No One Should Be Alone

by Tinnean

  He was a damned good partner, and I looked forward to coming in to work every day, even if it was to Langley.

  But there was more to life than a damned good partner.

  They still wouldn’t let me go out in the field.

  And I still had that January 1 deadline in my head. If things hadn’t changed by then, I’d be out of here.

  It was after eight, and the building had that quiet feeling, as if no one was there. Except at least two people were still here—me and Mann.

  I couldn’t keep working here. Turned out I liked working with Mann too fucking much. Every time I went into his office, I’d imagine stripping down his trousers, bending him over his desk, and fucking his brains out.

  But Mann was straight.

  The CIA might have been unaware, but these last two weeks were my last two weeks.

  Quinn—Mann—would have no problem finding another partner. He was easy to work with, easy to get along with. A class act all the way.

  He’d told me we were taking Christmas week off and wouldn’t have to come back in until January 2. And didn’t that fucking sound like we were a couple who were planning on spending that time together?

  It did to me, and that was why this was where it ended.

  I looked around my office. It was in better condition than it had been in when I’d started; now it was pristine, not a fingerprint or palm print anywhere.

  I put the key on the desk blotter and walked out.

  Chapter 4

  On the way up to Mann’s office, I’d decided I deserved a Christmas present: a drink with him. Dinner would be better, but at this time of night, it would be impossible to get into any decent restaurant without a reservation that hadn’t been made at least six weeks ago. And I sure as hell wasn’t taking him to McDonald’s.

  Of course bed would be the best, but I was a realist; the only time I’d ever fucked someone I’d worked with, it hadn’t ended well. And as for straight boys, the only time I screwed with them was when it was part of the job.

  I tapped on the door to his office, and when Mann called out to enter, I pushed the door open and sauntered in. He was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, the first time I’d ever seen him dressed so casually. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms that were covered with hair that was several shades darker than that on his head.

  Which color will the hair around his cock be?

  Goddammit! I gritted my teeth. I wasn’t supposed to be lusting after a straight spook.

  But it was his fault, asking something provocative like was there something I wanted.

  Yeah, you, you hazel-eyed spook!

  I casually positioned my overcoat, hoping that he wouldn’t have noticed my… interest.

  “You’re here late, Vincent.” He looked me over, taking in the fact that I was wearing my suit jacket and had my overcoat over my arm.

  I could have said the same for him, but I kept my expression bland. “Just clearing up some loose ends.”

  “That’s very expedient of you.”

  I’d thought so. “Listen, it’s getting late. You about ready to call it a day?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “You go ahead. I’ve got some loose ends of my own that need tying.”

  I came further into the office, settling a hip on his desk. “C’mon, Mann.” Unlike the other spooks I’d come into contact with, he didn’t seem to get bent out of shape when I addressed him solely by his last name, and that was pretty incredible. “It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve got a week off. Nothing needs to be done that can’t wait until after the first.”

  “Are you telling me what to do?” The words were challenging, but the tone was mild.

  I grinned. “Yeah, I guess I am. You gonna do anything about it?” How was he going to react to the almost flirtatious sound of my words? The hell with it. I was leaving, even though he didn’t know it.

  “You’re right.” He smiled wryly and surrendered without a fight. He shut down his computer, rolled down his sleeves and fastened the cuff buttons, and went to the closet to retrieve his suit jacket and overcoat. “Merry Christmas, Mark.”

  I’d never particularly cared for my name, but I liked the way it sounded in his mouth.

  I wondered what my cock would feel like in his mouth.

  My cock became more… interested, and I licked my lips.

  “Coming?”

  “Not just yet,” I muttered under my breath. I followed him out of his office, waiting while he locked it. “You have any plans for tonight, Quinn?” If Mann could call me “Mark,” then quid pro quo, I was calling him “Quinn.”

  He paused for a moment. “Quinton.”

  “Right.” Didn’t anyone ever shorten his first name? He needed to loosen up.

  I grinned. And I was just the man to do the loosening.

  “You said yourself, it’s Christmas Eve. Did you think it likely that I’d have nothing lined up?”

  Well, hell. There went my Christmas present to myself. And it served me fucking right. Did I really expect someone of Quinn’s caliber to have a free evening?

  “No. I just thought we could have a drink.” I ramped up the wattage of my grin, careful to reveal nothing of what I was feeling. My trainers at the WBIS would have approved; they’d taught me well. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ve got a hot date.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “You bet your ass I do!” Which was a bald-faced lie, but he didn’t have to know that.

  “I see.” For a second he looked disappointed. That expression was quickly replaced with mild indifference.

  I made sure he didn’t see me smile.

  “But I don’t have to meet her for another hour or so.”

  “Really?” Quinn smiled, and it almost took my breath away. “Neither do I.”

  “All right! Then you’ll join me for a drink?”

  “Yes, I think I will. Do you have someplace in mind, Mark?” We walked down the corridor, and without saying a word, he opened the door to the stairwell.

  “Yeah, I do. The Club 69. It’s in DC. Suppose we take my car?”

  “But then I’ll be without a car. For my date, later.”

  “Fine, Mann—”

  “Quinton.”

  Huh. “We’ll take your car.”

  “But what will you do? For your date?”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “Him? I thought you said ‘her’.”

  Shit, what the fuck was wrong with me? The CIA was not okay with their officers sailing the other side of the lake. If Mann puked all over me—I didn’t think he was the kind of man who would, but if he did….

  I began to smile. They didn’t know I was leaving. I’d be fired, and then I’d sue. Not that I needed the dough, but I’d enjoy dragging the C-fucking-I-fucking-A through the courts.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “No reason. Listen. If you don’t want that drink—” I kept my voice low. The stairwell had a tendency to echo.

  “I didn’t say that. I want that drink.”

  “Okay. And don’t worry about my date. I’ll get a taxi back here to get my car.”

  “It will cost a small fortune, if you can even find a cab on Christmas Eve.”

  “Jesus, Mann.” Why was he throwing up so many roadblocks?

  “I’ll drive you.”

  I stared at him thoughtfully. Maybe he didn’t want the evening to end early?

  “Fine.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The Six Nine? It’s on Massachusetts Avenue.” I grinned at him. “It’s a nice place.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Scotty keeps the lights dim—”

  “Scotty?” Quinn raised an eyebrow. He had nice eyebrows, now that I thought of it. And nice eyes and lashes most women would kill for.

  “The owner.”

  “Ah.”

  “Not too many people know of it. It’s a nice place.”

  “You’ve already said that.”

>   “I did, didn’t I? Well, it’s worth saying twice.”

  He laughed softly and pushed open the door to the lobby.

  “Anyway, no one from the CIA or FBI goes there. It’s a good place to go if you don’t want anyone to know who you’re with.”

  Quinn stopped and stared into my eyes, his expression serious. “And you don’t want anyone to know you’re there with me? I understand.”

  “You don’t understand squat, Mann. It’s just the opposite. The last person you want to be seen with is me.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I’m WBIS, Quinn.”

  “You’re CIA, Mark. And if I want to have a drink on Christmas Eve with my colleague, that’s no one’s business but mine. And if they don’t like it, they can….”

  “Yeah?”

  “They can….” He seemed at a loss for a moment, but then he concluded, “They can lump it!”

  I couldn’t help laughing, but I kept it soft. I didn’t want him to misunderstand, but I thought it was cute. Which wasn’t a logical description for an officer of the CIA, but there you have it.

  “Let’s go, okay?”

  We left the building and headed for the parking lot.

  A dusting of snow was covering the walkway. If this continued, there would be major difficulties for the DCPD later that night when the revelers tried driving home on it.

  We walked in silence. I was comfortable with silence; it made people nervous, and nervous people were talkative people, often spilling information they’d had every intention of keeping to themselves.

  But I liked the sound of Quinn’s voice, and I wanted to hear it now.

  But what to talk about? Not work, not on Christmas Eve. Why start what should be the pleasantest evening of this year on a sour note?

  Not the weather, because how banal was that?

  Sports? The Super Bowl was coming up in about a month. I frowned, unable to call to mind what teams were in contention. Well, I could always say, “How about those Patriots?” I was a Massachusetts boy at heart, after all, even though my home base had been DC for the past fifteen—no, sixteen years.

  But there was nothing in Quinn’s file that indicated he had any interest in football, baseball, basketball, soccer, tennis, or golf. Okay, he’d been involved in eventing, but what I knew about horses would fit in a thimble.

  So sports were out of the question too.

  What else? Think, Vincent. Think!

  An odd thought flashed through my mind, and I pictured myself asking him, What are the odds we’ll fuck tonight?

  Oh, yeah, he’d really be receptive to that.

  I realized Quinn—funny how easy it was to think of him that way—had stopped, and I glanced back at him.

  He was watching me. I’d never seen that look before, not directed at me, anyway. Was it possible his thoughts were running in the same direction as mine?

  “What, Quinn?” I made my voice soft, seductive.

  “This is my car.”

  Reality reached back to kick me in the ass. Was I out of my mind? Of course Quinn’s thoughts weren’t going to us in bed. Nothing that I’d found out about him so far led me to think he was anything but straight. There wasn’t even a hint of bisexuality.

  “Nice,” I muttered grudgingly. The first man I was attracted to in more than a let’s get naked and fuck way who was even slightly my equal, and I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with him.

  “Thanks. It suits me.” He rested a hand on the pale gold Lexus.

  “Uh… yeah.” I hadn’t been talking about the car, but it was probably just as well he thought so.

  Quinn pressed his remote and the car chirruped as the doors unlocked. He slid behind the wheel, all smooth, elegant motion, right down to pulling his seat belt into place.

  I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and got in.

  “I’m going to take the GW Parkway. Once we get into DC, you can give me directions.”

  “Sure.” I fastened my seat belt.

  He eased the Lexus out of its parking slot and headed for Route 193.

  He was a good driver, and I swore under my breath. Just one more thing about Quinton Mann for me to admire.

  Chapter 5

  Holiday music played on the radio, the windshield wipers swished rhythmically, and warm air blew out of the vents.

  I was acutely aware of the man beside me. He didn’t wear aftershave—I’d come to realize that in the time we’d worked together—but the faint scent of the Irish Spring Mark had showered with in the morning filled my nostrils. I recognized it because Gregor had used it for as long as I could remember. Fortunately it had never aroused me in the same manner.

  “What plans do you have for tomorrow, Quinn?” Mark sat with his back to the passenger door, his left leg folded beneath him.

  “I’ll go with Mother to Arlington in the morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. My father’s buried there.” My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I thought of that Sunday in ’78 when we’d received the phone call informing us of the crash of the Air India jet that Father had been on. Mother hadn’t wept then. She hadn’t wept at the funeral or afterward either, but I never doubted the depths of her grief. “Mother goes every year, as do I if I’m in town.” Since we hadn’t been able to spend that last Christmas together—he’d been on assignment—we spent every one after that we could. “Otherwise my uncles or Gregor will go with her.”

  “Who’s Gregor?”

  “He runs Mother’s household.”

  “A male housekeeper?”

  “Among other things.” I wouldn’t reveal all the many hats he wore.

  I waited for Mark to comment on that, but all he said was, “Nice tradition.”

  “Thank you.” We found it comforting. “Do you have any of your own?”

  “No.” He spoke so shortly I was reluctant to ask further questions. Although I did know he’d had an unhappy childhood, with a mother who became abusive when she drank, and she drank often. “So what else will you do?”

  “We’ll have dinner afterwards and then open our gifts.” I slowed the car as I approached a red light. The Lexus came to a smooth stop, and I turned to observe him. “How will you spend the day, Mark?”

  He gave a casual shrug. “I’ll probably go to the movies and then find a restaurant that’s open and have dinner.”

  “With your date?”

  “What date?”

  I swallowed a smile. So he wouldn’t be going from our time together to someone else.

  “Light’s changed.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The light’s green. And it’s a damned good thing the person behind us is patient.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve.” I stepped on the gas, and the car rolled forward easily. “Where’s the club?”

  “It’s about two blocks down on the right.”

  There was no available off-street parking, so I circled the block and finally found a space a few blocks before the Club 69. We got out of the car, and I let Mark lead me to the little bar he had chosen for our drink.

  “I know it doesn’t look like much.”

  In truth, it didn’t. It was plain, a white, boxy storefront with a door placed in the center. There wasn’t even a window to break up the starkness.

  “I’m assuming its stock must be the lure?”

  “Yeah. Scotty only serves the best stuff. Not too many people know about this place.” He reached around me to open the door.

  Warmth radiated from him, a welcome contrast to the cold night air, and once again the faint trace of the soap he’d used to shower with enveloped me. I was tempted to relax against him, but of course I wouldn’t.

  I was a professional, after all.

  And then a wall of noise swept out to engulf us, and I was thankful for the distraction.

  “What the fuck?” Mark’s expression segued from baffled to annoyed.

  “It’s Christmas Eve.” I swallowed a laugh.
This place, as unprepossessing as it was, was crowded with those who were getting an early start to their celebrating.

  “Yeah, I’m aware.” He scowled. “I can’t believe…. I mean I’d have expected this next week, but who the fuck goes out drinking on Christmas Eve?”

  I didn’t say anything. I remembered all too well from my Phillips Exeter days how one of the upperclassmen had gotten falling-down drunk on Christmas Eve. I’d been appalled; Mother and Father had taught me by example and then allowed me to learn by deed to drink responsibly.

  Meanwhile, Mark was still grousing. “Word must have gotten out. Damn. And I liked this place.”

  “Close the door!” someone at the bar yelled.

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t still frequent it.”

  Mark shook his head. Was he going to call the evening a waste of time and ask me to return him to Langley?

  “I see a couple of empty spaces at the bar.” I hoped he didn’t detect the urgency in my voice to extend our time together.

  “Close the fucking door!”

  “You want to go in anyway?”

  “Why not?” I shrugged, determined to remain casual.

  “Okay.” He closed the door, and I made my way to the bar, which was on the left as we entered.

  The bartender looked up with a smile. “Merry Christmas! What can I get for you?”

  “Merry Christmas to you also. I’ll have Glenfiddich, neat.”

  “I’ll have the same, Scotty.”

  “Mark, my man!” He glanced from Mark to me. “You two together?”

  “Just give us our drinks, okay?”

  “It’s good to see you with someone.” He winked, his grin stretching his face.

  “The drinks, Scotty?”

  “You got it! Two Glenfiddiches, coming right up.” The bartender turned to get the bottle and poured two fingers each into a couple of scotch glasses, then set them down on the bar.

  I reached for my wallet, and Mark put a hand on my arm. “I’ve got this one, Quinn.”

  “Thank you.”