Their Special Agent

by Mel Gough

  He regarded her with narrowed eyes as he mulled over her words. They were pulling into the arena’s parking garage when he spoke at last. “No offense, Agent McDonald, but you got fed written all over.”

  She glanced down. “That bad, huh?”

  To her surprise, Jay grinned. It made him look a lot more likeable. “You’ve not done much undercover work, have you?” And when she shook her head and blushed, he chuckled. It was an unexpected sound. “Let’s go inside and talk to Phil. He’s great with outfits, he’ll rustle something up.”

  8

  The rest of the band was in Jay and Lou’s dressing room. As soon as Jay dropped onto the deep, squishy sofa, Lou curled up in his usual spot by his side. The warm, familiar body pressing against his flank calmed the nervous tension that vibrated through Jay’s veins. He wanted to close his eyes and doze off, curl up with Lou and forget everything for a few hours. The press conference had been hell. The sea of expectant faces, all poised to catch any misstep, any word not sufficiently distraught. He suppressed a shudder.

  Jay only listened with one ear as the FBI explained to Phil what she’d dreamt up for the next stage of her operation. Phil’s face split into a wide grin. “Let’s go look through the sample chests. We should be able to rustle you up some groupie garb.”

  At the word groupie, her face fell. Phil, in full flow about the various options, noticed nothing. He bustled from the room, and the FBI followed with an apprehensive expression.

  Jay frowned. How could Phil be in such a good mood? He seemed to be coming into his own awfully fast. Jay had never thought of him as anything other than the guy who fetched their drinks and made sure they turned up in the right place at the right time. Was there something sinister about how enthusiastically he was stepping into Barry’s shoes? Jay groaned and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t deal with more questions.

  “What happened at the police station?” Corey’s voice was tense in a way that wasn’t like him at all.

  Talking about the ordeal was the last thing Jay wanted to do, but Corey’s mood was such that it would only lead to an argument if he refused. He filled the others in with as few words as possible, leaving out his near collapse. As he relived the minutes in front of the journalists, his body betrayed him. Hairs stood up on his arms and his hands shook. Jay clasped them in his lap.

  As he talked, Spider and Ant shifted in their seats. Jay had gotten the impression before that they were regretting the day they’d ever heard of Thistle Hearts. He tried to ignore the guilt in his gut. As band leader, it was his job to make sure everyone was comfortable and happy in their role. Right now, that seemed like an insurmountable task.

  The expression on Corey’s face was hard to read. Gone was the challenging look, but he seemed even more somber now. “Ah, man.” His voice was soft.

  Lou made a distressed noise and rested his head on Jay’s shoulder. “It’s over now,” he murmured into the fabric of Jay’s shirt. Inserting a hand between Jay’s shaking ones, he squeezed his icy fingers.

  For a moment, time stood still. It was just the three of them, locked in that dance they’d been a part of since first meeting nearly twenty years ago. Jay’s heart ached with their losses, but there was also peace. He couldn’t complain. Even when the pain got unbearable, they had each other, and in the world they inhabited, that was worth a damn fucking lot.

  “Tada!” Phil threw open the door, shattering the silence with a flourish and a small bow. The guys jerked apart. Behind Phil, the FBI slunk into the room. She was barely recognizable.

  Her dark suit was gone. Instead, she wore a burgundy suede leather half-coat, looking like she was already sweating. The holster was pushed back on her hip, and Jay only noticed because he was looking for it. The stonewashed jeans weren’t a perfect fit; the samples the labels sent them and that Barry had insisted on lugging across the country were all men’s sizes. But Phil had given her a wide belt, too, and it made up for her waistline not being high enough. She wore a silver T-shirt and, as a finishing touch, a pair of aviator sunglasses dangled from her collar. Only her black combat boots remained.

  She stepped into the middle of the room, looking self-conscious. A strange feeling stirred in Jay.

  Corey gave a low whistle. “You look just like the real deal. If I didn’t know better, I’d give you a demo tape right now and beg you to produce my next solo album.”

  The FBI blushed, but didn’t bother to hide her grin. Jay gave Corey a sidelong look. Had something gone down between the two of them? Corey had let them know how bored he was with the hard work and no play these last couple of weeks. Jay chewed his lip. Leave it to Corey to complicate this further by messing around with the person investigating them. There were so many groupies to choose from. But of course, Corey had to make trouble.

  Phil beamed, pleased with his designer work. “I told Barry we didn’t need half the junk in those chests. He’d be pleased to know I was wrong—” His face fell with the realization of what he was saying. He glanced at Jay, who held his gaze. Barry’s magpie tendencies might help them find his killer.

  “Right,” Phil continued, scrambling to find his stride again. “Y’all, off to tech, get fitted with your kit. Agent McDonald, you’re with me. I’ll introduce you to the team and you can start mingling.”

  “I think it’d be best if you call me Carrie.” She raised an eyebrow. Jay had to look away so she wouldn’t see him smirking.

  “Oh, yeah…sure. Right you are, Carrie.” He bustled for the door, flustered. The FBI followed.

  Corey got to his feet. For a moment his attention was focused on the door. Then he motioned at the others. “You heard the man. Let’s go get strapped in.”

  The five of them got miked up by the sound guys, who had set up shop behind the stage. In the fifteen years since they’d last toured, the headpieces had become so small, they were as good as unnoticeable once they’d been connected and covered up with hair. One of the sound engineer apprentices fussed with Jay’s power pack, and he tried to hold still while the guy’s fingers lingered over his ass. Lou winked. Jay did his best to give him a grin.

  “These work a lot better with short hair than the last ones.” Corey assessed himself in a mirror stuck to a beam.

  “Mine’s not so short.” Lou fussed with his wires. Jay, finally released by the perfectionist technician, tugged on the auburn strands covering Lou’s ears.

  “You’re not cutting it.”

  Lou cocked his head, eyes full of mischief. He rose on tiptoe and kissed Jay long and hard. When they broke apart, Corey was watching them, a sardonic gleam in his eyes. Jay motioned to him. “C’mere.”

  Corey Hart had done many unwise things in his life, but he’d never turned down a make-out session. His lips met Jay’s a little harder than anticipated, but after a moment’s adjustment they found their rhythm. There hadn’t been much physical contact between them for days, and the roughness of Corey’s affection hit a spot he’d not even noticed needed scratching.

  “We can always cancel the run-through and go back to the hotel.” Lou’s voice was low and husky. “Or there’s that nice, big couch in our dressing room.”

  Somewhere behind them, Phil cleared his throat. “Ready when you are, guys.”

  Jay let go of Corey. His dick, which had swelled as they kissed, twitched in protest. Lou’s words had hit straight home. Ant threw them covert glances, a flush creeping up his neck. Spider was grinning openly. Corey winked at him. It hadn’t come up, but Jay suspected that Corey had showed the two young men a good time. He couldn’t fault him, they were very cute. Maybe later…

  The complete run-through of their set would take about two to three hours. Barry had convinced them to do it before the first show. It had been a long time since they’d been on a stage together, and even though they’d worked in the studio for weeks, an arena was a different beast altogether. It would mean they’d be playing the show twice in a day, but they’d all agreed.

  The run-through went we
ll. The crew had done their job, the sound engineers had worked hard with the venue to make the best use of the vast space. Neither Phil nor Jay had cause to raise their voice at anyone during the rehearsal. Jay caught sight of the others now and then glancing around, then quickly dropping their gaze again. He was doing it, too. They were looking for Barry, to catch his eye and make sure he was happy with the performance.

  It was two-thirty when they finished. Jay handed his bass to one of the stagehands. Sweat made his T-shirt stick to his back, but the adrenaline of a gig well done flooded his veins. They still had it. He could feel it in his bones—tonight would be amazing.

  He caught sight of the FBI in front of the stage. He gave her a grin, the high of the performance having improved his mood tenfold. She smiled and, after a moment, gave him a thumbs-up. Something stirred in Jay’s chest at the awkward, yet sweet gesture.

  “Go get some chow.” Phil clapped Jay on the back. “The zoo visit is scheduled for six.”

  “Zoo visit” was what Barry had dubbed the meet-and-greets, a new invention and a necessity of twenty-first century rock life. Two dozen fans would get to spend an hour with the band, for selfies and autographs and the kind of inane chatter Corey loved and Lou tolerated, and which set Jay’s teeth on edge. But since each fan had paid about two thousand bucks for the privilege, he’d have to grin and bear it. He’d squabbled with Barry about those VIP experiences, and had tried to get him to at least not start them on the first night. But he’d lost that battle.

  A stab of irritation with the dead man made him feel guilty. If Barry had had one fault, it was loving the green ones a little too much. And a fat lot of good it did him in the end.

  The others had all put away their instruments. Jay walked past the crew checking the equipment. Soon, the two local bands they’d hired for the opening gigs would arrive for their sound check. Jay hadn’t met them yet. A post-show party was planned for tonight to which the other bands were invited. The thought of post-concert responsibilities made Jay’s tired body heavy as lead.

  He’d half expected to find both Corey and Lou in their dressing room. Ant and Spider usually did their own thing for lunch, but the three original band members had developed a routine since starting to prepare for their reunion tour.

  But it was only Lou who looked up from a plate of fruit as Jay walked into the generous room the two of them shared. He placed the plate on the coffee table as Jay flopped onto the sofa by his side. “Where’s Corey?”

  Lou shrugged. “Wanted to talk to the FBI agent.”

  Jay frowned. What was Casanova up to now? “Did he say why?”

  “Nope.” Jay indicated the table set up along the wall. “Have some food. It’s real good. There’s pasta salad, too.”

  Jay shook his head. The sensible thing was to eat something now, then take a long shower and catch some shuteye. But getting up again and choosing food seemed like too much work. “Later.” He yawned.

  Lou gave him an assessing look. “All right.” He scooted off the sofa. “Stretch out.”

  “What?”

  “Stretch out,” Lou repeated. “Come on.” He took Jay by the shoulders and pushed him down, sinking to his knees on the floor as he did. Jay went with it, scooting down until he lay the length of the sofa.

  “Lou,” he murmured. “We need to have a nap—”

  Lou’s lips closed over his. He tasted of melon and strawberries. Jay’s heart beat faster and his dick began to swell.

  Lou’s hands, meanwhile, were busy with Jay’s fly. Jay broke the kiss.

  “You don’t have to do that, baby.” The words were out before Jay could stop them.

  Lou drew back. He looked at Jay long and hard. Heat rose in Jay’s chest. Saying it had been a mistake. In their relationship, neither of them ever did anything they didn’t want to do. “I’m sorry—”

  Lou placed a finger on his lips. “Shh.”

  The finger vanished, and Lou focused back on Jay’s belt and zipper. Jay’s erection sprang free, the air cool on the heated flesh. He lifted his hips, and a moment later Lou had his pants and boxer shorts off. He circled the base of Jay’s cock with his thumb and forefinger, and took Jay into his mouth. Jay’s back arced without his say-so, and he gave himself up to the familiar wet heat of Lou’s mouth.

  They’d been lovers for sixteen years. After Danny’s death, it had been just the two of them for a while. Corey, who struggled with loss in his own way, had dipped in and out of their lives and their bed in the years that followed the band’s break-up. Since reuniting to plan the new tour, they’d become closer again, and Jay half-listened out for a knock on the door that would signal Corey’s arrival. After the moment they’d shared earlier, it would be a welcome addition.

  But this was good, regardless. Lou was as familiar with Jay’s body as he was with his own, and it took him well under five minutes to bring Jay to the edge. There, he slowed down. He cradled Jay’s balls, tugging gently until Jay was writhing, his hips bucking.

  “God, Lou.” He bit down hard on his fist so he wouldn’t scream. “God, don’t stop.”

  A glance down was met by the glinting of the sapphire-colored desire in Lou’s eyes. He managed a grin around the head of Jay’s cock. Keeping one hand on Jay’s balls, he reached between his own legs. His eyes fluttered shut and he took Jay deep again. As he worked, a flush rose in his hollowed-out cheeks and he panted. The sensation of the warm breath on Jay’s belly, together with everything else, tipped Jay over the edge. He came with a low growl that vibrated through them both. He tangled a hand in Lou’s hair and rode the wave, and Lou swallowed every last drop.

  While Jay floated on his high, Lou got to his feet and cleaned them both up. From somewhere, a soft quilted blanket descended upon Jay, and a moment later there was Lou, fitting himself perfectly onto the sofa. Jay tugged him close. “That was amazing. You were right, I needed that.”

  Lou hummed, snuggling closer. Something occurred to Jay. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” Lou murmured.

  “Did you come?”

  “Oh yeah.” He patted Jay’s flank. “Now go to sleep. Lots to do later.”

  Jay sighed. “Too true.” He closed his eyes, and seconds later was drifting, Lou’s warm embrace carrying him into sleep without effort.

  9

  Carrie hadn’t done much undercover work in her career. Her short stature made her an unlikely candidate to pose as hired muscle, Mafia goon or the kind of blue-collar worker that were of interest to crime outfits. She might’ve passed as a Russian heiress or a widow out for revenge, but the need hadn’t arisen.

  She’d not been sorry about it. She didn’t enjoy “dressing up”—Shane’s word for undercover work. He’d loved it, and he’d been a natural. His Mediterranean good looks had made him blend right in with a certain type of criminal, and he’d once spent several months uncovering a murder plot in the very heart of the Mafia. Well, her ex-husband had been good at faking a lot of things.

  Her only experience at pretending to be someone else were as part of a large sting operation, where she’d donned a bad wig and impersonated a street worker. Another half a dozen female LEOs had been stationed along the street in similarly ridiculous get-up. The main thing she remembered from that night was the cold, and sitting in the downtown Baltimore police station afterward, eating jelly donuts and drinking bad coffee with a bunch of top-notch officers from the different forces. Susan, who had struck a disconcertingly glamorous figure in a skin-tight mini dress and a purple wig, had looked around the room. “Girls, you look just like the real thing,” she’d announced. “If I came across you after hours I’d arrest you on the spot.” And to Carrie in an undertone, “We’re in the wrong career track, my dear.”

  Carrie had struggled to keep the giggles at bay, and she found that she was having the same problem now.

  Phil took her onto the stage from the back, where a steep metal staircase led up from the venue’s maze of service corridors. The stage was
higher than Carrie had pictured, rising maybe six feet off the ground. The whole structure was temporary, something else Carrie hadn’t realized. It made sense when she thought of it. These venues were used for all kinds of things, and not all required a stage. “The roadies will be busy all day, setting up the stage, laying cables, that sort of thing. It all looks a bit insane but hopefully, they know what they’re doing.” Phil didn’t sound all that confident, but hurried on. “Of course, that should help you mingle. Just don’t ask a bunch of questions all of the same guy, or they might get suspicious.”

  The noise of drilling and men calling to each other wafted down from above. Phil rummaged through a crate and pulled out a clipboard that he handed to Carrie. “Here, this’ll help you blend in.” He scanned the stage. “I thought he might be up here.” He swiveled around once, gnawing his lip. Then he pointed. “Ah, he’s down there.”

  Carrie followed his trajectory. Halfway along the first block of seats a tall man wearing shorts was talking to a bunch of people in similar get-up. They huddled around him, listening attentively. It was clear even from up here that the man had authority.

  “That’s Tom Myers, tour manager.” Phil waved her back toward the stairs. “Let’s go and—” His phone rang. He looked at the screen, cursing. Before he took the call, he said, “Hey, Carrie, you okay to introduce yourself to Tom? I have to take this.”