by Josh Lanyon
Speaking of how the FBI was portrayed in movies and TV, that was a move you never saw. They probably heard the crash all the way at the front desk. They probably heard that all the way to The Mermaid’s Tale. Jason didn’t care, he was laughing.
Kennedy said, “I’m too old for this. I think I put my back out,” but he was laughing too—softly—and the sound went straight to Jason’s heart. He’d never heard Kennedy laugh quite like that. He sounded…happy.
“Nobody’s too old for this.”
“Christ.” Kennedy rested his hand against Jason’s face as though he could see him in the dark. “I’ve wanted this—you—since I saw you walking across the beach in Santa Monica.” Jason heard his smile. “In a goddamned tux, of all things.”
“I’ve wanted you since we said goodbye that morning at Kingsfield.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Kennedy touched Jason’s left nipple with his hot, wet tongue, and Jason gasped and jumped. His head hit the headboard with a thump.
“Ow. Déjà vu.”
“I remember,” Kennedy murmured. “I remember everything about that night. About you.”
Jesus. God. Jason moaned and arched up. The rasp of Kennedy’s tongue against the point of his nipple was making him crazy. Exquisite sensation crackled from the base of his spine to the base of his skull, short-circuiting all thought beyond needing, wanting more of Kennedy.
Kennedy turned his attentions to Jason’s other nipple, and Jason moaned again.
“I like those sounds you make,” Kennedy whispered. “The way you move.”
Yeah, Jason was noisy during sex. And Kennedy was quieter than most. Focused. Intense. Attentive. Definitely attentive.
His hands closed on Kennedy’s hips, and Kennedy leaned into him, offering easier access.
“Suck me?” Kennedy asked roughly. But despite the growl in his voice there was something almost diffident in the request.
“Yeah, of course. Whatever you want.”
Kennedy kicked the rest of the way out of his jeans as Jason slid down the mattress, resituating himself. It wasn’t the best position in the world, but it didn’t matter once Jason took the head of Kennedy’s cock into his mouth.
Kennedy made a sound of almost desperate relief and instinctively pushed forward. He murmured a quick apology, but Jason wasn’t listening, wasn’t worried. He’d have swallowed Kennedy whole if he could have. He sucked his cock with soft wet heat and then hard. Changing it up. Sweet and soft. Tight and hard. Using every bit of skill and expertise he had to make this good, the best Kennedy had ever had. To make himself unforgettable, irreplaceable.
“Good,” Kennedy muttered. “So fucking good… Yeah, like that. Just like that.”
Jason understood exactly what Chris Shipka had felt that night, trying to make his case through sex. Saying it all through body language, the vocabulary of sexual intimacy, because he wanted to make this the best Kennedy had ever had. His own neglected cock was thrusting up, straining hard, brushing Kennedy’s ass cheeks. It didn’t matter. This was about Kennedy. About giving him what he wanted—and even what he didn’t yet know he wanted.
Kennedy’s breathing was deep and harsh. He didn’t say anything, but silence had never been so expressive. His fists punched the mattress above Jason’s head, and Jason could see that his arms were trembling.
Jason relaxed his throat muscles and took still more of Kennedy. Kennedy made a small, broken sound. He tasted clean and sweet, a hint of soap and manly sweat and the salty cream of pre-cum.
“Going to come,” Kennedy warned. Again Jason was reminded of Chris Shipka. The ghost at the banquet.
Sorry, Chris. Jason drew back, kissed the head of Kennedy’s cock, tongued the cleft, took him back in and sucked hard.
Kennedy groaned and his back arched. He began to come in hard spurts of hot sticky wet release. Jason didn’t swallow. He had said the truth when he told Kennedy he wasn’t reckless or careless. Eight months apart and Kennedy considering himself a free agent? No, Jason was not going to lap down Kennedy’s cream. He wiped semen from his chest and brow, wrapped his arms around Kennedy, encouraging Kennedy to let go, and Kennedy collapsed onto him.
Jason wrapped his arms around Kennedy’s back, nuzzling his ear, his hair, his jaw. He tasted a salty trace of wetness on Kennedy’s temple. Sweat? Semen? A tear? He had to grit his jaw against all the silly, emotional things he wanted to tell him.
Don’t let this be the end. Don’t let this be the last time. But Kennedy already knew how he felt. What he wanted. There was nothing he could say that Kennedy didn’t already know.
They rested for a time, holding each other, breathing quietly. Not quite in unison, but not far from it.
Then Kennedy raised his head. “What about you? What would you like?” His breath was warm against Jason’s face, surprisingly sweet despite the bite of whisky.
Jason licked his lips. “I want to be inside you.”
“Yeah?” Kennedy sounded thoughtful. “I didn’t really come prepared, but yeah. I think that can be arranged.”
“Really?”
He must have sounded fairly astonished, because Sam’s voice was amused. “Sure. Why not?”
“No reason. Well, I guess I thought you might have…” Conservative or old school ideas about who got to do what to whom? But really, recollecting how Kennedy operated in the rest of his life, he wasn’t locked into roles or routine. On the job, he was about efficiency and expediency. He took the lead because he was always the expert, the guy with the most experience, and the job was too critical to waste a moment catering to other people’s egos. But on his own time…he had never struck Jason as selfish or stingy.
“I think anything we do together would feel pretty damn good,” Kennedy said, and Jason had to agree.
“Not to mention the fact, I’m not twenty anymore. My recovery time isn’t what it used to be.” Kennedy said it easily, matter of fact, but yeah. Of course.
Kennedy lifted off the bed in a limber move for a man who had been complaining about his back twenty minutes earlier. He disappeared into the bathroom, the light went on, followed by sounds of rummaging around. He exited the bathroom, the crack of light silhouetting his tall, powerful figure as returned to the bed.
Jason had yanked back the bedspread and blankets. Kennedy set something small on the nightstand and tossed him a foil packet. He stretched out on the sheet-covered mattress with easy, unselfconscious grace.
Jason donned the condom with the kind of speed demonstrated by superheroes out to stop speeding bullets and powerful locomotives, and leaned over Kennedy’s back. He kissed the nape of his neck, and Kennedy gave a small, pleasurable shudder.
There was something unexpectedly vulnerable about the softness of Kennedy’s hair and the curve where neck met shoulder.
Jason reached for the small plastic bottle on the nightstand. Complimentary lotion that smelled vaguely of cucumber and cocoanut and something beachy and fresh. It felt cool and slippery on Jason’s fingers.
He parted the taut globes of Kennedy’s buttocks with one hand, delicately probing the tight knot of his hole with the other. Jesus. The feel of that hot little pucker. It was all Jason could do to go slowly, carefully.
He pressed his fingertip against the clenched muscle, and Kennedy tensed, gave a soft, low groan.
That was pleasure, not pain, but Jason murmured, “Okay?”
“You’ve got a gentle touch.”
How often did people make the effort to be gentle with Kennedy?
Jason leaned forward, pressed a row of small, velvety kisses down Kennedy’s spine. He pushed his finger lightly in and out through the ring of muscle.
The fact that Kennedy was letting him do this felt crazy, unreal. But then it had felt crazy and unreal when Kennedy had done it to him too. His cock, already at attention, seemed to grow a couple of inches at the memory of being penetrated so deeply, so fully. He had loved that and he would love this. Kennedy was right. Anything they did together would feel g
reat.
He took his time, and Kennedy preserved a thoughtful, listening silence throughout. When Jason pressed a second finger in, stretching him, seeking that nub of nerves and gland, Kennedy made an urgent sound and pushed back, drawing Jason’s fingers in deeper.
Jason’s heart was in his throat anticipating his cock sinking into that sweet hot grip.
“You’re so quiet. I’ve never heard you so quiet during sex.” There was a smile in Kennedy’s voice, almost a note of teasing.
“I don’t want to scare you.”
Kennedy chuckled. “I don’t scare easy.”
No. True enough. It was hard to think of anything that might scare Kennedy.
Jason flexed his fingers and Kennedy’s gasped, arching a little. “Jesus, yes. Do that again.”
Jason did it again, leaning forward and trying to kiss Kennedy’s mouth at that awkward angle, massaging the spongy bump with careful fingers. His own cock was rock hard, balls aching. He was afraid he was going to come the moment his dick touched Kennedy’s hole.
Not that he wasn’t willing to risk it. Jason lowered himself on top of Kennedy, relishing the feel of that powerful body beneath his own. “I can’t believe we’re here, together now,” He whispered against Kennedy’s hard shoulder. “This evening I thought…”
Kennedy wasn’t in the mood for talk. His buttocks humped back against Jason’s groin, and Jason obligingly withdrew his fingers out, replacing them in that moist heat with his dick.
So… good. He cried out as Kennedy’s sphincter muscle contracted around him. “God. Yes. Yes.” He began to thrust and tug at that hot darkness. “Oh, God. Oh, Sam.” He couldn’t have shut up to save his life.
Sam let out a deep sound, something between a groan and a growl, and began to shove back hard against him. Jason’s hands bit into his shoulders as he lunged into him, and for a few seconds it was a struggle to find the rhythm. Jason pushed aside all other thought, all other concerns, just concentrating on that moist satiny clutch, trying to drill deeper, needing to feel connection, coupled. Fire catching fire, blazing hotter. Sam’s focused silence in contrast to Jason’s desperate sounds as he pumped into him, reaching further and further for that yearned for release —
And finally…after exceptional and most enjoyable exertion…Oh God…there it was. Welling up like a hidden spring in the desert. Sudden and sweet, assuaging the terrible thirst that had come to feel like a lifetime of drought. Climax pulsed through him, refreshing and renewing him with every heartbeat.
“Sam…Sam…” Jason couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help clutching Sam like a life preserver, couldn’t help the helpless noises as he began to come, pouring out stupid emotional things while his muscles melted and his cock spumed white hot release into the rubber safety net.
He collapsed on top of Sam, gasping for breath, quivering head to foot.
A long, long time later, Sam stirred, rolling over, holding Jason to him, and pulling the covers back up. Jason settled his head on Sam’s chest, content when Sam’s arms wrapped around him, holding him close. He kissed Jason’s brow, said something that Jason didn’t catch.
Jason smiled. Sometimes tone mattered more than words.
Shipka’s remaining eye was fixed and blank, but his mouth moved.
“Ask Rodney Berguan,” he whispered.
Another voice cut across Jason’s rising horror. “Jason, you’re okay.” Calm, quiet, authoritative. “It’s a dream. You’re fine. It’s not real.”
Jason knew that voice.
He unstuck his eyelids, stopped gulping for air, stopped twitching. He began, confusedly, to take stock. Strong arms wrapped around him…his face buried in a broad, muscular chest… Sam.
He was in a hotel room with Sam. That was not a dream. The other…
His heart still thundered in his ears and his skin was slick with perspiration. He rasped, “I thought— I dreamed—”
Sam said, “I know. It’s over. You’re okay.”
He probably did know too.
Jason nodded. He knew he should move away now, reassure Sam that he wasn’t coming unglued. Not like he’d never seen a murder victim before. Never anyone he knew, but…still.
Sam’s face was resting against Jason’s hair, and Jason could hear the quiet, steady tenor of his breathing. The pulse beating against Sam’s collarbone was rock steady. He thought maybe he was even getting to like that peculiar aftershave of Kennedy’s.
Just a few moments more of this, of feeling safe and sheltered.
Not something anyone, man or woman, in their profession could admit to wanting, let alone needing, but the memory of Chris Shipka hacked to pieces…it had shaken him. The unnecessary, unhinged brutality of it. That wasn’t sane. And yeah, you could argue that turning to murder was never a sane choice, but this was a different level of madness.
It scared him.
No lie.
After another minute, he pushed out of Sam’s hold and turned onto his back. “Sorry. God. It’s just…every time I go to sleep, I see him.”
“It’ll fade. The memory. You’ll stop dreaming about it.”
Sam spoke with the certainty of experience. Jason nodded, but what he was thinking was maybe it shouldn’t fade. The horror of Shipka’s murder, yes. He needed to stop seeing that every time he closed his eyes. But Shipka himself, he needed to remember. What Shipka had been trying to achieve—justice for Paris Havemeyer—that shouldn’t be forgotten.
He realized he hadn’t answered Sam. In the dark, every motion, every gesture was a rustling sound to be interpreted, but he thought Sam was pretty good at reading him at any time of day or night.
“It can’t be your guy,” Jason said. “The unsub. It can’t be your unsub. That’s not the same psyche at work. Is it?”
Kennedy said, “It’s not the same kind of crime, no. That was a rage killing. But my unsub may not be working alone. He may have a partner.”
“A partner.”
He felt Kennedy’s assent.
“Double the fun.” His voice sounded off even to himself, and Kennedy reached over and traced a gentle hand down his chest.
“Listen. You’re out of it now. This is my case, not yours.”
Jason gave a disbelieving laugh. “It’s kind of my case. Shipka came to me. He brought me information I can’t just ignore. It’s relevant to my case.”
“And you’ll keep working that angle. The larceny and fraud angle. From the safety of the LA office.”
Jason raised his head, trying to read Sam’s face in the dark. He didn’t want to get into an argument over boundaries and authority, but if Sam thought Jason was okay with being relegated to the “safety of the LA office,” he had another think coming.
He said, “Shipka knew about Donald Kerk, but he didn’t mention interviewing Kerk. Or Berguan, for that matter.”
“Who’s Berguan?”
“Rodney Berguan was with Kerk the night Havemeyer disappeared. The three of them shared a taxi when they left the party at the gallery. Havemeyer said he wasn’t ready to call it a night, so Kerk and Berguan continued home. They were the last people to see Havemeyer before he disappeared. Berguan went with Kerk to file the MPR when Havemeyer didn’t turn up after a few days.”
Sam made a noncommittal noise.
“It seems like Shipka would have started there, but he never mentioned interviewing Kerk or Berguan.”
“Kerk was out of the country and maybe he couldn’t locate Berguan. It was a long time ago.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” Jason said. “Everyone else is.”
“You’re not,” Sam said. “I’m not.” He leaned over and kissed Jason.
Jason said, “I didn’t think there was any chance of this again. Not after LA.”
Sam shook his head. Not the most reassuring response.
Jason gave it a few seconds, but Sam still said nothing.
Jason’s throat closed. But it would be better to know. He forced the words out.
“So is this it? Ar
e we saying goodbye?”
The silence that followed seemed to last forever. Finally, Sam said, “I didn’t think it would be this difficult.”
“Which part?” Jason asked tersely.
“Is there a part that isn’t difficult?” Sam said with bleak humor.
“Point.”
Sam said slowly, “I thought I had this worked out, and I was prepared for you moving on. That had to happen. But.”
“But?” Jason said quietly, “Oh. Shipka.” From the point Sam learned that Jason had slept with Shipka, he had subtly changed, withdrawn. There had been those uncharacteristic flashes of aggression. Jason had noticed, but had trouble believing they came down to something as ordinary, as simple, as human as jealousy.
“Yeah. That was…not what I wanted. I wasn’t prepared for that. For how much it would…”
Hurt.
Welcome to the club.
Jason said, “I take it you’ve been banging agents coast-to-coast for the past eight months?”
Sam inhaled sharply, started to cough, and had to clear his throat. “No,” he said eventually. “In fact, that’s when— No.”
“That’s when what?”
He shook his head.
“I see.” Jason thought it over. What the hell. Was there really any mystery about this? Hadn’t they been wrestling with it a week? “I’m going to say it then. I’ve had eight months—not to mention one hellish evening—to think about it. In a business like ours…well, I’d regret not saying it.” He drew in a breath and dove. “I love you, Sam.”
Sam raised his head.
“I know,” Jason said. “Especially after your declaration of independence at dinner. But I do. I’m not sure how it happened because I wasn’t looking for this. In particular, I wasn’t looking for this. If that scares you…I can only tell you that I’ve heard everything you’ve said. I understand. Which isn’t to say that I agree or I’m okay with it. I just know that this week was total hell. And that’s not counting murder and getting locked in a crypt and being held by the police for questioning.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I didn’t think it would matter that much to you.”