by Beth Dranoff
Right. Because my relationship status with Sam was really none of Gus’s business.
“Didn’t have a chance yet. Apparently my body odor was distracting him.”
Sam wrinkled his nose. “I think that’s both of us,” he acknowledged. Then, to Gus: “You’ll stick around while we get clean?”
“Depends on the deal.” Gus narrowed all three of his eyes, wary now. “I’ll pretend you two don’t stink of all kinds of bodily and interspecies...intermingling...if you stop with the dramatic suspense and tell me who wants what from me. Also why they want it, if you have that information—knowing the whys helps with future planning, avoiding imminent death, that kind of thing.”
“Neither contract requires you to go anywhere—as long as you’re willing to give me some of your own bio-matter that I can put in specimen bags and deliver to the interested parties.”
“Meaning?” Gus wasn’t going willingly along with anything before he had as many details as he could get.
“Both my father and Ezra—the Agency—want samples of your genetic material for them to test. Experiment on.”
“So you think you know what all the older men in your life are up to, then.” Gus pushed himself to sitting cross-legged in the middle of the couch. I wasn’t the only one overdue for a shower. And, oh yeah, that particular piece of furniture was future curb fodder for sure. Steam cleaning could only do so much. “You’re taking their words as gospel truths?”
“Hardly. But I’ve bought us both some time regardless.” I bent over to pull the specimen kits out of my bag. “My father wants to use you to cure himself of inter-dimensional dementia. If he gets extra ambitious, he’ll come up with a cure for everyone else, or even a vaccine. But I’m not holding my breath on that last part.”
“I wouldn’t,” Sam muttered into his coffee.
“And once it goes to market,” I continued, “those octo-squidly pains in both our butts will get a cut. So that’s their motivation.”
“What about Ezra Gerbrecht?” Gus went in hard on the consonants. “I’m all aflutter to find out what the Great Man has envisioned for my future well-being.”
“He wasn’t specific,” I admitted.
Gus snorted. “Not surprised,” he said.
“My guess?” Because of course I had one. “I think he’s taking whatever he and my father were working on way back when and branching it in a different direction. Not just studying, but actually figuring out how to create hybrid supes in the lab. My gut says the Ezra skin with the tattoo that probably matches my thumbprint is part of it.”
“You got all that from your conversation with Gerbrecht yesterday?” Sam was right to be concerned. I was concerned.
“I’m guessing,” I said. “But it’s a theory that feels right. I think my father noticed that Gus wasn’t affected by inter-dimensional travel, and he probably mentioned it to Ezra in passing during one of his visits. So now they’re both curious to get a taste of the Gus Got It Going On Special.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sam. “But why do we want to help them at all? The less they know about all of us, the better.”
“They’re not coming after you for your stuff, buddy.” Gus was rubbing his I-just-ate-two-whole-chickens-for-dinner belly. “It’s all me.”
“Fair enough,” said Sam. I didn’t disagree. This was the Agency, Ezra and now my father.
“If it buys us time,” I said, “let’s give them what they want. Ish.”
Gus raised all three of his eyebrows at me.
“Here’s what I’m thinking...”
* * *
Sam sat with Gus while I washed away the last twenty-four hours, then I returned the favor. I didn’t ask Gus to get any cleaner himself; considering everywhere he’d been and everyone he’d been with, I didn’t want to make it too easy.
“C’mon, sneeze for me.” I held out a four-by-four plastic sheet in front of Gus, who kept his mouth shut and his lips pressed together in two blue sausages of not-gonna-happen. “What? We agreed.”
“I’d much rather bend over and have you wipe my ass with it.”
“Thanks, but no.” I stifled the imagery that might go along with fulfilling his preference. “What are you willing to part with?”
Gus had obviously been thinking about it because he didn’t hesitate.
“Daddy Dearest—yours, not mine—gets three snot diamonds, some nail clippings, a swab or two of ear wax, and a pinch of that crap I dig out of my belly button.” Mmm, yummy. Not. “The Agency gets the same plus two hairs and a throat swab. Seeing as you’re making some bank off that arrangement.”
“So you’re doing it for me, then.” Sure he was. I could believe that. Except for the part where I didn’t.
“I don’t like your father; don’t want to help him too much.” I let the silence stretch until finally Gus filled it with something more closely resembling truth. “Fine. Ezra is a dick too, but he carries a bigger stick than your father does. And I want them both off my scaly-ass back.” I pretty much felt the same way. Apparently blood isn’t always thicker than water after all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It seemed to be enough.
I delivered my father’s samples to Squid D’Lee at the Swan, and dropped the rest off at Ezra’s office during my break. I still didn’t know how screwed we were now that Alina had a picture of my back tats to hang on her wall or whatever, but that was going to have to be a problem for another day.
* * *
I ended things officially with Owain. Not that anything had started really. But if I was going to try this thing with Sam for real, I had to be honest with all the other guys in my life first. Jon had done the honors for me the other night; it was my turn to do the same with Owain.
We met for coffee. A small place on a side street between Ossington and Christie, maybe a five-minute walk from my place.
“It’s been great seeing you again,” I started.
“I’m heading out,” Owain interrupted, before I had the chance to make my speech. Beating me to it once more. “I leave tomorrow morning, first thing.”
Of course he was. Because clearly Unavailable Bad Boy was my type. Or had been.
Before Sam.
“An early flight out of town?” I nodded through my smile, and if my eyes were a touch too shiny, well, it was just the sunlight and blinking was so very helpful with that. “Nope, not clichéd at all.”
“What, you were hoping I’d be staying?”
“I didn’t expect anything, Owain,” I said. “We’re good. You planning to come back?”
“Undecided.” From the way Owain cocked his head to the side and hesitated, looking for more words or maybe just the right ones, I got the sense I’d surprised him somehow. “You have my number now. You need anything, you contact me, OK?”
We parted with a hug that lasted a few seconds past platonic, did the European kiss kiss on both cheeks, said our goodbyes.
And then there was one.
* * *
I arrived at the house on Roxborough not long after that with lattes and two pinwheel croissant pastries that tasted of cinnamon and vanilla and air. Realizing belatedly, as I knocked, that if anyone other than Sam was home I was being incredibly rude not bringing enough to share.
I guess Sam had just gotten out of the shower because his hair was still damp and his t-shirt clung to his chest in moistened bits. Great chest. And the bits weren’t so bad either.
“Hey,” he said. I held up my offerings and his smile stretched wider. “C’mon in.”
“Can we talk?” Might as well get it all up front and out there. Before I took off my shoes and got too comfortable.
“Sure.” Sam headed in a different direction than usual, through the fancy room, the one that in previous times would have been reserved fo
r company—plastic-covered upholstery, grand piano and all. We were going formal now? But then he continued through and past it to a set of French doors I’d never noticed before, leading to a stacked flagstone veranda overlooking a section of lushly tended English-style garden. Pretty sure there were yellow roses too.
He settled into a mesh chair and I sank into the one opposite him. Passed him his coffee, and a pastry, trying to remember that there were words and I knew somehow somewhere I could speak them. Then, finally:
“I’m done with Jon. And I never really started with Owain, despite what you thought.” Sam didn’t say anything, waiting for me to go on. “You wanted me on my own, no sharing? Well, you’ve got me.”
Sam opened his mouth to say something but I barreled on. “You know I suck at this, right? Relationships? I need lots of space, I’m twitchy at the best of times, and I don’t even know if this is going to work. But I’m willing to try. If you are.”
Sam leaned back in his chair with a smile that drifted across his lips. I wanted to take a taste. Didn’t, because it was his turn to speak now. Make a move, any kind of move.
“Cool,” he said. And when I stared, wanting more, he said, “Come closer. You’re too far away.”
I stood up and Sam touched my fingertips with his before interlacing them, palm to palm, pulling me towards him and into his lap.
“Let’s stay like this for a while,” he said, kissing my neck and wrapping his arms around me.
I tensed, then relaxed into him.
I could do this, right?
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
Second books are hard. As many people as it took to get that first book published, that next one is you and the inside of your brain and you’re mostly on your own—only this time with a deadline.
There is no way this book could have come together as coherently and as quickly as it did without the above-and-beyond support, encouragement, talents and insight of my Carina Press editor, Stephanie Doig. I owe her a huge debt of gratitude. If you ever get the chance to work with her in the future, take it—she is phenomenal.
Thank you to my agent, Rena Bunder Rossner, the adviser and cheerleader (minus the literal pom-poms) in my virtual corner. All the coffee, chocolate and bourbon for you.
Thank you to Patrick Dixon for late-night wordplay consultations, as well as for Toronto Pride and LGBTQ community reality checks. Any mistakes are my own.
Love and gratitude to my “core group”—Judy Silver, Linda Silver Dranoff and Jack Marmer—for your enduring support and love. A lifetime with you at my back makes where I am now possible.
So much love for Zak Dranoff-Caspi. For helping me find the door in every plot wall I hit, for late-night brainstorming sessions, and for your consistent encouragement and support for my words and my stories.
And finally to Opher Caspi—my best friend and partner—for always believing I could do this thing (even when I wasn’t so sure) and for supporting me no matter what. You’ve inspired some of the best qualities of the heroes I write about.
Also available from Beth Dranoff
and Carina Press
Mark of the Moon
And watch for the next book in the Mark of the Moon series
Shifting Loyalties
coming soon!
About the Author
Beth Dranoff lives somewhere in the vicinity of the Greater Toronto Area, Canada, with her family, her dog and more books than she can count. Is it before noon? Then there’s probably a mug of coffee nearby, too.
Find Beth Dranoff online at:
Facebook—www.Facebook.com/BethDranoff
Twitter—www.Twitter.com/RandomlyBibi
Web—www.BethDranoff.com
Instagram—www.Instagram.com/RandomlyBibi
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ISBN-13: 9781488020209
Betrayed by Blood
Copyright © 2017 by Beth Dranoff
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