Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Javi woke up just before the alarm.
The familiar steps of his morning wake-up routine were disrupted by two things. That his face hurt and that there was no one in the bed next to him, his outstretched hand finding nothing but cool sheets.
He rolled over onto his back and sat up, sheets puddled across his lap.
It didn’t take long for the memory of his brawl with Limehouse to load.
That explained the face. Javi gingerly reached up to check the outlines of an ache with his fingertips.
It felt worse than it had yesterday—heavy and stiff—but he supposed that was to be expected.
The bed thing wasn’t a surprise. Javi had always considered himself an early bird, but then he met Cloister.
Now he knew he was just disciplined. Even on nights that Cloister slept, it was more common to wake up to him gone than not.
Javi just didn’t know why it bothered him.
He’d spent his whole life telling people he preferred to sleep alone; now he had the perfect boyfriend for that.
Yet his stomach sank a little every time he woke up without someone’s sweaty, heavy body rubbing on him.
Sure, a sour thought told him sardonically, it’s that and not the fact you’re lying to him.
Javi took a slow, controlled breath and scrubbed both hands through his hair. He laced his hands together at the back of his skull and stared at the smooth gray feature wall.
Make that three things.
Only one of which he could fix. Javi pushed the sheets off him and got out of bed.
The wooden floor was cold underfoot as he padded into the kitchen to get two painkillers.
He noticed there were two more gone from what had been a fresh strip as he popped the pills out of the packaging.
They were acrid on his tongue as he tossed them into his mouth and dry-swallowed them.
The fact that Cloister, a man who ran like it was self-harm, was willing to resort to medication worried Javi, but…career law enforcement hurt. If an injury didn’t invalid you out, it lingered and it ached. Tylenol was a better coping mechanism than whiskey.
At least, it was until later in the day.
Javi grimaced around the aftertaste of powder on his tongue as he checked the clock. Kincaid had given him a time that someone would come to pick him up this morning. From experience, he’d send them early, so Javi didn’t have a lot of time to get ready.
He turned to the bathroom and paused halfway across the living room when the smeared window caught his attention.
The memory of last night made his cock twitch—the vivid flash of Cloister’s body reflected in the window as Javi fucked him almost tactile.
It also made him wonder how generous a tip it would take for it to be OK to leave it for his cleaner to deal with.
The thought of his grandmother’s disapproval—who’d always spent the hour their cleaner was paid for gossiping over horchata with the woman from her church, the floors already scrubbed and linen folded before Celie got there—itched the back of his neck.
He gave in to the ancestral pressure and accepted he’d have to do it himself.
Whoever Sunny Side Cleaners sent next week could earn the tip by fixing the mess he’d make.
Before he could pull himself away, his brain decided to remind him of one more thing.
You told Cloister you loved him.
It dragged the “love” out like a child in the playground, the mockery sour with self-loathing. Javi took a shallow breath as he swallowed, as if he could still feel the words in his throat.
He had said that.
Cloister didn’t say it back.
He wouldn’t.
Javi waited for the rewrite, the reassurance that he’d not meant it like that or that he just loved Cloister’s tight, freckled ass…which he did. It was a bit of a surprise when all he got was nothing. Apparently, he was well aware that he loved Cloister and didn’t need a return on that investment.
It was typical, Javi supposed, that he’d realize that just before he wrecked it.
“Iborrowed your key,” Cloister said as he let himself back into the apartment.
Bourneville shoved between his legs, slip lead scraping along behind her, and padded into the kitchen.
She was too polite to put her paws up on the counters, but she stopped in front of the oven to sniff the air pointedly.
Javi paused mid-coffee to give Cloister a mildly disgruntled look.
“Why don’t you just keep it?” he said. “I don’t want the neighbors judging me for letting my deputy sheriff free-roam.”
Cloister considered that for a moment. Apparently, it was close enough to his comfort zone that he could let it slide.
He nodded as he padded into the kitchen, excusing himself as he squeezed behind Javi’s chair.
Javi could smell him on the way by, all hot sun-warmed skin and fresh, clean sweat.
For a second, as he felt heat tickle between his legs, he considered throwing caution and his shower to the wind.
The cold air that washed out of the fridge as Cloister opened it wasn’t quite enough to douse the temptation. It did remind Javi that his current interactions with Kincaid were complicated enough without giving the man more ammunition.
“Did you think about what I said last night?” Javi asked as he shifted around in the chair to look at Cloister.
He caught the way Cloister tensed and went still for a beat, hand halfway toward the bottle of water.
A quick mental recap of the night before made it dawn on him that he might need to be clear about what part of the conversation he was referring to.
“About letting Kincaid handle the investigation.”
Cloister’s shoulders relaxed. He picked up the water and twisted the lid off as he turned. A jab of his elbow behind him swung the fridge door shut again with a heavy thud.
Javi wasn’t sure how to take the fact that his “I love you” might be a more stressful topic than Kincaid. Although it did give him a sour flicker of humor to think how offended Kincaid would be, after all his efforts to get under Cloister’s skin.
“You really think Kincaid cares about finding Miles Lassiter?” Cloister asked.
“Yes,” Javi said.
The confidence in his voice made Cloister hesitate and cock his head to the side.
“You sound very sure of that,” he said.
“I am.”
Cloister thought about that as he took a drink. He peeled his shirt away from his stomach with his free hand. Javi clenched his jaw and waited for the shoe to drop. If Cloister asked “why” he was going to tell him, and it wasn’t because he was honest.
It was because Javi was a selfish man.
Cloister lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth on his arm. “I’ll think about it,” he said reluctantly.
That…wasn’t what Javi had been expecting. He had already started the inhale for his answer, but this made him deflate. He stood up and curled one hand around Cloister’s waist to pull him closer.
“I appreciate that,” he said.
The doubt on Cloister’s face faded into a smile as he looked down between their bodies.
“I’m going to get sweat all over you,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
“You do.”
He did. Javi grabbed a quick, salt-sharp kiss from Cloister and disentangled himself. He gave Cloister a shove. “Go shower,” he said, and checked the clock again. “I need to go, but…make yourself at home.”
Cloister gave him a wave over one shoulder on the way out of the room that could have been agreement or not.
There wasn’t time to obsess over it. Javi picked up his coffee and drained it.
As he set the cup back down on the table, he felt a cold nose against his other wrist and looked down at Bourneville.
He wasn’t sure how a dog raised eyebrows it didn’t have expectantly, but he could tell she was.
“I skipped breakfast,” he said. “Ask Cloister.”
She sighed and left the kitchen. Instead of jumping up on the couch, she pointedly lay down on the floor. For a big dog, she could curl up into a very small ball of disappointment.
“Tomorrow,” he promised as he headed out. He grabbed his jacket from the door and his phone from the side table. “If I have time.”
His heels clicked off the steps as he headed down to the street. He was lucky Bourneville was a dog. If they ever had kids, he was going to be useless.
“Iheard someone trashed your car,” Benson commented. His voice sounded louder and somehow posher against the bare, unfinished walls of the dorms they’d repurposed to offices. He offered the coffee he had in one hand as he added, “At Kincaid’s hotel?”
Javi leaned back in his chair. It creaked ominously under him as he did so, a reminder that they’d repurposed the furniture as well.
He rubbed his thumb over his left eyelid, trying to smear away the after-image of hours of background data on one Brian Fowler, and reached for the coffee with his free hand.
The cup was heavy and industrial-issue brown.
It looked like it was designed to make sure to avoid office conflict over anyone’s personally claimed cup.
The coffee was good, though. Hot and with a malty sweetness that lingered.
Kincaid knew where not to stint when dealing with overtired, overworked government employees.
As he swallowed and lowered the cup, the weight of it loosely cradled in both hands, he tried to decide whether to take Benson at face value or not. There was a built-in smugness about the junior agent that made it hard to tell.
There were probably people who’d describe Javi the same way.
“I think the correct terminology is motel,” he side-stepped the question instead. “You can tell because of the exterior entrances and the hot and cold running dealers.”
Benson laughed.