Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits

by Jenna Hilary Sinclair

  At the mention of Griffin’s name Miller’s stomach flipped into a knot, his beer backing up into his throat. He remembered the smile Griffin had given Danny. And the one Danny had given back, laughing easily with the man in the Mercedes. A man who, after all the time he’d spent learning about Danny, Miller hadn’t recognized. That single fact ignited Miller’s blood, like a match to lighter fluid, the resulting inferno burning wild and out of control. Danny’s life was his domain and no strangers belonged there.

  “Yeah,” Miller said, clearing his throat around his pinched voice. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. I might try to talk to him sometime this week.”

  “Just call Sakata. He’s got him stashed at the apartment north of the river.”

  “Will do.”

  It was full dark by the time Miller left the bar, since he’d stayed behind for one more beer after Colin took off for home and dinner duty. The air was chill and leaden with the promise of rain. Miller pulled up the collar on his jacket, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and headed north into the wind, toward his car parked three blocks away.

  The gun at his hip promising safety, he took a shortcut through a dark alley that was empty except for some fast-food wrappers swirling against his feet in the buffeting wind. Miller knew Colin was right: grooming an informant was always a delicate job. Trust had to be established to get the information, yet distance had to be maintained to retain the power structure. Miller had never had a problem in the past. He’d always been able to manage just the right degree of familiarity to swoop in and pull out the secrets he needed without involving his own emotions. But with Danny… with Danny, it was different.

  Miller tried to tell himself it was simply a factor of how long he’d been watching Danny: almost nine months now, much longer than he’d ever spent investigating a previous informant. That in itself fostered its own kind of intimacy. Miller was privy to information about Danny that only those closest to him would ever know, if anyone did. He knew Danny liked Mexican food and Marlboros in the hard pack. That he preferred baseball to football and sometimes rode a motorcycle. He knew that Danny and Amanda had divorced almost two years ago but that Danny still took her to dinner at least once a month and always let her pick the restaurant. He knew that Danny had type O Positive blood, the green of his eyes was real, and that he was exactly six feet, one inch tall. That Danny wasn’t a morning person, usually stayed up past midnight, and drank a single cup of black coffee every morning. He knew that men sometimes visited Danny in his apartment, but they never stayed the night.

  And now you know how he tastes. You know how his skin feels under your hands.

  Miller stopped walking, closed his eyes, and tried his old trick of turning his mind into a blank, white sheet.

  You liked kissing him. It felt… honest… and right. You wanted to keep going. You wanted to undress him. You wanted to touch him, you wanted to—

  “Damn it,” Miller hissed. This was insanity; this was not his life—the life he’d built so carefully, brick by brick. Miller Sutton was not gay. He did not want to have sex with another man. A man who was a convicted criminal. A scum-of-the-earth drug dealer. A man who was used to casual fucks and would think nothing of adding Miller’s name to his list of one-night stands.

  That’s not fair. Or true. You saw his eyes, the way he looked at you after the kiss. Those weren’t one-night-stand eyes. There was nothing casual about it, Miller. For either of you.

  “God, stop it!” Miller cried, swinging out violently, his fist connecting with the concrete wall in a cracking thud. He drew in a shuddering breath, the impact sending a merciful flash of white light traveling up his arm to wipe out everything else in his head. He cradled his ruined knuckles, blinking back the tears hovering against his lashes. He should go see Rachel. She’d fix his hand, comfort him, he could spend the night with her….

  But when he got to his car, he turned away from Rachel’s place. He was tired and just wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and see Danny.

  IT TOOK Miller two weeks and seven jewelry stores to pick out the ring. It shouldn’t have been such a production; Rachel had made it clear she wanted a round solitaire on a gold band. Traditional, elegant, simple. But he couldn’t seem to make the final decision, always wondering if there would be something better in the next store he’d enter. Eventually he was forced to choose simply because he didn’t have any more time to spend hunting. The FBI wasn’t too keen on hearing “engagement ring shopping” as an excuse for dereliction of duties.

  Miller’s palms were sweating and he wiped them absently on the cushions of Rachel’s pale green sofa. God, how did people ever do this? He felt like he was having a panic attack, his stomach contracting in a painful ball, his mouth dry as dust.

  “Here, sweetie,” Rachel said, returning from the kitchen with two glasses of wine. She handed one to Miller and curled up next to him. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Rachel, I….” Miller cleared his throat. Rachel was looking at him with a smile in her eyes to match the one on her lips. She knew what he was going to ask, was just waiting for him to say the words. They’d been dating a year now, and he was well aware Rachel had been anxious for this moment for at least half that time.

  As for Miller himself, he’d known on their first date that Rachel was good wife material, as his brother Scott would say. From the beginning, Rachel had been supportive of Miller’s career but not overly enamored of it. Not like so many of the women he met in bars whose eyes went shiny like they’d discovered a hidden cache of jewels when they found out he was an FBI agent. Women who, after a few too many margaritas, started making jokes about his “gun” and hinting about the handcuffs in his pocket. They always made him feel awkward and embarrassed and he couldn’t escape them fast enough.

  “Miller?” Rachel questioned, laying one slim hand on his arm. “What is it?”

  No way was he getting down on one knee. He pulled the black velvet box from his pocket, took a steadying breath. “Rachel, will you marry me?” he asked, his eyes shifting from her face to the ring and back again.

  “Miller,” Rachel sighed, a smile breaking free that was wide enough to show her back molars. “Yes,” she exclaimed. “Yes!” She threw her arms around his neck, dragging him forward, laughing and crying against his cheek.

  “Careful,” Miller warned, pulling back to wipe her tears with his thumb. “Don’t knock your ring into the wine.”

  Rachel glanced down at the diamond, seeming to notice it for the first time. “Oh, it’s gorgeous. Just what I had in mind.” She held out a trembling finger. “Put it on me?”

  Miller nodded. He plucked the diamond from its velvet bed, the ring looking impossibly small and delicate in his hand, and slid it onto Rachel’s finger. They both stared at it, the stone picking up the lights of the room and throwing them back in shiny pinpoints.

  “Miller, I’m so happy,” Rachel said.

  Miller kissed her softly on her parted lips. He wanted to say it back, so much. But he couldn’t. Because even now, even at this moment that he’d thought would finally give him everything he needed, the little voice in his head was still whispering, insistent and unrelenting, “Is this it? Can this really be all there is?”

  The voice was not fooled at all by the diamond ring on Rachel’s finger.

  DANNY WAS mildly drunk, the only thing keeping him from a rip-roaring bender being the fact that there was only the single bottle of bourbon left in the apartment. He didn’t want to drink it all in case Miller came back and needed some himself.

  Can’t believe you’re worried about him. After the things he said to you…. But the truth hurts, doesn’t it, Danny?

  That last voice was not his own but his father’s, the old man’s constant refrain when Danny was growing up. Say something nasty, something designed to cut a child straight to their soul, then follow it up with, “Truth hurts, don’t it, Danny?” His father always had a special knack for sinking the knife in to th
e hilt. He felt a stab of guilt that he’d run away and left his mother alone with the old man, abandoning her to bear the weight of his father’s anger on her weak shoulders.

  “Here’s to you, you old fucking bastard,” Danny whispered, raising the bottle toward the silver sliver of moon flirting from behind its veil of wispy clouds.

  Danny understood why Miller had said what he did. He recognized Miller’s struggle, body and mind torn in different directions. But understanding didn’t make the words sting any less. It had been a long time since someone had been able to hurt him that way. But coming so close on the heels of that kiss…. That kiss had opened a door in Danny he’d thought was closed forever.

  Lust was nothing new to Danny. He’d never been a man to deny his body. But desire, that was unfamiliar; wanting more than just to satisfy his basic needs with another man’s flesh, instead wanting to stroke and soothe and discover. That was virgin territory, and the fear was almost as strong as the wanting. Down the path of that kiss lay darkness and uncertainty, but maybe that was all right with him. He couldn’t remember what safe felt like anyway.

  Leave it to you, Danny, to feel… something… for the one man in the world you’d have to be an absolute fool to trust.

  “Hey.” A gruff voice floated from over Danny’s shoulder, causing him to make a startled grab for the bottle that threatened to slip from between his knees.

  “Shit.” He exhaled. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” Miller hesitated, only his head braving the trip onto the balcony.

  “You can come on out.” Danny motioned with his free hand. “I won’t throw you over.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Miller said, deadpan. “How can I resist an invitation like that?” But he stepped onto the balcony, taking the seat next to Danny’s.

  They sat in silence as Miller lit up a cigarette. He didn’t ask for Danny’s lighter, instead fishing his own book of matches from his pocket.

  “You want some?” Danny asked, holding out the bourbon, his voice coming out angrier than he felt.

  “Okay,” Miller said, tone wary.

  “How was Rachel?”

  Miller tightened up next to him. “I didn’t go see Rachel.”

  “No? Then where were you?”

  “Working.”

  “I thought I was your job.”

  “You are.”

  Danny laughed in spite of himself. “Jesus, this reminds me of being in prison. Never could get a fucking straight answer there, either.”

  Miller didn’t respond right away, taking a pull from the bottle before passing it back. “What was prison like?” he asked, eyes on the stars.

  “About what you’d expect,” Danny said, lighting up his own smoke. “Tough, scary, boring as hell. The food is the nastiest you’ll find anywhere and the company’s in the same league. But I can survive there, better than you might imagine.”

  “How?”

  Danny thought about the question before answering. “You have to have a certain attitude with the guards: respectful but not too friendly. If the guards like you, but the other inmates don’t think you’re a suck-up, you get a lot of leeway. And my second time in I had Amanda around to send me things I could barter—cigarettes, stamps, porn. Having something to trade makes all the difference.”

  “What happened when you ran out of that stuff?”

  Danny pondered how much to tell and figured he didn’t have anything to gain by lying. “I have a pretty face, Miller,” he said evenly. “And I know how to use it.”

  Miller inhaled a sharp breath, glanced at him and then just as quickly away. “Was it always… consensual?”

  Danny’s laughter was tinged with bitterness. “That’s not exactly the term I’d use. But yeah, most of the time it was.”

  “Most of the time?” Miller spoke as though the words were being dragged out of him, his voice only one step up from a whisper.

  Danny closed his eyes. He’d gotten past all this. He had. He’d worked hard to put it behind him and move on. But it would be a lie to say he’d forgotten, or that he ever would. He still remembered the sounds and the smells, the cut on his cheek from having his face pressed to the floor, and the eggplant-hued bruises they’d left on his arms that took a month to heal.

  “It was prison, Miller, not fucking Bible study,” he said, swallowing past the tremor he heard in his voice.

  “Jesus, Danny.”

  “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. I survived in there. A lot of men don’t. I made it out alive. And I’m okay. That’s what matters.”

  Miller looked at Danny, nodded once, his lips a thin line. “Was it in Leavenworth?”

  “No.” Danny shook his head, his lips trembling around his cigarette. “My first stint. Marion.”

  “You were just a kid then,” Miller said, his voice soft.

  “Yeah. Twenty-two. Wasn’t a kid anymore by the time I got out.” Danny gulped down bourbon, backhanding the excess that trickled from the corner of his mouth. “This is depressing me. Let’s talk about something else,” he choked.

  “What can we talk about after that?” Miller asked, his own voice rough and strained. “The weather? Football? What to have for breakfast?”

  Danny smiled. “All right. Maybe we don’t need to talk tonight. Let’s just drink.” He passed the bottle to Miller, his eye snagged by the blood smeared across Miller’s fingers.

  “Christ, Miller, what happened to your hand?” Danny sat forward, trying to get a better look in the weak, milky-white moonlight. He reached out, his finger passing gently over the bruised and swollen knuckles. He wished things between them were different so he could hold Miller’s hand, use his mouth to kiss away the hurt.

  Miller didn’t answer, just tipped his head back and slugged down a throat full of liquor. Danny could see the scratches on Miller’s knuckles and knew you didn’t get abrasions like that from hitting a person. Miller’s fist had gotten up close and personal with something hard and inanimate; Miller looking to punish himself, not someone else.

  Danny slouched back in his seat with a sigh. “Are we ever going to talk about what happened the other night?” he asked. “Or are we going to keep talking around that kiss?”

  He heard Miller suck in a breath, stomp his half-finished cigarette under his shoe. “It was a mistake.”

  “I thought mistakes were supposed to feel wrong.”

  Miller twisted his neck in Danny’s direction, their eyes meeting above the glow of Danny’s cigarette. It would be so easy, Danny thought, so easy to lean forward and kiss him again. To lick the smoke from his tongue, watch lust dampen the confusion in his eyes, and show him that being with someone like Danny wasn’t all bad. But Danny wasn’t willing to risk it, to risk bearing the brunt of all Miller’s fears. So he took a swallow of bourbon instead and tipped his face to the stars.

  THE SCREAMING woke Miller out of his alcohol coma. Danny’s voice shouted loud and hoarse from the room next door, and adrenaline surged so fast and powerful through Miller’s body it threatened to blow off the top of his head and turn him into a human geyser.

  “Fuck, fuck,” he cried, rolling out of bed. He hit the floor on wobbly legs, sprinting across the room to grab his gun from the dresser. His shin knocked hard against the bed frame, the sharp throb a distant second to his fear.

  He was out of his room and into Danny’s in a matter of seconds, gun drawn, safety off, not sure what he expected to find. But Danny was alone, legs tangled in his sheets, head thrashing against his pillow.

  “Oh, no, please,” Danny moaned. “God, don’t… don’t!”

  Miller hunched over, one hand on his knee, drew in a deep breath. Fuck, he’d about had a heart attack over a damn nightmare. Shit.

  “Danny,” Miller called, still bent at the waist. “Danny, wake up.”

  Danny didn’t hear him, his body twisting violently on the bed, legs thumping against the mattress. “Don’t,” he cried again, a strangled sob. “Oh, my God, Ortiz. Please.”

&nbs
p; Miller crossed to the bed and looked down at Danny. “Danny. Danny! Wake up.” He leaned over, put a hand on Danny’s bare shoulder, and gave him a little shake. “Wake up.”

  Danny’s hands flew up, one smacking hard against Miller’s arm, clutching desperately, finding Miller’s good hand and grabbing on. “It’s okay,” Miller whispered. “It’s okay, Danny. You were dreaming.”

  Danny’s eyes opened as he swam up from sleep, confused and scared. “Miller?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” Miller smiled. “Go back to sleep. It was just a dream.”

  Danny’s eyes drifted closed, his face still tense with fear. Miller lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, waiting and watching until Danny’s breathing evened out, his face growing calm in the moonlight.

  Miller carefully untangled his fingers and smoothed the sheet over Danny’s bare chest. He stood and brushed the hair off Danny’s forehead with one hand, the strands as soft against his fingers as the stubble on Danny’s cheeks had been rough when they’d kissed.

  “Good night,” Miller whispered. “Don’t pull that shit again. Scared me to death.”

  Miller left his door ajar so he would hear if Danny needed him. He put his gun back on top of his dresser, next to the cell phone that beckoned him with thoughts of duty and responsibility. Miller stared at the phone. He didn’t want to make the call. He didn’t want to know.

  Do your fucking job, Miller. The one they pay you for.

  He grabbed the phone, punched in the number he knew by heart, and listened to the distant ringing in his ear.

  “Sutton here. Sorry to wake you. I’ve got a possible name on the Butler murder.” Miller pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. “Try Ortiz,” he said and hung up the phone.

  IT MADE Danny nervous when there was a knock on the door. He hadn’t always been that way, but just like he no longer answered his door armed only with a smile, he couldn’t get past that sharp stab of alarm when someone came looking for him. The constant anxiety, even in the face of the most mundane of activities, was a part of his new career he had not anticipated.