“I see women as victims,” Flynn volunteered suddenly, twitching his shoulders as though forcibly changing the subject. He nodded when Jerry shot a look at him. “Sucks, I know, but I can’t help it. The vast majority of victims of serial killers are women. I know too much. I see every woman I date as someone at risk. I’ve been told I’m… smothering.”
“Is that what King meant by that crack about you following her in your car?” Jerry grinned, suddenly picturing how the inspector must have reacted to that.
“She was being stupid,” Flynn said with a frown. “She was still taking homicide calls and working like nothing had happened. We had reason to believe that the GFT killer was targeting her, and she was refusing to take it seriously.”
Jerry bit back a smile.
Flynn leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the glass of whiskey on the table. “I was supposed to be watching her. My sister. The day she disappeared.”
Aw, shit. “What happened?” A part of him wanted to reach out and pat him comfortingly on the shoulder, but he knew how well that would be received.
“We’d gone over to a friend’s house. He had a new Nintendo. She was bored and wanted to go home. I wasn’t ready to leave, and she left without me.” He dropped his gaze to his hands, where he steepled his fingers, tapping his thumbs together several times. “It was three blocks. It was our own neighborhood. We should have been safe. I couldn’t have been more than ten minutes behind her.”
“How old were you?” Jerry asked quietly.
“Thirteen.” Flynn shrugged it off. “They searched for seventy-two hours until they found her body in a drainage ditch. We never did get any answers.”
“We will,” Jerry promised, feeling a little like Horatio Caine. He smiled when Flynn snorted and flashed him a look of appreciation.
“You’ve got a nice grin,” Flynn said, obviously changing the subject again. He slowly got to his feet, collecting the glass and bottle to take them back to the kitchen. He indicated Jerry’s face with a wave of the glass. “A little crooked, but nice. You should show it more often.”
IT RAINED all afternoon. Jerry gave up on the idea of cooking anything and ordered delivery pizza for dinner. Flynn had seemed pleased at the idea, which Jerry couldn’t help resenting just a bit, but Flynn had quickly explained.
“Don’t get me wrong—you’re a really good cook. But sometimes a guy’s just gotta have pizza.”
He then persisted in giving Oliver little bits of meat off his slices, knowing that it was really pissing Jerry off. He couldn’t even pretend that he didn’t know.
“You know where to puke,” Jerry said to the cat, indicating Flynn’s shoes by the door.
Flynn just gave him a cheeky grin. “So, where’d you learn to cook anyway?”
Jerry shrugged. “Mostly by trial and error. Read some books, watched the Food Network, went online. It started out as a means of self-preservation, but then I began to enjoy it.”
“And food is like sex, huh?” Flynn said with a sly smile, deliberately rattling the hornet’s nest again, it would seem.
“I think so,” Jerry said thoughtfully, pretending not to see the gloat. “For instance, I’m a picky eater.”
Flynn waggled his eyebrows. Jerry ignored him and spoke with exaggerated patience. “So, when I first started cooking, I left out the ingredients I didn’t like, and I wondered why nothing tasted right or had any flavor.”
Flynn’s eyes narrowed slightly. Jerry continued, hiding his smirk unsuccessfully. “Then I decided I would try every recipe the way it was written just once. If I didn’t like it, no big deal. I didn’t have to try it again. But I discovered that there were some flavors that combined in unexpected ways to produce a really… powerful… result. It’s all about food chemistry.”
“Uh-huh,” Flynn said, sucking the pepperoni grease off his fingers slowly. Jerry was about to put his reaction to this gesture into the soundproof booth when he noted that Flynn was watching him. Caught, Flynn burst out laughing. “Gotcha.” He grinned.
You’re playing with fire. You know that, don’t you? The flush that crept up Flynn’s neck and face suggested that he did, but he couldn’t resist, just the same.
They hung out on the couch and watched football, Flynn professing consternation that Jerry hadn’t even realized that it was the NFL playoff weekend. When it was over, Jerry called the emergency vet clinic. The vet couldn’t come to the phone, but the tech had a few words of encouragement.
“Well, she’s come around a bit, but she’s still pretty subdued. Too soon yet to tell how she’s going to do. You should call back in the morning. What are you going to call her?”
Jerry blanked on what to name the kitten; he hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Call her Phoenix,” Flynn said abruptly from his side of the couch.
“Oh, man, that’s perfect. Phoenix,” he told the tech with delight. “Her name is Phoenix.” The tech seemed to like it as well.
Flynn seemed restless and edgy after that. Jerry thought briefly of the sorts of things he’d do on a Saturday evening if he were alone, but none of them had any great appeal with Flynn in the apartment. He couldn’t see himself practicing the Chopin sonata or doing Sudoku.
“You play?” Flynn said, wandering over to the piano at his thought, which was really annoying. “Sorry.” He shrugged when he sat down at the keyboard, glancing at the sheet music.
“No, I just keep the keyboard because I’m a pretentious bastard,” Jerry said, nettled. Oh, yeah, right, like you play. He couldn’t help the feeling of superiority, and he wasn’t very much inclined to hide it either.
Flynn raised an eyebrow at him from over the keyboard and began to play a laborious version of Heart and Soul. Ha, he knew it. It was marginally better than Chopsticks. Flynn smiled wickedly without looking up and suddenly segued into Schroeder’s song from A Charlie Brown Christmas.
Jerry sat up straighter on the couch, looking over the back of it toward the piano. Flynn was getting into it, his hands moving authoritatively over the keyboard as he entered the dramatic riff and then settling back down playfully to the opening cords again. Jerry had a momentary flash of picturing those hands on his body, moving with the same confidence and assurance, and there was suddenly a discordant sound as Flynn’s fingers fumbled. Flynn broke down with a laugh that quickly turned into a cough. When he looked up, his eyes were bright with merriment but something else as well, a spark of something warmer. His mouth twitched, and his amusement died down as though someone had thrown a bucket of water on it. Jerry thought he looked suddenly embarrassed.
Flynn stood up abruptly and indicated the piano. “Why don’t you play something?”
Jerry recognized the challenge for what it was. He moved over to the keyboard, sliding onto the bench still warm from where Flynn had been sitting a moment before. What to play? He reached for the keyboard, the song coming to him without further hesitation. Soft and sweet, the opening bars of Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini filled the room. He lost himself in the music, letting it rise to its loving climax and then drift hauntingly into the opening refrain again.
Flynn was standing by the window as Jerry lifted his hands from the keyboard. His eyes were dark, his expression hooded. “That was nice,” he said abruptly.
Rhapsody was a lot of things, but “nice” wasn’t the word that came to mind. “I thought you’d like it,” he said in a superior tone. “It’s short.”
“Oh, good one, Watson,” Flynn said in a hopelessly bad English accent.
Jerry stuck out his tongue.
Flynn looked back out the window at the rain-drenched streets again, a small smile playing at his lips. Sensing somehow that the show was over, Jerry yawned exaggeratedly and went over to the bookshelf to select a novel, intent on reading for a while to give the two of them a break from each other. Even that option seemed like a land mine of choices until Flynn finally turned from the window and snapped, “For chrissakes, just pick so
mething. I need to work on screening you out anyway.”
Touchy, touchy, Jerry thought at Flynn, tossing one hand up so that it appeared he was avoiding contact with something. He settled into the big easy chair with his book.
“Are you trying to be funny?” Flynn glared at him, pointing out the book he’d chosen. Jerry looked down at the battered copy of Smokescreen by Dick Francis and laughed.
“No, not intentionally anyway.”
Mollified, Flynn poked around through Jerry’s shelves until he pulled down a copy of The Hobbit and retired to the couch.
Dick Francis suited Jerry’s mood, and he greeted the novel like the old friend that it was. People might complain that the protagonist’s voice was the same from book to book, but Jerry liked that voice, and he didn’t mind. Each story contained a cleverly worked out con that the protagonist had to uncover and defeat. It usually ended with a scene of heroic physical fortitude that Jerry admired, in the manner of someone who would never have to do anything like that.
“Can we do without the book review?” Flynn asked irritably from the couch.
Jerry mentally flipped him the bird. Soon he was deep within the world of movie-making and South African gold mines and the mystery of the racehorses that were not performing as well as their pedigrees indicated they should. The book was so familiar, however, that when the words began to swim on the page, he was unable to stay awake.
When Jerry woke from his doze, he saw that Flynn had fallen asleep on the couch as well. Oliver was curled up next to him; The Hobbit had dropped to the floor. He thought about waking him and opening up the couch properly into the bed, but then settled for just covering him with a blanket. It was after midnight by his watch, and it had been a long day. Best to let him sleep.
Jerry unfolded the spare blanket that Flynn had been using and draped it across him as he slept. As he did so, he was struck by the realization that Flynn was quite simply one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen. And not beautiful in the pretty-boy gay scene of San Francisco, where its members dieted and worked out in the gym obsessively all week long so as to be hot tickets on the club scene every weekend. Jerry had never felt like he’d fit in with that lifestyle and had dropped it once he joined the bureau. No, Flynn was gorgeous, all right, but his was a lived-in sort of beauty that seemed somehow all the more real for the fact.
No one looking at Flynn could deny his masculinity. It was there in the shadow of a beard along his mouth and jaw, no matter how recently he’d shaved, and in the lines of his face and the prominence of his Adam’s apple. His jaw was strong, with none of the signs of softening that came with middle age. His profile was the very essence of everything male, but it was strangely beautiful all the same. His lips were unexpected, though. He had a full lower lip that was astonishingly generous for a man, the kind that would rapidly become swollen with kissing, the kind that begged to be sucked on.
Flynn twitched in his sleep, making a face and brushing at his nose as though waving away a fly. Jerry sighed and tucked the blanket around his shoulder.
WHEN Jerry entered the living room the following morning, Flynn was gone. He had a bad moment when he thought maybe Flynn had packed and attempted to go back to Washington after all, but a glance at the foot of the couch revealed that his bag was still there. It took just a matter of seconds to realize that he’d gone out running.
His initial reaction was one of anger and concern. How like Flynn, he thought, to decide to test his ability to deal with the telepathy by himself, without warning Jerry. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it only made sense to make that sort of dry run today, as opposed to tomorrow at the bureau, when Jerry couldn’t reasonably be expected to babysit him every second of the day. At least, not without giving the show away. To be fair, he probably would have protested. Flynn had to have known this and opted to take the whole thing out of Jerry’s hands.
On a smaller note, he couldn’t help but be a tiny bit relieved. He was the sort of person who needed a certain amount of downtime every day. Having Flynn living with him had been wearing enough before he’d become telepathic. Having to screen his thoughts and block Flynn from the random, meaningless things that ran through his mind was simply exhausting.
He started the coffeemaker and checked his cell for messages. Outside, it was still dreary and drizzling. He frowned when he noted that things were out of order on his desk again. This time it was the word-of-the-day calendar that was askew. He was just getting ready to blame Oliver, for sure this time, when he noted that his stamp dispenser was upside down.
Flynn. Wise guy. He must think he’s being funny. Jerry quickly rearranged everything to its proper setting, planning in his head the ticking-off he’d give Flynn on his return. As he was checking to see if anything else was displaced, it occurred to him that this little act of misplaced humor might be Flynn’s way of trying to show he was still in control of the situation. There had to be a better way of getting back at him than merely yelling at him. He just needed to give his retribution a little more thought.
He pulled open the blind, scanning the street below, as though he might see Flynn headed back to the building. When he saw nothing more than the damp, empty sidewalks, he began to hum a sprightly tune as he headed into the shower. It wasn’t until he entered the bathroom that he realized it was Schroeder’s song.
He’d washed his hair and was starting to soap his chest when it occurred to him that he hadn’t had any alone time since Flynn had been in the apartment. And there was no telling how long he planned to stay. As a matter of fact, this opportunity right now was the best one he was likely to have in the near future, provided he was quick about it.
His dick seemed to like that idea, and he turned so that the spray was pounding his back and shoulders. He poured out a little more of the shower gel into his hands, smoothing one palm slowly over his chest and belly as he took himself in hand with the other, giving himself long, lathery pulls that had him tipping his head back slightly and starting to rock his pelvis forward. God, that was good. He circled and pinched a nipple with soapy fingers, squeezing his cock rhythmically with the other hand, the heat and the steam only heightening the experience. The slide of slick hands over his skin took him back to the last time he’d had shower sex. Derek used to love shower sex. He quickly shut out the remembrance of just how long ago that had been, concentrating instead on remembering the smooth animal feel of wet muscle beneath his hands and the way Derek had smelled and tasted, there against the shower wall.
Derek’s hands had been plastered on the tile by either side of his head. Jerry remembered biting down on the tendons of his neck, licking up the beads of water there, and smiling when Derek had turned to look at him, the water soaking his lashes, making them dark. Derek had pushed back into Jerry’s hands, groaning when Jerry had rubbed his cock along Derek’s crack. Eager, he’d still been eager then, and Jerry had fingered him as he moaned and begged for it, all the while Jerry pressed up against him and told him exactly what he was planning to do. The spray of the shower had dampened his words; he’d had to put his lips to Derek’s ear to be heard.
Jerry stepped out of the spray to place a hand on the wall for support as he leaned over and got down to business, his soapy hand sliding rapidly up and down his cock. He dropped his head to watch his hand, trying to shut out the memory of how things had ended between them, trying to dredge up phantom Derek for the shower again. His mind betrayed him, taking him to the night when he’d stopped by the gallery unexpectedly to bring Derek some takeout Thai and had discovered Derek doing one of the local artists over his desk in his office. The sight of Derek snapping his exquisitely tanned hips forward as he pumped himself into the young man, his pants around his ankles, stapler and pencils scattered on the floor, was something that Jerry would never forget.
Come on, he told himself, conscious that his orgasm was threatening to slip away from him. He picked up the pace, fisting himself furiously as he felt the tension b
uild in his body without coming forward for release. Come on.
His mind suddenly supplied him with the image of Flynn walking back to the couch, dressed only in his underwear, the unexpected perfection of his ass that had been hidden by his clothes before. And, too, the way he’d looked that first morning right out of the shower, skin still damp, all long lines and angles and wild, dark hair. Jerry remembered the way that he’d smelled, his scent accentuated by the heat of his damp skin, tangy and sharp, no doubt from some metrosexual cologne, like Aramis. Just like that, he was suddenly coming, his cock pulsing out over his fist as he went with it and let it course through him.
He let the water wash him clean as he stood in the billowing steam. He felt a little light-headed and realized that he’d feel pretty foolish if he passed out in the shower. Come to think of it, that was one of the main reasons he’d stopped having shower sex.
Some small sound caught his attention, and he wiped the water out of his eyes, pulling the curtain aside to look out.
Flynn was standing there, looking back at him. His hair was wet and sitting up in spikes, as if he’d shaken the water off of him like a dog before entering the apartment. His T-shirt was damp enough that it was clinging to his skin. There was no mistaking the way his package filled out the front of his running shorts. His mouth had fallen open, lips swollen as though he’d been biting them, his eyes nearly black, his pupils were so large.
“Jesus Christ!” Jerry exploded, staggering backward and almost losing his balance. He lunged forward again, hands flailing as he pulled the shower curtain shut with such force that the rings vibrated on the rod. “A little privacy, will ya?” he shouted, his face and neck flushing with embarrassment and not the heat of the shower.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he heard Flynn say over the sound of the water. But he didn’t move. He didn’t leave.
“You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!” Jerry shouted again. Idiot, he thought loudly in Flynn’s direction. You scared me half to death. I feel like fucking Janet Leigh in the shower scene. Through the curtain he could see Flynn slowly turn and leave the room.
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