When the Devil Drives

by L. J. Hayward

  Christ. It must have been bad. “Sorry.”

  “Thank you, but it’s forgotten already. Can I trust you to stay put while I fetch the supplies I picked up for you?”

  “Yeah. I’m fucked.”

  “There’s the eloquent Jack Reardon I know so well.” Ethan patted his arm in parting.

  He returned quickly with a small box, two bottles of electrolyte-replacement drink and a cool cloth. The latter was draped across the back of Jack’s neck, making him moan in relief and miss the rest of the preparations.

  “How long has it been since the start of your symptoms?” Ethan asked while Jack wallowed in soothing coolness.

  “Had a headache all day. Aches started around mid-afternoon.”

  “Less than twenty-four hours, thankfully. All right, Jack. Roll over.”

  Eyes flying open, Jack opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly he was on his belly with little idea how he got there. A knee landed on his lower back, holding him down firmly but not painfully. Cool air hit his arse as Ethan pulled down his undies.

  “What the fuck?” Jack battled but he was too weak and Ethan too good at restraining struggling victims.

  “Just a little prick.”

  “You fucking—ow!” The sting of the needle was followed by a spreading pressure in his left cheek.

  “All done,” the smug bastard said, his fingers rubbing the site of the jab.

  Peering over his shoulder at what would otherwise be a pleasant view, Jack scowled. “What the hell was that?”

  “Antiviral medication. It should help stop you from getting any worse.” Ethan gave Jack’s bare arse a final, gentle pat before covering it again. “Enough fun for now. You should rest.”

  Wanting nothing more than to be cranky, Jack had to admit lying still and closing his eyes would be nice.

  “I’ll be in the living room if you need me, Jack. Just call. Or throw something.”

  “Throw you out if you hurt my blanket.” But he didn’t think Ethan heard him, as he was already gone and Jack was sinking back into the waiting embrace of sleep, immersed in images of . . .

  . . . Ethan curled up under his blanket with him. Snuggled in tight to Jack’s chest, the fringe of blue wool tucked right up under his chin, his head tipped back on Jack’s shoulder as he slept. Arms wrapped around his man within the cocooned warmth, Jack rested his cheek on Ethan’s head, unable to keep the smile off his face.

  “You seem really happy, Jack.”

  Looking up at the soft words, Jack’s neck warmed with a blush at being caught by his dad.

  Chris Reardon stood beside the couch Jack and Hamish had claimed, a glass tumbler of scotch in one hand, his ever-present book in the other. Blond and blue-eyed, the only physical traits he’d passed on to his son was his height and a lightening of the Indian-brown skin gained from his mother. Dad had often had to talk fast to convince people Meera and Jack were his kids. Seeing him now, no one would doubt the fatherly pride and love in his expression.

  At twenty-five years old and a newly inducted SAS soldier, Jack knew he shouldn’t be worried about his dad finding him cuddling another man. Especially not when he’d come out eight years earlier, after Dad had had to break up a fight between Jack and his first boyfriend, Ian, whom Jack had learned had been fucking around behind his back. Dad had never been upset by Jack’s sexual orientation.

  “Are you happy?” Dad sat in his favourite recliner, putting book and drink down so he could concentrate on Jack.

  Against him, Hamish stirred a little, burrowing in deeper. Jack’s arms tightened around him automatically.

  “Yeah, Dad. I am.” Jack whispered so as not to wake Hamish. His boyfriend just got in to Sydney that evening, the last leg of a long-haul flight from Afghanistan, where he’d been deployed while Jack went through SAS training in Australia. Jack had barely got a welcoming kiss before Ham was all but falling asleep in his arms, so Jack had pulled him down to the couch and covered them both with the crocheted blanket Gran had made. He hadn’t been thinking about the fact his father was in the house. All he’d wanted was contact with the man he was going to spend the rest of his life with.

  Dad smiled. “He’s a good bloke. How is he? Apart from tired.”

  “Good, I think. He didn’t say much, just that he doesn’t want either of us to go back.”

  Those intense blue eyes pinned Jack. “You haven’t told him.”

  Uncertainty coiled through Jack’s belly, at odds with the secure weight of his lover on his chest. “I couldn’t do it over the phone, and he went to sleep so fast now.”

  “Jacky.” A single word filled with all the parental resignation Dad could muster, which was a shit load.

  “Dad.” Jack felt like he was fifteen, not twenty-five, and defending whatever stupid decision he’d made back then.

  “No, Jack.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched. He didn’t like what he was going to say but he met Jack’s gaze squarely. “I won’t let you do this again. You don’t talk to anyone about how you’re feeling and instead, you go off and do these stupid things. Uncle Raj’s wedding.”

  Jack shrugged the memory away, jostling Hamish so he grumbled in his sleep.

  “When Meera got pregnant.”

  “Even you had a flip out about that one.”

  “Yes, but at least I didn’t torch her boyfriend’s car.”

  “You wanted to,” Jack muttered.

  It was Dad’s turn to wave it off, then he hit back hard and ruthlessly. “When your mother died. You joined the army, Jack, without talking to us.”

  A staunch pacifist, Dad had cried when Jack admitted what he’d done. From the moment they’d been told Jack’s mum, Usha, had perished in an explosion in her native India, through all the preparations and then the funeral, and after, when they’d come back to Australia without her, Jack had not seen his father cry. But he had cried when Jack said he’d joined the army. In the end, Dad had forgiven him. Meera hadn’t and he doubted she ever would.

  “And now this,” Dad continued, his tone soft, concerned. “You knew Ham didn’t like the idea of you trying for the SAS, and yet you did it all the same. You have to tell him now.”

  Head shaking, Jack squeezed Ham even tighter, knowing somewhere deep inside he’d hurt their relationship by doing this. Yet he hadn’t been able to do anything else. Couldn’t waste the recommendation Captain Hollingsworth had offered to get him accepted for SAS trials. If he had any chance of doing something about his mother’s death, it would be with the elite forces.

  “Jacky,” Dad tried again. “If you don’t, and Ham finds out from someone else, it’ll be worse.”

  “Dad.” Jack hated the plaintive whine in his voice. “I can’t.”

  “You have to. Either you tell him and let him decide how he feels for himself, or he hears it somewhere else and gets angry.”

  Jack had often been accused of having a short fuse but Ham left him for dead. The difference was, Ham forgave. Jack didn’t. Though he feared this might be the time Hamish wouldn’t, or couldn’t, forgive.

  “Do it,” Dad insisted. “Jack, let him . . .

  . . . go.”

  No. He wouldn’t let Ham go. Jack loved him, needed him. He held on tighter.

  “Jack, you’re hurting me. If you don’t let go, I’ll be forced to make you.”

  Strange how Ham suddenly sounded British, and not the exaggerated, tosser accent he used when telling jokes. The one Jack found himself falling back on when teasing Ethan.

  Ethan.

  “Oh, fuck.” Jack jerked his arms up and eyes open at the same time.

  Ruffled and annoyed, Ethan levered himself up and away from the tangle of Jack’s limbs and twisted sheets. He moved quickly but not so fast Jack missed the thin line of his mouth, the narrowed eyes and the hands clenched into fists.

  Fucking brilliant. He’d managed, again, somehow, to piss Ethan off without even trying. Jack rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head. This had better be
a dream.

  “At least you’re awake now.”

  The words were muffled but understandable. Tone, however, was a bit muddled. Jack couldn’t tell if Ethan was angry, bored or amused. Either of the latter two would be fine. Still, best to get it over with fast. Like pulling out a knife.

  Jack lifted the pillow. “Anything I have to apologise for?”

  There was a short silence, and then Ethan sighed. “No. It was my own fault. I heard you tossing about and came to see if you were all right. You were talking in your sleep and despite knowing better, I leaned in to hear if it was anything important. You grabbed me and wouldn’t let go.”

  That didn’t sound too bad. “Despite knowing better? I’ve done this before?”

  Ethan had on a pair of Jack’s pyjama bottoms, which he adjusted back to a proper height. “Yes. In the desert.” He paused, looked away, and added, “You called me Hamish back then as well.”

  “Oh.” Heat rushed through Jack’s face. “Sorry. He was—”

  “You have no need to tell me, Jack. It’s none of my business.”

  Jack nodded along for the sake of keeping the peace. After the last visit he was starting to wonder if perhaps it was Ethan’s business.

  Ethan came back to the bed and felt Jack’s forehead. “I think your temperature’s come down.”

  “I feel better.” He didn’t really, but he didn’t want Ethan to jab him again.

  A quick smile curled Ethan’s lips. “If you have one of the drinks I got you, I might even believe you.”

  Grumbling, purely for form, Jack struggled up and took one of the bottles of drink, promising payback if it was raspberry. It was an indeterminably flavoured blue one, which was okay, so Jack drank it down in several goes. Satisfied, Ethan suggested a shower and himself as a crutch. Getting wet and soapy with Ethan was usually one of Jack’s preferred hobbies, but this time it was purely functional. Without Ethan’s support he wouldn’t have made it through washing his hair, let alone the rest of his body.

  Clean, dry and dressed, Jack was deposited on the couch while Ethan went to get him something to eat. The couch faced the balcony and the blinds on the sliding door were open, showing off the city as it shone brightly under an autumnal sun. From the shadows he guessed it to be close to midday. Nearly twelve hours since Harry and Scott had grabbed him out of the Slayed office. He could have checked his implant for the exact time, but even though he wasn’t feeling quite like a Mack truck had hit him, backed up and got him again, he still wasn’t keen on too many mental hurdles.

  The exact time didn’t matter though, not when Ethan returned with a bowl of soup. The salty warmth pooled in his empty stomach and spread through him pleasantly, making him think he could probably sleep again. Ethan drifted off first, though, stretched out on the couch, his feet pressed against the far armrest, head nestled on Jack’s thigh. His sunglasses went wonky so Jack gently removed them and encouraged him to turn so his face was towards Jack’s belly, not the sunlit balcony.

  It didn’t take long for Jack to realise Ethan was honestly asleep. A true, deep, restful sleep. Normally, he only slept like that when they were in bed, sweaty from the battle of driving each other insane with lust. He must have been tired.

  There had been plenty of times over the past months when Jack had watched Ethan sleep, naked, sated physically, a small smile on his mouth. Never before, though, had he ever looked as vulnerable as he did now. Dressed in more than socks, peaceful without the satiated sprawl of a body well fucked. Jack watched with half-lidded eyes and fevered bemusement as dark strands curled over his fingers as he carded them through Ethan’s hair. He’d worried he wouldn’t get the chance to do this again and hoped like hell this wasn’t a delusion.

  Ethan sighed and shifted against his thigh, burrowing his face into the curve of Jack’s abdomen.

  In that moment, Jack’s fever dream came back to him: sitting on a different couch, with a different man.

  For a second, his chest hurt when he thought about Hamish, of how he hadn’t been brave enough to tell him about being accepted into the SAS. He saw again, as clear as the sight of Ethan now, Ham’s burst of anger when he found out from a mate in the barracks. Watched once more as Ham walked away from him. He never came back, and never did forgive Jack.

  Different couch, different man, but the same fear.

  They needed to talk before Ethan disappeared, but Jack fell asleep before he could muster the energy to do it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Jack.”

  Coming out of it was easier this time, though there was a moment when Jack found himself looking not at Ethan or his apartment, but at the implant overlay. Apart from the usual running applications, there was an extra flashing dot. Ethan shook him again before he could tap the dot to see what it was, making the image vanish as his concentration broke. This time, Ethan shuffled into focus, the concerned frown between his dark brows smoothing out when he realised Jack was fully awake.

  “What did I do this time?” Jack resigned himself to another apology.

  Ethan smiled. “Nothing. Well, apart from calling me Harry and declaring he looked ridiculous in your shirt.”

  “Great. And he did look stupid. Way too big on him.”

  Flashes of his dream came back: the nightclub again, that moment when he’d thought he’d recognised Dixie Normous; the argument with Harry, when Jack announced that as the only gay man in the car he had to be the one who went into the club.

  Ethan fed him more paracetamol, refused him a coffee and offered more soup for dinner. Sitting across the table from Ethan, watching him as he ate, Jack poked at his feelings like a tongue testing a sore tooth. That sense of connection, of belonging, was still there. The admission of needing, and wanting, more was as strong as it had been on the Gold Coast. The emotional machinegun he’d unloaded on Katie was still riddling him with bullets. Nothing had changed. He wanted Ethan in his life, more than he was already, deeper than he was. And it scared him to death.

  Wish you were here?

  Sometimes, though, less than he once did.

  After dinner, Jack trundled back to bed. He wasn’t feeling as exhausted or fuzzy as he had been but thought it best to get in bed before he couldn’t do it on his own and Ethan decided to carry him or something equally ludicrous. A couple of minutes later, Ethan joined him, settling onto his usual side with a book. No matter how pretty the person was, watching them read wasn’t terribly entertaining, so Jack pestered Ethan until he began to read aloud. It didn’t take long before Jack was bored again, despite the outrageous action sequences.

  “Ethan?” Jack interrupted a particularly amusing moment where the characters were shocked that going over a cliff should end in them actually falling.

  “Yes, Jack?”

  “Are you okay?”

  Ethan frowned at him. “In what sense?”

  “I mean, do you feel all right? You’re not getting sick?”

  Patiently, Ethan marked the page with a bookmark. “I’m fine. Unlike some, I had an anti-flu vaccination. I’m surprised the Office doesn’t offer them to the staff.”

  Jack took the book and threw it across the room. “They do. Had one, even. Guess I’m just that unlucky.” Then he made his advance.

  “Jack?” Ethan asked warily. “What are you doing?”

  “Hoping like fuck I’m distracting you,” he answered with his mouth pressed to the strip of Ethan’s exposed abdomen between shirt and pants. “If I’m not, I must really be sick.”

  “Never fear, objective accomplished. I take it you don’t wish to be read to anymore.” Ethan’s skin shivered under the touch of Jack’s tongue and teeth. One of his hands landed on the back of Jack’s head, fingers twining through his black curls.

  “Nope.” Jack nuzzled under the hem of Ethan’s shirt. “Take it off.”

  “I don’t believe you’re ready for sex yet, Jack.”

  Jack sat up long enough to wrestle the shirt off Ethan, and then his own. “Not plannin
g on sex.” He pulled Ethan down so he was on his back and settled over him, kissing his way across Ethan’s clavicles. “Just this, for a while.”

  Ethan made a soft, agreeing noise, then a few more encouraging sounds that, combined with the taste and texture against his lips, made Jack’s dick give serious thought to doing something interesting. Things never got past the “thought” stage, though. For Jack, at least. Ethan quickly developed a significant bulge, which Jack headed for before realising he’d greatly overestimated his stamina. By the time he reached Ethan’s belly button, which he teased with his tongue, making Ethan squirm, Jack was so tired he could barely keep his face up enough to not suffocate against Ethan’s skin. Not an entirely bad way to go but not exactly dignified, either.

  Defeated, Jack rolled off him, landing on his back with a part-weary, part-pained grunt. “Sorry. Guess I couldn’t even keep that up for a while.”

  Ethan moved over and put a soft kiss on Jack’s cheek. “It’s all right. I liked it all the same. Do you need anything before going to sleep? A drink? Paracetamol?”

  Flinging an arm over his face, Jack just nodded. Ethan slipped out of bed and padded away on socked feet, discreetly adjusting his still hard dick as he went.

  Jack hated being weak. Couldn’t give his man a blowjob and couldn’t make it out of bed with any sort of composure to get his own drink. Thankfully, when Ethan returned, sans erection, he put the gear on the table next to Jack and got under the covers on his side. This, at least, Jack could do on his own. Pity about everything else over the last two days.

  Jack swallowed some pills, drank half the bottle and then settled down again. Ethan lay close, but not touching. It was hard to tell if he thought Jack needed space, or if he was disappointed about the fooling around not getting far at all. If things had reached their usual, happy ending, Jack was sure Ethan would have been all over him now. Quite literally. Instead, there was space. Space Jack wanted to cross but wasn’t sure if he should. Wasn’t sure if Ethan if was pissed to be all worked up and then put aside, unsatisfied.