by Tinnean
“Of course.”
He was silent for a little while, and thinking he was tired, I turned on the radio. Every station was playing Christmas music, even that classical one, so I chose one at random and whistled along softly.
It was an old song from the fifties about being someone’s Christmas present, past, and always, and I’d heard it one Christmas when one of my old lady’s men had sung it to her. She’d been sober for a change, but of course that hadn’t lasted, and neither had the man. He’d been gone by New Year’s Eve.
Quinn turned down the volume. “Do you… do you really like the throw Mother crocheted for you?”
“Yeah. No one’s ever made me anything by hand.” It was a zigzag pattern in black, white, and gray, and it was so soft I’d been tempted to rub it against my cheek.
She’d needed to do something while her usual activities had been restricted. She’d also crocheted her son a pair of foot-warmers.
He rubbed my thigh, and when I gave him a quick glance, I could see a contented smile on his face.
I went back to whistling through my teeth. Yeah, of everything I’d received this Christmas, Quinn was my best present.
We reached the gate of Aspen Reach, and I pressed the remote clipped to the visor. The barrier swung open to let us in, and I drove through and parked in front of my building.
We took our booty up to my condo. It took a few seconds to unlock the door in the correct sequence.
“Have you ever thought of getting one of those gadgets that uses sound to unlock it?”
“Nah, too easy to copy. Look, I’ve got to put the car away.” I’d been allotted a one-car garage, and the condo association got pissy if cars were left on the street overnight. “Want to come?”
“You don’t need me to watch your back, tough guy.”
“Smartass. I didn’t ask you to come because of that.”
“Mark.” He held onto to the lapels of my overcoat and looked up into my eyes. “Of course I’ll come.” And then he repeated the words I’d said to him once. “Don’t I always?”
“Quinn.” I leaned down and kissed him. “Let’s go.”
We took our time walking back to my building. It was a perfect night—the stars, the crescent moon, the cold air, and the silence. Quinn paused from time to time to admire the lights and decorations.
“All we need is snow.” He laughed softly. “Well, more snow than earlier.”
“A white Christmas like they promised us? I can’t remember the last time we had one.” Too many times I’d been out of the country.
“Neither can I, although I remember one when my father was still alive. We went to Midnight Mass, and afterward….” He talked about the light snowfall that had covered everything with a dusting of white, about the walk through it to the car, about everyone arriving at his parents’ home for a light meal of sandwiches and snacks. It was a nice memory.
I was glad he had elected to come with me.
When I let us into my condo, Quinn asked, “Would you like some hot chocolate?”
“I don’t think I’ve got any cocoa mix.”
“I make it from scratch.”
“In that case, I know I don’t have the ingredients in the condo.”
“Don’t you?”
“Huh?”
“Mark, Mark, Mark.” He crooked his finger, and I followed him through the kitchen to the pantry, helpless to do anything else.
“How the fuck did that get there?” On a shelf was a sack of sugar, a bottle of pure vanilla extract, and unsweetened cocoa powder. He gave me a look that said he’d expected me to be more observant that that. And I realized he must have brought them here himself. “Okay, fine. You’re determined I try out Novotny’s gift, aren’t you?”
He just smiled. “Let’s hang up our overcoats, and I’ll get started.”
We walked back into my entryway, and he opened the closet door, smiling a little as I slid his coat down off his arms. He took it from me and hung it up.
“You’re such a sucker for the traditional.”
“I guess.” He bumped shoulders with me. “But you still like me?”
“Well, yeah.” I hung my coat beside his, close, even though there was plenty of room.
“Why don’t you start a fire?”
“Sounds good.”
By the time I had the gas fire ignited, the scent of chocolate was already filling the air.
I turned on the lights on the tiny tree that sat on the window seat. Under the tree was a small, square jewel case. “Quinn,” I called, “what’s this?”
“I thought we could use a little Christmas music, Mark.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Now you do.”
“Nice choice!” It was Nat King Cole. I opened the case, and put the CD into the player.
“I’m glad you approve.” Quinn was smiling as he came in. His tie was undone, he was shoeless, and he carried a tray with two mugs, one the mug he used when he stayed over, and the other Novotny’s gift to me. There was a peppermint stick in each one and a big dollop of whipped cream.
“Oh, that looks really good.” I took mine and sipped cautiously, not wanting to burn my tongue. I had other plans for it.
Quinn put his mug down on the coffee table and came to me. “Hot chocolate is good, but making out with you is better.” He took my mug and put it beside his own.
“So we’re gonna make out?”
“Among other things.” He slipped his fingers into the waistband of my trousers and tugged me closer. “You’ve got some whipped cream on your lip.”
I started to lick it off, but he was there before me, and our tongues met. The kiss didn’t last long enough. He drew back a bit.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“That furrier you recommended for Mother’s lynx coat.”
“My pleasure. I’m glad he did a competent job.”
“Competent? It was beyond competent, Mark! There was so much damage I wasn’t sure if he’d have it ready for Christmas, if at all.”
It would have been his ass if it hadn’t been.
“I really thought Mother was going to cry when she saw what was in the box.”
I knew the coat meant a lot to her. It had been given to her by her husband; Nigel Mann had been the love of her life. I also knew that since she’d been widowed in ’78, she had never been involved with another man.
“I guess she was touched by both our gifts.” My fingers were on Quinn’s hips, kneading them.
“She never asked what happened to it, you know. I guess she assumed it was too ruined to salvage and didn’t want to know if I’d had to dispose of it.”
“You’re a good man. Y’know something, Quinn? I—” I realized what I’d been about to say and quickly changed it. “I’m glad you realized it was me and not Skip Patterson who interviewed your mother.”
His hand was warm on the back of my neck, and he pulled my face down for another kiss. But before our lips touched, he murmured, “Y’know something, Mark? So am I.”
Blue Moon
I
WEXLER was a senator with delusions of a presidency dancing in his head. He’d set into motion events that had led to the car crash that resulted in my mother being seriously injured.
That hadn’t been his intention, of course. No, I was supposed to be the one in that hospital bed, if not in the morgue, and with me out of the way, Mother would, according to Wexler’s thinking, fall into his palm like a ripe plum.
It hadn’t worked out that way. Instead, one thing after another had gone wrong for him. His aide had been killed when his car collided with a bridge abutment. His wife had been severely injured when she’d… crashed her vehicle into a tree—there had been a spate of motor vehicle accidents over the course of those few days.
I’d brought a civil case against the senator. It would probably come to nothing, but it would cost him, and fuck what the law firm I’d hired said, I’d bankrupt myself before I let th
em drop it.
And while the wheels of justice were grinding exceeding slow, the senator had other things to worry about: he’d lost first his position on the Senate Appropriations Committee, then his seat in the Senate, and finally, proceedings had gone into effect that would eventually see him disbarred. He’d never be able to practice law again.
Those weren’t happenstances. Every single one had been engineered by my lover, although Mark denied being involved with any of them.
I thought it would be enough. I was a civilized man, after all.
Christmas was a day of revelations, however. We returned from our annual visit to my father’s grave at Arlington, and I watched as Gregor and my uncle, matching their pace to Mother’s, walked beside her to the front steps of the home I had grown up in. They paused, and Jefferson took Mother’s cane, strode up the steps, and opened the door. Gregor picked her up and carried her inside.
And I was almost overcome by rage.
That was the day I realized I wasn’t as civilized as I’d thought. I prided myself on being cool and in control, however, just as my parents had been. I never lost my temper. Rather I became colder and colder. I was the Ice Man, after all.
Except, of course, when it came to Mark Vincent, who was the only man to drive me almost beyond the point of control. When I’d received word that he was dead, and then discovered that he wasn’t, my temper had flared hot and high. We’d fucked, and then less than twenty-four hours later, I’d learned his apartment had blown up and him with it. Shaken, I’d gone to the morgue to verify this for myself. The charred body was too thin, too short, but the attendant kept insisting that was due to the damage done by the explosion. And who should walk in at that moment but Mark Vincent himself, as big as life and twice as annoying. I’d invited him to come to my town house and even offered to feed him—God alone knew why. At that point I was willing to do him some serious damage. If I hadn’t had something else to vent my fury on, I’d have been willing to thrust the knife I’d used to trim the crusts from his sandwich through his heart.
Now I reined in my fury. Cold was what everyone—Mark included—expected when they looked at me, not raging wrath, and this day wouldn’t be any different.
“Damn Wexler!” I kept my words low and measured. “God damn his soul to eternal hell for what he’s done to my mother!”
“You don’t think his humiliation was enough?” Mark asked mildly.
I gave him my coolest look. “No, it’s not nearly enough.”
Mark, being Mark, simply said, “Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
I remembered Sperling, the Director of Interior Affairs for the WBIS, who’d made the egregious error of crossing my lover, and I had no doubt that the only reason Wexler was still alive was because Mark had decided it wasn’t time to kill him yet.
“Mark, I want to be there.” He opened his mouth, and I knew he was going to refuse me, tell me he worked alone. I wasn’t going to allow him to refuse me. “She’s my mother. She was in my car. That should have been me in that hospital bed.”
His eyes went suddenly cold and flat. “Okay, Quinn.” That look had never been directed at me, not even when we’d faced off against each other at the Wyman Bros. Warehouse over the briefcase containing Bruchner’s useless, worthless cyclotron. “But I give the orders. Agreed?”
At that point, I would have agreed to anything if it would result in Richard Wexler in unending, unremitting, unendurable pain.
I trusted Mark, had trusted him even before he’d defied his organization’s policies and come to Paris to rescue me, when my own Company would have left me to die.
Because I trusted him, I didn’t press him. He’d told me we’d deal with Senator Wexler together. I was a patient man. I could wait, and revenge would be all the sweeter.
We went into my mother’s home to celebrate the day.
LATER that evening, we returned to Mark’s condo, and although I made cocoa from scratch, it grew cold as we found other ways to occupy ourselves.
At the moment, we were lying on Mark’s bed, our breathing slowly returning to normal. We hadn’t slept much the night before, and I sprawled on my stomach and burrowed my head in my pillow, waiting for sleep to overtake me.
“It’s kind of short notice, but we both have this week off and…. Want to spend some time with me on Isla del Placer Escarpado?” he asked. He traced the line of my vertebrae from the hollow at the base of my skull down to my tailbone.
“Hmm?” I raised my head and blinked at him, trying to translate the Spanish. “Island of…?”
“Sheer Delight.” He grinned and rubbed his thumb over the spot at the base of my spine that he knew was almost as sensitive as my nipples, and I bit back a groan and arched into his touch. “It’s off the east coast of Costa Rica.”
“I thought the only island off the east coast is Uvita?” Which was where Columbus had first set foot on his final voyage in 1502.
“Yeah, you’d think, wouldn’t you?” He pinched my ass. “It’s mine.”
Where had he found another island in that span of the Caribbean?
Of course he wasn’t going to tell me.
“How did you find out about Uvita?” he asked. “Getting ready for Paramaribo?”
“Bastard. You know I’ve only been there in passing.” That was where Wexler had wanted Edward Holmes to send me. “So we’re going to your island?” I was pleased that he wanted me to see it.
“Yep. I’ve got a little house off the beach. The weather’s pretty good right now, though not as warm as later in the season.”
“From what I recall, the east coast has a lot of rain.”
“Not a problem.” He grinned. “If it does rain, I’m sure I can come up with something that will keep us busy.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I remembered the weekend when we’d played Monopoly, watched DVDs, and made out to CDs. “I always knew you were a man of many capabilities.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
“I’ll need to go back to my place. To pack.”
“We could pick up what you need at the airport. It won’t be much. Toothbrush. Condoms. Lube.”
“I’d feel more comfortable with at least a single change of clothes.” I smiled, although he couldn’t see it. “And a swimsuit.”
“Spoilsport.”
I opened my mouth to say something snarky in response, but, “Mmm,” was what came out instead. He had become busy nuzzling the spot just beneath my ear.
“Like that, baby?”
“You know I do.” I could feel his smile.
“Listen, Quinn. You don’t have to go to your place.” His words were warm puffs of breath against the dampness of my skin. “You have spare clothes here. And I have an extra duffel you can use.”
“All right.”
“Good boy.”
“Mark!”
“Shhh.” He returned his attention to my neck, and I wallowed in the sensation, enjoying the knowledge that we’d be doing this for an extended length of time.
A thought occurred to me, and I knew I had to tell him before I became completely distracted by his actions. “Mark?”
“Hmm?”
“We…. Oh, I like that!” What was I saying? Oh, yes. “We need to be back by next Tuesday at the latest.”
Mark took his mouth from my neck. “Work?”
“No. Please don’t stop!” Obediently, he went back to licking and sucking on my neck. “It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’d like us to spend it with the family.”
He raised his head again. “Us? As in me too?”
“Yes, you too.” I blinked the haze of pleasure from my eyes and waited to hear him come up with some objection, gathering my wits to shoot it down.
“Are you sure?”
I reached behind and pinched his ass. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Ouch.”
“I didn’t pinch you that hard!”
“Sure you didn’t, Quinn. Okay, I’ll be there. Now why don’t you shut up and go to
sleep?” He grabbed my hand. I was going to pinch him again. “Ah, ah, ah.”
Smiling into the arm that cradled my head, I closed my eyes and relaxed into sleep.
II
“YOU’RE not wearing that, are you?” Mark stared at me as I came out of his master bedroom, the spare bag slung over my shoulder.
“You don’t like what I’m wearing?”
“No, it’s nice. But we’re going on vacation.”
“And?” I swallowed a smile.
“Don’t you know how to dress casual?”
“This is casual, Mark.” I gestured down at my dark taupe Italian cotton trousers, the blue silk-cotton twill shirt, and moc slip-ons.
“Jeans, Quinn!”
“I don’t have any jeans.” There wasn’t a single pair in my wardrobe. I thought of that afternoon months earlier, when I’d imagined what it would have been like if he and I had met years before, during the Summer Olympics of 1980. My fantasy Mark had promised to buy me a pair of jeans. “However, you’ll notice I’m not wearing a tie.”
He shook his head. “Never mind. We’ve got to get going or we’ll miss our flight.”
“The airline would dare allow it to take off without you?”
“Ha ha.” He tossed me my overcoat, slid his arms into his own, and hoisted his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Just one thing, Mark.”
“What?”
I kissed him. “Okay. Now we can go.”
III
LATER that morning we flew into Miami International, making our connecting flight with time to spare. We removed our overcoats and stored them in the overhead compartments, along with our duffel bags.
Because there was no direct flight, we changed planes three more times, hopscotching from Liberia in northwestern Costa Rica to San Jose before catching a final, local flight to Limón.
When we arrived on the east coast, Mark hailed a cab, and in Spanish that was lightly accented with Portuguese directed the driver to an out-of-the-way jetty. Once there, he waited only until the driver unlatched the trunk, then took our duffel bags himself.
