Chapter 12
TWELVE
Icarus closed the computer window on his last live stream of the day, laid the remote beside it, and snagged the towel from his stash beside the bed.
He wiped the come off his torso, then gently removed the massager from his ass and the cock ring from around the base of his dick.
The toys were almost always a turn-on for his streaming clients, and the extra stimulation helped him too after a day packed with performances.
He’d taken more appointments than usual, then an impromptu live stream, banking as much money as he could during the daylight hours so he could sneak away to Portola during the fast-approaching night.
Before Vincent or Atlas—or Adam—realized he was missing.
After what had happened with Paris last night, after hearing just how far Vincent and Atlas were willing to go to get to Adam, Icarus had decided running was his only option.
He should probably also skip the stop in Portola—disappear altogether, from everyone—but this was her idea.
If he left her behind, she’d keep digging, keep searching for him, and likely run afoul of the people he was trying to escape.
Which would put her in danger, the very thing he was supposed to prevent, to protect her from.
In Yerba Buena, he was close enough in case of emergencies but far enough away to avoid his past mistakes.
Any farther, though . . . She’d be safer traveling with him than making herself a target without him.
He checked the time on his phone. Three hours until he was supposed to meet her in Portola. Enough time to finish packing, withdraw a stack of cash, and plant several false trails in case any of the aforementioned parties followed him.
Standing, he carried the toys into the shower with him, multitasking cleanup.
Afterward, he snuggled in the terrycloth robe he’d treated himself to when he’d first moved to Yerba Buena, the fog-shrouded climate cooler than he was used to.
He spent an indulgent few minutes sitting on the end of the bed, wrapped in the soft, cozy fabric, his last chance as the robe was too bulky to fit in his go bag.
He surveyed the room—the apartment—he’d be abandoning soon.
Did he have everything? His drawers were half-open and rifled through, the bits he couldn’t live without stuffed into the duffel by the door.
He’d only been there nine months—not enough time to collect much more than what he’d arrived with—but enough time to get comfortable.
He would miss this place and the promise Yerba Buena had held for him, including all the delicious dirty things Adam Devlin had promised him the other night.
But if Icarus stayed, he couldn’t be sure he or Adam would live to experience any of those delights.
Misery and death were the more likely outcomes, and Adam, he sensed, had had enough of those nightmares already.
Shaking off the melancholy, he grabbed his jeans—no way he was leaving those behind—and the black lace briefs he’d left on the dresser.
He pulled them on and had just grabbed a fitted tee when the phone on the bedside table vibrated.
He tossed the tee on the dresser and walked around to the side of the bed, expecting a text from her.
Instead, the screen was lit by a message from Mike.
Last night in town. How about that rain check?
Icarus checked the time again and ran train schedules in his head.
Less sunlight hours in the fall meant the solar-powered trains didn’t run as late into the night as they did in spring and summer, but if Mike was available now, Icarus could make it work.
Pocket another five hundred, dash back here for his bag, then catch the last train to Portola.
The extra money wouldn’t hurt, nor would a final visit with one of his favorite clients. When were you thinking? he texted back.
Now? I’m on the red-eye out later tonight.
Icarus could make that work. Hotel Ellis in 20.
See you then.
The screen went dark, and Icarus shifted into high gear.
Time was tight. He retrieved the toys from the bathroom and shoved them, the remote, and a tube of lube into a sparkly satchel he snatched out of his closet.
One last hurrah for another favorite item that wouldn’t fit in his go bag.
Next, he hauled his duffel onto the bed and dug out a little black dress, stockings, a wine-colored jockstrap and garters, and his favorite black heels.
Finally, he shut down his laptop, tucked it and the necessary peripherals into a pouch, and nestled it between clothes in the duffel.
He carried the satchel and the duffel to the dusk-shadowed living room and set both bags on the couch.
All that was left to do when he returned was retrieve the single dose of Daylight from his freezer and pack it with the rest of his express meals in an insulated pouch.
Enough food to last him a few days and an emergency safety measure if needed.
Otherwise packed and ready, Icarus turned toward the bedroom to change but only got as far as the threshold when two hard knocks rapped against his door.
Not a neighbor’s knock that he recognized, nor the usual delivery person’s.
Keeping the lights off, he stepped back into the shadowed living area and extended his hearing.
And picked up a heartbeat he did recognize. “Fuck,” he cursed low.
He glanced from his bag to the balcony door to his state of relative undress—barefoot, jeans undone, robe hanging open.
It was dim enough outside, the fog rolled in by now, that he could make it to the cover of the cypress trees without a burn.
But a certain human outside his door would hear the commotion inside—Icarus scurrying for the last most important item in the freezer, the hanging blinds on his balcony door rattling, the door opening.
Given the speed at which he’d have to move and the height from which he’d have to jump, there’d be no disguising himself anymore.
And all of that assumed a coyote wasn’t waiting outside, ready to pounce.
Any exposure would be for naught, assuming Adam didn’t know what he was already.
The knocks sounded again. “I know you’re in there, Icarus.” The gruff voice confirmed the owner of the heartbeat.
The Devil knew where he lived, and Icarus had no escape.
He looked down at himself again. He could dash back into the bedroom and quickly dress, but he’d wasted enough time already. Maybe the shock factor would work for getting rid of Adam faster.
He crossed to the door and swung it open. “How do you know where I live? And how did you know I was home?”
Adam’s gaze raked over him like a brand, and when he spoke again, his voice was full of gravel. “Because you haven’t left all day.”
“Do you have someone following me?” Like a certain coyote?
Stormy eyes flicked to his, full of lightning, enough to startle Icarus back a step.
Adam took advantage, slipping past him and inside.
He was in work boots, jeans, and a Henley, and had a pistol in the holster at his waist. He ambled into the living room and stood next to the couch, staring down at the bags. “This is confusing.”
Icarus closed the door and took up a spot on the wall between the bedroom and living room. “So stop trying to figure it out.”
“This one will be useful.” He picked up the satchel, and his eyes widened, surprised either at the weight of it or what he felt inside.
The shape of the items, given what Icarus did for a living, was a dead giveaway.
One Adam apparently caught on to and liked given his deepening smirk. “Very useful.”
Icarus darted forward, barely containing his speed, and snatched the bag away. “It wasn’t for you. I’m meeting a client.”
“Not anymore. You promised me a date.”
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t go into that bathroom and jerk off after I left you Wednesday night?” He narrowed the distance between them, less than a foot apart. “Because when I got home, I sure did. Can’t remember the last time I came that hard.”
Icarus flattened himself against the wall, creating as much room as he could between himself and the too-tempting man he wanted to plaster himself against instead. “I can’t cancel on him again,” he protested, voice breathy, not the least bit convincing.
The other corner of Adam’s mouth hitched upward, a full-on devil’s smile.
He reached out a hand, and Icarus sucked in a breath, on the knife’s edge anticipating where his warm, callused fingers might go.
They slipped into Icarus’s pocket, oh so close to where Icarus wanted them, but didn’t venture far enough, withdrawing his phone instead.
Icarus glimpsed a message alert from Mike onscreen. As did Adam. “Mr. Whiskey from the bar?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He clicked the call back option and put it on speaker.
“Icarus, hey,” Mike answered, sounding winded. “I’m a little late, but on my—”
“Icarus isn’t on his way,” Adam replied. “But there’ll be another whiskey waiting for you at . . .” Adam cut Icarus a questioning glance.
“Hotel Ellis,” Icarus answered.
“Um . . . Icarus, you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mike.” Icarus sighed and leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed. “But I can’t be there tonight with you. I’m sorry. Enjoy your whiskey.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I’ll see you next time.”
The line went dead on whatever Mike started to say, and the phone thumped against his bags, Adam tossing it aside. Warm rough hands gently clasped Icarus’s waist, inside the robe, just above the band of his jeans. “But you won’t, will you?”
“Not if you keep fucking with my job.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Adam ran the tip of his nose along the column of Icarus’s throat. “And besides, I’m your job.”
Icarus froze midshiver. Did Adam know Vincent had sent him? That his job was to act as bait? To lead Adam to his death?
“I’m trying to refocus all your attention on me.”
Or maybe Adam meant “job” in Icarus’s usual sense of the word, in the way that involved an intimacy Adam missed, his gestures now so like the ones Tuesday night in his bathroom.
He nuzzled the crook of Icarus’s neck as his warm breaths and rapid heartbeat slowed.
Every second like this made whatever it was Icarus was doing with Adam feel less and less like a job and more and more like something he also wanted.
And somewhere between the jumble of conflicting emotions and priorities was the one thing that mattered most: not leading Adam to his death.
Maybe if he took this “job” tonight, if he gave Adam the intimacy he so clearly needed, he could find a way to warn him away from Vincent Cirillo.
Or fuck, kidnap him if he had to. Make sure he didn’t run to his death.
He lifted a hand and tangled his fingers in the coarse dark strands at the back of Adam’s head. “Where are we going?”
Adam smiled against his skin. “Benton’s.”
Finding Adam’s hair too short to tug, Icarus was forced to curl his fingers around his skull instead and gently tilt his face back so Icarus could see it. “How?”
The Devil grinned. “I’m me.”
Icarus didn’t know whether to slap him, kiss him, or knee him in the balls for being so damn arrogant.
And he sure as fuck didn’t know what to wear to a joint like Benton’s.
Yes, he worked YB’s top clubs, but courtesans didn’t frequent establishments like Benton’s.
Only the sort of people who drank whiskey and drove gas-powered cars dined there.
People like Adam Devlin. “I don’t have anything to wear to a place like that. ”
Adam tilted his head toward the bedroom.
“There’s that dress in there.” When the fuck had he noticed that?
In the half-second glance he’d cast that direction when he’d entered?
Cop, Icarus’s brain reminded him. Then his brain short-circuited completely as Adam coasted a hand over his hip and grabbed his ass.
“But I’d rather you leave these jeans on and throw on that shiny top from the other night. ”
Despite his full day of work, Icarus was halfway to hard already.
Zero need for toys. Not when Adam’s erection was shoved up against his.
It was a struggle even to hold the thread of conversation.
All he wanted to do was wrap his legs around Adam’s hips and get fucked against the wall. Or better yet, on the bed.
Bed.
Dress.
Benton’s.
The thread.
“I can’t go to Benton’s in patchwork jeans.”
Adam used the hand not clutching Icarus’s ass to gesture at his own self, dressed in jeans and a sweater.
“Yeah, but you’re . . .” Icarus shoved his shoulder. “You.”
“And you’ll be with me.” Adam grabbed his retreating wrist and pinned it to the wall, spreading the robe open more fully, exposing more of Icarus’s chest to lips and teeth that scorched a path across his collarbone on their way to a nipple.
“I want to take you out for a nice dinner, some whiskey. A proper date.”
He flattened his tongue for a long, rough lick, and Icarus scrabbled for purchase with his free hand. Scrabbled for the thread again. “I don’t—”
Adam tightened his grip on his ass. “I want to stare at your ass in these threadbare jeans.” He released the cheek and glided his hand up under the robe, spreading his hand over Icarus’s bare back.
“I want to splay my hand here and sneak my fingers beneath the drape of that sexy top.” He licked a path across Icarus’s chest to the other nipple, swiped and bit.
Icarus hissed. Chuckling, Adam released the sensitive nub and nuzzled the thin patch of hair between his pecs.
“I want everyone to see you on my arm, then I want to take you home.” The hand on Icarus’s back lazily drifted around front, then, with laser-sharp precision, dove into his open jeans and roughly palmed his cock over the lace, making Icarus achingly hard in an instant.
“I want to peel these jeans down your incredible fucking legs, see you in nothing but lace, then lay you out on a bed and suck your thick shaft until you’re about to blow. ”
Fucking hell, the swings from starved for intimacy to just plain starved were making Icarus dizzy and more turned on than he’d been in his whole damn life. “I’m about to blow now.”
Adam kissed up his throat and around his mouth, tongue dipping and diving between his lips, teasing, never giving Icarus the kiss he wanted. “Not yet, baby.”
Groaning, Icarus chased after his mouth and missed, lips scraping scruffy cheek. “When?”
Adam shoved the lace aside and grabbed his balls. Good thing, since his next words sent Icarus soaring. “When I’m on my hands and knees and you’re fucking me senseless.”