The Spy's Love Song

by Kim Fielding

  “We are safe!” Fedir told Reid. He followed with a rapid flow of Vasnytsian that made Reid relax and tuck away his blades.

  Reid turned to Jaxon. “Power outage. They get them often. They have a generator.”

  Jaxon’s fear evaporated when he saw that no soldiers had invaded the basement. Now he stared at Reid in wonder. “That was a hell of a ninja move just now.”

  “I have training.”

  “Obviously. But you were trying to protect me.”

  “Is that a problem?” Reid was looking at him as if Jaxon might be losing his marbles.

  “You’re the one with the top-secret info, not me. You’re the one with the mission.”

  “Looks like now you’re part of the mission too.”

  That made Jaxon ridiculously happy, but not so much that he lost touch with reality. “If it comes down to me or the info, though….”

  Reid looked away for a moment. “I have to get these files out, Jax. If I don’t—”

  “No, I got it. I’m even okay with it. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I understand.”

  Reid lifted his hand and reached for Jaxon’s face, but then let his arm drop. “Okay. I need to….” He gestured toward the edge of the room, where he’d been scheming.

  “Sure. Hey, Reid? Can’t you just email the files to someone? You guys have some internet, right?” Jaxon looked to Fedir for confirmation.

  But Reid answered before Fedir could. “They do. It’s spotty and unreliable—like trying to use a dial-up modem on bad phone lines, twenty years ago. I’d give it a try anyway, but I don’t have any way to extract the files from the chip. The guy who made the chip and the device that encoded it got picked up by the police a couple of months ago. We’re really lucky they didn’t get the chip itself.”

  “So the only way to get the information out—”

  “Is to physically get the chip across the border. Ideally you and me along with it.”

  Reid returned to his corner, leaving Jaxon alone with Fedir, who was scrutinizing him. “Is he your lover?” Fedir asked bluntly.

  “Uh….” Jaxon was unsure how to answer. Not just because he didn’t know how well a gay relationship would go over, but also because lover wasn’t the right word for it. He didn’t think a right word existed. “You knew I’m queer, right? I mean, if you’ve heard anything at all about me, it’s hardly news.”

  “My mother and father love each other very much. How you and Reid talk—it is like my mother and father. Like love.” After that enigmatic observation, Fedir stood. “One minute, please.” He walked away, exiting through a narrow door tucked away in the shadows.

  Jaxon watched as Reid, two men, and a woman bent over some papers. Occasionally one of them would write something. None of them looked happy. Jaxon should have been worried about how the escape plans were going, because that was the important thing right now. But he kept coming back to Fedir’s comment about love. It was ridiculous. A cultural misunderstanding, most likely.

  Still, that one little word hung there like a dirigible on fire. Love.

  With enormous relief, Jaxon saw Fedir returning, a battered acoustic guitar in his hand. He held out the instrument as he drew close. “Maybe… if is not too much trouble…?”

  “I’d love to.” The least he could do was play these people a few songs.

  Across the room, a woman turned off the CD player. Everyone but Reid and his little group hurried over to sit or stand near Jaxon. Their eyes shone with excitement; their mouths stretched into enormous smiles.

  Jaxon preferred to play for these people, in their coveralls and cheap dresses and T-shirts, than for all the beribboned dignitaries in Vasnytsia. No stage, no sound system, no computer-controlled lights, but it was the best concert he could imagine.

  He chose his most popular songs but played them more slowly, almost like ballads. It seemed fitting for this intimate audience. When he got to “Next Train,” a song about a person who had always wanted to leave his small town but never worked up the courage, a woman hesitantly began singing with him. She had a nice voice. Jaxon encouraged her with a smile and a nod, and soon the whole gang was engaged in a singalong. Jaxon wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, but he just kept on playing. Afterward he shared his newest song—the one he’d written in the hotel room—about a man whose job sent him from place to place, stranding him in hotels, keeping him a stranger.

  At some point Reid and the other planners joined everyone else. He stood at the back of the crowd, and although he didn’t sing, his gaze never left Jaxon.

  The past twenty-four hours had been fraught, and although Jaxon would have liked to continue his impromptu performance, he grew tired. Just when he was trying to think of a graceful way to end, Reid stepped forward and made an announcement in Vasnytsian. “I told them we need to sleep,” he said to Jaxon.

  And evidently that was going to happen right there in the basement. The couches would be an improvement over the ground, and a toilet and sink were tucked into a tiny corner closet. Someone brought them clean T-shirts, razors, and a few other toiletries.

  “Door locks here,” Fedir said, pointing to a sliding bolt on the inside. “Do not open unless you hear special knock.”

  “Sympathy for the Devil,” Jaxon said with a grin.

  “Yes.”

  A round of handshakes followed, which included thank-yous in two languages. Then Jaxon and Reid were alone. They took turns washing up in the tiny bathroom; then Jaxon collapsed onto a couch while Reid doused all of the lights except one. He chose a couch set at right angles to Jaxon’s.

  “We could probably both fit here, if we squished.” Jaxon patted a cushion. “I don’t mind squishing.”

  “We need to sleep, not squish.”

  Although Jaxon had expected that response, he was still a bit disappointed. “Do you have a plan?” he asked quietly.

  Reid took so long to answer that Jaxon thought he’d fallen asleep. But then he spoke. “You won’t like it.”

  “I don’t like any of this.”

  “No five-star hotels. No line of groupies eager to get into your bed.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” Jaxon wished it wasn’t too dark for Reid to see his glare. “Don’t be such an asshole.”

  “Sorry,” Reid said with a rough grunt. “Look, there’s no way around it—you’re a liability. Not on purpose, but because people recognize you.”

  That was true enough, although Jaxon didn’t say so. He just waited for the axe to drop.

  “Talmirov’s people probably put my photo out to the military by now, so they’ll be looking for me, but ordinary citizens won’t. They won’t even know to keep an eye out, because Talmirov’s sure as hell not going to advertise what’s going on. So I’m a little safer without you than with.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Jaxon didn’t like where this was going.

  “The woman I was talking to tonight—Lera—drives a truck. She delivers farm implements to towns all over the country. Tomorrow she’s going to get me as close to the border as she can, and I’m going to try to sneak across. We’ll head north—my intel said that’s the least heavily guarded place. It’s fairly rough terrain.”

  “And me?”

  “You stay put. You’ll be safe here, at least for a while. If I get through, I’ll ask our government to work through diplomatic channels to extract you. If I don’t make it, the people we met tonight will find a way to sneak you out. Somehow.”

  That was a lot more ifs and maybes than Jaxon was comfortable with. Worse, though, was the idea of being separated from Reid. Not only did Jaxon feel safe with Reid at his side, but he also had the irrational feeling that Reid was safer with him. “What if we never see each other again?”

  “That’s… likely. Told you from the start—this is a shitstorm. I’m just trying to dig out as fast as I can.” After a moment Reid sighed. “But if we both make it, I promise we will see each other. You can get me a ticket to your next concert.”

&n
bsp; “Fuck that. I don’t want to sing to you, Reid.”

  In a smaller voice than Jaxon would have thought possible, Reid said, “I like it when you sing.” He shifted on his couch, making the springs protest. And then suddenly he was on Jaxon’s couch—on Jaxon. Chest to chest and belly to belly, his breath smelling of herbal Vasnytsian toothpaste and his fingers threaded through Jaxon’s hair. “You drive me crazy,” he whispered.

  “I-want-to-jump-your-bones crazy? I’m-going-to-strangle-you crazy? I-need-my-Xanax crazy?”

  “Yes. All of the above.”

  Jaxon, who usually hated to be tied down by anything, loved the weight of Reid atop him. He loved feeling Reid’s heartbeat and hearing his breaths. He loved tracing Reid’s square jawline with a fingertip. “What are you going to do about that, Agent Stanfill?”

  “Don’t have any Xanax. These people won’t help me if I strangle you. Guess that leaves me just one choice.”

  “Hmm—”

  Reid interrupted Jaxon’s hum with a brush of lips that progressed to a tender kiss. Not ravenous like their previous efforts, this kiss was sweet as sugar, warm as an August sun. It was the type of kiss that belonged on a tropical beach, where it would taste of coconut and rum, or perhaps in front of a crackling fire with snow falling thickly and frosting the windows. But they were in a basement in Starograd, and that would have to do.

  Reid took his time with the kiss, and eventually Jaxon was a little dizzy from lack of oxygen—not that he wanted Reid to stop. Asphyxiation via snogging was much preferable to being caught by Talmirov’s men. But even better was when Reid tugged off Jaxon’s T-shirt and pressed warm lips to Jaxon’s chest. Reid lavished attention on Jaxon’s nipples, making him moan greedily, and then he traced the tattoo with his tongue before licking his way down to Jaxon’s belly. He lapped at Jaxon’s skin like a connoisseur tasting caviar.

  At first, Jaxon had clutched Reid’s shoulders, but as the careful attention continued, he let his body go lax. He focused entirely on Reid’s palms resting just over his hips and on the points of contact with Reid’s mouth—hot and soft and maddeningly delicate.

  The sensation was so wonderful that he almost complained when Reid shifted slightly and pulled Jaxon’s pants and underwear past his thighs. Almost complained but not quite, because what came next was even better: Reid’s mouth on the points of his hips, on the creases where his legs met torso, on the tender skin over his balls, and then, praise all that was holy, on the head of his cock.

  Jaxon had been on the receiving end of plenty of blowjobs, but none of them had been as excruciatingly slow and intense as this one. Reid would swallow him to the root, and just when Jaxon had almost reached his climax, Reid would back off and give teasing little licks here and there. It occurred to Jaxon that this might be an advanced torture technique Reid had picked up in spy school.

  “You’re… killing me,” Jaxon panted after the zillionth time Reid backed off.

  Reid managed an evil chuckle, even with his mouth full. Talented man. But then perhaps he took pity on Jaxon, because he licked his dick from root to tip, placed a tender kiss right on the crown, and rasped, “Let it go, Jax.” Then he took the entire length inside his throat, and this time he didn’t stop. In fact, he made a deep groaning noise that Jaxon felt more than he heard, and that was it. Jaxon came hard enough to see sparks.

  And Reid? He wasn’t through. He licked Jaxon tenderly, somehow not irritating his oversensitized skin. He placed more gentle kisses on Jaxon’s balls and soft cock before pulling up his clothes. Then he scooted up for an intimate mouth-to-mouth kiss. Tasting himself on Reid’s tongue was almost too heady to bear.

  Several minutes passed before Jaxon was capable of speech. “Let me up so I can return the favor.”

  Reid’s laugh rumbled against Jaxon’s cheek. “No need.”

  With some difficulty Jaxon squeezed his hand between their bodies and down the front of Reid’s pants. Reid’s groin was wet and sticky.

  “Wow,” Jaxon said. He’d been so caught up in what Reid had been doing to him that he hadn’t noticed what Reid was doing to himself. “You enjoyed it too.”

  “I did. Jax?” An odd tentativeness entered his tone. “I don’t do this often. Sex, I mean. It gets in the way.”

  “I have sex a lot—as I’m sure you know. But not like this.”

  “Not in secret basement hideaways?”

  Jaxon gave Reid’s ass a healthy squeeze. “Not with someone I… know. Someone who’s under my skin. You want to know something else? I think I’m more scared of you than I am of Talmirov and all his minions.”

  Reid propped himself up to look at Jaxon’s face. In the dim light of the single bulb, Jaxon could barely see his concerned frown. “Scared? I’ve been honest with you about the mission priority, but I won’t hurt you.”

  “I’m pretty sure you won’t stab or poison me,” Jaxon replied with a bitter chuckle. “But I think you’re going to hurt me.”

  Reid sighed and nestled back against him. “I’ve made myself into a weapon. That’s all I know how to do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE secret knock startled them awake, and in their haste to detangle, Reid almost ended up on the floor. But he scrambled to his feet and attended to the door while Jaxon stood and stretched and doubted the wisdom of two grown men sleeping on one narrow couch. Still, despite the crick in his neck and ache in his lower back, he wouldn’t have traded the previous night for all the platinum records in the world.

  Only three people joined them that morning; the rest, including Fedir, had to work. But Lera and her colleagues brought bread and yogurt and something akin to prosciutto. They tried to apologize for the modest meal, but with Reid interpreting, Jaxon made it clear he was grateful for the food and even more so for the sanctuary. He wasn’t hungry anyway, not with worry gnawing at his belly.

  After eating and a quick wash-up, Reid spent a bit of time looking over hand-drawn maps. He seemed only mildly satisfied with what he saw.

  Finally, he turned to Jaxon with a grim expression. “If I don’t make it—”

  “Stop. I know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good luck.”

  Reid tried to smile. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me to break a leg?”

  “Just don’t get yourself killed.”

  “I’ll try to avoid it. Do me a favor?”

  Jaxon nodded, expecting more instructions on how to evade evil dictators.

  But Reid was chewing his lip and avoiding Jaxon’s eyes. “Maybe… write a song for me someday?”

  “Yeah,” Jaxon replied through a tight throat. From now on, possibly all his songs would be for Reid. He just hoped like hell they wouldn’t be elegies.

  Lera was checking her watch impatiently. Clearly it was time for Reid to go, but he just stood there. Then he rushed forward, grabbed Jaxon, and held him in a tight embrace. “Stay safe,” Reid whispered. After one more squeeze, he let go.

  A moment later, Jaxon was alone.

  HE tried hard to keep his mind occupied, but his options were few. Pacing didn’t work. He found some printed-and-stapled papers that reminded him of pre-internet zines, but they were in Vasnytsian and he couldn’t puzzle out the words. He attempted a sort of sponge bath and had to stop when it reminded him too much of Reid’s touch. He explored the basement’s nooks and crannies but found little besides empty bottles, a few spiders, and a tiny closet containing another old guitar and a broken violin. None of these things could chase away his vivid mental images of Reid captured, tortured, poisoned, shot.

  Even music helped only a little. He strummed away, humming a few old tunes, yet his heart wasn’t in it and all the notes sounded flat. So he ended up composing a new song instead, a searing little piece about people who suffered from iron fists while struggling toward open palms. He didn’t write down the lyrics but was confident he’d remember them. He hoped someday he’d get to perform the song for Fedir and his friends.


  Loud knocks in the familiar pattern startled him, and he ran to the door, wondering how much time had passed since Reid left. It felt like centuries. When he unbolted the door, he encountered two of the men from the night before. But since he hadn’t chatted with them, he didn’t remember their names. Last night they’d smiled and sung along with him; today they were pale and wide-eyed.

  Neither one of them, it turned out, spoke English. Their rapid Vasnytsian was accompanied by hand gestures to make their meaning clear. They wanted Jaxon to go with them.

  He hesitated in the doorway, heart pounding. “What’s happened with Reid? Is he all right? Did he make it safely?”

  They didn’t understand. One handed him a blue woolen cap, and the other gave him a grimy set of coveralls. When Jaxon was dressed, he asked again, “But Reid?”

  When the men shook their heads, he hoped it meant they couldn’t communicate, not that hope was lost.

  The shorter one grasped Jaxon’s arm and gave an urgent tug. Obviously they had to leave.

  Jaxon kept his head bowed as he hurried up the stairs. The Black Cat had few customers, and soon he was outside and being ushered into a truck, where the men had him crouch in the passenger footwell. They sat on the bench seat, the taller one revved the engine to life, and they rumbled down the street.

  They could be taking him anywhere. Maybe they were traitors to the people’s cause—or simply worried he’d harm the resistance movement—and planned to deliver him to Talmirov. Or maybe they’d just dump him somewhere far from their hideout, where Jaxon would be helpless. He couldn’t even read the street signs. Real spies, men like Reid, surely didn’t sit passively, just hoping they didn’t puke.

  The truck cab reeked of old cigarette smoke, and the vehicle bounced and squealed as it drove over rough cobblestones and potholed pavement. The driver and other passenger remained silent, their bodies tight with tension. Every time the truck turned a corner, Jaxon jostled against the passenger’s legs and bashed the back of his head on the underside of the dashboard. He stared down at the floorboards, where bits of trash and dirt were embedded in the metal and fabric and plastic, and he wondered at the twists of fate that had delivered him here. It was still better than worrying about what the hell had happened to Reid.