Conned: A Bureau Story (The Bureau Book 6)

by Kim Fielding

  “Are you sure there’s no dybbuk in you?” Thomas asked.

  Abe’s expression turned earnest. “There’s no sin in this. Not if we both truly want it. And I know I do.” Now the grin crept back. “But you’re just standing there, so maybe you—”

  Thomas rushed over and jumped on him, making Abe oof and the bedsprings protest. But Abe didn’t complain. He kept his hands in place and pushed up hard with his hips. “I’d want this even if it was a sin,” Thomas said. “I’m not a righteous man, remember?”

  “Good.”

  Just for the hell of it, Thomas thrust against him a few times, and when Abe threw his head back, Thomas latched his teeth onto the juncture of Abe’s neck and shoulder. Salty and so very sweet.

  It took considerable effort for Thomas to regain his feet. He shrugged out of his coat—the gun in his pocket thudding softly against the floor—and then unknotted his necktie. When he reached down to tie Abe’s right wrist to the headboard, Abe’s cock jerked against his belly.

  Abe waved his still free left hand. “I keep my neckties in the closet.”

  “No need.” Thomas used one of Abe’s socks instead.

  Now Abe was the very embodiment of debauchery, his legs spread, the reddened head of his cock glistening. Color bloomed in his cheeks, his hair had erupted into soft curls, and his nipples were tight brown peaks.

  Thomas slowly removed his dress shirt, undershirt, shoes, and socks, but kept his trousers on for the time being. He so rarely had the opportunity to take his time.

  He sat on the mattress and slowly trailed fingers across Abe’s cheeks, down his neck and sternum, over the points of his hips. Abe raised his arse, clearly inviting Thomas to stroke his groin, but Thomas palmed the inside of this thighs instead and then the solid line of his shins.

  “Do you play this game often?” he asked as he twisted a nipple between finger and thumb.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t trust most men enough.”

  That made Thomas blink. “You shouldn’t trust me.”

  “But I do. I think you’re the type who does exactly what he says he will. If you say you’re going to find a killer, you do. If you say you’re going to do the killing, well, you do that too.”

  “So you understand that I will kill—that I have—when it suits me?”

  Abe smiled. “I do. But I think that right now death isn’t want you want from me.”

  “La petite morte, perhaps.”

  “A joke from you, and in French, no less.” Abe’s chuckle turned to a moan as Thomas bent and trapped the abused nipple between his teeth. He soothed the sharpness with a press of his tongue.

  Thomas decided at that point that he had better uses for his mouth than talking. His lips and tongue explored Abe’s body, sometimes aided by strategic pets with his hand. Abe’s mouth remained free, and he panted, begged, and swore in at least three languages. He writhed quite prettily too.

  At last Thomas couldn’t take any more of his own torture. His balls ached and his nerves sang with need. He stripped out of his remaining clothes and stood for a moment, letting Abe admire him.

  “Káprázatos.”

  Based on Abe’s husky voice and lustful look, Thomas took it as a compliment.

  Following Abe’s lascivious example, Thomas stroked himself slowly, ostentatiously. It wasn’t an act he generally did with an audience. In fact, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d fully undressed before fucking someone. Yet it was lovely to watch Abe’s reaction: rapid breathing, wide eyes, and twitches of his as yet untouched cock. Abe had barely responded to Thomas’s usual shows of power—his brute force and his Smith & Wesson—but now he seemed prepared to surrender completely.

  “You could escape from those bonds if you wanted to, couldn’t you?” Thomas’s voice came out low and ragged.

  Abe grinned in return. “There’s Vaseline in the bathroom. In the medicine cabinet.”

  It took Thomas only a minute or so to fetch the tube, yet he half expected to return and find Abe gone. But no, Abe waited for him, legs spread even wider and knees bent, his soles resting on the mattress.

  Thomas knelt between Abe’s knees and wanted to plunge right in. But he found it so satisfying to just look at the body, spread out and waiting, with unfeigned eagerness in his partner’s eyes. Whatever lies and half-truths Abe had told him, he’d been honest about this at least.

  Abe chuckled softly. “You could put that in me, you know. I wish you would.”

  Thomas was unaware that he’d been tugging on himself, but he now realized that he was very close to reaching his peak. He moved his hand away quickly.

  Abe didn’t seem to want or need much preparation, but Thomas took it slowly nonetheless, marveling that the heat inside Abe’s body didn’t scorch his fingers. Ah, but if that heat was already so remarkable, how would it feel engulfing his cock?

  With that thought, Thomas urged the bent knees toward Abe’s chest and sank inside.

  “Oh, God,” Abe keened, his eyes rolling up in his head.

  Thomas agreed but couldn’t manage words—just grunts and desperate whimpers as he burned, as the furnace inside Abe turned him to raging flames.

  Perhaps it happened very fast, or it might have taken hours; he couldn’t tell. It was very much like the heat of battle, when time became a living thing with a will of its own, stretching and contracting like a python. But there were no shells exploding now. Just the sounds of panting, and flesh against flesh, and the periodic lovely music of Abe’s multilingual curses.

  An exquisite bomb exploded, and Thomas was turned to ash. But it was a joyous demise, knowing he’d soon rise from it like a phoenix newly hatched.

  Oversensitive now, he withdrew from Abe’s body, bringing a whimper of protest. Thomas quickly countered the lack with two fingers, pressing just so, as he took Abe’s cock into his mouth.

  It didn’t surprise him at all when Abe rapidly climaxed with a triumphant shout.

  But then Thomas did a strange thing indeed. Normally he would have wiped himself perfunctorily clean, perhaps using a pillow or a discarded sock. Then he would have put on his clothing, straightened his hair, marched downstairs for his hat and overcoat, and left.

  Instead he lay on the mattress beside Abe and, after retrieving the blanket off the floor, spread it over them. He untied Abe’s left hand, but when he reached for the other, Abe laughed and waved it, demonstrating that he’d freed it himself.

  “I don’t have the energy to leave yet,” Thomas informed him, expecting Abe to kick him out of the bed.

  “Whatever you’re going home to, is it better than this?”

  “No.” Thomas’s mattress was thinner, the radiators inconsistent, the neighborhood noisier.

  “Then you might as well stay.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I’ve had as much from you as I can manage tonight, thanks.” Abe sat up slightly so he could turn off the bedside light. That left the room in darkness, although the streetlamps provided a bit of illumination through the uncurtained window.

  “It’s too early to sleep.”

  “Call it a nap then.” Abe yawned. “Call it whatever you want.”

  It must have been another of his enchantments: Thomas’s eyelids grew so heavy he had to close them. Even under the blanket, the room felt a little chilly, and he found himself moving closer to Abe for warmth. Abe scooted over as well, until they were cuddled together like a pair of newlyweds and not two near strangers. Thomas found his muscles relaxing and his thoughts dissipating like fog on a sunny afternoon.

  He woke up much later, possibly hours later, lying on his side and wrapped around Abe’s smooth, warm back. His arm was trapped and had gone to sleep, but he didn’t try to move it.

  “You’re a noisy thinker.” Abe sounded sleepy and a little grouchy.

  “This isn’t right.”

  “Because we’re both men?”

  “Because we are who we
are.”

  “Well, tonight we can be men who sleep comfortably with other men.”

  He made it sound so easy. But it wasn’t. “Even if one of us is a killer?” Thomas asked.

  “Nobody’s killing anyone tonight. Or… you know, whoever offed Roy and Zook, how do we know he won’t come for me next?” Abe didn’t sound especially alarmed at the idea, just thoughtful.

  “Why would he?”

  “No idea. But I knew both of them and saw them both the night Roy was murdered. So I guess it’s possible.”

  Thomas huffed impatiently. “If you know something more, now would be a good time to tell me.”

  “I don’t. But I’d feel safer if you stayed the whole night, detective.”

  That was the biggest load of horseshit Thomas had ever heard, but—tingling arm aside—he was too comfortable to protest. It was almost too much to even think of leaving the warm bed, putting on clothes, traveling across the city, and trudging upstairs to his gloomy flat. “I won’t stay past morning, though.”

  “Right. You have a killer to track down. I’m going to help you, though.”

  “What?”

  Abe rolled over to face him. “I feel kind of responsible. Roy was my assistant—I watched that kid grow up. And the two of them were at my show. Besides, if the killer does have a reason to bump me off, I’d rather find him first.”

  “You’re not a detective.”

  “But I’m good at figuring people out.”

  “Abe—”

  “I’ve made up my mind about this. So unless you’re going to shoot me, you’re stuck with me.”

  Thomas wasn’t as dismayed as he should have been. “I expect locking you up somewhere would do me no good.”

  “Nope,” Abe replied smugly. Then he turned back around and settled more firmly against Thomas, pressing his arse into Thomas’s groin.

  “I’m not up for another round. Too old for twice in one night.”

  “How old are you?”

  Thomas had stopped keeping track and had to calculate in his head. “Thirty-six.”

  Abe scoffed. “I’m ten years older than you. If I can fuck again, so can you.”

  As if on cue—or maybe it was the firm pressure of Abe’s arse—Thomas’s cock began to stir. But he was still distracted. “You don’t look forty-six.”

  “Forty-seven in December, in fact. And it’s the ibburs I have to thank.”

  “How so?”

  “Remember that Irish woman I told you about? Being possessed makes people age more slowly. I’m not sure why—something to do with life forces or the veil or… I don’t know. I’ve only spent a short time with spirits in me, so it hasn’t affected me as much as it did her.”

  Thomas stroked Abe’s flank. “It’s a rather nice side effect. One many would envy.”

  Abe stopped rocking his hips and grabbed Thomas’s wrist very hard. “Is it worth it, though? Would you take in the spirits of the dead—have them inside you, sharing their memories and emotions—if it meant you’d look younger?”

  “No,” Thomas said with a shudder.

  “What I do, some people call it a gift, and maybe it is. But it’s a curse too. Don’t forget that.”

  Then Abe wiggled around again and kissed him. As it turned out, Thomas was capable of a second round.

  And when they were done, he slept deeply.

  12

  Abe never conducted séances on Sundays. He could have made some money doing it, because that was the only day off for some working people. But spiritualism on the sabbath made certain religious leaders uneasy, and they didn’t seem to care that Sundays weren’t Abe’s sabbath. They’d made a little fuss in the past, and to avoid a repeat of that unpleasantness, he took the day off to read and develop new techniques. Or to stroll the Embarcadero in search of company.

  Of course, on this Sunday he already had company in the form of a big, blond English private dick who was currently staring at him over a plate of scrambled eggs. Thomas looked a little rumpled in the previous day’s clothing, but he smelled of Abe’s soap, which was oddly gratifying.

  “You’re not my wife,” Thomas announced. He waved to indicate the entire kitchen, as if that somehow proved his point.

  “Agreed. As we both know, I’m not properly equipped for that position.”

  “You don’t have to make me breakfast.”

  “No, I don’t. But I’m hungry, and it’d be damned rude if I didn’t give you some food too.”

  Thomas scowled, but he also scooped up a forkful of eggs and popped it into his mouth. He followed it with a bite of toast and a swallow of coffee. “I’d rather have tea,” he grumbled.

  “We are in America, so you have coffee.”

  “Why did you move to the States?”

  It was a non sequitur, but Abe didn’t mind. “I was six. I didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “Why did your parents move?”

  “Oy.” That was a story Abe had heard many times, mostly in conjunction with a lecture about how he ought to be a more grateful son and pursue a more appropriate career path. “Life isn’t always peaceful for Jews. It wasn’t that bad in Hungary at the time, but there were pogroms in Russia, and my parents feared the sentiment would spread. And in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, everyone was supposed to be a good citizen of the empire and forsake their own traditions. Also, there was the likelihood I’d be conscripted into the army when I grew older.”

  Thomas’s hand shook and he spilled some coffee. He set the mug down. “You never served.”

  “I was thirty-five when conscription began here, so I don’t know if I’d have been called up. But my mentor, Emil Magnus, used to be a physician. He wrote me a medical exemption.”

  “You lied to escape service.”

  Abe picked up his fork and looked Thomas squarely in the eyes. “I see spirits of the dead. Sometimes I’m possessed by them. Can you imagine what would happen in a war zone?” The horror in Thomas’s expression suggested that, indeed, he could. Good. Abe had revealed his ability to very few people, and it was important that those people understood what a burden it was. “I avoid hospitals for the same reason.”

  Thomas frowned. “You’re implying that spirits remain near where they’ve died, but Birdie died in France.”

  “No, it’s not like that. They’re not bound the same way we are. I think they can go anywhere. But where they tend to go—or at least where I can sense them—is near something or someone important to them.”

  “Birdie had no interest in San Francisco.”

  Was Thomas really this thick? Surely not—he’d make a terrible detective otherwise. He was simply blind when it came to matters close to him, as so many people were. “He had interest in you,” Abe said softly.

  “You said he loved me.”

  “He still does. It’s…. I don’t think it’s the same, but—”

  “You’re telling me that love survives death.” Thomas’s lip was lifted in scorn.

  “Why not? Other emotions do. And love is so central to who we are.”

  “How can you love if you don’t have a body?”

  Ah. Abe affected his father’s thick accent and the tone he used when attempting to plumb the depths of someone’s consciousness. “You are confusing love with lust, young man.”

  “Same thing.”

  “I don’t think even you believe that,” Abe said in his own voice. “There’s nothing wrong with lust, but love exists on its own. When I was young, I had a close friend, Benjamin Ginsburg. He loved me as much as I loved him, but for him, it was like I was his brother. He wasn’t queer. I, on the other hand, definitely did not think of him as a brother.” He hadn’t meant to mention Ben—he’d never told anyone about him—but it slipped out. A way to make his point.

  And he’d probably given away even more than he intended, because Thomas nodded astutely. “That’s why you moved to California.”

  Yes, Abe had been right—Thomas was no fool, except when it came to hims
elf.

  “Partly.” Abe passed the plate with the good brown bread from last night’s dinner, sliced and toasted. Thomas took two slices and they ate in silence. The newspaper lay on the table, still folded, and Abe skimmed the headlines. “Election’s coming up. Who will you vote for?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You’re not a citizen?”

  “I am, but I won’t vote. It doesn’t matter anyway. Politicians—every one of them is a bigger scam artist than you.”

  Abe laughed. “Likely. But I’ll vote for Hoover anyway.”

  “You don’t like Catholics?”

  “Ah, so you are paying attention to the election. I don’t care if someone’s Catholic—they’re all goyim anyway. And I do like that Smith opposes Prohibition. But he’s tied to Tammany Hall, and Hoover’s a steady man. A solid businessman. You know, ‘a chicken for every pot.’”

  As Abe expected, Thomas snorted dismissively. “That’s claptrap.”

  “Maybe. But poverty—real poverty—isn’t claptrap. I’ve seen babies dead in their mothers’ arms. A hundred and twenty-five women and girls killed at the Triangle factory.” Although he hadn’t wanted to visit the site of the fire, he’d been drawn there nonetheless. He’d encountered the spirits of some of the dead, including a sixteen-year-old girl named Tillie, who’d leapt from the ninth floor. Her spirit begged him to tell her sister about the stash of money hidden under a floorboard in their apartment. When Abe tracked down the sister and told her, she’d broken down and sobbed in his arms.

  Thomas stopped arguing and finished his breakfast. When his plate was empty, he carried it to the sink and then disappeared into the hallway.

  “There’s no point trying to leave without me,” Abe called. “I’ll find you.”

  “How?”

  Birdie would lead him—but maybe Thomas was already figuring that out. In any case, Thomas waited for him to clear his own dishes; washing up could wait for later. Abe joined him in the hallway to don his overcoat and hat.

  They took the streetcar rather than a taxi, and Thomas didn’t say a single word as they rattled along. He leapt off so suddenly in the Tenderloin that Abe almost missed the stop and then had to hurry to keep up with Thomas’s longer legs.