Single Malt

by Layla Reyne

  A voice inside his head, one that sounded an awful lot like his boss and sister-in-law, reminded him the quickest path to solving the riddle of the flash drive was right through those server racks—or should have been. Last night, between bouts of beating his head against the wall, he’d reviewed Jameson Walker’s file. BS, with honors, in computer science from North Carolina, top of his crypto doctorate class at MIT, one of the Bureau’s top cyber agents in only three years. But Aidan was reticent to trust a thirty-year-old kid he hardly knew.

  A kid who’d broken every road course record at Quantico, stripped the test car afterward, rebuilt it overnight, and broke his own record the next day, which was why Aidan had spent the better part of his first day back culling vehicular data from his accident reports and redacting all identifying information. Walker knew how cars moved. Would he see something in the tire tracks the SFPD detectives had missed? Would something in the way Aidan’s Tesla had crumpled lead them to the dark SUV that had never been found?

  Before he started to spiral into the doubt and guilt that always colored his thoughts about that night, Aidan shook off the memories and straightened his tie. He was nervous enough as it was for a meeting with a man he’d passed in the hallway countless times. It wasn’t just the jump drive in his pocket or Walker’s good looks making him uneasy. He’d been partnered with Tom Crane right out of Quantico. They’d learned the ropes together and built a solid foundation of trust that kept them at the top of the Bureau’s clearance board. He and Tom had been a well-oiled machine for fifteen years. Aidan didn’t think he’d ever be so professionally well-matched again—definitely not with a partner twelve years his junior and in a division where he had little experience. He didn’t know how to be a mentor. He’d never flown solo or been in one place long enough to take on that role. The pressure of doing so now was a responsibility he hadn’t counted on when returning to work.

  “No need to get gussied up for me.”

  Aidan startled at the deep, Southern drawl behind him. Despite the other man’s presence around the office and on television, Walker’s North Carolina accent always threw him for a loop. Not something heard often in the Bay Area and one of the many reasons sportscasters and every secretary on the floor loved him. More disturbing, though, was the fact Aidan had been so lost in thought he hadn’t heard Walker approach. Was he that out of practice or was the other agent that quiet on his feet, despite his six-foot-five shooting-guard frame? Banking the question for later, Aidan turned to face his new partner.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Whiskey.”

  Grinning, Walker leaned his muscled shoulder against the doorjamb. “You’re the one straightening his Windsor knot and playing with those shiny cufflinks.”

  Aidan stopped his thumb from absently swiping over the gold and emerald clovers Gabe had given him on their wedding day. Tugging his jacket sleeves down, he gave Walker a discreet once-over, not letting his eyes linger more than professional courtesy allowed. Dusty, worn Chucks, battered Levis, a gray Giants jersey hanging open over a snug black tee, revealing a sculpted torso and cut biceps. It took all of Aidan’s considerable undercover work to hide the spark of desire rocketing through him. Eight months since his husband’s death, ten years since he’d felt a flicker of interest in another man besides Gabe, and it was this one—his new partner, his mentee, a straight man by all accounts—who stoked those embers to life again.

  “I’m sorry.” Aidan shook off the disturbance. “Did I miss the casual-day memo?”

  “Easy, Irish.” Walker removed his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the flattened waves. “Boys and Girls Club outing at AT&T Park this afternoon.”

  “Irish?”

  Walker’s blue eyes sparkled like he’d solved an impossible puzzle. “The cufflinks, the brogue in your voice that slips sometimes...” He leaned forward and Aidan fought not to react to the heady tropical scent of White Cristal cologne. “And I’ve only ever seen eyes that color on natural redheads.”

  “What color is that?” Aidan asked, putting aside the fact Walker had seen through the disguise he’d worn for three decades.

  “Autumn,” Walker answered, voice dropping an octave. “Like a pile of fall leaves back home, right after it rains. Dark brown swirled with brick red and flecks of gold.”

  Coffee with a dash of Goldschlager, Gabe used to say. But damn if Walker’s description, spoken in that seductive drawl, didn’t send another flare of desire scorching through him.

  A flare instantly doused by guilt and propriety, compelling Aidan to snap, “Awfully poetic for a jock.”

  The sparkle in Walker’s eyes died and all affability bled from his face. Shouldering past him through the server racks, Walker lowered himself behind the messiest desk in the mini-bullpen. On either side of two laptops, stacks of files teetered, pens lay uncapped, and empty soda cans rolled. He pushed aside a file heap, paid no mind to the papers he sent flying, and threw his heels up on the desk corner. “I don’t think you came here to talk poetry, Agent Talley. What do you need from Cyber?”

  Shit.

  In his haste to shut down his own traitorous reactions, Aidan had swung too far the opposite direction. Walker was his partner, his mentee, and slinging insults would not earn his trust. Instituting damage control, he circled the desk and hitched a hip up on the opposite corner. “Mel didn’t tell you?”

  “Mel?”

  “SAC Cruz.”

  Walker shook his head, and Aidan added another bottle of scotch to her IOU tally. “You’ve got a new partner.”

  “Who?” He dropped his legs and shot to his feet so fast Aidan barely had time to get out of the way. “Am I getting transferred out of Cyber?”

  “No.” Other agents were staring. Aidan waved them off and beckoned Walker to sit back down. “We’ll be doing a bit of both. Mel wants you assessed for fieldwork.”

  “We?” Walker appeared adorably dumbfounded. “You’re working Cyber now? But you and Agent Crane were this office’s top field agents.”

  Aidan ignored the kick to his gut elicited by Walker’s mention of his former partner and fell back on arrogance to hide his vulnerability. “You’ll be learning from the best then.”

  “But I’m good with computers.”

  The hesitation and disappointment in Walker’s tone surprised Aidan. Surely a guy his size, one who’d taken his fair share of bumps on the court, wasn’t afraid of a little fieldwork. Aidan had also read the medical reports in Walker’s file. The injury that cut short his NBA rookie year was no longer an issue. In fact, if Aidan had read the report correctly, it healed before the start of what would have been Walker’s second season, if he’d returned. Something about his decision not to and his reluctance to leave the cave now set off Aidan’s alarm bells. He’d have to dig into that and determine if it was going to be an issue going forward. For now, though, he had more pressing matters to deal with.

  “I hear you’re also good with cars.” He tossed the accident file on Walker’s desk. “These are field reports from a hit-and-run. I want your read on them.”

  Walker pulled the file toward him and thumbed through its contents. “What are you looking for?”

  “The other car, which was never found. Deductions you make about the accident—speed at impact, directionality, etcetera. Any discrepancies between your conclusions and the existing accident reports. I want a new set of eyes on this.”

  “I’ve got a few identity theft matters to wrap, and court testimony tomorrow and Friday for a piracy case. I can look at this over the weekend and have a report ready Monday. Will that work?” The coolness was still there in Walker’s tone but his eyes had warmed with a detective’s hooked curiosity.

  Aidan could work with that. He’d been married to a former athlete. Competition and achievement were powerful motivators for people like Gabe and Walker. “Monday it is.” He
deliberately infused his eyes and words with unconcealed challenge. “Impress me.”

  Chapter Two

  Pulling up at the top of the arc, Jamie let the ball fly, then sprinted beneath the basket, not doubting his aim for a second. Catching the ball as it fell through the net, he started back down the court—dribbling, spinning and juking this way and that.

  Layup, swish, catch, sprint to the other end of the court.

  Repeat.

  He’d been at it a half hour already, his usual early morning workout in the deserted YMCA a few blocks from the office. Sweat trickled from the ends of his hair down his temples, his jaw and the center of his back beneath his jersey.

  The physical exertion did nothing to silence Aidan’s words from last week.

  Not his parting “Impress me” shot.

  The one earlier...”for a jock.”

  Days later, those words still stung.

  Not that he wasn’t used to them. Or the stunned facial expression when someone realized he was more than just a pretty-boy baller. It usually occurred when he spoke in complex computer science terminology that was unintelligible to the idiot who’d two seconds ago thought themselves smarter than him. Those times, Jamie relished proving wrong the person who’d misjudged him. Last Wednesday, though, he’d opened his mouth and before thinking better of it, revealed more about his interest in his new partner than he should have. Nothing like being misjudged and shot down by the man he’d lusted after for three years.

  How was he supposed to work with Aidan Talley?

  Jamie had wanted Aidan since he’d first laid eyes on him. Blond hair that was always perfectly coiffed and expertly dyed, hiding, Jamie knew with one look at those eyes, fire beneath. A long, toned body capped by broad shoulders, showcasing the three-piece designer suits he seemed born to wear. Rough voice that concealed an Irish brogue Jamie heard hints of when Aidan and SAC Cruz thought no one was listening. The air of confidence and superior intellect that many deemed arrogance but was the very thing that turned Jamie on the most.

  He’d kept his distance, though. Aidan had been a happily married man, judging by the open displays of affection between him and Gabe at office functions. Seeing them together had been painful. Not because Jamie wanted Aidan and couldn’t have him, nor because Aidan and his husband were a study in beautiful opposites. The one pale and freckled, six foot and lean-muscled; the other dark skinned with cropped black curls, black eyes and the hulking, ripped body of a former defensive tackle. No, it hurt because Jamie wanted to be that happy, without the national media making a headline out of it.

  Who was he kidding? He’d killed that dream the day he’d committed to play for one of the most storied programs in all of college sports.

  “You know,” came a rough, rumbling voice from the far end of the court, “watching you move like that—” Aidan leaned against the padded pole beneath the opposite basket, giving him the same poorly disguised once-over that had seared him before “—I’d never guess you’d suffered a career-ending injury.”

  Comments and speculation like that were the very reason Jamie worked out in a nondescript gym, never played in office leagues, and rarely joined neighborhood pickup games. He’d long ago tired of answering the “why’d you quit?” question. He had his reasons. He’d never tire of the game, though. His first conscious memory was from his second birthday when his dad had put a miniature basketball in his hands. The game would always be his first love. It might have also cursed him so that it was his only.

  “No comment,” he said, reciting the phrase he hated yet used more than any other.

  Aidan raised his hands, gold and emerald cufflinks sparkling in the morning rays sneaking through the gym’s grimy windows. Yesterday’s three-piece pinstripe had been traded for a charcoal one, paired with a starched white shirt and tie the same light blue color as Jamie’s jersey. Only a shade or two off from the little blue bottle logo on the coffee cups Aidan held in his raised hands.

  Saved from office sludge; thank God.

  Trotting down the court, he took an easy shot from his natural two spot. The ball swished through the net and bounced at Aidan’s feet. The other man pushed off the pole, shuffled the ball between his shiny oxfords until he got a toe beneath it, and flicked it up into Jamie’s hands.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” he said with a grin.

  Jamie headed back down the court. “Add soccer to the list of Irish giveaways.”

  “Plenty of Americans play football now.”

  Jamie laughed, despite his efforts to play it cool. “Keep ’em coming.”

  Layup, swish, catch.

  Circling, he was surprised to see his partner sans jacket and vest, yanking his tie off over his head. “How’d the event at the ballpark go?” Aidan unclipped the clovers, set them on top of the folded jacket and vest on a bleacher, next to the coffees, and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Great. The kids had a good time, and the players were very generous with their time.”

  “You played baseball too growing up, right?”

  Jamie nodded, words having escaped him at the sight of Aidan stepping onto the court in four-figure loafers, hands splayed in a wordless gesture for the ball.

  Expertly handling a bounce pass, Aidan wove the ball between his legs, spun and drove down the lane for a picture-perfect layup. “That’s two. Leaving your man open.” Jamie shook off the surprise and caught a chest pass from Aidan, who ran past him toward the other end of the court. “You ever cross paths with MadBum?”

  Were they really going to do this—play a pickup game—with him in his sweaty college uniform and Aidan in dress clothes? By the look of his partner—standing at the top of the opposite arc, arms outstretched, bouncing on his toes—they were.

  Game on.

  “He was a few years behind me.” Jamie dribbled and juked, testing Aidan’s defensive moves. “Only ran into him once. Playoffs my senior year.”

  “He win?”

  “Of course he won.” Jamie pulled up from the wing and sank a three-pointer.

  “Nice shot.” Aidan gave him a grin that did odd things to Jamie’s stomach. Distracted, Aidan got the jump on him and flew down the court, laughing. “Too easy.”

  Aidan was surprisingly good. Up and down the court, he played him close. Arms and hands reaching around to try and knock the ball loose, hips bumping, each contact sent an illicit thrill through Jamie. As if the sweat-soaked, see-through dress shirt and brogue-laced smack talk weren’t enough, Aidan made him work for every shot and kept the score close.

  “Twenty-one,” Jamie said, half an hour later, after sailing the ball over Aidan’s head to sink the game-winning jumper.

  “Well played, kid.” Aidan jogged beneath the basket and used his toe again to launch the ball into Jamie’s hands.

  “You played point?” Fast in transition, quick on his feet, and sure of hand, Aidan’s skills and six-foot stature made point guard the obvious position.

  “Woodside High Tigers,” Aidan answered, as they ambled over to the bleachers and collapsed on the bottom row. “Basketball in the winter, soccer year round. Wasn’t good enough to play either for Stanford, but I kept up both in intramural leagues.”

  “You’re good.” Grabbing the bottle of water he’d left two rows up, Jamie drank half and offered the rest to Aidan. “I was surprised you kept it that close.”

  Aidan drained the bottle. “You’re not the first six-and-a-half-footer I’ve played ball with.”

  Jamie froze, recalling the first time he’d met Gabe Cruz, the rare case of someone taller than him. Caught up in the idea of working with Aidan, Jamie had lost all his manners and forgotten to express his condolences.

  “Aidan, I’m—”

  “It’s Monday,” he cut him off. “Give me your report.”

  “He
re? Now? I thought you wanted it in writing.”

  “Not necessary. Tell me what you found.”

  So much for the report he’d spent hours drafting. Shaking off the annoyance, Jamie grabbed his coffee and took a quick sip, failing to suppress a small moan of delight. Even cold, it was better than any other coffee in the City.

  Something that looked an awful lot like heat flashed in Aidan’s eyes, but he cleared his throat before Jamie could get a better read on it. “Today would be good.”

  Determined to prove he was more than a jock, Jamie launched into his debrief. He reported what he’d learned. That the missing car’s tire tracks and the dark paint on the red Tesla’s front right fender could only be from a late-model black Ford SUV; that shards of tinted glass mixed with shattered clear had led him to search traffic and ATM camera footage for a dark SUV with tinted windows in the surrounding area at the time of the accident; that he’d found the vehicle and scrubbed the images until he got a clear shot of the VIN and plates, discovering the former scraped off and the latter stolen; that by triangulating and sequencing footage from where the SUV had been parked to where it collided with the Tesla, he’d concluded someone had radioed ahead, let the SUV driver know when the sports car hit the Geary Expressway, and the SUV had rocketed off the blocks, taking deadly aim at the Tesla. With each recited detail and corresponding conclusion, Aidan’s face grew more and more pale.

  Recalling the reports he’d reviewed, how every mention of victims or persons at the scene had been redacted, Jamie put it together in seconds. He picked up the other coffee cup and held it out to Aidan, an offer to cushion the blow. “Those reports were from your accident, weren’t they?”

  Taking the cup, Aidan turned his blank gaze on the court. Cold now, the liquid failed to bring any color to his blanched face. “You just confirmed it wasn’t an accident.”