The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1)

by Lisa Henry

  The space was dusty—dead mayflies and mosquitoes everywhere. Moths, muffleheads. A grasshopper in one cobwebbed corner. One of Cory’s books lay on the sofa, something called Club Werewolf. Mac moved it to the mantle.

  “Nice place you’ve got,” Henry said from the kitchen. “A very admirable Fort McGuinness.”

  “Don’t know why my parents don’t sell it. No one uses it.”

  “They knew it would come in handy someday when you went on the lam.”

  Mac still had a feeling Henry was missing some of the gravity of the situation. He walked up to the kitchenette and watched Henry stash a bag of pretzels in a cupboard. Well, watched Henry’s ass as Henry reached up to put the bag away. Henry’s shirt rose, exposing a band of skin. Mac forced himself to look at the contents of the cupboard instead. “How much of this stuff did you actually pay for?”

  “Paid for the milk and the bread. And the pretzels, because they would have made too much noise under my shirt. But the tuna, the beans, and the toothbrushes . . . not so much.”

  “As a federal agent, I want you to know I’m disgusted by your lack of respect for the law.”

  “But you’re impressed too,” Henry said without turning around. “You’re disguspressed.”

  “I am not disguspressed. Appalled, more like.”

  Henry glanced over his shoulder, then grinned and stretched, sticking his ass out. “I’m bad, Mac.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Mac grumbled. The sky was darkening. It was going to storm soon. Then he’d be stuck inside the cabin with Henry.

  Henry shut the cupboard and turned. “I figure if we need more food, you can catch us some fish.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “Why not? There’s that picture in your office of you with a mighty fine fish.”

  “That was a fluke.”

  “Pretty sure it was a bluegill.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re not good at fishing?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Henry bent over the small counter, propped on his elbows. “What are you good at?”

  Mac could tell he was being teased and wasn’t sure how to respond. “My job. Until you made me look lousy at it.”

  “I know you’re good at your job.” No hint of teasing there. “What else?”

  Mac shifted, wanting to lean against something. But Henry was taking up the whole countertop. Mac wished he wasn’t standing so close to him. He didn’t understand his interest in Henry at all. It wasn’t even a fucking opposites-attract situation, where Henry’s spontaneity and good humor provided the perfect complement to Mac’s by-the-books practicality. Henry’s version of spontaneity wasn’t, Hey, let’s drive two hours south and go whitewater rafting since we have the day off. It was living some fucked-up personal tribute to Frank Abagnale Jr.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what you’re good at?”

  “I know what I’m not good at.”

  “Let’s start there. What aren’t you good at? Besides running.”

  Mac opened his mouth. “Running?”

  “Yeah. You run with your arms kind of flapping.”

  Was the little shit seriously criticizing the way he ran? “May I remind you that when you saw me, I was running after the guy who’d just tried to kill you.”

  “And maybe you’d’ve caught him if your arms weren’t flapping.”

  Unbelievable. But Henry looked so delighted that Mac fought a grin in spite of himself. “Asshole.”

  “All right, hey. I’m sorry. I’ll let you answer the question. What aren’t you good at?”

  Mac stuck his hands in his pockets. “People. I don’t do small talk. I don’t like gatherings.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know how to catch criminals. But I have a blind spot sometimes when there are relationships involved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shouldn’t be engaging with Henry. But why the hell not? If he didn’t talk, it was just going to mean listening to Henry prattle on about cat thieving and his favorite brand of orange juice and which cast recording of Miss Saigon had the best Kim, until Mac ended up in the bedroom with the door barricaded. “I’m always surprised by what people will do for love. Or—not even love. Just . . . lust, I guess.” He paused. “Val’ll suggest some flush-out ruse involving a crim’s boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever. And I’ll say, ‘No. Nobody’s stupid enough to risk their freedom on someone they occasionally fuck.’ But it usually ends up working.”

  Something like that had happened with Rasnick. At Val’s suggestion, they’d used a recording of Rasnick’s wife to make Rasnick think she was in trouble. Mac had privately believed Rasnick would sacrifice Flora in a heartbeat if it meant saving his own ass. But it had worked. All the more reason Val deserved that promotion.

  “That’s what a boyfriend or girlfriend is to you?” Henry shifted his weight so his ass stuck out further. “Someone you fuck on occasion?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I really don’t.”

  Mac used the toe of his shoe to break up some cobwebs under the counter. “How many of these mob guys and drug dealers and human traffickers have the time or the—I don’t know, the soul—to invest in a meaningful, committed relationship?”

  “More than you think.”

  “Know a lot of drug kingpins and slave traders, do you?”

  “Not personally. But Mac, people cling hard to other people. Especially in the crime world, where there’s so much uncertainty, so few people you can trust.”

  “How romantic.” Mac withdrew his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. “All the bad guys out there are just looking for love?” Henry didn’t answer. “You got a boyfriend, then? A girlfriend?”

  “No. But I’ve got friends. And I’d do anything to protect them.” Henry was drawing circles with his finger on the countertop. “So you have trouble believing people would want to protect one another, but you’re willing to risk your life to protect some abstract idea of ‘humanity’?”

  “I don’t know if that’s it.” Mac resisted the urge to order Henry to be still a moment. “I just can’t stand people who think they can fuck someone over and get away with it. I’ve got the training, and I’m good at the work I do. So I do it. I don’t have any lofty ideals.”

  “But you’ve gotta love something about the job, right? I mean, you weren’t born knowing you wanted to be an FBI agent.” Henry’s gaze was intense, his body suddenly motionless. Mac looked at the curve of his back and wished he could touch it. Place his hand in that dip, splay his fingers, feel the warmth there. Run his thumb over the bones of Henry’s spine. Slide lower, inch by inch, until he came to the waistband of Henry’s pants. Hear Henry sigh, or stop breathing, or beg him to keep going.

  It was a lonely, foolish wish, but it was what he wanted.

  He didn’t know what he loved about his job. When someone asked if he liked his work, he said yes. But he didn’t know why he’d gone into it. He’d graduated law school a hundred thousand in debt. He’d needed to do something. He’d seen FBI agents in movies and on television, and the characters usually seemed like him—big, stoic, cut the bullshit guys who wore suits well. Mac hadn’t been stupid enough to think working for the FBI was how it appeared on TV. But what he’d seen on TV made sense. It looked good. Familiar.

  “It’s a fun job,” he said, and hated himself.

  Henry shook his head and grinned. He knew Mac was full of shit. And Mac normally prided himself on not being full of shit. Henry was the one who couldn’t utter a single truth, couldn’t be honest or loyal to anyone.

  “All right, Mac.” And there was so much You keep telling yourself that in his tone that Mac had to push back.

  “What about you, Sebastian? What do you love about your ‘work’?”

  Henry was disappointingly unfazed by Mac’s use of his real name. He shifted again, and Mac wished he would straighten up. How long did he plan to sta
nd bent over the counter like that, ass thrust out and jeans stretched tight across it? “I guess I’m like you. I’ve got the training, and I’m good at it. So I do it.” He tilted his head, still giving Mac that obnoxious grin. “You’ve been looking into me.”

  “You’ve got a juvie record.” Henry’s expression didn’t change, except for the slightest twitch in the muscle of his cheek. “And your real name—if Sebastian Hanes is your real name—sounds more made up than your aliases.”

  “You can see why I had to change it, though. Ariel’s crab friend, plus a popular and affordable brand of underwear? It just wouldn’t do.”

  “I don’t see why you had to change it multiple times.”

  “I like reinventing myself.” Henry leaned hard on his elbows and folded his hands, moving his hips slowly from side to side. “So let’s put the stuff we’re good at together. Who in your office do you think might be working with Maxfield’s guys?”

  “I have no idea. And I’m not just going to start throwing around accusations.”

  “I’m not asking you to accuse anyone. But we can talk theories. At the motel, I had Jeff’s phone on me.”

  “Which you stole.”

  “Borrowed.”

  “Does Jeff have it back?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then you stole it.”

  “Fine. And when I talked to Jeff yesterday, he said he’d overridden some of the code on the phone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’m horrible with technology. But say it meant he was putting some software on there that would hide calls he was making to Maxfield’s guys, or something.”

  “That’s your theory?” Mac asked. “I thought you were good at reading people. So you focus on the who and why, and I’ll focus on the how.”

  “Okay. So Jeff’s a possibility.”

  “Jeff? No offense to Jeff, but he is—and if you ever tell him I said this, I’ll skin you—a complete doofus.”

  “A doofus savvy enough to recode a smartphone. And therefore possibly hack into your email.”

  “So we’ll short-list Jeff.”

  “I didn’t say that. I mean, it’s always the one you don’t suspect, right? The one with the stammer, or the nondescript girl in glasses, or the mama’s boy.”

  Mac sighed. For just a second, he’d allowed himself to believe that Henry’s past had provided him with a kind of worldliness, a perception and intelligence that might actually be useful in figuring this out. “This isn’t a movie, Henry. And I really don’t care to have this discussion with you. They’re my coworkers. You barely know them.”

  He expected Henry to point out that neither did Mac, which would have been fair. But Henry plunged on. “According to that theory, Alex would be our likeliest suspect. Or perhaps the stalwart, injured Penny. But of course Alex is way too busy planning a holiday with his wife to renew their vows, and Penny sponsors a kid in Ghana, so I’m not getting the super-villain vibe from either of them. Dwayne though . . . that child support is killing him. And Calvin supports the Cleveland Browns, which isn’t actually proof of guilt in itself, but—”

  “Enough.” Mac wondered if any of that was even true about his colleagues. And, if it was, how Henry could possibly know it after a day?

  “And Dennis has a funny nose,” Henry added.

  “Enough,” Mac repeated, pinching the bridge of his own nose. “We’ll wait until we can get ahold of Val. She’ll field the call from Linda Thomas, and then we’ll know more about the first request of that record. And they can get someone to trace the file’s path from BCA’s database and see at what point it was rerouted from my inbox.”

  “But it wouldn’t hurt us to do some sleuthing here.”

  “Listen, Veronica Mars. You weren’t brought into custody to play Clue; you’re here to testify.”

  Henry stared at him a moment. “Suit yourself.” He finally straightened. Mac’s gaze went right to the exposed nipple. He couldn’t help it. There was also a smudge of cake frosting on the front of the shirt.

  “Mac?” Henry’s voice was quiet.

  Mac looked up. “You’ve got frosting on your shirt.”

  Henry glanced down. “So I do.” He took the shirt off, and for a second, the fabric stretched across his face; he sucked his stomach in, pushed his rib cage out. “This could definitely do with a wash. Maybe the lake?”

  Mac swallowed. Henry’s body was lean but well muscled—not the skinny teenager’s body the costume might have led Mac to expect. He definitely looked like a man. “I’d wash it in the sink. The lake’s disgusting.”

  “All right. Where’s the bathroom?” Mac saw that Henry was breathing fast. Noted a hint of self-consciousness in the way he suddenly held the balled-up shirt in front of him and turned away from Mac.

  “Through the bedroom.”

  Henry started toward the bedroom.

  “Henry.” Henry stopped but didn’t turn.

  He stared at Henry’s naked back. At the smooth skin and the strong lines of his shoulders. At the hair that curled slightly at his nape. He thought about saying never mind, or offering to show Henry how the shower worked and where the soap was. But he didn’t even know if there was any soap here, and he didn’t want to bullshit, so he stepped forward and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder.

  Henry tensed for a second, then his body fell soft and slack, like a cloth wrung out and released. He turned and placed a hand on Mac’s side, his palm hot through Mac’s shirt. He lifted his head, but Mac was already panicking, drawing back, trying to undo whatever he’d just done. He saw the way Henry was offering himself, hips tilted forward to meet Mac’s, lips slightly parted. Saw Henry’s own instant of panic when he realized Mac was retreating. Before he could confuse either of them further, Mac lowered his head and kissed Henry.

  For a moment, Henry was gentle, neither resisting nor attacking, just accepting Mac’s mouth against his and quietly pressing back. Then something seemed to roar to life inside him, and Mac felt heat everywhere they touched: the inside of Henry’s mouth when he opened to accept Mac’s tongue, his palm where it rested on Mac’s hip, his back, when Mac wrapped his arms around him. Henry pushed his body insistently against Mac’s, trapping his hand between their chests.

  Mac slid one hand up to grip Henry’s hair. Plunged his tongue in deeper, feeling it strain against Henry’s. The skin of Henry’s back was sticky and damp where Mac dug his fingertips in, his hair still a little stiff with gel. His cock was hard through the layers of denim between them, and Mac’s hardened too. After only a second’s hesitation, Mac moved his other hand to Henry’s ass and squeezed. The groan Henry gave was so desperate, so encouraging, that he squeezed harder, remembering all the times over the last thirty-six hours he’d fantasized about applying this much enthusiasm and effort to squeezing Henry’s throat.

  Henry gripped fistfuls of Mac’s shirt and ground his crotch against Mac’s. His whole body shuddered, and he huffed into Mac’s mouth. Mac breathed in and tipped his head back, lips leaving Henry’s for a moment as warmth spread from his cock through his body, weakening his legs. Then he moved his hand down Henry’s ass and between his legs, then pulled up suddenly, yanking Henry onto his toes.

  Henry whimpered, his eyes clenched shut. He fell against Mac and gave a soft cry as Mac dragged him into the living room and urged him onto the floor. Henry lay on his back and spread his legs so Mac could get between them. Mac leaned down and kissed Henry again, their mouths wet and hungry and violent. Wrong, he knew, just like kissing Val. Henry wasn’t the person to be doing this with, but then—who the fuck was? In thirty-one years, he hadn’t found the right person to do this with.

  Maybe it was time to quit being so discerning.

  He gentled the kiss and opened his eyes so he could see Henry’s face. Beautiful kid, cocky and scared. Not as wise as he pretended to be, but nowhere near as dumb as the stunts he pulled. A whole mess of stories that maybe Mac did want to hear. Just not now.
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  Henry widened his legs, and grabbed Mac’s shirt again. Mac traced the outline of Henry’s cock through his pants, brushed the V of Henry’s legs with his fingers and watched Henry arch off the floor. He pressed the heel of his hand against the bulge, until Henry made soft noises of discomfort and twisted one of Mac’s nipples through his shirt.

  Mac leaned down to bite Henry’s jaw, but suddenly a shuddering boom shook the cabin and rattled the stove burners. Henry went rigid, and Mac sat up. He stroked the inside of Henry’s thigh as he stared out the window. Rain shot down, slamming the glass and rushing through the leaves. “Jesus,” he said.

  He turned back to Henry, who wasn’t looking at him. Wasn’t looking at anything in particular. Henry put his thumb to his mouth and chewed the skin beside the nail.

  “Figured it was coming,” Mac said over the noise. “But that was sudden.”

  Henry wiggled out from under him and scooted until he was against the back of the sofa. “Maybe I could put my shirt outside,” he said, giving an awkward, manic attempt at a smile. “To wash it.” His gaze flicked to the window, and Mac was surprised to see him cringe as thunder rumbled again. He scrambled to his feet. “I’m gonna go into the bedroom for a minute.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, just walked to the bedroom and shut the door, leaving Mac kneeling on the floor, confused and hard, listening to the rain beat on the roof.

  Henry hated thunderstorms. Flat out hated them. Actually, he was terrified of them. Always had been. He didn’t know why, didn’t know if there even had to be a reason, just that something about them—the noise, the lightning, the sheer unpredictability of the next thunderclap—freaked him out. When he was a kid, even when he was old enough to have outgrown it, Viola had looked after him. Had climbed under the covers with him and sung songs until the storm passed. But he didn’t have her anymore. Didn’t have anyone. He’d never even admitted his fear to Remy, because it was such a dumb thing to be afraid of. A juvenile thing.