Tempest (Playing the Fool #3)

by Lisa Henry

  But Henry surprised him. “If that’s what you want, Vi.” His smile was tight, his voice a little tense. Just a pitch off sincere, if Mac was any judge. Which he probably wasn’t. “And if it’s really all right with—”

  “Woohoo!” Viola yelled, interrupting. Cory echoed her cry. They ran back to Cory’s room.

  Mac’s mom smiled. “It’s really all right with me.”

  Henry looked suddenly wary. “I’ll leave you my cell. Just in case. Um, sometimes she gets . . . difficult.”

  Mac’s mom got to her feet. “I’ll make up a bed for her.”

  His dad stood too. “I’ll try to clear some space in the barn for the car.” He paused. “You walked up here?”

  Mac nodded. They’d stayed by the tree line as much as possible. Henry had complained about the drizzle messing up his hair. Viola had taken off her shoes and walked barefoot through the mud, then had tried unsuccessfully to wash her feet in a puddle.

  “You two can ride back with me.”

  Mac and Henry rose at the same time, and Mac gave Henry’s elbow a surreptitious squeeze. They went into the kitchen to grab some food and supplies.

  Then they got into the family truck and headed back to the old house.

  The old house was musty, damp, cobwebbed, and creaky.

  Henry liked it. He’d pretended not to be a fan when they’d first pulled up, but he’d always liked old houses. They had better hiding places than new ones. And they always looked like sets. He could easily imagine staging a production of Crimes of the Heart in the abandoned farmhouse.

  Now that the storm had cleared, the late afternoon light was golden. It made the old house glow. The floorboards were the color of warm honey.

  He hated storms. Hated them. He always had, and if there was a reason for it buried somewhere in his childhood memories, he didn't know what it was. His fear of storms wasn’t obvious like his fear of needles—he was pretty sure he’d fostered that fear after having his mother scream at him and slap him when he’d picked up one of hers—but storms were different. Storms were primal. A quick smile and a quicker wit couldn’t deflect a storm. Couldn’t convince it to find another target. Henry liked to be in control, needed it. Even if it was controlled chaos. Storms ripped all his control away and shredded it into pieces.

  He always took a little while to shake his fear of them, even once they’d passed. He would be jumpy for a while, and looking for something to anchor him.

  Which was the reason he was glad to get a night in the house alone with Mac. He felt like a shit for not watching over Viola, but really, she was probably safer with Mac’s family than she would be out here with two wanted men. Mac’s parents were good people, and Viola liked Cory. And, fuck it, total strangers like the McGuinness clan already had a better track record than he did. However much he told himself he was the only one who could take care of Vi, it wasn’t true. And however much he liked to blame other people—like Remy, for the cut on Vi’s hand—that was bullshit too. It was Henry’s fault she’d gotten hurt the first time. Henry’s fault, not Remy’s, that she couldn’t even operate a pair of fucking scissors now.

  So he’d left her with Mac’s family. Because they were better people than he was. Because he was dangerous. Because he was useless. And because, if he was being really honest, he was selfish. He wanted to fuck Mac.

  He loved Vi too much to even begin to process the feeling. She’d been everything to him for so long. Remy, Stacy, and the rest of the Court—they meant something too. Well, except for Carson. But no one had ever meant as much as Vi. And now here was Mac. Here was someone else he . . . Loved was way too strong a word. Someone else who was a part of his life. He both craved and dreaded being alone with Mac. Mac pushed too hard, sometimes. He asked about Sebastian. Wanted to know about the man Henry had been before. That was dangerous, and it wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t Mac be satisfied with Henry Page?

  And why did his traitor brain sometimes want Mac to push harder? To break the wall he had put up between the past and the present, because he sure as fuck had no idea how to tear it down himself at this point.

  “You know, Agent McGuinness,” he said when they’d finished changing the sheets in the front bedroom, “you’re not innocent.”

  “Oh?” Mac plumped a dingy pillow.

  “Yeah.” He pulled off his shirt, then walked to Mac and undid his pants, pushing Mac onto the bed. “You might not do drugs. But you do fuck your witness.”

  Mac snorted. “If I remember right, my witness fucks me.”

  Henry flashed a smile, trying to hide the way those words stole the breath from his lungs. It wasn’t fair that Mac had that kind of power over him. This big, tough guy, and Henry had fucked him. He had topped Mac, even though he’d been dressed like a girl at a time, and even though he was smaller and prettier and even though nine out of ten shoppers would choose Henry as their preferred bottom . . . Well, that shit didn’t fly with Mac. Which was a shame, really, since Henry relied on a combination of disguises and other people’s prejudices to function. If he dressed as a parking attendant, a cheap whore, an insurance assessor or, that one time, an archaeologist—then damn it, he didn’t need anyone trying to look past it. He was so very good at giving people a fantasy they could believe in, that he didn’t know what to do with a guy who wanted substance instead. The only multitudes he contained were aliases.

  And it was ridiculous that the guy who wanted to see through him was Mac. Mac. Bald, cranky, flappy-armed, fell-out-of-a-Rockwell-painting FBI agent Mac. So fuck him.

  Yeah, fuck him.

  Henry intended to do that right now.

  He swayed his hips, hooking his finger through the belt loop of his pants, teasing Mac with the possibility of tugging them down. Tried to pretend that he didn’t like Mac more than any other guy, or hate him more than any other guy. Tried to play it for laughs.

  “Henry?” Mac cocked a brow.

  “What?”

  Mac put his hands behind his head. “Well, I don’t want to criticize your moves or anything, but you’d look a little more into it if you weren’t frowning at me.”

  He stared. He was frowning? Oh shit. Yes, he was frowning.

  “You’ve been pissy all day.” Mac gazed back at him.

  Henry straightened, ran a hand through his hair. Turned away and stared out the window at the golden light piercing the gray clouds. Something was bugging him about this place. Too quiet. He could hear every little creak in the house. Ghosts piled on ghosts. And too . . . familiar? He almost expected to hear a child’s disembodied voice, sweet and aspirate, saying, Welcome home, Henry.

  “Henry?”

  “I know!” He groaned. “I know I’ve been pissy, and I know I’m supposed to be the funny, sexy sidekick, and—”

  “The what?” The bed creaked as Mac got up. A second later his hands were on Henry’s shoulders, turning him. Mac was frowning too. “You’re not my sidekick.”

  “I know I’m not.” He shook his head. “Your sidekick wouldn’t get annoyed about going on the run with you, would he?”

  “Probably not.” Mac looked at him closely. “You didn’t have to come on the run with me, though, did you?”

  “Oh fuck you, of course I did.” He tried to wrench away, but Mac held him firmly. “You’ve saved my life. Twice. You asshole.”

  Something uncomfortably close to understanding flickered across Mac’s face. “You’re pissed because you feel like you’re obligated to help me.”

  “I’m pissed about a lot of things! I’m pissed about having to leave the city, and about Remy, and about your family, and—”

  “What about my family?”

  “It’s not fair, Mac. Do you know how fucking different my life would have been if only I’d had some family stashed away on a farm in the country? If I’d had somewhere I could run when everything went to shit? How fucking different Vi’s life—” No. He stopped that thought before it broke him in a way he didn’t want Mac to see. Because this, this righ
t here was not a breakdown. Not yet. He took a deep breath and held it at bay. “And don’t think I don’t know how irrational it is to be pissed at you about that, okay? I’m channeling my inner child right now, and fair warning, he’s a whiny fucking brat.”

  “Hey.” Mac sighed. He lifted his right hand from Henry’s shoulder and held it against his cheek. He sighed again.

  “What?” Henry swallowed. “No touching little homily to make it all better?”

  Mac smiled slightly. “Can’t think of one right now.”

  Henry leaned forward. He rested his head on Mac’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I’m the way I am. And, um, not just today.”

  “Shut up.”

  He lifted his head for the kiss he knew was coming. Met Mac’s mouth with his own, and pretended he hadn’t seen the wariness in Mac’s eyes before they closed. And there it was. If Mac didn’t know the truth about him, he wouldn’t have been wary. They could have fucked and laughed and parted as friends. Not anymore.

  He slid to his knees. Got Mac’s pants and boxers down and sucked him until Mac groaned and swayed. Then he stood and urged Mac back onto the bed. Mac wanted to kiss again, but he wasn’t having it. He shoved insistently at Mac’s side until Mac rolled onto his stomach. Better. No chance of seeing any wariness this way.

  He made a line of kisses down Mac’s shoulder, pausing to nip and lick at Mac’s shoulder blade. Mac chuckled softly into the pillow.

  “Hey, Mac,” he whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  He ran a hand over Mac’s large, muscled ass. “You want me to go slow?”

  “Go however you want.”

  He let his thumb dip briefly between Mac’s cheeks. Mac arched. “You want me to fuck you hard?”

  Mac rubbed his hips against the bed. “Yeah.” He sounded breathless, eager, a little uncertain.

  He bent to kiss Mac’s tailbone. Pulled Mac’s pants the rest of the way off.

  “Condom,” Mac said, turning his head. “In my pocket.”

  Henry grinned. “You expected to get lucky tonight, Agent McGuinness?”

  “I had to pack in a hurry. I saw the box in the bathroom, and I just—”

  “Shh.” He fished the condom out of Mac’s pocket. Put it on. Spit in his hand. The whole drill.

  “Forgot the lube.”

  “Your family’s probably got some home churned butter or something around here, right?”

  “Shut up and fuck me.”

  “Be nice.” Henry reached under him, and Mac lifted his hips so Henry could stroke his cock. “Or I might not fuck you at all.”

  Like that was an option. He got Mac pumping steadily into his fist, then withdrew his hand. He rolled Mac over and unbuttoned his shirt. Wanted Mac naked for this. Didn’t want to be scared of what he’d see in Mac’s eyes.

  “Look at you.” His gaze slid over Mac’s bare midsection. “Is that an ab?”

  “Shut up,” Mac repeated, running his hand over his stomach. He seemed pleased anyway. “Not everyone can eat shit and still look as good as you.”

  “I have the metabolism of a racehorse on Chinese diet pills.” Henry leaned down for a kiss. Broke that kiss when he grinned. “Any other comparisons to horses you might want to make would be totally appreciated too.” He tilted his pelvis, rubbing his cock against Mac’s hip.

  “You can’t be quiet when you’re nervous.”

  Henry ran a hand down Mac’s side, feeling the wound against his ribs. The skin was barely sealed. It was too fresh to even be a scar. “I’m not nervous.”

  Liar, liar, liar.

  “Then be quiet.” Mac’s tone was gentle. He stroked Henry’s arm. “And get to it.”

  Henry got to it.

  A phone rang in the middle of the night. Mac grunted and rolled over, then sat up suddenly. “Whose—”

  “It’s mine,” Henry said, climbing out of bed and going to the old dresser. “Go back to sleep.”

  Easier said than done. Mac had years of fieldwork behind him. A phone rang in the middle of the night, and he could be showered and dressed and halfway to work before he even woke up properly. He hated that about his job. He loved it too. He wasn’t cut out for the nine-to-five thing.

  He watched Henry bring the glowing screen of the phone up to his ear. “What the hell do you want, Remy?”

  He willed Henry not to piss Remy off. Remy could apparently tell OPR that Lonny Harris had been lying about Mac. Had been paid to lie about Mac. And shit, it was only hearsay, but it had to count for something. It had to mean they’d dig deeper, see past Mac and figure out who the hell was setting him up. So the last thing he needed was for Henry to blow a fuse over Remy.

  “I don’t trust many people,” Henry said quietly, his voice cracking. “But I trusted you.” He turned away from Mac as he listened. “No, you did more than fuck up. She got hurt, Remy.” He made a soft sound, almost a sob. “She got cut. There was blood . . .”

  Mac could hear Remy’s voice on the other end, but couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “You’re just fucking lucky it wasn’t worse!” Henry’s voice rose and his shoulders heaved.

  Mac stared at the line of his back. The moonlight spilled down his spine like liquid. He looked almost ethereal, angelic or something. Mac shook his head. Something. His poetry might have deserted him, but his cynicism hadn’t. Henry wasn’t just something. He was something else, in fact.

  But right now, in the darkness, watching Henry as he broke—Mac thought this was the closest he’d ever been to the real thing.

  “Don’t!” Henry whispered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Don’t you fucking tell me how sorry you are! You know, Remy! You know how much it matters!” He ran a hand through his hair. “If you’d rather sell your ass on East Washington like the old days, then fuck you. I hope—I hope you fucking die with a needle in your arm!”

  “Hey.” Mac kept his voice gentle. He stood and crossed the floor to Henry. Reached up and levered the phone gently out of his fist. Held Henry’s gaze while he put it against his own ear. “Remy, right?”

  “Wh-who is this?” The voice was ragged, wary.

  “Mac,” he said. “Don’t hang up, okay? Don’t hang up.”

  “O-okay.”

  How many times had he talked to people like this? People in crisis. And every single time he was hyperaware that they could be gone at the press of a button. He couldn’t let them hear his worry. Couldn’t let them make the choice to disconnect the call. He figured Remy knew who he was, but he also guessed he’d hang up in a heartbeat if he thought Mac was trying to play him. “Did Henry tell you about me? I work for the FBI.”

  A small huff on the end of the line.

  “You still there, Remy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” He leaned his forehead against Henry’s. Cupped his cheek with his spare hand, and swiped his tears with his thumb. “Henry’s pretty upset right now. I think you are too, am I right?”

  “Y-yeah.”

  “Okay.” He gave the back of Henry’s neck a light squeeze. “The important thing is that Vi is okay. And Henry’s okay. Are you okay, Remy?”

  “I’m sorry!” Remy’s choked sob echoed Henry’s.

  “It’s okay,” Mac said, to both of them. In his mind, Remy looked a lot like Henry. It made it easier to talk to him with that image in his head. “Nobody’s angry anymore. Are they, Henry?” He paused, waiting for Henry’s response. “He’s shaking his head, Remy. He’s not angry.”

  “He’s not?” Remy’s whisper was full of fragile hope.

  “He’s not. He’s gonna talk to you again now, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You take care, Remy.” He pressed the phone against Henry’s ear. He drew Henry back over to the bed and sat with his arm around him. Listened to the murmur of Henry’s voice, all the anger in it bled away now.

  “Yeah, I had a bad day too.” Henry leaned his head on Mac’s shoulder. “No, we’re somewhere safe
.” He snorted at something Remy said. “You know I get stir-crazy, babe.”

  The way he said it, Mac guessed Henry was repeating it back to Remy, exchanging the word like it was a friendly insult. It twisted something inside him to hear it though. Something that wasn’t exactly jealousy, but was close to it. Possessiveness, maybe. Part of him thought he’d earned the right to be close to Henry, and to be the only one close to him, but of course that was bullshit. It was a petty feeling, and Mac didn’t like the way he wore it.

  “Yeah.” Henry let the word ride on a drawn-out sigh.

  Mac rubbed his back.

  “What do you mean?” Henry’s muscles tensed. “I don’t know.” He turned to Mac. “Remy says Lonny recorded a meeting with the person who paid him to set you up. Got high and bragged about doing it. We want that recording, right?”

  Mac’s head swam. His heart rate picked up. “Yeah. Yeah, we want that.”

  “Yeah, we want it,” Henry told Remy.

  “Give me the phone.” Mac didn’t wait before grabbing it. “Remy? Where is this recording?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” Remy said. “Lonny had a few places he stashed stuff. I could get it though—”

  “No. It’s okay. Listen, I’m going to come back into the city in a day or two. I just want to get Henry and Viola settled first. And I want to meet up with you, and I want you to come to my office and tell the OPR everything you know about Lonny Harris.”

  “I don’t like cops.”

  “I’m an agent, not a cop. And Henry can vouch for me.”

  “I . . .” Reluctance was creeping into Remy’s tone. “I don’t know . . .”

  Henry sighed and grabbed the phone back. “Rem? I’ll come with him, okay? I’ll come with Mac.”

  “Henry . . .” Mac realized he had no way to finish that. Henry, what? Henry, that’s not what we agreed? Henry, that’s not the plan? Well, he should have known better than to figure Henry would stick to any damn plan.