Skip Trace

by Jenn Burke

  “Yeah,” Zed breathed. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Seven

  Something was up with Flick, something more than just the leftover anger at having a reporter intrude on their private moment or the annoyance directed at the rest of the Anatolius clan. That something had started well before they’d stepped down the ramp from the Chaos into the open arms of the AEF at the dock and had only been intensified by the incident in the lift, the press conference and Dad’s helpful words. As they stepped into their suite, Flick practically vibrated with emotions Zed couldn’t identify. Anger? Frustration? Sorrow? All of the above and more?

  It pissed him off. He loved the man. He knew him...didn’t he? Why was the source of the tension such a mystery?

  Zed closed the door behind them and tossed his wallet onto the table next to it with a sigh. “Flick—”

  The breath gushed out of his lungs as Flick shoved him back against the door. Lips attacked his throat, and Zed sucked in air scented with the familiar—loved—tang of circuits and metal, underscored with sweat. He leaned his head back, giving Flick access to whatever he wanted, even as his head spun with the sudden change in atmosphere.

  “Flick,” he gasped.

  “Shut up.” Flick’s tongue swept along the cord of Zed’s neck, and Zed just barely held back a whimper. Then the whimper escaped when Flick sank his teeth into the spot just under his ear—not too hard, just hard enough. His eyes rolled back as he fell further into sensations. God, it was good.

  Except...

  Zed swallowed. “We should talk.”

  “Nope.” Flick pulled back to work at Zed’s shirt. The tension was there again, evident in the slight tremor of his good hand.

  Sucking in a breath, one less flavored with the essence of Flick, Zed lifted his own hands to cover his lover’s. “Flick...”

  “What?” Flick’s gaze snapped up, almost challenging. “Don’t you want this?”

  “Yeah, I do. Of course I do.”

  “Then stop fucking thinking.” He shrugged off Zed’s hands and yanked Zed’s shirt open. The gentle chill in the air laved at Zed’s nipples, teasing them into points. A soft curse left Flick’s lips—then he leaned forward, tugging one of the turgid points with teeth and tongue.

  Zed hissed. The attention was just on the edge of too much—any rougher, any harder, and it would skirt past the realm of pleasure-pain and straight into pain. His head whacked into the door as Flick pushed the boundaries, rolling the rigid flesh with his tongue before biting, hard.

  “Fuck,” Zed breathed. His hand wove into Flick’s curls—to push him back or hold him there, he didn’t know.

  When Flick moved on to the other nipple, Zed’s intentions no longer mattered. He couldn’t remember them. His world had diminished to that one point of contact and the echoes that shot straight to his cock. He arched, wordlessly asking Flick for more, and Flick sucked harder. It was good, and it wasn’t, and fuck, it was.

  Flick caught the nub between his teeth and tugged, then released and pulled back. “Bedroom,” he growled.

  It never occurred to Zed not to obey, not when Flick spoke in that low, rough voice. Not with his ass clenching and his cock flexing in the confines of his clothes. Zed walked down the hall to the bedroom, completely aware that Flick was directly behind him. Still vibrating, still tension-filled, but at least part of that, now, was desire.

  “Pants off, get on your hands and knees on the bed,” Flick ordered.

  “Bossy bastard,” Zed grumbled. But he made quick work of the rest of his clothes and got into the position Flick wanted. He jutted his ass into the air, then looked over his shoulder. “Why are you so pissed off?”

  Flick shook his head as he stripped. “I’m not.”

  “Bullshit. You need to vent?” Zed bounced his ass up and down and wiggled it back and forth. “Vent.”

  “You asking for it hard?”

  “I’m begging for it.”

  “Not yet, you’re not.”

  That sounded...ominous.

  Flick leaned over and retrieved the container of lube from the nightstand, then settled in behind him on the bed. Hands pulled apart his ass cheeks, exposing him, and Zed let his head droop, anticipating the cold kiss of liquid. The first caress of Flick’s finger was good. So good. His hips chased the sensations, bumping back, asking clearly for more. Flick obliged him, his finger growing bolder, more insistent. A second added. Then a third. The stretch, the slight burn, it was all so perfect, so needed, so maddening. It was only when Flick paused to get another squeeze of lube that Zed realized the air of the room was filled with wanton, breathy sounds...sounds that came from him.

  He tried to say Flick’s name, to encourage him to hurry, but all that emerged was a moaning gasp.

  “Yeah. Hang on.” Still rough, still low, Flick’s voice was also filled with promise. Whether it was because Flick just knew him or because he felt the same urgency as he did, Zed didn’t know. Didn’t care. Didn’t matter.

  Flick’s cock pressed against him, hard and thick. A low groan fell from Zed’s lips. The stretch wasn’t painful; since reuniting, they’d fallen into roles that felt natural. Flick preferred to top and Zed loved to bottom for him. So he’d gotten a lot of practice. A lot of good, amazing, incredible practice. Nothing felt quite as good as accepting Flick into himself...even if he was being a toppy bastard.

  “Toppy bastard, hmm?” Flick grunted.

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Well, I didn’t develop telepathy, did I?”

  Narrowing his eyes, Zed suddenly snapped his hips backward. “Fuck!” he gasped. He’d instigated it, but the abrupt invasion still made explosions go off behind his eyes.

  Flick leaned forward, holding Zed’s hips still as his forehead and nose brushed the center of Zed’s back. “You feel so good.”

  So did Flick. God, it was as if they’d been made for each other. They just fit—not only physically, but mentally, emotionally. Zed flexed his hips and groaned at the feeling of Flick moving inside of him. Not enough.

  “C’mon, babe.” It was almost a whine. “Please.”

  Flick chuckled, the sound like the vibration of a ship’s engine; felt more than heard. “Told you you’d be begging.”

  He drew back, slow, so fucking slow...then slammed forward, hitting Zed’s prostate perfectly. Then he did it again. And again. Harder, faster, until the bedroom was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, heavy breathing, grunts of exertion and cries of need. And it didn’t matter that Flick hadn’t even laid a hand on Zed’s dick, he felt as if he was going to come. The pressure built and built...almost enough, almost, but...not. It’d take a stroke, maybe two, but he couldn’t spare a hand for it, not with Flick pounding into him the way he was. His right palm itched beneath the derm patch, and his Mendo’d ribs made a whisper of protest—minor discomforts in the grand scheme, eclipsed by the pleasure and ache in his groin and ass.

  “Fuck.” Zed’s voice cracked. “Felix.”

  “What d’you need?”

  Fuck. Words, what were words. A long, low moan reverberated from deep within him.

  “Need this?” Flick grabbed Zed’s hips and exchanged his long, drawn-out thrusts for short, hard ones, the head of his cock hitting Zed’s prostate over and over again.

  Zed’s back arched, wanting more, wanting less, wanting. If Flick had wanted him to stop thinking, he’d succeeded. Thoughts had been chased out of Zed’s brain, leaving only sensations, only need, behind. Trembles cascaded across his shoulders.

  “Please,” he gasped. “Please, please, please, please...oh God, Flick, please. Please.”

  Flick grunted, his rhythm growing ragged. He reached around and finally...finally...a hand closed around Zed’s cock. A tug, a stroke—

  White sparks danc
ed across Zed’s vision as he came, obliterating everything. He shot across the stars, scattering among them, his psyche shattered into a million pieces. It was right. Good. Perfect. Whatever else cluttered their life, this was real. No one could take this amazing connection from them. Zed refused to allow it to happen.

  Slowly, he came back to himself, aware that he was shaking. A gentle tug on his hip encouraged him to fall onto his side, and he gave in. Flick curled around him, pressing kisses to his neck, his shoulders, his hair, his ears.

  “You okay?” Flick asked, his voice soft now. Worried. “Zed?”

  “You—” Zed swallowed and licked his lips, struggling to make his tongue form words, to drag thoughts from mind to mouth. “You wrecked me.”

  “In a good way?”

  Zed blinked up at Flick. A frown marred his forehead and he wanted to smooth away the lines, but his arms didn’t want to work. Rainbow auras interfered with his vision, one of the nicer side effects to the Zone training. Fucked-up brain chemistry plus orgasm equaled light show. “Best way.”

  “You can hardly talk.”

  “Because my brains shot out through my cock.” Zed managed a smile. It felt lazy and unfocused, just like the rest of him. “‘M fine, Flick. Really. You can make me beg any time.”

  He rolled over, nuzzling into Flick’s chest, and closed his eyes. Flick didn’t feel relaxed, but maybe he just wasn’t quite as relaxed as Zed. That had to be it. Because, damn, sex like that solved every problem, didn’t it?

  Chapter Eight

  Elias keyed open the main cargo hatch and waited for the clank and grind of the door. Habitually, he stepped to the side so he wouldn’t get knocked back if the ramp decided to eject. Didn’t always happen, and he suspected that it only ever did when he forgot to get out of the way. Fixer had probably installed a sensor or something, one that had been retooled as a prank. That was an engineer’s sense of humor all over.

  The door didn’t clank or grind. Elias input the security code again and noted the absence of friendly green lights. No red light, either, so the code probably hadn’t been changed—there simply wasn’t any power to the hatch. Pushing out a sigh, he moved farther around the outside of the Chaos, aiming for the auxiliary access. That security panel accepted his code with a happy display of LEDs. So his ship wasn’t completely buggered, just the main cargo doors.

  Elias made his way from Cargo Two to Cargo One, intending to check the inside door panel. He might not be a frigate class engineer, but he knew a couple of things. He’d been flying the Chaos for two years now, after all. Cargo One was a dark cave, the usual running lights swallowed by near blackness. A prickle of worry raised the hair along the back of his neck as he stepped into the space. Docked, a partial power failure didn’t mean death knocked outside the hatch, but he hadn’t been able to shake the creep from his skin for the past couple of days. It had been as if he were waiting for the next lift tube accident. His wrist, even Mendo’d, sent a twinge up his arm.

  A small shimmering square of light near the main doors caught his attention. Navigating the cargo bay by memory—and the fact they had no cargo at present—Elias stepped quietly forward. Halfway across, he figured out the source of light—it was a small holo—and could see a figure slumped half in, half out of the pool of thin illumination.

  Reaching for the stunner at his belt, Elias crept closer. The prickle at the back of his neck advanced over his scalp, teasing his head like the buzz of a razor. He froze when he got close enough to identify both the holo and the figure. It was Fixer, half-sitting, half-reclined. Eyes closed, he breathed quietly. He had a tool in his right hand and the holo, a screen capture, floated just above his left, over the bracelet he used as a wallet.

  In the picture, a much younger Fixer sat next to a much younger Zed. Both fresh-scrubbed and red-cheeked and perhaps a little high. Or drunk. Neither of them bore the scars of war, nor the fatigue. Elias guessed they were between eighteen and twenty. Though they both faced the camera, inclined together, Zed’s arm around Fixer’s shoulders, Elias could tell that Fixer’s attention was focused more on the man next to him than whoever had taken the picture. His chin angled toward Zed, and his features held a yearning, as if he’d prefer to look at Zed, had just finished looking at Zed.

  The admiration and adoration were clear to anyone who looked for it. Even then, Felix had loved Zander. Before the war had torn them apart and broken them into so many pieces. Had Zed loved his “Flick” just as much? Something in the way the larger man’s hand curled around Fix’s shoulder suggested he had. There was a possessiveness to his grip. A silent declaration of mine.

  Elias glanced over at the sleeping man. The weak light of the holo did not flatter the older Fixer. The scar on the left side of his face left a deeper crease, the hollows in his cheeks were more profound. Even in repose, furrows marred his forehead. His brows were pinched together and his jaw clenched. Small twitches pulled at his arms now and again, and one of his legs jerked. He slept the sleep of the exhausted.

  And when had he gotten so thin? He’d always been a lean guy, but not...Actually, Elias had seen him this skinny before. Worse, in fact. Fixer had been a walking skeleton after his escape from the stin. Now his long-sleeve SFT hung from his frame, the cords of his bent neck stood out way too far, and his legs were lost somewhere inside his multi-pocketed utility pants.

  Elias glanced at the holo again, as if to confirm the identity of the man before him. What had Fixer been like at eighteen? His expression in the holo-capture suggested a certain naïveté, though what little Elias knew of Fix’s childhood suggested he’d been anything but innocent. Station-born rarely were. He’d certainly been more hopeful, though. Happier. On the cusp of something great.

  Elias remembered that feeling. He’d never really lost it. Life was a series of natural and spontaneous changes, was it not? Lao Tzu certainly thought so, and he advised letting things flow. Ride the crests and troughs. Let reality be reality. Of course, Elias’s reality hadn’t included four years as a prisoner of the stin. Or the half-life that had followed, mourning Zander Anatolius, the events of the past few months.

  Breathing out slowly, Elias holstered his stunner and reached for Fix’s shoulder. He hated to wake him, but Fix couldn’t be comfortable all slumped over. He’d obviously fallen asleep mid-repair. Or maybe he’d paused for a moment of reflection. Pulled up a picture of himself and Zed, and dropped off staring at...what?

  Sorrow pushed a lump into Elias’s throat.

  He grasped Fixer’s shoulder and shook him gently. Instinct called him to stay close. Fix would not wake gently, or sweetly. Elias didn’t want to allow room for that right fist to cock back and swing forward. Not with that bloody tool in his grasp.

  “Fix?”

  Fixer’s eyes snapped open. As predicted, he started and rolled back, right arm rising.

  “It’s me, Eli,” Elias said, hoping the holo shed enough light to illuminate his dark face.

  Weirdly, Fix’s fist relaxed immediately. Then he coiled into himself, the tension of his slumber ratcheting up so that he seemed to vibrate. Elias stepped back, telling himself he didn’t fear the other man, or the gravity well of his obviously agitated state.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Fix hefted the tool in his right hand. “Fixing the ramp. Anatolius ass-wipes won’t let us leave port until I adjust the sensor.”

  The one that caused the ramp to eject on unsuspecting—

  Wait. Us?

  The holo disappeared, plunging the cargo bay into darkness. A second later, a utility light snapped on, nudging the blackness outside the circle of the two men. Fix tapped at his bracelet and four new holos shimmered into being. Schematics and projected circuits. Codes. The Anatolius security report with items checked off.

  “Have you been here all night?”

  “Wh
at time is it?”

  Elias consulted his wallet. “Oh-seven-hundred.”

  “Shit. Lost a couple hours.” He loosened an access panel in the wall of the cargo bay and pulled out a bunch of leads. After consulting one of his schematics, he separated out two wires and traced them to a circuit board. For a moment, Elias watched, fascinated by the way Felix used his left hand. He couldn’t bend his fingers, only his thumb. He used a combination of twitches and blunt nudges, wielding the gnarled and twisted appendage like another tool, one he knew well.

  “Does Zed know where you are?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?

  “Ah...”

  “Hand me one of those clamps.”

  “Er...” Elias looked down at the overflowing bin of parts nestled into the wall. In front of it were a series of open metal rings. “Which one?”

  “Second smallest.”

  Elias handed over the clamp. “So, you said us. What do you mean?” He knew neither Zed nor Fix were happy about having to remain at Alpha while the Chaos went to pick up Dieter. That was part of the reason Marnie had stepped out of the shadows—an extra hand on board, a familiar face for Dieter when they got to Petrel Station. That Dieter was also her friend only made her appearance all the more reasonable.

  “I mean me, you, the rest of the crew, if I can satisfy the dock master our tub won’t implode between here and the edge of the system.”

  “Wait, slow down. What about Zed?”

  Fix didn’t answer right away. He clamped a lead, fiddled with something else, reattached something to something, the process a complete mystery. Then it all got tucked back into the wall. Picking up the panel, Fix held it in place with his left and screwed it in with his right.