Imperial Stout

by Layla Reyne

  “Bowers isn’t my boss.”

  “Lucky you.” He took a long swallow from his own bottle and unfastened another button at the collar of his dress shirt. He should have snagged a T-shirt at Gravity, but his mind had been elsewhere. Here already, questions swirling, and Cam, whose eyes had drifted to the hollow of his throat, wasn’t giving him what he wanted, at least in the answers department. “Also, you dodged my question,” he said, calling the other man’s bluff. “Tell me why Jamie doesn’t want you going under on this one.”

  Cam’s eyes shot up. “Boy, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  “Not with most things.” He held Cam’s gaze, double meaning clear. They’d been beating around the bush of whatever this was between them for months. Nic intended to directly address that too, after he got any more case surprises out of the way. There’d been enough of those already; he wanted everything out in the open before Cam put his life in danger.

  “I wasn’t always Special Agent Cameron Byrne.”

  “I didn’t expect you launched from your mother’s womb as such.”

  Cam almost spit out his beer on a startled laugh. Nice to catch him off guard, and to break the tension that’d crept in.

  Smiling, Nic climbed onto one of the padded barstools. “Tell me why you can fake it as a B&E guy.”

  “Caught that, did you?”

  “I should hope so, as the success of this sting depends on it.”

  Cam took another long swallow of beer, then set the bottle down. “My older brother Bobby worked at a garage.”

  He’d put the last word in air quotes, and Nic caught on to his meaning. “So, a chop shop, then?”

  Arms braced behind him on the end of the bar, Cam leaned back and stared into space, his reflection in the shiny double oven doors vacant, his mind far away from the here and now. “I worshipped him.”

  “You followed him to the garage?”

  “Into it all. I could boost a car by the time I was thirteen. From there, it was a short jump to breaking into and boosting other things.”

  “What changed?”

  Vacant expression vanished, Cam’s face twisted into grief and regret. He shook it off a second later, but Nic had seen it. Felt a familiar stab of pain in his chest. “Some family shit went down, the same night Bobby and I were out on a job. If we’d been where we were supposed to be instead...” His words drifted off, struggling, as the emotion returned. “I might not be a practicing Catholic, but I’m Catholic enough to have a mountain’s worth of guilt stored up. Bobby too.”

  Reaching out, Nic slid a hand over his. “You got out?” he asked softly.

  Cam tangled their fingers, like he’d done in the condo last night. “Bobby and I made a deal. Never again.”

  “And you became an agent, because of what happened?”

  “After a failed dream of playing basketball, no thanks to Whiskey Walker.”

  Nic let him have that dodge; he’d rather see a smile on Cam’s face than that ravaged look from a moment ago. “What’s Bobby do now?”

  Cam rotated on his hip, facing Nic. “Installs security systems.”

  “I bet he’s good at that.”

  “One of the best. It’ll be useful for when his three kids become unruly teenagers like we were.”

  “He’ll LoJack them, won’t he?”

  “You bet.” Cam polished off the last of his beer and waited for Nic to finish his, hand out for the empty. “Another?”

  Nic nodded.

  Cam strolled to the far end of the kitchen, tossed the empties, then opened the fridge door. “We both swung the opposite direction. Playing by the rules. Bobby installing security, me as an FBI agent.”

  While his head was in the fridge, Nic slid off his stool and crossed the kitchen so he was right there when Cam closed the door. No more dodging; he’d seen the problem with Cam’s story. Had suddenly grasped Jamie’s well-placed concern.

  “You’re going back on your deal,” he said. “With Bobby.”

  Twisting, avoiding his gaze, Cam grabbed the bottle opener. “He said I’m not. It’s for work.”

  Nic stepped closer. “How’s your head doing with that?”

  “Still processing.”

  “That’s why Jamie was worried. He knows about this.”

  “Some of it.” Cam held an open bottle out to Nic. “I’m worried,” he admitted. “I buried that part of myself, deep, and now I’m digging it all back up.”

  Nic knew a thing or two about that. He’d spent most of his life hiding one secret or another. Maybe if he shared some of those, the things that made him the man he was, Cam would feel more comfortable using his own past on this assignment without fear of losing the present. Because after hearing what he had, Nic was more convinced than ever that Cam was exactly the right person for this assignment.

  He reached past Cam to place his bottle on the cabinet behind him, and with his trailing hand, lifted Cam’s face, catching his dark, swirling gaze.

  Considering.

  Plenty of other men had seen what Nic was about to show Cam. He’d intended for Cam to see it tonight as it were, and had taken all the wraps and bandages from the hospital off at the brewery. But while other men had seen, Nic still hid their meaning from most, explained to only a few, and never the full truth to anyone. Cam, though, needed it. Or as much as Nic could give.

  Decision made, he removed his hand from under Cam’s chin, stepped back, and began to work free the buttons of his dress shirt. Cam inhaled sharply, bobbled his bottle, and Nic chuckled. The blush across Cam’s cheeks was so beautiful Nic almost reached for him, to claim that second kiss, but that wasn’t what Cam needed. Yet.

  In the end, Cam made the decision for him, rotating to set his bottle aside. When he turned back around, he full on gasped as his wide eyes roved over Nic’s tattooed skin, leaving a path of fire in their wake.

  Nic unhooked the last button, letting his hands fall to the side, shirt hanging open. “We’ve all got a past, Boston.”

  Cam’s darkening gaze flickered up, seeking permission, and Nic granted it with a nod. Cam didn’t think to warm his hands, cold from the beer bottle, and Nic hissed at the first touch. His fingertips warmed in seconds, though, as they trailed across a torso lightly sprinkled with brown and gray hair and painted in memories.

  The eagle, flintlock, anchor, and trident insignia over his left pec, aka “The Budweiser,” inked after he finished BUDs training, once he was officially made a Navy SEAL.

  “You got a JAG one too?” Cam asked.

  “Hip,” Nic replied, voice full of gravel. He planned on showing Cam the oak leaves and mill rinde later tonight, Cam’s hands on his body making that all the more inevitable. Now, though, Cam was tracing the list of names beneath his SEAL tat. His team members, including Eddie.

  Cam glanced up again, eyes asking a question to which there was a good answer for a change, not a heartbreaking one. “All still here,” Nic said. “I wanted to honor them. They saved me, when I was injured in the field. Didn’t leave me behind, so I keep them with me too.”

  Cam flattened his palm over the names, a benediction that had Nic closing his eyes and sucking in his own breath, then exhaling again as Cam slid his hand to the other side of his torso, over the quote halfway up his ribs. The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday. A SEAL favorite. And below it, the skeletal frog and trident also favored by frogs like him, though he’d never seen another SEAL’s inked in rainbow colors.

  “Got it when Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was repealed,” he said with a smile. It died though, as Cam coasted his hand the rest of the way up his torso, first over the bruise where he’d collided with the car, then over the simple, unadorned number on his right pectoral.

  Nic shivered, and Cam placed his other hand on his hip, grounding him. “What’s this one?” he asked.

  Nic turned hi
s face away, hiding a face much like the one Cam had made earlier. Full of pain and regret. “The number of people I killed.” It wasn’t a small number. He’d been one of the Navy’s best snipers during those seven years before the injury had forced his move to JAG.

  Cam’s hold on his side tightened. “Where’s the other one?”

  Nic righted his gaze, swallowing hard to force moisture into his mouth. “What other one?” he asked, hoarsely.

  “The number of people you saved.” Cam flattened his palm again, over the number. “Or the number of murderers you put away?”

  Nic gave a small, sad smile. “We don’t celebrate the victories enough, do we?”

  Cam ran his hand down, over the rainbow frog again. “You did here.” Nic’s obliques quivered under his touch; so did other parts south. “Christ, all this is under that suit, every fucking day?”

  And Cam hadn’t even seen the half of it, but the story etched on his back was for another time, if ever. Some truths were better left in the past where they belonged, though the situation with his father brought it closer to the surface every day.

  Releasing his hip, Cam’s hands met over his abs and coasted up. Nic inhaled sharply again, blood roaring under his skin and through his veins. He paused Cam’s exploration over his sternum, hands around his wrists. “I—” he started, then cleared his throat and tried again. “I go out there, into the courtroom every day, and I use all this to atone, to try and be a better attorney and man.” He moved one of Cam’s hands over the kill count again. “I put murderers away, for those I...”

  Black eyes shot to his, blazing with fury and indignation on his behalf. “You’re not—”

  “Use what you learned.” He wove their fingers together over his skin. “Take the guilt and regret and the pain and let it help you be a better agent. Take who you used to be and let it help you do your job and rescue Abby.”

  Eyes downcast, Cam seemed to deliberate some decision of his own. “What if I can’t come back?” he whispered, barely loud enough for Nic to hear. “Old me, he was distracted. I lost...” His face pinched in remembered pain, and when he started again, his voice was thin and ragged. “How do I not step over the line?”

  Letting go of a wrist, Nic cupped the side of his neck, forcing his gaze. “I will pull you back.”

  “How?” Cam breathed, black eyes boring into his. “When you’re the one who makes me want to break all the rules?”

  Nic stepped closer, crowding him back against the counter. “We’re not breaking any rules.” Maybe they were breaking the laws of common sense, but Nic had thrown that out the window after their first kiss. They needed each other more.

  Cam laid his rough, tempting cheek against Nic’s. “I really want to kiss you again.”

  Nic smirked. “Why do you think I brought the stout?”

  “‘Cause it’s my favorite.”

  Using his hand around Cam’s neck, Nic angled the other man’s face in and licked his lips. Tasting, teasing. “No, Boston. ’Cause I like the taste of my beer on you.”

  “Fuck,” Cam groaned, then lunged, chasing after Nic’s tongue.

  Their mouths slammed together, lips and teeth clashing, weeks of pent-up desire rushing out. Their second kiss was as wild and desperate, as scorching, as the first, and Nic already wanted a third. Wanted them all.

  Shifting, Cam slipped his thigh between Nic’s legs, and Nic ground against it with a moan. Cam encouraged the motion, hand racing down his back to clutch his ass, yanking him up and closer, all but riding his leg.

  “Fuck, Boston.” Hand snaking into Cam’s hair, fingers knotting in the dark locks, Nic held Cam’s hot mouth to his, tasting every corner as their hips rocked impatiently together, demanding attention. Cam gave it to him, pushing off the counter and spinning them. Pressing Nic’s back against the fridge, he rutted his dick along Nic’s, driving Nic wild despite the twinge of soreness and the damnable wool and denim between their bodies.

  “Is this what you want, Dominic?” Hard length against hard length, the teasing wonderful and horrible. The torture continued as Cam slipped a hand inside Nic’s waistband, clawing at his ass, then diving into the cleft between his cheeks. “Or maybe you want this?” His finger circled Nic’s rim.

  Nic’s head fell back, banging against the steel fridge door. Fuck yeah that’s what he wanted, but good luck finding words right now. Groans would have to suffice.

  Understanding well enough, Cam bit and laved the exposed tendon of his neck. “I didn’t think it was possible to want you more than I already did, but all this...” The hand not teasing his asshole burned a path down Nic’s torso again, around the edge of his belly button, just like how he was torturing his other rim, then farther down, palming his cock. “And this...” he said, stroking up and down through his pants. “My dick’s about to explode.”

  Nic righted his head, catching Cam’s lips. “Mine too.” Fuck, he didn’t know whether to go back or forward. Thrust into Cam’s palm around his cock or ride the finger breaching his hole. “Do something about it.”

  “How is it possible my dick’s getting harder?”

  “Only one cure for that,” Nic replied.

  And it wasn’t the ringing doorbell.

  Nic ripped his mouth away. “Who the fuck is that?”

  Cam’s lips slid over his collarbone. “Aidan’s stylist,” he murmured against the sensitive skin at the crook of Nic’s neck. “Here for some disguise work.”

  Sighing, Cam stepped back, a bit wobbly on his feet, but so was Nic, clutching the fridge door handle to stay upright.

  Cam eyed his crotch. “You’re gonna have to hide that.”

  Nic’s eyes flickered down to Cam’s own problem, then back up, right before he shoved off the fridge door, bearing down on the tease. Cheek to cheek, he cupped Cam through the denim, returning the stroking torture. “Don’t show up with red hair tomorrow,” he whispered hotly into the agent’s ear. “Not sure I can pull you back from that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Single coffee cup in one hand, tray of four in the other, Nic nudged the FBI conference room door open with his hip, biting back a wince.

  He hadn’t lied yesterday—he’d taken harder tumbles—but no matter the severity, a little spill or a big one, the next day always hurt worse. Not even the long shower he’d taken after getting home last night had helped. Probably because he’d spent most of it contorting himself, one soapy hand pumping his dick, the other fingering his ass, desperate for relief.

  While he’d left Cam’s place unsatisfied in that regard, he’d at least satisfied his primary objective. Learning what concerned Jamie and Cam about this assignment, and hopefully instilling in Cam confidence that he could use his past for good. Nic had to believe that for his own day-to-day existence, otherwise getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other would be awfully damn difficult. He might not believe he was the better man Cam thought he was, but he had to believe in atonement, if nothing else.

  Right now, though, Nic couldn’t be his own or anyone’s focus. All their efforts needed to be focused on supporting Cam, on keeping their inside man grounded. Judging by Lauren’s and Jamie’s rumpled clothes, and the plethora of soda cans and Kit Kat wrappers littering the table, that’s exactly what they’d been doing all night.

  “Have you two slept at all?”

  The remnants of Lauren’s makeshift bun joined the rest of her hair that had already fallen around her face. “That’d be a negative.” She shoved the strands out of her face and held out a hand, not bothering to look up. He slipped a coffee cup into it, then pulled out the next, intending to hand it to Jamie, but was caught off guard midreach.

  “They’re almost done with my cover.”

  Nic whipped around, wincing again at the sudden movement. Good thing he’d inhaled on the turn because air was suddenly in short supply.
/>   Cameron Byrne, minus the Agent part, had sucked all of it out of the room. Very minus the Agent part. He stood in the corner behind the door, a motorcycle-booted foot braced on the wall. His propped knee stuck out of worn, ripped denim, and the skintight tee he had on under a ragged Boston College hoodie might as well have been painted on his solid chest. And was that a Maori tattoo creeping out from under his collar and up his neck, bordering on more dark scruff that had grown in overnight?

  Nic idly imagined how the thicker beard would tickle his palms, his lips, and other parts, his idle imagination stoked as Cam, following his line of sight, rubbed a hand over his jaw. Nic got distracted again, by the wide black buckle cuff on his wrist and the gel-spiked tips of his hair, highlighted blue. The look was topped off with just enough eyeliner to make Cam’s dark eyes seem like limitless black holes he could fall into.

  Nic was on his way to doing just that when Aidan brushed past him into the room, swiping the coffee cup from his hand. “Meet Brady Campbell.”

  That brought Nic back to his right mind.

  He scoffed, remembering their first kiss that had been prompted by a time-honored East Coast versus West Coast debate—Brady versus Montana. “You just had to go there,” he bemoaned.

  The next coffee cup in his hand disappeared as fast as the first two, swiped by Danny, who’d followed his brother into the conference room. “Seemed appropriate,” the younger Talley said. He held up a leather pouch in his other hand. “We’re set in Aidan’s office,” he said to Cam.

  “Set for what?” Nic asked.

  Cam pushed off the wall. “Replica of the museum vault where the artifacts are being held.” He pulled a small sack from the chair at the head of the table.

  On his other side, Danny waved around what Nic now recognized as a lock-pick set. “Practice.”

  Cam approached, wiggling a coffee cup free from the tray.

  “Thought you knew how to do that already?” Nic said.

  “Taking the bike out, just to be sure I can still ride it.”