Eva raised a hand, motioning for Sakura to hold back. “Ángel,” she said, her tone calm and oh-so-rational, “did you touch Esparza’s body after he died? Spend any time with him at all? Was it an open-casket funeral?”
The moment Raúl was shot, his bodyguards had wrestled Ángel into the car, shielding him with their bodies as they were paid to. Ángel had only caught a glimpse of Raúl’s lifeless legs stretched out on the pavement before the door had slammed shut, but he’d been drenched with blood and bone fragments, matting his hair and dripping down the back of his shirt, filling the car with a sickly-sweet stench. Raúl had been shot with a sniper rifle with enough force to shatter his skull, so of course there hadn’t been an open casket—
Agitated, Ángel leaped to his feet. “Oh my God, you people are insane,” he said. “What possible reason would Raúl have for faking his own death that way?”
“He might if he knew you were an undercover agent,” said Charles. When everyone turned to him, he shrugged and added, “Whose observations would have more credibility with the US and Mexican governments?”
Ángel clenched his fists by his sides, breathing hard, clinging to the last of his composure by the thinnest of threads. “You’re implying that Paul revealed my identity to Raúl, who then faked his own death, and the two of them rode merrily off into the sunset?”
“Not together, obviously,” Charles said. “But yes, I think it’s possible that Esparza knew he had a mole in his operation, paid off Warner to find out who it was, and then used that information to make sure the law enforcement agencies trying to bust him thought he was dead.”
Ángel had no words. There were simply no words in English or Spanish to encompass how absolutely fucking ludicrous that suggestion was—but there Charles sat, his expression all patient and understanding like Ángel was the one being illogical, and everyone else at the cluster appeared to agree with him.
Everyone, that is, except Jade. “Wait a minute, come on,” she said. “Why would Esparza go to all that trouble and then risk blowing it by using his own passport just so he could come here and send Ángel a taunting message? Because I gotta tell you, that little delivery came off less like angry cartel boss seeking revenge and more like a crazy, jilted stalker . . .” She trailed off, realization dawning in her eyes, and winced. “Oh.”
The others quickly picked up on Jade’s assumption, becoming just as uncomfortable. Nothing Ángel could say would change their minds, but he knew the truth—though Raúl had been falling in love with him, he hadn’t reached the point of obsession, and he certainly hadn’t been an idiot.
“Paul would never betray me,” Ángel said, his voice shaking. “Never. And Jade is right—if Raúl had pulled this off, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to come after me at all, still less using his own passport. You’re looking for connections where they don’t exist.”
He had to get out of here before he said something he’d regret. Grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair, he hurried out of the office, pulling his phone from his pocket to call a cab as he went. The office hadn’t been able to issue him an agency vehicle because he still didn’t have his fucking driver’s license. Besides his new ATF badge, the only form of ID he had on him was the fake license he’d used for his alias with the cartel.
Charles caught up with him on the sidewalk outside. “Ángel, wait,” he called. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone right now—”
Ángel spun around to face him, his anger boiling over. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Bending over backward to help me! If you want to fuck me again, that’s fine, let’s go. You don’t have to pretend you don’t hate me.”
Charles recoiled, looking ill. “I wouldn’t ever . . . That isn’t . . .” He sighed. “I don’t hate you.”
Ángel’s laugh grated his throat.
“I don’t,” Charles snapped. “And I don’t want . . . that . . . from you.”
What a fucking liar. “Really?” Ángel said. “Then why did you chase after me so dramatically?”
“Because I’ve never seen you this afraid before,” said Charles.
Ángel stiffened.
“Until that night in El Paso, I’d never seen you afraid at all, not really. You were always fearless—stupidly, recklessly fearless. It used to drive me crazy.” Charles made a helpless, abortive gesture. “You don’t have that anymore.”
Ángel’s stomach churned like Charles had sucker punched him. He glanced to the side, relieved to see his cab approaching. “Well, I’m so sorry I don’t measure up to your memories of me,” he said.
Exasperation swamped the concern on Charles’s face. “Christ, Ángel, you know that’s not what I’m saying—”
“See you tomorrow, Charles.” Ángel jumped into the cab, closing the door before Charles could speak again, and gave the driver the address of his motel.
Fuck Charles, anyway. Did he think Ángel was unaware of how he’d changed? Ángel would give anything to be back in his old life—surrounded by friends, with a job he loved, sneaking around to hook up with his hot coworker on the sly—instead of sitting alone in the back of this cab, all of his personal relationships fragmented, with a license in his pocket that didn’t even have his real name on it.
Three hours of flipping channels and pacing his motel room later, Ángel was ready to tear his own hair out. The more time he spent alone, the worse his thoughts spiraled, anxiety for Paul duking it out with fury over Charles and his team’s ridiculous theories. If the FBI backed off the search for Paul because of this . . .
All right, this was getting him nowhere. He could go out and hook up, except . . . he couldn’t leave this room unarmed, and he couldn’t exactly hit the club floor with a gun strapped under his arm.
If he kept his jacket buttoned, it would hide the gun well enough. He could hang out at a bar, keep it low-key, bring a guy back to the motel, and stash the gun before the guy noticed it and freaked out. That was the best he was going to get.
His mind made up, Ángel took the bus to Hillcrest, where he walked around the vibrant, busy neighborhood for a while, keeping an eye out for any signs he was being followed before slipping into a packed gay bar. He wrangled himself a seat in the corner, and it took less than two minutes for an older daddy type to approach him and offer to buy him a drink.
Ángel wasn’t looking for a daddy tonight, but the guy was sweet and offering free booze, so Ángel accepted an Angry Orchard and drew him into a friendly conversation. Once the man realized that was as far as things were going to go, he wandered off amiably and was replaced at once by two college jocks.
Ángel paced himself on the alcohol; he couldn’t risk compromising his judgment or reflexes. The guys here were hot, but nothing special—except for one guy across the bar who’d been cruising Ángel hard since walking in about half an hour after Ángel arrived. He was rough around the edges, tanned and athletic, with curly dark hair and artful stubble. Though he did nothing to hide his obvious attraction, he showed no signs of making a move, and that alone was enough to pique Ángel’s interest.
After gently rejecting his latest hopeful suitor, Ángel crooked a finger at the man. A broad smile spread across the man’s face as he headed for Ángel’s high-top and sat down.
“You know, some guys wouldn’t appreciate being stared at all night,” Ángel said.
“You’ve been pretty popular,” the man said. His voice was low and rumbly, sending shivers down Ángel’s spine. “I didn’t know if I could compete.”
Ángel grinned at his terrible false modesty. “Well, why don’t you buy me a drink, and we’ll find out?”
The man introduced himself as Ian, and they made pleasant small talk over another round. Neither of them had come to the bar for conversation, though. A few minutes later, Ian had pulled his stool close to Ángel’s and they were kissing, Ángel’s hands buried in Ian’s hair and Ian kneading his thighs.
“You want to get out
of here?” Ángel asked breathlessly. “I’m staying in a motel not too far away.”
“Fuck, yeah.” Ian nipped his throat. “You got a car?”
“I took the bus.”
“I’ll drive, then.”
Ian was a handsy guy, but Ángel managed to keep him from grabbing anywhere that would reveal the existence of his shoulder holster. When they reached the motel, Ian stood behind Ángel and rubbed his cock against Ángel’s ass while he unlocked the door.
“That’s not helping my motor skills,” Ángel said, pushing back against him.
Ian’s laugh ruffled Ángel’s hair. “You won’t need your hands for what I have in mind.”
Ángel managed to get the door open, and they stumbled through it, kissing even as Ángel threw the dead bolt and security chain. It had been two years since Ángel fucked someone without ulterior motives, without literally pretending to be someone he wasn’t. The other day with Charles, layered with anger and resentment and old hurts, didn’t count. This was simply sex for the sheer pleasure of it, and fuck, Ángel needed this.
Ángel caught Ian’s hands before they could slide up his sides, and stepped back from the kiss. Ian saved him the trouble of coming up with an excuse to separate for a couple of minutes by asking, “Okay if I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Ian gave him another lingering kiss and then walked into the bathroom, closing the door. Moving quickly, Ángel stripped out of his jacket and stashed his gun and holster in the top drawer of the bureau. By the time Ian returned, Ángel was checking his hair in the mirror, unfazed by the rush.
“You’re sexy as hell,” Ian said, running appreciative eyes over Ángel’s chest and waist. He pulled Ángel close, nuzzling his neck, and grabbed his ass with both hands. “You want to bottom?”
Ángel rubbed up against him. “I really, really do.”
Ian kissed him again, groaning into Ángel’s mouth and kneading his ass. “I’ve got condoms,” he said when they came up for air. “You have lube?”
Nodding, Ángel hooked a finger in Ian’s waistband and led him to the nightstand, where he retrieved the bottle from the drawer and pressed it into Ian’s hand. Ian turned it over with a thoughtful expression, then gave Ángel a wicked smile and tugged him away from the bed, toward the other side of the room. Ángel followed, intrigued.
Ian set the bottle on the desk and turned Ángel around, gently pushing him face-first into the wall beside it. Ángel caught his breath, aroused, and moaned when Ian kicked his legs apart.
“Could’ve fucked you like this right outside the bar,” Ian said. He gripped Ángel’s hips, pressing their bodies together and grinding his erection into Ángel’s ass in small circles. “Taken you in the alley out back.”
Ángel tilted his head to the side so Ian could kiss his neck. “That would have been very illegal,” he said teasingly.
Ian chuckled. “Only if we’d gotten caught.”
Rucking Ángel’s shirt halfway up his stomach with one hand, Ian undid Ángel’s fly with the other and pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down to midthigh. His mouth roamed over Ángel’s neck and shoulders while he fingered him, quick and rough, murmuring compliments into his ear.
When Ian pushed inside him, Ángel braced his hands against the wall and arched his back in pleasure. Fucking standing up and fully dressed was dirty in a safe, exciting way; he could imagine they were really in the alley behind the bar, his hands sliding against rough brick instead of cheap motel wallpaper, asphalt beneath his feet instead of carpet.
“Oh, God, that’s good,” Ian said, bottoming out in Ángel’s ass and giving him a few slow thrusts. “You’re so fucking tight.”
He was a great fuck, with a natural sense of rhythm and enough know-how to locate Ángel’s prostate without needing step-by-step instructions. The only drawback was that he clearly had no intention of giving Ángel a reach-around, but whatever, Ángel had two hands.
Ángel propped his left forearm against the wall, let his forehead fall against it, and jerked himself off, taking every one of Ian’s smooth, rolling thrusts with a soft gasp. “Right there, just like that,” he said when Ian set a quick pace that hit him at the perfect angle. “Fuck, yeah, don’t stop—”
He groaned as he came, shooting all over the stupid floral-print wallpaper. Ian grunted behind him and sped up, slamming through the last few thrusts, then shoving all the way in and burying his face in Ángel’s shoulder.
Ángel panted, his shoulders relaxed and his body buzzing with warmth. There was a lot to be said for casual, friendly hookups with no strings attached.
Ian pulled out and got rid of the condom, and they cleaned themselves up, trading a few more lazy kisses as they put their clothing to rights. “You’re welcome to stay,” Ángel said, just to be polite.
“Thanks, but I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” Ian palmed Ángel’s ass and gave it a greedy squeeze. “Maybe I could get your number, though?”
Ángel tore a scrap of paper off the notepad on the desk and scribbled the number to his cell. Ian tucked it into his pocket, playfully slapped Ángel’s ass, and headed for the door. With a satisfied sigh, Ángel tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
“By the way,” Ian said, and a strange shift in his tone made Ángel open his eyes again. Ian stood in the open doorway, smirking at him. “Raúl sends his love.”
The door swung shut as Ian left. Ángel stood frozen, staring blankly at the door, Ian’s words rattling around in his brain without sinking in.
Then he launched himself off the wall and ran after Ian, pausing only to grab his gun as he bolted out of the room.
It had taken Ángel too long to recover from his shock; Ian was already downstairs and halfway across the parking lot. He wasn’t even running, apparently unconcerned that Ángel might pursue him.
Ángel took off down the exterior hallway, cursing his tight jeans as he rounded the top of the staircase. Five steps from the bottom, he jumped to the ground, landing lightly on his feet and springing up to continue the chase. Fortunately, there was nobody else around, though Ángel wasn’t sure he’d have been able to hold himself back if there had been.
“Stop!” Ángel shouted as Ian hit the remote unlock button for his car.
Ian opened the door without turning around.
Ángel careened to a halt ten feet away and brought his gun up in a two-handed grip. He’d spent time at the range while with the cartel, letting Raúl “teach” him how to shoot so he had a handy excuse for keeping his skills sharp, but it had been years since he last aimed a gun at a human being. “I said stop,” he said, the word reverberating with fury.
Ian glanced at him, annoyed—and then lurched backward, slamming hard against the side of his car. All of the arrogance in his body language collapsed.
“Who sent you?” Ángel asked.
Ian only had eyes for Ángel’s gun, his breath coming in quick, sharp pants. His fear was gratifying, but not exactly helpful.
“Look at me,” said Ángel. When Ian’s eyes jerked up to his, he said, “Somebody told you to say that. Tell me who it was.”
“Are you fucking insane?” Ian said, his gaze dragged back to Ángel’s gun. “Why the hell do you have a gun?”
Oh, shit. Ángel transferred his gun to a one-handed grip, digging in his pocket for his badge. He flipped it open and waited for Ian to peer at it in the sickly-yellow haze of the streetlamps. Ian blanched and muttered a curse underneath his breath.
“I’m going to need you to come with me,” Ángel said.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Charles said, banging into the viewing room of the interrogation suite.
Ángel barely glanced away from the two-way glass. “Good morning, Charles.”
He looked like he’d gotten two or three hours of sleep, tops. Charles shook his head, refusing to sympathize. “You had no right to drag that guy in here.”
“I didn’t drag him,” said Ángel. “I
didn’t even arrest him. He came in willingly for questioning.”
“Because you pulled a gun on him!”
“I felt threatened,” Ángel said flatly.
“Oh, bullshit.” Irritated that Ángel wouldn’t look at him, Charles grabbed his elbow. Though Ángel shook him off with a disgruntled noise, he did turn around to face Charles. “You realize that whatever they might have been able to charge him with will never stick now, right? Not after the way you handled this. The second he decides to lawyer up, he’s gone for good.”
“Campos read me the riot act last night, thanks.”
Now that Charles had Ángel’s attention, he didn’t want it; Ángel was agitated, clearly on the verge of exploding, and it would be best not to get caught in that blast radius. He stepped back to give Ángel some breathing room and looked through the window himself.
The man on the other side looked even worse for wear than Ángel, with tousled hair and deep bags under his eyes, but he was still very attractive in a dark, intense way. What the hell was his name again? Isaac, Ivan . . . no, Ian.
Mina Sadir, the FBI agent leading the search for Paul Warner, was in the interrogation room with him now. “He been saying anything?” Charles asked.
Ángel shrugged. “Just the same crap he said last night.”
“I’ve told you people this a thousand times,” Ian was saying to Sadir, raking both hands through his hair. “A guy came up to me in a club, offered me two hundred bucks to pick up his ex in a bar nearby and deliver a message. He said his ex had screwed him over, cheated on him, and he just wanted to rattle him a little.”
“You accepted money in exchange for having sex with this man’s ex-lover?” Sadir said with polite incredulity.
“What? No!” Ian backpedaled quickly, his eyes wide. “No way. I would have tried to pick up Ángel anyway—have you seen the ass on him? No, the money was just for delivering the message.”
Charles risked a sideways glance at Ángel. He stood glowering through the window, his arms crossed, fingers digging into his biceps so hard they were going to leave marks.
Can't Hide From Me Page 7
