“Two more of what he’s having,” Adam ordered. “And keep ’em coming. We’ll be good, I promise.” He faced Robin, elbow back on the bar. “Come on, Robbie. It wasn’t that bad today, was it?” He laughed. “We sure fogged up the fart’s glasses.”
“The director’s name is Lenny,” Robin said.
“Yeah, like he’s your best friend. I read the trades—I know he came with the distribution deal from HeartBeat. Did you know his claim to fame is a laxative commercial?”
“He’s done a bunch of movies,” Robin countered. “Look, just . . . go be negative somewhere else. He’s doing fine.”
The bartender delivered the drinks and Adam took one, shoving the other toward Robin. He raised the glass. “Here’s to finishing what we started, hot stuff.” He took a sip. Licked his lips.
Robin closed his eyes. “Get away from me.”
“I’m kidding. Come on.” He took another sip. “Although, seriously, can’t you admit, just a little, that you enjoyed—”
“Here’s how it works,” Robin told him. “Hal’s in love with Jack. I’m playing Hal, you’re playing Jack. It’s called acting.”
“Why do you hang out in gay bars, I wonder?” Adam asked, obviously changing tack. “Why are you here tonight, Roberta? You had to know I’d be here, too.”
It was a good question. One Robin didn’t have an answer for. He’d thought about going over to the hotel where Jules was staying. Sitting in that bar. Both hoping Jules would come in and hoping that he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d gone out with Harve and some of the other guys from makeup, and wound up here.
Where, in retrospect, yes, it made sense that Adam would find him.
Adam, whom he’d made out with for hours this afternoon, while cameras rolled. Adam, who’d taken advantage of the fact that Hal was in control to put his hands all over him.
All over him.
Hal had loved it.
Hal had gotten so freaking aroused, he’d practically embarrassed them both right there on the soundstage.
Hal, who despite eight drinks—or was it nine now? Holy Jesus, Robin was running out of fingers and Hal still would not leave him—Hal, who seemed to have retained possession of a certain part of his anatomy, was damn near ready to drop to his knees and beg for Jack to touch him like that again.
Except Jack wasn’t here. Adam was.
“Okay, here’s a question maybe you can answer, drunk boy,” Adam said, finishing his drink and signaling the bartender for another. For both of them. “I couldn’t help but notice that Mercedes’ initials were forged—and badly, I might add—on those revised pages of script. You know, the handshake version that we filmed today.”
Oops. “You noticed that, huh?” Robin said.
Adam laughed. “What, you thought maybe I wouldn’t?”
“You know how HeartBeat Studios wants us to cut Jack Shelton out of the movie entirely?” Robin asked. “Obviously, one option would be to cut the Hal-Jack relationship, which is stupid, right? It’s the heart of the movie. So what I’ve started doing—don’t tell Janey—is working with the director on a ‘compromise.’ ” He made quotation marks with his fingers. “We’re writing a second version of each ‘questionable’ scene. This keeps Jack in the movie, but really downplays his relationship with Hal. It’s become a ‘friendship’ instead.”
“So you’re cozying up to HeartBeat and rewriting your sister’s movie without her knowledge?” Adam said.
“No, see,” Robin said, “I’m, like, a double agent. I’m pretending to work with HeartBeat. We’re still filming Janey’s script; we’re just doing this other version, too. HeartBeat thinks we’re considering the changes they want—they’re happy. The word leaks out to the public that we’ve made some changes, the shouting dies down. And maybe even this guy Janey calls Mr. Insane-o, maybe he disappears, too.”
“But she doesn’t know anything about this?” Adam asked.
“She’s a little distracted right now,” Robin told him. “What with Murphy and Cosmo.”
“Oh, shit, what happened to Cosmo?” Adam was seriously upset.
“No,” Robin said. “Nothing. I mean, Janey happened to him.” He looked at his watch, but he couldn’t read it. Not a good sign. Still, it had to be pretty late. “They’re probably playing Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf right now. Or whatever Janey’s into. I’m kind of just guessing based on the fact that we’re related.” Whoops, that came out sounding sort of flirty. Hal watched Adam for his reaction.
There was none. At least not to that. “God, you scared me,” Adam said. “You asshole.” He laughed, tossed back his drink. “Whew. I needed that. God. I thought the body count was going up or something. The thing with Murphy . . . Man. And his wife? That’s bad shit.”
“You should’ve seen the blood on the driveway,” Robin said.
Adam was silent for a moment, just looking at him. “Was Jules there?” he asked. “Because that’s what he does. People start shooting and bleeding and dying and stuff. Most people run in the opposite direction—he runs toward it.” He shook his head. “It’s crazy.”
“He drove me up there,” Robin said. “We were having dinner and—”
“Dinner?” Adam laughed. “Wow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Adam made eye contact again with the bartender. “No, I’m just . . . Dinner’s a very big step for J. He must really like you, Robskie. I’m impressed. And isn’t it cool watching him do the FBI agent thing? Very manly. It’s a turn-on. And a turnoff at the same time, because, well . . . He show you his scars yet?”
Scars, plural? Jules had more than one? “During dinner?” Robin asked.
“Was it room service?”
“No.”
“Okay, I’m slightly less impressed.”
“I’ve seen one of them,” Robin said. “His scars. On his back.”
“Well, go J.” Adam smiled at Robin, but it was tight. “And go Robbie, you devil, you. I’m proud of you, babe. Way to push the edge of your sexual envelope. Who got to be the wolf?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
Robin went to work on his new drink. “Very funny.”
“I guess you got the story, then, huh? How he was shot?”
He sloshed it on the bar. “Jules was shot?”
“So you didn’t get the story,” Adam said. “It was just sex, huh? No talking? Why, J., you nasty beast.”
“We didn’t have sex,” Robin growled. “He changed his shirt. I noticed his scar. That’s all.”
“Because you’re saving yourself for me?” Adam said. “That’s so sweet.” He put his hand on Robin’s leg.
Robin shifted away, but Hal kept him from shifting too far. “I can’t believe he was shot.”
“It was pretty bad,” Adam said. “You know, he almost died.”
Died as in dead? Shit. “When’d this happen?”
“Couple years ago,” Adam told him, stopping to look closely at the fresh drink the bartender had just pushed his way. “What is this? Whatever it is, it’s my new favorite drink.”
“Long Island ice tea,” Robin said. “Chadwick style,” Hal added.
Adam smiled back at Hal. “Nice. I have a feeling I’d like a lot of things Chadwick style.”
Robin scowled. “Who shot him?”
“Some terrorist,” Adam said. “It happened right after I moved out here to L.A. I didn’t even know about it until months after he was out of the hospital. No one bothered to call me. He was in some sort of shoot-out with some terrorist cell down in San Diego.”
“San Diego?” California was not the first location that jumped to mind when a deadly shoot-out with a terrorist cell was mentioned.
Adam nodded, and suddenly the cat-and-mouse game that they’d been playing was over. He withdrew. Got very quiet. Vulnerable. Goddamn, he was so much like Jack, it took Hal’s breath away.
“It was hard to live with,” Adam said, “the not knowing if he’s ever coming home again, every
time he goes off to work. And he was all, like, Why’d you leave? What was I supposed to say? Because I couldn’t stand the thought of you dying and leaving me forever, so I thought I’d go first?” He drained his glass, turned away from Robin. “And then it happened—my worst nightmare. And I wasn’t there. When I found out, all I could think was, would someone have called me if he had died? Or would I just never have found out? I could spend my entire life thinking he’s off saving the world, and in truth he’s been cold and in the ground for years.”
He touched Adam. Just a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”
Adam nodded. “Thanks.” He smiled, but it was rueful. “He, you know, makes it sound like I’m the bad guy. I know he does. And I don’t really blame him for that. But there are two sides to every story. And he just . . . He never understood how fucking alone I felt every time he left town. And when he came back it was all, Alyssa did this and Alyssa—his FBI partner, you know—did that and Alyssa saved the world again, and how could I compete? One day I just stopped trying, and then when he came home, it was, Whose boxers are these under our bed, you total fucking screwup? And at least he noticed me, you know?”
Somehow they were holding hands. How the hell had that happened?
Robin had to get out of here, because Hal wanted to put his arms around Jack and hold him close. Very close.
He slid down off the bar stool. Okay. Walking—not falling—walking. Although he was probably only walking in part because Jack was holding him up.
“Where’re you going there, big guy?” Jack asked.
“I gotta get home.” He fished for his car keys.
“Yeah, like you’re driving.” Jack took them out of his hand, put them in his own pocket.
“Hey . . .”
“I’ll drive you,” Jack told him with that sweet smile that Hal could not resist. “It’s okay, baby. It’s going to be okay. I’ll take you where you want to go.”
Cosmo awoke to find himself alone in Jane’s bed.
He sat up fast, but then started breathing again when he saw the light under the door to her office.
It was a little after 0400—he’d pulled her into bed less than two hours ago.
She’d needed to rest and, like last night, he’d used sex to get her into a prone position. He’d also hoped it would provide the release she’d needed, but apparently he was the one who’d fallen fast asleep afterward.
He knocked softly on the door as he opened it, and she looked up at him from behind her desk.
“Sorry,” she said. “Was I being too loud?”
He let his eyes get used to the light. “No, I just . . . noticed you weren’t in bed, I guess.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she told him.
“What are you working on?”
“Just . . .” She shrugged. “An idea I had. It’s too early to talk about it.”
Cosmo nodded, crossing to sit in one of the chairs parked in front of her desk. “You should have woken me.”
“You looked so peaceful,” she said. She smiled through her exhaustion and worry, her chin in her hand as she gazed at him. “Would you mind very much sitting there, just like that, forever?”
The heat in her eyes was unmistakable. He laughed, stretched, scratched his chin. She just sat there, looking at him.
Well, okay. They could go that way. Have sex all night. Her arm was healing nicely. Not quite up to chandelier-swinging or roof-walking, but pretty damn close.
And sex was a good stress buster. A solid outlet for emotions that were difficult to put into words.
Of course it couldn’t beat talking, in terms of expressing complex feelings. But it was becoming more apparent that Jane didn’t want to talk. Not to him, anyway. Not about things that mattered.
Like how she must’ve felt when she saw Murphy and Angelina lying there, so gravely wounded. Like how worried she must be that the shooter would target someone else. Like how she blamed herself. Like what she was going to do now—and she was definitely up to something.
It was actually ironic that she wouldn’t talk to him, considering how much Jane loved words, communication, storytelling.
Sitting there, gazing into her eyes, he knew they were going to end up back in bed, which was not a problem for him. On the contrary. But he wasn’t taking that route until after he gave talking a solid try. He started easy. “I ever tell you how much I liked your D-Day scene, the dream sequence from the movie?”
Jane smiled. “Thanks.” She stood up. Started around her desk, toward him. Uh-oh.
“Jack’s subconscious realization about Hal was, uh . . .”
It was hard to keep the conversation going when she was looking at him like that.
“. . . nicely done.”
“I’m glad you liked it. We’re still scheduled to shoot that sequence in a few days.”
“It must, um, be hard for you, you know, having to stay away from the set. . . .”
It was harder yet when she reached down, wrapped her fingers around him and . . . She gestured with her head toward the bedroom.
He went for point-blank. Jane style. “Talk to me.”
Jane straddled his lap. Kissed him. Unfastened her robe. “I don’t want to talk.” She kissed him again, long and deep and loaded with promise. She pulled back to look down at him and smile. “And you don’t want to, either.”
Cosmo caught her hands before she . . . “Yeah, actually, I do.” Although to be completely honest, he now wanted to talk later, because, holy God, she was unbelievably sexy with her robe open and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders and her smile . . .
That smile was just a mask she’d erected to hide all of her worry and fear.
“I want to talk about how we’re not going to let this guy have another chance to hurt anybody,” Cosmo told her. “Not you, not me, not your brother, not anyone on the Troubleshooters team . . .”
“Good,” she said, “that’s good.” But he could see from her eyes that she didn’t believe it. She leaned forward to kiss him, pulling his hands to her breasts, which was a tad distracting.
“Jane,” he started, but somehow she’d gotten her hands free and she slid off his lap and onto the floor in front of him and . . .
Distractions abounded. What were they talking about?
“We’re not going to underestimate him again,” Cosmo told her. At least he thought that was what he said.
She might’ve replied, he wasn’t sure about that either. Well, actually, yes, he was quite sure that she said something, he just had no idea what the words were.
“This isn’t what I meant when I said talk to me,” he told her, “although, God damn, I love your creativity.”
Jane laughed. Yeah, that was definitely laughter.
But when she lifted her head to look at him, her smile quickly faded. “Oh, Cos,” she whispered, “what am I going to do if Murphy and Angelina die?”
Cosmo pulled her up onto his lap, holding her close. But before he could answer, before he could think of any words that might bring her comfort, she spoke again.
“Don’t answer that. Don’t validate it—the possibility that they might die—by saying anything at all, okay? Don’t talk. Just kiss me, just . . . Please . . .”
Cosmo kissed her.
Sooner or later, she had to talk to somebody.
But right now, she needed contact. She needed proof that she wasn’t alone. She needed connection, comfort, release.
He could give her that. And more.
Cosmo picked her up and carried her into her bedroom, where, for the rest of the night, they didn’t talk at all.
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CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
J ane looked up as Cosmo knocked on her office door.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
“Only if it’s good news,” she said. “Preferably about Murph and Angelina.”
She was feeling better this morning for h
aving slept—thanks to another of his miracle backrubs—despite the latest e-mail from Mr. Insane-o.
You think you’re so smart, but I’m smarter. You’ll be dead, and I’ll be laughing. You’ll be rotting, I’ll still be free. I have a plan for you. . . .
“There’s been no change,” Cosmo told her now, coming to stand in front of the chair that he’d sat in last night. She’d preferred what he was wearing then, but hey. Having a hot, naked Navy SEAL in her office was probably something that could get old after a while. Or not. “They’re both still in ICU.”
Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target Page 40
