Hiding the Moon

by Amy Lane

  He stood and put a quiet hand on his elbow. “Ernie,” he said softly, “I didn’t pull the trigger. I wanted more info. If my intel isn’t good, you’re the only source I’ve got for better.”

  Ernie slumped against the glass door of the donut shop. “Get a box,” he said, voice breaking. “And some iced coffee. I’ll stay here. I promise. I need to go to bed anyway.”

  “Sure.”

  Five minutes later they were headed for the Holiday Inn.

  “Not the Motel 6?” Ernie asked, only a little curious.

  “All fleeing hit men stop at the Motel 6,” Burton answered semifacetiously. “It’s just too damned obvious.” The truth was he wanted something… better, for Ernie. The slump of his shoulders, the obvious pain of speaking of his family—Burton had disrupted the life, the peace he’d forged for himself already. He was going to have to do it some more. If there’d been a five-star place, Burton would have taken his disposable credit cards and gotten a room there, but the Holiday Inn would have to do.

  Ernie’s smile lightened up a fraction. “You’re being kind. Thank you.”

  “So what happened to your folks?” Burton asked softly.

  “I’ll never have any proof,” Ernie answered back, just as softly. “But I think they were forced off the road.”

  “By who?”

  “Same military motherfuckers who hunted me down in foster care when they couldn’t place me.” Ernie sighed—and yawned. “No offense, Cruller—”

  “Burton—”

  “I might not remember that. But I need to sleep soon. I….” He let out an unhappy breath. “I know you probably think I’m just all moonbeams and sunshine and shit. But one of the reasons ‘my grades fell,’ as you so nicely put it, is that it’s hard. It’s hard for me to… to focus… when the world comes at me like it does. Knowing who’s good and who’s bad, if there’s donuts around the corner, if someone’s going to want me and listen to no, or trying to figure out how to say no if they won’t—it’s hard. I get lost. I forget what street I’m on or what day it is. So I need to sleep at the same time and wake up at the same time and do the same things every day. And there’s none of that now. So I need my sleep.” And again, he was perilously close to tears. “You understand?” he begged. “I need my sleep when I need it.”

  “Understood,” Burton told him. “If you can hang on while I’m checking in, I can bend to your schedule a bit. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yeah,” Ernie said, sighing into his chest. “Thanks.”

  He didn’t say much more as they got to the hotel, not even when Burton went inside and made the hotel arrangements—under the name of Smythe.

  He parked the car and proceeded to lead Ernie up to their room, his sniper rifle over one shoulder, his packed duffel of clean clothes over the other. When he got to the room, he put both bags under the desk.

  Then he watched in bemusement as Ernie stripped down to nakedness, dropping his clothes on the floor, before sliding under the covers and falling fast asleep.

  Well, damn. Burton wouldn’t mind some shut-eye himself, but not now.

  Something about the way Ernie’s face relaxed told him that Ernie was going to sleep for the full seven hours here just like he did at home.

  Just as well.

  Burton was going to have to place a whole lot of booby traps before he got so much as a catnap.

  Burton set up security measures at the windows and the doorway, including mirrors in the high corners of the windows to see if anybody was approaching their front-facing hotel room who shouldn’t, and setting up his laptop so he could tap into the lobby camera footage and see if anybody was crossing the front who looked suspicious. Then he checked access to the ventilation system through the ceiling vent in the bathroom and set tiny charges in a hole configuration in the closet—if the doors and the window were both blocked, Ernie could hide in the ventilation while Burton escaped through the closet.

  Three exits and a contingency plan—Burton had been an A student in special ops, and he didn’t let shit hang.

  Finally he was done securing their locale and it was time to make a decision.

  He dug through his duffel, pulled out his emergency phone, and set it up to charge, then sat for a second, staring from his company phone to the emergency phone. Both of them were smartphones, but one had been outfitted for him by his op commander and given to him by his handler, and he’d trusted both of them to have his back.

  The other one he’d outfitted all on his lonesome, and it was set to bounce off a number of satellites and receiving stations with every call.

  One of these was untraceable except by friends.

  The other assumed he had no friends in the one place he was supposed to have brothers.

  He looked at both phones and then looked at Ernie, asleep and as trusting as a child.

  Ernie needed him to give up any illusions to safety and to trust a murderer and a thief with his well-being.

  God, Burton hated ambiguity.

  With a sigh he picked up the untraceable phone and called Jason’s number.

  “Who in the fuck has this numb—”

  “Jason!” Burton hissed. “Stop talking and call me Snider.” Their code name over the years. Don’t contact me unless Snider calls was code for I’m out unless there’s a death in the family or a military coup of our nation. If Burton wanted Jason to call him Snider, then shit had hit the fan.

  “Snider,” Jason said, voice cooling to glacial. “So good to hear your voice. We thought everything was proceeding normally.”

  “The target was… unviable,” Burton told him, which was a little bit of a lie, but not too much if it kept Ernie off his radar. “I walked away. He was wearing uncomfortable pants, if you know what I mean.”

  C’mon, Jason… remember all the people their unit considered enemies.

  “Not denim?” Jason asked carefully. “Something heavier?”

  “Yup—but still making headlines, right?” A child’s joke—corduroy pillows making headlines, but Burton was pretty sure Jason would get it.

  “Fuck,” Jason rasped. “Seriously? Those kinds of pants? Not, like, linen?”

  “No, Jason, not linen pants. Jesus. Who gave you that fucking contract?”

  Burton could hear Jason’s caught breath. “A naval commander from Las Vegas, like I told you,” he said softly. “But I’ve done some digging of my own, and I seriously think he’s pulling a Bob’s-in-the-bathroom here.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  They’d joked about it. When a target had been too hard to find, when too many people had claimed to have seen somebody who eluded surveillance again and again, they’d told the story about the high school student who’d never gone to class and had all his friends tell people that Bob was in the bathroom. Ninety-eight percent of the time the target was just lucky. The other two percent he was already dead. Bob was never, ever in the bathroom—he was just damned hard to find.

  “Seriously—he’s stationed in San Diego—”

  “You said Las Vegas!”

  “Well, yeah. That’s where we were getting our orders from—but I looked into the guy’s billet, and sure enough it says San Diego, because that would make sense because Navy, right? But he’s having all his calls routed to a number in Nevada. He used to be in charge of a unit called Behavior Modification—but there was some sort of… I don’t know. Scandal. Nobody’s talking, and everybody looks fucking uncomfortable when it’s mentioned. And this guy is everywhere except in his office doing his fucking job.”

  Burton chuffed out a breath. “Well, he tried to use the Marines like a sledgehammer on a baby seal’s head, and I want blood.”

  Jason grunted. “You….” He took another deep breath. “I can grant you leave,” he said after a moment. “Six months’ leave. In six months, come back looking rested and able or turn in your papers. And don’t tell me about your trip to Tahiti, and there’d better not be any fucking pictures, understand?”

  Burton under
stood completely. His job was to take care of domestic terrorists under the radar. If someone in the US military was working as a terrorist—or just as a cog in a mercenary assassin guild—the military didn’t want to acknowledge a fucking thing.

  But they wouldn’t mind if Burton took care of the problem either.

  Burton looked over to where Ernie was sleeping again, except Ernie was regarding him soberly with big brown eyes. He didn’t say a word, just blinked slowly, like he was trusting Burton to take care of the scary things so he could focus on the tiny little rituals that Burton was starting to suspect kept him sane.

  “I’ll turn this phone on again in six months,” Burton said coldly.

  “Take care,” Jason told him. “And out.”

  The line went dead, and Burton shut off both the phones. He made a mental note to buy a couple of burners, including a set that went from him to Ernie and Ace without stopping to pass Go.

  “You chose me,” Ernie said softly.

  “Kid, you’d better have a good story to tell.” Seriously—Burton hadn’t even heard all of it.

  Ernie closed his eyes and nodded. “When I wake up,” he said distantly. Then, “No bad men, Cruller. Nobody but us. Can you hold me? I’m frightened.”

  Burton blinked in surprise. He was built like a tank, and he cultivated his silence. He didn’t like to be messed with, so he worked to make sure nobody messed with him—worked hard at a preemptive shutdown of any friendly overtures—but Ernie didn’t seem to notice that.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said softly, but Ernie shook his head.

  “Touch,” he said simply. “Let me touch ‘okay.’”

  Burton stood from his crouch on the floor, by the outlet where he’d charged his phones, and stretched. “For a minute.” He tried and failed to hold back a yawn.

  “Take off your pants,” Ernie said mutinously.

  “I beg your—”

  “They’re full of metal and deadly things, and they have edges and buttons,” Ernie told him, and Burton could not help but stare at him in surprise. He was armed—heavily—but not many people guessed that.

  “But what about—”

  “Ankle holsters, knives, and the gun in the small of your back.” Ernie was scowling now, like Burton was being obtuse. “A knife under the pillow I can live with. I want you to hold me, dammit. You took me away from my city and my cats and my donuts and you owe me.”

  Burton wanted to argue that he’d already saved the kid’s life, but he swallowed the retort with another yawn.

  No bad guys.

  Burton had done everything he could—and this could be the last good sleep he got in the next six months. With a sigh he stripped down, setting all his weapons on his desk and taking the hunting knife—as ordered—and shoving it under the pillow. He crawled in under the covers and pulled the scant sheet and blanket up over his shoulder, reaching out tentatively to put a hand on Ernie’s arm.

  Ernie scooted back until his bottom was nestled up against Burton’s groin, and Burton’s sleepiness disappeared as his eyes popped open.

  “Uh, kid—”

  “Not now.” Ernie yawned. “Later. Hold me.”

  Unbidden, Burton remembered the last time he’d been in bed with Ariana, his childhood sweetheart. How her skin had been so soft and she’d smelled so sweet. Ernie smelled like sweat and like donuts, oddly enough, and like cats—not like Ariana at all. But still, his warmth was appealing, and the thought of holding a human being so close—male or female—that his heart felt warm soothed a cold spot he hated to admit he had.

  But it was there.

  And Ernie was warming it now, body flush with Burton’s, and Burton sighed and relaxed against him, resisting the urge to run his lips over the back of Ernie’s neck.

  “This is good,” Ernie murmured. “I can sleep now. You should too.”

  Burton’s eyes closed of their own volition, but he double-checked his computer screen before he could doze off completely.

  Well, he’d already thrown his career to the four winds—he was going to have to trust in Ernie for the next few hours. He found himself falling into the comfort of the young man’s body and realized that wasn’t going to be as hard as it should have been.

  Learning New Things

  BURTON WOKE up on a sudden inhale, panic flooding his body. The boy in his arms (there was a boy in his arms?) mumbled, “Go back to sleep. An SUV passed by. Bad guys, but not your bad guys. Sleep some more.”

  Burton thought It is time to wake up, and then his eyes closed and he slept for another two hours.

  This time when he woke up, Ernie had rolled away and was facing him. His skin was pale—almost pasty, given the kid’s hours—but his eyes, luminous brown under the fall of hair, held an appeal Burton couldn’t explain.

  “What?” Burton asked grumpily. He could feel the lateness of the afternoon in his bones, and he was still sluggish with sleep. A part of him knew he could leap up and commence giving orders at any time, but….

  But the kid was just looking at him, almost in wonder.

  “What?” Burton demanded again. “Was I snoring?”

  “Yes, but who cares.” Slowly the boy reached out to brush Burton’s lips with his fingertips. “They’re, like, cut from stone. You must press them together a lot.”

  Burton blinked and tried to remember if he did that a lot. “My job is sort of tense,” he said, feeling silly.

  “You think?” Ernie rolled his eyes and then pressed his hand to the side of Burton’s neck. Burton didn’t flinch from a man touching him—it was something he’d dreamed about enough that it felt… natural. “Warm. Just… body heat. Lots of it. You must be very fit.” Ernie’s mouth twisted wickedly, and he squeezed Burton’s hard bicep with impish delight. “Very fit.”

  Burton licked his lips and hated himself a little for it. “I work out,” he said with dignity.

  Ernie nodded, a slight smile pulling at his full mouth. “You do. And nobody ever gets to appreciate it. I mean, there’s girls sometimes. One-nights, because you gotta keep moving, but….” Ernie ran his hand appreciatively over the contours of Burton’s arm—bicep, tricep, shoulder—coming to a stop with his hand splayed over Burton’s collarbone, close to his neck. “No chance for someone to feel every hard inch.”

  Burton almost told the lie then—it was on his lips. Son, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Sorry, Ernie, but I’m not bi. Please stop touching me, it feels invasive.

  But Ernie arched a sardonic eyebrow, and Burton’s heart rate sped up, all his blood rushing to the surface of his skin. Ernie’s touch didn’t feel invasive at all. It felt amazing.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” Burton managed, and Ernie scooted a little closer.

  “I need a shower,” he whispered, and Burton could feel his breath dusting along Burton’s throat. “And I need to brush my teeth.”

  Burton swallowed and nodded. “Me too.”

  “You go first,” Ernie told him gravely. “Brush your teeth before you get in the shower.”

  Burton’s brows snapped together, and he scowled. “Who does that? People brush their teeth while their nuts are drying—everybody knows that! Why are you giving me—”

  Ernie brushed those lush, playboy lips against his, and Burton opened his mouth on a gasp. Ernie sucked his lower lip into his mouth and nibbled before letting it go.

  “Yes, Lee Xavier Burton, I’m giving you orders. You can blow me off if you want, but you’ll regret worrying about bad breath for the next few hours, so maybe just don’t fight me here.”

  Oh Lord, Burton’s blood was pounding in his ears. A kiss. A man’s kiss. It trembled along the edge of his skin, and Burton could suddenly taste the acidic paste of morning breath.

  “How’d you know my—”

  Ernie’s grin was a force to be reckoned with. “I can’t always tell if the bad guys are after me,” he said honestly. “If I’m stoned, I can’t always read the scumbag who wants to feel me up. But I’m cold sober r
ight now, and I know who’s in my bed.” His voice was low and mesmerizing, and Burton couldn’t look away from his wide brown eyes.

  “Who do you think I am?” he asked, curious. For all Ernie’s dreamy oddness, Burton couldn’t fault his accuracy.

  “You kill the bugs,” Ernie said, cupping his neck again. “You’re good. Dangerous, but good. And you… you look at me like I’m nectar. I’ve never been nectar before. I really want you to drink me.”

  Burton shuddered, thinking about “drinking” him, and rolled out of bed jerkily, shocked and aroused by the mental picture. “You’re right,” he said, pretending that terrible suspended moment of intimacy had never happened. “I should shower first.”

  Ernie chuckled and propped his head up on his hand. “Sure.” But he didn’t sound put out, and he sounded like he knew something Burton didn’t, which made Burton just a little bit nuts.

  He stomped to his duffel bag, pulled out his shaving kit and a fresh pair of boxers and a tee, then stomped to the bathroom.

  He was in the shower, letting the water pound his neck and chest, before he felt the cool of mint at the inhale and realized he’d done exactly what the kid had asked and brushed his teeth first. He groaned softly to himself and rested his head against the wall while the water pounded his back. The hotel wasn’t bad—and the shower was amazing. A big space with enough water pressure to power-hose all his crevices. He was still there, leaning his head on his arms, when Ernie came into the bathroom and started going through his shaving kit.

  “What’re you doing?” Burton asked, staring through the clear glass of the cubicle.

  “You got an extra brush,” Ernie said happily, pulling it out and using the toothpaste. “That’s nice.” He started brushing his teeth, and Burton felt embarrassment crawl up his spine.

  “The, uh, glass is clear,” he muttered. He’d been in the military. He’d showered in the barracks with his entire unit. You didn’t worry about some other guy seeing your pits, and he didn’t worry about you scoping him out. That was the rule.