by Helena Maeve
They weren’t exactly inconspicuous. Surely the uniformed guard who bid Klaus to roll down his window realized as much when she asked for their papers.
Klaus handed them over, the picture of nonchalance.
“Where are you headed?” asked the customs officer, in English.
Klaus replied in Bulgarian, too fast for Arthur to translate. He was beginning to think that the skills he’d been hired for more often than not were just false advertising. Speaks in tongues and misses twice. That should have been the tag line on his resume, just like Klaus’ was probably quiet but deadly.
More frustrating still, he was also often right.
The customs officer wished them a good trip and waved them off, her round eyes already seeking out the next car.
“I don’t get it,” Arthur admitted as they pulled away from the checkpoint. “She didn’t even ask us to pop the boot…”
“Why would she? We’re not suspicious.”
Detachment suited Klaus well, but Arthur still found it grating, the way even silk started to itch if worn too often. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say this isn’t your car.”
“You could say that.”
“And whoever you stole it from must have reported it…” Waiting for a reply from Klaus was like waiting for the oracle to speak. Arthur sighed. “What about the plates? Stolen? Manufactured just for little ol’ me?”
Klaus slanted a glance at him. “Yes.”
“Seriously?” That was surprising. It lent further credence to the assumption that this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. Robin had been planning to extract him from Berlin for some time. “Aw, you shouldn’t have. I didn’t get you anything.”
“Nonsense. You’re a headache in the flesh.”
Despite himself, Arthur grinned. “Did you just crack a joke? I didn’t realize they installed that drive. Well, this changes everything…” And nothing, all at the same time. “So where did you say we were headed now? I know Cairo’s the final destination, but…”
“I didn’t.”
Arthur snorted, only partly annoyed. “Of course not.” He might run if he knew. He might be able to plan ahead. Wouldn’t want that.
Outside the bug-dappled window, the Bulgarian countryside drew itself in sharp hues of emerald and gold. Puffy white clouds soared idly on a powder-blue backdrop. It was a child’s drawing of the world, spattered with the occasional power line, the odd crumbling farmhouse. It might have been Germany, or Serbia.
Arthur wasn’t fooled by the similarities. He knew where they were now, where they were headed. If Klaus wanted to avoid Greece, that meant their next stop was Turkey. He smiled. Even with an escort, it shouldn’t be too hard to get lost in the swarming Istanbul crowds—and from there, it would be an easy trek to freedom.
Turkey’s borders were notoriously porous. In a week’s time, Arthur could be anywhere in the Middle East, with no one to answer to.
* * * *
Klaus made the call to stop at the roadside motel only a few hours after they cleared customs and bore the brunt of Arthur’s taunts as a result.
“Next time I’ll keep driving until I fall asleep at the wheel,” he promised.
The clerk had asked far fewer questions at the desk before handing over two room keys, but she was just as apathetic as her Hungarian homologue as she told them the elevator was out of order.
Klaus had the suitcases, so Arthur trudged behind him slowly, tapping the key against his thigh. “Or you could let me drive,” he suggested.
“I could.”
“But you won’t.” Arthur clucked his tongue. “You know, this relationship is never going to work out if you won’t give me the benefit of doubt. When have I ever made you think I’m untrustworthy? And don’t say back at the gas station,” he added, staving off a reply with a knuckle between Klaus’s shoulder blades. “That was an error of judgment.”
“And Jules?”
Arthur frowned. “What about her?”
Klaus heaved a breath and dropped the suitcases to the tile floor. He plucked the room key out of Arthur’s hands and slotted it into the reader. “You tried to take her on. Twice.”
“I think it was a few more than that.”
The door clicked open. Klaus waved him through with a smirk, as though Arthur had just made his point for him.
It was a smaller room than the last, which Arthur hadn’t thought possible. He could have tolerated the size for the sake of austere décor—white walls, white ceiling, faux-mahogany Ikea furniture—if it wasn’t for one small detail. “There’s only one bed.” A modest queen, at that, with two mints on each pillow.
“Yes,” Klaus said. He didn’t sound perturbed by the discovery.
Arthur jumped when the door swung shut. “You knew.”
“They had nothing else.” Klaus arched his eyebrows, forehead crinkling like parchment. “Is this a problem?”
Yes. “No, of course not.” Arthur rolled his eyes. Confessing otherwise could be dangerous, even with Klaus. “I’m going to take a shower,” he announced brazenly.
A closed door, a small room, the running shower—all elements that could help drown out the vicious pounding of his heart.
You’re worrying for nothing. He’s not interested in you. And why should he be?
The man staring back at Arthur from the mirror was in dire need of a haircut and a shave. The dark circles under his eyes gave him all the appeal of a Victorian consumptive. It should have been a relief.
Arthur turned away from the mirror, nameless frustration roiling in the pit of his stomach.
Chapter Nine
John Wayne movies hadn’t held Arthur’s interest since the first time he’d fired a gun. Nothing badass about it—his dad’s pistol had simply discharged in his hand, the safety having somehow slipped when Arthur was pretending to be the fastest draw in the West.
Oops, now there’s blood on the carpet.
Klaus made no move to change the channel.
From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw him mouth along to the staid, tough-guy dialog, every line matched to perfection. He knew the film. Had he watched it the last time he was tasked with doing Robin’s dirty work? Or was it a Sunday afternoon treat, the kind of unremarkable hobby that spies gave in to, same as regular folks?
Did Klaus even have a home in which he could spend his weekends lazing about in front of the idiot box? Imagining him with a life and pastimes was nearly impossible. To Arthur, Klaus had first entered the world when he first materialized in Jules’ loft and took him away. Jules must have trusted him—at least enough to put Arthur in his care and vanish gratefully into the night. And Klaus had proved himself by killing Tomaso to ensure their escape.
But what proof do I have that you work for Robin? Arthur chewed the inside of his cheek. You could be MI6, giving me the run-around. Or you could be SVR. Mossad. You could work for the Macias family.
Like Tomaso.
“If you don’t trust me,” he heard himself say, “how come the handcuffs don’t make more of a regular appearance?”
Klaus didn’t look away from the screen. “You miss them already?”
The pair he’d used on Arthur in the car was tight, but not as tight as the ones Jules favored. Arthur knew that the lingering touch-memory was at least fifty-percent fancy. It didn’t stop bitterness from thickening his voice when he replied, “I didn’t say that.”
His tone must have tipped Klaus off, because Arthur heard the scrape of his short, curly hair against the pillows. He felt the weight of Klaus’ stare on him.
“I’m a dangerous criminal,” Arthur powered on hastily. “You could make the case that locking me up is safer for everyone.”
Klaus’ silence stretched over the sound of gunshots and fake death screams. “You wouldn’t last a day.”
“I look weak to you?”
To Arthur’s surprise, Klaus shook his head. “You have too many enemies.”
“So? I’m cannon fodder. I’ve never had access to anyone important.
I’m a contractor at best. I don’t have any secrets worth protecting—”
Klaus laid a hand on his thigh. It proved an effective way of taking the wind out of his sails. “You work for Robin now… Remember?” His voice was low, conciliatory, as though he thought he could talk Arthur off the ledge with a few kind words and a companionable pat on the back. Or, in this case, the leg.
You’re lying. This was a test. Dithering, Arthur covered Klaus’ hand with his. A test I’m failing.
He registered the sudden jolt of tension that traveled through Klaus’ arm as an afterthought. The important thing was that Klaus didn’t shake him off.
“In the car,” Arthur started, “you said—”
“I meant it.”
Arthur dragged his thumb along the jut of Klaus’ knuckles, mapping out the dips and rises of his spread digits and trying not to think about breaking each one. GCHQ didn’t invent seduction as a tool of statecraft any more than they’d invented political assassination for that same purpose. Arthur had learned the tricks of the trade long before he started masquerading as a grunt in their service.
He knew when to take a man at his word and when to skirt objection. Klaus wasn’t so hard to read once his gaze dipped to Arthur’s mouth. Just flesh and bone beneath that glacial camouflage, aren’t you? Perhaps most tellingly of all, Klaus didn’t push him off when Arthur leaned in. Their lips brushed chastely, contact barely worthy of being termed a kiss. Arthur made no attempt to deepen it. If he’d read Klaus correctly when tempers were running hot in the car, then surrendering control was likely to work better than the reverse.
After a beat, he sighed and sank back to his side of the bed unmolested, headboard creaking. Arthur made himself look at the screen and not Klaus, not the shape of his lips or the furrow between his brows. He dismissed the tension that coursed through his body like a shock wave.
“And I meant that,” Arthur murmured. “So…deal with it.”
Heart rattling, he did his level best to watch the rest of the movie. It wasn’t difficult to figure out who he was meant to root for or who was a bad guy about to bite it. Fiction was simple that way. The swelling orchestral soundtrack even singled out the romantic interest—a pretty redhead with perfect hair who just happened to make eyes at the hero in the middle of a firefight. Then again, Arthur doubted that anyone looked to John Wayne films for realism.
Even Klaus, who took his sweet time hoisting his gaze back to the TV screen, must have needed to escape into painted cardboard sets and fake blood from time to time.
Another commercial break came and went before Arthur gave up on fighting sleep. His eyes were drooping, nothing but road and more road smeared on the inside of his lids when he finally closed them. He was still upright when the mattress squeaked.
“It’s okay,” Klaus whispered. “Be right back. Just—go back to sleep.” He made to rest a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his skin radiating heat, then seemed to think better of it and retrieved his hand.
Without the TV’s white light or the glow of reading lamps on either side of the bed, Klaus was a broad shadow skulking around the room in the dark. Even silhouetted in the bathroom neon, he still didn’t look particularly reassuring.
Arthur forced his breaths to calm. Beyond the door, the shower switched on with a tell-tale hum. Okay. This was it. Klaus would come back to bed—maybe naked, maybe not—and Arthur would have a choice between follow through and retreat. He’d put too much into the former to opt for the latter.
He pushed up from the bed and quickly shed his clothes. It was easy to do in the dark, where the scars weren’t so obvious, where his wounded hand didn’t catch the eye as much. He hesitated when he got to his underwear. Klaus’. Everything I’m wearing belongs to him. It followed then that he couldn’t cling to that last scrap of armor.
With much one-handed tugging and shoving, the briefs came off just as the shower cut off.
Arthur crept back beneath the covers, shivering despite the lingering heat.
An oblong of light slanted across the bed, Klaus’ shadow tall and broad over the wrinkled sheets. Arthur suspected that he should have tidied up, but folding clothes was a slow, difficult process already. The rest hadn’t seemed important—he needed Klaus to want him for a lover, not a housekeeper.
His pulse throbbed in his ears as Klaus flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. Thin blades of moonlight slithered through the blinds, enough to see Klaus approach long before the mattress dipped on his side of the bed.
Since barging in on him in the shower, Arthur hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing him naked. It wasn’t something he’d sought before. Desperate times… Laying his good hand on that small sliver of skin visible above the elastic of Klaus’ boxers called for near-inhuman levels of courage. Arthur plumbed his reserves and did so.
There was plenty to enjoy about that tiny, insignificant point of contact. Klaus was warm from the shower, his skin soft and unblemished. He didn’t jump at the caress, didn’t even stir when Arthur slid a knuckle up the bumps in his spine, tracing vertebrae as far up his back as he could reach. Then down again, even slower, the tension in his arm making it shake more than any sense of dread.
Klaus breathed in deep, then expelled all the air in his lungs with a single, ponderous sigh.
“Go to sleep, Arthur. It’s late. We need to be on the road at five—”
“What if I don’t want to sleep?” Arthur wondered, resolve hanging by a thread.
What if I want you to fuck me instead?
He couldn’t make himself ask. He remembered Klaus’ thick cock. He had a very clear picture of what it might feel like to try to take that without lubrication—of which they had none, unless Klaus had packed that, too, before he came to fetch him from the loft.
The covers rustled when Klaus shoved them aside and stretched out on the mattress. “You do what you want… But be quiet.” And with that, he turned his massive back to Arthur, leaving him to puzzle out his next move alone.
This wouldn’t be happening with Jules. Assuming Jules was at all interested in men.
“I know you want me,” Arthur challenged, his voice shaking pitifully.
Seconds passed, then a minute, and Klaus still kept his peace. His breaths had grown too even too quickly to be natural. He wasn’t asleep, but he was feigning it—all to humiliate Arthur.
“Fuck, if I’m wrong, say so. I’m a big boy. I can take rejection…”
And more besides, but if Klaus couldn’t come up with a few ideas of his own, there was no need to supply him with examples.
Klaus didn’t reply.
Eyes stinging with the sharp prick of frustration, Arthur rolled noisily onto his back. The ceiling fan was out of commission, blades stretching over his head like still helicopter propellers.
“You won’t tell me where we’re going. You won’t let me do anything to help… You tell me I have a job when we get there, working for a man I’ve never met—a man who has every reason to want to make an example out of me. You know—” Arthur chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m starting to feel like there’s something I’m missing. Did I sign away my free will when Jules broke me out of the hospital? When did you decide—?”
“Istanbul,” Klaus said, quiet but firm.
“What?”
“We’re going to Istanbul.”
“Oh,” Arthur breathed. Fragile hope rose and fell within him, a cork in water. “Yeah… I figured out as much.” It wasn’t enough.
Under the sheet, Arthur curled his knee up and clutched the aching joint. Perhaps he was asking too much. Robin and his minions didn’t owe him answers. They didn’t owe him salvation, either—although Tomaso’s lifeless body told a different story. They seemed strangely determined to make sure they alone got to knock him around. If he looked at it from that perspective, the puzzle pieces aligned a little better.
Klaus was just following orders, one tiny cog in one many-limbed machine. Making out with the package wasn’t part of his job
description.
Fuck that. Animated by a sudden wave of defiance, Arthur slid his hand down his thigh and into the cradle of his thighs. His cock was soft and sensitive. He hissed at the first touch. In three months, he hadn’t felt the urge to stroke off once. He’d lacked the privacy, sure, but it was more than that. His body locked down the faintest flicker of interest in that department. His mind supplied the antidote.
Arthur tightened his grip, digits slippery with sweat, over the column of flesh. He hadn’t shaved his nether regions since long before Berlin. It was a matter of time as much as necessity. Why bother, when no one wanted into his bed? Or, if they did, how could personal grooming fit in with the bumbling idiot routine?
The sensation was familiarly unpleasant as he closed his fist around his cock. The clutch of his fingers was too dry, too rough. That didn’t used to matter.
He closed his eyes. If he could just think of something arousing—naked women, Pamela Anderson’s tits, the Kardashian sisters—then discomfort had a fair chance of tipping over into lust. This awkward, stinging effort would be worth it.
Klaus would have his proof—of what, Arthur wasn’t sure anymore. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might not be able to perform on his own. He was only twenty-six years old. He was a hot-blooded, healthy man. His face burned with humiliation.
Beside him, the bed springs squeaked as Klaus turned to face him.
Just for that, Arthur made himself keep going. He had to. He’d started this.
“Maybe you should stop,” Klaus whispered.
Arthur snorted. “Maybe you should leave me the fuck alone.” Isn’t that what you wanted? “What, am I too loud for you, grandpa?”
There was plenty of time to catch the covers before they slid all the way down his thighs, but Arthur only had the one functional hand. If he reached for the bed covers, he would have to let go of his dick. He picked the alternative, skin prickling with heat even as Klaus exposed him to the chill of the room.
Arthur made himself look down. It was as pathetic a sight as he’d feared—perhaps even more so, because he now had an audience.
