Jerry ran a hand across pecs firm from constant gym time. Then too, there was the coarse, curling chest hair, so different from the smoothness of his own chest. Interesting. Flynn’s nipples were not sensitive at all, at least, not like his. What turned Flynn on, then? Jerry tried to recall the kinds of things he knew Flynn liked but most of them involved Jerry’s mouth on Flynn’s skin, and that wasn’t something he could reproduce right now.
He shouldn’t be thinking about what turned Flynn on. Shower. Shave. Get on with the day. He flexed a bicep at his mirror image and grinned at his idiocy. Right. Enough playing around. Hell, Flynn would be back from the precinct, and he’d still be lollygagging in the bathroom like a girl prepping for her first date.
He focused intently on removing Flynn’s watch from his wrist, ignoring the play of muscle as he rotated his forearm to access the clasp. Fumbling with it briefly, a ridiculous degree of satisfaction surged through him when he got it off successfully. Laying it by the shaving kit, he caught his reflection in the mirror that was beginning to mist over.
He half-turned again, this time allowing his gaze to follow the line of Flynn’s back from shoulder to waistline where the edge of the briefs was just visible in the mirror. He swallowed hard, noting the movement of Flynn’s Adam’s apple bobbing in his reflection. Facing the mirror fully again, he traced the contours of Flynn’s chest and abdomen, heart suddenly pounding. The path of dark hair widened across the chest, only to narrow in a straight line like an arrowhead down to Flynn’s cock, which was straining against the tight briefs.
When would he ever have such an opportunity again? A chance to know Flynn inside and out, to know what really lit him up and how to do it again the next time the two of them were together?
Nope. Not going there. A two-minute shower, that was his goal. In and out in two minutes flat. Anyway, the guy from the rental place would be here to pick him up soon. Jerry surprised himself with a sudden, vivid image of him grabbing the cute young rental car guy by the arm and dragging him into the room for some hot sex. The resurgence of desire startled him, and the ache in his dick was a familiar one as he took the fantasy to its logical conclusion. He could picture the rental car guy naked and planted against the wall of the shower, while Jerry fucked him from behind.
Flynn would never know.
That would make him exactly like Derek, though, wouldn’t it?
Where the hell were these thoughts coming from? The desire for sex, wild and wanton, was like a leashed panther, barely under Jerry’s control. He turned abruptly away from the mirror and pulled off the briefs, dropping them to the floor and determinedly ignoring how Flynn’s cock leapt up on being released. Wrenching back the curtain on the shower rod with a clatter of rings, he stepped into the steaming spray. The nozzle let out a jet of water so fine it almost stung, and Jerry embraced it, backing into the misty spray with a groan as it bit his skin. This was what he needed, this fine edge of pain to distract him from the hot, heavy ache in his cock.
Opening his eyes to reach for the shampoo, he drank in the sight of Flynn’s cock, fully erect and resting against his abdomen. Okay, Flynn had a really nice dick. Not too big. Not too small. Long and lean, sort of like him. Aerodynamic. Jerry had a nice cock, too, if he did say so himself, but he’d always regretted the way it pulled slightly to one side when erect. Flynn’s cock was a thing of perfection.
He had the better ass, though. The thought made Jerry snort, and he had to wipe water away from his face. Okay, then. Back to showering.
Studiously, he applied himself to the two-minute goal, attacking his hair with the shampoo. He was momentarily distracted by the unexpected silky softness of Flynn’s hair and the way it felt to run his fingers across Flynn’s scalp. Practically purring, he bowed his head under the rush of water, pressing his hands down the length of Flynn’s body.
Skin hunger. He’d read about the term before, and knew on some level what it meant, but he’d never felt anything quite like this—the absolute need for contact with his skin. His soapy hands slid effortlessly across Flynn’s body, and then he was trembling, suddenly overwhelmed by the heat, the tingling spray of water, and the scent of Flynn’s soap. The smell of Flynn’s warm skin was instantly recognizable to him after spending the last six months sleeping curled up against Flynn’s side. The delicious push of fingers along his muscles made him want to arch and writhe beneath it. He watched in fascination as droplets of water beaded on Flynn’s shoulder, tempting him into tuning his head so he could lick it off.
Stepping out of the spray, he lathered up, hands moving slowly and languorously as he closed his eyes and gave into the sensations rolling through him. He could appreciate the aesthetic perfection of the musculature beneath his hands while at the same time the animal sensuality of being touched as well. It was mind-blowing, and in self-defense, he began to catalog the sensations idly, as though he were no more than an impartial observer, noting where Flynn was sensitive, where his hot spots were located. A long swipe across Flynn’s abdomen with a soapy hand resulted in a tightening of muscle, an intake of air, and a slightly arching back. Jerry watched in guilty pleasure as Flynn’s cock jutted out proudly from the dark thatch of hair.
His hand hovered in the general vicinity of this lovely cock, moving slightly with the force of his increased respiration. The only sound was that of the running water. He wasn’t ready to take that dick in hand, however. No, not yet.
Making liberal use of the shower gel, he soaped up his fingers and reached behind him, gasping as he brushed Flynn’s hole. That was Flynn’s trigger point, then, the hot zing of nerve endings that made a direct, live-voltage connection with his cock. The cock in question bounced up with the contact, begging to be touched.
Bracing his forehead on the wall, he leaned into its support, taking a light hold of Flynn’s cock with one hand while he continued to finger himself from behind. The angle was bad, but his cock shuddered at the combined stimulation. Jerry curled into the shower spray as the sensation coursed through his entire body. Damn. He palmed the shaft, running his fingers out to the tip, smoothing his thumb over the head. He pressed harder into the wall, turning his head to rest his cheek against the tile, opening his mouth to sigh into the touch. The calluses on Flynn’s hands were different from his, more from handling a weapon and less from writing with a pen. This cock swelled in his hand, becoming so hard it was almost painful, and Jerry palmed it in earnest, forming a tight ring with his hand in which to thrust, hips rolling forward as he groaned and picked up the pace of his stroking. With a wordless pant that increased in pitch as he got closer, Jerry came, semen spurting over his hand and against the wall and washing away as fast as he released it.
If there was such a thing as hell, he was so going to burn in it.
He had a hard time meeting Flynn’s hazel eyes in the mirror as he tried to shave post-shower, and he nicked himself badly several times as a result. Annoyed, and a little disgusted with himself, he pulled Flynn’s clothing out of his bag and dressed with irritated impatience. The pressing weight of everyone’s thoughts crowded in closer, and he knew his control was slipping. It would get better once he picked up the rental and was actively doing something again. It had to.
The Imperial March blared out of Flynn’s phone.
As he listened to Darth Vader’s theme, Jerry came to a decision. This was something he could do for Flynn. For Flynn’s mother. For Rachel’s memory. For their relationship. He answered the call.
Chapter 9
HE’D MADE a terrible mistake.
Jerry knew it the moment he pulled up in front of the house. Clenching and unclenching his hands on the steering wheel, he thought about turning the car around, calling Flynn’s mother, and telling her something had come up. He could probably back out of the drive and leave before anyone noticed if he did it right now. A twitch of material at one of the curtained windows made him sigh and put the gear into park. Too late.
Beside him on the seat lay the artifact.
Nancy hadn’t protested too much when he’d shown up at the museum and demanded to take custody of it.
“I knew you wouldn’t wait until tomorrow evening.” She looked as though she’d won a bet with herself and then she’d taken an intimate step into his personal space and straightened his tie. “You are still coming to Killian’s, right? That was part of the deal.”
He felt her fear this might be the last time she’d see him, and he’d reluctantly reaffirmed Flynn’s promise to come, even as he wanted to backpedal from her emotions of regret and hope. He couldn’t even tell her there was no chance Flynn and she would get back together, because he honestly didn’t know the answer himself. The temptation was to cut off her hope at the knees, to protect his relationship with Flynn at the expense of what Flynn might actually want. He couldn’t do it, though. Not when he didn’t know for sure.
They’d made sure their stories matched, and initiated the public statement that the artifact was in the custody of experts. Jerry hoped whoever was behind the break-in would accept the story. The shadowy would-be thieves had to believe Nancy no longer had the artifact in order for her to be safe.
What to do with it now, though? He couldn’t leave it in the car. That was asking for trouble. The box felt curiously warm when he picked it up and tucked it into the pocket of his suit. If he’d been a more fanciful person, he’d say the box seemed glad of his company, which was silly.
What was not his imagination, however, was hearing a rhythmic ticking emanating from the box.
That couldn’t be good.
He’d examine it more closely later. Right now, he had to get this meeting with Flynn’s mother over with.
Reluctantly, he got out of the car. The unexpected sight of his reflection in the side view mirror startled him. Flynn’s cool expression looked back at him, eyes hidden and protected by dark shades. His jacket was already rumpled and creased, despite taking it straight off the hanger this morning. Sometime during the drive, he’d loosened the tie Nancy had straightened, and it was slightly askew.
He didn’t dwell on the fact that underneath Flynn’s skin, he was feeling some pretty strong emotions. Was Flynn’s self-control just an act? He thought about it, and realized if he was about to knock on his own mother’s door, he’d be far from calm at this moment. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to hide his feelings. Maybe Flynn came by his cool nature honestly. But how had Jerry managed to look as though he’d just rolled out of bed merely by driving across town?
Like a series of snapshots, he took in the scenery, making assessments and storing information away for potential use. It was a weird feeling knowing he couldn’t rely on his memory anymore. If he’d thought he could get away with it without someone commenting on the fact, he’d sneak in a few pictures on his cell phone to back up his untrustworthy memory.
The neighborhood was quietly affluent. Jerry took note of the well-manicured lawns and the absence of any pink flamingos. The trees, already leafing out, were mature, and bespoke the age of the subdivision and of old money. Bradford pears, dogwoods, and cherry trees lined the street, reminding Jerry of matronly women dressed in their Sunday best for the Easter service at church. Every time the wind stirred, little white petals showered down like snowflakes, the peak of the blossom season just over. Banks of forsythia bordered several of the yards but unlike the messy, wild-grown shrubs of his youth, these were neatly trimmed and forced into submission. The cars were mostly SUVs. There were no bicycles lying in the driveways. No trash cans at the curb. Down the street, a fat yellow lab lumbered off the porch to bark at him, bouncing stiff-legged at the edge of his yard.
Invisible fencing. Naturally. No ugly fences allowed in this neighborhood. Jerry felt a perverse need to rent a house along the street and come back at Christmas to festoon it with garish lights and inflatable Santas. The urge surprised him. He’d left bad taste and tacky decorations behind when he’d left North Carolina and the closed-minded, provincial bigotry of his hometown. He’d built a new life for himself in California. Funny how it took a trip to Flynn’s old neighborhood for him to understand his need to surround himself with beautiful things. To prove to himself he wasn’t white trash from the trailer park.
I see you! You don’t belong! The dog barked his warning to Jerry, lifting his head to announce Jerry’s presence to the world at large.
The dog’s thoughts echoed Jerry’s own, filling him with an uneasiness that was hard to tell if it originated with him or the dog. Great. Now he was a Dog Whisperer, too. For a split second, he thought back to the night before, when Flynn had been giving him advice on how to handle the telepathy. Especially when it came to blocking unwanted thoughts.
“Be sure to ignore the birds.” Flynn had been deadly earnest. “They just talk about their nests and shit. Really boring stuff. But if you get sucked into it, it’s like something out of Hitchcock.” He’d shuddered.
Jerry had thought he was joking until he’d been woken by the cacophony outside the hotel window at daybreak this morning.
It wasn’t too late to turn around. Flynn was going to kill him when he found out. Jerry’s stomach roiled at the thought.
The door opened while he was still standing beside the car.
A slim woman came out on the porch. She had to be in her sixties, but her hair had been styled and dyed, and her posture was that of a younger woman. She stood, calmly assessing him, and Jerry had a moment of profound recognition in her quiet stance. This had to be Flynn’s mother.
As he was walking forward, he realized he had no idea what to call her.
He moved with Flynn’s deceptively relaxed gait, but he could feel the tension coiled in his muscles as he pocketed the keys and casually mounted the stairs to face Flynn’s mother. Jean? Mom? Mother?
“Mother” resonated in his head, like a tuning fork matching a perfect pitch. Mother it was, then.
He thought he was prepared. He had steeled himself with the idea that this woman had spent most of Flynn’s lifetime blaming him for the death of his sister. He knew why Flynn was avoiding her; Flynn didn’t want to know what she really thought of him. It was one thing to suspect, but another to know—to know the people who often smiled and shook your hand secretly loathed you or thought you were an idiot. Screening out the myriad of noise crashing around him all the time was nothing like ignoring the piercing voice of the person in front of him. If you lived at the shore long enough, you stopped hearing the sea. The seagull that dive-bombed you on the beach was another thing altogether.
Jerry had thought this would be the way he could fulfill Flynn’s duty to his mother, and yet protect Flynn from the painful realities of her thoughts at the same time.
He was so unprepared.
The emotion that swept over him almost took him down. It welled like a wave rolling into the shore, small at first, then gathering momentum as he approached. It tumbled over and threatened to pull him into the undertow.
Look at him. So handsome. So closed off. I did this to him. I made him like this. I lost two children that day.
He stumbled on the stairs and had to put a hand on the railing to keep from falling.
“John.” A small frown marred her brow before she smiled, looking every inch like Jackie Onassis Kennedy. American royalty greeting her guest. He could feel the caution surrounding her, the care with which she chose her words. “How well you look. Please, do come in.”
She was afraid he’d run. Every instinct said he should run. His heart rate sped up, his muscles tightened; he flushed with heat despite the mildness of the day. It made the tips of his ears itch. No wonder Flynn liked to run so much. It all made sense now. He had to run. He physically had to move, to get the tension out of his system.
He’d have a little more sympathy for that in the future.
Jerry realized Flynn’s mother was staring at him oddly. Her emotion left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth: fear, anguish, and regret. And he shall cause the woman to drink the bitter water that causeth the curse: an
d the water that causeth the curse shall enter into her, and become bitter. He heard the quote in his mind, but he could no longer remember chapter and verse. It left him with an odd, empty feeling. He wasn’t used to forgetting that sort of information.
He will never forgive me. I can’t forgive myself. Jean’s face showed nothing of the turmoil of her thoughts.
“Sorry,” Jerry said, concentrating hard on responding to the conversation that was actually taking place, rather than the voice in his head. “Just regaining my balance.” An ironic statement if he’d ever heard one.
A wry smile formed on a mouth carefully outlined with dark mauve lipstick. In the unforgiving light of the full sun, he could see the fine feathering of wrinkles around her lips and eyes, and the soft slippage of the skin on her face and neck. She still did not look like a woman in her sixties. A handsome woman. Flynn took after her in coloring. A feeling of premonition came over him as he envisioned Flynn thirty years from now. His hair would be as thick as ever, and iron gray. He’d have only the crow’s feet around his eyes from squinting into the sun, and he’d retain the lean, wiry strength that was in him now. He’d look a lot like Pierce Brosnan, which Jerry considered extremely unfair.
“Perhaps if you took your sunglasses off, you might not trip on the stairs.”
Jerry suddenly felt twelve again and in the presence of his own mother. He pictured her as he’d seen her last: a short, round woman in a floral dress, heading off to church with the worn leather Bible in her plump, pale hands.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said automatically, with a half-smile. He took off the sunglasses and pocketed them, feeling ten times more exposed with the action.
He looks so much like his father. The thought was bittersweet, the pride in Flynn’s attractiveness overlaid with the piercing sense of betrayal and loss. She turned toward the house, her carriage straight and strong. Horsewoman, Jerry thought, and wondered where that had come from. Though she was dressed in a black pantsuit and a crisp, white blouse, he suddenly pictured her in breeches and tall boots.
Walk a Mile Page 14
