Blood Howl (9 page)

“Who’s your boss?”

Handlebar hesitated, then answered, with a faint Hispanic accent, “Mr. Fil.”

Mister
Fil, now. Well, wasn’t he fancy. “He in town?” Jed asked, lightly tracing the barrel of his gun along Handlebar’s jugular.

Another long pause before he gritted out, “Yes.” Jed was guessing his new best friend was from El Salvador region. He’d spent a couple of months there one night. Nice people. Great food. Excellent revolutions.

“And if I were going to add Mr. Fil to my Christmas card list,” Jed mused, arching an eyebrow, “where would he receive his
Feliz Navidad
?”

Grunting, Handlebar nodded him closer. Jed leaned in, wondering if it really was going to be that easy. Which, of course, it wasn’t. What was this, a fairy tale? Handlebar hocked one right in his eye, raising his knee at the same time to catch him, hard, in his little soldier.

Oh, poor Winston Churchill. A crueler fate was never known.

Jed stumbled a moment, just long enough for Handlebar to elbow him across the jaw, sending him sprawling with a low grunt of pain. Jed rolled over and started firing, cursing as the other man took off running across the roof. Struggling to his feet, he chased after him, looking for his shot. Handlebar darted around the corner to the edge of the roof, Jed hot on his heels, and….

He jumped. The nutty bastard
jumped
off the goddamn roof, straight into the back of a pickup truck, which burned rubber right the hell out of there. Jed emptied the rest of his clip in their general direction, more of a therapy thing since all he managed to do was blow out the back window, shouting curses after them.

Well, shit.

Wiping blood out of his eye from where he’d scraped his face against the stones that lined the roof, Jed huffed an annoyed sigh and stared at the road where the truck had disappeared. It hadn’t been there before, and the sniper didn’t get a chance to call for help. Which meant that he’d been followed. By people eminently better at it than the first five.

Fil had done a staffing change. Bully for him.

The motherfucker wanted them to know he was around. He wanted Jed to know that he was close enough to reach out and touch him whenever he got in the mood. Now Jed still knew next to nothing, and he had the bruises to prove it.

Also, his cock might be broken. Which was the really bad part of all of this.

Limping slightly, he went back to grab the sniper rifle, disassembling it with expert motions, glancing at the pieces. Stock rifle, silencer, but a custom scope. That might be useful. Tucking it all away in his jacket pockets, he lowered himself back down the wall with a grunt and hobbled his sorry ass home.

“Red?” Shoving open the door with his hip, Jed wandered in, dumping the rifle parts out onto the coffee table and grabbing a sketch pad from his desk. “’M home. You doing all right?”

Flopping onto the couch, Jed propped his legs up on the table and spread as far apart as possible. Winston and the two boys—Margaret Thatcher the lefty and Rambo, the True American Hero, debuting as righty—needed some healing space. He used a pen he dug out from under a couch cushion to start doodling. He frowned in concentration, focused on what he was doing, wondering if he could train Knievel to have a beer waiting out when he walked in the door.

Hesitant, shuffling footsteps coming from behind him signaled Redford’s appearance. “Why are you sitting like that? Are you okay?”

“Because some irritating bastard kneed me in the junk,” Jed muttered absently, holding his sketch out and squinting at it, muttering under his breath as he added some more lines.

Redford crept closer. “Are you okay? I can smell, um—you have blood. More of it.”

“I got blood pumpin’ everywhere,” he agreed, twisting the paper sideways and adding some more shading. “Any in particular got you all hot and bothered?”

He wasn’t going to look at Redford. If he just didn’t
look at him
, see, then it’d all be fine. Because whatever was going on between them, it couldn’t. Jed was a wreck that made the Titanic look like a cruise. Redford deserved someone who could be there past day six, which was a point Jed himself had never quite reached. So, not looking. They would do this, he would save the day, and Red could go live a perfectly normal life. Just like he should. And Jed would go back to only getting turned on by big, burly, married men who could pin him down like a junior league wrestler.

There was a faint sigh at his answer, and soft noises that indicated Redford was going away again. Then, more noises that sounded suspiciously like a cleaning brush going over porcelain. Was Redford cleaning his bathroom?

“You know,” he hollered, craning his neck back—
not
looking at him, thank you very much, just a general glance in his direction—”I’m trying to raise my own breed of mold in there. I’ve got my application in at the National Science Foundation for funding. I’m going to name it the Jedlet.” A pause and he huffed out an irritated breath at himself, cursing his own stupidity before he clambered off the couch and wandered over to the bathroom, sketch pad under his arm. “Please tell me you’re not cleaning my toilet,” he murmured, head down, eyes locked on the floor. “Because I gotta say, I didn’t even realize you could do that.”

Redford was not, thankfully, cleaning the toilet. He was on his knees next to the bathtub, craned over the side in a frankly awkward and uncomfortable looking position, attacking the bottom of his bath with a scrub brush that Jed hadn’t even known he’d had. At his approach, Redford looked at him once, expression inscrutable, before going right back to cleaning.

“You saved my life, and you’re protecting me,” he said quietly. “I have to do something to pay you back.”

Aw, Jesus. Closing his eyes briefly, Jed rubbed the bridge of his nose. That ache in his throat that seemed a chronic condition when Red was around was back in full force, making it hard to see for the prickling at the backs of his eyes. There was just something about this guy. Something he’d never experienced before. It didn’t even make
sense
that he’d want so badly to protect him, and at the same time he’d want to just bury himself in Redford’s arms and see if, for once, he could feel safe himself.

“Red,” he whispered, crouching down next to him, reaching out to wrap his fingers around his wrist, stilling him. “You don’t owe me a damn thing. This isn’t… I don’t
expect
anything from you. Okay? And please, stop killing the Jedlets.” He tried for a faint smile then, swallowing hard and resisting the urge to touch him further. If they just pretended what had happened
hadn’t
, then maybe Jed could get through this without hurting him.

“Hey,” Jed cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Uh, could you look at this for me? Tell me if this guy looks at all familiar.” He turned the sketchpad around, showing the picture of Handlebar he’d been working on. “Anything?”

Redford turned his head slightly toward the picture, giving it a good, long look before he shook his head silently, an apology in his eyes, before he turned back to the bathtub. Gently, he pulled his wrist out of Jed’s hold and resumed cleaning, clearly determined. “Sorry, I don’t recognize him,” he said hopelessly. Then, “I have to do
something
for you, and cleaning is the only thing I’m good at.”

Oh, that most
definitely
wasn’t true, and Jed had the unsatisfied sour deflation of blue balls to attest to it. But he wasn’t going to turn this into a porn movie. As much as he hated the thought of Redford on his knees outside of his own wet dreams, he’d let the guy clean. Maybe it’d make them both feel less awkward. Or infinitely more so, but whatever. “It’s okay,” Jed sighed. “I didn’t figure you would. Worth a shot, though.” Standing, he glanced in the mirror, wincing as he lightly pressed his fingers to his brand new road rash above his left eyebrow. Outstanding. “I’m going to call one of my contacts. He might be able to help us identify this guy.”

Wandering back out to the living room, Jed flipped through his phone until he found the number he was looking for. David. Just David, kind of like Cher or Viagra. Guy could take three hours and track down your grandmother’s bra size, if you paid him enough. Right then, he was the best chance they had at finding out what kind of muscle Fil was hiring. If you could trace the money, you could almost always figure out where to aim the bullets.

“David,” he greeted with a smooth grin, working his best charm and coercion persona. “I’ve missed you, sweetheart. We never talk anymore.”

Redford had come out, holding a damp washcloth and pressing it lightly to Jed’s temple. For a moment they were close, breaths mingling, eyes dilating, the whole nine yards. He was like a drug, Redford, and Jed was leaning forward before he even realized what was happening. Thank God David started talking.

“I should rip your spleen out through your eyeballs, you worthless cocksucker.” David’s tone was conversational, almost pleasant, which was how you knew he was pissed.

Jed just laughed though, grinning. “But you like how I suck cock. And you like even more that I pay you—”

“You
sometimes
pay me, which is the reason I’m not thrilled to talk to you right now. What about Nigeria, huh? I got you what you asked for, and you stiffed me.”

“Nigeria was a very different situation,” Jed pointed out. “Besides,
I
didn’t stiff you. The client decided to go a different direction.”

“Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just tear your head off.”

“Because I bring you business. Besides, I’m cute.” Leaning against the wall, Jed stared up at the ceiling. “I’m faxing you over a sketch, David. I need everything you can find out. Oh, and I’m overnighting you a scope from his gun; that might help. I think it’s custom.”

“Gee, a doodle and a scope. You really like making it easy, don’t you?” David replied dryly, but he didn’t say no. Which was all Jed could hope for. “Give me two days.”

“You’ve got one. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

Hanging up, Jed slumped down into the chair, tipping it back on two legs. “I need a beer.”

Redford had stopped cleaning the dried blood off during the conversation, but he resumed his ministrations, tentatively dabbing above Jed’s eyebrow. “Who was that?”

That
was something other than drawing Redford into his lap, but apparently it didn’t stop Jed from doing so. Nudging his nose against Redford’s shoulder, Jed sighed. “Someone who can get me information. Soon as I know where to shoot, sugarlips, I’m going to get this guy. I swear to God.”

Though he was clearly startled at his new sitting position, Redford settled in fairly quickly, the smile coming back into his eyes. “I heard weird noises on the other end of the call.”

“Well,” Jed drawled, closing his eyes and letting Redford continue cleaning out the scrapes. “I apparently don’t have your hearing, but it wouldn’t be the first time I caught David in the middle of fucking the hell out of his nerd boyfriend. He has a slight exhibitionist thing.” A slight smile touched the corners of his lips. “Were they those kind of noises?”

“Oh.” Redford looked startled, then a little uncomfortable, but soon settled into a fairly amused expression. “I just wondered. He was oddly coherent, considering. So you think he can help?”

“He gets a lot of practice,” he murmured, tilting his face toward the cool touch of Redford’s fingers. He liked seeing Red look like that. Not afraid, not worried, not unsure—like he’d finally gotten the joke. Like he was joining in. And there was nothing wrong with what they were doing right then. He could keep his boundaries just fine. Just because Redford was warm and heavy in his lap that didn’t mean he was making a move. This was… friendly. Innocent.

And he was Mother fucking Theresa.

“Uh, yeah.” Slouching back in the chair, Jed shrugged. “He’s good, and he knows I’ll pay him. Well. I’ll probably pay him.” He flashed a quick, mischievous grin. “I think he’ll get what I need.”

“Okay.” Obviously taking Jed’s word for truth, Redford continued gently dabbing the blood away. Finally, he drew back the cloth, bundled in his hands, looking like he knew he should get up and walk away but really didn’t want to.

Jed didn’t want him to, either. He also didn’t want to stop believing in Santa Claus, but those were the breaks. Gently wrapping his hands around Redford’s hips, he eased him up, standing as well and giving him a faint, apologetic smile. Maybe he should explain. Maybe it’d be better for both of them if he just came out and said,
Fido, I’m fucking crazy about you, but I’m also just plain fucking crazy, and as such I think you should run like hell.

Yeah, fuck that.

“I’ve got work to do,” he explained quietly, studying Red’s face, tamping down the ache of
want
that was threatening to take over his breathing. “Why don’t you get some sleep? There are maps and such, and it’s all very boring, I promise. I’ll go over whatever plan I’ve put together with you later tonight. Just nap, relax, all that. Okay?”

Redford looked like he was about to protest when a yawn cut off any words, followed by a slightly embarrassed smile. He didn’t agree verbally, instead choosing to reach out and curl his fingers around Jed’s bicep, squeezing briefly, clearly growing more confident, before retreating to the bed. He’d obviously gotten changed into new, dry clothes when he’d gotten home, and after stripping off his shirt Redford curled up on top of the covers, closing his eyes wearily, exhausted by the recent events.

Watching him silently for a moment, Jed’s expression was almost soft. Longing like a desperate need pulled at the corners of his mouth, but he wiped it away with a hand across his face, turning back to his work. To his guns and his maps and his shady connections, because that’s what he knew. It was what he was
good
at, and he was going to use every ounce of that to make sure Redford got to walk away from this unscathed.

Chapter Seven