Bargaining with the Devil: A Death and the Devil Novella

by L. J. Hayward

  God. Jack was on the brink. Like he was standing at the open hatch of an airplane, about to jump with a parachute he hadn’t checked himself.

  Wish you were here?

  The unexpected return of that little issue jerked Jack out of the moment. It had been several months since the memory of the desert, and everything Ethan had done to mess him up had reared its ugly head. And it had to happen right now, leaving him thrown and shaky like a full-blown flashback.

  After a silent minute, Ethan asked, “To the bedroom?”

  For the first time since they’d made their little agreement about hooking up whenever possible, Jack considered saying no. The only safe option here was retreat. Back off, way off, until he knew he wouldn’t completely mess things up by reacting to something Ethan had already apologised for.

  “It’s all right, Jack,” Ethan said after another empty minute. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  “No,” Jack grunted. “I do want to. I’m just . . . not ready right now.”

  Ethan politely didn’t remind Jack that he had been more than ready just moments ago. He just nodded and gave his cheek a chaste kiss. “Perhaps something to eat first.”

  “Yeah. That’d be good.”

  Jack’s pulse settled while he made a couple of sandwiches and Ethan made himself a cup of tea. By the time they sat on the couch, Ethan appeared mostly settled as well. They ate while Ethan brought Jack up to date on his automobile harem. Neither of them expected Jack to contribute to the conversation much more than the occasional grunt or dumb question about tyre size, so it gave Jack time to get himself sorted out. Afterwards, they started watching the next episode of Strike Back, a series they had started on Ethan’s first visit. Jack had been itching to get back to it but had held off until he could watch it with Ethan.

  So, it was a bit surprising when, just before the first big, all-out, explosive fight, he ended up lying half on Ethan, nuzzling into his neck, and stroking his chest between the buttons on his shirt. The guys on the screen went through their I’d-die-for-you, neither-of-us-is-dying-today speeches while Jack pulled Ethan’s shirt from the waistband of his pants and shoved it up so he could play with Ethan’s nipples. Bullets rained and cars crashed. Ethan tipped them off the couch so he was on top and able to hold Jack’s arms over his head while he bit and licked every inch of Jack’s exposed skin. This time, there were no distracting thoughts, no worrying moments and the grenades were all on the telly.

  However, there was a disturbing ping inside Jack’s head.

  Jack ignored it, rolling them over so he could slide a leg between Ethan’s thighs and slowly rub their groins together.

  Ethan arched under him, head tossed back. “Jack. Yes, yes. Please, Jack.”

  Neither of them cared about removing clothes. They didn’t worry about stains. Didn’t worry about anything except the other.

  Until the pings of Jack’s implant were joined by a flashing red light across his right eye.

  “Shit!” Jack growled and levered himself up to his knees. Angrily, Jack answered the insistent pinging. “What?”

  “Jack? Did I catch you at a bad time?” Lydia asked innocently.

  Jack groaned. He’d actually forgotten all about Lewis’s damn job. “No,” he grumbled, getting to his feet. “I was asleep.”

  On the floor, one of Ethan’s brows arched over the pane of his sunglasses. Jack waved at the right side of his head, indicating the implant. He held his other hand out and Ethan took it, letting Jack help him to his feet.

  “That explains why I had to send an urgent alert,” Lydia said. “I’m glad you got some rest. Everything’s organised. We’re just waiting on you now.”

  Holding in more swearing, Jack stepped backwards before Ethan could lock his arms around him. He’d committed to this stupid thing and letting Ethan distract him again wouldn’t be good. Thankfully, the reminder of the annoying job had sufficiently deflated his dick. Jack ignored Ethan’s fleetingly hurt expression and went down the hallway to the bathroom. He asked for the details while he stripped and stepped into the shower. Lydia sent a message with it, told him they were grateful for his help, and hung up.

  Jack washed efficiently and when he got out, Ethan was there, holding a towel for him.

  “Work?” Ethan asked blandly.

  “Yeah. I have to go in.”

  Ethan nodded understandingly. “Is it an emergency?”

  Before Jack could lie and say yes, he muttered, “No. Just a fucking shit assignment I didn’t want to take but got conned into.” Slinging the towel around his waist he squeezed past Ethan and headed for his bedroom. Ethan, of course, followed him.

  Half dressed in a clean pair of jeans, Jack risked a glance at Ethan. He stood in the corner of the bedroom by the old recliner, hands in his pockets, and his button-down still appealingly rumpled. With his hair tousled and a hint of stubble on his jaw, he was damn-near irresistible. Jack almost forgot about the job again, but spun away before he could say “fuck it” and toss Ethan to the bed.

  “Is this assignment dangerous?” Ethan asked.

  Grabbing up a T-shirt, Jack grunted. “The most dangerous I’ve ever been on. And that includes being dropped into an active war zone.”

  “Oh.”

  That didn’t sound too positive and when Jack’s head popped out of the top of his shirt, he gave Ethan another look. He’d gone still, lips straight, shoulders stiff, hands free of his pockets, ready to attack. Or rather, to defend Jack from any threat.

  “I was joking,” Jack said hastily. “It’s not that bad. Actually, it’s nothing dangerous at all. Just . . . annoying.”

  Some of the tension eased from Ethan’s body, but his voice was low and deadly. “Perhaps you will require backup all the same.”

  “Oh, fuck no!” It was out without a thought, hard and vehement, and a little bit panicked. The very idea of Ethan showing up at this thing made Jack want to tie him up. Combined with his overall objections to the job at hand, two unresolved erections and his almost-flashback earlier, this new complication dropped Jack off the edge of rationality. “Didn’t we already sort this out? I can’t have you sticking your nose in my job. Remember what happened last time you ‘tried to help’? Harry still bugs me about nearly blowing him up. Besides, I don’t want to be seen—” He swerved off that wrong path. “I can’t be seen in public with you . . .” And onto an even worse one, judging by Ethan’s reaction.

  Oh God. Jack was going to die. Ethan hadn’t gone this cold the last time Jack had got up him for interfering in his job. Then, he’d simply accepted the berating, apologised, and let Jack tend his injuries. Right now, though, he was all Ethan Blade, dead-eyed killer, no hint of Ethan, human being.

  Jack didn’t die, though, Ethan became terse. “As you wish, Jack,” he said, and walked out.

  Ten, then twenty seconds went by while Jack stood frozen, half convinced he might still die, half mortified he’d actually said that to Ethan. All that happened was the front door opening and shutting. Another thirty seconds passed before Jack let out an explosive breath and sank down on the end of the bed.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Well, it probably had to end at some point. Better sooner rather than later, before Jack had a chance to make an even bigger mistake. At least he could go to Tan and call off their agreement. And maybe get taken off the boring Delta Subject job. A bright side to pissing off an international assassin.

  Tossing the twisting sense of guilt into the filing cabinet in the back of his head, Jack finished dressing and by the time he got downstairs, carrying the case Lydia had insisted he take home and check—which he hadn’t—an unmarked car was waiting for him. The entire drive to the airport he mulled over those last moments with Ethan. It was all too easy to pinpoint the moment Jack fucked it up. Christ. The very idea of him, Ethan and this assignment . . . He couldn’t go there. Not when even the threat of it tempted him to toss the case out the window and ask the d
river to take him home. But he was professional, if nothing else, and he got on the plane to Melbourne where, an hour and a half later, Lydia herself picked him up and took him to their base of operations.

  The Causeway 353 Hotel was on Little Collins Street, a block away from where the job was going down. Lydia took him to a deluxe suite where the rest of the team were setting up a mobile station. Apart from Lewis, there was a strike team, just in case things went completely haywire. Jack grimaced at each of the lightly armoured people as he stalked in. Surely one of them could have done this.

  Probably warned off by Lydia, Lewis kept his distance, organising uplinks and outlining several emergency plans with the strike team; Lydia ushered Jack into the separate bedroom.

  “Did you try it on?” She hefted a big case to the king-sized bed and opened it. “Does it all fit okay?”

  “All?” Jack asked sarcastically. “I didn’t get a chance to try it on, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. Christ, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “We’re forever grateful. Now, strip.”

  Grumbling, Jack got undressed. Lydia politely turned her back until he grunted an all clear. When she turned back, she looked him over and after a deep breath, nodded.

  “Yes, it fits fine.”

  Jack tried not to blush. “It’s a bit snug.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose. Though it did say it came with a cup for enhancements.”

  “Is that what that thing is?” Jack turned his back this time and fished around in the underwear until he pulled free a padded cup. “Who the fuck came up with that idea?”

  “Probably the same person who thought up padded bras. All right, let’s get some oil on that chest.”

  Lydia was incredibly lucky Jack liked her as much as he did. Anyone else would have been told in no uncertain terms just where they could shove the bottle of oil, the glitter, lipstick, and eyeliner. Instead, he quietly followed her instructions to stand, arms up, arms down, legs spread, now sit, lean forwards, head back, look at the ceiling and, lastly, to smack his lips on a presented tissue. His Saint Thomas Cross tattoo was hidden under a thin layer of synthetic skin. It was too specific an image to be seen on an undercover assignment. Lydia ended up tearing the padding out of the cup and insisting Jack re-place it. Even without the cup, the fire-engine-red boxer-briefs were tight enough to outline in near anatomical detail things Jack usually kept private. Suitably tucked away, Jack put on the black boots and the black bat wings. Lydia carefully placed the glittery red horns amongst the black curls she’d spent forever styling.

  The sum result was, supposedly, a sexy devil. Jack had to admit that a glistening set of toned chest, abs and legs, even with the sparkle of red glitter, broken up only by a red-hot pair of underwear was pretty alluring—but only if it was on some other bloke.

  “I look ridiculous.”

  “No you don’t,” Lydia assured him absently, packing away her big make-Jack-look-like-a-piece-of-meat kit. “You look totally hot.”

  “Really? Then why can’t you look at me without laughing?”

  Her shoulders shook as she tried, and failed, to keep in a snicker. “I’m sorry. I really am. You do look sexy as hell, excuse the pun, but I keep imaging what Lewis is going to say and . . .” Her snicker turned into a snorting laugh.

  Jack muttered, “I’m too old for this shit,” then decided to get the humiliation over and done with.

  It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. Lewis managed to not laugh aloud and only two of the strike team wolf-whistled. They got through the briefing quickly and then Jack was hustled out the back way to a waiting car. Swearing, he took the wings off to get in and after driving around a couple of neighbouring blocks, they ended up at a nightclub on Collins Street. With minimal witnesses, Jack was released at the staff entrance and, wings in hand, buzzed to be let in.

  Thankfully there were two other guys already there, standing around in skimpy costumes. Another devil and an angel. Both of them were at least thirteen years younger than Jack and appeared to be so comfortable in next to nothing they were probably underwear models in their day jobs. They welcomed Jack well enough, though the other devil cocked a sceptical eyebrow at him. The angel—blond, blue-eyed and gorgeous—gave him a long, lingering look and a wink.

  This job couldn’t go fast enough.

  When all six sexy angels and devils had congregated, they were given a run down on the event, cautioned about not making trouble—with a list of “troubles” as long as Jack’s leg—and sent on their way.

  The hen’s party was being held in a private room in the nightclub, a kitschy decorated lounge full of neon-plaid and art-deco refugees. The rest of the club was a flashing montage of lasers, smoke machines and loud music, but thankfully the lighting and sound were muted in the lounge. It was brimming with overly excited women who all had a penchant for pinching the white- and red-clad bums of the angels and devils who carried trays of cocktails and chocolate-coated strawberries. Jack decided early on he was going to be Cranky Devil, as opposed to Camp Devil and I’m-going-to-hit-four-seven-and-ten-on-the-trouble-list Devil. His permanent scowl didn’t deter the ladies though. As the cocktails flowed and the music got raunchier, he spent more time politely removing his arse from stray hands than he did handing out drinks and treats.

  The Hen herself spent half the time getting selfies with the scantily clad waitstaff, giggling about how “Tom better never see this.” Despite his attitude towards the whole thing, Jack snuggled in for photos with any of the women who asked. It gave him a good opportunity to get close to the subject of the job, if she ever showed up. Two hours in and Jack hadn’t caught sight of the tall brunette from the pictures Lewis had shown him. His ten-minute check-ins got monotonous very quickly.

  “I hate hens’ parties,” the friendly angel moaned. They stood at the bar, waiting for more cocktails and strawberries. “My bum is going to be so red from getting smacked.”

  Jack had to laugh. “Move before they connect. It’s what I do.”

  “I tried that, but they hunt in packs. They surround me and I can’t escape.”

  Unsurprised that the stunning young man was being so hotly pursued, Jack just said, “I’ll try to help you out when I can. Can’t promise anything, though. I have my own goods to protect.”

  Hefting his full tray, Angel gave him another slow once-over. “I’ll say.” Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “Once more unto the breach,” and returned to battle.

  The next half hour passed without incident. Jack made his rounds, dodged pinching fingers, growled for the camera and kept an eye out for his subject. If she didn’t show, Lewis would owe him more than three favours.

  Towards the end of the third hour, Jack was loitering by the entrance to the lounge, hoping to catch sight of the subject in the public areas of the club, without luck. About to head back to the bar for another load, Jack froze. A familiar shape had flashed through his periphery and he turned to follow it.

  There, leaning against the public bar, back to the lounge. A lean body in a fitted black suit. Head of dark, tousled hair. The hint of glasses as he turned to nod at the bartender refreshing his drink.

  Oh. Shit.

  What the fuck was Ethan doing here?

  It couldn’t be coincidence. Not here in Melbourne. Beyond even that stretch, nothing Ethan did was ever a coincidence. Everything was planned down to the nth degree. He was here on purpose. As backup? Or to check on Jack’s reason for not staying with him?

  Ethan turned and his sunglasses—which somehow didn’t look dorky at night—pointed right at Jack. After a long moment where Jack seriously considered running, the corner of Ethan’s mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles. It was gone before Jack could confirm it. Gone before his ribs stopped squeezing his heart and his guts unclenched. Casually, Ethan knocked back the new drink, set the glass on the bar and sauntered towards him.

  Jack scanned him for weapons, finding nothing, but that wasn’t conclusive with Ethan Blade. He
did find a nametag pinned to his lapel, though. As “Brent” approached, Jack braced for impact.

  “Please excuse me,” was all Ethan said when he reached Jack at the entrance to the lounge.

  Stepping aside, Jack watched as Ethan continued in, homing in on the Hen. Jack stalked him, barely stopping to hand out drinks as he went, his distraction opening him up for a few of the butt-smacks he’d otherwise managed to avoid. When he was close enough, he listened to “Brent” making sure everything was to the Hen’s expectations and standards.

  “And the wait-staff?” Ethan used his British accent and the Hen’s closest companions oohed and aahed. “Are they suitable? Behaving themselves?”

  “Oh yes, yes,” she effused. “They’re perfect. A little too perfect, maybe. My fiancé would be horrified to see me surrounded by such beautiful men.” She smiled and rested her hand on Ethan’s arm, clearly including him in the mix.

  He smiled, slow and sultry. “We aim to please, Ms. Foster. If you have any questions or issues, please don’t hesitate to find me. I’ll do everything I can to ensure you have a perfect night.”

  If Jack wasn’t pretty sure Ethan wouldn’t go there, he would have put money on the Hen having one last fling before tying the knot. He was still scowling when Ethan turned and looked right at him.

  “Back to work,” Ethan ordered, and headed for the bar.

  “Yes, you wicked devil, back to work,” one of the Hen’s friends commanded. She pinched Jack’s arse as she took a cocktail from his tray.

  Ethan left through a Staff Only door behind the bar and Jack spent the next half hour on the lookout for his subject and Ethan, catching glimpses of the latter both in the Hen’s party and out in the public area. They didn’t cross paths again.

  Close to midnight, a tall brunette appeared, causing an eruption of cheers from the party. It took Jack some time to work his way over, finally posing for a series of photos with her and the Hen. While the subject draped herself across his mostly naked body, he slipped her phone out of her pocket and palmed it under the tray of drinks. When he was set free again, he told the bartender he was going for a piss and headed for the Staff Only door.