by Lisa Henry
“Hey, Mac, does the FBI warning not to pirate movies apply to you? If it does, you might not want to check that folder labeled ‘Ahoy There’ on your computer. It may not be the sailor porn you’re expecting.”
“Did you get those eggs yet, Mac?”
“Those fingerprints on the couch are not my fault. They’re the M&M’s fault. Don’t melt in your hand, bullshit.”
“I accidentally dropped this ugly vase. You’re welcome.”
“Hey, Mac! I’ve solved our egg problem! One word: chickens!”
Finding an excuse to go into work was a relief.
“So, how is domestic bliss?” Val asked.
“I’ll let you know,” he said, “when I find some.”
Val drew him through into her office. “Listen, we found the recordings.”
His stomach dropped.
“Flora had them,” Val said. “She must’ve taken them from Lonny Harris’s apartment when she killed Remy.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Have you listened to them?”
“Yeah.” Val’s mouth quirked into a shape that wasn’t quite a smile. “It was bullshit. There was nothing on there that would have convicted anyone. Nothing explicit. Harris had no idea what the hell he was doing. If that was his idea of insurance, well . . .” She shrugged.
Mac couldn’t even summon any anger at the knowledge that Remy had been killed for nothing. Because the people who actually got to die for a higher cause were few and far between, weren’t they? Once upon a time, when he was young and keen, the idea of being killed in the line of duty had felt almost righteous to him. Not anymore. He’d been in the job too long to kid himself that he mattered. If he was shot, someone would step up and take his place. The same as someone would take Jimmy Rasnick’s place, and Lonny Harris’s, and even Remy’s. Everyone had their assigned part, and played it. All the world was a stage, after all, and it was just bursting at the seams with eager understudies.
The people who mattered—the only people who mattered—were those who saw through the mask you wore onstage; those you loved and those who loved you in return.
“Don’t tell Henry it was useless,” he said at last.
Val nodded, her expression grave. “Do you want to hear it?”
“No.”
Val reached out and squeezed his arm, and they stood there awhile in silence. Then Val shook her head as though shaking off sleep, and drew a deep breath. “On the plus side, we arrested Frank Newman today.”
“Good.” Ah, now there was his reserve of anger, simmering away in his gut. “I hope that asshole rots in prison.”
“And in a further bit of good news,” Val said, “you’ve been cleared to come back to work.”
“When?”
“Whenever you want. Tomorrow, if that suits you.”
He groaned. “Actually, how about Monday instead?”
“Really? Last time we talked you said something about needing to get back before you committed a homicide.”
“I sort of need the weekend off.”
“Domestic bliss.” Val poked him in the chest. “I knew it. Before you know it you’ll be one of those ‘Oh, I can’t go on a stakeout because it’s my tenth wedding anniversary’ people, or some bullshit.”
“Your jealousy is showing, Val.”
“I know.” She sighed. “So, lay it on me, Mac. Are you and Henry going on a weekend jaunt to whatever the fuck passes as a romantic getaway in this godforsaken shithole?”
“No.”
Val’s expression softened. “Is Viola coming to stay?”
“Yes, but that’s not why I need the weekend off.”
“Mac. Come on. Why?”
He scowled. “I promised to build a chicken coop.”
“Oh. Fuck. Me. Sideways.” Val’s mouth twitched.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Eyes wide, she shook her head.
“Don’t you dare, Kimura.”
A shudder ran through her, and she blinked rapidly. A tear slid down her cheek.
His scowl deepened.
“Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! You can take the boy out of Altona, but you can’t . . .” She reached out and caught his sleeve as she doubled over. “I’m trying so hard, but I just— Chickens! Mac! Chickens!”
Her howls of laughter brought half the office running.
Mac adjusted his tie.
From the bathroom came the sound of Henry using his electric razor. He wasn’t sure what Henry was doing up so early—normally he lounged in bed while Mac was getting ready for work. And yesterday he’d loudly taken care of what looked like a borderline painful morning erection while Mac had dressed. Mac’s shirt had been buttoned completely wrong by the time Henry had finished.
They’d had a discussion about the electric razor the other day too.
“I’m just borrowing it,” Henry had said, when Mac had caught him using it.
“Henry, I’ve been thinking. We need to go over what it means to ‘borrow’ something.”
Henry had stared at him warily. “It means you take something that isn’t yours but that you need more than the other person does.”
“Two important stipulations. One: you ask permission. Two: you give it back when you’re done.”
“Mac, it’s not like I buried your razor in the backyard. You can use it anytime. You can use it now.” He’d pointed it at Mac and turned it on.
He’d flinched back and pushed it gently away. “I don’t mind if you use my razor. This isn’t about the razor. This is about you getting used to asking permission before you take things.”
Henry had thought for a moment. “Mac, can I use your razor?”
“Of course, Henry. Anytime.”
Mac had been pleased with himself—he was slowly but surely turning Henry into a functional member of civilized society.
Until Henry had spent the rest of the day asking Mac’s permission for everything—use of silverware, the TV, the shower. Each bite of his dinner—“You made it, so it’s not technically mine.”—entering or leaving a room, sitting on the couch, opening the gate to the chicken coop. Mac’s pointing out that Henry had quite a record of conflating borrowing and stealing, and therefore Mac could hardly be blamed for lecturing him, had resulted in Henry asking if he could borrow Mac’s Pompous Asshole pills. Mac had finally apologized for being a patronizing fuck, and Henry had grinned and asked if he could borrow Mac’s ass.
“I’ll return it in better condition than I found it. Promise.”
Mac had been back at the office for nearly a week now. He liked being back. And he liked coming home to Henry even more—even though Henry was usually bored and restless. Still on edge about not having a job. Sex could take the edge off that restlessness but couldn’t cure it.
“Mac?” The buzz of the razor stopped.
“Yes?”
“Do you seriously have head polish?”
“It’s moisturizer.”
“But it’s specifically for heads. It says so.”
He loosened the tie slightly. Tightened it again. “My scalp gets dry.”
“So you use head lotion?”
He sighed. “What are you doing in my drawer? I gave you your own cabinet.”
No answer. Then, “Can I use some?”
“For what?”
“My head.”
“You don’t shave your h—”
The bathroom door opened, and Henry stood there, naked, his cock hard and slick. He grinned at him. “Not that head.” He slathered a little more of Mac’s scalp moisturizer onto his shaft, giving it a slow pull as he did. “Drop trou, McGuinness.”
“Henry, I—” He stared at Henry’s cock. “I’m going to be late.”
“You’re going to be later if we don’t hurry.”
He swallowed.
And undid his fly.
Henry brushed past him and headed for the bed. “I was gonna have us do it over the bathroom counter. But I was reading a study about the range of the invis
ible spray that happens when you flush a toilet. You should really move your toothbrush to the other end of the sink.” He patted the bed. “So how about you bend over here?”
“I’m supposed to be at the office in twenty minutes.”
Henry was still languidly stroking his cock. “You don’t see me worrying.”
“Because you don’t work for Val.”
There was something about Henry’s grin he didn’t care for.
“When we’re done here, I’ll give you a ride,” Henry promised. “I drive faster than you.” He sniffed suddenly. “Is there menthol in this stuff? Because my dick is kind of tingling.”
“Yeah.” Mac approached the bed. “There is.”
“Huh. Well, come on, McGuinness. Spread ’em.”
“Stop calling me McGuinness.”
“Ryan.”
“Sebastian.”
“Shut up.”
Mac fought a smile as he shoved his pants down and bent over the bed. You had to pick your battles with Henry.
And this seemed like one they’d both win.
“Your dick’s still tingling, isn’t it?” Mac asked as they entered the FBI building. Henry was walking like he had a grasshopper in his pants.
“Yeah, a little.” Henry gave the front of his pants a discreet rub as they waited for the elevator.
There was a bit of a burn in Mac’s ass as well.
The doors opened. “You really don’t have to walk me up.”
Henry shrugged. “I’d like to see the gang. Also, I promised Val I’d show her photos of the chickens.”
Mac stared at him suspiciously as the elevator took them to the fifth floor. Henry was wearing an ironed light-green dress shirt and black pants. A new belt. And a tie.
“What?” Henry asked, glancing at him.
“Just not sure why you needed to get all dressed up to see ‘the gang.’”
“Why is the button for calling the fire department a drawing of a hat?” Henry slid his hands into his pockets. “I find that confusing. It makes me think if I press the button maybe a ceiling panel will open and hats will fall down, like oxygen masks on an airplane.”
The doors opened and Henry was out before Mac could even think about responding.
“Come on, Mac!”
He’s nervous, Mac realized. He stepped out of the elevator and headed toward the rows of cubicles.
Something was wrong. Nobody was at their desks.
“Henry?” Mac called.
Henry was heading for the interview room.
“Henry, what the hell’s going on?”
The interview room door opened as Henry approached. “Where have you two been?” Val demanded. “We were ready to dig in without you.”
Dig in?
Behind Val, the meeting room was full of agents. And . . .
Balloons?
What the fuck? Was it someone’s birthday? Mac was terrible at remembering birthdays. But no one had said anything about a party all week.
He hurried to catch up with Henry. “What is this?” he whispered to Val as he reached the door.
She just ushered him inside.
They entered the meeting room, and a massive cheer went up. His coworkers were everywhere—in chairs, sitting on the windowsill, leaning against the table. Henry grinned wide as he batted balloons out of the way. “You guys! You shouldn’t have.”
“We wanted an excuse to celebrate.” Calvin stepped away from the table. “And what better excuse than you joining our team?”
“What?” Mac demanded, though no one seemed to hear him.
“Cake!” Henry cried, making for the table. “You guys are seriously the best. What kind is it? Oh dear God, look at the frosting handcuffs!”
Val came up beside Mac and put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s a case,” she said quietly. “Several extremely valuable antiques were stolen from a local film set. Professionally stolen.” Mac watched numbly as Calvin cut Henry a massive slice of cake. “I thought Henry might be useful. Given his connections.”
“You hired him?” His voice was hoarse.
“Just as a consultant. On a probationary basis.”
Mac was pretty sure that wasn’t the sort of probation Henry should have been on, but since when was anything Henry did in line with his expectations?
Val squeezed his shoulder. “And since you two work so well together, I thought maybe you’d like to take the case.”
He couldn’t answer. Henry, perched on the table and talking to Calvin, turned to flash him a smile. “Mac! Get some cake. It won’t hurt your ab if it’s just this once.”
He turned to Val, but she’d wandered off to talk to Penny. Mac made himself walk over to the table.
“Are you surprised?” Henry asked, beaming. “Val said we should keep it a secret. Actually, I said that. And Val said yes. Actually, she didn’t say yes. She said, ‘You should probably tell Mac now, so he doesn’t have a heart attack.’ But your heart’s so much stronger now that you eat quinoa and drink that green juice and stuff.” He showed Mac his plate. “Look! I got the handcuffs. What piece do you want?”
Mac glanced into the box. A massive sheet cake, decorated with a badge, what had been handcuffs before Henry had been served, and the letters F-B-I. “I’ll take the badge.”
Henry cut his slice. “Did Val tell you? Some seventeenth-century jewelry disappeared from a film set. We get to be in a movie after all!”
“We get to visit a film set. Not be in a movie.” He accepted his plate from Henry.
“Oh, stop being so literal. If we find their stuff, they’ll have to at least give us a walk-on role.”
He leaned against the table beside Henry. “Why do I have a feeling this is going to be—”
“The best thing ever?” Henry held his plate over his crotch so he could sneak in another quick rub.
“Not what I was going to say.”
“Come on, Mac.” Henry turned to him. “Who would want to eat plain old macaroni without cheese?”
Mac smiled. Sighed. “Only a fool, I guess.”
“And you’re no fool, Agent McGuinness.”
“Sometimes I’m not so sure.”
“Hey, Henry!” Alex called. “Last time we had cake in the office, there was singing.”
“Yeah, lead us in something,” Penny urged.
“Well, we can’t do ‘Happy Birthday,’” Henry said. “And ‘Happy Mac and I Aren’t Dead and I’m a Consultant Now’ won’t scan right. So . . .”
“Something we all know,” Lina said. “Like ‘Old MacDonald.’”
“I’m not gonna sing ‘Old MacDonald,’” Calvin grumbled.
“‘Wrecking Ball’?” Henry suggested. “That Miley Cyrus is a pistol.”
“Seriously?” Mac mouthed, as a cheer went up. He really didn’t understand Henry’s influence over these normally levelheaded people.
Or maybe he did, he thought, as he watched Henry stand and assume a conductor’s stance. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Henry look happier.
Not so bad working for the good guys, is it, Henry? Being part of a team?
“If you don’t know the verses, you can just chime in on the chorus.” Henry patted Mac’s shoulder. “That goes for you too, Agent McGuinness.”
Mac, who had managed to avoid singing in public for thirty-one years, had a sinking feeling he was actually going to chime in on the chorus.
You definitely had to pick your battles.
Henry waved his fingers. “Okay, a one, a two, a one-two-three . . .”
Mac shook his head and dug in to his badge.
Revisit the Playing the Fool series:
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Another Man’s Treasure
Lisa Henry likes to tell stories, mostly with hot guys and happily ever afters.
Lisa lives in tropical North Queensland, Australia. She doesn’t know why, because she hates the heat, but she suspects she’s too lazy to move. She spends half her time slaving away as a government minion, and the other half plotting her escape.
She attended university at sixteen, not because she was a child prodigy or anything, but because of a mix-up between international school systems early in life. She studied history and English, neither of them very thoroughly.