Job Hunt (26 page)

He didn’t want to remember, but the memories of Nico clinging to him in the darkness reliving his nightmare were hard to repress. Nico had confided that he’d always tried to keep silent when he was being punished, even though both Daniel and Ricky had repeatedly told him that this was the worst possible course of action. Jack had stayed well out of that argument, merely hugging the youngster close and murmuring soothing nonsense. He couldn’t just sympathize, though. He’d been like Nico, never giving anyone the satisfaction of hearing him scream even if he made matters worse for himself. And when reaching for a little comfort incurred painful punishment, the ability to stay silent was just another bonus. Nico understood that better than most.

“Jack?”

A hand cupped his cheek, and Jack looked up in confusion. Gareth’s gaze was full of concern. “What?”

“Where did you go? You zoned out on me.”

Jack blinked. “Sorry,” he apologized, leaning into Gareth’s palm and enjoying the warmth. “The first few days Daniel barely got any rest between his nightmares. Nico only had a single one the whole week, but I….” He shrugged and drew away, suddenly unwilling to explain.

“Will you see them tomorrow?”

Jack nodded. “It got a bit rough this afternoon,” he confided, unsure of his motivation. He wasn’t looking for sympathy, and he didn’t need Gareth to tell him that he was doing the right thing.

“First night alone, eh?”

“They’re not alone. Your mum’s with them. And Raf has the night shift.”

“’S not what I meant.”

Jack twirled the stem of his wineglass and let himself be comforted by warmth and the ruby flashes the kitchen lights sparked in the Merlot’s inky depths. “I know.”

“Y
OU
’
RE
A
damned tease, brat, you know that?”

The flush on Gareth’s cheeks looked so inviting that Jack hunted for another incendiary comment, just to see it deepen. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling at home anywhere, but Jack enjoyed it and let himself be reminded of the years he spent serving alongside Gareth Flynn. The crazy discussion—and Gareth pretending to take offense at his words—just fit right in.

“Don’t insult me,” he purred, making sure he peeked through his lashes, and the light hit the tattoo on his temple just right. “I don’t tease. I put out.”

“I remember,” Gareth growled. “And I can’t fucking wait for you to do it again.”

All air left the room the moment Gareth’s eyes locked with Jack’s in a gaze so full of heat that Jack could no longer breathe. Never mind teasing. His mouth went dry, and he shivered, not caring what he was giving away. All he could think about was how he’d bitten his lips and held back a scream as Gareth had made him come.

There had been surprisingly little dirty talk in their late night meanderings during the previous week, though they had discussed, briefly, the night they’d spent together. Long enough, at any rate, for Jack to understand how much Gareth relished calling the shots… and for Jack to admit how surprised he still was that he’d handed over control so easily.

Gareth hadn’t asked any questions, he’d just listened to Jack’s halting words until Jack had got it all out and moved on to other topics. The man was good at that, waiting for others to sort out what they wanted to share or didn’t, and Jack appreciated it just as he used to back when. Gareth had never pushed for answers that Jack was determined to keep to himself, so how they had arrived at playing twenty questions was a mystery to Jack.

“Come on, brat. Answer the question.”

Jack stared at the dishcloth in his lap. He sat on the wide kitchen island polishing glasses while Gareth loaded the dishwasher with the other dishes. “I had no idea crystal glasses had to be washed by hand,” he deflected.

“The other question,” Gareth insisted.

“Stiletto,” Jack admitted eventually. “Laptop,” he added when Gareth gave him a disbelieving look.

“You’d brain someone with your favorite toy?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Fine. Explain it, then. I asked for your favorite weapons. I get the stiletto, even though I think it’s poncy. But what damage can you possibly do with a laptop?”

Jack reached for the last dripping glass Gareth held out. Slowly and methodically, he started rubbing cloth over crystal. “Imagine you wake up one morning to find your electricity, phone, broadband, and gas disconnected,” he began after a moment. “Your mobile phone doesn’t work, either. You eventually locate a phone to call your bank, but they have no records for either you or your accounts. Neither does the phone company, any of the utilities providers, or your local council. Your employer has no record of you and neither does the tax office. Someone else’s name is on the title deeds to your home, and you are accused of squatting. Your car keys don’t open your car. Your credit cards aren’t accepted anywhere. If you manage to make it to the airport, your passport and driving license are considered forgeries that get you arrested.” Jack straightened and set the glass down. “How would you prove you’re you if, bureaucratically speaking, you don’t exist?”

The chill in Gareth’s eyes told Jack when Gareth got it.

“You think of hacking in terms of intel, of information,” he expanded. “And for much of the time, you’d be right. But tracing and redirecting information isn’t the only thing I can do. Changing information—for good or evil—isn’t any more difficult than finding it. And I’m in charge of a delete key too.”

Gareth just stared at him for a long time. Then he crossed the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of Armagnac and two snifters. “That’s hypothetical, right?” he asked as he filled the glasses and handed one of them to Jack. “When you said the boys needed to disappear you didn’t mean….”

“No, I wasn’t talking about taking them out of the system. The opposite, actually. I was thinking of building them backgrounds so tight, not even social services will find a chink to exploit.”

“Will they even try?”

“Yeah, they will. There’s usually an overzealous soul or two, and they get into it right when they should leave well alone. And the pimp is bound to have contacts.”

“In social services?”

Jack slid off the counter, careful of the amber liquid in his glass. “You didn’t just ask me that,” he accused.

“I did, though,” Gareth defended himself. “My army career hasn’t exactly exposed me to prostitution or trafficking. That night in the club was as close as I’ve ever been to a pimp.”

“That you know of.”

Gareth looked startled, but then he nodded in agreement. “That I know of.” He picked up his glass and touched it to Jack’s with a soft, musical clink. “Your turn.”

Frontal assault wasn’t Jack’s preferred MO. He did most of his work in the shadows. But he didn’t like answering questions, and his body had distinct ideas about how it wanted the rest of the evening to go, so he simply asked the question that was on his mind, hoping that Gareth would take the hint. “Favorite fantasy?”

“Besides you in nothing but a towel with that strip of leather around your throat?” Gareth made a show of considering the question seriously. “Scarlett Johansson. In heels and a towel. And red hair.”

“You’re a Black Widow fan, really?” Jack couldn’t have explained why he found that thought amusing. He only knew that he did.

“Sorta. Halle Berry gets my vote, too.”

“Okay… that’s starting to make sense.” Jack took another sip of the smoky, fruity Armagnac. “Your turn.”

“Least favorite position?”

Jack didn’t think and didn’t filter. “Facedown on the bed. On anything flat, actually.”

“Does that mean I can bend you over the dinner table?”

Gareth’s suggestion short-circuited any and all bad memories, leaving nothing but heat. “Yeah,” he said, setting the snifter down and leaning toward his lover. “I can get on board with that. What about you?”

The simple question produced a visible shiver that Jack found incredibly sexy.

“In that scenario? I actually like facedown on the bed if you’re up for it, though….”

“Yes?”

“I’m very patient when I’m in control. When I’m not then… not so much.”

“Figures,” Jack drawled. “So what, you want me to see how quickly I can get you off or how long I can make you beg?”

“You’d better be able to back that up, brat. Or I
will
bend you over the dinner table.”

“Did I say that you can’t?” Jack walked backward out of the kitchen, pulling Gareth with him toward the stairs. “But I’m not going to refuse your offer. In fact, I’m taking you up on it right now.”

Gareth stopped them before they reached the bottom stair, pulled Jack close, and crushed their lips together for a brutal, hungry kiss flavored with passion and a hint of fine, smooth alcohol. “Eager, much?” he rasped as they parted.

“You got a problem with that?” Jack slid his hands under Gareth’s shirt and shoved it upward on his way to take it off, right there in the hallway.

“Not likely.”

“Shower,” Jack ordered as soon as they made it upstairs. “I want that spicy soap of yours over every inch of you.”

Ever since he’d woken beside Gareth for the first time, the spicy smell had been driving him crazy. By itself—as a bar of soap or an aftershave—it smelled pretty decent, but mixed with Gareth’s warm male scent it was nothing short of fucking fantastic. It was different from the green citrus notes he chose for himself, reminded him of fir trees baking in late summer heat, their resinous bitterness tempered with the spice of cinnamon, orange, and leather. Jack only needed to catch a tiny whiff to imagine Gareth cooking or to think of mulled wine shared in front of a blazing log fire, of a place to hide out when the world closed in on him. And it was sexy as all get-out to boot.

Jack wrapped his arms around Gareth’s waist and ground himself against his lover’s soapy backside while the hot water slid down Gareth’s skin. “Do you have any idea how much I just want to….”

“Am I stopping you?”

Jack didn’t mind admitting how turned on he was. His other thoughts were harder to voice, and he laughed, a little embarrassed. “I wanna do you how you like it, on the bed. Still—” He drew back a little and pulled on Gareth’s arms to turn him around. “Doesn’t mean that I can’t do this,” he said as he slowly slid to his knees while his lips traced a trail from Gareth’s neck to his groin.

“Jesus, Jack,” Gareth growled as teeth scraped gently just below his navel, and a hard grip dug into his hip. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“You were the one who told me he wasn’t patient,” Jack murmured. “Just taking care of that for you.” Besides, Jack wanted this, wanted to taste his lover, drive him insane and listen to him moan. It was only fair, seeing what Gareth had done to him the last two nights they’d spent together. Not to mention that Gareth had a cock that just begged to be sucked.

Jack went to town, laving and teasing and not caring that he struggled to breathe under the incessant stream of hot water or that Gareth’s hands in his hair were almost painful. Gareth was so deliciously responsive that Jack’s blood heated at an alarming rate, but Jack held tightly to his control. He knew where he wanted this encounter to end, but if there was even a chance that this might not be a one-time thing, he wanted to make sure that he knew exactly how to make Gareth squirm and lose his mind.

He counted it as a victory when he took Gareth to the back of his throat and made him spill without losing his focus… or his mind, though he was sure he’d be hearing Gareth’s throaty growls in his dreams for the next month at least.

When Gareth yanked him upright, he went willingly, and they kissed under the stream of hot water until the lack of air and acres of Gareth’s soft skin under his palm made Jack fear for his sanity. He marshaled his last few working brain cells into marching order and pulled away.

“You ready for the facedown on the bed bit?”

C
HAPTER
EIGHTEEN
H
IDDEN
IN
P
LAIN
S
IGHT

F
ROM
HIS
desk Jack had an exceptional view across the river. Maybe Gareth had hoped, when he chose Jack’s desk, that watching boats and barges plying their trade would relax Jack and keep him focused. Jack didn’t know and hadn’t bothered to ask. He’d woken that morning with an irritating itch in his brain—the sort of distraction that would prompt him to work from home or at the very least take the train to Waterloo rather than ride his bike.

Waking up at Gareth’s place had proved useful, since Gareth was delighted to give him a lift. He knew how to read Jack too, and after taking one good look at the way he buried himself in his coffee mug, Gareth hadn’t asked any questions and just made breakfast before driving them both to work.

Jack had said little all morning while he chased the elusive itch, barely aware of his desk, let alone colleagues, windows, or the view. Gold and red flashed in and out of his vision as he tossed juggling balls into the air and caught them again, his hands moving by rote. The balls were soft Moroccan leather and perfectly weighted. Jack had left his old set behind, along with his old job, and had treated himself to a new stack and a smart copper bowl to hold them. He hadn’t expected to put them to use so soon after his arrival.

Jack had learned to juggle while he lived with Rio and had quickly found it an excellent way to keep his mind focused. Rio taught him to categorize problems based on the number of balls he needed to spin while he thought—introducing him to the works of Arthur Conan Doyle in the process. Right now he already had half the balls from his bowl spinning in the air over his head, and he still couldn’t see a pattern in the problem his mind contemplated.

It’s not hurting us anymore.

Gareth had neutralized the finance leak by the simple expedient of issuing two sets of figures, a clean set for the CEO and a modified set for anyone else. Any information leaving the company was bogus, and Gareth used it to obfuscate and misdirect.