Grand Adventures

by Dawn Kimberly Johnson

  “Scoot closer.” He prodded me, and when I did, he reached under the blankets, slid a hand over my hip, and looked at me over his shoulder. “And I’ll take a kiss.”

  “Will you?”

  “And everything else.”

  I surged forward and took his mouth as I’d done earlier in the day, falling into him, inhaling at the same time, wanting to taste him, lick, and suck, needing to own every part of the man. Never before had the urge been so wild, to be buried inside of him, not simply to sate a throbbing desire and satisfy years of longing, but even more, to connect and simply belong to him. I wanted to be his, and in return, I wanted his heart. “I’m all yours, you know that.”

  He had always been able to read my mind. I had forgotten what that sounded like, felt like. “There should be no doubt.”

  And I could see it clear as day, my whole life spread out in front of me. How funny that when you finally met the one, or got the one, everything fell into place. The stars dropped right out of the sky and lit your path home.

  “Kiss me too, Kevin.”

  I smiled against Wade’s mouth, wiped his tears away, because, like me, he was in heaven and hell at the exact same time. Our life was just beginning, and we still had to mourn for his sweet sister, who’d made all things possible.

  But tomorrow would be a better day for the angel I would help raise, and I promised her that as I leaned across the man I loved and kissed her forehead.

  “I know,” she told me. “We’ll make this room mine, and Monday we’ll go to the zoo and see the bears and the otters. I love them.”

  “Me too,” I said as I pulled Wade back into my arms, and he did the same to her. “I can’t wait.”

  Witness Protected

  DAWN KIMBERLY JOHNSON

  Hello, Eric and TJ,

  I’m sorry we haven’t met yet, but both of you have so deeply touched me with your writing and your spirit and your humor that you (individually and together) have made my time here brighter. Thank you. We all write these stories knowing how very rare it is for two people to recognize the beauty in one another. It’s magic, and you’ve found it.

  Much love always,

  DKJ

  HE WENT off the roof, and I’m on my knees. I’m down here on my knees because Griffin Bartlett fell—well, he was pulled—I suppose exactly how it happened is irrelevant. I’m down, my stunned brain searching frantically for something to latch on to, for something it recognizes, the buzz of its efforts filling my ears until there’s no discernible, specific sound. I’m gazing out at where he stood only seconds ago, at nothing but blue sky and reflective office buildings as the sharp grit on the very tip-top of the Banc One annex grinds painfully into my tender knees through my slacks. I’m on my knees because my legs gave out, the strength in me evaporating when Griffin disappeared over the edge.

  I’m US Marshal Kirk Torrente, and I only this moment realized I want him, desperately need him, for more than just a quick bang in his bedroom at the safe house. I want him in my life in some capacity. I want to come home to him or pick him up from work or go grocery shopping with him so we can later cook dinner together and talk about our day. But none of that is going to happen, because Griffin’s gone. I just saw it happen. He’s gone because I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t aware enough to know he’d been hurt by my words and lack of action, by my fear and hesitation.

  WE HADN’T exactly hit it off when we were introduced at our first briefing two months ago. I found his sandy, only-floppy-on-top hair, hazel eyes, and loud shirt disconcerting for some reason. I sized him up quickly. We were about the same height, but I had more muscle—hell, I had more everything than him, or so I thought. I admit I made assumptions.

  He was nothing like our usual witnesses. They were most often criminals looking for a way out of a bad situation of their own making, while Griffin was a part-time janitor/computer programmer, a good guy, smart, hardworking, trying to make his way in life. No military service, had probably never handled a gun or punched anybody. One of those pacifist types. My mother had called them “tree huggers.” Not exactly an environmentalist, Griffin explained later, but he did assume the best about people.

  Ridiculous.

  He’d witnessed a murder as he was cleaning offices at Ruby, Belouche, and Associates, a law firm known, at least by the feds, to be laundering money by the millions for a certain crime family. Shortly after seeing Pauly Pasternak’s brains paint the wall of the seventh-floor men’s room, Griffin landed in our lap.

  If he hadn’t had those earbuds in, head bobbing along to “Been Caught Stealing,” he would have heard the argument, heard the scuffle and grunts as Pauly was being beaten, heard the man’s pointy little head gong off the washbasin. Alas, Jane’s Addiction was Griffin’s addiction, and he obliviously entered the men’s room just as Liev Kohut pulled the trigger.

  Luckily, Griffin had been a track star in high school, and he dashed away, creating such a lead on them that he was able to reach the sixth floor before Kohut and his cohorts even made it through the maze of cubicles on the seventh. During an erratic drive to his apartment, he called his uncle, a retired US Marshal, and spilled his guts. Uncle Lou contacted my superiors, and my partner, Lewis Runyon, and I got the detail.

  Sixty days later Griffin was gone.

  I should have known he would be a problem that first day. I’d entered the briefing, working my routine of taking control, laying down the law, but Griffin had interrupted me and laid down his own law—what he would and would not do, what he would and would not accept. To the great amusement of my colleagues, I was left blinking and speechless for a moment as the man gazed up at me. Griffin declared that, yes, he had seen the murder, and yes, he would testify, but he would not be barked at or ordered around or manhandled by anyone.

  During the subsequent weeks, it had only gotten worse. We butted heads and argued about all the good stuff—family, politics, religion, marriage rights, the military, social media—which was especially demoralizing for me because Griffin was wicked smart and hilarious. He sort of made those fights… fun. We did bond over snow being evil and that we weren’t looking forward to yet another East Coast winter.

  And since safe houses weren’t exactly known for their high-end features, I learned he could fix anything on the property: electrical problems, plumbing, satellite reception (so important for the ball games), or a faulty fuel line on the lawnmower. The only way I could have found him sexier was if he were a better shot or a better cook than me. He was neither. I was right in my assumption that he’d never handled a gun, and he couldn’t even boil water.

  However, the dude had a bad habit of shedding us. You’d think a guy who liked working on computers would enjoy being indoors for weeks on end, but that wasn’t the case with our witness. Oh no. He liked to run in the morning, swim at night, walk in the park at lunchtime… and ditch us in a crowd. Three times he did this, and three times I read him the riot act after catching up to his perky ass. He would apologize, lower that warm hazel gaze to his shoes, and whisper, “I just needed to breathe, needed to be alone.”

  Another thing he seemed to enjoy was watching me. I’d catch him sometimes following me with his eyes and smiling serenely, his dirty thoughts practically shouting at me. At first he’d turn away quickly whenever he got caught, but after two weeks of it, he didn’t bother turning away. He just grinned and winked, prompting me to look away instead.

  That was around week four. At the start of week five, I found myself unceremoniously shoved against the wall outside his bedroom as Griffin mated our lips and tongues and pressed his front against my front. I slid my hands beneath his faded Nothing’s Shocking T-shirt and worked his belt loose as he did the same to me. His body was slender, firm, strong, hot, and pleasing to touch, to explore, and in a breathless tangle we tumbled through his bedroom door and onto his bed. But even before the bed stopped bouncing, I put a stop to that racing train.

  Disbelieving, he looked down into my eyes, his lips kis
s-plump, his pupils blown, and as I struggled from beneath him, I mumbled some spiel about my job, my responsibilities, about keeping him safe. Runyon was at home with his family that night, so I had only my better angels to stop me from bedding a witness under my protection, and they stood firm, as did my cock… for weeks.

  Once Runyon returned he felt the awkwardness in the air between us, which wasn’t surprising, considering how often my imagination ran away with Griffin—how he felt in my arms, how he tasted, the way he might move when stimulated just right, the sounds he might make, how he’d look when he came. His second day back, Runyon came at me with “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He was upset, as he should be, but I assured him nothing had happened beyond a kiss and a little groping, and Griffin and I would keep our distance. Neither of us were happy about it, though.

  Crammed in a house for two months with the man you want but can’t have wears on you, weakens you, makes you crazy. I suppose I could have asked for a transfer, but I didn’t know what reason I’d give, and honestly, I couldn’t stand the thought of not being there to protect Griffin if something went down.

  Why do we do that? Why do we stay on a job when we’re emotionally compromised? We know better. Detectives aren’t allowed to work a case involving a family member. Surgeons know damn well never to operate on a loved one, but they still try to do it anyway. It’s like we all suddenly go stupid or mind-blowingly arrogant, thinking, Not me. I can handle it. I can stay in control and be impartial. Yeah, right.

  Despite his continued attempts to entice me, it wasn’t until day fifty-five that I succumbed. I couldn’t help it. Runyon was once again at home with his family (I don’t have one), and that night I bumped into Griffin as he was leaving the bathroom, still wet from the shower, a towel wrapped around his narrow waist, that silly hair hanging dark and flat in his eyes. He looked so good, smelled so good…. I had to have him or begin drinking on the job.

  For the next four days, we only left the bedroom for food and water. Upon returning, Runyon grumbled but looked the other way. Then on day fifty-nine, there was a break in the case. Griffin would be testifying sooner than planned… and then heading off to parts unknown.

  In bed that night, when I told him, he whispered, “What about us?” And, being the emotionally stunted jackass I am, I asked, “What about us?” He’d kicked me out of his bed and his room. If he could have, I don’t doubt he would have kicked me out of the safe house. Runyon paused in the hallway and stared at me standing there facing Griffin’s door, clutching my hastily gathered clothes.

  SO EARLY this morning, Griffin and my partner went running in the park. Two hours later my partner called and, panting, told me, “Bartlett’s been grabbed! I’m on Fifth and Vermont, heading east.”

  “What happened?” I demanded as I tore out of the house.

  “He was pissed about whatever you did last night, been moody all morning. Guess he decided to ditch me. I’d nearly caught up to him when he got grabbed. It’s Fowley! I’m following the van now.” Runyon gave me the description over the noises of a gunning engine, screeching tires, and honking horns.

  I was by his side within minutes. We came to a halt next to the old gray van used to spirit Griffin away, a van currently hugging a light pole. We leaped out of our cars just as that ignorant hired thug, Richmond Fowley, dragged Griffin into the Banc One annex. We followed them up the stairwell, the sound of our guns clearing the building and calling in the cavalry. After I kicked open the roof access door, a bullet knocked my gun from my hand, and Runyon and I dived for what few shadows and hiding places there were available to us.

  As my partner laid down cover, I quickly recovered my gun and struggled to my feet, only to find myself looking across the roof at Fowley, his arm tight around Griffin’s neck and a 9 mm pointed at Griffin’s beautiful skull. The sky was a painful bright blue. The wind whipped around them, keeping those floppy locks of hair out of Griffin’s eyes and carrying away or distorting most of the words they exchanged.

  Just beyond the struggling pair, I could see the city rising up and piercing the sky. I wondered if anyone in those buildings was gazing out at us right now. Perhaps an office crowd was gathering at a window, pointing, and people calling, “Hey, look at this!”

  I tried to remember how tall the annex was. Obviously not as tall as the surrounding skyscrapers, but still…. I could see the hazel of Griffin’s large, soulful eyes from where he stood. There was some fear there but also loads of determination. My witness wasn’t so much frightened as focused, watchful. Again the man surprised me.

  Fowley was about four inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than Griffin, who wasn’t exactly a fighter. He was so not a guy made for battle, unless it was some type of online virtual combat. I couldn’t get a clear shot at Fowley, and there was nothing Griffin could do about our stalemate. There I went making assumptions again.

  In a blur, Griffin bit Fowley’s arm, twisted violently from the gunman’s grasp, and with one solid kick to his left leg, dislocated Fowley’s knee. The thug cried out but didn’t lose his gun. He did, however, start to drop like a sack of bricks. I ran forward to finish him but froze halfway there when I saw Fowley stumble backward, seemingly in slow motion.

  As he went off the roof, the killer reached out and grabbed Griffin’s shirt, the one I’d thought too bright and busy when we first met. I stopped breathing as the two men disappeared over the edge.

  Now here I am on my knees… lost.

  Runyon ran past me and looked over the side to the alley below. “He landed on him, Kirk!” he shouted as he ran back to the roof access door. “That fat fuck broke Bartlett’s fall! He’s still moving!”

  I started breathing again, got to my feet, holstered my gun, and ran on my partner’s heels to the ground floor. Once there we bolted into the alley and found Griffin trying to get to his feet. Fowley was dead and had been quite messy about it.

  “Griffin!” I shouted as I ran to him. Griffin stood shakily and immediately fell into my arms. “Y-you should lie down. Don’t try to stand.” Griffin had blood on his face and in his hair, but I couldn’t immediately tell if it was his. The man looked as though he might be sick, and I thought I might join him. I brushed Griffin’s hair out of his face. His eyes were wide and unfocused. “Hey? You in there?” The man looked at me with a huge smile, and I blinked in disbelief. “W-what the hell are you smiling about?” I demanded as two SUVs pulled up, our commander exiting and calling for an ambulance on his radio.

  “I’m alive, Kirk!” Griffin shouted. The only time he’d called me by my first name before that was in bed, his legs wrapped tightly around me as I thrust into him. He began laughing hysterically but abruptly stopped and hissed, obviously in pain of some sort, which wasn’t exactly surprising under the circumstances. I grinned at him in admiration of the kooky thorn in my side he had been for two months, and I would have kissed him right there in front of my colleagues if our witness hadn’t chosen that moment to pass out.

  LATER, AT the hospital, a doctor stood at the foot of the bed while Griffin slept. She was clearly perplexed by the information recorded on his chart. She read the first page, looked up at her patient, read the second page, and looked up at him again. The doctor closed the chart and glanced over at me as I slouched in an uncomfortable chair by the bed, waiting for Griffin to wake up.

  “He fell from where?” she asked.

  “The roof of the Banc One annex downtown. About three stories.”

  “And landed on what, an air mattress?”

  “Of a sort,” I said with a shrug.

  The doctor looked exasperated. “Well, he can go. He has a mild concussion, no internal bleeding, and his ribs are only bruised.” She got out her prescription pad and began writing quickly. “He will be in some pain, so I’ll give him these.” She tore the page from the pad and handed it to me. “He shouldn’t take them on an empty stomach. Other than that… keep an eye on him, keep him hydrated, and come back if there are any comp
lications or odd behavior.” The doctor turned to leave the room. “I’ll get his paperwork started.” She was shaking her head as she left.

  I watched Griffin sleep, watched his chest rising and falling. I reached out and placed my hand there to feel his heart’s steady rhythm, but my sleeping beauty stirred, so I quickly removed it. Those hazel eyes opened slowly and finally focused on me.

  “Kirk.” His throat sounded dry, so I grabbed him his giant hospital sippy cup.

  “Hey, Superman,” I teased as he pulled the cool liquid through the straw.

  “I prefer Spidey,” he groaned after he’d had his fill.

  “Okay, Spidey. How ya feeling?”

  “I’m feeling no pain right now.”

  I snorted, knowing my witness was so loaded up on painkillers he probably thought I was glowing. “Answer me something.”

  “If I can.” Griffin tried to sit up, and I helped him.

  “Where did you learn a move like that?” I asked, beginning to fluff his pillows. “What you did to Fowley.”

  He winced as he tried to sit up straighter. “My dad. He was a man of, uh… diminutive stature, and when I was very young, he taught me that if some jackass has a hold of me, wait for my moment, find a vulnerable spot, and break it. No hesitation or remorse. Put him down.” I feigned complete shock. “Of course, the best course of action is to make sure they never get their hands on you.” Griffin sighed and relaxed back into his newly fluffed pillows. “Sorry about… ditching… Runyon like th—” Asleep again, the pain meds had pulled him under.