by Amy Lane
“I think his last boyfriend did a number on him, Grace—or something like that. There’s pain in there. Don’t fuck with him. Please. I know he could probably kill everyone on the plane and then land it and walk away. But he won’t, because he’s a good guy. You could probably twist him into knots and then walk away and leave him to bleed, but I need you to not do that for the same reason. I don’t call on your better angel often, Grace, but I need you to give him a little play now. Steal whatever you want—but leave Hunter’s heart alone.”
Grace paused for a moment, stung. “Am I that bad?” he asked, and he was a little shocked to hear the hurt in his voice.
Josh—being Josh, of course—turned compassionate eyes on him and grabbed his hand without self-consciousness.
“You’re my friend, Grace. I love you. But you’re so brilliant and so… restless. As a dancer, you are so graceful you practically float. You’re like smoke—you drift along in the wind. But you… you are afraid to know people very well. You know me and my family, and I’m honored. You are kind to our friends, and I’m grateful. But I’ve seen how you treat hookups, and it’s not pretty. Your dildos get more affection when you’re done with them.”
Grace tried to jerk away, but Josh took his fingers and pressed them to his lips.
“I know why,” Josh said quietly. “You think anybody you let close to your heart is going to let you down. You’re so smart, you think you’ve figured out how to stop that from happening. But it makes you emotionally clumsy, Dylan. And me, Stirling, Molly, my folks—we know how to avoid getting walloped. But Hunter’s entire life is predicated on not letting people down. If he lets people down, they die. And you two have to work together. He’s not going to just one-and-done you, because your life may depend on him. And how can you trust him if the two of you aren’t talking anymore?”
“And how can I trust him if I’ve hurt him,” Grace said, swallowing. Well, Josh had said he was smart, but apparently not smart enough to get this right off. His throat ached a little, and he found he was clinging to Josh’s hand. “But why won’t he even get to know me as a friend?” he asked plaintively, glancing over at Hunter now that the beverage cart had moved away.
Hunter was looking back.
He’d pulled his seat up and lifted his sunglasses so they perched on top of his head. His tray was down, and he had a soda, a glass of ice, and a couple of cookies on top of it, as well as a battered Clive Cussler paperback.
Grace took that all in peripherally, but in fact what he was really looking at was Hunter’s eyes.
Gray, they were absurdly pretty in his tanned face, and Grace took a deep breath and tried not to be an ass.
“If you want to be my friend,” Hunter said clearly, “maybe talk to me and stop waving your ass around.” And with that, he opened his book and began to read.
Grace’s face heated, and he looked determinedly away from Josh’s sympathetic gaze.
“I hate everybody,” he muttered.
“Sure you do.” Josh yawned, slid his tablet into its sleeve, and put it in the pouch of the seat in front of him. “Now hate me while you hold still and be my pillow.” With that, he grabbed the sweatshirt behind him, folded it neatly, and propped it on Grace’s shoulder before leaning his head against it. “Don’t wiggle.”
Coming from anyone else, that would have been hysterical, but not from Josh Salinger. Grace slouched a little, getting comfortable, put in his earbuds and leaned his cheek against the top of Josh’s head. In his ears Lady Gaga sang about rain, and Stirling clicked comfortingly on the keyboard next to him, the sound just under the hum of the plane.
Grace closed his eyes for a catnap, but not before casting one more depressed glance at Hunter, expecting him to be deep in his book.
He was—but right as Grace looked, he saw a flicker of movement in Hunter’s eyes. Grace smiled softly to himself.
Hunter had been looking too.
HUNTER, STIRLING, Grace, and Josh may have been flying business class, but Julia, Molly, and Tabby’s grandfather were all in first class. Dylan caught up with Artur Mikkelnokov at the luggage area, quick to help the older man with his suitcase. Grace had a roller board and a backpack, but Artur had his suit in a garment bag for their dinner the next night. When Tabitha had told her grandfather that Grace wanted to accompany him to make sure he wasn’t overdoing it, Artur had insisted on taking him someplace elegant, as was his custom.
“How was your flight, Dylan?” the older man asked, smiling kindly.
“Fine, Dance Master,” Grace replied automatically, and then he hid a yawn in his shoulder. “I caught a nap.”
Artur chuckled. “That’s good to hear. I sat by the most charming two women. See, there they are!”
He laughed and waved at Julia and Molly, who were both playing up the costuming with black wigs—a pageboy for Molly and a complex updo for Julia. Both of them wore dark, striking eye makeup and slim-fitting skirts with mod-cut blazers. They looked like a mother-daughter power duo, right down to their Coach bags.
Julia approached them, ignoring Grace like the professional she was. “It was so wonderful to chat with you, Artur,” she gushed. “I hope to see you again, since we’re staying in the same hotel.”
It didn’t surprise Grace that this had come out in conversation, but he was impressed. He’d danced for Artur for sixteen years, and he’d been to the man’s house three times—all of them for Tabitha’s birthday parties if she was doing something big that year. And although kind, Artur was not inclined to be chatty.
“That would be lovely, my dear.” He smiled charmingly. “In fact, since I’m taking my young protégé here out to dinner at Hawksworth and then the ballet tomorrow, should I call and extend the reservation?”
Julia’s eyes grew appropriately round. “Oh, yes. That would be wonderful! We were too late to get in, since we left at the last minute and all. You must allow us to treat!”
Artur blushed. “Modern women—so very like my granddaughter. Of course.”
Together they gathered their luggage and made their way to their taxis, but not before Molly managed to smoothly pass Grace the earbud she’d kept in her suitcase so it wouldn’t get searched at TSA. Grace winked at her and slid it in, then proceeded to help Artur get the bags into his cab.
“What lovely people,” Artur murmured, and Grace, who had waited upon the old man’s good word for so much of his life, heard the weariness in his tone.
“Would you like to go to the hotel and rest, Dance Master?” he asked respectfully.
“What time is it, my boy?”
“Two.”
Artur grunted. “It always feels like it should be so much later when we go west,” he admitted. “In that case, yes. There is somewhere we must be around seven thirty, and after that we can eat, and you can have some time on your own. Find us somewhere to eat where you will be comfortable but that won’t make me regret bringing you.”
Grace grinned at him, and Artur gave him a gentle, if distracted, smile in return.
“Sushi?” Grace asked, to be sure.
“Sounds wonderful,” Artur said. He yawned, and Grace noticed for perhaps the first time, how frail the older man had become. Artur and his late wife had five children, and Tabby’s mother was the youngest. This put Artur in his seventies, which was a thing Grace had never considered until now. Artur had always been such a powerhouse—so vital, so authoritative. One of Grace’s best memories, other than those with Josh, was hearing the old man’s booming voice pounding through the dance studio.
Grace! You are the only child in this production, and I know you can do this. Now stop woolgathering and dance!
So often, Grace had blown off teachers, or even his own parents, when they’d told him he could be more than he was. He patently ignored anyone’s advice, with two exceptions—Josh’s parents, all three of them, and Artur Mikkelnokov.
He hadn’t known how to respect an adult until Artur, and it humbled him now to think that he might have mis
sed out on the unadulterated fun that being a part of the Salinger household was, if he’d never learned how to rein in his wayward brain and body.
Seeing his teacher looking older, worn, and haggard shook Grace in the pit of his stomach. Artur Mikkelnokov would claim to have devoted his life to the dance, but the truth was that he’d devoted his life to the dancers. His wife had died when Tabitha was very young, and his children had all moved off to be brilliant and productive. Artur had not been particularly maternal. Nobody would accuse him of mothering his dancers. But he had been there. Through breakups and eating disorders—so frequent among dancers, and the reason he’d made it his policy to look at the lovely motion and not the body type—and more, Artur had never judged one of his performers and had only wished them well.
One of the things that had pulled Grace out of his hospital bed after that stupid, stupid overdose had been the thought of Artur’s disappointment if he wasn’t in the studio that week to rehearse for the fall performance.
When Grace had been tired and, for once in his life, clumsy, he’d been forced to explain what had happened.
He’d never forget Artur’s sorrowful look, or the way the old man’s hand had shaken as he’d pushed Grace’s straight, blacklight-tinted hair out of his eyes.
“So close to never seeing you dance again, milyi. Perhaps we can think more and wander less so we don’t wander into such terrible trouble, yes?”
“Yes, Dance Master.” Grace could barely look at him—he remembered that. But it hadn’t mattered. Artur had given him the thing that saved him.
“Good. Back to the leap, then. I need to see you have not wasted it all with terrible chemicals, yes?”
God, Grace had been so scared it was true that he’d thrown his heart and soul into the difficult passage from Cinderella, and Artur’s quiet “Satisfactory. Now, one more time” had been his first real affirmation that between Josh and his parents and Artur and the dance, he’d never make that particular mistake again.
And now, watching as Artur leaned his head against the window of the cab, Grace was suddenly grateful for this job. No, he wasn’t happy that the Conservatory was in danger or that Artur and Tabby might be targets for the mob, but he was here, wasn’t he? He was Artur’s “protégé,” and not the sexy kind. He was the old man’s young dancer, and he was—hopefully—one of the people who could help save the dance studio, the thing besides his family that Artur loved the most.
For the first time in his life, Grace felt no urges to tweak his companion for attention, to pop off at the mouth or crack wise when the old man was trying to sleep. He remembered Josh’s words about his emotional clumsiness, and he suddenly understood.
It was like dance. He had a natural aptitude because his body responded very readily when he gave it directions, but he wouldn’t be Artur Mikkelnokov’s premier male lead if he didn’t practice, over and over, almost every move he made.
Perhaps not being a dick was like that. Perhaps if he practiced on the people who had determined to stay with him anyway, he might become adept enough at not being a pain in the ass for Hun—for the other people in their crew, who he was pretty sure only tolerated him because he was Josh Salinger’s friend.
It would be nice, he thought wistfully, if he could manage not to tweak Stirling the wrong way every time the two of them were in the same room. And it would be even nicer if Hunter looked at something besides his ass.
He shook that thought away, concentrating instead on the chatter on his coms, which sounded, he had to admit, completely unexciting.
Until he heard Hunter’s voice. “Grace! Are you listening?”
“I’m in a cab with Artur,” he whispered, and Hunter’s next try was quieter.
“I am so sorry,” he apologized. “I’d forgotten there were civilians with you. I was wondering if you had an agenda yet for the next two days. I know you couldn’t get Artur to commit.”
Grace sliced a look at Artur, but he appeared to be dozing. “I’m pretty sure the drop is at seven thirty tonight, and after that we’re going out for sushi. Tomorrow is the trip to the theater,” he said. “But I don’t know where the drop’s going to be or how I can access it.”
“Damn. Try asking later. I assume he’s sleeping?”
Grace yawned. “Yes.”
“You may have to find out when you’re both in the hotel.”
“Damn.” Grace didn’t mind stealing from strangers, but he didn’t like the idea of duping the old man, even if Artur was not supposed to ever know.
“Remember,” Hunter said softly, “you’re protecting him. You know that, right?”
Grace let out a breath. “Yeah. I know.” He glanced at Artur again, saw the old man’s breathing had evened out into a light doze. “Thanks, Hunter.”
His only response was a grunt, but Grace liked to think it was a warm grunt. He quit talking because the taxi driver was starting to look at him funny.
“Call?” the young man asked. He was cute, with a narrow, pale face and hair so blond it was almost white. Pixie-sweet fresh meat, Grace thought with a smile.
“Yeah,” Grace said, making an unconscious gesture, as if he was pulling an earbud out. His coms bud remained in place, but the gesture brought attention to the standard earbuds hanging from his neck in case Pixie-boy was watching. “Work.”
“So, what do you do?” In the rearview, Pixie-boy cut his eyes to the sleeping Artur, and Grace could almost hear the added “Or who?” in his voice.
Well, having a sugar daddy wouldn’t be the worst thing Grace had ever done, but he had his own money from his trust fund. He’d never stolen for sustenance—only for sport.
“I’m a dancer,” he said, almost surprised. He’d never been asked what he did for a living before. It only occurred to him now that he couldn’t actually make a living on what he was paid at the studio for teaching classes and performing. Many of his compatriots had day jobs. “I also work for a think tank.”
“What’s a think tank?” the driver asked.
In Grace’s ear, Josh said, “It’s a group of people who like to solve unusual problems.”
Grace grinned, comforted somehow that Josh was tuning in to his part of the conversation. Julia, Felix, and Danny actually had spent the previous weekend in Vancouver, setting up ahead of time. Josh and Stirling had probably been tapping into wire towers to stay on coms since they’d left the airport.
He repeated the definition to Pixie-boy, whose eyes grew heavy-lidded and sultry.
“Unusual problems?” he repeated. “Like, say, being lonely on a Friday night?”
Six months ago, Grace would have made the date and snuck out of the hotel room for a quickie in any private corner.
Two years ago, he would have had Pixie-boy pull over at a gas station so Grace could blow him in the bathroom.
But right now, he’d just told this guy that he was part of a think tank, and he’d promised Josh he’d try not to be a dick to Hunter.
And Hunter was on the other end of the com.
“That problem’s not so unusual,” Grace told him tartly. “And I really am here on business.”
The driver’s sigh of disappointment was flattering.
But it didn’t give Grace nearly the feeling of warmth that Hunter’s soft exhalation on the other end of the coms did.
Game Faces, Everyone
“EASY, HUNTER,” Josh murmured, holding a cupped hand to his ear to mute his voice in the coms. They were in their own cab and had paid the driver to be as ahead of Grace and Artur’s as he could possibly get. Julia and Molly were in a car behind them by design, so hopefully Grace and Artur could be getting unloaded at the parking structure of the Westin Bayshore after they arrived, and they could miss each other.
Hunter shrugged his shoulders, scowling. That little shit of a taxi driver had been hitting on Grace. He’d taken one look at a sleeping Artur and pretty much asked if Grace’s ass was up for grabs.
And before Hunter could even say, “Head in the ga
me, Grace,” Grace had….
He’d turned him down.
Not gracefully, no—but he’d made it clear he wasn’t available.
And Hunter was… what was the word? Uneasy. Hunter was uneasy with a Grace who wasn’t out to get a piece of ass at every opportunity.
Because while Grace may not have met Hunter before their first job together, Hunter had known Grace. Josh had talked to Hunter—vented a little, perhaps—because Hunter understood that having a friend like Grace was like having a squirrel on a leash. You never knew when it was going to double back and trip you going forward or, worse, climb a tree and leave you hanging.
So Hunter had gotten an earful of perhaps what weren’t Grace’s finest moments. The time came to mind when Grace was supposed to give Josh a ride home from the city but had been an hour late because he’d been getting the kind of facial not given at a reputable salon and had spent fifteen minutes trying to wash jizz out of his hair.
But Hunter had also gotten Josh’s worry, along with the fact that underneath their sometimes fractious relationship had been a whole lot of love.
“He always makes me laugh,” Josh had said one day over coffee. “I mean, I could be having the worst day, and it’s like radar. Grace will call up and say something stupid like, ‘I want to dye my hair like donut sprinkles,’ and I will show up at the salon to see what donut sprinkles look like in someone’s hair—and it was beautiful, by the way, though nobody but Grace could pull it off—and suddenly my day is better. He tells me about every sexual encounter he’s ever had. Not to gross me out, not to make me jealous, ’cause, God! No.”
“Then why?” Hunter had asked, fascinated in spite of himself. He’d spent six years overseas in some of the worst hellholes on the planet—and sixteen years growing up in a place where confessing his sexuality could have gotten him beat the hell up if he hadn’t been stronger, faster, and smarter than most of the kids gunning for him. He knew how to spot unhappiness in somebody—even someone rich and spoiled—without even needing a scope.