Текст книги "Fair Game "
Автор книги: Josh lanyon
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Chapter Three
The doorbell rang while Elliot was on the phone using up good will points with his former boss at the Seattle Division. He’d always gotten along well with Special Agent in Charge Theresa Montgomery, but respect and regret for the way Elliot’s career had ended aside, he was no longer FBI, and the Bureau did not welcome outside interference. Even from one of its own. Ex-own.
Oddly enough, it was Elliot’s former relationship with Tucker that seemed to sway Montgomery in his favor. Not that Elliot was trading on that. In fact, he was horrified when Montgomery said with uncharacteristic awkwardness, “I suppose, given your prior relationship, Lance will be less resistant to the idea of an investigator liaison to the family if he doesn’t know ahead of time what to expect.”
That was the second bad jolt of Elliot’s day. The first had been the realization he was going to have to face Tucker again. Now he was struggling to absorb the fact that at some point Tucker appeared to have revealed the true extent of their relationship to SAC Montgomery. He couldn’t imagine what the circumstances would have been for that to happen and was literally at a loss for words.
Montgomery didn’t seem to notice. “I suppose it could be worse. At least you understand what we’re up against here. As I’m sure you’re aware, the family has been unhappy with our performance from the beginning. Tom Baker is a high-profile former radical and activist who seems to believe that his history has somehow influenced our commitment to the investigation of his son’s disappearance.”
Translation: Montgomery had been taking heat from above over her team’s lack of results in the Baker case.
“I know we’re fighting the clock on this one,” Elliot said.
Montgomery sighed. “Okay. I’m going to set up a meet between you and Lance at the Tacoma resident agency. I’ll neglect to mention that the experienced investigator the family hired is you.”
“Thanks.”
“Lance is not going to be happy with either of us. You’re going to owe me, Mills.”
“I know. I appreciate this.” Elliot heard the doorbell go again, and automatically glanced over his shoulder. He could tell from the shadow across the large stained glass oval in the center of the front door that someone was still standing on his front porch. Not UPS then.
There was a rare note of amusement in Montgomery’s tone as she said, “We’ll see if you still feel the same after hearing what Special Agent Lance has to say on the matter.”
Yeah, no kidding.
Elliot thanked her again, rang off and went to answer the door. Steven Roche, his nearest neighbor on Goose Island, was blowing on his hands and stamping his feet while he waited.
“There you are,” he exclaimed as Elliot pulled open the door.
“No need for the rain dance,” Elliot said. “We’ve got all we need.”
“And everyone says you have no sense of humor.” Roche crowded in, and Elliot gave it up and led the way to the kitchen. “It’s freezing out there.”
He was a year or two older than Elliot. Medium height, well-built. He looked like a surfer: tanned and blond, but he was a true crime writer. Currently he was working on a book about the unsolved 1936 kidnapping and murder of ten-year-old Charles Mattson.
“It’s fifty-two degrees,” Elliot pointed out.
“But it’s a wet heat,” Roche said, and Elliot laughed.
Roche was a mooch and a pain in the ass, but he had been a friend to Elliot over the past few months when Elliot needed to talk. He was an interesting guy and he could be good company. He was also a little bit of a cop groupie and, Elliot suspected, a possible closet case, but hey. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. After his shooting, Elliot had deliberately distanced himself from his old friends and colleagues; it had been too painful to be around them. Steven was the closest thing he had to a buddy these days.
“Did you want a glass of wine?” He headed for the latticed wine rack built into the cabinet over the granite counter. The kitchen windows looked out over the tops of pine trees and a couple of cabin roofs down the hillside. The long pine needles seemed to catch and reflect the blue-black dusk.
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
“Depends on the conspiracy theory of the moment.” Elliot selected a bottle of merlot from Lopez Island, a local vineyard and winery. He uncorked it while Roche made himself at home at the old country farmhouse table. “How’s the book coming?”
“Don’t ask.” Roche proceeded to launch into a long complaint about exactly how the book was coming.
Elliot handed him a glass of wine. Roche talked on.
Listening with half an ear, Elliot sipped his wine and rinsed a pound of peeled shrimp and patted it dry. He was vaguely familiar with the cold case. The FBI had been actively trying to solve young Mattson’s murder fifty years after, but to no avail.
“God, it smells good in here. What’s for dinner?” Roche finally finished detailing his woes and sniffed the air like a hungry bloodhound.
“Stir fry. Greek shrimp and leeks.”
“How do you know the shrimp are really Greek?”
“Funny.”
The phone rang and Elliot put aside the mixing bowl with the couscous and herbs, and went to answer it.
“Mills,” he said curtly. Seventeen months later he was still answering like he was on call. He needed to work on that. Like maybe try hello for starters.
“Elliot? This is Pauline Baker. I hope it’s all right that I called you at home?”
She sounded nervous and he softened his tone. “Hi, Pauline. What’s up?” He understood how stressed she was, but surely she wasn’t expecting him to have found out anything within a few hours?
“I-I’m afraid I wasn’t totally honest with you earlier today, and I want to be because I know…it might hamper your investigation if I’m not.”
Unexpected. “Go on.” Elliot picked up his wine glass up and finished the dregs of wine. Roche rose, held the wine bottle up. Elliot shook his head. He still needed pain meds some nights, and pills and booze was a bad mix. Roche refilled his own glass.
Pauline said, “You asked about Terry’s friends. Whether he has a girlfriend.”
She stopped again. Elliot prodded, “And he does?”
“No. No, he doesn’t. Terry is gay.”
“Gay,” Elliot repeated as though he’d never heard of such a thing.
“Yes. He came out to us, to his father and me last summer. I’m afraid it was…” her voice failed, but she recovered, “…a shock. I’m afraid it was a shock to both of us. Tom especially had a hard time with it. It’s not what you want for your child, you know?”
He had no idea. He neither had, nor wanted, children, and his own parents had been completely accepting of his sexuality. Choosing a career in law enforcement was the thing that had driven his father to threaten disowning him.
Roland must have filled Pauline in on a few other things about Elliot because she added hastily, “Please don’t be offended. I’m only trying to make you see that there was tension there, but it wasn’t…That is…”
Tom Baker was not to be considered a potential suspect in his son’s disappearance, Elliot cynically filled in the blanks. “I understand. Was Terry seeing someone?”
“Yes. I don’t think it was serious, but he was seeing someone. A boy named Jim Feder. He’s also a student at the college.”
“Did you share this information with the police or the FBI?”
“No. Tom felt it wasn’t relevant. That it was personal family business.”
Shit. An entire line of enquiry closed off because Tom Baker didn’t want anyone to know his son was queer. Unbelievable. Except it was only too common. Elliot had run into this kind of thing plenty of times. Of course, knowing Tucker, he’d probably seen through the smokescreen bullshit. Maybe that was why he believed Baker had offed himself. Nothing like parental expectation to drive a kid to suicide.
“You’ve done the right thing by telling me, Pauline. It opens another avenue of investigation for us.”
“I knew that. That’s why I wanted you to know…” She began to cry, and then to apologize.
“It’s okay,” Elliot reassured her automatically.
After a few seconds, she got control, apologized again, thanked him and hung up.
“What was that about?” Roche asked, green eyes watching Elliot over the rim of his wine glass.
Elliot had forgotten all about Roche. “Nothing. Friends of my dad are having some trouble with their kid.”
“When did you become a guidance counselor? And what does the FBI have to do with it?” That was the nosey writer looking for a scoop. Roche was always after Elliot to discuss his old cases. The more lurid, the better. And Elliot was always after Roche to mind his own business.
He ignored the question and turned on the oven to heat the skillet. “I guess you’re staying for dinner?”
Roche said cheerfully, “I thought you’d never ask.”
* * *
Back when he’d been a hot shot special agent for the Bureau, Elliot had operated out of Seattle. He was familiar with the Tacoma RA, though, and even if he hadn’t worked with the team there a few times, there wasn’t that much of a difference from satellite office to satellite office. Not really.
He arrived in plenty of time for his meeting with Tucker. Unless Tucker had changed a lot, he’d be striding into the building about four minutes before the hour. Tucker was rarely late, but he cut it close plenty of times. Elliot preferred to arrive early and well-prepped—today in particular he felt he needed the advantage of surprise.
He was annoyed to recognize the signs of nervousness in himself: damp underarms, elevated heart rate, and his tie felt like it was choking him. He fought the desire to pace, forcing himself to sit at the battered table in the plain meeting room. Expelling a long, calming breath, he stared up at the millions of tiny black holes in the soundproofed ceiling.
The last time he’d seen Tucker—
But no. Not a good idea to rehash those memories. Certainly not at this moment, when he was about to beard the lion in his den.
Anyway, what was the big deal here? Maybe things hadn’t worked out for them, but had either of them ever really expected them to? It would have helped if they’d been friends before they fell in the sack, but…the fact was, they hadn’t. Their working styles were very different and they really hadn’t had a lot in common off the job either. Tucker liked sailing and poker nights with the guys. Elliot liked rock climbing and miniature war-gaming. Not much in the way of shared interests. Except sex.
The sex had been fantastic.
Elliot had a sudden vivid memory of Tucker’s unexpectedly soft lips tracing a moist path from the nape of Elliot’s neck down, all the way down, to his tailbone…Tucker’s big, freckled hand wrapping around Elliot’s cock.
What do you want, Elliot? Say it out loud. Tell me…
As though feeling that ghostly tug, the cock in question gave a hopeful twitch.
The door to the meeting room swung open and Elliot snapped to his feet, ignoring the wrench of his wrecked knee.
Tucker strode in, bigger than life. That’s how Tucker always seemed: bigger than life. Just walking into a room he seemed to fill it, while at the same time emptying it of half the oxygen. Elliot had never known anyone who took up more metaphysical real estate than Special Agent Tucker Lance.
Uncomfortably aware of where his thoughts had been seconds prior, Elliot’s voice was stiff. “Hello, Tucker.”
Tucker froze mid-step. His knuckles whitened on the file he held. His eyes—a color known in painting miniatures as Prussian blue—went arctic.
“Is this a joke?” He sounded almost conversational.
“Good to see you too.”
Tucker glanced around and then behind him as though looking for The FBI Files film crew. He turned back at Elliot. By then he had himself under control.
He said evenly, “You’re looking fit, Elliot.”
Well, Elliot had known the advantage of surprise wouldn’t last long. “Thanks. You’re looking hale and hearty yourself.” Hale and hearty? He sounded like he was reading from a bad script. He made himself stretch out a hand in greeting.
Instead of shaking hands, Tucker thrust the file folder into Elliot’s fingers. “So you’re the consultant the Bakers brought in.” It wasn’t a question.
“That’s right.”
Tucker’s lip curled.
Elliot curbed his temper but it wasn’t easy. He refrained from asking the questions that would open the line of discussion that was sure to end in one of them decking the other. Instead, he slapped the folder on the table. “Great. Shall we get started?”
“Let’s.” Tucker yanked out the chair on his side of the table.
Elliot sat again and opened the file. That was for show. No way could he sit here calmly reading while Tucker did his best to raze him to ashes with those blue laser beams.
He made a pretense of turning pages, though, not least because he knew it was pissing Tucker off.
The ironic part was that Tucker seemed to believe he had cause for anger. As though he were somehow the wronged party.
After about forty seconds of scraping pages, Tucker said in that same too-even tone, “So Montgomery set this up?”
“‘Set this up?’” Elliot repeated, some of his own hostility slipping through despite his efforts. “You’re the special agent in charge of the case and I’m the consultant the family has brought in. Is there some reason you’d decline to cooperate with me?”
Like he didn’t know.
“I don’t like working with outsiders.”
The brutality of that caught Elliot on the raw, but he managed to say pleasantly, “Still the same loveable asshole, I see.”
There might have been a faint tinge of red in Tucker’s face, though it was hard to tell beneath the freckles. He repositioned his chair and without further ado brought Elliot up to speed on the case. It was a brisk and concise accounting.
Elliot listened without interrupting.
The facts of the case boiled down to depressingly little. On the night of October 1, Terry Baker had been studying in Kingman Library on the PSU campus. He had checked out a book on Renaissance philosophy at eleven-thirty, left the library and hadn’t been seen since. Somewhere between the library and his dorm, Baker had vanished. His car had never left the student parking lot. There was no sign of foul play. No one, other than the librarian who had checked his book out, even remembered seeing him. According to his roommate, Baker had seemed “like always.”
“What was ‘like always’?” Elliot questioned, glancing up to find Tucker staring at him.
“Quiet. Serious. Polite. He was liked well enough, but I wasn’t able to identify anyone who considered him a close friend.”
“That seems to support what his mother said. Baker was gay. Were you aware of that?”
Tucker’s gaze sharpened. “I had my suspicions. We didn’t turn up anything conclusive.”
“He came out last summer. Tom Baker had major problems with it. He and Pauline chose to keep that piece of information to themselves.”
“That supports our theory that the kid walked.”
“Literally,” Elliot retorted. “I think if he’d left voluntarily, he’d at least take his car.”
“Maybe someone else drove.”
“I don’t think s—”
“You don’t think so?” Tucker’s tone was edged with barely restrained hostility. “You’ve been on the case for five fucking minutes. What do you think happened? He was kidnapped? I know it’s been a while, but even you should remember how rarely adult males are kidnapped from college campuses.”
Elliot flicked him a cool glance. “I was thinking more along the lines that he might have capped himself.”
Tucker sat back in his chair. “Maybe. If I had to spend a semester reading Renaissance philosophy, I’d cap myself. But where’s the body?”
Elliot drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. He shook his head.
“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Tucker added grudgingly, “Baker Senior’s disapproval does change the dynamic, I’ll give you that.”
“There’s a boyfriend. That adds another suspect to the mix. And a potential motive in addition to the father’s disapproval.”
“A boyfriend?” Tucker expelled an impatient breath. “Fucking A. That’s two weeks’ worth of investigation—” He caught himself.
“Yeah,” Elliot said neutrally. He understood and he did sympathize. “What about the video surveillance cameras?”
“Nothing showed up.”
“Nothing?”
“The kid walked out of the library. No one followed him. The cameras are only positioned in strategic campus areas. What it gets down to is Baker walked out of the picture.”
“You checked the kid’s computer?”
“His laptop disappeared with him. Cell phone too.” Tucker took out a pen and notepad. “What’s the boyfriend’s name?”
“Jim Feder. He’s also a student at PSU.”
Tucker frowned, considering. “I don’t think he turned up in our initial investigation.”
“That’s squirrely right there. If they were hooking up, he’d probably start asking where Baker was. And if he was asking questions, someone should have noticed.”
“Maybe he knows where Baker is. Maybe he’s AWOL too.” Tucker’s gaze—so blue, so intense—met Elliot’s, and Elliot felt the old drag of awareness.
“It’s worth finding out.”
Tucker was still looking at him, his expression unreadable. Elliot heard the echo of his words. For some reason it suddenly felt like they were talking about something entirely different.
The strange moment passed. Tucker glanced at his watch and rose unhurriedly from the table. “Sometimes you already know the answer. Sometimes it’s just not worth the bother.”
Chapter Four
“Try this.” Roland Mills held out a teaspoon with a dab of white on the tip.
Elliot sampled the teaspoon and closed his eyes. A delicate, buttery cheese melted across his tongue. He opened his eyes. “Wow. What is that?”
“Mascarpone cheese. For the mushroom cream sauce that goes over the rigatoni.” Satisfied, Roland returned to the stove.
They were sitting in the kitchen of Roland’s comfortable bungalow in the artsy and eclectic historic Ballard district, about a ten minute drive from Seattle. Elliot had grown up in this house with its glossy bamboo bedroom floors, natural rock fireplace and tranquil front and back gardens. For the first few years after his mother’s death in a hit-and-run accident, it had been hard for him to visit. He’d always tried to meet his father on campus or at a restaurant, but eventually he’d got past it. The house no longer echoed with the emptiness of that missing voice, that absent laugh, those vanished footsteps. Elliot could remember the good times without grief—although he still didn’t understand how his father could sleep in the same bedroom, same bed, he’d shared for twenty-four years with the bright spirit of Jesse Mills. But then there were a lot of things he didn’t understand about his father. And probably vice versa.
“What can you tell me about Tom Baker?” he asked, idly watching his father’s ponytail sway gently with the motion of powerful shoulders beneath blue denim as he swiftly, precisely sliced mushrooms. Roland had waxed scathingly on the gloomy financial forecast for several local arts groups—although if Elliot were honest, he had only half listened, his attention still mostly focused on the brief and unpleasant meeting he’d had with Tucker at the Tacoma RA.
He really, really didn’t want to think about Tucker or start the inevitable sifting through the ashes of their brief—however intense—relationship. Though listening to his father bitch about Republicans, the recession and cancelled art grants wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of an improvement. It bothered Elliot how a few minutes’ conversation with Tucker could stir up…so much.
An awful lot of memories for a relationship that hadn’t lasted a year. Hadn’t lasted three months, to be accurate. In fact, calling it a “relationship” was kind of an exaggeration. Realistically, they’d been fuck buddies, right? Which was why, when Elliot had managed to get himself nailed following a shootout at the federal courthouse, there had been nothing to hold them together. The only thing they ever had in common was the job.
And a mutually weird sense of humor.
And a love of Nissan cars and pizza.
And the sex.
Which…yeah. Here he was full circle back to remembering the very thing he didn’t want the think about.
“Tom’s an okay cat. He’s one of the good guys,” Roland was saying as he whipped the mascarpone cheese. They were having lentil salad with the rigatoni. Elliot had inherited his love of cooking from his old man. Roland was good enough in the kitchen to make vegetarianism palatable, not that Elliot was converting anytime soon. In his opinion, all that was keeping the evening’s dinner from perfection was the absence of pork or lamb chops.
He met his father’s light gaze as Roland added, “He has a temper. I won’t argue that.”
“How much of a temper?”
“He didn’t kill his son.”
Elliot considered a couple of replies. He settled on, “I want to remind you who got me involved in this.”
“I’m not forgetting, but if you’re considering Tom as a suspect you’re wasting everyone’s time.”
“Because Tom’s an okay cat?”
“Because Tom wouldn’t kill his own child.”
Elliot studied his father for a moment. The differences between them were more than physical, and physically no one would pick them for father and son. Roland was medium height and built like a small bull. His brown hair and beard were finally going silver, but only in the last few years. Elliot was tall and slender like his mother had been. He possessed the same dark hair and gray eyes. Also her tempered idealism—which Roland referred to as “dismaying cynicism.”
“The thing is,” Elliot said neutrally, “people lose their temper and strike out, and human beings are pretty fragile when you get down to it.”
Case in point: his knee was aching at the swift approach of rain. He resisted the desire to massage it. He didn’t want to bring attention to it; nothing made Roland angrier than the recollection of his only child lamed in the service of a government he’d spent most of his own adult life battling.
“You pull your punches with your children.”
Roland truly believed that, and Elliot found himself without the energy or heart to dredge up all the sad, sordid exceptions to the rule he could think of. He said instead, “The kid, Terry, was gay. Did you know that?”
“Did I know that? No. I haven’t seen Terry since he was…hell. Fourteen or fifteen. I’m not surprised to hear it, though.” Roland met Elliot’s eyes and he smiled.
Elliot had been determinedly in the closet until he started graduate school. It had been disconcerting to finally come out to his parents only to learn they’d believed he was gay from the time he turned fourteen.
“Pauline seems to think that was a major problem for Tom.”
“It would be, sure,” Roland said calmly, “We’ve all got our hang ups. Tom’s unfortunately have to do with sexuality. He was always uptight when it came to the wild thang.”
“The wild…” Elliot decided to let that pass. “Right. So Tom wasn’t okay with his son’s sexual orientation. What kind of family dynamic do you think that would create?”
Roland dumped the sliced cremini, shiitake and button mushrooms into the pan with the shallots and garlic. He reached for the large milk-glass salt and pepper shakers. “I think it would make for some awkward family get-togethers.”
“I think it’s possible the kid might have killed himself.”
“I hope not.” But Roland didn’t sound entirely surprised at the idea.
“I hope not too, but…from what I’ve picked up so far he was a high achiever and a perfectionist. I don’t think it would be easy for him to disappoint his parents. I mean, it’s too early to speculate, but it is a possibility.”
Roland nodded. “I know. Neither Pauline nor Tom will accept the possibility, but…I saw enough of the damage loving parents can do when I was teaching.”
“This temper of Tom’s…I thought he was another bleeding heart liberal?”
Roland grinned. “Sure, but this was back in the day when we made the other side’s hearts—and ulcers—bleed too.”
“What about Pauline?” He happened to be looking directly at his father, which was how he noticed the sudden, slightly self-conscious blankness of Roland’s features, the hint of color on his cheekbones. Elliot just managed not to do a double take.
“What about her?”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s…sensitive, bright, a bit fragile.”
He wasn’t imagining things. His father liked Pauline. A lot. His good friend’s wife. Which seemed bizarre given how Pauline was totally unlike his own direct and even-tempered mother.
“She’s sort of young for him, isn’t she?” he asked shortly.
Roland’s gaze met his. “She was a clerk in his law office. They fell in love after he divorced Patricia. Pauline was pregnant with Terry when they married.”
“Great.”
Roland threw him an irritated look, and Elliot knew his attitude was showing. Really, what did it matter to him? Even if his father chose to remarry at some point, was it his business? Ten years was a long time to grieve, even for the love of your life.
Roland had been married twice before Jesse. He liked women. He liked marriage.
Elliot said, “Tom Baker isn’t the one concerned with Terry’s absence, is he? Consulting me was Pauline’s idea.”
“It was my idea, if you’ll recall. I’m sure Tom is very concerned, but he’s not a cat who shows his emotions. He and Terry have never been as close as he’d have liked.” Roland studied Elliot’s face. “Does Pauline have grounds to be concerned or is Tom right to downplay Terry’s disappearance?”
Elliot said reluctantly, “I think she’s right to be concerned.”
* * *
It wasn’t until much later that evening, when Elliot was home and crawling wearily into the comfortable double bed in the upstairs bedroom of his Goose Island cabin, that he allowed himself to dwell on the details of his meeting with Tucker.
Jesus, but it felt good to stretch out. The flannel sheets were soft and smelled comfortingly of cedar, but it was unsettling the way they brought back unwanted memories of that overnight sailing trip on Tucker’s boat. All at once everything was reminding him of Tucker.
He dropped the files on the striped brown-and-white duvet, powered on his laptop and leaned back into the stack of pillows, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the knotholes of the open pine beams.
On the one hand, it could have gone worse. Tucker could have refused to work with him at all. Not that that was very likely given that he’d received direct orders from SAC Montgomery to cooperate. But, once he’d got over the unpleasant shock of Elliot, he’d been professional and straightforward. So that was great news. Why did Elliot feel more depressed than he’d felt in months?
He gazed out the line of rain-starred windows at the black silhouette of the tall pines surrounding the cabin. What the hell more did he want? Tucker had handed over a copy of his file, he’d briefed him and he’d promised—grudgingly—to keep Elliot informed of any developments.
Maybe it had less to do with Tucker and the way things had ended between them and more to do with Elliot’s own feelings of uselessness, futility, because practically from the minute he’d heard Terry Baker was missing he’d had a bad feeling. That old gut instinct that this thing wasn’t going to end well.
In the old days he’d comforted himself with the knowledge that you couldn’t win them all. You did what you could and saved the ones you could save. But the Terry Baker case already felt too personal.
It didn’t help that Elliot had his own set of parental expectations to try and come to terms with. This was the only time he could remember his father asking for his help, but he was very much afraid the outcome here was not going to make anyone happy.
He shook off the feeling, sat up and reached for his laptop.
Who was Terry Baker?
Googling brought up a discouraging zilch. There were plenty of Terry Bakers out there, but not Terry Baker of PSU. Not on Facebook or MySpace or Twitter. This was a kid who understood the meaning of privacy.
Or paranoia.
Elliot gave up that approach and turned to Tucker’s notes, browsing quickly. Brief but comprehensive, that was Tucker’s strong suit. Not a guy for nuance, but he rarely—if ever—overlooked the essentials. Sort of illuminating, really. He and Tucker had only infrequently worked the same cases. They had not been partners. Neither of them would have wanted that. Elliot had specialized in investigating civil rights violations including hate crimes. Tucker had worked major thefts and violent crimes. On the occasions that they had been teamed, Elliot had admired Tucker’s no bullshit approach. It wasn’t subtle, but it was effective. It was less civilized than his own style, but it worked. Maybe if Tucker had been watching his back that day—
But no. That kind of thinking was unproductive. Tucker had not been there—and he sure as hell hadn’t been there after the fact. From the point that Elliot had been officially out of action, Tucker had zero interest in him anymore. Fair enough, because it was the same way Elliot felt.
Right?
Tucker was angry because he didn’t like the idea of being maneuvered. Or maybe he was one of those people who got mad when they felt guilty?
Elliot stared down at Tucker’s Bureau card with the official blue and gold FBI logo. Same phone number. Funny all the things he’d forgotten, but he hadn’t forgotten Tucker’s extension or cell phone number. Or home phone.
He put the card aside and returned to Tucker’s notes, but it was a struggle to concentrate. He kept remembering the weird, unlikely pleasure of being rolled onto his face and fucked to within an inch of his sanity by someone bigger and stronger and possibly even hornier than himself. The seduction of giving up control for that brief period, of letting go and accepting delivery of almost bewildering sexual satisfaction…It was a long time—seventeen months—since he’d let himself think about that.
Sort of like Pandora’s Box. All those painfully vivid images flying out: how merely that fierce, smoldering look of Tucker’s across a crowded room—a briefing room—could heat Elliot’s blood and stiffen his cock so fast it hurt; the taste of Tucker’s tongue pushing into his mouth; and the embarrassing noises of Elliot’s own shocked delight as Tucker’s thick cock shoved into his body and made them—for that brief space—one.
Pandora’s Box, all right, but at the bottom there was nothing resembling Hope.
Valiantly, Elliot tried to stuff the memories back in the casket and fasten on the job at hand. One thing for sure: Tucker would not be sitting around tonight remembering old times.
