by Josh Lanyon
“How about this,” Jason said. “If I need a ride to the airport, I’ll see you at five. Otherwise, you can assume I opted for shut-eye.”
“Right.” Kennedy hesitated. “I’ll say good night now.”
That was a tactful way of letting Jason know that feelings or no feelings, they would not be sharing a bed. Just in case Jason hadn’t already got the message delivered by baseball bat?
“Good night,” Jason said. “And again, thank you for everything. Including dinner.”
He had stopped walking. Kennedy stopped too, looking at him in inquiry.
“I think I’ll take a walk,” Jason said. “Maybe get a drink somewhere.”
He could see Kennedy didn’t like that. He seemed undecided about what to do.
“Of course,” he said finally, and Jason didn’t think he imagined the reluctance. “I’ll be in touch.”
Jason nodded politely and headed for the front doors.
Kennedy was still standing in the lobby as Jason stepped out into the night.
Chapter Nineteen
A brisk walk in the chilly, damp night air helped.
A little.
Kennedy had once accused Jason of having a tendency toward dramatics.
No. “A flair for the dramatic.” That’s what he’d said. You’re curious, imaginative, and have a flair for the dramatic. You like to talk, you’re a born smartass, and you get bored following a script.
Was he going to spend the rest of his life remembering every damn thing Sam Kennedy had said to him?
Anyway, flair for the dramatic aside, he thought his emotional reaction to Kennedy’s revelation was understandable. Knowledge didn’t change anything, but at least he knew now what he had been up against. Nothing he did or didn’t do would have changed the outcome. Kennedy had known in Massachusetts that he didn’t want to get involved, and the fact that he’d gone against his own instincts was even flattering in a weird way.
Nor was it about lust. For eight months they’d simply talked. Long distance, for Christ’s sake. Kennedy genuinely liked Jason. So there was another balm for Jason’s ego. And everything he’d done since discovering Jason was in trouble reinforced the depth of his feelings for Jason, from bulldozing over the local cops to helping Jason dispose of evidence—er, not-evidence.
He was trying to be a good friend. Trying not to hurt Jason. He was trying, in his own fucked-up, obsessive, driven-by-demons way, to do the right thing.
On one level Jason could appreciate all of that. He really could. Did.
On another level…it just hurt.
Unbearably.
Why—how—had he let himself start caring so much? He’d known from the very first, from day one, certainly from that first night together in Boston, that getting involved with Sam Kennedy was a no go.
All these months. He’d kept assuring himself it was all under control, that he wasn’t taking it that seriously. Who the hell was he kidding? Himself, apparently. And only himself. The truth was he’d been in way too deep from the beginning. Since Kingsfield. Since the night Sam had come to his hotel room after they’d said their goodbyes.
Before they’d ever left the village of Kingsfield, Jason was falling for Sam Kennedy.
Falling in love.
And nothing that had happened during the last eight months had changed that—although it sure as hell should have.
If he was mad at anyone, it was himself. For being such a fool. For going against his own better judgment. For choosing to fall in love with Sam Kennedy of all people.
Oh, hell yeah he wanted to meet this art teacher pal of Charlie’s. Bring it on. Bring him on. Hell, have him jump out of the fucking birthday cake. If Jason had listened to his family and friends—hell, if he’d listened to George Potts—he’d have been busy dating normal people and that would have formed a natural defensive barrier against sad, fucked-up, freeze-dried Sam Kennedy, who wasn’t just married to his job, he was married to his tragically dead lover. Who the hell could compete with that? Who would want to?
Especially when no one was asking him to.
The pub was called The Mermaid’s Tale.
It sort of reminded Jason of Kingsfield’s Blue Mermaid, with its dark, smoky taproom (though no one had smoked in there for decades) and jukebox playing golden oldies to a cast of regulars that seemed to include Gorton’s Fisherman, Captain Crook, Cap’n Crunch and Charlie the Tuna. Kitschy fishing nets with sea shells covered the low ceiling, and a large oil painting of a very naked mermaid took up most of the wall behind the bar.
That mermaid fascinated Jason. She wore nothing but fish scales and a sly smile, and was impressively, anatomically correct down to the shading of her blue-green caudal fin.
He had walked himself to a standstill. Not physically. Emotionally. He was cold and tired and completely disheartened. He would have a beer and then walk back to the Buccaneer’s Cove. Hopefully by then he’d be tired enough to sleep.
The bartender had just set a bottle of Stella Artois and a bowl of suspiciously dusty peanuts in front of Jason when the chair across from his own was dragged away from the table and Kennedy sat down.
And even after the last forty-five minutes of bitter reflection and self-recrimination, Jason’s foolish heart still jumped around in his chest like an eager puppy when his master walked in the door. It was maddening.
Kennedy stared austerely across the table.
“Hey,” Jason said. “Isn’t this past your bedtime? Isn’t staying up late liable to interfere with the way you catch bad guys?”
Kennedy was unamused. “What are you doing, Jason?”
Jason winked. “I’m having a beer, Sam. I’ve had a very stressful twenty-four hours, and I need a little time to process. What are you doing?”
“Following you.”
Jason thought about his walk from the hotel and hoped he had not been muttering and mumbling to himself as he stalked along the moonlight streets. If he’d realized Kennedy was following him…
He said mockingly, “Just can’t stay away from me, can you?”
It was hard to tell with the pirate’s cave lighting in there, but he thought a tide of color rose in Kennedy’s face. His eyes kindled with irritation. “You’re not carrying. You’re not armed. I noticed at dinner.”
True. Jason had not worn his pistol to dinner. He had not planned on going anywhere afterwards but up to his room. “Bodyguard detail. That’s below your paygrade.”
Temper made Kennedy’s eyes looked electric blue. “This is not smart. Wandering around unarmed and getting drunk is not useful.”
“Probably not. But don’t worry. I’m not going to get drunk. I’d still be drinking Kamikazes if I planned on getting drunk. Contrary to what you believe, I’m not careless or reckless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You think it, though.”
Kennedy’s voice dropped. “I don’t think you’re careless or reckless. I think you might feel you have something to prove, and we both know why that is.”
“Here we go again. Our greatest hits. Because you think I froze eight months ago in Kingsfield.”
Kennedy’s gaze did not waver. “Yes. I think you froze in Kingsfield. But you didn’t freeze the other night in Santa Monica. And it doesn’t sound like you froze last night.”
It was probably meant as some kind of concession, but Jason barely heard it. In Santa Monica and last night at Shipka’s cottage, no one had been firing at him.
“That might be part of it too,” he said thoughtfully.
Kennedy frowned. “What might be part of what?”
“Your belief that I’m going to get killed in the line of duty. Maybe that’s part of your reluctance to get any more involved with me. You lost one boyfriend. Maybe you think it’s contagious.”
Again, it was probably the light—that gruesome shade of fish-scale green—but Kennedy seemed to lose color. He said softly, “Jesus Christ, Jason. I don’t think you’re going to get— Why the hell wo
uld you even say that?”
Jason shrugged. “I think it might be a factor.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not. Leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals.”
Jason smiled. He’d had exactly the right amount to drink. He was still cognizant, still coherent, but his inhibitions were blowing in the wind. He felt a beautiful freedom from both his normal reticence and the restraints of his professional relationship with Kennedy.
He said casually, “Speaking of psychoanalysis, Dr. Jeremy Kyser has been writing me.”
He’d had the childish wish to shock Kennedy out of his superhuman control, and his wish was granted.
“What?”
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, appearing out of the gloom.
Kennedy said mechanically, “Whisky sour. Canadian Club, if you have it.” His gaze never left Jason’s face.
“You good?” the bartender asked Jason.
“I’ll have another.” And a headache chaser. But whatever. In vino veritas.
The bartender departed. Kennedy said, “Why in God’s name wouldn’t you tell me Kyser had contacted you? How long has that been going on?”
“Since October. He sent me a card for Halloween—”
“A card for—! Who the hell sends Halloween cards?”
“—which was fairly innocuous. And he sent me a birthday card. So he’s not exactly stalking me.”
“The hell he’s not.” Kennedy’s face was tight with an emotion Jason couldn’t quite categorize. Probably because it wasn’t an expression Kennedy wore very often. Alarm? Anxiety? Aghastity?
Was there such a word? There was clearly such an emotion, and it was not reassuring. Especially as Jason had been trying to convince himself the communications from Kyser were nothing to be worried about. “Well, if he is, it’s long distance. He’s in Virginia now. That’s your home turf.”
“I don’t understand why you waited until now to tell me this.” Kennedy seemed genuinely troubled.
“I meant to tell you about the Halloween card the next time you called. But we didn’t talk until Christmas. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it by then.”
Kennedy’s mouth opened, but the bartender arrived with their drinks.
“Jesus Christ,” Kennedy muttered. He downed half his drink in one scowling swallow.
“I’m not thrilled either, but he’s on the other side of the country—usually—and there’s nothing threatening in the cards. You said yourself he wasn’t part of our case in Massachusetts. It’s not a crime to be strange.”
“Tell me you kept the cards.”
“Of course.”
“I want to see them.”
“I’m happy for you to see them. But honestly, I don’t want to think about Kyser tonight.” Jason leaned back in his chair and tilted the beer bottle to his lips.
Kennedy gave a little disbelieving shake of his head, sat back in his own chair, and shook the ice in his glass like he wondered where the rest of his drink had gone.
The jukebox was playing a duet between James Taylor and Mark Knopfler. “Sailing to Philadelphia.”
It was my fate from birth
To make my mark upon the earth
That was Kennedy all right. A big man with big things to do. No room and no time for anything else. But if Jason gave in and looked across the table, he knew Kennedy would be watching him with that somber, brooding stare as though Jason had presented a problem Kennedy just couldn’t quite solve.
Well, that made two of them. There were questions Jason would have liked to ask Kennedy too: Did they ever catch the guy who killed Ethan? Is it just me you won’t sleep with, or are you still enjoying sex with non-friends? Do I just look sort of like Ethan, or do I remind you of him in other ways? Do you not see the Catch-22 of trying to hang on to a friendship with someone you’re afraid you already care too much for?
But he kept his thoughts to himself. He didn’t want Kennedy to walk out.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the subliminal messaging of several love songs in a row. The tension between them began to ease, the mood lightened.
Jason looked across at Kennedy and said, “All that’s missing is a girl in a fish tank.”
Kennedy smiled faintly, moved his head in assent.
For a minute or two they listened to the music and drank. Kennedy’s mouth twisted in reluctant amusement. “Did you really tell O’Neill you wouldn’t break out of that crypt because the window was so valuable?”
Jason sat up. “Hell, yes. That window is Tiffany glass. It’s probably worth a quarter of a million dollars. It’s irreplaceable.”
Kennedy shook his head as though he thought Jason was a nut, but what he said was, “You’re irreplaceable.”
Was that what he’d said? Because he went back to looking at the mermaid painting and sipping his drink. He did not look remotely like a guy who would say, “You’re irreplaceable.”
Finally a song written in the last decade dropped on the jukebox. “Demons” by Imagine Dragons.
Jason said, “This song always reminds me of you.”
Kennedy listened for a moment, shook his head. “I don’t know it.”
No, of course not, and maybe that second beer had been one too many.
Kennedy said suddenly, wryly, “I’m guessing you’re very good at undercover work.”
“I am. Why?”
Kennedy’s smile was wry. “You lie very well. I watched you today. You don’t try to oversell or elaborate.”
Jason reddened. “I don’t lie to you.”
“No, I know.” It didn’t seem to make it any better for Kennedy.
The bartender made another pass. Kennedy ordered a second drink. Jason declined.
Kennedy seemed to be looking at Jason’s hands. Jason couldn’t see anything of interest there. Knowing Kennedy, he was probably thinking about something to do with fingerprints. But it reminded Jason of Santa Monica and searching Kerk’s hotel room.
The night he’d discovered Kennedy had ended their relationship…how many months earlier? But forgot to tell Jason.
Maybe he was reaching the point of acceptance, because that hurt felt faraway now. Old. Maybe that was the beer. Maybe it was because Kennedy was sitting across from him, watching Jason even when he wasn’t looking directly at him.
“I never did find that damned cufflink,” Jason said.
Kennedy gave him a funny look.
“The one I lost at the Hotel Casa del Mar.”
“Right.”
“I know. It’s just…my grandfather gave me those cufflinks. Which, come to think of it, was kind of an odd gift for a sixteen-year-old kid. But anyway, they had sentimental value.”
“This was the grandfather who was the reason you joined the FBI?”
“Yeah. Sort of. My grandfather was the reason I wanted to fight to preserve our artistic and cultural heritage. Honey Corrigan is the reason I took that fight to the FBI.” Jason’s smile twisted at the recognition in Kennedy’s eyes. “I’m not sure I realized that until Massachusetts. So I do understand, Sam. I do get your sense of mission. I just think you’re wrong about the warrior-monk routine. I think you could still be effective in your job and have some kind of personal life. I don’t mean with me. I mean with whoever. Someone who would be willing to take you on your terms.”
Kennedy eyed him for a long moment. He set his glass down. “The problem is, I don’t want whoever. I want you. All the time.”
He did. It was right there, a fierce longing burning in his blue eyes. Jason didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t speak. He was afraid anything he said, anything he did would tip the scales the wrong way.
Kennedy said roughly, “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter Twenty
It was that first night in Boston all over again.
Only this time when Kennedy unlocked his hotel door and let them both inside his room, they knocked over the lamp. That was because they were already half out of their clothes, complicating each oth
er’s efforts by trying to help.
Kennedy reached past Jason and the door slammed shut with a bang. Kennedy’s arms closed around Jason once more. His hot mouth latched onto Jason, and he groaned as though kissing Jason was the sweetest thing in all the world.
He tasted like cheap whisky and himself, dark and dangerous. Jason forgot what he was doing and lost himself in the feel of Kennedy’s lips moving hungrily on his own, Kennedy’s tongue pushing into his mouth.
Kennedy reached down to unclip his holster, still trying to hang onto the kiss. Jason panted into Kennedy’s mouth, struggling with Kennedy’s suit jacket. Those shoulders were like a bulwark. Hell, Kennedy could probably just flex his chest, and the jacket as well as all the buttons of his shirt would fly off.
Kennedy got his holster off, and a couple of powerful shrugs dropped his suit jacket to the floor. Jason’s own blazer was probably still out in the hallway—along with his shoes and socks. Kennedy’s big hands locked on Jason’s shoulders once more.
Jason laughed unsteadily into Kennedy’s mouth. “Wait. Ouch…” He heard the seams of his shirt go and muttered, “You’re saving me a fortune in dry cleaning bills.”
He fumbled with Kennedy’s belt buckle. Did he have a deadbolt on the damned thing? Combination lock? What the hell…
Ah. There.
“Christ, yes.” Kennedy tore his mouth away to say in a rough voice. “Touch me, Jason.”
Hard not to touch him with that hard, fierce erection poking through the softness of his taut cotton briefs and open jeans. Jesus, the wonder of it, of having this again, of being able to touch, and hold, and kiss. Jason had thought it was gone forever.
The light had gone out when the lamp fell. The room was pitch-black and had that damp, musty feel of all beach town cottages and hotels, though it still smelled of Kennedy’s shower and his aftershave—and imminent sex.
Jason felt the edge of the mattress hit him behind the knees, and he grabbed for Kennedy who hiked him up—except this time there was no door or wall to support that move, and they lost their balance and went slamming down on the bed.
