by Josh Lanyon
Jason kissed his way to the curve of Sam’s neck, resting his face against Sam, absorbing the warmth of his skin, the tickle of his hair, the scent of his aftershave, the quiet, steady fall of his inhalations-exhalations.
Sam hugged him, not speaking, and there was something comforting in just this, holding each other, listening closely to what the other was not saying, maybe couldn’t say.
Jason whispered, “Do you think everything happens for a reason?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
Sam nudged his face, found his mouth, kissed him. He said gently, “That doesn’t mean good things can’t come out of bad things.”
* * * * *
Sam did not need a lot of sleep.
Four or five hours a night was his average. His morning routine was to run, shower, and read the newspaper while having his first cup of coffee. So for Jason to wake the next morning and find Sam still lying beside him, still sleeping soundly, felt special, like a rare treat.
Just to have the freedom to study Sam’s face to his heart’s content…
It worried him too, though. Even after a night’s sleep, the lines of weariness and tension were not entirely erased from Sam’s face. There seemed to be more threads of silver in his thick, fair hair.
It hadn’t occurred to Jason that Sam might be feeling responsible, even guilty for the attack on him. He had assumed Sam was just being his usual obsessive, control-freak self. Now Sam’s behavior made more sense. Not that his instinct to protect Jason by keeping him in the dark was correct or a good one, but it was more understandable in this context.
It had been a close call last night. Jason still felt a little shaken by how close they had come to snapping apart, but every time they weathered one of these conflicts, he felt like they were that much stronger, understood each other that much better. Given how little time they actually spent together, there were bound to be some serious disconnects.
And no end in sight on that. They lived on opposite sides of the country and, despite working for the same agency, their jobs rarely brought them into contact. They never spoke about a possible future. Their relationship existed strictly in the here and now.
Sometimes that was enough. Most of the time it was not nearly enough. Not from Jason’s perspective. He did not know how Sam felt. It was not something he was about to push. Not now. One close call per visit.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to go back to sleep. It was still early. He could hear the restless, unceasing Wyoming wind whispering outside the window, the cluck-cluck-clucking of the chickens in the yard, the plaintive braying of the blind donkey in his corral.
He started thinking again about Jeremy Kyser. If Kyser really had been at his conference in Toronto—and it sure sounded that way—he couldn’t have come after Jason, and they really were back to square one. One of the takeaways of looking over Sam’s notes had been the worrying realization that Sam truly had no idea who had attacked Jason.
That was what was making Sam crazy. It wasn’t doing a lot for Jason’s mental health either. The attack in the China King parking lot had happened one week to the day, and they were no closer to an answer as to the key questions of who had come after Jason and why.
“That’s a mighty ferocious-looking frown,” Sam murmured.
Jason opened his eyes, turned his head to find Sam studying him with a faint, rueful smile. Sam’s eyes looked so blue, so bright, and, oddly, now that he was awake, he looked more relaxed, at ease.
Jason smiled, shook his head a little, opened his mouth to say—something, who knows what—but Sam slid his arm beneath his shoulders and rolled him over against him.
“Come here, you.” Sam planted a warm, moist kiss on Jason’s startled mouth. Jason smiled, bumped his nose against Sam’s. Fluttered his eyelashes against Sam’s eyelids.
“Mmm…morning…”
“Morning.” Sam’s big hand moved between Jason’s legs to cup his balls, and Jason pushed into his touch with an encouraging murmur. His cock stirred, and he closed his eyes, savoring the leisurely caress. Sam’s mouth brushed his again, nuzzling, his tongue pushing against Jason’s lips, and Jason opened to the deeper kiss.
One of the things that had initially surprised him about Sam was the fact that Sam took nothing for granted in bed, equally at ease giving or receiving, but this morning Sam was all sexy aggression and classic male dominance, and it felt good. It felt great.
Sam lightly tickled Jason between his balls, chuckling when Jason squirmed and gasped. He trailed his fingertips to the opening between Jason’s ass cheeks and ran a teasing finger across the sensitive opening of Jason’s anus. Jason gulped. No matter how many times they did this, it still felt extremely…personal.
Sam reclaimed Jason’s mouth. Jason could taste the words. “You like that?”
Jason swallowed, nodded, because yes, of course. Invasion of space or not, it felt so good. Physical sensation, for sure, but also the emotional satisfaction of knowing every inch of him was appreciated, attention-worthy.
“Hmm?” Sam queried, gentle, teasing.
“Touch me there,” Jason whispered, closing his eyes, concentrating solely on the shivery sensations Sam’s contact aroused. So delicate, so discerning… He could feel the tiny scratch of Sam’s fingernail. Hell, he could almost feel Sam’s fingerprint. His cock hardened, shifted to nudge Sam’s own full and fleshy erection.
“Where?” Sam teased. His fingertip pressed against the resistance of quivering muscle, pressed a little harder. “Here? Or what about here?” As Jason shuddered and gasped, Sam’s voice deepened. “Yeah? Oh, you like that… How about here…” A lot of talking from Sam, who was usually so silent, so grave during sex.
A bird was singing outside the window. The bed smelled of flannel sheets and the musky scent of precome. How lovely to know there was no rush. No hurry. They could take all the time they needed.
Jason moaned and whimpered and whispered in response to the delicious, naughty things Sam was doing to him. “Oh God, that. Do that again. Feels so good. Don’t stop. Oh, God, Sam.”
He knew his lack of inhibition amused Sam a little, but it turned him on too—what wasn’t to like about having your efforts acknowledged and appreciated?—and that turned Jason on as well. As if Jason wasn’t already turned on enough.
“You want me to fuck you?” Sam muttered through another of those rough, wet kisses, and Jason moaned and nodded frantically.
“Yes. God. Yes. Do it. Fuck me.”
Sam gave a funny, breathless laugh. “Christ, West, you’re— I love you.”
And then he got up and went into the bathroom.
“Uh, was it something I said?” Jason asked after a moment. He raised his head from the pillow.
Sam returned wearing a big grin and a bigger erection. He held up a tube.
Jason’s gaze moved from Sam’s engorged cock to the tube. “Oh, right. Yes—”
Sam pounced and turned necessary preparation into pleasurable foreplay that left Jason hot and breathless and pleading with his body in small, restless arches and humps.
“Go on, tell me what you want,” Sam urged hoarsely. “I like to hear it. I like it when you say it.”
“Jesus, Kennedy. Are we going to actually do this because I think I’m gonna come—” His breath caught raggedly as Sam grabbed him beneath the waist, sweeping him up and over—Jesus Christ, he was strong—so that Jason was straddling Sam’s hips, astonishingly, exquisitely impaled on that massive cock.
Jason whimpered, panted, gazing into Sam’s eyes as Sam watched him, waiting for him to catch up. “You’re beautiful,” Sam told him. “You really are…beautiful.”
Jason’s muscles relaxed, his body accepting the challenge as it always did. He took a couple of deep breaths, steadied, even gave a little impatient wriggle. Sam smiled up at him. There was humor in that smile, and something else. Something harder to read. Satisfaction? Possessiveness? A little of both?
“Up-and-com
ing Special Agent Jason West,” Sam teased softly.
Jason gave a shaky laugh. He didn’t mind the teasing. Not when Sam said it in that voice. Not when Sam looked at him with that expression. He closed his eyes and began to move, rocking his hips, silently urging Sam to take him, and Sam obliged, thrusting into Jason with strong, steady surges. Jason rolled into that rhythm, losing himself in shattering, overwhelming sensation as the head of Sam’s cock grazed across the swollen gland of his prostate.
He cried out. “Good. So Good. Fuck me, Sam. Fuck me.” He leaned back, shifting angle so he could be more deeply, satisfyingly penetrated.
“So hot… So tight…” Sam growled. “So sweet…”
Sam’s fingers sank into his buttocks, leaving bruises for sure, and he pumped his hips fiercely into Jason, taking him now with short, powerful thrusts, driving him on as they performed their own frantic, ferocious bullet catch.
Jason’s orgasm had been lurking in the wings since Sam’s hand had closed caressingly about his balls. It needed nothing more than a few waves of that most intimate of wands to bring about detonation. His cock felt ready to burst, his balls clenched tight. Colored stars danced behind his eyes. Sparks seemed to dance at the root of his cock, tingle at the base of his spine.
Sim Sala Bim and abra-fucking-cadabra.
He began to come. Come so hard he would not have been surprised to see actual fireworks.
That spray of hot, wet release seemed to send Sam toppling over the edge. He yelled and bucked and came too in stringy, silvery jets of semen like silly strings. Sam reached out, and Jason collapsed in his arms. Sam folded him close, and they lay together, hearts pounding in time, breath rising and falling, still one.
So good. Maybe the best yet.
Magic.
Chapter Nineteen
“We could have breakfast in bed,” Jason said dreamily sometime later.
Sam had been gazing at the ceiling. He turned to look at Jason. “Is that what you’d like?”
“You’re on vacation. I’m technically on sick leave. I could phone Dreyfus and tell her not to worry about picking me up. I’ll come in later.”
“You don’t have to go in at all. That’s actually the point of sick leave.”
Jason wrinkled his nose. “True.”
“But?”
“Why don’t I tell you while we fix breakfast?”
Cooking breakfast together. That was a first. It felt sort of luxurious just to be together doing simple couple-type things like arguing over scrambled vs. fried and hunting for the Tabasco sauce.
And while Sam did say, “This kitchen isn’t big enough for both of us,” when Jason bumped into him a second time, he was smiling and there was a teasing warmth in his eyes.
“We make a good team,” Jason said when they carried their piled plates of scrambled eggs and turkey bacon and hash-brown potatoes back to the bedroom.
“Not too bad,” Sam acknowledged. “The bacon could be crisper.”
Jason joked, “Is that supposed to be a double entendre?”
Sam’s smile was twisted. “No. I think my bacon is probably crisp enough already.”
Jason laughed, but he sobered. He ate a few bites of egg and potato, then put his plate aside and said, “About my consulting gig with the Cheyenne RA.”
Sam swallowed a mouthful of coffee and raised his brows in inquiry.
“I may have expanded, or say, slightly pushed the boundaries of my purview.”
Sam said, “I’m not going to like this, am I.” It was not a question.
“No,” Jason admitted. “For the record, I did strenuously resist getting pulled into the murder investigation.”
Sam put his coffee cup down. He set his breakfast plate aside. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
Jason filled him in on everything that had happened since Sam had left for Colorado on Tuesday morning.
At the end of his recital, Sam said, “Let me see if I can summarize. You believe the theft of Michael Khan’s art collection is unconnected to his murder? You believe the Khan homicide is connected to the earlier death—possibly suicide, possibly homicide—of a man named Mateo Santos?”
“Correct.” Jason couldn’t help adding, “I think.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow but let that go. “You believe it will be impossible to recover the Khan art collection because—and this is where I get confused—you suspect a band of local magicians stole the collection in order to redistribute pieces to people within the magic community, who have arrived in Cheyenne for a magic convention. These would be people Michael Khan injured by ruining their acts, stealing from them, or just generally doing them wrong.”
Jason cleared his throat. “When you put it like that, it sounds a little…unlikely.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Sam said. “I would say it sounds a lot unlikely.”
Jason scowled. “Maybe it does, but the thieves were definitely dressed like magicians. And it would explain how they got in through the front door without having to break anything.”
“Magical powers?” Sam suggested.
“No, wise guy. A lot of magicians carry picklocks.”
“I see. Okay.” Sam picked up his coffee mug and took a thoughtful swallow. “Lock-picking magicians aside, that’s a lot of supposition.”
“I know.”
“Your only evidence seems to be the security footage, and yet you said the unsubs on the video were unrecognizable.”
“That doesn’t mean no one will be able to recognize them. Just that I can’t. Plus, the security footage is unenhanced. It’s possible that the images could be cleaned up and enlarged.”
“True. Do you have a theory as to who these magical unsubs might be?”
“Yes.” Jason took a deep breath. “Again, this is liable to sound a little…fantastic.”
“It’s never stopped you before, West.”
Jason gave a reluctant laugh. “Well, first we have to start with the victim, Michael Khan. He seems to have been universally loathed within the Cheyenne magic community. I mean, we didn’t speak to anyone who seemed upset at the news he’d been murdered. Or even surprised. The common refrain was that he lied, cheated, and stole from his peers whether through ruining their acts by revealing the secrets of magic or out-and-out theft and fraud of art and memorabilia.”
“Not a nice guy. Got it.”
“His collection was a particular sore spot with a lot of people, and to understand why that’s significant, you have to understand the role that tradition and history play in the magic community. It’s a little different than the rest of the art world because magic itself is an art.”
“You’re starting to lose me.” Sam pointed to Jason’s mug. “You want a top-up?”
Jason shook his head.
“I’m still listening.” Sam rose and went into the kitchen. Jason followed, still talking.
“The main market for art and props and costumes like those in Khan’s collection is other magicians, who tend to think of themselves as custodians of…”
“Don’t say magical artifacts.” Sam refilled his coffee cup, dosed it with cream and sugar, and leaned against the kitchen counter, regarding Jason.
“Obviously not magical artifacts, but valuable heirlooms. Items of cultural and historical significance to a small and close-knit community. So when word got out that the Khans were divorcing and that Minerva Khan wanted her share of the collection, I think there was widespread concern for the fate of these items. Especially given that a lot of people still felt they had a claim to things that Khan had not paid for or had obtained through unfair or even illegal means.”
Sam said, “You’re making a convincing case for robbing Michael Khan. What have you got beyond that? I’m guessing you think you know who was behind the theft.”
“Yes. I think the raiding party was organized by a woman named Elle Diamond. One of her coconspirators subconsciously called her out when he mentioned the name Zatanna Zatara.”
Sam opened his mouth,
and Jason hurried on, “Never mind. In the back lot of her ranch, there’s a moving van that fits the description of the one parked outside the Khan house. She’s got several barns and sheds and storage units that would be ideal for hiding the more than one thousand bits and pieces that make up that collection, and she was the first and only suspect to bring up the topic of search warrants.”
Sam grunted.
“There was a memorial held for Mateo Santos on the night of the robbery. I believe that Santos’ peers took that opportunity to celebrate a master magician’s life and work by pulling the ultimate sleight-of-hand—and in doing so, settle a score and liberate that collection. It was the perfect time because a lot of Khan’s victims will be in town this weekend for the convention.”
Sam took a thoughtful swallow of coffee. “You’re going to need a lot more than that in order to get a search warrant.”
“I know.”
Sam tilted his head, as though considering Jason from another angle. “Am I missing something here? You don’t want to get a search warrant?”
“I’m…not sure.”
“I’m definitely missing something.”
Jason said, “Sam, there are some really valuable items in that collection. Rare. Irreplaceable. A couple of the lithographs are as valuable as any number of paintings in museums. They go for a lot more than, say, Granville Redmond’s work.”
“‘Items of cultural and historical significance,’” Sam quoted. “You mentioned that a couple of times. So?”
“So let’s say Dreyfus and I are successful in obtaining a warrant and we do find the collection on Diamond’s ranch. There are several possible scenarios, and almost none of them have to do with the preservation of—”
“Okay, stop,” Sam said, and he meant it. “You don’t get to make that kind of call. The fate of that collection is not up to you. Your job is not to decide who’s the best custodian for that art. Your job is to find the art and initiate the return to its legal owner. And if you can’t do that—”