By SARAH MADISON
Crying for the Moon
Not Quite Shakespeare (Dreamspinner anthology)
Practice Makes Perfect
Raincheck
Scavenger Hunt
THE SIXTH SENSE
Unspeakable Words
Walk a Mile
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
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Copyright
Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Walk a Mile
© 2014 Sarah Madison.
Cover Art
© 2014 Paul Richmond.
http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.
ISBN: 978-1-63216-165-9
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-164-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014945935
First Edition October 2014
Printed in the United States of America
This paper meets the requirements of
ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
To margec01: your support and encouragement mean the world to me. I couldn’t have done this without you!
Chapter 1
JERRY BOOKMARKED his place on the Kindle and powered it down, resting it in his lap. He glanced at his watch. They had at least two more hours of flight time. Outside the small window, the sky was unrelieved black, without even the lights of cities below to indicate they were moving. The plane was supposed to land at midnight, East Coast time, which would only be 9:00 p.m. by Jerry’s internal clock. Not bad, for a change. They might even get to bed at a reasonable hour for once. For FBI agents, that was a rarity.
He glanced at Flynn, who sat with his eyes closed, his hands folded over a large, bulky copy of Don Quixote. The earbuds to the iPod screwed firmly into each ear blocked the ambient sound around him and helped mute the internal dialogues only Flynn could hear. He appeared to be asleep, for which Jerry was grateful. If Flynn could sleep on the plane, then he was handling being stuck with so many strangers better than Jerry hoped. The barricades of book and music must be working. There had been a time when the thought of locking Flynn up on a plane for a cross-country flight was unthinkable. Like everything else since Flynn had accidentally developed telepathy, they’d had to work through it. Initially, Flynn couldn’t even leave Jerry’s apartment without nearly having a breakdown. Now, Flynn resembled nothing more than a professional traveler who preferred to be left alone. Which was a good thing. An FBI agent who’d developed a phobia about mass transportation wasn’t going to last long in the field, no matter how outstanding his record was.
Jerry had asked about Don Quixote when the massive tome first appeared. Flynn had merely shrugged and said he’d never read it. Flynn was an enigma at times. An e-reader would have made more sense.
“I like books I can hold,” Flynn had said, and the subject had been dropped.
He couldn’t help but feel a little perverse pride in having a hot boyfriend who read anything besides Sports Illustrated, let alone something like Don Quixote. With Flynn asleep, Jerry could feast his eyes on just how smoking his boyfriend was without having Flynn frown and punch him in the arm. The man was just so damned good-looking. Though if Jerry had been asked to say why, he’d have been hard pressed to put it into words. It might be the way Flynn always looked slightly disreputable, even now, when he was closely shaved and wearing a nice suit. There was an indefinable air of danger and ruthlessness about him. Not for the first time, it occurred to Jerry that Flynn would have made a good James Bond. Unfortunately, Flynn had brayed like a donkey when Jerry’s thoughts had leaked through to him, and Jerry had made a point of keeping that particular image to himself ever since.
Maybe the perpetual bad boy look came from the persistent suggestion of stubble on his face, or the world-weary air with which he wore his suit. It might be the clean lines of his bone structure or the prominence of his Adam’s apple. It could be the irrepressible cowlicks in his dark hair or the odd shape of his ears. Somehow, it all added up to the impression that Flynn was the kind of guy who got his man in the end.
Jerry admired the view a little too long. Or maybe he was a little too appreciative in his thinking. As expected, Flynn opened his eyes and glanced at Jerry. He grabbed hold of one thin, green cable and gave it a sharp tug, popping the earbud out to land on his lap. Hazel eyes, another one of Flynn’s excellent features, narrowed in a glare.
“My ears are not oddly shaped,” he said, looking like a disgruntled little boy. It was another thing Jerry loved about Flynn; he could change from jaded FBI agent to unrepentant schoolboy to sensual lover all in the blink of an eye.
Whatever you say, Legolas. Jerry fired off the mental comeback effortlessly, knowing Flynn would continue the conversation as though he’d said the words aloud. His accompanying grin grew wider as a flush highlighted Flynn’s cheekbones.
Flynn shifted slightly in his seat and looked Jerry squarely in the eye. “What?” Flynn asked with a Spock-like eyebrow before lowering his voice slightly. “You’re not even going to pretend to put that one in the soundproof booth?”
“Nope. I don’t want the booth to be full when I need to store the really important stuff.” Back when all of this had started, Jerry had developed a means of blocking his thoughts from Flynn by putting them in a sort of mental “soundproof booth.” It had been essential for him to screen his thoughts in order to live with and love someone as unusual as John Flynn. Sometimes you had to block your thoughts from your telepathic boyfriend if you wanted to maintain a healthy relationship.
Flynn rolled his eyes before opening his book again. The concentration with which he stared at the page told Jerry Flynn was working hard to maintain his shields, and it was becoming a bit of a strain during the long flight.
Not much longer. We’ll land in Dulles before you know it.
Flynn acknowledged the thought with a silent nod, not looking up from his book.
Most days, Jerry was completely comfortable around Flynn. After all, he trusted the man with his life. At times it felt as though he could read Flynn’s mind in return, the two of them worked, lived, and loved so closely now. A small whisper of doubt flickered in Jerry’s mind, one that had been cropping up more and more lately. Maybe too close? It was possible to know too much about a person; he knew that. There were times he could see past John Flynn’s gorgeous features and note the small bags under his eyes or the tiny threads of silver just starting to show at his temples. There were times when Jerry resented the fact that Flynn knew everything he was thin
king; in contrast, Flynn was often a closed book. These were observations Jerry couldn’t always shut out in time. They were the sort of thoughts everyone had, no matter how much they loved another person. Unkind, ungenerous thoughts that were there and gone before Jerry could register they should be screened.
Jerry really didn’t want to know what the average person on the street was thinking. It had to be appalling, some of the shit Flynn had to filter on a daily basis.
Flynn could be having similar thoughts about him all the time, and Jerry would never know it. Did Flynn ever look at him and wonder what he was doing with a desk-jockey FBI agent with a love of food and a need to work hard to keep it from showing up on his waistline? Did he ever wonder why, after the past six months together, Jerry still thought of him primarily as “Flynn”?
He should ask him about that letter.
Hah. As if. The letter, obviously forwarded several times, had arrived at the apartment that morning, just before they’d left for the airport. Flynn had opened it, scanned it briefly, and tossed it into the trash with a vehement “Fuck, no!”
“Problems?” Jerry had asked, not wanting to pry, but seriously, how could one ignore that?
“High school reunion.” Flynn had curled his upper lip, and the subject had been dropped.
It was unlikely Flynn would have gone to the reunion anyway, but now that he was a telepath? No, Jerry couldn’t see him cheerfully attending the festivities. Like the phone calls from his mother that Flynn would not answer. Flynn seemed to have gone out of his way to avoid anyone he knew from before he became a telepath.
With any luck, however, none of this would matter for much longer. Just last week, they’d had a major breakthrough in what Flynn liked to refer to as The Case of the Missing Alien Artifact. That night, they’d stumbled in from work a few hours earlier, eaten dinner in silence, and Jerry had crashed into bed. Jerry had been in that dead-to-the-world slumber that comes in the first hour or so of falling asleep when Flynn had appeared in his doorway.
Jerry’s nearly perfect memory allowed him to replay the scene as though he was watching a movie.
“Parker, wake up! I’ve found another artifact.”
Jerry had rolled over and squinted at the silhouette framed by the doorway. Flynn stood there in just his briefs, his lean body backlit by the hall light. Why the heck was Flynn waking him in the middle of the night and calling him by his last name, too, as though they were still at work?
This must be what Watson felt like whenever Holmes burst into his room in the middle of the night. Bleary-eyed and stupid with sleep.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Holmes wouldn’t put up with someone stupid. You know that.” Flynn spoke with the air of someone on familiar ground, as well he might. The Holmes/Watson discussion had been going on between them ever since the night they’d first met, though Jerry would have hardly called it friendly banter then. More like jousting. Two dogs testing the boundaries of each other’s territory.
“He would if he was a sick, vain bastard who liked keeping some poor dumb schmuck around to make him look good.”
“Damn, anyone ever tell you you’re really grouchy when you first wake up?”
Only when it’s o’dark thirty, and I’ve only been asleep for a few minutes.
“It’s been longer than that. I know because I heard you snoring all the way in the living room.”
The jubilant note in Flynn’s voice had Jerry sitting up. Flynn’s excitement was almost palpable, hanging in the air between them like an unspoken sentence. He reminded Jerry of a young dog spotting a ball in his master’s hands. It was unthinkable Jerry not throw the ball.
“What did you find?” Watson, too, must have also felt as though he was living with a telepath. Rooming with Holmes had to have been annoying as fuck at times, especially when he was pulling the all-knowing routine. Jerry knew the feeling well.
Instead of answering the perfectly reasonable question, Flynn turned, slapping his thigh as he left Jerry’s line of sight. “Come, Watson! The game’s afoot!”
Jerry groaned as he flipped back the covers. Flynn must have been dying to say that. It was obviously the whole reason for the dramatic announcement from the doorway. Jerry picked up his cell phone from the nightstand to check the time. Four thirty-five a.m. If Flynn hadn’t had such a nice ass, Jerry would kill him.
“I heard that!” Flynn called from the other room.
“You were meant to!” Jerry yelled back, biting back any further snarky replies. Hopefully, they hadn’t made enough noise to wake the neighbors. There was little point in attempting a silent discussion with a telepath if he insisted on bellowing at you from the other side of the apartment.
Oliver flattened his ears when Jerry turned on the bedside lamp. The brown tabby jumped down off the foot of the bed with a thud and scuttled out of the room as Jerry swung his legs off the mattress.
“You’re not getting fed now!” Jerry called after the cat, but he knew it was no good. Any sign of movement this close to their usual wake-up time sent the cats straight for the kitchen, where they demanded food and pointed out with typical feline logic that they might not know when their next meal was coming.
Such was the life of an FBI agent. Broken sleep, long hours at work, and irregular mealtimes. Though most agents didn’t have a telepathic partner. His next thoughts were placed deep within the soundproof booth. Clearly, Flynn was getting his hopes up again—they’d been down this road before—and it was probably all for nothing. Flynn had spent nearly every spare moment over the last six months searching for a way to undo his telepathic gift. Or rather, badgering Jerry to use his superior web-searching skills to do the same. Jerry was surprised Flynn had found something new, something they hadn’t already checked out and discovered to be a dead end. Odds were this would fizzle out as well, and Jerry didn’t like seeing Flynn’s hopes get crushed time after time.
Jerry padded into the living room, yawning and scratching his belly under his T-shirt. A single lamp cast a comforting glow by the couch, where an open book gave evidence to the fact that once again, Flynn had been unable to sleep. He was hunched over the computer by the large window, his back to the room. For once, the just-tumbled-out-of-bed wildness of his hair made perfect sense. Jerry smiled at the sight of Flynn’s dark hair sitting up in startled spikes. It was so… Flynn.
Flynn glanced over his shoulder as Jerry entered the room, and then turned back to the screen with the intensity of a cat watching a mouse hole. “Come look at this.”
The least you could have done was make me some coffee.
“You don’t like my coffee. Are you going to whine all night, or get the fuck over here?”
Phoenix, the orange and white kitten they’d rescued back when Jerry and Flynn first met, murpled a sleepy greeting when Jerry walked over to the desk. She’d obviously been keeping Flynn company on the couch. In the kitchen, Oliver let out a plaintive meow. Flynn shot a glance in the cat’s direction, and Oliver appeared at the doorway, tail flicking in annoyance. Jerry wasn’t quite sure if the telepathy thing worked both ways with animals, but it seemed as though it did. Certainly most animals acted as if they heard something. Whatever “message” Flynn had sent to the older tabby worked, and he stopped begging for food. With a graceful leap, he joined Phoenix on the couch. She groomed the side of his face sympathetically.
This couldn’t have waited another couple of hours? Jerry sighed when he realized his thoughts had slipped past the soundproof barrier again. Fortunately, they were nothing of any significance. It had taken him a while to accept that people simply had random thoughts in reaction to almost everything, and it was impossible to shield Flynn from every little thought that wasn’t completely flattering. So far, Flynn seemed to deal with that just fine.
Or did he? Jerry would never really know. Some days he felt like he had to tiptoe around Flynn’s temper.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you think I’m a jerk at times,” Flynn said, cuttin
g to the chase as usual. “Look at this and tell me what you think it is.”
Frowning, Jerry leaned in to peer at the screen, one hand on the top of Flynn’s chair. He couldn’t help but sweep his glance down the long line of Flynn’s back. It was a back he’d come to know quite well over the last half-year. Back, shoulders, ass….
Though not so much of late. Jerry hurried to deep-six his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was for Flynn to pick up on his concerns about their relationship. Reflexively, he expanded on his appreciation of Flynn’s… attributes. Hopefully, that’s all Flynn would pick up this time.
“None of that, mister.” Flynn shot him a look that was just shy of irritated. “Jesus, sometimes you have a one-track mind.”
Can’t blame a guy for looking. Especially when the view is so fine.
Flynn rolled his eyes, but with a small smile. He indicated the screen with a nod of his chin.
The browser was open to a webpage that featured a small metallic-looking box in shades of pewter and blue, with strange geometric designs on the sides. Jerry glanced at the web address. It was listed as being part of the Smithsonian. Just above the address, Jerry saw Flynn’s e-mail tab. Automatically, he noted it was open to a message from Flynn’s former boss at Quantico.
Jerry shoved his reaction to seeing that e-mail address in the soundproof booth. Let Flynn think he was shielding over the artifact on the screen.
“It’s the same, isn’t it?”
Flynn didn’t have to ask. The box was so similar to the artifact they’d encountered before they had to be related. Jerry realized Flynn needed to hear some sort of outside validation, and he opened his mouth to respond.
“You don’t have to humor me.” Flynn’s voice was sharp, like a piece of broken glass unexpectedly encountered. Jerry shoved his mental sigh into the booth. Honestly, sometimes Flynn is so damned prickly….
A fraction of a second too late hiding his feelings; Flynn stiffened in the chair. Pretending not to notice, Jerry spoke as though nothing had happened. “It’s not the exact same artifact, if that’s what you’re asking. This one seems to be significantly smaller, if the photo is anything to go by. The markings are similar, but not identical. I suspect they represent some sort of language. If we get enough examples, I can probably translate it.”
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