When the Devil Drives

by L. J. Hayward

  His last thought was that he had to lie down and get into a trance state to utilise the broader applications of his implant. The long, soft length of his brown, leather couch was his goal . . .

  “Jack?”

  Jack pried open his eyes. Well, he tried to. The same prick who’d weighted his limbs had been back, messing with his eyelids this time.

  “Come on, Jack,” that same, low voice implored. A gentle tap on his cheek accompanied it. “Wake up. Let me know you’re in there.”

  An exhausting effort later got him a narrow crack in the darkness. Fuzzy shapes emerged from the general blurriness, one of which got a little more solid as it came closer.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” Ethan murmured, breaking into a relieved smile.

  The palm on Jack’s cheek drifted down the side of his neck, cool and soothing on his tingling skin. Ethan leaned closer, almost as if he was going to kiss Jack, but his lips landed on his jaw in a lingering touch. Jack had no idea where he was or what was going on but it barely mattered.

  Ethan was here.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It had to be a dream. After their time together had ended so abruptly on the Gold Coast, Jack hadn’t believed he’d see Ethan again so soon, if at all. Surely Ethan wouldn’t risk coming back in country yet. Thus, this was a dream.

  Mouth still against Jack’s skin, Dream Ethan murmured, “You scared me, Jack.”

  A very real feeling dream, but just a fanciful, wish-fulfilment dream. So why not make the most of it while he was lost in such a good delirium?

  Jack nuzzled into Ethan’s cheek. “Boo,” he said in his sexiest voice.

  Ethan huffed and leaned back. A lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead, caught up on the top of his sunglasses. “Yes, Jack. Boo. Why are you lying on the floor in the entryway?”

  “’M not,” Jack assured him.

  “I’m afraid you are.” Ethan’s hand settled on Jack’s forehead. “You’re burning up, Jack. You’re sick.”

  “Nah. Just a headache.” Sheer will propped him up on an elbow. “Know what cures a headache, Blade?” His low and sultry tone sounded more raspy and painful, but maybe that was just the effect of the throbbing in his head.

  “Plenty of fluid, rest and quiet.” Ethan slid his arms under Jack’s and hauled him the rest of the way into a sitting position.

  “Dun dah,” Jack intoned. “Sorry, but that’s the wrong answer. The correct answer is . . .” He slung one arm around Ethan’s neck and pulled him in until they were chest to chest. “Blowjob. Come on, baby. Suck my brains out through my dick. That way, no headache!”

  Even as the words escaped his mouth Jack knew there was something wrong with them: something wrong with the way Ethan went still; how the hands that had been so gentle on his back suddenly became hard and dangerous.

  But this was Dream Ethan and Dream Ethan should do all the things Real Ethan didn’t. Surely. Unless this wasn’t a dream . . .

  “Sorry, sorry.” Jack clung to him, desperate to take back the pain he’d caused. “Didn’t mean it. No blowjob. Never ever. Unless you want one?”

  After a tense moment, the rigid body against his relaxed slightly. Enough of a give to tell Jack he hadn’t ruined everything.

  “No, Jack. I don’t want that. Not right now, at least.” Ethan adjusted his hold and lifted Jack to his feet. “You need to go to bed and rest.”

  “Yeah, bed. Sounds good.” And not for resting. He had to make up for saying the wrong thing and there was one solid way to do that.

  “Did you bring anything home for your symptoms?” Ethan carefully guided Jack onto his bed and swung his legs up.

  “Pocket.” Jack gave a little hip thrust.

  Ethan regarded him blandly for a moment, then sighed and dipped a hand into the front pocket of Jack’s jeans. His dextrous fingers found nothing, but it felt nice in the process.

  “Jack.” It came out on warning tone.

  “Other one.”

  Ethan tried the other pocket and after an equally nice moment, retrieved a half-empty blister pack of throat lozenges.

  “Is this it?” Ethan’s British accent attained a level of disapproval Jack would have squirmed away from, if he’d been capable.

  “’S enough. I’m fine. See?” Jack tried to show off his impressive strength and coordination by attempting to tackle Ethan to the bed and ravish him until he begged for mercy.

  Ethan pinned Jack down with one hand. “I’ll fetch something stronger when you’re settled.” He regarded Jack with pursed lips. “First, let’s get you undressed.”

  “Yes,” Jack said and helped by unfastening his jeans while Ethan removed his boots and socks.

  When it came to removing his jeans, Ethan decided he didn’t need Jack’s help, commanding him to “just lie still,” and “don’t wiggle,” and “if you keep that up, Jack, something we will both regret might happen.” Jack reasoned Ethan was so eager he wanted to do it all himself, so he just lay back and let Ethan have his fun.

  “Hmm,” Ethan mused when he got to Jack’s shirt. “I don’t believe I’ve seen this T-shirt before.” He worked the tight-fitting material up Jack’s chest and extracted his arms one at a time. “Is it new?”

  “Nope.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at Jack, then completed the job. When it was off, he shook out the sweat-stained shirt. White and so thin it was almost see-through, it featured a faded print of the classic evolution of man progression that ended with a silhouette of a sexy woman.

  “Is there something I should know?” Ethan asked wryly.

  Jack made a clumsy swipe at the shirt. “It’s not mine.”

  “I should hope not. For one, it’s about two sizes too small.”

  “That’s ’cause it’s Harry’s. He said I looked good in it. Hot.” It may have been said sarcastically, but that was information Ethan didn’t need. “He also said it would be ironic in a gay nightclub.”

  Ethan went still. That deadly stillness he tended to fall into when he felt threatened or uncertain. Before Jack’s befuddled brain could work out what had caused it this time, Ethan sighed and nodded.

  “I assume this was part of some undercover operation.” He dangled the offending T-shirt from a very disdainful finger, adding in a dry tone, “In a gay nightclub.”

  Something about what Ethan’s tone implied bugged Jack. “Maybe it was for fun.”

  “I suppose it could have been.” He certainly didn’t sound like he believed it. In fact, there was a little too much laughter in the words to not be slightly insulting.

  Miffed, Jack scowled at him. Not that Ethan appeared to notice. He gathered up Jack’s discarded clothes in preparation to leave. This wasn’t going to plan at all.

  Looping a finger through a buttonhole on Ethan’s suit jacket, Jack tugged him closer. “You’re right.”

  Frown creasing his brows over his glasses, Ethan leaned over him. “About what, Jack?”

  Jack tugged again and Ethan gave in, lowering himself until he was all but lying on top of him.

  “Jack?”

  “It wasn’t for fun. It was for work.” Jack’s nose brushed Ethan’s cheek. He breathed in deep of the familiar scent, making things stir. “I don’t have fun anymore. Not with anyone but you. Meant to tell you that last time, dream boy.”

  Ethan pulled in a sharp breath. “Is that true? Or just the fever?” Before Jack even had time to think, let alone answer, he sat up and gently extracted Jack’s fingers from his jacket. “Let’s not talk about that now, Jack. Not when I can’t be sure you know it’s me you’re talking to.”

  What the actual fuck? Jack stared at him sitting stiffly on the side of the bed, so close but somehow isolated.

  Ethan began folding Jack’s clothes, even the T-shirt that had started this weird detour. “I’m going to go out and find you something better than lollies, Jack. You will rest while I’m gone, no arguments.”

  Maybe Jack hadn’t heard right. His ears were aching, admittedly, and sinc
e he didn’t have the energy for a fight, he decided to go for gold. “Let’s fuck.”

  Ethan let out a startled cough and turned to him, eyebrows arched. “Pardon?”

  Jack squirmed to get into position. “Let’s screw. It’ll be fun. Come on.”

  Ethan looked at him with such confusion, Jack wondered if he’d forgotten what to do so he went into great detail about how and where and why, which left him horny as hell and Ethan’s cheeks blazing with the hottest blush Jack had ever seen.

  “—and see, that way you’ll be in the perfect position for—”

  “Jack!” Ethan stood up so fast he sent the folded clothes flying. “Stop it. We’re not doing that. You’re ill!” With jerky motions, he picked up the clothes, steadfastly not looking at Jack.

  “I’m fine. Just hop on and we’ll have some fun,” Jack wheedled.

  Ethan’s mouth opened and closed several times, no sound emerging. Finally, he blurted, “It won’t be fun, Jack. Besides, there’s nothing to ‘hop on,’” and waved in the pertinent direction.

  “Of course there’s something . . .” Jack trailed off as he looked.

  He was sure there had been the Eiffel Tower of erections in his underwear. It had felt like there was at least a Leaning Tower of Pisa. What he found, however, was more Nullarbor Plains than Mount Everest.

  “Oh.”

  After a silent moment, Ethan snickered. “Yes, oh.” Coming back to the bed, he leaned down and rested his palm on Jack’s temple. “As amusing, and embarrassing, as you are when you’re sick, I’m going to get you some medicine. Now, please rest. I would hate it if you got worse.”

  The earnest words felt soothing in Jack’s chest but all that got through the fog in his head was that Ethan was leaving. Again. He didn’t want Ethan to go. Not after last time when he wasn’t sure he’d ever be back.

  “Stay.” Jack tried for stern, but it didn’t work because Ethan straightened, fixed his jacket and turned for the bedroom door. He needed something more to keep Ethan from going. “Stay and I’ll kiss you on the mouth.”

  Ethan stalled mid-step. Without looking back, he said, “Let me change that from amusing and embarrassing to inappropriate and embarrassing.”

  Then he left.

  The goddamned little shit actually left.

  Well. Fuck him. Figuratively.

  Jack tried to roll over, but the effort was too much. Everything ached. Unpleasantly. It didn’t matter because Jack didn’t need to sleep. He had work to do. Something about proving Delta Subject wasn’t a danger to anyone. He was going to do something . . . something like a . . . like a cognitive model. Yes. That’s what he was supposed to be doing, not dealing with Ethan’s issues.

  Closing his eyes, Jack tried a few meditative techniques to help him access his implant, but between the ache in his body and the throbbing in his head, nothing worked. He thought he got there at one point, when the overlay in his head flashed past, but when he tried to pull it back up it didn’t work.

  His last thought before weariness overtook him was that it was all, somehow, Ethan Blade’s fault . . .

  . . . that he was so hot. The fucking sun was about an inch from the burning ground, broiling Jack alive in his own fluids. Sweat poured from his head, soaking his hat, and down his back, sticking his shirt to his feverish skin. Not to mention his belly, totally wet from where it rubbed against Blade’s back with every awkward step the stupid camel took.

  Jesus. It would be easier without all the touching. How long had it been since Jack had felt another body against his? So long he couldn’t even make a guess. It meant nothing that he had a half-hard dick right now. Certainly didn’t mean he fancied Blade. Not at all. It was just all this crazy touching. The way Blade pressed his back into Jack’s chest, making him feel all of those strong, smooth plains; feel how his muscles shifted to keep him seated on this ridiculous animal. Making Jack want to groan at how Blade rolled with the camel’s gait like they were dancing together, bodies in tune, moving as one. As if they were in a club, grinding on each other, supple hips flowing with the beat of the music.

  So loud. The base beat thumping like a second heartbeat in Jack’s chest, taking over his limbs so all he could do was hold Ethan close and sway with him, let the music cover up all the thoughts he didn’t want to think. Just move. Just hold him. But Ethan left him. Like he always did. There, then gone.

  Then Jack was alone in the middle of the club, dizzied by the brightest darkness he’d ever seen. The shadows closed in, enveloping him in hazy occlusions, swamping him in a roiling mess of hot, close bodies. A shifting, undulating prison of beautiful young flesh, tanned and toned, sinuous and sensual. Hands sliding across his chest, tugging at his jeans, imploring him to stay and dance. Lips smiled and tongues teased, but he turned away. None of them were the one he wanted. They weren’t Ethan, his beautiful, damaged, deadly man who kept leaving him all alone . . .

  CHAPTER THREE

  . . . in his bed. The sheets were soaked with rank sweat, his body curled up tightly, like he was freezing. He was clutching a pillow to his chest, face buried in its damp softness. His throat was dry, tongue glued to the top of his mouth.

  Jack whimpered. He was dying. Surely he couldn’t come back from this. Even being shot hadn’t hurt like this. To add insult to everything else, he had to piss. It was, however, blessedly dark in his room, no lights were on and the blind was drawn, to keep out even the faint glow of Leichhardt at night.

  Time passed. No idea how much or if he was entirely conscious for it. All he really knew was that, eventually, he could move. Slow and cautiously, he managed to roll over. Another wiggle got him to the edge. It was mostly falling out of bed, but he ended up on his feet, propped up against the bedside table. Gravity seemed to fill his bladder even more.

  He made it in stages. From the bed to the tallboy against the wall, to the old recliner in the corner where his dirty clothes tended to pile up. A short stagger to the door, where he caught the frame in a death grip, convinced another step was impossible. He rested there until his bladder couldn’t be ignored anymore. He might be dying but he sure as shit wasn’t going to do it in the hallway, pissing himself. Down the hall, using the entrance to the living room as another stop point, then on to the bathroom. It was a victory to find the toilet seat already up. Ethan, he’d learned, preferred a closed commode. Lucky the bastard wasn’t here.

  Or was he? A few delirious images of Ethan swirled behind his aching eyes as he released his dick and aimed. Memories of the ride across the desert on Sheila the camel, the sound of his terribly British accent as he chided Jack for one thing or another, a sensation of his body pressed close as they danced.

  Danced? Jack shook the thought away. He and Ethan had never danced. Especially not at a club. It was just a fever dream. All of it just a crazy product of his flu.

  The relief as he peed was glorious. Nothing had ever felt better. His head even started to ease back on the suicidal pounding. A touch steadier, Jack washed his hands, then lifted handfuls of water to his mouth. He gulped down so much water his stomach started to feel queasy and still he felt dry.

  His reflection in the mirror scared him so he didn’t look and went scrounging through the cabinet for some drugs. Found some paracetamol, so he took four, which exhausted him. Leaving the blister pack on the sink, Jack headed back to bed. During his stop at the entrance to the living room an anomaly caught his attention. It took a good long while before what was odd about the scene registered.

  Soft light glowed in the far corner of the living room. The lamp on the end table beside the couch was on. Over the back of the couch was a tumble of colour, a corner of a crocheted blanket. The one Gran had made for her son, Jack’s dad. The one Jack had rescued from the box meant for the Salvation Army. A box packed by his sister, Meera, who’d been determined to discard anything that held sentimental value for Jack after they’d had to put their dad into a home. The blanket that lived in the chest beside the TV unit. The blanket Jack
only pulled out when he really missed his dad.

  Jack charged into the living room. Only his legs didn’t support him the entire way. Catching himself on the kitchen counter, he swore, hoarse and low.

  “Jack?” Ethan sprang off the couch, casting aside the blanket. He took one look at Jack and rather than go around the couch, flung himself over it and rushed to Jack’s side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were awake.” One strong arm went around Jack’s waist.

  Head swirling in surprise and confusion, Jack tried to push him away but only succeeded in nearly falling over.

  “Jack, don’t be silly. Come on, back to bed.”

  They were back in Jack’s bedroom before he put enough pieces together to form a coherent thought.

  “You’re here,” he croaked out.

  “Obviously. Though I did consider not coming back after your performance earlier.” Ethan settled Jack back into bed, propped up on his pillows.

  That hurt. “I’m a good dancer,” Jack insisted.

  Ethan sat on the edge of the mattress, smiling slightly. “I’ll have to take your word for that. I was however talking about your little seduction attempt.”

  “Huh?”

  A cool hand rested on Jack’s brow, then moved to his cheek and finally the side of his neck. “Still running a fever. Don’t you recall what you said to me before? About a kiss.”

  “A kiss?” Jack repeated, to be sure. A significant one, apparently. They kissed. A lot, in fact. Just not on the mouth. Kissing was Jack’s issue and one Ethan hadn’t pushed him on, thankfully.

  “Hmm. You clearly don’t remember, so let’s leave it alone. I do believe I said once how it was a good thing you couldn’t recall much while sick, or I’d have to defend my honour. Best we follow the same route here, as well.”