Chapter 7
Nearly two weeks had passed since they’d returned from Montreal and they easily slipped back into their normal routine.
They were just getting home from the gym, with Beckett’s hair still dripping wet from taking a hasty shower, when Beckett’s cellphone rang.
Gill’s ringtone was obnoxiously loud in the quiet hallway in front of the door to their condo.
“You should really change that,” Hayes recommended with a disapproving frown, even as he struggled not to smile.
“Why?” Beckett asked incredulously, as he tried to fish the phone out of his pocket. This was no easy task since he was already juggling a water bottle, a gym bag, and his keys.
“Because one of these days, he’s going to call your phone and figure out that’s his ringtone,” Hayes replied knowingly, as the first eight bars of “The Imperial March” echoed in the hallway.
Beckett snorted and shrugged. “Let him,” he said, before pressing accept and putting the call on speaker.
“Hello, you've reached the hotline for bad decisions. How may I direct your call?” he asked, obnoxious as ever.
“Thérault, where are you?” Gill sounded stressed, which was highly unusual.
“In the Maldives—Hayes is snorting coke off a stripper’s ass even as we speak.” His deadpan delivery made him sound like a nightly news anchor.
“Can you be at my house in 20 minutes? It’s—” he sighed and the frustration was obvious as he said, “It’s an emergency.”
Beckett shot Hayes a wide-eyed look.
“Sure—” Beckett agreed hesitantly. “Are we bringing guns?” he asked, just to test the parameters of this emergency.
“Yes,” Gill replied immediately.
Gill hung up without waiting for a reply.
“Well, that was fucking weird!” Beckett snorted as he tossed the phone to Hayes and then fumbled around for his keys.
“What do you think he needs?” Hayes asked.
“Maybe they had a lover’s spat and he needs to hide the body,” Beckett responded.
“I don’t think he’d call us for that,” Hayes said, ever the voice of reason.
“Why not?” Beckett asked. “You’ve done that kind of shit before.”
Hayes rolled his eyes as he moved past him to nudge open the door.
“Exactly—and I wouldn’t recruit you for jobs like that. You’re too loud,” he explained calmly.
“Too loud?!” Beckett exclaimed indignantly, his voice reaching a pitch that any opera singer would be proud of.
Hayes didn’t respond to that, refusing to encourage Beckett’s put-upon behavior.
“Hiding a body requires a certain level of discretion that I’m sorely afraid you cannot attain,” Hayes said, dropping his things on the kitchen counter so he could sort through them. Beckett watched as he emptied his water bottle and put it in the dishwasher.
“Well, fucking excuseh-moi,” Beckett replied, as he tried to look genuinely insulted. “How many dead bodies have you hidden exactly?” Suddenly, he pressed his chest to Hayes’ back, breathing softly against Hayes’ neck.
Hayes resisted momentarily as he felt Beckett box him in, before relaxing against him.
He leaned his head forward and bit down on his bottom lip to fight off his smile.
It was useless, because Beckett knew exactly what it did to him whenever he took control of their physical space.
Beckett squeezed him a bit tighter and settled his chin on Hayes’ shoulder.
Hayes decided to switch things up a bit.
“You ever met any of my exes?” Hayes teased.
Beckett spun him around like he was a ragdoll and gripped his biceps to hold him in place. Hayes’ gaze was filled with heat and his face was flushed, which made Beckett smile with approval and satisfaction. Hayes would never admit to it, but he fucking loved getting manhandled by Beckett.
“You think you’re being sooooo damned clever,” Beckett declared, eyes searching Hayes’ hungrily. “But as far I’m concerned, any and all of your exes are dead and buried—otherwise I’d be forced to hunt them down and introduce them to my good friend 6-feet-under,” he said, seriously.
Hayes’ breath hitched with arousal, and Beckett watched as he forced himself to stand still and not react.
Ah, Beckett’s favourite game. Getting past Hayes’ tight-lipped control.
Ordinarily, he’d needle him into submission.
Tease and prod until Hayes all but melted in his hold.
But they didn’t have the time for that now.
“You? Threatened? I don’t buy it,” Hayes said, shaking his head and continuing to play it cool.
Beckett watched his partner fight not to smile.
“Threatened? No. Jealous of whoever got to lay their hands on you first—abso-fucking-lutely.” And he didn’t bother playing a game. He let his possessiveness shine through as his gaze remained locked with Hayes’.
When Hayes’ control began to fail—whisked away by his disarming honesty, Beckett leaned forward and stole a kiss.
It had to be quick, and it was nothing like the passionate ones he’d have loved to claim from his boyfriend, because they needed to get their asses in gear and get on the road. He sighed as he pulled away.
“The fucking mess you make of me,” Beckett blew out, voice low. He adjusted himself in his pants. Already hard as hell.
Hayes’ eyes widened at this heartfelt admission and his brain swirled with possible follow-up questions.
“Alright!” Beckett stepped back and rubbed his hands together briskly. “Gotta go rescue Gill.”
With that he turned and made for their bedroom—needing to collect his arsenal, then change out of his gym clothes and put on something better suited to dealing with emergency missions at Gill’s house.
Hayes just stood there staring blankly. A full minute passed before he followed Beckett into the bedroom, and even then, he still looked dazed.
Good. Let Beckett’s words completely register with him.
Nothing about their relationship was casual.
Not the sex, not the love, and certainly not the feeling of possessiveness.
Hayes was Beckett’s. The good, the bad. It was all his.
Hayes might as well know just how firmly entrenched he was in Beckett’s heart and mind.
Outwardly, nothing seemed out of place as they stood at the front door of Gill Forbes’ home.
The neighbourhood was quiet. Most houses had been lavishly decorated for Christmas—elaborate wreaths, pale white lights strung in bare trees, and lawn decorations with twinkling lights were everywhere.
It wasn’t the type of decorations Beckett genuinely enjoyed though.
Sadly, he couldn’t find any flashing multicolored lights and ridiculous inflatables of Santa or the Grinch or Rudolph.
Instead, this neighborhood was the posh side of Christmas.
The aesthetically pleasing one. He sneered disdainfully at the life-sized, Burl Ives-looking snowman that had been placed next to the front door.
The damned thing even had a Burberry scarf wrapped around his neck. Talk about overkill! Gee whiz!
“There was the gnome at Chase’s house, and now you’re quarreling with a snowman,” Hayes said, mockingly annoyed, quietly amused.
Beckett had a standing feud with a garden gnome in New York, but that was an entirely different situation. It didn’t make the snowman any less of an annoyance or a potential threat to his sanity.
“Look at him,” he said, gesturing towards the offending snowman. He was wearing a top hat and a monocle. His Burberry scarf was way more expensive than the one Beckett donned when he was “dressing up.”
“You know he makes seven figures and drinks nothing but imported wine.”
“It’s an inanimate object,” Hayes retorted with a heavy sigh. Beckett caught the hint of a smile despite his best efforts to hide it.
“It’s looking at me like it’s waiting for me to take its order,” Beckett said scornfully, looking away.
Thankfully, he was saved from having to explain himself any further as the door swung open to reveal a distressed, but still quite handsome, Gill.
He had so many frown lines he looked constipated, but his tuxedo fit him like a glove and made him seem even taller and broader than usual.
“Finally!” he exclaimed, grabbing Beckett’s shoulder, and yanking him into the entryway.
Beckett could barely keep his balance, stumbling forward awkwardly with Hayes right on his heels.
“Where’s the threat? What happened?” Hayes demanded, reaching for his Glock.
“Why are you dressed like a penguin?” Beckett asked with a snort, clearly unconcerned about anything other than Gill’s formal attire.
Gill squared his shoulders and ran a hand through his short hair, obviously struggling for composure.
“Riley’s receiving a special award tonight at a firm function,” he said in a hushed voice, “and I fucking forgot!”
They’d never seen Gill so upset. It was disconcerting and unsettling.
“Oo-kay—” Beckett said haltingly, not sure what the hell was happening or what the hell he was supposed to do next.
“I forgot—” Gill repeated, looking back and forth between them. “But that means I also forgot to book the babysitter.”
There should be a laugh track. Soon. Any moment now, a laugh track would cut on, someone would announce a commercial break, and the director would shout, “CUT!” Right? Because obviously, their life was a fucking sitcom now! WTF?
“Short of kidnapping one of your fancy-schmancy neighbours, I don’t see how we can help,” Beckett said, because he refused to acknowledge whatever it was their boss was strongly hinting that he required from them.
There was a “hells to the no” waiting in the wings, ready to come flying right out of his mouth.
The potential here for shit to go south very soon made sweat bead on his forehead and trickle down his spine.