“Quinn?”
Well before Jack had realised just how far he’d fallen for Ethan, he’d hooked up with this man a couple of times between two of Ethan’s visits. He’d first met Quinn right here, under much the same conditions. Freshly back in country after a job in Singapore, picking someone up for sex had been the last thing on his mind. However, Quinn had been determined, and after two more “chance” meetings, Jack had succumbed. Quinn was a committed top, and Jack had enjoyed getting fucked the few times they’d hooked up. Hadn’t minded, either, that Quinn proved to love sucking dick as much as Jack loved being sucked. His brief fling with Quinn had ended naturally when the man returned home to Melbourne.
Quinn grinned. “It’s so nice to be remembered. I was hoping I’d run into you again, Nishant.”
Jack used his Hindi middle name in most social settings these days. It was easier—and safer—to be Nishant with people who didn’t really know him.
Returning the grin, Jack said, “It hasn’t been that long.”
“It’s been a while. Eight months or so. How’s things?”
Along with his first name, Jack didn’t talk about his career with just anyone. “Same as always. You?” Likewise, Quinn had never offered up his job, but the man gave off a professional air mixed with an incisive intelligence. Jack figured doctor or corporate CEO.
Quinn gave him a grimace. “Back in Sydney, for work, again. Though it would be nice to mix in some pleasure.” His gaze dropped down Jack’s body with obvious intent. “Again. I’ve been in town for a week, coming here most nights, wondering if you’d ever show up.”
Jesus. It was tempting.
He’d had a lot of fun with Quinn. When they’d chatted here, and sometimes between fucks in Quinn’s hotel room, he’d even liked the man. Smart, a little arrogant, occasionally goofy, but with a sense of humour that tended towards self-deprecating, when he wasn’t being bitingly insightful. The first time they’d gotten naked, Quinn had pretty much summed up Jack’s scars exactly for what they were. Thankfully, the man hadn’t had the time to work out what Jack’s tattoo meant. It was, literally, Jack’s cross to bear. Only Ethan had ever worked out what it meant to him.
And where the hell was Ethan, anyway? That last embrace in Vietnam, when Ethan had whispered, “I’ll see you soon,” had felt so promising. So committed. Four fucking months later and nothing. It wasn’t the first time Ethan had gone silent and invisible. This time, though, he’d actually requested radio silence, promising to get back in touch when he was ready. Jack had wanted to give him the space he obviously required. Didn’t want to be needy or clingy, but Christ!
Quinn’s hand landed on Jack’s hip. The No Ones Inn wasn’t a gay bar, but it wasn’t overly hostile, either. Still Quinn shifted so his gesture wasn’t easily observable, which put him close enough for Jack to smell him over the general odour of clashing colognes, perfumes, and alcohol. The crisp, spicy scent sparked a few warm waves in his abdomen—a recalled sense of feeling this man against him, inside him, of fucking his mouth until Jack came down his throat.
“I’m here indefinitely at this stage,” Quinn continued, quiet and husky. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after last time, and when I decided to come back, all I could think about was finding you again.” His hand slid to the small of Jack’s back, warm and mildly possessive. And promising.
So bloody tempting, but . . .
Jack discreetly removed Quinn’s hand. “Sorry, not this time.”
Quinn didn’t fight. He was a talker, a negotiator. So, rejected hand curling around his tumbler of scotch, he just nodded. “Okay. Can’t say I’m not disappointed, though. I really like you, Nishant. Thought perhaps you might have liked me, too.”
Taking a fortifying sip of bourbon, Jack shrugged. “I did. I do. But the timing’s not right at the moment.”
Even if, for some reason, Ethan had decided to ditch him, Jack wasn’t ready to give up just yet. In that moment, Jack decided he would call Ethan, his request for silence be damned. Four months was long enough to wait, even if he did come across as needy. Maybe being needed was what Ethan was waiting for.
“Is there another guy?” Quinn’s tone was neutral, but with a hint of bitterness.
Opening up to Lewis was one thing. To a past casual hook-up? Jack wasn’t quite messed up enough to do that. Besides, right then, he had no idea if there was another guy.
“I have a new work project,” Jack replied. “Starting tomorrow, and I can’t afford any distractions.”
Quinn gave a slow nod to his drink. “Wow. Rejected in favour of work. I feel so appreciated.”
The sour grapes almost made Jack wish for those times when Quinn’s expression had become intent and his questions sharp-edged. Not offensive, just unwelcomingly penetrative. As uncomfortable as those moments had been, at least they hadn’t been this awkward.
Before Jack could get out a growling defence, Quinn’s expression smoothed out and, in a much more even tone, said, “Sorry. I don’t take rejection that well.”
Jack wondered if he could trust the contriteness, but grunted the all clear, anyway.
“And hey,” Quinn said, his voice lowered for Jack alone to hear, “if you ever need any stress relief, I know how much you like fucking my mouth.”
Jack swallowed his bourbon the wrong way. He had forgotten just how blunt Quinn could be. Coughing, he reached for a napkin, hastily mopping his chin and chest while Quinn patted him on the back.
“Bib here!” Quinn called jokingly to the bartender while a couple of people on either side of them chuckled. “You okay now, mate?” he asked Jack, his usual mocking smile in place. “Don’t need mouth to mouth?”
Jack scowled at him, only making the man laugh.
In the low, private voice Quinn said, “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that you don’t like kissing. But I mean it. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since February. I like you, and even if we have to squeeze time together in between our jobs, I’m willing to work at it.”
And there was the above-average persistence, right on cue.
“I don’t have a lot of free time.” Jack trotted out the old line he used when a hook-up wanted more than one night.
“Me neither. I’m not asking for a set schedule or anything. Just drinks every now and then.”
“Just drinks?” Jack asked wryly. “Drinks” was how Quinn had insinuated himself into Jack’s space last time.
Quinn laughed. “Yeah. Just drinks, I promise. But so we’re clear, I won’t say no if you change your mind about us, either. Until such a time, I’m offering friendship.”
If Jack hadn’t been about to start another undercover job the next day, he might have taken Quinn up on the offer. As it was, he said, “I’d like that, but I’m going to be really busy for a while. Several weeks, probably.” Citing an early start in the morning, Jack said goodbye with an actual pang of disappointment. Quinn wasn’t one to argue, but his gracious nod of defeat wasn’t as smooth as he’d probably intended it, either.
Feeling like shit, Jack stopped by the table with his colleagues, said his goodbyes there as well, and walked the short distance back to work to get his Kawasaki Ninja and go home. He was still chewing over Quinn’s tempting offers when he rode down into the carpark under his apartment building in Leichhardt, but the moment he saw the car parked in his second allotted space, all thoughts of Quinn fled.
Not a car enthusiast, Jack nevertheless had a soft spot for Victoria, a black Aston Martin Vanquish S Coupe. An absolute dream to drive, she was smooth, responsive, and gobsmackingly fast. It also helped that finding her here meant her owner was upstairs.
Jack parked beside Victoria and got off the bike, his hand automatically going out to stroke the silky surface of the car. It was ridiculous to associate Ethan so closely with the machine, but it was inevitable, really. Driving was Ethan’s release, his Zen place. There had been a time when Jack had doubted Ethan’s devotion to his supercars—he had six —but any misgiv
ings had vanished the moment Jack had seen him behind the wheel. Ethan Blade, assassin, spy, warrior, was a hopeless car nut and speed junkie.
Jack didn’t precisely run up three flights of stairs, but he definitely took them two and three at a time, managing to slow down to a casual walk as he neared his front door. No matter how desperate he was to see Ethan again, the crazy bastard had been silent for four months. He didn’t deserve to hear Jack running towards him.
So, he unlocked the door and went in, like it had been any other long day at work. After putting his code into the alarm system and rearming it, he set his helmet on the end of the kitchen counter and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. The open-plan kitchen, living, and dining areas were empty of lurking assassins, and the shower wasn’t running, so that meant Ethan was in the bedroom.
Chastising his dick from reacting too noticeably, Jack wandered into the hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathroom. The door to the master bedroom was open, and a soft glow fell through it, spreading golden and warmly inviting across the polished wood floor. Jack stepped into the light and leaned against the doorframe, idly opening his drink as he glanced around the room.
Suit jacket and pants hung neatly on the front of his wardrobe, leather dress shoes tucked precisely under the tallboy, weapons harness with twin Desert Eagles secured in their holsters draped across the back of the old recliner in the corner. And lying on his usual side of the bed, reading one of his silly action books, was Ethan Blade.
Jack absorbed the sight, letting it both calm and excite him. Calm him because any doubts he might have had about Ethan’s commitment to him had vanished the instant he realised the man was in his bed. If Ethan had come to end things for good, he wouldn’t have undressed. Excite him because all the man wore was a pair of black boxer briefs and his socks. Always his socks, but that little foible had stopped amusing Jack ages ago. It was the least of Ethan’s issues, and probably the most sexy of them.
Jack never failed to be thrilled by seeing him. Pale skin marked with familiar scars. Long, strong legs, slim hips and a powerful yet lean torso. Broad shoulders, long-fingered, calloused hands. Head of dark hair, a little bit shaggy. Slightly plump lips, narrow nose, fine, arching brows. His eyes, rimmed in long, lush lashes, with their perpetually wide pupils and unnaturally white irises.
Taking a small drink to lubricate his suddenly dry throat, Jack said, “Ethan.”
Ethan looked up from his book, a little half quirk on his lips. “Jack.”
Jack was grateful his hands were occupied with the bottle, otherwise he would have been ripping his clothes off already. Especially since Ethan’s undies were doing absolutely nothing to hide his reaction to Jack’s appearance.
“It’s been a while.” Even as it came out, unconsciously echoing Quinn, Jack winced.
Ethan closed the book and set on the bedside table. “For which I’m sorry. I certainly hadn’t meant to take so long to get here. Thank you, though, for respecting my request.”
Jack focused on the bottle in his hands. “Yeah, about that. I was going to call you tonight.”
Arms crossing his bare chest, Ethan didn’t quite fall into the motionless predator mien Jack had become so well-acquainted with, but it was a close thing. “You were?”
Fuck. This was so awkward. It shouldn’t be awkward. Jack should already be on the bed—be on Ethan—but four months plus temptation from another man quelled his usual response to seeing him. Well, his emotional response, anyway. His dick had already leapt ahead to the reunion sex, or make-up sex, depending on the direction this conversation took.
“I needed . . . to know you were okay.” Hell, he might as well have just stopped after “needed.” His “need” where Ethan was concerned hadn’t required a qualifier in a long time.
“Well,” Ethan said softly, smiling around the words, “it’s lucky I needed . . . to know you were all right, as well.”
Only towering rage had ever stopped Jack from returning one of Ethan’s smiles, something that hadn’t changed in the last four months, it seemed. One crooked finger away from throwing himself at him, Jack said, “Can I ask why it took you so long to . . . enquire about my wellbeing?”
“You may. The clean-up took longer than I anticipated. Afterwards, there were a few personal matters I had to take care of.”
Once, the word “personal” would have stopped Jack’s questions about Ethan’s past or whereabouts, but no longer. They weren’t just fuck buddies anymore.
“Such as?”
Ethan looked away, taking a few deep breaths as his arms tightened over his chest. Then, letting out a long sigh, he dropped his arms so his hands landed, loose and empty, in his lap. The hopeless gesture was so out of Jack’s experience with Ethan, he came on instant alert.
Taking a step into the room, Jack looked around again, confused enough he automatically scanned the room for hostiles. “Ethan?”
“I quit, Jack.”
Being back in the Office HQ was like pulling on old, favourite clothes—familiar and comfortable. For the first time since the police had snapped the handcuffs on him, Jack felt in control, like an effective part of the team. He was able to start moving, with one of the most powerful investigative tools at his disposal. Given free range on the Judge, it wouldn’t be long before the Office tracked him down and destroyed his psychotic little world view.
He could also set about finding Ethan. Find out if the man was holed up somewhere, licking his wounds, or out on a mission to hunt Jack down. Jack didn’t care which activity he found Ethan at, so long as he found him.
The lift doors opened on the familiar, much-missed sight of the eighth floor where ITA was based. Packed with individual desks in the middle of the wide space, surrounded by the operations rooms, and filled with the bustle and noise of people dedicated to protecting the Meta-State from dangers within their own boarders. Jack had mixed feelings about each person who worked here, and he’d had some misgivings upon occasion about how they got the job done, but generally, he felt positive about ITA and their overall aims. Ethan would purse his lips at Jack’s sentiment, telling him it was just that—sentimentality. The assassin had his own hard-earned opinions about such organisations, but only twice had he tried to lure Jack away from the Office. After that, he’d made his peace with Jack’s loyalty to the red tape and bureaucracy, satisfying himself with teasing and jokes, usually at Jack’s expense.
And on that thought, Jack made up his mind.
“Ma’am, can I make a suggestion?”
McIntosh eyed him curiously. “Of course.”
“Let me call in Ethan Blade.”
That sharp, direct expression she’d turned on him in the garage came back. “Why?”
Jack’s stomach churned with his usual precombat uneasiness. He’d always trusted it, knowing it would go away the moment he got the green light, leaving him calm, clear-headed, and determined to move, to fight, to win. He trusted it now, too.
“Part of it is personal. I want to know where he is, what he’s doing. But that’s not the only reason. He can help us.”
Christ, this wasn’t unlike telling his mother he was gay. The same trepidation, the wariness about her response, but the same resolution to be honest. This was the first time he’d verbally acknowledged his relationship with Ethan to anyone within the Office. He was fairly certain they already knew, though. At least, about the physical side. Now he’d find out how she really felt about the whole thing.
McIntosh’s eyes went chilly. Not the full Artic blast he was expecting, thankfully. “What can he provide in this situation?”
Jack took a deep breath and instead of saying “some peace of mind,” went with, “The mindset of a killer. He’s not a psychopath like the Judge, but he understands the practicality of it better than anyone, especially now Adam is . . . gone. I got a crash course in serial murderers, but it’s not going to help us much. The Judge isn’t just a serial murderer, he’s . . .” He didn’t know exactly what he was, but
Jack knew there was something more to the bastard. Something Ethan knew. “He’s got other motives.”
“Other motives you think Blade can illuminate for us?”
Jack shook his head, not trusting himself to voice the lie. “Blade can help us track him. He could be the difference between catching him before he kills again, or not.”
Another long, considering stare. Jack met her gaze fearlessly, done with trying to hide everything from everyone. Office assets had done worse in the name of the Meta-State, Jack included. Of course, those assets probably hadn’t felt about their “worse” things the way Jack felt about Ethan. Right now, he was incredibly pissed off with Ethan, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d killed Adam, but until he knew for certain, Jack still wanted him back. Wanted this new, nebulous thing they’d started to keep going.
And if McIntosh decided she didn’t like him wanting that, then perhaps it was time for Jack to leave the Office. Once the Judge was a bloody lump at his feet, of course.
McIntosh’s expression was unreadable beyond what she wanted Jack to see, a serious deliberation over his proposal. God, what he wouldn’t give for some of Adam’s insight right then. The sweat was gathering between his shoulder blades when she spoke.
“Do it. If he can provide something useful, it will be worth it.”
Agreement didn’t mean he’d got away with anything. McIntosh was a master at this game. Proving it, she took a phone from a pocket and handed it over. She didn’t want him using his implant, where he could think his words into the connection, words she couldn’t hear or control.
Taking the phone, he dialled the number from memory and put the phone on speaker. It rang several times, then clicked over to another line, then another. Finally, it was answered. A dull electronic voice asked them to leave a message and informed that any response would be delivered within twenty-four hours.
“Blade, it’s Jack Reardon,” he said, highly aware of McIntosh’s attention on him. “We have a situation we’d like your input on. Please make contact as soon as you can.”
Why the Devil Stalks Death Page 6