by Layla Reyne
When he came back to Earth, and the bed, Nic’s long body rested atop his, Nic dotting kisses along his collarbone, gooseflesh rising in their wake. Cam lifted a hand, brushing back the sweat-drenched hair that had fallen into Nic’s face. “Remind me again why we circled each other for months.”
Nic rested his face on Cam’s shoulder, looking relaxed for a change. “Because arguing is half the fun.”
Cam kissed his forehead. “I’m too tired to argue tonight.” He squinted as a ray of sun snuck around the bedroom curtain. “Or rather, this morning.”
“No objection here,” Nic mumbled, half asleep already.
“Up, baby, gotta get rid of the condom,” Cam said, nudging Nic’s hip.
His bedmate grumbled about moving, so Cam moved for him, rolling them onto their sides and carefully slipping out.
“So smart, Agent Byrne.” Nic grinned mockingly, face half in the pillow.
Cam slapped his ass for the sass, while a contented, humming Nic wiped his hand on the sheet. He nestled down into the bed, not seeming to care that the sheets were a disaster, even before they’d made a mess of them.
Shaking his head, amused to no end by this side of Nic, Cam cleaned up in the bathroom, then did a quick lap around the house, checking locks and making sure blinds and curtains were drawn against the rising morning sun.
A swoosh by his feet, the pitter patter of claws on hardwood, and Bird, whom he’d fed and watered when they’d first gotten in, snuck into the bedroom ahead of him, hopping onto the bed with a meow.
Nic startled, but not enough to do more than grumble and attempt to shake the cat off from where he was crawling up his back.
“Fucking Bird.”
Cam grabbed the trouble-maker and dropped him back on the floor, shooing him out of the room. “Spoken like a true Lakers fan.”
“Wrong end of the state.”
“Warriors, then.”
Nic buried his head in the pillow, muffling his laughable words. “Worse, Kings.”
“Oh, you poor baby.” Chuckling, Cam slid back into the bed beside him. “But I understand, being a Red Sox fan wasn’t always championships.”
“Fuck,” Nic groaned, snuggling up to him. “You’re gonna be insufferable come October.”
“Says the Giants fan.”
He got a light snore in answer. Good; Cam didn’t want anyone to see the stupid grin on his face. Nic had implied they’d be together for at least the next several months. Cam liked that idea, a lot, assuming, during that time, Nic didn’t get caught in the crosshairs of his father’s mistakes. Worse still that Nic was in jeopardy for a man who’d disowned him, who’d turned him out for being gay. Cam didn’t even know the fucker, but no way he was going to let Nic get hurt because of him, more than he’d already been hurt.
Threats, Nic had argued, but Cam was far from convinced. Someone had tried to gun him down tonight. What was next? Worst-case scenarios ran through his head. Sure, Nic could take care of himself better than most, but depending on how much force was brought to bear against him, he could be injured, killed, kidnapped. He was Curtis’s only son, after all. And a successful one in his own right. The loan sharks could try to ransom him or force Nic to deed over his interest in the brewery. In any of those scenarios, Cam didn’t see Nic walking out alive.
Cam shouldn’t have walked out of last night’s scenario or the past week alive either, much less happy and with his psyche intact and the man he’d wanted for months in his bed, but Nic had helped make all that happen. Had anchored him when he’d needed it most. He had to do the same for Nic. Had to make sure Nic stayed anchored to this Earth, with him.
Extending his arm, he snagged his phone off the bedside table where he’d plugged it in. Nic snuffled, pulling him closer, then settled back down, snoring evenly. Cam brought the phone closer and texted Lauren.
Get me everything we have on Curtis Price.
He didn’t expect the text right back, assuming Lauren had already passed out. Nic’s father? Did something happen? Was there another attempt?
The rest of the pieces fell into place. Tonight wasn’t the first time Nic had been targeted. The sniper at the initial botched raid. The car at the foiled South Park meet. The unknown calls and hang-ups.
Another text came in from Lauren. Shit, I might have said too much.
No fucking shit. He was her boss. She should have told him all this before now, if she and Nic had already put it together. Unless...
Nic shifted in his arms, reacting to his sudden tension. He’d probably asked her not to say anything, with how closely he’d played all this to the vest, and with Cam undercover on a dangerous assignment himself. Nic had been protecting him.
Now he had to protect Nic.
Everything, Lauren. Full report when we’re back in the office.
On it.
A ray of sunlight snuck through the curtains again, splashing light across Nic’s back. The giant tattoo came to life, the intricately carved GS standing out in stark relief. How had he ever missed it on first glance?
His biggest mess, Nic had said. Then tonight, when asked why he’d left home, he’d been holding something back. Cam had let it go, too eager to address the immediate danger, then too eager to get his mouth around Nic’s dick. In the light of morning Cam realized Nic had glossed over the exact details of the falling out with his father. Cam sensed it wasn’t just his coming out. He also sensed it maybe had something to do with Nic’s familiarity with abuse cases and victim support organizations. Was it Nic, or someone else? This GS? Who or what, exactly, had driven him to that enlistment office the day after graduation? His investigator’s brain wouldn’t let this go now.
He sent Lauren another text. And see if you can find anyone with the initials GS connected to Nic or Curtis.
She sent back the thumbs-up emoji, and some of his tension rolled away on a quiet laugh. He darkened the screen and laid the phone back down on the table.
Relaxing into the mattress, he dragged Nic closer, half on top of him, so he could wrap both arms around the other man, holding him tight as he kissed his drying brown and gray curls.
He needed to know everything, if he was going to be ready. This was serious.
Cam wouldn’t lose someone else he loved.
* * * * *
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Keep reading for an excerpt from Single Malt by Layla Reyne, now available at all participating e-retailers.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, thank you to all the Agents Irish and Whiskey fans who clamored for this spin-off. I fell in love with Nic and Cam while writing AIW, and I couldn’t wait to tell their story. Your enthusiasm went a long way toward making that happen.
Thank you to my agent, Laura Bradford, and to Angela James, Deb Nemeth, and the rest of the Carina Press team for running with me on this idea and for your editorial, design, and marketing support along the way. Working with you all continues to be a pleasure.
And thanks as always to my beta readers, Kristi, Victoria, and Tera, for your invaluable feedback and encouragement.
About the Author
Author Layla Reyne was raised in North Carolina and now calls San Francisco home. She enjoys weaving her bicoastal experiences into her stories, along with adrenaline-fueled suspense and heart-pounding romance. When she’s not writing stories to excite her readers, she downloads too many books, watches too much television, and cooks too much food with her scientist husband, much to the delight of their smushed-face, leftover-loving dogs. Layla is a member of Romance Writers of America and its Kiss of Death and Rainbow Romance Writers chapters. She was a 2016 RWA® Golden Heart® Finalist in Romantic Suspense.
You can find Layla at
www.laylareyne.com, on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest as @laylareyne, and in her reader group on Facebook—Layla’s Lushes.
Now available from Carina Press and Layla Reyne
Widower Aidan Talley refuses to love again. Enter handsome younger cyberagent Jameson Walker. As they investigate cybercrimes and his late husband’s murder, Aidan falls hard for Jamie, putting their jobs, lives and hearts on the line.
Read on for a preview of Single Malt, the first book in author Layla Reyne’s Agents Irish and Whiskey series.
Chapter One
Tonight was a top-shelf whiskey kind of night.
Cleared by the Bureau to return to work after an eight-month absence. Three-piece suit cleaned, pressed and ready for his first day back. New partner and new assignment waiting for him. Aidan didn’t know the identity of either yet, but that didn’t matter. He needed something—anything—besides alcohol and playgroups to dull the crushing survivor’s guilt.
Pushing aside half-empties in the kitchen cabinet he’d repurposed as a bar, he dug the Macallan 18 out of the back corner and set it on the granite countertop. He’d just grabbed a crystal tumbler out of the adjacent cabinet when the doorbell rang. He pulled out a second glass, not altogether surprised by his late-night visitor. He left the glasses and scotch on the dining room table and crossed the living area to his door.
Checking the peephole, he confirmed his visitor’s identity and swung the door open. “I wondered if you’d make the drive down tonight.”
Melissa Cruz breezed past him, tossed her oversized Fendi bag on the couch, and toed off her studded Valentino sandals. “Least I could do, seeing as starting tomorrow you’ll be making the drive up to San Francisco every day again.” The offspring of an African-American ballerina and a towering Cuban refugee-turned-restaurateur, his sister-in-law, and now boss, sashayed on model-long legs across the living room while pulling her thick fall of dark curls into a ponytail. Aidan had never met anyone as graceful, or as deadly.
“Please,” he said, closing the door behind her. “I know you’re just here to mooch my whiskey.”
“And you know I’d rather drink tequila.” She pulled the cork out of the tall, slender bottle of scotch and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “Gabe never could break you of this nasty habit.”
Aidan pressed the heel of his hand to his stinging chest and swallowed hard, struggling for words. “Mel,” he managed hoarsely.
“You ready for tomorrow?” she asked, obligingly changing the subject. She poured two fingers’ worth into each tumbler and held one out to him.
Taking the glass, he fell into the chair across the round wooden table from her. “I don’t know, boss lady, am I?”
Mel had been promoted to Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s San Francisco field office two months ago. A well-deserved promotion to a position she’d been gunning for since Academy.
“Your medical and psych evaluations say so, but Dios sabe, you’re smart enough to fool just about anyone.”
He took a swig of his drink, eyeing her over the rim of the glass. “Except you.”
“Except me.” She pinned him with her dark brown eyes, full of sympathy and concern. “I hurt too, Aidan, same as you.”
He drowned his rebuttal in another swallow of scotch. He loved Mel like a sister, and he didn’t doubt her pain, but no way was it the same kind of agony he suffered every day. From the hole in his chest where his world used to be, to the pins in his arm that, with every move, reminded him of all he’d lost. She’d lost her brother and a colleague, but Gabe had been his husband, and Tom Crane, his FBI partner for fifteen years.
“If you’re not ready, you don’t have to come back yet,” Mel said. “Or at all for that matter. Between your trust fund and the inheritance from Gabe, you’re set.”
Aidan tossed back the rest of his whiskey, letting the burn slide down this throat and fill his hollow chest with fleeting warmth. As much as he’d enjoyed spending extra time with his niece and goddaughter, Katie, he’d finished his physical therapy, passed his psych evals, and was eager for the distraction of work. At forty-two, he still had plenty of agent years left in him.
“What’ve you got for me, SAC Cruz?” he asked, making his stance on work clear.
Mel emptied her drink and turned the glass over on the table. “You’re off undercover work and long-term assignments. I want to keep an eye on you awhile longer.”
“No argument here.”
Gabe, an investment banker who’d worked all hours, hadn’t minded his interminable absences. Now, though, with his family still tender after losing Gabe and almost losing him, Aidan didn’t intend to disappear for weeks on end in the barrios chasing drug dealers or in grimy mob bars working over informants.
“Good.” She tapped her manicured trigger finger against her glass, a tell that meant she was holding something back.
“What else?”
“I don’t think it was an accident.”
The same words he’d ranted for a month after waking from his two-week coma, only his allegations had been born out of shock and denial. He couldn’t cope after learning his husband and partner were dead. Eight months removed from that terrible night, he’d progressed past pain and guilt-induced conspiracy theories, past angry finger-pointing at incompetent local detectives, to accept they’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That he hadn’t swerved fast enough out of the way of an oncoming SUV.
The entire time, Mel hadn’t spoken a word to him about the accident and now she was saying his grief-crazed notions had been right?
“What the hell?” He slammed back from the table, toppling his chair and surging to his feet. He kicked the chair out of the way and paced the narrow strip of hardwood floor between the table and wine racks. “Why are you telling me this now and not eight months ago? I drove myself crazy for weeks, thinking I’d missed some clue or that I should be out there catching the assholes responsible for their deaths. And fuck if I wasn’t right.”
She let him burn out his anger raging and pacing. Once he’d gathered himself, righted his chair, and sat back down, she rose and went to her bag on the couch. Returning with a small black flash drive and a red-striped restricted personnel file, she pushed the former across the table to him first. “This arrived for me on the day of my promotion.”
He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. It was a generic model, something anyone could buy at any office supply store. “What’s on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“The files are encrypted. It was delivered to my home, no return address. I tried opening it on my personal computer, but I can’t get past the file directory.”
“You didn’t have our guys try to crack it?”
“Given the circumstances of its delivery and the attention I received with the promotion, I didn’t want to risk it.”
“Because you think this—” he held up the flash drive “—has something to do with the accident?”
“Every file on it is dated the day of the crash.”
He dropped the jump drive as if he’d been burned. It bounced, end over end, to the center of the table. “So that’s my next assignment? Uncover the truth behind the accident?”
“No, that’s not your assignment.”
He furrowed his brow. “I don’t follow.”
“This investigation—” she tapped the flash drive with her nail “—is off the books for now. Someone above me shut it down as soon as SFPD ruled it a hit-and-run. Until we know for certain it wasn’t, and who and why the investigation was shuttered, we fly under the radar.”
He nodded toward the personnel file. “Is that someone you suspect is involved?”
“No.” She nudged the folder toward him. “This is your new assignment.”
Opening the file, he read as far as the top line, which i
dentified the department the file belonged to, and slammed it shut. “Cyber?” He shoved the folder back at her. “What the fuck?” He reached for the bottle of scotch and poured himself another double. He’d agreed no undercover work, expecting she’d assign him to a local field team. Maybe legal or financial crimes, given his law and business degrees. Cyber had never crossed his mind. Sure, he was technically competent and logged an embarrassing mountain of hours playing “Destiny,” but he was no hacker, nor did he know how to track one. “Do you really think Cyber’s the best use of my skills?” He glared across the table, willing Mel to change her mind.
“Your skills as an investigator and field agent are the very reason I’m putting you in Cyber. Your partner and mentee has the hacker end of things covered.”
“And who are you partnering me with?” He slouched in his chair, downing half his whiskey. A split second later, once her words sank in, he bolted to the edge of his seat. “Wait, did you say ‘mentee’? Are you partnering me with a rook? That is the last thing—”
“Calm down. I’m partnering you with Walker.”
“The Whiskey kid?”
Mel nodded, pushing the personnel file back in front of him. “Jamie’s the best we’ve got in Cyber. He also shows promise as a field agent, though he hasn’t been out there much in his three years since Academy. That’s why I need you to mentor and assess him. He’s committed to Cyber for two more years, so you’ll work cybercrimes cases that take you out in the field.”
“You’ll never be able to put him undercover. His ugly mug was all over ESPN when he played.”
Mel raised a disbelieving brow. “Ugly?”
She had him dead to rights on that lie. Opening the file again and flipping past the cover sheet, Aidan stared down at the younger agent’s headshot. Light brown hair—short on the sides, long and wavy on top—piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, a wide, easy smile. Ugly wasn’t a word anyone ever used to describe Jameson Walker, dubbed Whiskey by the national sports media given his first and last names. As a married man, though, ugly was what Aidan had told himself anytime the sinfully handsome two-time NCAA champion crossed his path.
