The Spy's Love Song

by Kim Fielding

  When Reid let go of Jaxon’s shoulders and used his thumbs to smooth droplets away from Jaxon’s eyes, something broke inside of Jaxon. He threw himself against Reid—which proved to be an unwise decision on a slippery shower floor. They tumbled together, landing in a tangle with Reid mostly on top. Instead of scrambling to get away, Reid kissed him.

  This third time was definitely the charm. Heedless of the water drenching them, Jaxon joined in the kiss while attempting to pull off Reid’s sodden clothing. At the same time, he held Reid firmly so he wouldn’t get cold feet and pull away.

  Luckily Reid seemed in no mood to go anywhere. He proved remarkably agile, managing to tear off his shirt and rid himself of trousers and briefs, all without breaking contact with Jaxon’s mouth. Maybe they were maneuvers he’d picked up in the military.

  Oh God, as beautiful as Reid looked in his tailored suits, he was even more gorgeous naked, his wet skin glistening over firm muscles. And as wonderful as he looked, he felt even better. In contrast to his solidity, his caresses were gentle, as if even in his impassioned state, he was wary of the damage his hands could do.

  The tile felt unforgivingly hard, and Jaxon was at risk of drowning or being crushed, but all that mattered was the taste of Reid’s tongue, the feel of his strong ass under Jaxon’s palms, and the feral little growls he made when they stopped kissing long enough to breathe. Jaxon wanted more of him; he wanted to engulf and be engulfed. As they thrust hard against each other, trying for more friction despite the water, Reid dragged his mouth down Jaxon’s neck and across his collarbone, then to his shoulder. He was stroking Jaxon’s chest and face with poor aim but much delicacy—and then he bit.

  That was it. That one extra piece of sensory input caused Jaxon’s body to take over as his higher brain functions shut down completely. He howled as he climaxed.

  Shower floors weren’t made for cuddling. Reid and Jaxon disentangled and climbed out, leaving the water running. Then they stood for a moment, staring at each other. They were both soaking wet, Reid’s eyes wide, his lips kiss-swollen, his cock still half-hard. And he was wearing sodden dress socks.

  Jaxon started to giggle, which turned into a full-blown laugh, and then into such hard guffaws that he collapsed, his bare ass on the cold tile floor. Reid stared down at him with hands on hips, which only made Jaxon laugh harder. By the time he caught his breath, he was flat on his back, a Reid-thrown towel draped over his chest.

  “Are you okay?” Reid asked.

  Fearing another eruption of laughter if he replied, Jaxon only nodded. He took Reid’s offered hand, levered himself to his feet, and dried off while Reid watched silently. “Aren’t you going to say something about this being a bad idea?” Jaxon asked.

  “Kind of late for that.”

  “Is it, though? A bad idea?”

  “Phenomenally.” Reid sighed, stepped closer, and stroked Jaxon’s cheek. “Can’t say I regret it, though.” And then he shocked Jaxon by gathering him into an embrace and resting his head on Jaxon’s shoulder.

  Jaxon could have stayed like that forever. But he suddenly noticed a small round bandage stuck to Reid’s left bicep. “What’s this?” he asked, touching it gently.

  Reid flinched. “Just… nothing. A cut.”

  “How the hell do you cut yourself there?”

  “I dunno. Just did.”

  Jaxon would have liked to pursue the matter, but he doubted he’d get a straight answer. And he didn’t want to get into another argument, partly because he lacked the energy for a second round of sex. Another night, perhaps.

  “I need to get some sleep.” He gently pulled out of the embrace and put on his briefs. His hair was a mess, and he’d never quite gotten around to soaping or shampooing, but he could shower again in the morning. If there was any water left in Starograd.

  Reid put on his wet clothes, which must have looked damned strange if any cameras were watching. He turned off the shower, picked up the plate from the toilet seat, and followed Jaxon into the main room. “Do you need anything?” Reid asked. “There’s food left. Or I could order more tea.”

  “No, thanks. I just need to crash.” Jaxon made his way to the bed. “Don’t wake me up for breakfast, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Reid walked toward the connecting door. As he was reaching for the knob, Jaxon called his name and Reid turned around.

  “I don’t regret it either,” Jaxon said.

  Smiling, Reid gave a small salute, entered his own room, and closed the door softly.

  Jaxon turned off the lights and climbed between the sheets. He’d told the truth—he didn’t regret what they’d just done. But he was miserable with the suspicion that they’d never do it again.

  Chapter Eight

  IT was glorious to sleep in, unmolested by alarm clocks or guides who insisted he eat a huge breakfast. But Jaxon’s stomach was growling by the time he finished showering—this time solo, with soap and shampoo—and got dressed. He knocked on the connecting door.

  “Come in,” Reid answered at once. Jaxon half expected to find him cozying up with Mariya again, but Reid was alone. Wearing a suit, he sat in an armchair with a paperback in his hands.

  “What are you reading?” Jaxon asked as he entered.

  Reid held up the book, but the title was in what Jaxon presumed was Vasnytsian. “Albina brought it for me. It’s a history of the country.”

  “Learning anything new?”

  “It’s a different perspective from what I got back home. Did you know Vasnytsia has a 100 percent literacy rate?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Tied with North Korea for highest in the world.” Reid stuck a piece of paper into the book to mark his place before closing it. “Did you sleep well? How’s your throat?”

  “Yes and fine. You can tell Mariya her herbs worked wonders. In fact, I’d love to know what they were.”

  Reid stood. “You can ask her yourself at the banquet.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s tonight.” Jaxon crossed the room and looked out the window. While his room had two large bay windows with views of the river that snaked through the old part of the city, Reid’s view was of a narrow alley.

  After staring at the cobblestones for a minute or two, Jaxon turned around. “I’m hungry. Do you think we could eat somewhere besides the hotel?”

  “I’ll find out.” Reid picked up the room phone, poked at the buttons, and had a short conversation in Vasnytsian. He was grinning when he hung up. “Our guide will be with us shortly.”

  “Are they staying in the hotel? Or do they just skulk here when we’re in our rooms?”

  “Skulking, I think. The front desk staff knows how to contact them.”

  “Okay.”

  They waited. They couldn’t say anything too honest, couldn’t stand too close, couldn’t let on to any potential audience that they were anything but a rock star and his assistant. Yet oddly, no awkwardness hung between them. Reid had said he had no regrets, and in the stark light of day, Jaxon believed him.

  Halyna arrived minutes later, her hair perfectly arranged in its bob, her pale yellow blouse sporting an oversize bow. Did the guides have any say as to what they wore? Was it officially a uniform or just a very specific dress code?

  “You want to go somewhere to eat?” she asked, looking puzzled. “Hotel restaurant is not good?”

  “No, it’s great. I just wanted to try something different. Maybe a place where the locals eat?”

  “Most people eat at home. Restaurants are expensive.” It was the first time she’d acknowledged that life in Starograd wasn’t all rainbows and kittens, and she looked guilty when she said it.

  “I understand,” he said. “I’m from this little town where there were hardly any restaurants. For a lot of folks, going out was a big deal. Special occasions only.” His family had enjoyed a little more money than average in Peril, but they’d had to budget tightly too. “If I wanted a treat at the Dairy Queen, I had to earn the money myself.”

/>   Her professional mask slipped just a bit as she gazed at him. For the first time, he had the feeling he was seeing the real Halyna and not a government-mandated facade. “One moment, please,” she said eventually. “I will make phone call.” She left them alone in the room.

  “We had a DQ too,” Reid said. “It was two blocks from the library. A good Saturday for me was a couple of hours at the library and then a chocolate-dipped cone on the way home.”

  Reid had spoken so little about his background in general, and his childhood specifically, that these statements took Jaxon by surprise. He would have pictured young Reid spending his weekends playing baseball, football, or whatever sport was in season, not hiding among bookshelves.

  But before Jaxon had the chance for follow-up questions, a grinning Halyna was back with a slightly wicked gleam in her eyes. “We will go out,” she announced.

  The SUV took them away from the old part of the city, past the newer commercial buildings, to the part of Starograd dominated by ugly apartment buildings and belching factories. The driver stopped at one of the apartments, and although he was as silent as always, something about the way he gripped the steering wheel suggested disapproval.

  Like many other buildings, this one housed a few small businesses on the ground floor: a bakery, a tiny grocery, a shoe repair place, and a restaurant. Halyna paused outside the door to the latter. “Larger factories have canteens to feed workers. It is part of their salary, yes? But some smaller factories do not, so workers eat at places like this one. We call them potato kitchens. Food is plain, but very cheap and healthy.”

  “Oh, like Polish milk bars,” said Jaxon. When both Halyna and Reid looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. “I do travel, you know. A lot. And I don’t just hang out in Michelin-starred restaurants.” Actually, he’d learned about milk bars after a concert in Krakow, years ago, when he’d hooked up with a handsome university student and spent three days drinking vodka and prowling eateries.

  Halyna opened the door for them. Not surprisingly, the interior smelled like potatoes, cabbage, and onion. The décor reminded him of his high school cafeteria: long tables with attached backless benches, a scuffed white floor, and pale green walls with a few posters tacked up. Except the posters in high school had featured the food pyramid instead of Bogdan Talmirov. Only a few customers sat on the benches, most of them younger men in coveralls, all of them openly staring.

  With Halyna leading the way, Jaxon and Reid walked to the counter separating the kitchen from the dining area. Several unsmiling women in white coats were chopping food or washing dishes, but one of them came over to take their order. Of course Jaxon could neither read the simple menu posted overhead nor understand the conversation, so he had to trust Reid and Halyna to choose wisely. Soon the worker gave each of them a metal tray loaded with dishes, and Halyna handed a few coins to the cashier. The three of them sat at an empty table.

  “So what am I eating?” asked Jaxon. He pointed. “I got this one—shredded carrots. But the rest?”

  Halyna answered. “Dumplings with farmer cheese and greens. Potato… I do not know what it is called in English. Potatoes fried with onions.”

  “Hash browns, sort of. Okay. And the soup?”

  “More potatoes and cabbage. And, er, pork.”

  Jaxon raised his eyebrows. “You sound a little uncertain about that.”

  “No, it is pig. But… this soup uses, er, leftover bits. Feet, head, uh….” She rubbed somewhere near her belly. “Sorry. I do not know word in English.” She said something in Vasnytsian.

  “Liver,” Reid translated helpfully. But he looked wary, as if expecting Jaxon to throw a fit.

  Instead, Jaxon took a big spoonful. A little bland, maybe, but not bad. When he took another swallow, not only did Reid and Halyna visibly relax, but all of the watching customers broke into grins. A few even raised their thumbs at him.

  “You like?” Halyna asked.

  “Yeah. I bet it’s great when the weather’s cold.”

  “I thought Americans do not eat leftover bits.”

  He swallowed his soup and speared a dumpling. “Some do. It depends where people are from, where their family’s from. But look, I understand that eating practices differ from place to place. I’ve visited countries where poor people eat whatever they can get their hands on, and I’ve been to lots of places where nobody wants to waste anything. Anyway, I figure if I’m willing to eat the rest of the pig, I shouldn’t get grossed out by its tongue or feet or whatever.”

  Halyna was nodding. “Yes, it is wrong to waste when some go hungry.”

  At that point they all dug into their meal in earnest, the tin cutlery clattering pleasantly against the chinaware. Halyna asked questions about some of the other places Jaxon had visited—the first time she’d shown interest in the rest of the world. He told her about seeing bears in Alaska and dolphins in Hawaii, and the time he got drunk in Cambridge, England, attempted to punt a boat, and ended up falling in the River Cam. She oohed and aahed and laughed, and he fully realized how young she was. Did she yearn for the opportunity to see the world outside of Vasnytsia? He didn’t ask.

  Reid remained mostly silent as they ate, his inscrutable expression firmly in place. But a flame blazed in his eyes, making Jaxon burn whenever he glanced Reid’s way.

  They finished their lunch with cups of Turkish coffee.

  “Would you like to see more Starograd now?” Halyna asked.

  “Thanks, but what I’d really like to do is relax in my room.” A song had germinated in the depths of his brain, and he wanted to urge it to grow.

  “Okay.”

  Jaxon stood and, following the example of other customers who’d completed their meals, took the trays of empty dishes to a rack at the far end of the restaurant. Everyone smiled as he passed. And when he returned, he realized some of them were very quietly humming one of his songs.

  A tall young man in gray coveralls whispered when Jaxon reached him. “Jaxon Powers!”

  Although Jaxon didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, he couldn’t resist a quick stop. So he knelt and pretended to fuss with his shoelace. “Hi!” he whispered back.

  “My friends, we listen to your songs every night at Black Cat Café. You are very good.”

  Jaxon risked a quick grin. “Thank you!” Then he winked, stood, and returned to Reid and Halyna.

  BACK at the hotel, Halyna said she’d collect them for the banquet. And then she disappeared. Jaxon imagined his guides in a secret break room equipped with an alarm, should he attempt to leave without them. But he didn’t go anywhere. Instead he sat on the couch with his guitar—a notepad next to him—coaxing the new tune into reality.

  Although Reid had offered to go to his own room, Jaxon sensed his reluctance and asked him to stay. Reid sat in an armchair with his book, seemingly engrossed in reading, yet sometimes Jaxon saw his toe tapping in time with the music.

  Composing with someone else nearby was unusual, but Jaxon discovered he liked it. When a particular riff came out especially well, Reid would show the ghost of a smile. And although Jaxon wrote the words rather than singing them, they flowed more easily in Reid’s presence.

  After a couple of hours had passed, Jaxon set aside the guitar and stood to stretch.

  “Taking a break?” Reid asked.

  Jaxon smiled. “Nope. I’m done. I finished the song.” He felt the happy fullness in his soul that meant he’d created something good.

  “Can I hear it?”

  “Nope.”

  Reid frowned at him. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not the only one who can keep a secret. I’ll play it later.” But since Jaxon wasn’t trying to annoy Reid, he diverted the conversation. “I think I have fans here. Aside from the prime minister, I mean. How does that happen?”

  Reid glanced around as if expecting surveillance equipment to suddenly become visible. Then he shrugged. “Told you. Information has a way of traveling, when it’s worthwhile information.�
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  “I’m worthwhile?”

  “Yes.”

  Jaxon paced the length of the room a few times. “I need some exercise.”

  “I can call Halyna—”

  “I don’t want a tour. Just sweating.”

  Reid ended up calling Halyna anyway, and she revealed that the hotel had a fitness center. Hallelujah. When Reid mentioned that neither of them had workout gear, she promised to dig something up right away.

  Thirty minutes later she delivered two fairly ugly but serviceable tracksuits, in the correct sizes no less, and a pair of running shoes for Reid. Jaxon had brought his own.

  The fitness center turned out to be a claustrophobic space in the basement, equipped with an ancient treadmill, a decent set of weights, and a third machine Jaxon didn’t recognize. It seemed more geared toward torture than exercise.

  “We look like we’re on a team together,” Jaxon said, gazing at their dual reflections in the mirror. Their tracksuits matched, red piped with gray.

  Reid grinned. “We are.”

  Jaxon took command of the treadmill while Reid lifted weights. That was more than a little distracting; several times Jaxon nearly tripped over his own feet. Reid finished first and then watched Jaxon run. “You’re fast,” he observed.

  Jaxon just panted through a grin. He’d always been a good runner.

  When they returned to their rooms, Jaxon hopped into his shower. He couldn’t help but recall what had happened there the previous night, and he jacked off quickly, like a teenager afraid of being caught by his parents.

  Although Jaxon hated suits, he’d been told to pack at least one, and he’d complied—sort of. His wasn’t the conservative navy-colored slacks and jackets Reid favored. Instead Jaxon had brought the outfit from last year’s Grammys: blue slacks with bold gray pinstripes and a matching jacket and waistcoat with a low-cut front. No shirt, which meant much of his chest was bare and quite a lot of his tattoo was visible. His shiny black boots sported high stacked heels.

  He didn’t shave, but he did spend some time fussing with his hair, including applying a judicious amount of product. Then he examined himself critically in the mirror. He looked like a rock star, not some kid from Nebraska. Today he wasn’t sure if that pleased him.