Not My Spook!

by Tinnean

  The sand was cool and oozed between my toes, and the journey that had taken three quarters of an hour outward bound only took about thirty minutes on the return trip.

  I was doing one of my periodic visual sweeps of the beach when I felt a sudden sharp pain in my foot. “Ah, fuck!” I had stepped onto a broken shell that the retreating tide had exposed. I stared as blood pooled on the sand beneath the ball of my foot and my big toe. When I angled it around to examine the damage, I saw that there were two cuts, although the one on my toe was shallower, and sand had made its way into them both. I stuck my foot back in the water to rinse it off. “Shit!” I winced as the salt stung the open wounds.

  The town fathers of Chatham had conveniently placed benches so the ocean view could be observed in comfort. I sat myself down on one and wrapped a sock around my injured foot, trying to stem the flow of blood. Proven House wasn’t more than a ten-minute walk from that point. I hauled myself up to my feet and hobbled my way back, putting most of my weight on my heel.

  Fortunately, the natives had enough smarts that they knew to avoid the beach in March. I didn’t need any pitying glances.

  No one was at the front desk when I entered the bed-and-breakfast, and I was able to get to the second floor without being questioned about my stupidity. I took the key from my pocket, then paused at my door, squatting down to check the string of chewing gum I had left there. It was awkward balancing on the ball of my left foot and the heel of my right. Gently, I stretched my fingers toward the fine ribbon of gum. It was broken.

  Adrenaline began to surge through my body, and my foot was forgotten. I eased the sneakers off my shoulder to the floor, straightened, and switched the key to my left hand. I reached for my gun, very quietly unlocking the door. Drawing in a deep breath to center myself, I flung the door open to slam noisily against the wall and threw myself into the room, tucking and rolling and coming up on my knee, the Beretta in my right hand, my left cupping the grip.

  The man on my bed had bolted upright into a crouch, his upper body mimicking my position. He was pointing a Smith and Wesson Combat Magnum at my head.

  I snarled, “Jesus, Mann, who do you think you are, fucking Dirty Harry?” and I let my hand with the subcompact drop.

  He glared back at me and slid the revolver into the holster under his left arm. “Do you have any idea how close I came to blowing your fucking head off?”

  “That’ll be the fucking day!” I rose and turned to retrieve my sneakers and remove the key from the door, then shut and locked it. I was starting to cool down. “What are you doing here, anyway? How—” I bit back the question.

  He arched an eyebrow, apparently knowing what I was about to ask him. “Do you really expect me to tell you how I knew you were staying on Cape Cod, under the name of Joseph Wells?”

  I’d been using an alias that was known only to a very select few in the WBIS. I wasn’t stupid enough to think Michael Shaw was the only mole in the WBIS, but it hadn’t been my responsibility to deal with it. Now, as Deputy Director of Interior Affairs, it was. I’d look into it when I got home.

  “By the way, remind me never to get on your wrong side.”

  “Huh?”

  “I learned Sperling’s dead. His was the body in the morgue.”

  “I don’t know where people get this idea that I had anything to do with that shit’s death.” I wasn’t going to ask him how he’d found out. We both worked in the intelligence community, after all. And there was still that fucking mole in the WBIS. Who was seriously going to regret the day he was born after I got my hands on him.

  “Well, it’s a well-known fact you didn’t like him.”

  Well-known to who? Whom? I scowled. “And so what, Mann? I don’t like a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I go around killing them.”

  “But he did die in your apartment.”

  “I wasn’t there.” I gave him a flat look, and he had the nerve to look amused. That was, until I limped toward him, and then he frowned as he got off the bed.

  “What did you do to your foot, Mark?”

  “It’s nothing, just a scratch.” I dropped my sneakers and put the Beretta down on the dresser.

  “Yes? Well, that scratch is leaving bloody footprints all over the rug.”

  “Fuck!” The wounds had almost stopped bleeding, and now the strenuous movement had caused them to start again.

  “Get in the bathroom and let me take a look at that. And don’t argue with me, or I’ll….”

  “Yeah? You’ll do what, Quinn?” I shouldn’t be baiting him. Whatever it was that we had had, we didn’t have it anymore.

  He walked toward me, his eyes glittering, and I watched him warily, uncertain of what he was going to do. He reached for me, his palm settling on my upper arm, and for a second his fingers seemed to fondle my shoulder. And then he spun me around and shoved me toward the bathroom. “Move it, tough guy.”

  I could have taken him. After all, I had about five inches and twenty, maybe thirty pounds on him. But for some reason—probably because he was trying to help and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings—I let him herd me into the bathroom. I put the lid of the john down and sat, then rested my right foot over my knee.

  “Untie that sock, Mark.” Quinn removed his jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door. I liked the way the harness of his shoulder holster framed the muscles of his back, the way his shirt tucked in at his waist, the way the line of his trousers molded the curve of his ass. My mouth went dry.

  Seeming completely unaware of my reaction to him, he unfastened his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. Hair slightly darker than the hair on his head dusted his forearms.

  “You—uh—you mind telling me what you are doing here, Quinn?” I asked as I licked my lips, trying for a little distraction.

  A wicker basket placed at the end of the vanity held the washcloths. They were arranged around the toiletries Proven House offered its guests, little bottles of body lotion, shampoo, conditioner. Quinn selected a washcloth and saturated it with water. The glance he gave me was not friendly.

  Well, fuck. What was he pissed about? I hadn’t asked him to come up here after me.

  He took my foot in his hand and began to clean the sand out of the wounds. His fingers were warm and gentle as they cradled my heel.

  “This doesn’t look good, Mark. I think you might need stitches. Maybe we should get you to an emergency room.” He hadn’t answered my question.

  “No. It isn’t necessary. It’s not that bad.” I’d had more than enough of hospitals in the past week. “Give me that; you’re too gentle.” I took the washcloth from him and scrubbed harder, causing the wounds to bleed more freely. From the corner of my eye I saw Quinn wince. “It’s okay. The blood will get out any sand that’s left, and just to be on the safe side, run a couple of inches of water in the tub; I’ll soak the rest of it out.” I looked up to find Quinn staring at his hands, which had my blood on them. Goddammit…. “Listen, Mann, you don’t have to worry, I’m clean—”

  “You’re an asshole, you know that, Vincent? Do you think I’m worried about that?”

  “Why not? I would be.” And if anyone else had called me an asshole, I’d be tearing his head off and pissing down his neck. I didn’t ask myself why I wasn’t separating Mann’s head from his shoulders; I knew why—I was worried about my foot.

  He scowled and turned on the bath taps. “I have a copy of your last physical,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t have taken a chance and rimmed you otherwise, much as I may have wanted to.”

  My mouth dropped open, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I’d deliberately kept myself from thinking what a stupid-ass chance that was for him to take.

  I should have known: Quinton Mann never took chances, stupid or otherwise.

  “Did you honestly think I’d do something like that just because of your beaux yeux?”

  I was almost stupid with relief. “Quinn! That’s French!”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? Gom
ez Addams?” He crossed to where I was still sitting. He wound his fingers in my sweater and hauled me to my feet, then fitted his lips to mine.

  It had been thirty-four hours, sixteen minutes, and some odd seconds—not that I was counting—since the last time we had done this. His mouth was ravenous, and he held my head, refusing to allow me to do anything more than hold still for his kisses. I was panting, and the puffs of breath entered his mouth. I slid my hands down between us to shape his cock, and I could feel how hard he was. I reached around to his ass, dug my fingers into the firm muscles, and rubbed myself against him, letting him feel how hard I was.

  Quinn groaned and stepped back, breaking my hold on him. “Not the best time!” His fingers rubbed under my chin and pushed my mouth closed. “Soak your foot, Mark.”

  I swallowed and turned off the water, then straddled the side of the tub.

  “Do you have any bandages?”

  “There’s some first-aid stuff in my shaving kit.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about this turn of events. I leaned sideways and probed the wounds, which were still oozing a little blood. They felt as if all the sand had been removed. “Hand me a towel, would you?” I pulled the plug and swiveled around to balance on the edge of the tub. “Want to tell me now what you’re doing here?”

  “Why did you run, Mark?”

  “What?” If that wasn’t like a spook, answering a question with a question.

  His eyes were brooding. “What we have between us is too good to be tossed aside on a whim.”

  “What are you talking about?” I hedged. “I didn’t run anywhere. I had to go to a funeral.”

  “Your mother.” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be.” I didn’t ask how he knew that. If he knew I used another identity when I went out of town, then his source would have told him the reason I had left. I ducked my head, ostensibly to examine the cuts more closely. “The old—her liver finally gave up the ghost.”

  He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “By the time I found out about it, it was too late to send flowers.”

  “Don’t worry about it. She wasn’t a flower person.”

  “Was it—was it because I fucked you?”

  I stood up and began to look through the kit. “Shit. I know I had iodine in here!”

  “This?” He displayed the bottle with the tiny skull and crossbones on the label, but held it out of reach. “Sit down, Mark.” I sat down.

  Quinn knelt before me and unscrewed the top of the bottle. He was careful touching the applicator to the two cuts, but I still had to bite down hard on my lip. Fuck, that stung!

  “I thought you enjoyed it,” he said in a very low voice.

  “I did. That’s why….” I had to leave?

  “I thought if we were—”

  If we were what? Lovers? I tested the word in my mind. He saw us that way?

  “I just thought it would be enjoyable to switch from time to time.”

  “Well…. Well….”

  “Why not give it some thought?” He recapped the bottle, set it on the vanity, and said briskly, “If you won’t go for stitches….” He frowned at my expression. “All right, butterfly bandages might work just as well. Do you have any?”

  “Quinn….” I sighed as I reached for the kit. Like the Boy Scouts, I was prepared for any contingency; I wouldn’t have made it so far in the WBIS otherwise. I handed him the small packet of bandages.

  “You know, Mark—hold the edges together, please.”

  “‘I know’ what?” He didn’t answer, and I tipped his chin up. His eyes were warm. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

  I leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss that was as hungry as his had been. When I pulled back, his lips were lush and swollen. He drew in a breath and sat back on his heels, reaching for the next bandage. I was breathing heavily, and I knew he couldn’t avoid seeing how hard my cock was. Well, it was right under his nose.

  He ran his fingers over the bulge in my jeans and grinned up at me under his lashes, “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

  And as if he hadn’t just rocked my world, he went back to smoothing the bandages in place. The touch of his fingers over the arch of my foot caused it to twitch involuntarily, and his grin widened. I kept my hands fisted, wanting nothing more than to bury them in his hair and drag his mouth back to mine. I closed my eyes, battling my feelings.

  “I’m done,” he said softly as he rose to his feet.

  “Ah, fuck it!” Why had I fought this? He’d made it so goddamned good for me. I surged up and brushed against him and found his cock was as hard as mine. I got my arms around him and took his lips, walking him backward into the bedroom.

  “Your foot—”

  “Fuck my foot!” I kissed him again, and keeping my lips on his, started to pull my arms out of my sweater; I was reluctant to release his mouth.

  “Kinky!” he murmured against my lips.

  “Very funny, Hedley Lamarr.”

  He burst into pleased laughter. “No one ever gets my impressions!”

  “Well, I—oh, fuck!” I tore myself away from him, one arm still in a sleeve and the other not, and smacked the wall. “Of all the motherfucking, cocksucking—”

  “Mark!” Quinn put his hands on my shoulders. They were warm, and the hand on my left shoulder was gentle. “What’s wrong?”

  I scrubbed my face with my hands. “No supplies.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me, Mann. I didn’t bring anything with me. No condoms, no lube….” I was so hard I could hammer nails with my cock, and I didn’t even have a rubber in my wallet. I liked to pride myself on my preparedness. I was tempted to kick something, but without shoes on, I’d probably only succeed in breaking a toe.

  “So, you didn’t plan on fucking anyone while you were away.” He was looking pleased.

  “Are you nuts, Quinn? I was going to bury my old lady! Contrary to what Major Drum might believe, I do not get turned on by funerals!”

  “Well, if I remember correctly, there’s some lotion on the vanity. And….” He removed his wallet from his pocket, opened it, and exhibited a foil packet. I reached for it. “Ah, ah, ah, Mark. I brought it; I wear it!” His look suddenly became cautious. “That is, if you—if you’re interested?”

  “Damn straight, I’m interested.” I realized abruptly that it was more than being interested: I trusted him to make it good for me.

  He blew out a relieved breath, put his wallet away, and raised his hand to curl his fingers over my ear. I shivered from the sensation. “We can go out to a drugstore after dinner and buy more, if you’d like.”

  If I’d like? I grinned as I freed my other arm, pulled my sweater up over my head, and dropped my hands to my belt buckle. “We’ve got an hour and a half until dinner. Get naked, Quinn.”

  His eyes were bright. He worked the knot out of his tie, then let it dangle as he unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, tantalizingly. He ran his tongue over his lips.

  I growled and reached for him.

  XXIII

  “YOU have a place to stay tonight?”

  “Yes. I… uh… wasn’t sure of my welcome, so…. I’m down the hall from you, in the Harpooner.” Quinn’s left arm was draped over my chest. I raised it and peered at his wrist watch.

  Convenient. I grinned into his hair. “I guess we’d better start getting dressed. We should have enough time for a quick shower.”

  He checked his watch himself. “We’d have time for a more leisurely shower if we shower together.”

  “You just want to get blown.” I could feel the heat as he flushed, and I laughed. “I don’t have a problem with that, baby.”

  “Well, if it comes to that, neither do I.” He nuzzled a spot just below my collarbone. “My room doesn’t have a tub,” he murmured.

  “No?” I wasn’t thrown by the seeming non sequitur. I tipped his chin up and kissed him. “Keep that thought in mind for later.”

  XXIV

  WE ENTERED the d
ining room a few minutes after it opened. Mrs. Proven appeared in the door to the kitchen, smiled, and approached us. “Gentlemen. Mr. Reed, I’m so pleased you were able to find your friend. I’ll just let Sam know you’re ready for your first course. If you’ll take this table?”

  Quinn returned her smile and walked to the table in the corner. He was about to sit down when I stopped him. “Would you mind if I sat there?”

  “You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Joseph.”

  Didn’t mean they weren’t out to get me. “Humor me.”

  “Of course.” He angled the table so that we both had a clear view of the rest of the room.

  “What name are you using this trip?” I asked in an undertone.

  “You may call me Charles.” That smile was directed right at me. “How long will you be here?”

  “Until Friday morning.” Before I’d left, Mr. Wallace had given me instructions to take as long as I felt necessary to deal with the emotional backlash of burying a parent, as long as I was back at my desk by Friday afternoon.

  “I’ll be staying until Friday morning… Joe.”

  “Chuck.” If I was lucky, he wouldn’t be spending any more time in that room of his than it took to rumple the sheets so it would look like the bed had been slept in. Although it might be interesting to use his room for a change of scenery. “Let’s dig in, okay? I want to get to the pharmacy before it closes.”

  “There’s a CVS just down the road.” Our hostess was placing the salad plates in front of us. “They stay open until ten on weekdays. I hope there’s nothing wrong?”

  Quinn regarded her blandly. “Not a thing.” He offered nothing further, and I felt a twinge of admiration and wondered if he’d be interested in working for the WBIS. The CIA didn’t deserve him; he certainly had more brains than most of the assholes I’d come into contact with there.

  I speared a leaf of arugula. “Ever think of switching agencies?”

  His expression was thoughtful. “Leave my… Company?”

  “They don’t appreciate you there. I could put a word in with my boss. Maybe even get you a position as my partner? I’d like to have you… as my partner.” My voice was heavy with innuendo.