High Lonesome

by Tanya Chris

  The man pulled a ledger book out from under the bar and opened it. “Have a reservation?”

  Pyotr looked around the empty room. “Do I need one?”

  “I think we can fit you in. I’m just keeping everything tidy. If you had a reservation, I’d check you off. I’m going to need your name. Cost is fifty dollars a night, payable at checkout. That includes breakfast. For seventy-five dollars a night you get lunch and dinner too. Either way, alcohol’s extra. Cash,” he added. “We don’t take credit cards.”

  “That’s fine.” He didn’t have a charger for his watch or a pair of dry shoes, but if there was one thing he definitely had plenty of with him, it was money. American money. Cash. “I wasn’t planning to stay, though.”

  “Looks like you’ll be staying whether you’d planned on it or not.”

  The guy smirked, and suddenly he’d had enough of this dude’s smarter-than-thou attitude. His psychic energy had been depleted when he’d staggered in the front door, but it was seeping back now between the warmth and the coffee and the sugar rush of grape jelly. Being taken care of was nice—he’d appreciated the personal attention with respect to getting his boots off, and he was appreciating this PB&J a lot more than he’d have expected—but there was no way he was putting up with this innkeeper smirking at him.

  “You’re getting on my nerves bustling around like that,” he said, his tone harsh, as though this stranger should’ve known better. “Sit down.”

  The guy raised an eyebrow at the abrupt order, but he abandoned the ledger he’d been perusing and came over and took a seat in the chair next to Pyotr’s. Good. Better.

  Now that he could feel all of his appendages again, one of them in particular had noticed that his host was a good-looking guy who’d look even better beneath him. There was nothing flashy about the light-blue fleece worn to a greyish-brown at the wrists, or the darker-blue sweatpants the man wore, but he wore them well, with a masculine grace that made Pyotr want to take him apart. This was the kind of guy he enjoyed dismantling, the sort who looked tough on the outside but was a mess of wanting on the inside.

  But if he didn’t change the dynamic between them quickly, he’d find himself the one pursued, the one expected to roll over and give it up. And that just wouldn’t do.

  “Let’s get some things straight between us,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m doing. You got me. I shouldn’t have been out there. But there’s plenty of other things I do know, so drop the attitude.”

  The guy cleared his throat like he was debating arguing the point, but then he nodded with a quick flick of his head, his eyes dropping away from Pyotr’s.

  What were the chances this guy was his pigeon? He seemed to be the only one here, and it made sense they’d arrange to make the exchange in a place where the mark had every right to be. If this was the guy he was meeting, he shouldn’t fuck around with him. Make the exchange, get back to civilization, kick off the avalanche of chips that would fall as a result. Definitely don’t get involved.

  But if this wasn’t his mark? If his mark had had more sense than Pyotr himself and was somewhere not on top of a mountain, was waiting for this storm to clear and new plans to be made? Then he had some time to kill, and what better way to kill it?

  Yeah, he could definitely work with this guy. “What’s your name?”

  “Joe.”

  “Thanks for being here tonight, Joe. And for the sandwich. I’m Pyotr.” He used the Russian version of his name intentionally. He’d worked hard to lose any traces of his accent, but he allowed it to seep through now, checking to see if the accent in combination with a foreign-sounding name would get a reaction.

  If Joe was expecting a Russian, he didn’t let on. His smile had the shy interest of a man unsure he was talking to a man who’d be interested back. He stretched out his hand and Pyotr took it, feeling it warm compared to his own and callused in all the right places.

  “We alone here?” he asked as he let Joe’s hand drop slowly enough to give Joe the answer his smile had been seeking. Before he got down to enjoying this two-man resort he’d unexpectedly dropped into, he needed to make sure there was no chance he could still accomplish the mission he’d come for.

  “Got one other guest.” Joe glanced at a door near the stove.

  OK, the other guest was through that door, which made Joe uncomfortable for some reason.

  “We should probably get you settled upstairs,” Joe said in an obvious attempt to divert his attention from whatever lay behind the door.

  “No hurry. Let’s talk about that shot you’re going to get me while I finish this coffee.” He handed his empty dishes to Joe with a raised eyebrow and Joe got obediently to his feet and cleared them.

  “Vodka?” he asked from the bar.

  “You guessed.”

  Joe brought him a glass that definitely held more than a single shot and Pyotr raised it to him before knocking back half of it in a single swallow.

  “You’re not joining me?”

  “Don’t really drink these days.”

  He shrugged. He didn’t usually drink mid-mission, but he was currently celebrating his survival and the good luck of landing somewhere warm with a willing man. A couple fingers of vodka wouldn’t affect him even if he did suddenly need to switch back into secret agent mode.

  “You’re Russian?” Joe asked.

  “Used to be. Been here a while now.”

  “Your accent comes and goes. I like it, though. Sexy.”

  He would’ve liked to follow up on the invitation immediately, to grab Joe by that pile of hair on top of his head and pull that smirking face into his groin. His dick could’ve gotten frostbite out there. It needed some hydrotherapy.

  But there was still the question of the other guest, so he leaned back and took a smaller sip of what remained of his vodka and made polite conversation instead.

  “How long you figure we’re stuck here?”

  “Should stop snowing tomorrow, but if the forecasts are accurate about how big a dump we’re getting, it might be a couple of days before the slopes will be stable enough that I’d recommend walking on them.”

  “Avalanches?”

  “Avalanches, cornice falls. The pass funnels everything right down the slope between here and Ganymede. It’s like a bowling alley after a storm.”

  “So I should plan to spend a few days here.”

  “Got someplace else you need to be?”

  “No, not particularly.”

  It was nice to be snowed in now that he was safe inside and not out there with it. Like a forced vacation. Even if whoever was behind door number two was his contact, his business wouldn’t take more than a few moments to transact. Then they’d just have to pretend they didn’t both have ulterior motives for being there in the first place and enjoy the enforced retreat.

  “I don’t suppose you have a hot tub.”

  Joe snorted. “Don’t even have hot water. There’s an outhouse out back and a pump that takes a lot of work. Water’s not potable without treatment. You got a filter with you?”

  He didn’t answer. His cover was terrible. He was a city boy who’d spent his entire adult life chasing intrigue. He didn’t know shit about the mountains.

  “I can boil water for you,” Joe offered, the judgement that had previously infused his tone softer now. “We’ll have gas even if we lose power.”

  “Lose power?” As if he’d issued a command rather than asked a question, the lights overhead flickered and went out.

  “Lose power,” Joe confirmed. He fished a headlamp out of the pocket of his fleece, obviously prepared, and rose to his feet. Pyotr tried to remember where his own headlamp had gone to. It was probably out in the foyer somewhere with his pack and coat. He’d been so glad to take it off.

  Joe came back with a lantern that glowed softly with a sputtering flame. He put it on top of the stove and sat back in the chair next to him.

  “We always lose power,” he said. “Every fucking time. They kee
p saying they’ll bury the power lines one of these days, but it never happens. There’s one little strand of wire winds its way up here and it doesn’t take much to bring it down. Some accumulation or a good gust of wind and here we are.” He waved his hand, a dim blur of motion. “We’ll be OK.”

  “Wasn’t worried.” He might not be a nature enthusiast, but he didn’t need to be pampered either. He hadn’t been prepared for that slog through the storm, but he’d made it, hadn’t he? And if he had to go outside to take a shit or navigate by headlamp for the next few days, he’d make do. Though he had to admit, he preferred the hot tub fantasy.

  He stretched his legs out in front of him, feeling them ache, noticing how they caught Joe’s eye. Joe’s gaze traveled up his polypro-clad calves and thighs to land in his crotch. He reached down and gave himself a little squeeze, letting Joe know he’d caught him gawking. His dick plumped.

  It still worked, thank God.

  That door by the stove opened and he regretfully moved his hand from his dick and his eyes from Joe’s hungry regard to see who the third person in their ménage was. In the doorway stood a man, his features shrouded, his body long and lean in the low flicker of light.

  “Why’s it so dark?” he asked petulantly.

  “Lost power. Told you that might happen.” Joe stood up and guided the newcomer over to the chair he’d been sitting in.

  At this distance, Pyotr could see he was young and delicate, despite his height, and that his features were screwed up in an expression of discomfort or distaste.

  “Who’s that?”

  “He showed up a little while ago. He was stuck out in the storm. Tanner’s the other guest here,” he told Pyotr.

  Pyotr nodded at the kid, who shivered. He was dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs and had nowhere near enough fat to justify that choice of ensemble.

  “Shit.” Joe reacted to Tanner’s shiver by going through the door and coming back with a blanket, which he wrapped around Tanner’s shoulders. “I’ll go upstairs and get you some clothes.”

  “Don’t,” Tanner said quickly. “I don’t want people pawing through my things. No offense, I’m just kind of private. I’m fine like this.”

  “Hungry?”

  Tanner shuddered.

  “I’m going to get you something anyway. You’ll drink some water at least.”

  Joe walked off without waiting for a response, leaving him alone with Tanner. Was this his contact? Hard to believe someone this young could have access to the sort of payload that justified the money he was carrying.

  Couldn’t be. This was just a kid trapped in a storm, maybe Joe’s pet based on the way Joe jumped to fetch and carry for him. They’d obviously been screwing around before he’d shown up, explaining Joe’s furtive glance at the door when he’d admitted they weren’t alone and Tanner’s state of undress.

  Funny, because Joe’s easy obedience had given him the idea he liked being pushed around a little, and he couldn’t imagine Tanner pushing anyone around. He looked fragile, like he’d need to be treasured. And Pyotr knew how to do that too.

  But before he gave his imagination permission to wonder what Tanner looked like with the rest of his clothes off, he’d better doublecheck that this wasn’t his guy.

  “Joe didn’t introduce me,” he said, letting his accent through. “I’m Pyotr.”

  And bingo. There was the reaction he’d been looking for. Tanner’s eyes went wide and he pulled back the hand he’d stretched out. Either the kid had an aversion to Russians or he knew what having a Russian drop in on his private party meant.

  “You don’t like Russians?” he asked.

  “They have their uses,” Tanner mumbled. The eye contact was fleeting, but it confirmed his assessment. This was his pigeon. The plans he’d come to buy were here.

  Joe came back with a glass of water and a sandwich. He dropped them off in front of a grimacing Tanner, then turned to him.

  “Another shot?”

  He shook his head. Playtime was over. He had a mission to accomplish.

  Chapter 5

  Tanner

  He wasn’t really asleep. There was no way he could sleep with the sickness on him and a Russian spy moving around the room, but he pretended to sleep anyway, keeping his eyes closed and his breath even, willing Pyotr to get the hell out already.

  He’d slunk off to bed early the night before claiming he felt sick, which hadn’t actually been a lie by then, but he hadn’t been able to fall sleep between his dose wearing off and the fact that he’d pretty much just woken up.

  Finally, he’d shot up by headlamp, even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. He didn’t have enough H with him, not if they were going to be stuck for another day or two like Joe seemed to think—not enough to get him down off this mountain and back to San Diego where he had a hookup. He needed to ration himself, and even then he’d have to try to figure out how to score locally before he made the full-day drive back home.

  The extra dose last night had put him to sleep just fine, but it was long gone now and he was miserable lying there on the hard mattress, every muscle and bone aching with dope sickness. If only Pyotr would get the fuck out, go downstairs and get some fucking breakfast or something, he could take care of himself.

  Thank God that whole AMC crew had cleared out. It’d been impossible trying to shoot up while they were there. The dorm was never empty, not for as long as he needed it to be, and it wasn’t like there was a real bathroom, a place where he could shut himself up and count on a few minutes of privacy. He’d ended up mixing his dose outside, hunkered down against the back of the hut, under what he now realized must have been Joe’s bedroom window.

  If only Pyotr hadn’t shown up, he could have had the dorm to himself and all the privacy he needed. Except, well, Pyotr was the reason he was there to begin with.

  He’d changed his mind.

  Maybe.

  Because what the fuck was he doing? Selling out his country. Theft, treason—who knew what else he was guilty of. Illegal drug use, obviously. Now that there was an actual KGB agent there to collect the plans he’d stolen, he could see that he never should’ve gotten involved with this.

  Anything your dealer suggested as a solution was sure to be the exact opposite of a solution. Like, “You can stretch your money further by injecting instead of sniffing.” Yeah, that had been good advice, almost as ruinous as his dealer’s hint that a person who designed submarine systems for a living might have something to sell.

  Stupid mistakes, one after another, leading here, but it wasn’t too late to change his mind. Pyotr didn’t know Tanner was the one he’d come to meet. If he didn’t do something to identify himself, Pyotr would never guess. He didn’t look like a traitorous drug addict, did he? He was a rock climber who’d gotten caught in a storm, that was all. Pyotr could bang around the room trying to wake him up all he wanted. Tanner would just ignore him.

  Finally Pyotr left the room. He listened to his footsteps taper down the stairs and when he felt assured that Pyotr had really gone all the way down, he dug under his pillow for the eyeglass case where he kept his kit. He ought to be practiced enough to do the whole thing smoothly now, but his hands were shaky and the needle was dull from having been used too many times already.

  He should’ve brought more than one needle, but he’d expected to be heading down this morning and he’d figured they’d be hard to dispose of at the hut and, despite the warnings he’d read on the internet, he hadn’t really believed that reusing one a few times could be all that bad. It was though. It felt like he was trying to twist a thumbtack under his skin.

  His arm bled as he dug for a vein, but he almost couldn’t feel it. All he could feel was anticipation. There. The blood pulling up into the syringe told him he’d struck gold. He pushed the plunger and was high before he could yank the needle free again. So good. Instant relief blossoming into euphoria.

  The wound that remained behind was more than a pin
prick. A drop of blood oozed from it and he ran his thumb across it, then put his thumb in his mouth to suck it clean. It’d heal. He couldn’t be worried. Not now, not about anything.

  He stashed his kit again, snapping the eyeglass case shut just as Joe appeared in the doorway. Nothing suspicious about wearing glasses, except for the fact that he didn’t, but Joe’s eyes flitted straight from the case to Tanner’s arm. He clearly knew what Tanner was up to—all those hints about eating and sleeping, the way he’d known Tanner would have a hard time coming when they’d fucked yesterday.

  Whatever. Let him know. The drug told Tanner everything was fine.

  “Come down and eat. And I want you dressed today, not kicking around in boxers. We’ve got company.”

  Jesus fucking Christ. Who’d made Joe his boss? But he liked the possessiveness he heard behind the orders. Joe wanted him covered up so he wouldn’t have to share with Pyotr. As if Tanner wanted to fuck a Russian spy. He’d stay close to Joe, like he was Joe’s personal fucktoy, and Pyotr would never suspect the real reason he’d come to the hut.

  He wouldn’t mind fucking Joe again either. That’d been nice. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be touched, because no one ever touched him anymore. But he’d liked it, especially the way Joe had been both bossy and patient at the same time, the way Joe had managed to focus all the happy, floaty feelings into one big burst of pleasure. Yeah, he’d do that again.

  He hopped down from the bunk, landing with more of a thud than he’d expected because he’d misjudged the distance, and went over and dipped his mouth down to Joe’s for a kiss.

  “You need to brush your teeth,” Joe said with a slap on his ass. “Get dressed, wash up, and come eat.”

  He put on his jeans and a long-sleeved tee to cover the hole he’d just made in himself, then layered Joe’s fleece over it. Even through the rush of heat the H gave him, he could tell the temperature had dipped. Looking out the window, he saw it was still snowing, but the sky was lighter than the day before like it might stop soon.