseplants were all dead.
“My bank account’s gotta be somewhere near empty right now,” said Martin, unplugging the refrigerator. He turned the thermostat way down.
“Where’s your mail?” Jack asked. There should have been a giant pileup by now.
“Post office box,” said Martin. “Unless they drilled it. Maybe the Bureau’s been collecting it. Looks like they got my computer.” He walked to a dusty computer table which now held only a printer and a monitor and some disconnected cables. “And my answering machine.”
The television was still here, and the stereo, so the theft hadn’t been the work of burglars. And it was too neat for drug runners. It had to have been Martin’s coworkers.
An odd thought suddenly struck Jack. “You haven’t filed your taxes.”
“Oh
shit.”
The IRS. Now there was a warm and fuzzy group of people.
“I’m sure they’ll understand,” said Jack with a graveyard grin.
“Maybe I should just go back to Guatemala,” said Martin.
Jack glanced at the clock. “I need to put in an appearance at work,” he said, apologetic. He did not want to leave.
“Yeah.” Martin opened the blinds. A sprinkle of dust filtered down. “I got some work to do here,” he said unenthusiastically. Sneezed.
“I have to see you,” said Jack.
Martin surveyed his dusty, stuffy condo in chagrin. He brushed his hands off on his jeans. “I’ll come to your place.”
Jack took a look in Martin’s refrigerator. “Come tonight. I’ll feed you.” He let the fridge door close. “I’ll be at my townhouse. Do you have a way to get there?”
Martin nodded.
Jack strode to him, kissed him on the lips. “Please don’t stand me up.”
Chapter Five
Jack’s townhouse was in an old building that had been completely redone on the inside. The ceilings were still twelve feet high and the windows very tall. The rest was new, from the polished wood floors to the very tall kitchen cabinets.
It was a narrow space, two floors built on top of the street-level garage with a tiny foyer.
Jack was down in the foyer as soon as he saw the cab pull up in front of his townhouse. Martin was climbing the stone steps as Jack opened the front door to greet him with a dazzling smile.
Martin looked up timidly. Terrified, really. His greeting was almost a whisper, “Hey, Jack.”
Jack had meant to kiss him hello but instead just held the door for Martin to come in. Jack took Martin’s dark green trench coat, hung it in the small front closet and followed him up the narrow stairs, his eyes fixed on the fluidly moving muscles of Martin’s buttocks, clearly delineated under the close-fitting fabric of his fawn-colored trousers.
The first floor of the living space was all one open area. The kitchen took up the inside wall. A dark granite-top island separated it from the great room. Soaring windows fronted the street side. A small desk with a laptop computer made a tiny office area in the front corner. The dining area was designated by wherever Jack put the table and chairs today.
Jack sensed Martin was feeling a little bit trapped. Jack stepped into the kitchen, so he wouldn’t be blocking Martin from the exit. With an open way to run, Martin seemed to relax a degree and he ventured farther into the great room. He went through the motions of checking out Jack’s stereo system, which was softly playing cool jazz.
“Red, white or beer?” Jack offered cheerily from behind the island, holding up a goblet, a fluted glass and a beer stein.
“Um, red,” Martin whispered.
Jack’s first date when he was fourteen years old had been less frightened of him.
Martin had probably changed clothes as many times as Jack had, so they were both perfect pictures of casual nonchalance. Except in real nonchalance, they would both be in sweats. And they would have five o’clock shadows.
Martin wore a crisp black shirt with the collar open, and casual-cut fawn trousers of very fine wool. Jack wore a long-sleeved polo shirt of designer make, which draped easily on his strong frame.
Martin had come for dinner but he was so nervous he could scarcely even swallow the wine.
Mostly he just held the glass, letting the wine grow warm from his hands. Sometimes he wet his lips, which made him look provocative, but he could not drink. He did not sit.
He drifted to the windows.
Night fell early this time of year. The streetlights were haloed in wet, cold mist. Inside was warm and light. The room seemed to glow in expectancy.
Martin was shy, ready to bolt like a deer from the glade.
Desire held him here.
He stayed like the moth hovering ‘round the edge of the flame. He knows it burns. Still he circles the flame because he must. And he knows he must go in. And burn.
Jack really just wanted to throw him onto the couch, tear his clothes off and take him. Yet he waited, stepping through the paces of this slow dance. The music beckoned, smooth and sexual.
There were a few exchanges of really dumb small talk. It didn’t matter what they said. They were just touching each other with their voices. Then they stopped talking.
The air was suffused with quiet tension, thick with expectancy, knife-edged with certainty and doubt, desire and fear.
They both knew why they were here. This night was going to climax with Jack plunging his cock into Martin’s sweet body. They knew that. Still, they hesitated in an apprehensive twilight. The chasm between them grew vast. Jack was afraid to breathe wrong, afraid to speak first. They had been down this road before, so he could not understand how they had gone back to being so guarded.
But they had not known how much it mattered before. The first time, Jack hadn’t really known where the road was leading. He did now. And he wanted to get back there with an inexorable need.
There was no real doubt in his anxious longing so much as a don’t dare screw this up.
A street lamp limned the edge of Martin’s face in light, a white-gold outline of his exquisite bone structure, his delicate breed of masculinity.
Jack set his wineglass down and walked to Martin in the middle of the floor. He took Martin’s wineglass and set it aside. He stood before him, close, face-to-face. Martin gazed up wide-eyed. Jack brushed the back of his fingers against Martin’s cheek, which evoked a tremor in Martin’s throat.
Jack unfastened a button of Martin’s shirt. Martin’s breaths deepened. His lips quivered.
Jack unfastened another button. Martin let him, solemn, wonderstruck.
Jack parted the front of Martin’s shirt to draw a line of fire down Martin’s sternum with his forefinger. Martin caught in a sharp breath, and turned away—a mindless impulse, like a jerked knee. Something he hadn’t really wanted to do. But here he was, pulling away.
Jack moved slowly, with the patience of a sure thing. He closed the space between them, savoring the anticipation. He bent his head down and pressed his lips to back of Martin’s neck.
Martin took a step backward and leaned back into Jack so that there was no space at all between them. His hands reached back to Jack’s hips, drawing him to press his swelling manhood more urgently against Martin’s ass.
Jack feathered a kiss on Martin’s ear. He slipped his hand inside Martin’s shirt and there fondled the smooth skin of his hard chest, teased a nipple. He felt a jolt ripple through Martin’s body, felt his moan, torn between the shock of a man’s hand touching him that way and the shock of the pleasure of it. Martin’s head tossed side to side.
Jack cupped his jaw, trapped his head and gently turned his face to the left. He grazed his lips against Martin’s cheek and teased the corner of his mouth with his tongue. Martin’s full lips parted, as if begging for those tormenting kisses that were just out of reach.
Jack turned him ‘round in his arms, gazed at him, stunned by his beauty. He covered his mouth with his lips, kissed him over and over, deeper and deeper. In a storm surge of pent-up desire, he plunged his tongue into Martin’s soft mouth, drinking deeply of his sweetness. He held him in an iron embrace. His breaths came deep and labored. He exhaled in heated jets. Passion mounted, alarming and swift. His strong arms held Martin captive, his hands on his body, hips grinding his swollen desire hard against the desire he felt in Martin’s groin. He groaned, the smoldering growl of a great animal, his kisses a devouring, ravaging hunger.
Martin’s mouth was yielding but Jack could feel his body tense up in fear, felt his arms pull in as if to resist him. He heard a sound in Martin’s throat like a little whimper.
Jack tasted salt.
Jack released his steel grasp. He caught Martin’s shoulders, held him at arm’s length so he wouldn’t run away.
Martin’s eyelashes were matted wet. Tear tracks glistened down to his lips that were swo
llen and tender.
Martin was not a timid man, except here where it mattered. He had been shot twice. He knew danger. But not this kind. Get too close to him—really close, to Martin himself—then Martin could not let himself go. The defensive walls flew up by themselves in elemental fear.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” Martin whispered.
Martin didn’t want walls. But he could not keep them down.
“You didn’t do anything,” said Jack. He brushed Martin’s tears away with a caress. Martin shut his eyes.
Jack drew him back closer. “Easy,” he murmured at Martin’s trembling.
Jack undid the rest of the buttons of Martin’s shirt. He pulled his own shirt over his head. Martin’s gaze followed the mesmerizing motion of powerful chest muscles as Jack’s thickly sinewed arms stretched upward. Jack’s dark hair emerged free of his shirt in rakish disarray over his brow.
Jack tossed his shirt to the floor. He drew Martin into a gentle embrace, bare skin warm on bare skin. Jack’s lips pressed to Martin’s temple. He murmured, “Dance with me.”
Martin melted into him, shy as a virgin bride. He bowed his head, his lips to Jack’s bare shoulder. The delicate flutter of Martin’s eyelashes against Jack’s neck made him feel powerful. Martin stopped shivering and relaxed into the dance.
The music was very soft and it was not much of a dance, more just moving together. Jack stroked Martin tenderly, trying to tame something wild with a whole lot of claws and fangs. Martin’s arms settled ‘round Jack’s bare waist, his thumbs hooked in Jack’s belt loops, his fingers trailing on Jack’s hard, hard ass.
Jack inhaled his fragrance, clean, scents of wood and spice. His face was smooth. Martin had shaved very close. His hair was soft, just washed. And Jack had to chuckle. He could not pretend this was not a date and that Martin was not going to end up in Jack’s bed.
Martin’s hands strayed lower to glide over Jack’s buttocks, feeling the slide of molten steel muscles under the fabric. Then his hand moved forward, between them, to lay his palm on the swollen mound of desire at Jack’s crotch. There was way too much fabric between them but the cue was right.
