by May Archer
He sighed and rolled to his feet, contemplating his suitcase. He’d packed his bathing suit and tux, but he’d hesitated before also packing his oldest, most comfortable t-shirts and a couple of fitted polos. He threw in a pair of Converse and some flip-flops, then zipped the case closed.
He grabbed his charger from beside the bed and hesitated, staring at the closed drawer of his nightstand. Condoms and lube? He shook his head.
Not this weekend, not gonna happen.
But he closed his eyes and quickly nabbed a few foil packets and a small bottle of lube and stashed them in his suitcase anyway, as if doing it blind meant he wouldn’t have to acknowledge his own idiocy.
You want him. This doesn’t have to be a big thing, dummy. Let things happen the easy way again... just this once.
Cort was an agent, and theoretically they were on opposite teams when it came to blackmailing Bas, but a thought had been niggling at the back of Cam’s brain. Cort had told him flat-out that maybe they wouldn’t have investigated Sebastian even if Cam had refused to go along with Cort’s scheme. Was that his way of offering Cam an out, even while he manipulated him?
Or was Cam just desperate enough to want to believe it?
Which brought up the larger question of why Cam had agreed, and Cam was fairly and uncomfortably sure, the reason had a lot to do with the man who’d asked the question, and the idea that maybe it was time for him to face his fear of flying.
Maybe time to face a lot of things.
He grabbed his phone and dialed Sebastian’s number, not completely surprised when the phone clicked to voicemail on the first ring. He pursed his lips together at the sound of his brother’s voice - controlled, methodical, pre-crash Bas - telling him to leave a message.
“Hey, so… I’m going away to St. Brigitte this weekend. Last minute thing for the Fine-Tyndall Children’s charity thing, and uh, I’m pretty nervous because, well, you know.”
He hesitated, then plowed on. “I don’t like the way we left things the other day, so I just wanted to remind you that I love you, and I want to be around for you more, okay? Maybe there are things I can do, so you don’t feel like you have to grieve alone. Maybe we can go visit the cemetery when I get back, if you want.” His voice had trailed off to nearly a whisper. “That’s it. I love you, Bas. Be well. Talk to you soon.”
He took a deep breath and slid the phone in his pocket.
He grabbed his suitcase and rolled it out the door, locked his dreary apartment behind him, and took the elevator to the first floor. The air outside was stifling hot, the humidity so oppressive his shirt was already sticking to him during the short walk from the lobby to the town car waiting at the curb. He gave his case to the driver and let himself into the backseat for the short drive to the airport.
As the car moved, his stomach began to churn. He’d been working with Dr. Meredith on the issue of his fear of flying for a couple of months. He tried to calm himself with logic and breathe consciously just the way he’d been taught. Statistically, take off was the worst time. If he got through that part, he’d be fine. Flying is one of the safest modes of transportation. Thousands of people do it every day.
He understood the science of flight - had made a point to study it, in fact, after the crash. But there remained a kind of elusive magic to the whole process, some kind of alchemy that transmuted drag and lift into soaring. If he couldn’t fully understand it, then how could he trust it?
Heh. He rolled his eyes at himself. It seemed he had a chronic trust issue.
The airport - a private field not far from the city, came into view all too quickly, and he wondered if Cort would be waiting there. When Margaret had made their travel arrangements, she’d gotten them separate cars, and it occurred to Cam that he didn’t have the first clue where Cort lived. A cute suburban house? Some crappy little place in the city? A cave covered in animal skins? He was insanely curious about the man.
Or maybe just insane.
They pulled up to a small guard house, and the driver chatted with the security guard for a few moments before the guard raised the swinging arm allowing them onto the airfield. And then suddenly they were at the plane - his parents’ plane. The plane they should have all flown in the day of the crash, had his parents not left early. His stomach twisted with one of those stupid, unpredictable pangs of grief which came up out of nowhere. He had to work to keep his breathing steady, so the panic wouldn’t take over.
He wasn’t sure he could do this.
But Cam did not want to be humiliated in front of Cort ever again, so he forced himself to swing his legs around and get out of the car.
Staring at Kendrick Cortland kept his mind momentarily distracted from his fear. The man still looked like a Viking, albeit one who wore old, faded jeans that clung to his thighs just the right way, and a red t-shirt that stretched tight across his broad chest and shoulders. His hair was messy again today, falling in the same unintentionally perfect brown-gold waves it had the night they’d first met, and his eyes were hidden by mirrored aviator glasses which should have looked totally douchy, but on him looked fucking amazing. His jaw was set, and although Cam couldn’t see his eyes behind the shades, he could tell Cort was watching him by the visible tension in his body.
The driver cleared his throat, and Cam’s eyes flicked to him. “Er, if you’ll step this way, sir, I’ll see to your luggage?”
Oh, right. Because he was standing in the open car doorway like an idiot. Yeah.
He grabbed his carry-on bag and stepped toward the plane.
The plane looked harmless enough. Plain white, with the Seaver Tech logo on the side, just as Cam remembered it. The sun was setting, reflecting rainbow sparkles off the plane windows that were almost too bright to look at. Sebastian and several of the other executives used the plane routinely for travel and never had a problem, so the likelihood that Cam would…
“You ready for this?”
Cort’s voice at his shoulder had Cam turning away from the plane momentarily. He was so close Cam could feel his body heat.
Was Cam ready? He wanted to be.
He hoped that would be enough.
“Ready,” he lied.
Chapter Thirteen
Jesus Christ, it was hot out here. Cort felt a bead of sweat drip down between his shoulder blades as he stood behind Cam, who was staring at his company plane completely transfixed, as though he’d never seen the thing before. Was this one of those rich-guy eccentricities, staring in awe at a symbol of your own wealth? He rolled his eyes and felt the bad mood that had been riding him all afternoon kick up an extra notch.
Most of Cort’s sourness had begun when a town car showed up to collect him from his little duplex in Dorchester. He was fairly certain Mrs. Avila, who lived on the first floor, was gonna give him shit the next time she saw him, and she didn’t even know he was taking the car to a private plane at a private airfield.
One final envelope from Damon had arrived just that morning, long after Cort had woken up smiling and actually anticipating this weekend for reasons having nothing to do with solving a case, finding his brother, or getting justice. He’d been sitting with his phone out on his coffee table, thinking about what he should text Cam, how much overt flirtation Cam would put up with, when the intercom had announced a package for him. Overnight shipping. Weird.
As soon as he’d pulled the tab, the dull, black device slipped out onto the table, and realization had whacked him upside the head.
This wasn’t supposed to be a romantic weekend.
He’d almost forgotten the original purpose.
Guilt had swooped in immediately, swamping any lust, any friendliness, any anticipation Cort had been feeling. How could he have forgotten Damon, when Damon should have been Cort’s only priority?
Then a paper had fluttered out a second later, a note in familiar, blocky handwriting - “Will message this weekend,” and the familiar resentment was back.
There were no messages on the phone, no nu
mbers programmed, not a single communication from Damon asking whether Cort was okay, or making sure he’d been able to find a way to St. Brigitte, just a simple expectation he’d be there.
Not that he didn’t want Damon to expect him, but God.
Bitterness churned in his gut, along with yet more guilt, a heaping helping of anxiety, and whatever it was he felt for Cam but hadn’t quite put a name to yet. The combination set him on edge and made him sound like more of an ass than usual when he threw a hand out in the direction of the plane and said, “We gonna stand out here all day admiring the thing? It’s hot as hell.”
Cam startled and turned back to look at Cort. His eyes were wide and hurt.
Cort flinched.
He was being a jerk, but he wasn’t sure how the hell to distance himself from Cam mentally or emotionally when every instinct told him to do the opposite.
He grabbed Cam’s laptop bag from his hand, hefted his own backpack onto his shoulder, and nudged Cam’s arm to get him moving.
Slowly, reluctantly, Cam walked forward, then paused at the base of the steps, as though he was having second thoughts.
“Remember you’re doing this for Sebastian,” Cort warned, deliberately injecting a challenge into his voice.
As Cort had known he would, Cam sucked in a breath and straightened his spine resolutely. “Thanks so much,” he said sourly. “You’re not helping.”
Cort shrugged. “Let’s just get in before I melt.”
Cam scowled over his shoulder. “You do realize we are going to a Caribbean island, right? Near the equator? Where it’s likely going to be even hotter and more humid than it is in Boston?”
Cort rolled his eyes, only realizing after he’d done it that Cam wouldn’t be able to see him through his sunglasses. “Well, I won’t wanna stand outside down there, either, badass.” He nudged Cam again, and Cam ascended the steps quickly, only to pause again when he stepped into the plane.
The door was located near the front of the aircraft, just behind the cockpit. Straight ahead was a miniscule kitchen area with a refrigerator and sink, but to the right, the cabin opened into an area that looked like a tiny living room, the kind of thing rock stars had on their tour busses.
There were two leather captain chairs, which swiveled round, along with a low wooden coffee table and matching end tables flanking a huge leather sofa. The sofa, complete with seatbelts - ran nearly the length of the cabin. At the tail of the plane, he could see an open door in front of large bed, and to one side was a closed door he could only imagine led to the bathroom.
All in all, this plane was nicer than most of the houses he’d lived in growing up, and the price tag could probably have bought and sold all of those houses twice over. He wasn’t sure why he kept fixating on money, except that it somehow reinforced that he and Cam, with their different backgrounds, had been doomed from the beginning.
Cam seemed to be frozen in place again, staring at a picture mounted on the wall in the kitchen area. Three guys, definitely early 90s based on the way they were dressed, huddled with their arms over each other’s shoulders. There was a small shovel laid on a mound of dirt in the front of them, and they looked as giddy as toddlers who’d made a sandcastle. Cort recognized a younger Emmett Shaw, Levi Seaver, and Jonathan McMann. He had no idea why Cam was captivated by it, though.
“Cam?” Cort said impatiently. “You wanna move so I can get past you with the bags, dude?”
“What? Oh, yeah,” Cam apologized. He took a small step toward the front of the plane, and Cort edged around him to the rear, plunking their carry-on bags on the coffee table before throwing himself down on the sofa. The phones - two phones for fuck’s sake, when he’d rather not have any - dug into his hip as he sat, so he placed them both on the table.
“What’s the deal with the picture?” Cort asked. He didn’t like the way Cam stared at it - the tension in his shoulders, the way his face was pale underneath those gorgeous freckles despite the undeniable warmth in the air. As much as he tried to tell himself Cam’s feelings weren’t his problem, he knew it was a lie.
Cam cleared his throat. “Uh, I forgot it was here, I guess, and it’s just strange to see my dad.”
Cort nodded, reluctant sympathy burning off the majority of his bad mood. Grief was a bitch and it welled up at the weirdest times, Cort knew only too well.
Cam licked his lips and moved toward one of the chairs across from Cort. He sat himself down gingerly on the edge, as if he might stand up and run away at any moment, then darted an anxious glance at Cort.
Was Cam afraid of him? “What’s going on with you, Cam?” Cort demanded.
Cam ignored him. “You’ve got two phones?” Cam remarked, as though casting around for something to talk about. “One for work and one for home?”
Cort wanted to shut down this topic immediately. “One for work, and the other for this weekend.”
Cam’s attention was caught. “Is this weekend not work?” His eyes sought Cort’s. “I thought that was the whole point?”
Cort set his teeth. “It’s a sideline investigation, and I’m waiting for contact on this phone. No more questions about that.” Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.
Cam pressed a hand to his stomach as though sickened by the whole exchange. Cort frowned.
The captain, a stocky, olive-skinned guy about fifty years old, emerged from the cockpit.
“Mr. Seaver, we’re ready to depart,” he told Cam in lightly-accented English. “Looks like clear skies all the way to St. Brigitte, and we should make it there by sixteen hundred hours. Andres will bring you refreshments if you call, but otherwise he won’t intrude.”
The man looked back and forth from Cam to Cort, as if imagining they might need their privacy. Cam blushed, and Cort fought the urge to snicker. God, Cam was adorable.
“Great. Thank you, Stavros,” Cam said, running a hand through his short, thick brown hair. Then he added, “It’s, ah, nice to see you again.”
“Same to you, sir,” the captain said with a broad smile. “You’ve been missed.”
Cam nodded jerkily, then sat back, found the seatbelt attached to the chair and buckled himself in.
“Must be nice,” Cort said, as another uniformed attendant - Andres, probably - slid the plane door closed.
Cam sucked in a breath at the hollow thunk. “What’s nice?” he snapped. His hands were tense against the chair arms, like he was really pissed. “Are you going to buckle your seatbelt?”
“Settle down, Cam, I only meant this.” Cort gestured all around, at the furnishings, the privacy, the luxury, the privilege, and ignored the second half of Cam’s question. “I’ve got to admit, I’m gonna be disappointed if there’s not a hot tub in the bathroom.”
“Prepare for disappointment,” Cam ground out. “Maybe next time you blackmail someone into giving you a ride in their plane, you’ll make inquiries first.”
Whoa. So, they were back to blackmail?
“What’s wrong with you?” Cort demanded again as the engine began to whine loudly and the plane rocked into motion. “I’m just saying, you’re probably used to the fact that you can fly wherever, whenever, and you never have to have your knees tucked up to your chest when you do.”
“No.” A single, terse word, like Cam couldn’t be bothered with the whole conversation.
“No? No, you’re not used to it? Or no, you don’t take a private plane when you travel? I’d think most people who have private planes would use them, right?”
Cam’s eyes flew open, and they spat pale blue fire. “Most people? Most people haven’t had their parents die in a plane crash, Cort.”
Cort’s jaw dropped as understanding, immediate and horrifying, washed over him in a wave. Cam wasn’t angry, Cam was afraid. Absolutely, totally petrified. And he’d been so determined to keep his distance from the man that he’d completely failed to notice it. Oh, fuck.
Pissed off, resentful and, yeah, guilty, as he was, Cort hadn’t considere
d this possibility at all, but now it seemed beyond obvious.
Without hesitation, Cort levered himself off the sofa and went to kneel in front of Cam. “You don’t like to fly?”
“I don’t fly at all. I hate flying.”
“Not at all? Not since the accident?”
Another wordless shake of the head, and then Cam’s hands were on his face, his palms scrubbing at his eyes. He sucked in air, something between a sob and a laugh. “I’ve tried, but I usually can’t even get on the plane, and now we’re already on and moving.”
Cort grabbed Cam’s hands with his own, forcing them down from his face. Cam’s eyes were bleak, and Cort’s stomach cramped painfully at the sight.
Just like that, all his doubts evaporated, any thoughts of maintaining his distance flew out the window. He could no more leave Cam like this than he could fly to the island under his own power - it was simply beyond his capability.
“Why didn’t you—?” he began, but then stopped. He was pretty sure he knew why Cam wouldn’t have mentioned this. Cort had forced his hand. Jesus.
“I’m not ashamed of it,” Cam said defiantly, looking at something over Cort’s shoulder. “It’s my shit, and I own it, okay? It’s normal.”
Cort frowned. “Of course it’s normal. I… I didn’t think.” More like he was trying so hard not to think about Cam, he’d missed the obvious.
“It doesn’t make me weak, either,” Cam continued in the same voice, and Cort realized Cam wasn’t arguing with him, but with his own doubts. Or maybe…
“Was that something your ex said, too?” Cort demanded, and Cam’s eyes met his.
Yeah, that’s what he’d thought.
“Okay, come on,” Cort said, quickly unbuckling Cam’s seatbelt. Cam gave a terrified squeak of protest, but Cort had already picked him up and deposited him in the middle seat of the sofa, quickly locating the seatbelt, fastening it around Cam’s waist, and taking the empty seat beside him.
As the plane picked up speed, taxiing down the runway, Cort fastened his own belt. Then he twisted toward Cam and pulled the man against him so Cam’s face was buried in his chest while his arms wrapped around Cam’s shoulders. Cam gave a shudder that might have been fear or relief, or a little of both. The man needed something to focus on, something to make him feel safe. Cort reached a hand into his pocket and grabbed his lucky quarter. He took Cam’s hand and pressed the coin into his palm.