by Tinnean
“And you’re willing to go along with this?” Sebring asked his youngest brother.
“I am. I’ve heard rumors about Cartwright’s reputation on the set. His name still carries some cachet, and there are those fans who ignore or approve his actions, but frankly I’m surprised he wanted his agent to put him up for the part.”
“You never said anything.”
“Why would I?”
“All right. We’ll talk about that later.” Sebring gritted his teeth. “But how do we bring this up to Quinton?”
“Tell him you just found out. It will be in all the industry papers tomorrow, but Spike will have gotten word sooner. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cartwright has already called him and suggested they meet for drinks. To run lines.”
“Spike—” Bryan shook his head. “He should use his real name.”
“The industry knows him as Spike. If he switches now to Valentine Duchesne, it will raise questions. Do you honestly think his parents”—assholes that they were—“would appreciate that?”
“No, you’re right, they wouldn’t. In fact, they’d probably be all too happy to give less than felicitous interviews to every rag in the industry.” Bryan narrowed his gaze at me. “You’re not planning to visit them, are you?”
“No.” I had something else in mind for them if they hurt Spike again. Nothing lethal, just a little manipulation of the funds they’d considered theirs by right. Idly, I wondered if they’d deal with sudden poverty as stalwartly as their son had.
“I’ll take you at your word,” Bryan said. It was interesting that Anthony Sebring still viewed him as the little brother, when he often took the more active role. “However, no matter which name Val chooses to use, he isn’t old enough to be served at a bar.”
“No, but he’s got ID that says he is.” He’d had it before he came to DC and started to hustle, although Paul had persuaded Theo to get him one that identified him as Philadelphian Roger Collins instead of a thirty-year-old named Vito Farnese. Once Spike had come under Paul’s wing, most bartenders hadn’t looked too hard at the ID, even if they suspected his real age. “The thing is, Cartwright wouldn’t take him to a bar.”
Sebring’s brows met above his nose. “You mean he’d have the audacity to take Val-Spike back to his apartment?”
“No.” Before Sebring could look relieved, I burst his bubble. “He’d take him to a motel.”
“Not even a decent hotel?” Bryan looked tired.
“No. As far as he’s concerned, Spike’s fresh meat. Cartwright thinks he’s got his predilection nicely hidden.”
“I assume you’re going to say he’s wrong?”
“Yeah, he’s delusional. But if he ever learns Spike’s previous form of employment, he’ll use it to blackmail Spike into his bed.”
“His previous…?”
“Not important. Spike’s got friends who’ll see he only beds who he wants.”
“But… will he want Cartwright? He’s a young man. Isn’t that a possibility?” Sebring demanded.
“It wasn’t for me,” Bryan said softly.
“No,” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard that. “He loves Paul too much. But I won’t stand by and let him be bullied.”
“Very well. You have our support.”
“Your support for what, Uncle Tony?”
“What are you doing out here, Quinn?” I turned to face him. And how had he managed to sneak up on me like that?
“I wanted a breath of fresh air. The scents of the flowers were overpowering. Why does Mark need your support?”
“Brad Cartwright is going to play Oliver Orsino in The Food of Love.”
“Cartwright?” Quinn frowned. “He’s a sleaze.” He used my exact words. How long had he been standing there?
“Yeah,” I agreed easily. “Can you go out to LA to keep an eye on the situation? I’d go, but The Boss needs me to stay in DC.”
He tilted his head. “Why not have Cisco do it?”
Shit. I’d thought I had more time to firm up this plan.
“He’s not available,” Sebring said blandly.
Quinn stared into my eyes, and it was my turn to tilt my head. “If you can’t do it—”
“I’ll do it. I have to return home to pack some fresh clothes first.”
“I’m afraid you won’t have time, Quinton, not if you fly with us. We’ve already booked our return flights,” Sebring said.
Quinn raised an eyebrow, and I jumped in before he could object. “I’d ask Ben-David to fly you, but The Boss has him on standby, so this is really your best bet. And if I remember rightly, your uncles have a washer and dryer at their place.”
“Then I guess that’s settled,” Quinn said with that same damned tone of voice as his uncle.
“Good.” The brothers gave a brisk nod and strode back across the parking lot and into the building. It might seem as if they were just returning to join the mourners, but I knew they were actually making good their escape.
I turned to find Quinn staring at me thoughtfully. “Thanks, Quinn,” I said.” I appreciate it.”
“Mmm.”
I started to head back to the funeral home, but Quinn caught my arm, stopping me.
“If you wanted me out of DC, all you had to do was tell me.”
Well, fuck it. “And you’d have gone without kicking up a fuss?”
“Probably not, not to begin with. But then I would have given it some thought. I like Val. I don’t want to be hassled by the Company.” He stepped into my personal space—who was I kidding? My space was his space—and he wrapped his arms around me. “All you had to do was ask, babe.”
“All right, Quinn. Will you go to Los Angeles and keep an eye on Spike?”
“Yes.”
“Is it always going to be this easy?”
“No.”
I couldn’t help laughing. A quick glance around the parking lot showed it was empty, so I dipped my head and kissed him.
“Okay, let’s go back before we’re missed.” I started walking toward the funeral home.
“One thing, Mark.”
I came to an abrupt halt. “Yeah?” I asked cautiously.
“Mrs. Marten.”
“What about Mrs. Marten?” Although I was afraid I knew.
“I won’t be able to attend the meeting next week. You will, though, won’t you?”
I gritted my teeth. “Y’know something, Mann? If you didn’t mean so much to me, I’d kick your ass.”
“So I take it that’s a yes?”
“Yes. Dammit.” But I was not going to run for president of the Aspen Reach COA, not if I could help it.
“Excellent.”
“Can we go back now?”
“Of course.”
We resumed walking, our arms brushing, and then our fingers entwined.
~*~
THE FUNERAL WAS scheduled for the next day, with interment after the service at St. James Cemetery on Long Island. I’d been to any number of funerals, some for fairly high-placed men, but I’d never seen the amount of people who showed up for Alyona’s funeral. Saint Therese the Little Flower, the Catholic Church the family attended, was filled to capacity.
A friend of the family who marched with an electrical union’s bagpipe band piped her casket into the church.
After the service, limousines took us to the cemetery, and while the piper played “Amazing Grace,” Alyona was laid to her eternal rest.
As we drove away from the cemetery, I could feel the sorrow leaching out of Quinn’s muscles, but even so, that night, in bed in our hotel room, I just held him as he talked of Alyona, of how she’d made black Russian bread for him, even though she was Czech; how she’d watched while he rode his pony over those first jumps and afterward scolded him for scaring the life out of her; how she’d commiserated when he’d lost the opportunity in 1980 to ride in the Summer Olympics; how she’d comforted him when he’d returned home from France that same year, leaving behind his first love—the fat French fuck—although Quinn was cer
tain she was unaware that love was a boy.
Finally, he fell asleep in my arms. I was sorry I hadn’t gotten to know her better, but she’d struck me as a wonderful woman, and for what she’d been in Quinn’s life, I was willing to accept her brother. Not that I would ever admit that.
I turned Quinn so his back was to my front, held him wrapped in my arms, and gradually fell asleep.
In the early morning hours, though, I woke up to Quinn’s mouth on my cock.
“Quinn—”
He paused and then slowly drew off me. “I knew you wouldn’t do anything, but I need you to know how much I appreciate having you at my side.”
I wouldn’t let him get me off that way.
I brought him up to my mouth and kissed him. Then I slicked both of us up, eased him onto me as I lay on my back, and gripped his hips with my knees as he slid into me.
“Yes!” He shivered and sought my mouth again, and we made slow, mind-boggling love.
VIII
WE ARRIVED BACK at National just before noon the next day, and Quinn and his uncles checked their luggage for their flight to LA.
“Well, Mark—” Quinn looked at me wistfully, and if we hadn’t been in such a public place, I’d have pulled him into my arms and kissed him stupid. “I guess you’ll be going now.”
“No, I’ll… we’ll stay to see you off.”
“But our flight isn’t scheduled to take off for another four hours.”
Portia touched his shoulder. “We took a vote, sweetheart, and it was unanimous. We’re staying, and we’ll have lunch with you.”
Winchester strode up at that moment. “Are you ready to leave, sir?” He reached for the cart with all the luggage on it.
“We’re staying.”
“What time do you want me to return for you, sir?” He was starting to shape up into a halfway decent agent.
“Put the luggage in the limo. Then come back. You may as well have lunch with us.” I waited for him to start bouncing, and sure enough, he gave a small hop before he caught himself.
“Yes, sir. Where should I meet you?”
“Anyone have a preference?” I asked.
Portia named a restaurant that was located before security.
“Okay, Winchester, meet us there.”
“Yes, sir.” He left, pushing the luggage cart ahead of him.
We found the restaurant, and the hostess had a couple of tables pushed together. After she seated us and gave us the menus, a waiter came to take our drinks order.
Just then, my cell phone rang, “I’ll Stand By You.” The last time Paul called me, Spike had been kidnapped.
“Excuse me, I have to take this. Quinn—”
“I know, Mark. Club soda, twist of lime, open a new bottle in front of me.”
“Thanks.” I went out into the main concourse and flipped open my phone. “What’s up, Paul?”
“That son of a bitch Cartwright put the moves on Spike!”
“Ah.” I’d expected as much.
“Ah? Ah? Is that all you can say?”
“Considering what you told me the last time you called?”
“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry, though. He was still royally pissed. “He’s more than twice Spike’s age!”
“How did Spike react?”
“He walked out. Jesus, Vince, he wants that job. Well, you saw how he was after he read the script.”
Yeah. If he had been Fred Astaire, Spike would have danced on the ceiling.
“I’m sending someone out to take care of the situation.”
“Is he as good as you?”
Was anyone? “He’s close.”
“Who is it?”
“Quinton Mann.” Quinn was strolling toward me, and when he heard his name mentioned, he raised an eyebrow.
“I left Mother to mind your club soda. Is everything all right?”
I grinned at him. It wouldn’t be anything else, but it was nice to have someone concerned about me. I opened my mouth to say as much, but before I could, Paul asked, “Your boyfriend?”
That wiped the grin off my face. “Jesus.”
“What?” Quinn asked. He hadn’t been able to hear Paul’s side of the conversation.
“Paul called you my boyfriend.”
A middle-aged man came to an abrupt halt and glowered at us.
“Do you mind?” I snarled at him. “This is a private conversation. Nosy asshole.” I dismissed him and turned to Quinn. ”I’m forty-one. You’re thirty-eight. We’re too old to be called boyfriends.”
“Speak for yourself, babe.” Quinn leaned forward as if he were going to whisper in my ear, but instead he kissed the corner of my mouth.
“Behave,” I told my—fuck it—my boyfriend, and Quinn gave me a slow, seductive grin.
The man, who was still there, began to sputter. “Unconscionable!” he huffed.
“Go away,” I told him. Fortunately, he scurried off.
Meanwhile, Paul continued. “I’m telling you this, Vince—Tim taught us a couple of pretty nasty moves.” Tim had run the stable of rent boys before he’d retired and turned over the reins to Theo, who’d been known as Sweetcheeks at the time.
“Hmm. I told Spike I’d teach him some moves, but I haven’t been able to get out to LA.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve already started teaching him what I know.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, but I’m telling you… If Cartwright even looks at Spike cross-eyed, I’m gonna be the one who tears him apart.”
That was my boy. “Let Quinn deal with him, okay? You don’t want to jeopardize your nursing license.”
Quinn touched my arm. “What is it?” he asked.
“Paul said he’d tear Cartwright a new one if he gives Spike a funny look.”
Quinn leaned forward and spoke into the phone, his warm, mint-scented breath washing over my cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Paul. I’m more than willing to do the tearing of new ones.”
In spite of his earlier irritation, Paul snickered. “Thanks, Mr. Mann.”
“Yeah, thanks, Quinn,” I said. “Look, Paul, Quinn and his uncles should be in LA later in the evening. Send him a text with the details of Spike’s studio and when he should be there.”
“Text?”
Shit. I’d forgotten his cell phone didn’t have that capability. I’d have to get Romero to put one together for him. And for Spike, while he was at it.
“Does your uncle have a fax machine?” I asked Quinn.
“Of course. But Bryan knows where Val will be working.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I turned back to my phone. “Quinn will be good to go day after tomorrow.”
“You don’t have much faith in my recuperative abilities.” Quinn sounded disgruntled.
“Hold on a second, okay, Paul?”
“If you’re going to kiss him, I’ll wait.”
“I’m not going to kiss him.”
“Why not?” Paul sounded genuinely interested.
“Yes, why not?” Quinn asked, sounding more disgruntled.
“Because we’re in a very busy airport,” I told Paul.
“Sucks.”
“Tell me about it.” I turned to Quinn. “I have every faith in your ability to recuperate, but you’ve lost an important person in your life, and you’ll be fighting jet lag. Why not take an extra day to get yourself together?”
“All right.”
That was my guy. I slung an arm around his shoulder and tugged him against me. It didn’t take much, and it revealed just how worn he was.
“I’ll let you go, Vince. I’ve got a couple of days off, so I’m going to take Spike to Disneyland.”
“Okay, Paul.” I didn’t tease him about actually getting to see the theme park this time. I knew they’d been there the year before after Delilah Carson’s funeral, and Theo had mentioned Paul and Spike had spent the entire time in their hotel room. “I’ll fly out to see you w
hen I can, but Quinn will take good care of Spike.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
I flipped my phone shut and headed for the closest men’s room, pulling Quinn along with me.
“Mark?”
No flights had landed recently, and if we were lucky… “Yes!” No one was in the men’s room. I hustled Quinn into a stall and secured the door behind us.
“Now.” It was going to be a long five weeks, and I wanted him right then, waiting be damned. I pushed him up against the door and leaned into him.
“Now?” He tipped his head back and smiled at me through the hair that was always falling into his eyes.
I ran my tongue over his lips, then brushed my own lips over them. They were soft and warm, and he sighed into my mouth.
I fumbled for the button of his fly. “Quinn, what the fuck did you wear a belt for?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
I grunted, unbuckled it, and got his fly open and his cock out.
“Mark? What are you—” He groaned. I’d dropped to my knees, given the tip of his cock a lick, and then swallowed him down.
We didn’t have a lot of time, so I made quick work of blowing him.
After I swallowed the last of his come, I licked him clean, tucked him away, and rose to my feet.
“Let me take care of you,” he said.
“No, it’s okay.” I zipped his fly and fastened his belt, then gazed into his eyes. They appeared almost green and had a sated look to them. I was damn proud I’d put that look in them. “Delayed gratification. I’ll call you later tonight, and we’ll have phone sex.”
He smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.” Abruptly he stiffened. “Your pants.”
“What about ’em?”
“Did you get your knees wet?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me. You checked before you hit the floor.”
“Did you doubt it?”
He shook his head, took out a roll of Life Savers, and handed me one, which I appreciated. It wouldn’t do to be in his mother’s company with come on my breath. We washed our hands and left the restroom.
“Ah-hah!” The exclamation had me reaching for my Glock.
“Jesus,” Quinn muttered under his breath. “It’s Taylor.”
“You think I didn’t know?” I didn’t quite relax. I’d recognized the man who was assistant to Jenner, the son of a bitch who’d replaced Holmes, the son-of-a-bitch director who’d made Quinn’s life hell last year.
