The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1) Page 18

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Because I gave away the ending?”

  “Because you can tell me about it if you want to tell me about it. I’m done investigating you.”

  Henry tried for another grin. “Then I won’t tell you about it. The story’s juicy, though. Real HBO material.”

  Mac gripped Henry’s hand hard. “I don’t think that’s funny.”

  Henry stood slowly. Let Mac pull him back onto the bed. He stretched out on his stomach, and Mac eased down beside him. He closed his eyes when Mac placed a hand between his shoulder blades. “Something about hotel rooms,” he said, by way of explanation or apology or both.

  He was glad Mac didn’t think it was funny. It had maybe sort of been a test, to see if Mac was the kind of guy who’d laugh. Even though Henry had been pretty sure he wasn’t.

  Mac ran his hand down to the waistband of his slacks. Tugged Henry’s belt, and Henry rolled onto his back. His cock pressed against the front of his pants, and he spread his legs. “I am still kind of your witness, aren’t I?”

  Mac hesitated. “Your testimony at the trial will help. But we’ve got Maxfield on a lot more than killing Pete now. So Jeff’s kind of the main event.”

  “But this is still totally inappropriate, right?”

  “Totally,” Mac agreed. He dragged a thumb between Henry’s nipples. Gingerly propped himself up and hovered over Henry. Started to unbutton his own shirt with one hand.

  Henry swallowed again. “But I do owe you, so . . .”

  “I hope you don’t think we’re going to continue to pay for you to stay here.” Mac struggled to get out of his shirt, glancing around the room again to cover the wince. Henry helped him.

  “Mac. Are you giving me permission to cut out?”

  “Absolutely not.” Mac was on him suddenly, and he didn’t look the least bit concerned about pain from his injury. He pinned Henry’s wrists to the bed. “I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

  Henry rocked his hips from side to side, wishing Mac would let him go so he could take off his fucking pants.

  Then Mac’s phone buzzed.

  Mac groaned. Henry slipped out of Mac’s grasp and helpfully fished the phone out of Mac’s pocket. Passed it to him. He stuck his hand back in Mac’s pocket and barely listened to whatever Mac was saying to the person on the other end. Concentrated mostly on finding Mac’s cock through the thin material.

  Mac made a face and tried to shift away from his hand. “Uh-huh. Okay. Yeah.” He ended the call and set the phone on the bed. Stared down at Henry, who had paused in midgrope. “They’ve got Maxfield in a cell. Wanted to know if I want to talk to him.”

  Henry slid his hand out of Mac’s pocket. “You do, don’t you?”

  Mac tried to shake his head, but he wasn’t fooling Henry.

  “Go. This is your big bust. Go rub it in Maxfield’s face.”

  Mac hesitated. Henry could see him thinking. Then he said, quickly, “I’d rather rub it in your face.”

  Henry burst out laughing. “You’re gonna have to work on your pickup lines.”

  Mac cracked a smile. “I had to try.”

  “Go on.” He pushed Mac’s shoulder lightly. “I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

  Mac sat up, pulling on his shirt. “How about this? My parents are heading out tomorrow, God willing. You can come over to my place. It’ll be nicer than us doing it in some hotel.”

  “This isn’t ‘some hotel,’ Mac. This is—”

  “Way more expensive than you need or deserve.” Mac kissed Henry. “Come to my place. Tomorrow.”

  Henry sighed in mock exasperation. “Well . . .”

  “I’ll even buy you Chinese takeout first.”

  “You romantic old dog, you.”

  “I know.” Mac finished buttoning his shirt. “What do you say?”

  “I say I’ll bring the wine.”

  “I can’t drink on my meds. And no alcohol, anyway.”

  “I say I’ll bring the bottled water and organic hemp milk.”

  Mac stood. Grunted. “Damn it.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Mac gathered his keys and phone. “Just want to be able to move again without having to think about it.”

  “To run flappy armed down the street?”

  Mac glared at him. “You watch your mouth.”

  “I can’t help it. I take my mouth off yours and it just starts running.”

  Mac reached out. Put a big hand on Henry’s thigh and squeezed. And yep, Henry felt that in his still-aching cock. “Tomorrow. I’ll keep your mouth occupied. Stay out of trouble until then.”

  Henry watched him go. Kept staring at the door, even after it shut. Because maybe Mac would come back. Maybe he’d turn around like Henry had yesterday, because he realized there was someone he owed more to than Maxfield. Which was stupid. Mac didn’t owe him anything. He was glad Mac put his job before Henry. It would make it that much easier for Henry to put his own job before Mac, the next time it came to that.

  But as he lay on the bed, he let himself fantasize that maybe this was an ending of sorts. That there wouldn’t be a next time it came to that. That he could lay down the cloak and the dagger and rest. Stay put for a while.

  Here.

  With Mac.

  “You look like shit, Agent McGuinness,” Dean Maxfield said, an ugly smile settling on his square face. “Like a real piece of shit.”

  “Dean.” His lawyer’s tone was low, warning.

  Both Maxfield and Mac ignored the guy.

  “I feel pretty good,” Mac said. Okay, so his last painkiller was wearing off, but he was counting on the endorphin rush of finally seeing Maxfield in a cell to see him through the pain. “Pretty damn good.”

  He exchanged a grin with Calvin.

  “You won’t be walking out this time,” he added.

  Maxfield glowered at him. “Yeah? You think the testimony of a crooked agent and a—a whatever-the-fuck that kid is, will keep me inside?”

  Mac leaned against the wall. “I think it’ll keep you from getting bail. I think it will give us plenty of time to check out all your records, and plenty of time to track down every single one of your assets.”

  “Mmm.” Calvin nodded. “Like, ah, maybe a condo in your ex–sister-in-law’s name in Miami? What do you think the weather’s like in Miami, Mac?”

  “I don’t know. Pretty nice, I’d imagine.”

  “Yeah.” Calvin smirked. “Yeah, it’d be a real shame to lose a place like that.”

  Maxfield grunted. “Fuckers.”

  “Dean,” the lawyer murmured.

  “Dealing, trafficking, murder, and conspiracy to murder.” Mac patted his pile of paperwork. “Plus, you know, whatever else we turn up in the course of our investigation.”

  “Fuckers.” Maxfield slammed his fists on the metal table of the small interrogation room. “You fuckers!”

  “Dean.” The lawyer blew out a breath.

  “What?” Maxfield turned on him. “It’s your fucking fault I’m in here! I pay you good money to make sure this doesn’t happen, so why the hell am I even here in the first place?”

  The lawyer gaped, and tried to hastily regroup. “Dean, these charges. They’re big, okay? They’re—”

  “They’re bullshit! They’re bullshit! This is all bullshit!”

  Ah, the stunted vocabulary of a desperate man. It was like music to Mac’s ears. He exchanged another amused look with Calvin.

  “There is no way that little coward will testify against me,” Dean blustered. “He hasn’t got the balls, and they know it!”

  Actually, Mac had no first-hand information about Henry’s balls at all, but was very much looking forward to remedying that. Despite the small voice in the back of his head that told him it was inappropriate. He was done guarding Henry, wasn’t he? And Calvin was lead on Maxfield’s case now. And it wouldn’t be a conflict of interest because he wouldn’t let it become one. He’d step back. Let Calvin try to
take a statement off a guy who changed his name more often than he changed his underwear. Hell, on paper Henry was probably the worst witness in the history of the universe, and a decent defense lawyer would try to shoot him down at trial: What were you doing at Gloria Maxfield’s house, Mr. Page? Or is it Mr. Falstaff? Or Mr. Hanes? But the second Henry turned his gaze on the jury, it wouldn’t matter if he was the Antichrist. They’d believe every word he said.

  And once Jeff got up there as well, and detailed exactly how far he’d sunk for Dean Maxfield’s money, it would be all over for Maxfield.

  “Take a breath, Dean,” he said. “You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm.”

  “Fuck you!” Maxfield sneered. “You think I can’t buy any agent in this fucking place? You think you’re immune? There’s bigger fish than me got you assholes on the payroll!”

  Mac turned. “Mr. Grant, I’d advise you to tell your client to shut his mouth right about now, unless he’s got some solid evidence to back that claim up.”

  “Dean,” the lawyer tried once more, helplessly.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, McGuinness? Well, fuck you, I don’t rat!”

  Mac patted the papers again. “Right. Well, enjoy prison, and I’ll see you at trial.”

  “Fucker!”

  It echoed with him down the hallway.

  Another corrupt agent? He shook his head. There was nothing that asshole wouldn’t say to try to get a rise out of them. He didn’t care. Maxfield was going to jail for a very long time. Mac had been shot, and he wasn’t dead. There were painkillers in his office that literally had his name on them, and, as soon as he got his parents out of his place, he and Henry were going to fuck.

  Maxfield: zero points.

  Mac: a million.

  Henry wouldn’t have said he was nervous. He didn’t get nervous. He got to-the-core terrified sometimes, but not schoolboy nervous. Mac’s house was simple—two stories, blue vinyl siding on top, pale brick on the bottom. Henry was sort of surprised. An FBI agent living alone could afford a better place than this.

  But maybe Mac liked things simple.

  If that was the case, he wasn’t going to like Henry. Not for very long.

  He rang the bell.

  Mac opened the door after a moment. “Hey.”

  Mac sucked at playing casual.

  Henry stepped inside. He waited for Mac to close the door, then thrust a bottle at him. “Here.” He stuck his hands in his pockets while Mac examined it. “You said no alcohol, so I got that. Quite possibly the world’s fanciest fruit juice. It’s got, like, some kind of bee pollen compound in it that’s imported from Turkey.”

  “Did you pay for it?”

  Henry gaped. “Mac. You’re not going to ruin a perfectly nice evening by—”

  “Did you pay for it?” Mac repeated.

  “Yes.” He was going to work on the lying thing. Someday. Maybe.

  “Thanks,” Mac said suspiciously. He took the bottle into the kitchen. Henry followed, taking in the place. “What? Looking to see if I’ve left a copy of Club Werewolf around so you can figure me out?”

  “I think I’ve already got you figured out.”

  Mac set the bottle on the counter and turned around. “Is that right?”

  “I think so.” No, that wasn’t nervousness clawing at his guts. “You’re a good guy, Mac. When you’re not starving yourself of carbs and sugar, I mean. Then you’re kind of an asshole.”

  Mac rolled his eyes.

  Henry let his smile fade. “But you’re a good guy. And I tend to steer clear of good guys, because good guys make the mistake of assuming I’m a good guy too.”

  “Henry.” Mac cleared his throat. “I know you’re no angel.”

  “You don’t know half of what I am.” Henry swallowed. “And that’s okay, because here I am in my glasses and a tie, and I can be that guy for you. I want to be that guy for you.”

  Mac held his gaze.

  This is me, Mac.

  Whatever you see, I’m less than meets the eye.

  “I’ll stay,” Henry said. “I’ll stay until Maxfield’s trial. But then I have to go somewhere else.”

  “Be someone else?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you running from, Henry?”

  He forced a smile. “Hello? Dean Maxfield and his hit men?”

  “Before that.”

  “I’m not running from anything. But I have to keep moving, have to keep working. There are only so many times you can sell the Brooklyn Bridge in the same town, you know?”

  Mac raised his eyebrows. “You’ve done that?”

  “No, but it’s a classic.” He glimpsed Mac’s shopping list on the counter. Quinoa. He smiled, even though some part of him thought it was incredibly sad that Mac had listened to him. He was pretty sure that despite his incessant sound, despite his occasional fury, he signified nothing. Which was what he was trying to tell Mac right now.

  I’m less than meets the eye, but you’re welcome to me.

  “You’re a smart guy,” Mac said. “I’ll bet there are a lot of other things you could do to get by.”

  Henry had never felt this exposed. The people he dealt with usually fell into two camps: his marks, who never saw the real him, and his friends, who knew better than to dig too deep. Mac was different. Mac was dangerous. Mac wanted the real thing, except it had been so long that Henry wasn’t sure he could find him.

  “I do what I do,” Henry said. “I’ll be that guy for you, Mac, but don’t . . . don’t push it, okay?”

  I like you and you like me. I want us to fuck. Don’t ruin it by asking for more.

  Mac either understood or was regrouping for another attack. “All right.” He nodded at the table. “Dinner. I didn’t know what you like, so I got a sampler. And it’s not eggs, but I got eggrolls.”

  Henry smiled. “I’m not much of a Chinese food guy.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say something yesterday?” Mac grumbled.

  Henry couldn’t explain. It wasn’t an issue with Chinese food so much as it was him looking at Mac’s scuffed wooden table and realizing he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t sit down in Mac’s kitchen, and eat food Mac had bought, and pretend they were two guys on a date, or whatever.

  Yes, they had eaten together at the cabin, but that was different. This was his choice, and it was clearly the wrong choice, to pretend he could be anything for Mac at all. The fucking, he could live with. The fucking, he wanted. But the Chinese food? No.

  “I just meant I’m not that hungry. For food, anyway.” He fished his new phone—well, old phone—out of his pocket, to check the time or send a message or anything that would calm his nerves for a minute. Only five thirty. Too early for dinner. Mac must go to bed with the grannies and rise with the sun to start saving the world. What were they supposed to do when they were done fucking? Was it back to the three-point-five-star hotel for Henry?

  “Where’d you get the phone?”

  This was how it was going to be during whatever time they spent together. Where are you, Henry? Where’d you get that, Henry? Did you pay for it? “Borrowed it.” Henry stuffed it back in his pocket.

  “Mmm.”

  “I did. Borrowed it from myself, actually. Part of my old stash. Not something I carry when I’m Toby Seacoal-ing.”

  “That’s a verb now?”

  “Why not?”

  “So you have your real phone on you tonight, Mr. Page?” Mac’s voice was mock-husky. “Or should I say Mr. Hanes?” He stepped behind Henry.

  “Don’t even think about snooping around on it. And don’t call me that.”

  “Can I have your number?” Mac whispered.

  “If you promise not to trace it.”

  Mac placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder. Trailed it down to the small of his back. Plucked Henry’s shirt out of his waistband without a word. Henry turned and undid Mac’s shirt, sliding it off his broad shoulders. Kissed him. Mac had just shaved. And brushed his teeth. Henr
y hummed into Mac’s mouth, then laughed.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You.”

  They kissed again. Mac grabbed Henry’s tie and tugged.

  They parted, and Henry rested his forehead against Mac’s chin. Traced the edge of the bandage on Mac’s ribs. Mac wasn’t afraid to die, but Henry was afraid to eat Chinese food with him. I’m the asshole. “How was your talk with Maxfield?”

  “I got called a fucker a lot.” Mac slid his hand down to Henry’s ass. Henry tensed. Breathed out in a rush and pushed back against Mac’s palm. Felt his cock swell. Mac’s fingers glided over the seat of Henry’s slacks, then moved between his legs. Henry widened his stance, kissing Mac again as Mac toyed with Henry’s balls through the layers of fabric.

  He kept one hand cupped on the back of Mac’s head, and gripped Mac’s pec with the other, squeezing and letting out a soft whimper as Mac pinched him lightly between the legs.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, breaking the kiss with a gasp. He went up on his toes. “Fuck.” He licked Mac’s jaw.

  Mac brought his hand around to Henry’s front and shoved it up Henry’s shirt. He pulled the edge of Henry’s ear in his teeth while he rolled and twisted each of Henry’s nipples in turn. Henry tried not to collapse against him, not wanting to hurt Mac’s ribs.

  Mac let go suddenly. “Upstairs,” he whispered, snagging a fistful of Henry’s shirt from the inside and tugging him along.

  In the bedroom, Henry took down Mac’s pants and boxers. Mac’s ass and legs were impressively well muscled—once his upper body tightened up a little, he was going to be able to do commercials for protein shakes. Or commercials for quinoa.

  What Henry paid even more attention to was Mac’s cock, which was . . .

  Huge.

  Not even all that long, just thick, and blunt. Mac’s balls were completely covered in dark hair.

  “Jesus, Mac.”

  “What?”

  “It’s gonna take a team of engineers to figure out how to get that inside me. What are your analysts doing tonight?”

  He was pleased to see Mac flush a little.

  “Well, one of them’s in prison,” Mac said. “And the others are probably at home with their families.”