by Josh Lanyon
“Hey, wanna fuck?” Will whispered hopefully, and Taylor started laughing.
“Beat the clock?”
Will nodded, and they shifted around some more, trying to accommodate legs and arms and cocks.
“We don’t have any passion oil here,” Taylor regretted.
“Use the homemade brand,” Will suggested.
Taylor did, his fingers slick with his own slippery urgency. He was inclined to be overly conscientious about this part, and Will shoved back against him. “Let’s go. Move it or lose it.”
Taylor chose to move it. He shoved his cock into Will’s body, sank into him pedal to metal, and began to drive. He thrust into Will’s tight heat in a steady rocking motion, and Will moved to match that smooth, steady rhythm. Taylor timed it expertly, like a driver taking a winding mountain road, decelerating in and accelerating out, long, smooth strokes, whipping around the curves, drawing his cock all the way out to the rim of tight muscle, then pushing back hard.
Will closed his eyes tight, just focusing on that pumping rhythm as Taylor sped up, pushed them both harder, faster…they were going to break the odometer this morning…and there it was. The finish line. Blazing sensation peaking, overloading…
Taylor’s hands were going to leave bruises, and Will didn’t mind, because that warm glow was spreading through every cell of his body in the wake of those pulses of shocking delight.
They could only spare a few minutes to hang on to each other, damp and flushed and muscles trembling in their own tracks. Will kissed the bridge of Taylor’s cheek, and Taylor kissed his jaw, and then they were rolling free of each other, up and running.
Taylor had taken him with gentle, relentless strength, and for the first time Will had stopped struggling against it — mentally, that was — and just enjoyed the fact that Taylor was taking control, driving them. Part of what Will loved about him was that rough and reckless strength. Maybe because he looked like the kind of guy who should be going to art museums and babbling about postmodernism, but he was a hard-nosed, hard-ass cop at heart. Taylor’s tenderness always took him by surprise.
* * * * *
The fourteen-hour time difference between Vietnam and Los Angeles created a slight problem for Taylor. He arrived later at the office than he’d planned. That had been Will’s fault. Will woke up horny and happy. It was just his nature.
Not that Taylor was complaining.
Even without the time difference, there was no way Taylor was going to find time to squeeze in a call during a day spent bargain hunting and babysitting.
Madame Kasambala had decided to hit the garment district, in particular Santee Alley, famous for its bargains and carnival-like atmosphere.
Carnival-like was putting it mildly, and the security nightmare presented by Santee Alley made Taylor homesick for dear old Rodeo Drive, with its snooty shopkeepers and private security.
“I’m going to kill her myself,” Varga muttered as they watched their charge pawing scornfully through piles of knockoff Prada bags.
“I’m thinking homicide, double-suicide pact,” Taylor said.
Varga giggled, surprising him. She had a very endearing giggle.
Slowly but surely they were beginning to figure out how to work together. It wasn’t like with Will; it was never going to be like it was with Will, but it wasn’t the rather-work-for-the-postal-service torture of the first day either.
A major corner seemed to have been turned when Taylor brought Varga a caramel macchiato that morning. Initially she had eyed the coffee as though suspecting poison and had actually said stiffly, awkwardly, “I like to keep things strictly business, MacAllister. I don’t screw around with coworkers.”
Did she honestly think…?! Taylor had done a double take, spluttered, “Relax, Varga. I’m gay.”
Varga had laughed.
Taylor had laughed too, but he said, “Hey, I’m not kidding.”
Her jaw had dropped. “You’re shitting me.”
“No.”
Well, that was the point of GLIFAA, right? Gays and Lesbians in Foreign Affairs Agencies. This wasn’t the bad old days when foreign service employees were fired for “moral weakness.” Not that he and Will went around advertising, but they didn’t hide it either. That had been one of the initial bonds between them when they’d first been partnered.
“I had no idea,” Varga said.
“Why should you? It’s not relevant to the job.”
“But I mean, we’ve worked in the same field office for eighteen months.” She’d thought it over. “Does Brandt know?”
“I think he suspects,” Taylor said gravely.
So whether because he’d won her heart with chain-store coffee or by removing himself from the potential-sexual-predator list, today had been much easier. Which meant he had more time to brood over Will in San Diego with David Bradley.
Not that he was really brooding over Will and Bradley. Will was genetically incapable of cheating, even if Taylor didn’t already know Will loved him. The ongoing problem — for Taylor — was that he was convinced that Will didn’t want to love him. That Will believed loving him was a bad idea. That Will was now focused on all the ways they weren’t compatible instead of all the ways they were: Like that question about where Taylor would live if he had a choice. What was that about?
Whatever it was about, it was depressing as hell.
Taylor hated thinking about this stuff. It wasn’t even like him to worry about things like this. He wasn’t that kind of guy. He had never fretted as to whether his feelings were returned, because previously his feelings were always returned. More than returned. He was the one other guys worried about.
So he was experiencing some kind of karmic romantic backlash, and he probably deserved every miserable minute of it, but it was still unsettling and messing with his focus.
Not that he needed a lot of focus on this detail. If the enemies of Comoros had any brains at all, they’d just leave Madame Kashandcarry to go on spending like there was no tomorrow, and the government would soon be bankrupt and out of business.
It was a long, boring day. They didn’t get back to the office until after six. Varga couldn’t wait to take off. She bade Taylor a quick good night, and he waved her off, sitting down at his desk to have another try at calling the Asian Snake Winery.
He was surprised when he actually got through. Finessing his way through the language barrier was harder, but he finally managed to make himself clear without resorting to calling in local law enforcement — an absolute last resort.
Unfortunately, according to the company’s records, they had not shipped any wine to him. This meant someone else had purchased a bottle and shipped it to Taylor from within the States.
Taylor tried to remember the shipping label and wrapping paper on the box. Nothing distinctive, that he recalled. A plain, sealed cardboard box with a computer-printed label? Had there been a return address? A postmark? He thought not. He’d have surely noticed.
Trash pickup was Tuesday morning, so it was —
No, it wasn’t too late, because he had spent the night at Will’s and not put his trash out for pickup. So somewhere in the trash barrel were the box and label that might or might not offer some clue to the identity of the person who had sent the snake wine.
Taylor was pretty sure the wine had to be connected to the threatening note and the firecracker bomb. A cobra in a bottle was about as creepy an illustration of old poison as anyone could ask for.
* * * * *
“Thanks for dinner,” Bradley said as they walked out of the seafood restaurant. The indigo-orange sunset turned the water bronze. The crimson-tinged sails of the boats along the docks whipped musically in the evening breeze.
“My pleasure,” Will said.
“Do you feel like working some more tonight?”
“I need to start back. It’s a long drive,” Will said regretfully. They’d made some good progress, even with Will spending part of the morning on the phone to the Oran
ge County Sheriff’s Department, following up on Le Loi Roy.
The information they’d dug up on Jose Valz had led them to other suspects, all employed by construction companies with questionable residency or work-eligibility permits. A little more digging had uncovered the fact that those companies employed at least five people who had presented false resident-alien cards to their employers.
Will was feeling satisfied.
“You know,” Bradley said lazily, “we can put you up at the base if your expense account won’t stretch to a hotel room for the night. It would save some time in the morning.”
“I know. And thanks for the offer. But I’ve got some things to take care of at home. Feed the mutt, put out the milk bottles, you know.” The briny, astringent sea-breeze smell reminded him of Taylor.
“Your choice.” Bradley was smiling. Will thought again how much he liked him. How if things were different —
But they weren’t different, and he wanted to get back and talk to Taylor. Wanted to reassure himself that Taylor was fine. It was not a lack of confidence in Taylor; it was just…he didn’t trust anyone to watch Taylor’s back as diligently as he would. Nobody else had quite the investment in Taylor’s well-being, did they?
Besides, that morning had been mind-shatteringly good, and his body had been aching pleasantly with the memories all day long. He was craving Taylor. He wasn’t even sure why. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t done before, but somehow that morning everything had just…fallen into place.
Will told Bradley good night and set off for home. Emmylou was singing about the train in the Tulsa night. He felt good; the flow of traffic was with him. He had his case to preoccupy his thoughts, and before he knew it he was pulling onto his own street.
Only to find his house dark and the driveway empty.
Taylor was not there.
Chapter Six
The phone clattered off the hook and Taylor’s sleep-husky voice said, “MacAllister.”
“Where are you?” Will asked.
The answer was evident, of course, but Taylor replied anyway. “Home.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Uh… I live here?” Taylor suggested.
“You know what I mean. What the hell are you doing there? Is that what you’d tell a client who was being stalked? Go home?”
“I’m not being stalked.” His derision at the very idea was loud and clear. “Even if I was, I’m not exactly a civilian. We do this stuff for a living. If I can’t handle one nutcase, I need to find another line of work.”
“You know damn well you should not be there on your own.”
There was an instant smile in Taylor’s voice as he drawled, “Come and keep me company.”
“I don’t really feel like making that drive at one thirty in the morning.” Despite himself, some of Will’s annoyance — disappointment — crept through.
Taylor smothered a yawn, not entirely successfully. “Did you just get in?”
“Yeah.”
“Burning the midnight oil, huh?”
“I had dinner with Bradley before driving back.”
Will wanted to get that out of the way fast. No way was it ever coming back to bite him in the ass. But there was no hesitation, no pause. Taylor said calmly, “How’s the case coming?”
“It’s coming. Listen, I talked to the OC sheriff’s department, and Le Loi Roy is still incarcerated at the Lacy Juvenile Annex.”
Taylor seemed to be considering this.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes. I guess we can rule him out.”
“Him, yes. But maybe someone’s acting on his behalf.”
“Maybe.” Taylor’s tone was noncommittal.
“Did you think of something else?”
“No. It’s just…”
“Just what?” Old ghosts? Will was suddenly convinced that Taylor was hiding something from him.
Meanwhile, Taylor was reporting, “I called the wine manufacturer. According to their records, they didn’t ship the bottle to me. So someone else must have purchased it and then sent it. I dug the box and wrapping out of the trash. It was mailed last Tuesday from Ventura County. I’m going to have it analyzed.”
“Good thinking,” Will approved.
There was a short silence.
“I thought you’d be here,” Will said. He was a little embarrassed at the reproachful note that crept into his voice, but it was true. He’d expected to find the lights on and Taylor home and was still unsettled at how let down he’d been to be proved wrong.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming back to LA tonight.” Taylor sighed. “Anyway, I can’t hide out at your house.”
“Who said anything about hiding out? I just… I was looking forward to you being here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Taylor said slowly, “Are you driving back tomorrow night?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe I could stay over tomorrow night.”
“That’d be good. I might be late, but I’ll be here. How’s it going with Varga?”
“We’ve reached détente.”
“Ever think about trying out for the diplomatic service, my son?”
Taylor chuckled.
Will wrapped his hand absently around his cock. “Talk to me,” he said suddenly, urgently.
“What would you like me to say?” Taylor sounded amused, but then his voice sharpened. “Hey, are you —”
“Yeah. I am.”
Taylor laughed, a husky, naughty, full-throated laugh that closed Will’s own throat. Desire. That was what he felt. More than lust. It was the longing, yearning to be together. To be one.
“Oooh, Brandt,” Taylor cooed. “Oh God, what you do to me.”
Will laughed breathlessly, kept his hand moving.
Taylor moaned, mocking them both probably, but certainly mocking himself, that keening sound that escaped him when Will was fucking him hard. Those little cries that drove Will insane with lust.
“Bastard,” Will gulped out.
Taylor chuckled again. Then he said huskily, deliberately, “No one’s ever made me feel what you do, Will. When you push that big, hot cock inside my body. I never let anyone do that to me before. It…scares me, it’s so good. I want it so much. But there’s always this moment of panic when I think, No, he’s too big. I can’t take him. Not just my body but my mind. Like you’re taking me over. Pounding my ass and pounding my brain.”
Will started to laugh, breathlessly.
Taylor’s voice dropped lower. “And it feels so good. In a dark, dirty way to let you do that to me…to shove right inside my body, right inside my skin. The friction…the way it feels for you to move inside me. It kind of burns and it kind of scrapes and I feel it in my belly and my chest…”
Will bit his lip hard, hand moving frantically.
* * * * *
On Wednesday they had their first viable threat against Madame.
Well, at least it looked that way for the first few seconds.
They were shopping — what else? — in the Beverly Center, located at the edge of Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. Madame had already chewed them out once that day for hovering too closely. Did she suspect that in the guise of protecting her they were going to snatch a great bargain from under her nose?
A woman with a stroller was passing to the side of Taylor; he was absently tracking her out of his peripheral vision because she was a little closer than he liked. The kid suddenly screamed. There was no mistaking that sound, it was raw pain, and Taylor turned instinctively. It turned out to be nothing more serious than pinched fingers, and he was relaxing as Varga suddenly shouted, “Gun!”
Taylor ducked and spun, pulling his own weapon, and there in his sights stood a beanpole of a kid in dreadlocks holding up one of those little goofy autograph books. His hand was shaking, the color draining out of his face.
He opened his mouth, and no words came out.
Plenty of words, howeve
r, were coming out of Madame Kasambala. Varga had knocked her to the department-store floor and was using her own body to shield Madame. Madame was less than grateful and making it clear.
Loud and clear.
“Identify yourself,” Taylor ordered the half-fainting autograph hound. It was already clear to him they had got it wrong and it was probably going to be on the news — not to mention YouTube — in a matter of hours, judging by the cell phones clicking from around the store displays where other customers and staff were hiding.
“Norman Piggot. Little Piggy,” the kid quavered. “I just wanted to get Krista Kross’s a-autograph.”
“Who the hell is Krista Kross?”
Little Piggy barely inclined his head toward the tangle of Varga and Madame Kasambala. Madame was rejecting Varga’s protective embrace for all she was worth, and in another time and place, Taylor would be laughing his ass off at the picture they made. At the moment, not so funny. Pulling their weapons in this kind of a crowd situation? He and Varga would be lucky if they didn’t wind up with an official reprimand.
A voice from behind a display of lady’s hosiery — a chorus line of mannequin feet and shapely, stocking-clad shins — volunteered, “She’s a female rap artist.”
“You’ve got the wrong lady,” Taylor informed Little Piggy.
Little Piggy nodded, eager to show himself cooperative.
It took a few minutes to sort it out: reassure the public that all was well, reassure Madame that they were truly sorry, reassure Little Piggy that he wasn’t going to jail.
“I misread it,” Varga said, chagrined, when they had moved on to Bloomingdale’s.
“Better safe than sorry.”
He knew Will would have been amused to hear him say it.
* * * * *
Jose Valz lived with his wife, parents, brother, sister-in-law, and assorted rug rats in an older Spanish-style apartment in downtown San Diego. Had he lived alone, it would have simplified everything.
The plan was to interview Valz. They weren’t ready to make an arrest yet, and when they did scoop him up, they planned on catching as many of the little fish in their nets as possible.
In fact, Will wanted to do the interview on his own; he suspected — and he turned out to be correct — that Valz was liable to panic when he spotted Bradley’s uniform. But Bradley was adamant that Will was not walking in there on his own, not when they didn’t know exactly what they were dealing with.
