Chapter Five
“You’re supposed to be saving poor Bren from my wicked ways.”
Ward snorted, completely unsurprised to see Jacoby, as evidenced by the fact that the heavy door was already opened and waiting for him to walk through. Ward waved him in and disappeared from the hallway, and from Jacoby’s view.
He closed the door and walked into the den for the second time in as many days to find Ward pouring a couple of whiskeys.
“Did you really think I’d come to Bren’s aid?” Ward asked without looking up.
“I have no idea what you’d do for him,” Jacoby said honestly. Ward conceded that with a nod and pushed a glass into Jacoby’s hand.
Jacoby leaned against a bookshelf and glanced around, because he hadn’t let himself last night. Didn’t want the memories—good and bad—to invade any more than they had already. And really, Ward’s house hadn’t changed much at all. It was always cool, serene. Clean, but not fussy. Masculine and comfortable. It was a place that was timeless, a lot like Ward. It didn’t have to change because it was perfect the way it was.
That didn’t mean the house—or Ward—was ever boring. Both were full of surprises, secret spaces and hidden depths. Jacoby had just begun to scratch the surface, had finally begun to push aside his own issues to understand what the deal was with a real relationship when Ward had been kidnapped.
After a couple of sips, he asked Ward, “So what’s the angle? Because Bren doesn’t appear like he can be talked out of writing the book.”
Ward nodded in agreement. “I’ve tried. The damned thing isn’t even halfway written yet, so we’ve got some time.”
“Destroy what he has.”
“It’s not that easy.” Ward paused, before doling out the next bit of information. “He filled a prescription for sleeping pills today.”
“Wow, you really are big brother.” Jacoby narrowed his eyes. “Do you know what prescriptions I fill too?”
“Yes,” Ward shot back.
“Bullshit.”
“You’ve had the flu three times in the past two years—how the hell did you do that when you also got flu shots?” Ward demanded.
“Just lucky, I guess,” Jacoby muttered. “Suppose I had embarrassing prescriptions?”
“You didn’t,” Ward said simply.
Jacoby threw his hands in the air. “That’s not the point. You were monitoring me the whole damned time.”
“Yes,” Ward said quietly.
Jacoby wondered why it didn’t piss him off more, and then he got pissed off at himself for not being more pissed off. Which was ridiculous. He shook that off and said, “Bren’s developing a conscience.”
“Must be hard to find after getting the kind of advances he’s been receiving.”
“Does Bren know you were attacked by Jessica?” Jacoby asked.
“I don’t think Bren’s source has gotten that far. Besides, that’s FBI-documented information. For him to get that…”
“Means it’s either really Jessica who’s feeding the informant or there’s a leak,” Jacoby finished. “And I’m not talking.”
“You think I want front and center in this book?” Ward frowned. “The bureau’s hoping that this just blows over. That there’s not going to be all that much new information in the book—it’s mostly hype because it’s written by a bestselling fiction author.”
“A fiction author who enjoys writing about serial killers.”
“Can’t arrest him for that.”
“Not yet,” Jacoby muttered. “Are you feeding intel to him?”
Ward’s eyes and voice went steely. “Screw you, Jacoby. You know me better than that.”
Jacoby couldn’t argue. There weren’t many things about Ward that he couldn’t predict, but Ward’s loyalty regarding Jacoby’s family background was solid. Only four men and one woman knew, and one of them was dead. Jacoby’s FBI file was doctored. So was Jessica’s. “So how much does Bren know?”
Ward shrugged. “He won’t give up any information about Jasper other than the claim that the guy is Jessica’s brother. His publisher’s holding most of the information on lockdown, but I don’t know if that’s true, or that’s what they’re telling us when really, Bren’s given them nothing of the sort. I think Bren doesn’t know much of anything beyond what this Jasper tells him. Only the author’s agent and a single editor know some detail, but Bren said he’d never tell them how to contact his source. Says he doesn’t want to put anyone in danger.”
Jacoby rolled his eyes. “Motherfucking innocent asshole. He’s endangering himself, way more than he is you or me.”
“You think I don’t know the goddamned danger?” Ward demanded. “And you’re living in a dream world if you think you’re not.”
Jacoby wanted to think he was immune to danger at this stage, but he didn’t like to lie to himself. “I’ll fix this.”
“You stay away and let me handle it,” Ward corrected.
“Right. That’ll happen.”
“Don’t push this one, Jacoby.”
“What’re you going to do? Arrest me? Isolate me? Couldn’t be worse.”
It can always be worse.
Fuck.
Ward just stared at him and for a second the moment hung between them. Jacoby forced his hand not to touch his own chest, where the words were scarred into him.
Ward stared at him, finally asking, “You didn’t tell him who you were, did you?”
“Not directly.”
“Ah, Jacoby, talk about committing suicide…”
“You won’t get rid of me that easily.” Jacoby didn’t realize what he’d said until the words poured out.
There was a long silence, during which Ward downed his drink, then said, “There’s comfort in that, Jacoby. More than you know.”
After a long pause, something inside Jacoby shifted and then he didn’t know what the fuck to do with himself. He offered, “Good to see you again,” for lack of anything better to say.
Ward laughed. “You know that’s what you should say at the start of a conversation.
“And you know I’ve never done anything I’m supposed to,” Jacoby reasoned.
“Touché.” Ward smiled. “It’s good to see you to. Always is.”
There was so much Jacoby wanted to say, but it remained stuck in his throat. He’d caused Ward more trouble than Jacoby was worth, and all from day one. They both knew that it was a guilt Jacoby couldn’t break from. “I’m going to get out of here.”
“Dinner?” Ward asked.
That pull was even stronger than it had been. How was that possible? “Rain check,” he told Ward, not meaning it at all, and he was out the door and halfway down the walk before Ward could say another word.
Chapter Six
Jacoby got back to the hotel before he let himself deal with what had happened. He’d arrived in town and checked in here mere hours before confronting Bren and Ward yesterday. Now, he went into the bathroom, stripping as he walked. He splashed cold water on his face, then hung on to the side of the sink, realizing his arms were trembling.
Fuck. This was all much harder than he’d thought it would be. Hell, just staying in hotels was hard. Usually he rented a place—even if it was only for a week he’d gladly pay for the month instead of checking into a hotel. Hotels held shitty memories for him on a lot of levels. Especially hotels in this area.
But he’d forced himself to do it because what didn’t kill him made him stronger, and all that bullshit.
Right now he didn’t feel strong at all.
Finally, he blinked away the last of the water droplets from his eyes and stared at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t covered up many of the scars, just the few on his forearms that he knew he’d give away eventually by pushing his shirtsleeves up. Even though no one knew about Jessica’s past—her family—because she certainly hadn’t been coming forward to claim her family heritage.
He didn’t look often—not because of the scars, necessarily, but because
he never really gave himself more than the cursory once-over. He was good-looking in a rough, dangerous way, and it didn’t take much more than his hands through his damp hair for him to be ready to go out. He could clean up if he had to, but suits and tuxes reminded him of a past he’d never wanted to revisit.
He traced the carved letters that ran down his chest as he stared at them in the mirror, recalled his horror when he’d first realized that what he’d thought were random slashes actually spelled something.
“Want me to cut through the letters, so the scars are just scars?” Leo had asked, unable to mask his anger and upset after he’d stitched up the first word.
“Evidence,” Ward had said quietly.
“Fuck that—it’s his life,” Leo had argued.
“You can do that after we photograph it,” Ward told him.
“Leave it,” Jacoby had said softly. Even if they’d been erased somehow, in his mind’s eye he’d always see then, feel them. Even though he had a pain tolerance beyond the capacity of most, these had an emotional component to them that he was unable to shake off.
He’d stopped trying.
And Ward? Ward had never minded the scars…
After Jacoby’s wounds had healed, he’d remained hidden away at Ward’s, telling his story, trying to guide Ward through Jessica’s world. It was harder than he’d thought, and Ward kept pushing.
Jacoby remembered the first real argument that built from him slamming away from the table, telling Ward, “You don’t understand.”
Ward’s eyes had flashed. “Your sister is gorgeous, and gorgeous women typically get whatever they want. She’s smart too. There aren’t many men who’d resist her when she turns up the full charm. She lets them think they’ll have full control but that’s not actually how it turns out, is it? How am I doing, Jacoby?”
Jacoby lunged. And it wasn’t a surprise, to either of them. They’d been circling each other like fighting fish who’d been purposely placed in the same tank. They’d spent the first month of Jacoby’s recovery in isolation, attempting to figure each other out. Both knew their opponent to be strong, but they both had skills the other wasn’t entirely sure of.
When this long overdue argument erupted, Ward had Jacoby by the throat against the wall. Jacoby’s eyes shot daggers, but his body told a different story entirely.
Ward’s free hand wandered between Jacoby’s legs, pressed the way he did on Jacoby’s throat. Jacoby remained pinned, helpless, and Ward cursed himself for his lack of control. From day one, he’d known that Jacoby would be the one man who could make him lose it. As much as he had Jacoby pinned, Jacoby had him in just as tight of a grip without ever lifting a finger.
“I can’t do this,” Ward growled.
“You already did, unless you always put your hands on your witnesses’ dicks.” Jacoby jutted his hips against Ward’s. “Afraid of slumming it?”
“Trust me, that’s definitely not what this would be.” Ward had let him go then, pushed away and walked into his bedroom.
Jacoby waited against the wall. Turned on. Confused as all fuck and more miserable than he could remember. Falling for his handler—who knew what a fucking criminal Jacoby was—hadn’t been in the cards. Jacoby was prepared to go it alone until Jessica was caught.
A few seconds later, a knock on the door of his hotel room made him jump. He grabbed the sides of the sink to steady himself, because if a goddamned knock could make him flash back and tremble like a fucking baby, he was in bigger trouble than he’d thought.
Fuck. He was too close to this, too close to Jessica. He wasn’t like this all the time. He approached the door cautiously, until he heard, “It’s me.”
Ward.
In all the years he’d known Ward, the man had never come after him. He’d always waited patiently, almost like Jacoby was a wild animal he knew not to corner, because Jacoby would run—or attack.
Now, he opened the door, clad in just a towel, and Ward stood there, looking at him. For a minute, they were warily feeling each other out still, despite their proximity…and then they were spinning out of control, and there was no going back.
There never had been.
Ward rushed him in a purposeful way that made Jacoby want to climb him and then crawl all fucking over him. The man could always kiss, make Jacoby forget his name—all of them—and not give a shit. And in the past years, he’d somehow been getting better, like he’d been saving all this up for Jacoby.
At least that’s the way Jacoby wanted to pretend it was. There was still so much bullshit between them that falling into bed was the last thing they should do. And it was also one of the things they never disagreed about. It was easy. Right.
It was going to fuck things up big time, but when Ward rubbed his hand between Jacoby’s legs, he didn’t give two good shits about anything else.
“Is this what you meant by the dinner you asked me to earlier?” Jacoby managed between kisses.
“Later. I ordered room service,” Ward assured him.
Yes, Ward thought of everything. “Ward, fuck…we can’t…” But Jacoby’s murmurings were ineffectual deterrents to even himself, especially when Ward’s arms went around him, tugging him close in that hard but gentle way he was so damned good at…mainly because Jacoby couldn’t think of any real reason they shouldn’t be doing this.
From the first, he’d known Ward was both capable of taking care of him and handling him—two very similar things with a very distinct difference.
Ward’s mouth took his again, hard, punishing, the way they both liked it. God, it’d been two motherfucking years of waiting for, dreaming of, wishinglongingwanting this. Him. All of what that entailed.
He stared up at Ward and flashed back to their first night together…to so many nights after that, when he’d given Ward his submission and surrendered so completely and utterly, in a way he never had before Ward…and in a way he never could with anyone else.
Two years. And while Jacoby hadn’t gone back to his old ways, he’d reverted to numbness when it came to sex. It was his release—Ward had made him realize that really good sex was like air. But he’d settled for getting quick blow jobs, fucking anonymous men in clubs until he couldn’t handle the emotional listlessness any longer.
Now, in bed with Ward, the familiar nerves were back, like it was their first time all over again.
There was no real way to explain the scars—at this point, Jacoby couldn’t simply walk into a tattoo parlor and ask for the words carved into his body to be all covered up. There was a level of comfort in knowing he didn’t have to explain it to Ward…but ultimately getting Ward to fuck him was about so much more than that. It was about control—wanting to be controlled—but ultimately, it was about wanting to fuck a guy who he wanted to fuck for purely animalistic reasons, and nothing to do with scams.
Ward was his first in that regard—his first for pure, unadulterated pleasure. He’d literally laid himself bare for Ward. In all these years, there was one secret he’d kept from the man, one that he’d held on to after Ward sent him packing. It was nothing when balanced against what Ward knew about him—cradle-to-grave-type of secrets.
The problem was, Jessica knew most (if not all) of them too.
“Turn your mind off, J,” Ward murmured firmly. “Enjoy the moment.”
It was something Jacoby had never been especially good at. Thankfully, it was something Ward was especially good at helping with. There was no judgment in Ward’s eyes, just a pure, unadulterated heat that speared right to Jacoby’s cock.
Chapter Seven
Ward wondered if Jacoby would still surrender to him in bed. It’d been years, with so much hurt between them that submission wouldn’t be easy…but Jacoby was letting Ward kiss him, strip him bare, lay him on the bed, push his arms up above his head.
And loving every minute of it. They both were. For a moment, Ward allowed his mind to wander back to those first days, that first time…
When Jacoby finally approach
ed him in bed, it had been hesitantly and boldly, all at once. At seventeen, Jacoby had been more of a man than most Ward knew. At nineteen, he was above and beyond anyone Ward had met, and there was no way Ward could’ve turned him out of bed.
At first, he’d convinced himself that Jacoby had a nightmare, just needed some companionship, and was using sex as an excuse. But when Jacoby’s body slid across the expensive sheets and pressed against Ward’s back, it was obvious what Jacoby was after. And he wasn’t about to be patient. He’d reached around Ward’s waist, ran a hand between Ward’s legs.
Of course, Ward had already been hard. Jacoby’s breath was hot against his neck when he chuckled softly. “You gonna pretend you’re still asleep for much longer? If that’s what you need to do, I’m cool with it.”
Ward growled, deep in his throat, and turned—fast—knocking Jacoby onto his back as he climbed on top of the younger man. Jacoby smiled, slow and lazy, and put his arms over his head in a silent show of submission. An unexpected gift, and one Jacoby didn’t give lightly over their next several years. It wasn’t necessary all the time, because they were hot together in any way, shape or form. But when Jacoby did give it up?
Unforgettable.
Ward didn’t kid himself that Jacoby had been a monk in the years they’d been separated, but what mattered was that no other man did matter. Never could. And maybe that’s what frustrated the hell out of both of them.
“Now who’s thinking?” Jacoby murmured against his cheek. Ward rewarded him by bringing his mouth down on one of his nipples and sucking hard enough to make Jacoby cry out in pleasure. His hand tugged at the other nipple as Jacoby pushed his pelvis up against Ward’s, begging for more, his cock rubbing against Ward’s jean-clad one.
The scars didn’t matter—Ward used them as braille guideposts—reassurances that he was the only one who Jacoby let touch these, the only one Jacoby let heal him.
Rule of Thirds (A Mirror Novel Book 1) Page 4