Tipping Point

by Helena Maeve

  Elijah was fumbling the fastenings on his jeans before it dawned on him that Nate couldn’t see much from this angle. He made to pull away, but Nate held him firmly in place.

  “Show me,” he reiterated.

  The spent slur in his voice was gone, traded in for dark promise and the heft of an order Elijah couldn’t very well refuse.

  He freed his cock with a shudder. He was already so hard he ached.

  The first stroke of his fist was less relief than pure agony—but that had its own appeal. His body knew what it needed even as his thoughts spiraled out like streamers.

  Pent-up need took over from there.

  Elijah rocked his hips up, avid for the thrill of release, and came within a handful of strokes. His teeth ached from the clench of his jaw as climax swept him up. He opened his eyes on a wordless cry, every muscle pulling taut, but it was too much, it had been too long and stroking off in Nate’s bed wasn’t nearly enough to take the edge off.

  Relief was short-lived. Violent shakes wracked his body.

  He tried to angle away from Nate and his expensive, tailored slacks. He tried to catch his release in his hand. With orgasm locking his limbs and Nate purring praise from above, all effort was in vain.

  “Fuck,” Elijah choked out, grimacing at the pearly streaks that stained his fingers and the cuff of Nate’s pant leg. He didn’t know why he expected to see displeasure on Nate’s face when he glanced up. Playing fast and loose with material possessions seemed to be normal procedure for his host.

  Oblivious, Nate stroked a slice of blond hair away from Elijah’s brow with featherlight fingertips. “How was that?”

  “I… Good. I think.” Elijah licked his lips. The taste of Nate’s cum hit him like a gut-punch. “Sorry… I can usually—”

  “Hush.” Nate tipped up his chin and leaned in.

  It was nothing like other kisses they’d shared. Hunger had been stripped away. Hesitation was gone. Best of all, Nate’s soft, nipping bites didn’t awaken those sleeping demons at the back of Elijah’s mind.

  When he pulled back, Elijah made to follow. His knees creaked.

  “Should get you to bed,” Nate mused, steadying him.

  Something in Elijah very nearly rebelled at the conciliatory tone. I don’t need coddling.

  He choked back the retort. Nate’s eyes were soft with exhaustion. Who was Elijah to deny him something he needed?

  “Okay.”

  Between the two of them, they got Elijah on his feet and into the shower.

  It was tempting to suggest that Nate join him, but Elijah didn’t have the guts and he didn’t know how to phrase the request in such a way that he wouldn’t sound like he was offering another round.

  He wreathed himself in the comforting scent of Nate’s body wash instead, soaking up the hot water until his fingertips began to prune. Nate had set clean towels aside for him and dimmed the bedroom lights. But he wasn’t there, waiting, when Elijah emerged from the shower. Selfish disappointment lashed through him, irrespective of sense.

  Then he heard Nate’s voice in the living room. He was speaking softly, every word hushed and unintelligible.

  It took Elijah only an instant to realize why he couldn’t understand. Nate was speaking, yes, but not in English. Elijah slanted a sharp glance to the dresser.

  The top drawer gaped half an inch open.

  Afterglow evaporated like the shower water beading on his feverish skin.

  Chapter Seven

  In the four days since Elijah had last seen Jules, she’d done away with the wig and the Honda, and traded in her kitten heels for black knee-high combat boots. She was more familiar to Elijah in cargos and a black T-shirt, but he didn’t let himself think for even a second that he wasn’t feasting his eyes on yet another disguise.

  Jules didn’t beckon him to the park bench, or rise to acknowledge his arrival. Still, Elijah suspected she’d seen him from a long way off. Surveillance was in her blood.

  He let a cyclist pedal past before taking a seat on the unoccupied half of the bench. The chirping of birds and the barking of excited pups lent a backing track to the silence that stretched between them.

  Elijah scraped his hands on the knees of his jeans. “So you’re back.”

  “What makes you think I ever left?”

  Elijah turned his head. The cloak and dagger stuff might have been in Jules’ bag of tricks, but he felt awkward speaking from the corner of his mouth and never meeting her eyes. He was no spy.

  “Is this why you wanted to see me? So we could play more mind games?”

  Jules pursed her lips, aggrieved, but said nothing.

  Wheedling contrition out of her was a fool’s errand. Elijah liked to believe he was above that. He tried again.

  “Nate said you wanted to talk.”

  “How is he?”

  Despite every attempt to put last night out of his mind, Elijah’s thoughts slid back to sight and sound, memory gleefully resurging. His face warmed. “He’s fine. Overworked, but fine.” He struggled to keep his tone even.

  “Is he still getting calls from our Russian friends?”

  All hope of keeping his wayward suspicions to himself evaporated. Elijah whirled around, pinning a jean-clad knee to the wooden bench. “You knew?”

  The glance Jules flung his way was brief but pitying.

  It took Elijah a moment to realize he hadn’t answered the question. “Yeah. Calls and snail mail… What’s that about?” Why is he armed to the teeth? Why does he hide what he’s doing even from you?

  If Nate was a mere extension of Jules and her new employers, whoever they were, then she ought to have been privy to whatever he had going. She shouldn’t have been relying on Elijah to produce intel on her behalf. He wasn’t any good at it. He had the arrest record and prison sentence to prove it.

  He glossed right over the part where he had yet to commit to anything, much less show that he was reliable. The first time Nate had allowed him any latitude, he’d used it to run away.

  No doubt Jules knew about that.

  But none of it made any difference when it was Jules sitting primly and silently beside Elijah, freezing him out.

  “I was under the impression that you wanted out,” she recalled peevishly. “You left the shelter without word. You didn’t attempt to contact me…”

  “That’s going to haunt me forever, is it?” Elijah sneered. “You’ll never let me live down the fact that I tried to strike out on my own. Like an idiot.”

  Jules thinned her lips. “I won’t let you forget that this isn’t the world you belong in, no.” The distinction was purely academic, as far as Elijah was concerned. “But if you’re willing, of course I could use your help. I’m not above admitting as much.”

  Surprise, surprise. “And Nate?”

  “Nate is still trying to figure out where he belongs.”

  “With you or against you?” Elijah guessed archly.

  To her credit, Jules didn’t attempt to deny it. “Something like that,” she admitted, flicking off a ladybug that had alighted on her thigh. “Why the sudden interest?”

  “You’re the one who asked if he’s getting calls.”

  “I’m curious by nature. You know better.”

  “Did you forget we’re roommates?” There had been a time when speaking to Jules was not all antagonism and back and forths. Elijah didn’t know how to turn back the clock.

  “Is that all?”

  Taken aback, Elijah was too slow to scoff. It sounded untrue even to his own ears. “Is it so strange that I want to know what the fuck’s going on? You’re the one who plucked me off the streets and saddled me with this guy. If he’s on your shit list, the least you can do is give me some warning. I don’t want to be collateral damage in whatever mess you’ve got going.”

  Not again.

  It was unfair to unearth the past when everything he’d done to wind up in prison had been in defiance of Jules—not at her command and certainly not with her endorsement.
It didn’t stop Elijah feeling just a little miffed when his sister sighed and pushed up from the bench.

  “Walk with me.”

  Like the choice of public venue, Elijah supposed her aversion to sitting still had something to do with paranoia. He was in no position to argue that her fears were unfounded.

  He had to jog a little before he could fall into step beside her, hands thrust deep into the front pockets of his loose-fitting jeans.

  “Section is scrambling to activate its Russian assets,” Jules offered, inflectionless.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t follow the news, do you? Officially, the Kremlin is flexing its muscles in Ukraine. Unofficially, they’ve been trying to fill a gap in international intel gathering. The NSA leaks, the whole PRISM fiasco… The press can’t stop talking about the West’s spy agencies breaking laws. Meanwhile, the SVR controls most of the media outlets in the motherland. They can afford to do as they please.”

  “And they have.”

  It was an educated guess. Elijah knew Jules enough to suspect she wouldn’t throw herself head first into interagency feuds without a solid reason.

  She nodded, scraping the soles of her shoes against sand-strewn asphalt. A nearby playground teemed with laughing children and exasperated nannies.

  “But…” Elijah frowned, grasping at the frayed ends of whatever paltry information he’d been able to cobble together about Jules’ circuitous career path. “I thought you were out of the game. You severed ties with Section years ago.”

  “I did.”

  “Are you back?” Was that what this was? Jules doing cleanup for her former employers as a way to prove her allegiance?

  She shot him a withering glare, effectively curtailing that line of thought before Elijah could pursue it to its logical conclusion. He revised himself. “Nate is still Section, isn’t he?”

  “In the best-case scenario.”

  Elijah caught her elbow. “Stop doing that. Stop—giving me these non-answers that confuse me even more. I’m already terrified.”

  Nate’s armory had sparked more than a faint flicker of panic in his gut. If Nate snapped, as unlikely as that seemed, it would be Elijah in the line of fire, not Jules.

  Not MI6’s top agents and their sprawling Section command posts.

  The scenario was so at odds with Nate’s tenderness that Elijah had trouble conjuring it up, but he was used to anticipating pain. It sometimes made it easier to bear in the unfolding.

  His sister’s expression softened, if only for a moment. Frost returned to her eyes as she trained a meaningful gaze on her arm in Elijah’s grasp, and went on staring at his loosening hold until he’d fully unclasped his fingers.

  She could have broken them if she wished. She knew how.

  “Nate,” she said at last, “has a third option. He’s a valuable asset and a good kid… I just hope he makes the right call.”

  Kid? Elijah bristled despite his better judgment.

  “Is that why you left me with him? To steer him so he makes the right call?”

  “You’re not bait, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

  Elijah shook his head, but the words snatched in his throat. He didn’t care about baiting Nate, he cared about lying. He’d turned on protectors before. He knew the consequences.

  But more than that, Nate had been good to him. He didn’t deserve to be played.

  Jules rolled her shoulders in a noncommittal gesture. “This life tends to burn people out like firecrackers. I’ve never wanted that for you… I want Nate to make the right call, but if you feel you’re in danger with him, we can extricate you from the apartment. He won’t suspect a thing.”

  “I’m fine,” Elijah muttered. “I’ve got a third option, too, remember?”

  He could always flee, start over. Excise all ties that might have bound him to Jules or Nate. His stint in prison could be a stumble in the road, utterly meaningless, or it could be a necessary sacrifice.

  Jules offered him a shallow smile.

  “No. Not anymore.”

  * * * *

  Checking in with Jules did nothing to shift the curl of anxiety in Elijah’s chest. On his way back to the apartment, he struggled to reason it away. He told himself he’d done the right thing by cherry-picking what he reported back to Jules. He wasn’t a snitch—the past seven years had taught him that lesson. But the concrete walls of the prison were gone and functioning by its rules was a hopeless task.

  Several blocks from the park, Elijah ducked into the first coffee shop that emerged on his path. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall affairs, sporting trendily mismatched tables and chairs, the menu scribbled in loopy cursive on a blackboard suspended above the counter. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee banished any doubt as to the quality of the joint—and if that didn’t do it, there was always the price tag tacked on in white chalk.

  Four dollars for a simple black coffee?

  Grudgingly, Elijah joined the queue and did his best to fit in with the local color. Nate’s clothes helped him in that regard, but in his paranoia Elijah couldn’t resist darting the odd glance over his shoulder to see if Jules was tailing him.

  “What can I get you?” the barista asked when his turn came up.

  She was a blonde, cheerful-looking teen with wire-frame glasses and a baseball cap worn at a jaunty angle.

  “Uh… Coffee.”

  She smiled. “That’s kind of a given. Any special kind?”

  Elijah hoisted his eyes to the menu, keenly aware of the queue behind him, the walls so near and crowded with artwork and drooping indoor plants—probably fake, probably plastic. “Just…”

  “How about a blond roast with hazelnut and vanilla essence?”

  It was nothing he’d ever heard of, but Elijah nodded anyway. “Yeah, okay.”

  The barista worked fast, her hands a blur over the coffee machine and sundry ingredients. The result was a frothy mixture in a clear cup topped with a splash of gooey liquid.

  “Here you go.” She looked at Elijah expectantly, as though daring him to take a sip. “That’ll be four sixty-five.”

  He handed over the very last of Nate’s cash with a sinking heart. “Thanks.”

  “Enjoy.”

  Elijah mustered a tepid half-smile. He couldn’t see that happening. Four dollars for coffee. Jesus. It was almost enough to cut him down at the knees. He spotted an empty seat by the window and carefully maneuvered his overpriced beverage through the maze of crowded tables and eclectic patrons.

  The window afforded a decent view of the street outside. Cars zipped past, a flurry of colorful makes and models he only sometimes recognized. Pedestrians were few and far between at this hour, with the afternoon scorcher about to strike. Those who ventured out were quick to dart into air-conditioned shops or restaurants.

  It occurred to Elijah that he was one of them now.

  Whatever web Jules attempted to spin around him, whatever nefarious business Nate was involved in, this was what their normal felt like—an overpriced cup of coffee. Time to kill.

  Blowing lightly over the foamy surface, Elijah chanced a sip of his drink. Flavor exploded on his tongue. Nate had shown that he could brew a decent cup back at the apartment, but this was something else. This was vanilla and creamy milk and the tang of hazelnuts.

  “Told you it’ll be amazing,” the barista chuckled as she swept by a table on the other side of the central aisle. “You should come by Monday to Friday. But only in the morning.”

  “I should?”

  “Mhm. That’s when I work.” She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I could make you another.”

  Elijah started to object. He didn’t have four dollars and sixty-five cents to spend on coffee every morning five days a week. He curbed the effort when the barista sauntered away with a wink.

  Customer service might have evolved in seven years, but not to the point that Elijah could mistake it for flirting. Or vice versa.

  The corners of his mouth threate
ned to tip up. He peered out of the window to avoid giving the impression that he was—receptive, flattered—interested. Elijah Roark is worth flirting with.

  Do you hear that, world?

  The world answered with the sight of a familiar figure strolling past the coffee shop with a sure step.

  Elijah’s heart slammed promptly into his ribs.

  There was still about half a cup left to drink, but Elijah thought little of his overpriced order when he darted to his feet. Though it was only a few feet away, getting to the door proved a trial in itself. He spotted Nate at the far end of the street once he finally made it through the crucible.

  The desire to shout his name died a quick death. This wasn’t serendipity.

  As Elijah looked on, Nate slipped into an old phone booth on the street corner, briefcase and all. The glass sides were badly scratched but Elijah could still see him inside, immaculate in a pinstriped suit, purposefully lifting the receiver and holding it up to his ear while he patted his pockets for coins.

  Maybe his cell died. These things happened. Technology wasn’t foolproof.

  It didn’t take long for Nate to get off the phone. He struggled a little with the folding door, creaky metal sticking to the frame, then stepped out with easy confidence.

  Watching him felt wrong, but Elijah couldn’t tear himself away. He waited until Nate had disappeared around the corner before he stuck his hands into the pockets of his borrowed leather jacket and started down the street.

  A sticker on the booth door read Out of Order. It had been there a while.

  Chapter Eight

  The terracotta apartment building materialized into view before Elijah was ready for it. The lobby beckoned like an open maw, promising shelter from the afternoon heat wave. For a brief, cowardly instant, Elijah gave serious thought to taking another tour of the block.

  He stepped through the sliding lobby doors before temptation won out.

  A week ago, he would’ve stood out like a sore thumb in his dirty, threadbare clothes. Now no one batted an eye at his passing. No one asked where he was headed or why. He had a key to Nate’s apartment, proof that he belonged.