What about Bacon? A little niggle at the back of his brain made him shift in his chair. Bacon would hate this idea, that much Spencer was sure of. But at this point it was all hypothetical, right? Doing a proposal was no guarantee the book would actually sell, and emailing back and forth with Bacon wasn’t the same as making a lifetime commitment to the man. Maybe there would be a way to keep his...friendship with Bacon and pursue the story he couldn’t give up on. Maybe.
* * *
Bacon usually used the long, lonely hours of waiting in position with his sniper rifle to recall song lyrics in his head, sometimes coming up with his own riffs that he’d write down later. He hadn’t been lying to Spencer—he really couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but that didn’t stop him from messing around, trying to write songs. Spencer was the first person he’d confessed to about the lyrics in a long, long time. And he hadn’t teased or made light of it. That was something Bacon really liked—how seriously Spencer treated even the little details. And now, in the chilly, predawn hours on yet another godforsaken island, he had all the snippets of emails he’d memorized over the last few weeks to keep him company.
Hey Del (see it’s easier to type that than Bacon even if my brain still thinks of you that way unless I’m...otherwise engaged), anyway, I’m back in Los Angeles now, nursing my wounds from a contentious meeting with Naval PR. But I don’t need to unload on you about that. Your last email mentioned being hungry. I know you’re not a fan of South Pacific cuisine. If someone wanted to cook you a nice meal, maybe open a bottle of wine with dinner, what would you ask for?
Oh how Bacon had agonized over his reply. He wasn’t sure whether Spencer was asking just to be polite or whether it was part of this extended dance they were doing about whether—or rather, when—they would get together when Bacon got back to the States.
Finally, he’d written.
I’m more of a beer guy, truth be told. But I’m game to try any wine that’s not too dry. I’m pretty easy to please, honestly. I like meat, and lots of it, and no, that’s not a dirty double meaning. But ever since coming to California, I’ve had a thing for Mexican food done right. There’s a place near base that does the most amazing enchiladas. Margaritas aren’t bad either, if you’re into that. If you’re in the area sometime, you should let me take you. But it sounds like maybe you won’t be having as many reasons to visit Coronado?
But you don’t wanna talk about your story, and I don’t blame you. Back to food. My mom, bless her, can’t cook Mexican to save her life. All good old-fashioned Midwestern food. And, it’s a total cliché, but I love her casseroles. She does this one with chicken and pasta and lots of cheese... Man, it’s so good. Even her tuna casserole is amazing, especially when she puts crushed potato chips on it. And I can pretty much hear you cringing from here, but don’t knock it unless you try it. Not everything needs a wine list to be tasty! But what do you like to cook? I’d ask if you have a favorite wine, but I have feeling you’ve probably got a whole rack of favorites, and I don’t wanna look dumb. Tell me about a favorite meal of yours, though, and what you like to drink with it. Impress me.
It had a taken a few days before he’d gotten to read the reply, what with training and meetings, and limited internet time, but it had warmed him all the way through, and it was what he recalled now while shifting his weight from side to side, waiting for the go signal. He was back on Team Alpha, and never had hurry-up-and-wait felt so damn good. Or important. But still, it was hours of waiting, hours to think about Spencer and his replies.
Okay, beer guy. I could make you some nice fajitas, but you want to be impressed... So let me think, I always get new wine drinkers this amazing French Sauv Blanc, and it goes really good with a cream sauce, which since you like casseroles, you’d probably manage to choke down, right? There’s a gourmet grocery near my condo, and I get fresh pasta there. They do an amazing ravioli with a salmon mousse inside. I like to serve it with some vegetable sides, but since apparently the quantity of the protein matters to you, a seared salmon or tuna fillet with an herb butter would make a nice accompaniment too. For dessert, I like fruit more than chocolate. Last year, I finally mastered a raspberry tart I was willing to serve to company. It has a shortbread crust. It’s amazing what a motivator writer’s block on a deadline is for learning to cook new dishes! I’d ask when I could expect you for dinner, but I have a feeling you’re still not Stateside. Don’t worry, I know you can’t tell me exactly. But for what it’s worth I’ve got a few nice Sauv Blancs in the wine rack (you were right on with your guess that I’ve got a...collection of sorts) that I’d love to share with you. Drop me a line when you’re headed my way.
That was as close as Spencer came to outright telling Bacon he wanted to see him again, and it made Bacon smile, made his finger fumble as he’d typed out a fast reply before they got this callout.
I guess I’d try your cooking. JK. Only fish we had growing up was catfish, but salmon isn’t terrible. The tart sounds amazing. I’m not much for chocolate either. My favorite dessert, because I’m usually lazy like this, is cherry-vanilla ice cream left to get half-melted. So seriously, your cooking sounds like something from a magazine. Wish I was Stateside. Can’t tell you where or when, but soon, I hope. I’ll be in touch, promise.
And now here he was, dreaming about ravioli of all things, and a wine he’d never tasted but craved all the same, just like he craved Spencer’s touch. These last few weeks of emails had let them get to know each other better, but it was frustrating because each communication only made him miss the man more.
“Bacon. Get ready.” His headset crackled to life, the XO’s voice calm and steady.
“In position. Ready.” He got a lock on the target. He’d had a bead on the mark for a while now, but everything needed to be in place. No more surprises. Just a plan carried out to fruition, the leader of the terrorist cell that had attacked their team and wounded Curly and Donaldson brought down and their compound searched for evidence of biological weapons. The team ready to search had respirators on just in case.
For his part, Bacon modulated his own breathing, focused on waiting for the signal, honing everything in on the shots he was about to take.
“Bacon. Go.”
His aim was never surer, and from his vantage point, he was able to watch the rest of the team move in, hear the mission unfold.
Hours later, when the senior chief said, “We did good today, men. I think we’re ready to head home,” he smiled. Yeah, he was beyond ready to head home, and for the first time in a long time, he had something worth looking forward to waiting for him on the other side. Maybe. At least, he certainly hoped so.
Chapter Fourteen
Ding. Spencer’s email chimed with a new message right as he was about to put the finishing touches on a piece about a blind runner doing the LA marathon. He almost didn’t click over to the email window, but...it could be his agent. After his meeting with Naval PR, he’d taken his epiphany about the story he wanted to write and drafted a proposal for his agent to look over.
But a second glance at the message notification showed that the sender was scorpion_bait. Del. Bacon. Whoever he was to Spencer these days, he was damn important, and it had been a while since his last message, making Spencer far more antsy than he liked. His pulse sped up even before he hit Open.
You were smart to avoid a transport flight home. I’m staring down twelve hours in a C-130J but I can honestly say I’ve rarely been so excited about jumpseats and exhausted teammates. Ready to be home for a few weeks, regroup. Speaking of... How would you like some company? A long drive sounds like the perfect way to reward my truck for waiting patiently for me. I could be there Thursday early evening if you want, or later on in the weekend if you’ve got plans Thursday. I’ve got some leave to burn. Or maybe you’re not interested at all, which is cool too. I’m sure I can find some trouble to get in closer to home ;) But I’d be lying if I said
I wasn’t looking forward to seeing you again.
Got a plane to catch,
Del
This was where Spencer should say he had plans. He had Flor’s party Friday night, not that Flor would care if he brought a guest...
But this was insanity. Better to tell Del he was busy. Like permanently busy. Let him get drunk and laid back in Coronado.
But then Spencer’s brain bombarded him with images of some faceless person kissing Bacon, getting all that intensity he brought to bed, getting to call him Del, lips tracing those intriguing tattoos, fingers holding him close, throat moaning because of his relentless touch. And damn, but he wanted it to be him. Wanted to be the one to light Del up, get to see his private self. Wanted to cook for him, watch his face when he tried the wine, run to the grocery so he could make him the meal he’d described. Spoil him a little, because he deserved that, and maybe he could pick up a decent lay back in Coronado, but they wouldn’t know that, wouldn’t know what he’d been through.
In the end, he dashed out a quick reply before he could overthink it.
Thursday works. I’ve got a party for a friend on Friday night, but we can cross that bridge once you’re here. I’ll put the wine in to chill, and plan on cooking for you Thursday, but don’t worry if traffic is terrible—I’ll wait to start until you’re here. I’d tell you to not speed, but I heard all your friends teasing you about how you drive like the devil’s chasing you, so I figure it won’t do any good. Be safe?
See you soon,
Spencer
He attached a link to directions for his address. Of course, he spent the next twenty-four hours second-guessing the email, especially when there was no reply. But there was also no news from his agent, and with that story officially on the back burner, the conflict of interest alarm in his brain was down to a gentle beep and not the insistent shriek it had been on the mission.
Thursday he was close to emailing again, calling it off, claiming work or some such, but then he didn’t and suddenly it was almost five and the lobby was buzzing him to let him know he had a visitor. He hit the button to send him up, and then Del was there, at his door, whole and in one piece and exhausted-looking with tired eyes and a slow smile, and all he could do was open up—on so many levels—and hug the guy.
“Hey,” Del said several long moments later when Spencer released him to shut the door. He was in civilian clothes—first time Spencer had seen him casual—and he managed to make jeans and a T-shirt advertising a mud run sexy as fuck, the way both clung to his muscles. And surprisingly, it wasn’t hard at all to think of him as Del now, not Bacon. Here, alone like this, he was Spencer’s—even if only for a short time—and staking his claim to him with the name they’d both been using in email simply felt right. He stretched as he looked around Spencer’s condo. “Pretty swank place. Was worried that the door person was going to turn me away. Never been in an apartment building with a front desk before.”
“Front desk security is really common in this neighborhood.” Spencer tried to keep his tone from turning defensive. “This was my parents’ LA place for years. They loved the downtown location, and when they retired to Hawaii full-time, they insisted I take it over since it was so close to the paper.”
He tried to see the loft through Del’s eyes—the art deco styling, dark hardwood floors, high ceilings, large open living space that included a kitchen along the far wall with a long work island with bar stools in front of it. The cherry dining room furniture off to the side of the kitchen had been a find of his mother’s. After taking possession of the place, Spencer had put his own touches on it over the years—the large leather sectional was his, as was most of the art on the walls. And he knew he sounded very much like a privileged rich kid, something he tried to avoid, but he couldn’t deny being lucky to not have to worry about rent on a writer’s budget in LA.
“I’m pretty sure you could fit my barracks room in the elevator up to this place.” Del stroked his smooth jaw—his hair was shaggier than when Spencer had seen him last, but his face was smooth, and he smelled like the beachy aftershave he’d worn on their first meeting. Spencer wanted to bury his head in his neck, soak the scent in, but he restrained himself. Barely. “But I like it. My mom would kill for your view. Me, I’m thinking how ten flights of stairs is a lot to have to run down in an emergency, but I’m practical like that.”
“Knock on wood, I’ve never needed to do the stairs.” Spencer laughed. “Are you hungry? I haven’t started—”
“I can wait on food.” Intent clear in his eyes, he backed Spencer against the couch. Ah, there he was, Bacon the deadly operator, only this time Spencer was his target, and he was only too happy to be marked, so he didn’t make any move to escape. “I’ve been thinking about kissing for you for weeks now. Need to see if you taste like I remember.”
“Well, by all means.” Spencer looped his arms around Del’s neck, ready for the assault of his mouth. But to his surprise, the man was much more pliant than he’d been the last time they kissed. Still intense, purposeful in how he held Spencer and how he claimed his mouth, but way more willing to let Spencer explore. Which was nice, being able to prove that he was more than just a ready pair of lips—he wanted to impress him in the worst way, knock him for a loop, the way their first kiss had flattened him in a way he still hadn’t recovered from.
So he explored, learned that Del liked it aggressive, moaning when Spencer used his teeth and tongue. Sucking at Del’s full lower lip made him shudder and respond by deftly tumbling them both onto the couch, Spencer landing on top of him.
“Fuck,” he groaned against Spencer’s mouth, pulling him tightly against his torso. His chest seemed broader, if such a thing were even possible. He was warm and curiously cuddly, nuzzling into Spencer’s neck and seeming in no hurry to progress beyond this leisurely making out. So Spencer indulged him with long, drugging kisses until they were both breathing hard, bodies straining.
“What do you need?” he whispered in Del’s ear before kissing his jaw, still trying to read him, figure out this new facet of this fascinating man.
“You.” Del chuckled, cheeks staining pink. “Shower with decent water pressure. Only got a lukewarm rinse at the base before hitting the road. Feels like I haven’t been really clean in forever. I don’t want to be too scuzzy for you. Eventually, the dinner you promised. But right now...you.”
“You’ve got me. You want me and the shower both? I’ve got a dual-headed shower in the master and a tankless heater—all the hot water you want.”
“Oh yes, please.” His face tipped back, and Spencer would have given in to any request of his just to keep that dreamy look of pleasure on his features.
“You’re in a different mood today,” Spencer observed as he rolled off him and offered him a hand up.
“Is that the nice way of saying I’m not as aggro as I was at the hotel?” Del laughed as he followed him to the master, which was tucked away behind the dining area. “I’m not...that’s not always how I get after a mission.”
“Oh?” Spencer flipped on the lights in the bathroom, which really was a big space, and he was only too happy to be able to give Del the shower he craved. “Thought you were all about the brains-being-fucked-out thing.”
“Ha. Never said who was getting fucked.”
“Touché.” A frisson of excitement swept up Spencer’s spine. Oh yes, he was going to enjoy the hell out of this visit.
“I mean, I can do the aggressive thing if that’s what you need. But sometimes...it’s like my mom’s cooking. Or room service, you know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “More like... I just want to lie back and soak everything in, nice and slow.”
“You mean, you like being taken care of?” Something tender broke loose inside Spencer’s chest, made his knees go as weak as his resistance to this man.
“Kinda. Does that sound too weird? I’m not even sure I’m mak
ing sense anymore. Barely slept—”
“Sssh.” Spencer put a finger against Del’s kiss-swollen mouth. “It sounds perfect. Let me take care of you, okay, Del?”
“Yeah.” He licked his lips, looking far younger than twenty-eight in that moment. “I like it when you call me that. More than I probably should.”
“Good.” Spencer started by pulling up the T-shirt, waiting for Del to raise his arms so he could help him out of it. Same as he had in the living room, Del went pliant in Spencer’s arms, let him tug off his clothes without too much fuss. Spencer set the shower on full blast before stripping off his own clothes.
“Tell me if it’s too hot.”
“After the month I’ve had?” Del let out a rueful laugh. “No such thing.”
The groan of pleasure Del released when under the dual stream went straight to Spencer’s cock. Wanting to do this right, he grabbed a washcloth and a bottle of luxury body wash that had been an unopened gift.
“Seriously. I may never leave this room. You can bring my dinner right here.” Del leaned against the wall, let the water cascade down his muscled chest. He had bruises on his ribs and a scrape on his right shoulder.
“Damn, Del, what did you do to yourself?” Getting the washcloth soapy, Spencer ran a gentle hand down his side.
“Slipped getting into position. It was nothing.” Del continued leaning back, letting the water pelt him as Spencer soaped him up. “You feel amazing. Love how that smells. I got so sick of the plain stuff at the forward base. Even at Coronado, I’m always forgetting to buy nice stuff, but I do like smell-good stuff.”
Tight Quarters Page 14