Chapter 7
JETT
I was too tired to tease Locke about sex. While I wanted so damn badly to be taken hard and fast from behind and fucked straight to sleep, it was clear Locke didn’t want me like that.
Maybe it was the way I looked—vastly different from the man with hot V-cuts and abs back at the Candy Bar. Or maybe Locke’s little moment of sexual experimentation had been a bust. One and done, no need for more.
Either way, it was clear that wasn’t happening. I pulled on my last clean pair of boxer briefs and slid into the bed.
“I know I should probably offer to sleep on the love seat, but that’s not happening,” I said without looking at him. I didn’t want to risk the look of disappointment or, worse, disgust on his face when he realized I was going to hold him to his earlier offhanded statement about sharing the bed.
“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely. “Just go to sleep.”
I gritted my teeth, turning to face the wall. “Asshole,” I muttered under my breath.
The bed behind me dipped, and it took all of my core strength to keep from rolling toward him. Instead, I rode the edge of the bed like my life depended on it.
“You’re going to fall off the mattress.”
“I’m fine.”
Locke sighed like I had worked his very last nerve. “’Course you are.”
He turned off the lamp, dousing the room in darkness. Silence slid between us, and for some reason, that made me feel sorry for myself.
Tired, lonely, and rejected. The triple crown of pathetic. I couldn’t help the tears that slid down my face or the tiny accompanying hitch in my breathing.
Beside me, Locke froze.
“Are you… crying?” he demanded, horrified.
“No,” I sniffled, willing the hot tears back into my eye sockets. Betraying little fuckers. “Of course not. Jesus.”
After a minute, I couldn’t help but sniffle again. It was just exhaustion, that was all.
“Get the fuck over here,” he grumbled, reaching a warm hand around my hip and tugging me back until I was engulfed in his arms, little-spoon style. “Go to sleep.”
The tears came faster but silently. I thought I’d gotten away with my noiseless pity party until his deep voice murmured, “You’re killing me.”
I turned in his embrace and buried my face in his neck, reaching my arms around him and hugging him tightly.
“I’m sorry,” I half sobbed. “It doesn’t mean anything. Ignore me.”
His strong hands roamed up and down my back, careful of my bruises. I waited for his gruff demand again to tell him who had hurt me, but it didn’t come. Instead, he shushed me gently and murmured reassurances into my ear, his warm, minty breath soothing and welcome on my skin.
And all I could think was… I hadn’t known Locke was capable of this. Of simple comfort.
I knew him as a proud, controlled man who sometimes pissed me off with his cool, confident demands.
As a man whose perma-frown made it damn near impossible not to tease and provoke him.
But his deep voice muttering nonsense words—rumbling from his chest directly into mine—was more soothing than anything I could remember.
It reminded me of the way my fathers treated each other, never hesitating to show that the other was beloved and cared for.
I began to calm, wondering if I should pull away again and let him sleep without a clinging spider monkey plastered to his front. Instead, I squeezed my eyes closed and let myself daydream that I was in the arms of someone who loved me. That I was something protected and cherished.
Once upon a time, this was something I’d wanted for myself.
Then I’d gotten my heart broken in college—twice—and realized I was happiest when I didn’t take things too seriously.
Casual sex with no strings was fun and easy.
I fucking loved it. Besides, commitment and true love weren’t exactly compatible with being an ESP agent.
If I ever did want commitment, it wouldn’t come from a straight guy like Locke Maris, who lived in a completely different world than I did, or any other straight guy who didn’t appreciate how good it was to be with another man.
This was simply a moment of weakness.
“Go the fuck to sleep,” he grumbled, tugging my hair a little where his fingers had been running through it.
“Fine, but I’m not moving,” I warned him sleepily. “I’m staying right here in your face.”
He shifted a little, making his lips accidentally brush my forehead. “I will give you a thousand dollars if you shut up and do as I say.”
I snuggled in closer to his warm, reassuring strength. “I will give you a thousand dollars if you suck my cock right now.”
He let out a huff of laughter, his breath moving the hair over my forehead. “Baby, if you had a thousand dollars, maybe we could talk.”
I fell asleep with a grin on my face and words of my own wealth on the tip of my tongue. I didn’t speak them, of course, or believe his offer. But I imagined his hot mouth around my cock anyway. It was enough to set me up for the best dreams possible.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t how dreams worked.
The nightmare began as all my nightmares for the past several weeks had.
Murky water against the docks in Hamburg.
Overcast skies and too-brisk wind off the water.
The now-familiar clank of equipment and shout of the hafenarbeiter as they loaded and off-loaded cargo.
The forbidding sense of danger and deceit.
The knowledge that something wasn’t right.
What happened in the dream varied, but the sense of foreboding and danger never did. Sometimes my family would be there. Gabe or Becca or one of my dads. Sometimes it would be my grandmother. My boss. One time, it was the young woman who’d sold me a sandwich a few days earlier.
In the dream, they’d been taken. Or murdered. Or shoved into the impossibly deep port waters, never to be seen again.
I startled awake, as I always did—gasping. An aborted scream of agony on my lips. Sweat covering my body.
But this time when it happened, strong male arms banded around me, exacerbating the terror.
I struggled, sucking in as much air as possible so I could cry for help.
“Jesus fuck. Jett. Jett! It’s me, Locke. Stop fighting me. For fuck’s sake.” The sleep-hoarse voice was familiar, and a wave of relief washed over me.
“S-sorry,” I said, choking on an inhaled breath while simultaneously trying to huff out a laugh to assure him I was fine. The result was a coughing fit.
Locke loosened his hold, allowing the chill of the room to hit my warm skin where our chests had been pressed together.
I blew out a breath and started to move toward the far side of the bed, but then I realized Locke had only moved away to grab a bottle of water for me. “Drink this.”
The water was cool and clean. I gulped down several sips before handing it back to him to put back on the table. “Thanks.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Definitely not.”
“Suit yourself. Go back to sleep, then.”
I stared at the dark shape of him, only faintly visible in the city lights coming around the edge of one curtain. “You’re bossy as fuck. Do you think you run the entire world? Because you sure act like it sometimes.”
He rolled flat on the bed beside me and laughed hollowly. “Feel like it sometimes, too.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, wondering if I could gather any kind of intel while I was here. Might as well, since the whole sex thing was off the table, and the idea of returning to the murder pier in my dreams was not welcome.
“Nothing to talk about. I manage an arm of my family business. Someday—hopefully no time soon—I’ll run the whole thing. And running Maris comes with serious responsibilities.”
Calling Maris a “family business” was a massive understatement. Hell, half the ships in the Hamburg port during my mission had been Maris ships, the equipment stamped with Maris logos. His family was so wealthy, I was surprised he didn’t travel with personal security.
“Is that why you were in Amsterdam?” I pressed. “Big ruler-of-the-world meetings?”
“Not exactly.” After a brief hesitation, he added, “I was here for a chess tournament.”
Unbelievable as this statement seemed, it had the ring of truth. For a moment, I gaped at his shadow in the darkness. Then I scrambled to turn on the bedside lamp.
Locke threw an arm over his eyes with a muffled curse.
“A chess tournament? What the fuck?” I demanded with a laugh. “I’ve been around plenty of chess. No way are you a chess nerd.”
Locke pushed himself up to sit against the headboard, rubbing his eyes and glaring at me all the while. His face was adorably sleep-rumpled with a red splotch on his cheek where it must have been pressed against some part of me while we slept.
“It’s an old-world variant of chess called Paxis,” he explained. “More complicated than regular chess. And I wasn’t playing, I was watching. My grandfather’s the Paxis player in our family.”
My fingers itched to look it up online, but I resisted the urge. “Let me understand. You travel the world to cheer on your grandfather while he plays ultra-nerdy chess?” I teased.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and I tried not to appreciate the broad spread of his shoulders and curved muscles of his pecs. Or the masculine hair on his forearms. Or the happy trail I could now see disappearing from his belly button down into the sheets.
“Something like that, yes.” He eyed me. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a nerd hobby because I won’t believe you. Everyone has one.”
I blinked at him and blurted out the truth.
“S-seashells.” I cleared my throat. “I’m on the hunt for the tiniest perfect specimen.
Specifically, spiral or conch-shaped. So, like, a triton or tulip would work.
I like tritons, but they’re rare. I’ve heard they’re more common in Hawaii, but I’ve never been. ”
“Where have you found them so far?” he asked, looking surprised. “Rockaway Beach in Queens? I’ve heard of people searching for shells there.”
“No, South Carolina. I grew up on the coast there, I think I told you?”
Shit. Had I told him that?
After so many months as Jonas Vogel, it was hard to remember Jethro’s backstory period, let alone which bits of it Locke and I had discussed.
Fortunately, the stakes were low. I’d wager big money Locke remembered even less about Jethro than I did, and I couldn’t imagine a scenario where he’d go looking for info. He’d probably forgotten I existed until we’d run into each other.
Still, it made sense to change the subject.
“Anyway, I haven’t been to a shell beach in years,” I lied. “Tell me more about Paxis. Is there like an association of players? Is your grandfather ranked? Who puts on the tournaments? Do you play, too? Does your whole family?”
Something shifted in his demeanor. “My grandfather plays with a private group. And yes, I’m… learning. My father had no aptitude for the game while he was alive, and my sister, Celeste, has no interest in it.” He shook his head, faintly amused. “Which left me to take it on.”
That was an odd way of talking about a hobby. As if playing chess were somehow a heavy responsibility he carried. Maybe the family’s reputation in Paxis circles was an important part of his legacy.
But a new, slightly horrifying thought occurred to me. “Is your grandfather here now?” Is he likely to show up and wonder why I’m in your bed?
Locke shook his head. “He flew to his house in Italy for a break. I have to return to the city for work. Running the world doesn’t just happen, you know.”
I laughed. Beyond the golden circle of light from the lamp, the room was dark and still, making it feel like the two of us were suspended in a bubble. Maybe that was why Locke was answering my questions honestly. Maybe that was why I wanted to reciprocate.
“My dads are into a cutthroat card game called Egyptian Ratscrew,” I blurted. “Have you heard of it?”
Locke’s frown intensified like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“I know, I know, weird name, but you might like it. It’s really fun and intense. It involves a lot of slapping and yelling. At least, my family’s variation does.” I held out my hand and pointed to a needle-thin scar on my pinkie. “This is from my sister’s pointy-nail era. Siblings are vicious.”
We talked for a little while longer. I explained how the card game worked and regaled him with a few stories of epic games over the years, congratulating myself that I was aware enough not to share any specific identifying details he could use to find my real identity.
Eventually, I turned the light off again, and we continued talking as we sank back down onto the bed, facing each other.
It was… nice.
Weirdly domestic, but… good.
As I closed my eyes, I imagined this was how actual couples fell asleep, talking about unimportant things, and I found myself wishing for more of it.
I wondered what it would be like to see Locke again, back in the city.
I even wondered whether there was a chance I could ever tell him who I really was.
As Locke’s breathing evened into sleep, my eyes shot open in the dark.
What the fuck was I thinking? Breaking my cover? For… a chance at begging for scraps from a straight man’s table?
This op had really fucked me up if this was how low I’d sunk. The fantasies spinning in my head were ridiculous. Not to mention dangerous.
Which was why I waited to be sure Locke was truly asleep and then quietly got the hell out of there to catch my flight home.
And why, two weeks later, I agreed to transfer to the Miami office.