by Tinnean
“No, thank you. I have some.” She held up a plastic cup and gave him a vague smile. Was she already tipsy? “Oh, we’re going to do karaoke. Excuse me.” She hurried off to where someone from Human Resources was setting up the machine.
Vincent and The Boss left, a line formed up for the punch bowl, and one of the kitchen staff began ladling out the punch. Howard, who worked out of Security now and who should have been in line for Matheson’s position, took a couple of cups and tracked down the twink from Public Relations. He probably planned to get him sloshed. Charles wouldn’t be surprised to see them slip into a supply closet.
Well, that tore it. Max had walked out on him, Ms. DiNois had turned down a drink with him, and even Howard had someone. Charles had no fucking luck with WBIS personnel.
I’ll head out for one of the local bars, he thought, not even bothering to sample the punch. He was sure he’d be able to find someone there who’d be interested in dinner, drinks, or a fuck, in no particular order.
Ms. DiNois began singing “Santa Baby.” She sounded good, but she must have been drunker than Charles had realized to actually get up in front of everyone and sing.
As he walked out of the cafeteria, he bumped into Matheson.
“Sorry,” Matheson said. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
Yeah, right. Charles was willing to bet he had no idea who he’d walked into.
Word had it Matheson had a boyfriend. Jesus, who’d have thought? If anyone looked straight, it was Vincent’s fair-haired boy.
Charles had to get out of there. He caught an elevator to the first floor and did just that.
* * * *
Christmas was as dismal and depressing as he’d been afraid it would be, but things looked up with the start of the New Year. One operation followed another, and they went so well he received bonuses that made his bank account very happy.
But the first anniversary of the loss of his little finger was coming up in April, which was a couple of months away, and it preyed on his mind, because it also marked the anniversary of his meeting Max.
* * * *
After completing a mission in Southeast Asia, he returned and debriefed, and while he waited to be assigned another operation, Charles moped around Foreign Affairs.
Only that kind of backfired. Instead of reminding Stanley, his director, that he was there, Stanley had had a shitfit. He took one look at Charles’s face and snapped, “Jesus, Browne. When was the last time you got laid?”
Charles could feel color climb his cheeks. After Max had walked out the door, Charles had had a series of hookups, mostly with women but one or two with men. And even though he’d received numerous blowjobs, none could compare to Max’s talented mouth.
Stanley’s expression darkened. “For the love of—Find someone who looks like Max and get laid. Now get the fuck out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” He might be in a piss-poor mood—no one had ever walked away from him before—but he wasn’t stupid enough to challenge his boss. Stanley might only have one leg, but dammit, he could be as threatening as Vincent when he was in a mean mood.
Charles paused by the elevator. Vincent had a secretary who was pretty. It was after hours, but he knew Vincent always stayed late. And when he stayed late, so did his secretary. He’d go down to seven and see if she wanted to have dinner or a drink.
The elevator was taking forever to get to the ninth floor, so he decided to take the stairs. Didn’t Vincent use them all the time? Charles opened the door to the stairwell and started down.
What a pain in the ass. It soured his mood even more.
He got out on seven and found the corridor where Vincent had his office. It didn’t take long for him to reach it, but as luck would have it, Vincent’s secretary wasn’t at her desk.
The door to the inner office was open, however, and Charles could hear voices coming from it. Curious, he approached the door.
“That’s right. Fuck yourself on my cock.” Coarse excitement filled this voice, one Charles didn’t recognize. “Jerk yourself off. Use both hands.”
What the fuck?
“I’ll…I’ll lose my balance.” This voice was younger, probably a kid in his teens.
“I won’t let you fall.”
What the fuck? Charles pushed the door open and looked in.
Vincent wasn’t alone. Matheson, his fair-haired boy, was with him. The small TV every director had in his office was turned on, and holy God, they were watching porn!
Neither of them seemed to enjoy it, which was odd, because damn, from what Charles could see, it was hot, even if it was gay. He must have made a sound, because they turned to face him. Matheson’s expression was grim. He turned off the tape with a vicious jab.
Vincent took one look at Charles. “What did you want?”
“Uh…I was looking for your secretary.”
His brows met above his nose. “She’s not here.”
Well, obviously.
“Out,” Vincent snapped.
“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, and he bolted out of the office.
Once in the corridor, he came to a halt, annoyed with himself for allowing himself to be intimidated. He straightened his jacket. Fuck it, and fuck Vincent and Matheson.
Charles strode down the corridor toward the elevators. Dev Howard, who’d once worked under Vincent but who was now in Security, was headed in the same direction.
And because Charles was in such a pissy mood, he took it out on Howard. “How does it feel to get a newbie bumped over you?” he snarled, referring to the fact that Vincent had seen Matheson got the promotion that should have been Howard’s.
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to challenge Vincent’s preferences?”
“Are you saying I am?”
“If the shoe fits.” The son of a bitch had the nerve to look complacent. “I won’t talk company policy with you.” Howard gave him a glance from the corner of his eye. “I hear Dr. Futé has become pretty tight with Dr. Schmidt.”
Charles growled. “What do you know about it?”
“I may be junior to you, Browne, but I know you’ve lost this one.”
“Max is French; he wasn’t born yesterday, and he knows which way the wind blows.” Charles jabbed his finger against the elevator button, refusing to wince and let Howard see his discomfort when the excess force caused it to bend the wrong way. “If I wanted him back, all I’d have to do is crook my little finger.”
“You mean the one you lost?”
“I wouldn’t have lost it if it hadn’t been for him.”
“No, you’d be dead. I’m telling you—”
“No. I’m telling you. I could take him away from Schmidt just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“You think so?”
“Sure. Max risked his life for me. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t have feelings for me.”
“And you thanked him for that by refusing to commit.”
“Committing is for lunatics. You don’t see Vincent doing that, do you?”
“What Mr. Vincent does is none of my business.”
“Just like what I do is none of your business either.”
The elevator arrived, and Charles stalked into it, hoping Howard would think twice about joining him, but of course he didn’t. Charles glared at him, but Howard just shook his head.
“You’ve lost Max, and y’know what? It serves you right.”
Charles folded his arms across his chest and stared stubbornly at the panel above the door. “I’m not gay.”
“Jesus.” Howard folded his arms as well and stared at the panel just as stubbornly.
Finally the elevator arrived on the first floor. As soon as the doors opened, Charles strode out of there.
He came to an abrupt halt by his car. His apartment was empty, and fuck it, he didn’t want to be alone tonight.
There was a bar a lot of the WBIS agents went to, the Six Nine, over on Mass. Avenue. He’d have a drink, maybe find someone to spend a few hours wit
h.
* * * *
Well, son of a bitch. Every woman in the bar was with someone. Charles ordered another Jack on the rocks. He’d taken a sip when a short blond sidled up to him.
“Lonely, handsome?”
Charles tucked his pinky-less hand into his pocket and grunted. Most of the time he had no problem with the loss of his little finger, but he’d noticed some of his bed partners got skeeved by it. Right now he wasn’t going to take that chance.
“You don’t have to be.” The little guy touched his arm tentatively. “My place is nearby, if you’re interested.”
Charles blinked and studied him. He looked vaguely familiar. “Have I seen you before?”
He looked proud. “People tell me I look like one of the actors in Queer as Folk.”
Charles gave him a blank stare.
For a second, the guy frowned, but then he wiped the expression off his face so quickly Charles wondered if he’d actually seen it. “It’s a television show,” he said with easy patience.
“I don’t watch much television.” Jesus, when would he have the time? “What’s your name?”
“Dix. What’s yours?”
“Charles.”
Dix giggled.
“Something funny?”
“I know a Charles.”
“It isn’t me.”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “So, Charles…Are you?”
“Interested?” He stared at Dix’s pretty mouth with its lush lips. Would they feel as good wrapped around his cock as Max’s had? “Yeah, I think I am.” He left a few dollars on the bar as a tip for the bartender. “Let’s go.”
They left the Six Nine and began walking down the street.
“I don’t usually do this,” Dix said. “Do you…do you mind if I take your arm?”
Charles grunted again, and Dix apparently took that as agreement. He linked their arms together and rubbed his cheek against Charles’s upper arm—Dix wasn’t quite tall enough to reach his shoulder.
“Fucking fags.”
Jesus, that was all he needed tonight. Before Charles could wheel around to confront the asshole—how many fucking times did he have to tell people he wasn’t gay?—a bullet whistled past his ear, and when another shot was fired, pain tore through his butt and his legs buckled under him. He was pretty sure the wound wasn’t fatal, but then the ground rushed up and punched his head, and he wasn’t so sure about that.
* * * *
Charles regained consciousness in the WBIS’s infirmary. He was on his stomach, and he groaned, not from the burning pain in his ass, which had probably been numbed to get repaired, but from the throbbing pain in his head.
“Ah. You’re with us once more.”
For a second, his heart leaped, but then he realized two things. One, he didn’t recognize the voice, and two, the speaker was a woman.
“Do you want something for the pain?”
“I want to go home,” he said sullenly. He was still too fuzzy from the remnants of anesthesia to even wonder how he’d wound up in the WBIS infirmary.
He must have said something, because the doctor sighed. “No, I didn’t give you anesthesia, not with a possible concussion.”
“Shit.” That was all he needed on top of everything else. Would they—
“We have to keep you overnight.”
Fuck it, they would. “I want to go home now.”
“Not gonna happen, Browne.”
Oh God, he did know that voice. “Vincent.”
“Yeah. What were you thinking to get yourself shot in the ass?”
Charles had no intention of answering that—like he’d done it on purpose. But there was something he did want to know. “The guy I was with…Is he okay?”
“No one was with you.” Fortunately, Vincent didn’t say “I thought you weren’t gay.” God knew he’d protested it enough, but the truth of the matter was he wasn’t gay. So what if he’d experimented with a guy or two or three and had Max living with him for a while. It wasn’t against the law. “Well, aside from all the onlookers.”
Charles could only hope that meant Dix had gotten away safely.
“Did they catch the son of a bitch who shot me?”
“No. By the time police and EMTs got there, you were alone.”
Charles turned his head to see Vincent looking him over thoughtfully. “What?”
“I’m wondering if you were set up.”
“Fuck it.” He hadn’t even begun to consider that possibility.
“Yeah.”
“Uh…what’s Stanley going to do?”
“Nothing. This happened on my turf.”
Oh God, just shoot me now. No, wait, he’d already been shot. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll have Rayne look into it.”
“A woman?”
“Do you have any objections to women?” This time it was the doctor who spoke.
“No,” he admitted, and especially not this one, who was well-thought-of by both The Boss and Vincent.
“Good. Now, hold still. I want to check your pupils.” She took his chin in her hand and tipped up his head. Her fingers were warm, and usually he’d want to nuzzle into them, but he just didn’t feel up to it. She flashed a light into first one eye, then the other, and nodded, apparently satisfied with the way his pupils reacted. “You’re very lucky. This could have been a good deal worse.”
“Yeah.” He hated like fuck when shit like this happened to him, although he did know why it happened. It was all Max’s fault.
He’d been distracted by thoughts of Max’s talented mouth, wondering if Dix’s would be as clever, and the next thing he knew, a bullet had gouged a chunk of flesh out of his ass.
“It’s not quite that bad, Mr. Browne,” the doctor said, and Charles realized he’d spoken his thoughts out loud once again.
Well, it sure as shit had felt like it. He would have banged his head, only hitting it on even something as soft as a pillow didn’t seem like a good idea.
“I’m not going to be placed back on sick leave, am I?”
“You are,” she asserted briskly.
It was a fucking repeat of last spring, and he was getting damn sick and tired of it. He closed his eyes. Jesus, he was so tired. He leaned his weight on an elbow and raised his other hand to rub his head. “What the…?” He’d come into contact with a bandage.
“You gave yourself a fairly decent knock on the noggin.”
“Nothing decent about it,” he groused.
“So you’ll stay here tonight.” Vincent didn’t have to take so much pleasure in informing him of that, did he? “And if you’re a good boy, Dr. Paget will send you home in the morning.”
“Paget? Who’s he?”
“I’m Paget,” the woman said.
Charles cracked open an eye. The woman who stood beside his bed was average height and average looks—mousey brown hair and eyes—nothing to write home about. So why do you want to wrap your fingers in that hair while that mouth encircles your cock?
“I’m Dr. Futé’s associate.”
“Lucky you.”
“Behave, Mr. Browne, or I won’t let you leave.” Damn. She had a voice that hinted of soft sheets and warm bodies.
“Where is Max anyway?”
Paget arched an eyebrow. “I’m your physician, and Dr. Futé’s whereabouts are immaterial. Now, I have work to do. Is there anything I can get you?”
“Uh…no.”
“Good. Mr. Vincent, would you mind leaving? My patient needs rest.”
He snorted but left.
“I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour. Don’t fall asleep in the meanwhile.”
“I thought you said I needed rest.”
She touched the bandage on his forehead. “I want to be certain you aren’t concussed. Otherwise your brains are likely to leak out of your ears.”
“That’s not exactly a professional comment,” he huffed.
“It isn’t, is it?” She turned and walked a
way, and Charles couldn’t help but notice the shapely curve of her ass, the tempting sway of her hips. She might not be conventionally beautiful, but the sum total of her parts made a man sit up and take notice. She paused at the door. “Put your eyes back in your head, Mr. Browne. The only sort of relationship we’ll have is the doctor/patient variety.”
Well, damn. He couldn’t help grinning, and he shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable. “Damn.” He flinched as his stitches pulled.
* * * *
After a brutal night where Dr. Paget came in every hour on the fucking hour to make sure she could wake him up, after a tech brought in a tray with a breakfast of cereal, juice, and bacon, to be washed down with decaf coffee that looked like piss water, she arrived to examine him, fresh as the proverbial daisy—the witch. She raised an eyebrow when he clutched the sheet tight to his side.
“You’re not going to be difficult, are you? I assure you I’ve seen any number of butts, male and female.”
“That may be, but you haven’t seen mine.”
“Actually, I have, and I’m about to again. That is, if you want to go home.”
That was right, she’d had to have seen his ass when she stitched him up. What had she thought of it? He had a thing about having his ass touched—he didn’t like it. None of his hookups had, and even Max hadn’t been allowed to do more than admire it from a distance. So what if he didn’t like any of that? Last time he’d looked, that hadn’t been against the law.
He sighed and surrendered. He didn’t really want to go home, but his desire not to stay here was even greater. The longer he was in the infirmary, the greater the possibility Max would walk in, and the last thing Charles wanted was for Max to see him like this.
Dr. Paget tossed aside the sheet and said, “Hmm.”
“What hmm?” he demanded. “Why hmm?”
“Just an observation.” She tugged on a pair of latex gloves and carefully peeled off the tape that secured the gauze bandage to his ass. She had a gentle touch, as gentle as Max’s had been when he’d injected Charles with a local anesthetic and removed Charles’s little finger, but she leaned so close over him he could feel her warm breath on his flesh.
Don’t twitch, he warned himself. Don’t grind into the sheets, because dammit, he was getting an erection.
