Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits

by Jenna Hilary Sinclair

  “He’s doing okay,” Ortiz said.

  “He kills people for a living and he can’t go more than a couple of hours without a nosebleed!”

  “Hey!” Madrigal called from his seat at the table. “Watch your fucking mouth, Danny.” But he sounded amused, letting Danny know by the tone of his voice how very little he thought of him, Danny a mere mouse to Madrigal’s big, bad wolf.

  Danny kept his gaze pinned on Ortiz. “Come on, I’ll take you home. He can finish up here.”

  Ortiz looked at Danny, his eyes empty and distant. “No, you go on. Madrigal can give me a ride after we’re done unloading.”

  “Ortiz, wait—” But he was already moving away, back into the dark depths of the warehouse.

  Danny should have known he was using; the signs had been right in front of him for months now. Ortiz always hyper and agitated, calling Danny in the middle of the night, wanting to talk. He constantly complained about being short on cash, hitting Danny up for money whenever he could. But Danny had made himself blind to the evidence, hadn’t wanted to believe. He’d just been glad Ortiz was talking again, finally opening his mouth instead of staring straight ahead with nothing to say. He hadn’t wanted to question the reason behind the change.

  Ever since Ortiz’s daughter had died the previous winter, he’d been vacant, barely registering as alive. His daughter and wife had still been living in the two-room shack when she got pneumonia. She hadn’t lived to celebrate her fifth birthday, Ortiz’s dream of giving them a better life buried in an unmarked grave he would probably never see. His wife blamed him, convinced that if he’d worked harder and sent more money home, their daughter would still be alive, and maybe she was right.

  Ortiz stopped caring after that. The job he’d taken to save his family became just one more shackle he couldn’t escape, one more debt he was going to have to pay. And now he was hanging around Madrigal, his thin body hunched over a rickety card table, snorting white powder up his nose.

  Danny stood on the threshold, debating with himself. Should he go in, drag Ortiz out? Or should he let him make his own decisions? He was a grown man, after all. In the end, Danny turned and walked away—left his friend to journey deeper into the shadow lands and did not one damn thing to block his way.

  MILLER WOKE before Danny, the absolute quiet startling him out of sleep. His leg, pressed between Danny’s, was numb, and he withdrew it slowly, straightening it out against the cool sheets, wiggling his toes and cringing at the sting of newly awakened flesh. Danny was still spooned against his body, his breathing deep and even. Miller ran two fingers down either side of his spine, the bones beneath Danny’s skin laid out like a string of pearls.

  Well, you did it, Miller… had sex with another man. You’ve crossed that great divide. Definitely no going back. And you finally understand what Scott was talking about all those years ago, about sex being “mind-blowing.”

  It all made sense to Miller now, the way people were so obsessed with sex, why they killed and died over it, thought and dreamed of it. Up until now he’d never understood, hadn’t truly appreciated his body’s capacity for pleasure. Something in the mysterious combination of Danny and him burned hotter and brighter than anything he’d ever imagined. When he’d had sex with Danny it had felt like the path he was always supposed to have taken had suddenly been revealed to him; a fork in the road that up until that moment had been overgrown and hidden was now clearly visible.

  Miller propped himself up on one elbow and watched Danny sleep. He looked young and innocent despite the tattoos and scars, his full mouth curving up slightly, his face relaxed. He was sexy even in slumber, and Miller gave in to the urge to touch him, nuzzling against his ear, kissing the soft corner of his mouth.

  Danny came around by inches, his long body stretching against the bed as he turned onto his back, his eyes lighting up when they landed on Miller. “Hey, you,” he whispered, running a warm hand along Miller’s jaw.

  “Hey,” Miller murmured in response, wanting to preserve the quiet, not wanting to disturb the lazy green of Danny’s eyes. They studied each other for a silent minute. Miller waited for the rush of awkwardness, the claustrophobic certainty that this had all been a mistake, but it didn’t come. Instead there was simply the knowledge that, for the first time in recent memory, he was happy.

  “You doing all right?” Danny asked, his voice a caress.

  “Yeah.” Miller smiled. “I’m doing fine.”

  Danny smiled back, a sweet, boyish smile that made Miller’s heart trampoline into his throat. “Is it still snowing?”

  Miller craned his neck to look out the window, swirling white the only visible landmark. “Still coming down hard.”

  “Guess we’d better stay in bed, then,” Danny said, low and suggestive. “Although you’re going to have to venture out at least once.”

  “Why?”

  “We need food and… other necessities.” Danny’s eyes flickered to the torn foil wrapper on the bedside table. “I only had the one, remember?”

  Miller groaned, flopping down onto his back.

  “Well, I guess you don’t have to go out.” Danny leaned over him with a smile. “We can just skip the sex.”

  “Fuck that,” Miller growled. “I’m going.”

  Danny laughed, lowering his head, his tongue coming quietly into Miller’s mouth. “Just so you know,” he said, pulling back slightly, “I’m clean. After prison I started getting tested regularly.”

  Miller already knew; he’d seen Danny’s medical records. But having sex without a condom seemed like making a pledge, promising a part of himself to Danny that he couldn’t deliver. “Okay,” he said. “But for now I think we should still use something.”

  “Yeah,” Danny agreed; he didn’t seem upset.

  “I should probably head out before the snow gets worse.” But he didn’t make a move to leave, instead wrapping one arm around Danny, his hand finding the old scar on Danny’s lower back, the skin raised and velvety under his fingers. “You got this one in Marion, right?”

  Danny nodded.

  “How?”

  Danny took a deep breath, eyes on a spot above Miller’s head. “The first time they came after me, I fought back. Stupid in hindsight, considering there were four of them and only one of me. I knew I couldn’t win, but I wanted to go down trying.” He gave a sad, haunted smile. “They did what they wanted anyway, then knifed me in the back as a reminder not to fight again.”

  Miller closed his eyes. He didn’t want to imagine Danny used that way, those men taking the intimate act he and Danny had just done together and turning it into something so ugly and hurtful. When he opened his eyes Danny was still looking away, his jaw clenched. “I’m sorry, Danny,” he whispered, the weight of sorrow heavy behind his eyelids.

  Danny turned his angry gaze downward. “I told you before not to feel sorry for me.”

  “It’s not pity,” Miller said. “I just wish it hadn’t happened to you. There’s a difference.” He kissed Danny softly, moving his arm up Danny’s back, hand settling in Danny’s hair. “How’d you get this one?” he asked when they broke away, his fingers sifting through the black strands for the silky battle scar he knew was there.

  “That one’s from Leavenworth. I got in a fight in the kitchen with another guy and he hit me in the face. That’s how I got this little one above my lip too,” Danny pointed. “Then he popped me in the back of the head with part of a wooden chair. No real damage, but it bled like hell.”

  “He fractured your skull,” Miller reminded him.

  Danny seemed unimpressed with his own injury. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “In prison the fights don’t have to be about anything. Probably he was just having a shitty day.”

  Miller’s free hand moved down Danny’s torso, sliding over his stomach, heading toward his leg. He could feel Danny tensing up before his hand reached its destination. He ran a finger across the horiz
ontal scar on Danny’s inner thigh. Danny flinched at the touch.

  “It doesn’t still hurt, does it?” Miller whispered.

  “No.” Danny’s voice was as pinched as his face.

  “How’d you get it?”

  Danny shook his head, his lips pressed together tight. “I don’t talk about that one.” Miller heard the not even to you without it being spoken.

  The scar was older than the others, the white line paler and more settled into Danny’s skin. Instinctively Miller knew the injury had something to do with Ortiz, was tied somehow to Danny’s claim of having killed someone a long time ago.

  Push him, Miller. His defenses are down. He’ll tell you. Push him.

  Miller the FBI agent needed the answers. But Miller the man didn’t want to ask the questions—didn’t want to invite the cop and the criminal into the domain of Miller and Danny.

  When Miller was a little boy, his mother would tell stories to Junie at night, fairy tales about princes on white horses rescuing the fair maiden in the tower or saving her from the gnarled hands of the evil witch. Scott thought the stories were stupid and never stuck around to listen. But Miller always curled up next to Junie on her pink sheets to hear their mother spin her tales. It wasn’t the stories themselves he had found so fascinating, except for the ones where dragons spouted fire and had teeth like splintered needles. It was his mother’s voice he’d loved and the spell she’d seemed to effortlessly weave, like a glimmering cloud all around them in the dim bedroom, creating a world that was safe and enchanted, where every ending was happily ever after. When she’d died the spell had been broken, and he had never found anyone who could cast it again. Until now, until Danny. What they had together, right in this moment, felt like magic, and Miller didn’t want to be the one to break the spell.

  MILLER HAD been on hold for ten minutes, the tooth-rotting sweetness of elevator music blasting into his ear. He took a swig from his nearly empty beer bottle, the remains of the early dinner he and Danny had shared spread out on the table. With his free hand he carried dishes to the sink, giving them a half-hearted rinse while he waited.

  “Um… you still there?” The clerk sounded harried; he’d probably been hoping Miller had given up by now.

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I don’t see anything like that. No reports from that precinct fitting the description you gave me.”

  “You sure?” Miller demanded.

  “Uh, yeah, yeah,” the clerk stammered. “I’m sure.”

  The man’s nervousness didn’t raise Miller’s eyebrows. He was used to the powers of his FBI badge.

  The bathroom door opened and Danny stepped out, naked except for the white towel at his waist, the damp turning his hair midnight black. He smiled at Miller as he walked to his bedroom, his back sparkling with water droplets.

  “Okay. Well, if a report like that comes in, I want you to call me.” Miller gave the clerk his name again and his office phone number before hanging up.

  He could hear Danny singing in the bedroom, belting out some off-key tune; might have been the Rolling Stones, but it was hard to tell. Abandoning the idea of cleaning up, he watched from the doorway as Danny rooted around in the dresser for clothes, his personal concert continuing unabated.

  Miller smiled, resting one shoulder against the doorjamb. “Between your singing and the elevator music I was just listening to, I’m thinking I should get hazard pay.”

  Danny grinned in his direction. “Any reports from our dog-walker friend?”

  Miller shook his head. “No.” He paused. “Your back’s still wet.”

  Danny’s hot gaze landed on him. “You want to take care of that for me?”

  Miller shoved away from the door, moving forward until they were almost touching. “I don’t have a towel.”

  Danny’s eyes made a slow-motion trek down and then back up again. “Guess you’ll have to use this one.”

  Miller yanked the towel from Danny’s waist, causing Danny to stumble forward, their chests bumping together. Danny didn’t move as Miller reached behind to dry his wet shoulders, the towel moving lower until Miller let it fall to the floor, his hands continuing the journey southward.

  “Lean back,” he whispered, his tongue gliding across Danny’s lips. “Against the wall.”

  Danny did it without question, his naked body moving backward as Miller went down on his knees. Miller ran his hands up Danny’s thighs, the skin damp and warm, the coarse hair curling against his fingers, the scent of Danny’s body soapy and strong. He let his tongue play follow-the-leader behind his hands, up Danny’s thigh, across his stomach, and down the other leg. With one finger, he stroked down the length of Danny’s cock as lightly as he could, barely touching, smoothing away the wetness at the tip. Danny’s head hit the wall with a thump, and Miller smiled.

  “Jesus, Miller,” Danny moaned. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of delayed gratification?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against Danny’s upper thigh.

  Danny looked down at him and gave his hair a good-natured tug. “Haven’t you ever heard of a cock tease?”

  Miller laughed, taking Danny into his mouth before the chuckle died in his throat. “Ah, fuck,” Danny managed. His hand spasmed against Miller’s scalp, yanking hard. “God, that’s so good.”

  If someone had told Miller a month ago that he’d willingly be on his knees in front of another man, loving the taste, reveling in the sounds, he’d have laughed in their face right before he shattered their nose. And yet here he was, and it felt like where he belonged. He’d tried this for the first time on that snowy afternoon three days ago. He’d been scared, worried, and excited when he’d first taken Danny into his mouth. He knew that this act, having Danny against his tongue, was something no straight man would ever do or at least would never admit to doing.

  It had been surprisingly hard work that first time, his shoulder screaming by the end as he bent over Danny on the bed, his jaw aching, his gag reflex kicking in when he took Danny too deep. He’d never realized how much work it was, and he’d been hit with a sudden flash of empathy for the drunken girls he’d known in college who’d spent long minutes on their knees. But beyond the effort there was pleasure, too; hot embers burning under his skin as he watched Danny’s reactions, heard him moaning. All of it filled Miller with the desire to give Danny everything he wanted.

  And already he was better at it, only days later; more confident, looser, learning what Danny liked, what made him groan down deep in his throat the way that caused Miller’s cock to twitch in response. It was more now than just a longing to please Danny; having Danny in his mouth was what pleased him too.

  Danny spread his legs, allowing Miller room to stroke, to work a finger behind. Danny was panting hard, huffing out each breath as Miller sucked, tongue flicking over the slit, drawing Danny in as far as he could. Danny’s hips made little jerking movements as he lost control.

  Danny breathed out a sound, something between a sigh and a moan, and passed a thumb across Miller’s eyebrow. Miller looked up at him through lowered lashes. He knew Danny was close to coming, could feel it in the tightening around his finger. Danny’s tongue curled over his top lip as he heaved in air, his hands clenching convulsively against the wall. “Oh, Christ, Miller,” he groaned, his eyes going liquid and dark as he spurted into Miller’s mouth. The hot spray coated Miller’s throat; the thought of moving back or spitting it out never crossed his mind.

  He rested his head against Danny’s stomach, Danny’s fingers playing lightly in his hair. Miller’s knees cracked as he stood and leaned his body into Danny’s, pinning him to the wall with his weight. Danny reached between their bodies to stroke Miller through his jeans. “I like tasting me in your mouth,” Danny whispered as they kissed.

  Miller moaned. Danny’s hair was still wet under his fingers, his hips grinding forward as Danny sucked hard against his tongue. He loved it when Danny talked that way. It made him fe
el powerful and wanted, like his touch ignited some secret part of Danny that belonged only to him.

  Danny pulled Miller’s shirt from his jeans, working his fingers against the soft skin of his lower back, pushing under his waistband. “You’re overdressed,” he murmured into Miller’s neck.

  They set about remedying that, and Miller was down to his shorts when his cell phone rang, a muffled jangling from the pile of clothes on the floor.

  “Ignore it,” Danny said, lips on Miller’s nipple.

  “Fuck, can’t,” Miller groaned. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Danny laughed, throwing himself backward onto the bed, head propped on one bent arm as he watched Miller answer the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Miller, it’s Colin.” His voice was serious, nothing remotely friendly in the tone.

  “What’s going on?” Ice cubes barreled into Miller’s stomach, smothering the lust fire burning there.

  “We got a complaint in at the Bureau. A man out walking his dog in that neighborhood a few nights ago said he was threatened by two men. One claimed to be an FBI agent, the other had a gun.” Silence on the line. “You know anything about that?”

  Miller sunk onto the bed, resting his forehead in one hand. “Yeah, that was us,” he said wearily. “Danny and me.”

  “What the fuck, Miller?” Colin exploded. “You know protocol! You should have reported it the second it happened!”

  “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  “Not that big of a deal? He had a gun!”

  This was it; all his years of training and loyalty to his job ramming up hard against a few weeks of Danny Butler.

  “No, Danny didn’t have a gun,” Miller said. His brain might be tripping over the words, but his tongue didn’t appear to have a similar problem. “It was a can of mace I’d given him because he was nervous when I left the apartment. The guy walking his dog overreacted.”

  “A can of mace?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Uh-huh,” Colin said slowly, waiting for Miller to jump into the silence. But Miller was a master at that old game. He could lock his lips with the best of them.