Bone Rider (10 page)

“No girly names,” he advised, idly picking a piece of dried grass from the brim of his hat. “Except if you are a girl.” He paused, alarmed. “Are you a girl?”

It didn’t sound like a girl and it had definitely looked male in his dream, but Riley figured that didn’t mean much when it came to alien armor systems. The thing was probably asexual or transsexual or whatever. Or it could change its sex. Or it was going to lay eggs into Riley’s belly like some kind of spider so its young could devour him from the inside out and—

A ripple of movement under his skin made him break out in goose bumps.
Stop it
, his passenger demanded, sounding thoroughly disgusted.
That’s revolting! I’ll be checking you
and
me for eggs now, thanks.

“Sorry,” Riley muttered, chagrined. So maybe he wasn’t entirely convinced of the alien’s good intentions. Could you blame him? It was an alien. He shook himself, tried to focus on the issue at hand. “Okay. Boy names or girl names?”

I don’t know
, his passenger replied, still a little testy.
Not like I have a dick… or a pussy. I feel male. Maybe because you’re male. I don’t know. Can we just assume I’m a guy and go with it?

“Fine by me.”

Riley slapped his hat against his knee to dust it off and tried not to let on how glad he was that he was at least possessed by a male alien. It was plenty disconcerting, but still better than sharing his body with a woman. He might be gay, but that didn’t mean he was ready to explore his (or anybody else’s) feminine side. That kind of thing wasn’t even funny in shitty C movies.

McClane
, the alien said, apropos of nothing.

Instinctively, Riley turned his head and checked the TV set. It was off. Apparently, his squatter had caught the stray thought about movies and run with it. He shook his head. “Name first, TV later. Come on, I wanna get outta here sometime this year.”

I’m talking about my name
. The alien shifted, and it felt like a tongue stroking Riley’s sternum. From the inside. It was a surreal sensation.
McClane’s a good name. It’s a hero’s name. Also, male. I want to be McClane. He’s funny, smart, and invincible
.

It took Riley a second to make his brain work in order to answer. He was still trying to decide whether the not-lick had felt intensely good or extremely disturbing. “McClane’s not real,” he argued, once he was coherent again. “He’s a movie character. He’s make-believe.”

All names are make-believe.

The alien made another of those little shrug-movements. Riley was almost getting used to those. The lick… okay, the lick had been good. And disturbing. Good in a disturbing way.

Focus
, McClane told him.

“Don’t lick me again,” Riley ordered, rubbing his chest to get rid of the lingering impression of that touch.

The alien promptly repeated the move.
You liked it
, it purred when Riley shuddered in reaction. Then it added, more seriously,
I don’t care he’s a movie character. I like the name. I like having a name. It makes me more than just a chunk of metal. It says I get to have choices, like everybody else
. It was getting passionate about this, and Riley found he couldn’t blame it.
I don’t want other people to decide I’m gonna be destroyed because I didn’t meet their expectations. I’m alive. I’m real. I might never be completely free, but I can pretend
.

Hard to disagree with that.

“McClane’s a good name,” Riley admitted, giving in gracefully. “And I swear we’ll find you someone who’ll treat you right. In the meantime…” He stood up, donned his hat, and grabbed his bag, “I’ll buy us a drink.” Or ten. Having a conversation with McClane was like arguing with a drunk Russian.

You liked it
, the alien repeated, smugly.
You like
me
. I’m awesome
.

“Don’t lick me again.”

T
HEY
left Riley’s bag in his truck and found a bar on Mesa Street, a grungy roadhouse long past its prime. The neon letters in the window advertising Budweiser beer were buzzing weakly and the plaster was peeling from the façade to show the cheap flake boards beneath, but it was within walking distance from the motel, the music flooding through the door into the street was good, and the smells coming from the kitchen even better. Riley took a moment to scan the parking lot, taking in the scattered crowd of bikes and battered trucks. Looked like it was his kind of place. Better yet, it was the kind of clientele that would make Misha’s men stick out like a sore thumb. Those Russians were East Coast city boys; all understated chic and expensive shoes. One step in here and everybody would be staring at them. Best early-warning system available. Misha could go fuck himself; Riley was getting shit-faced tonight.

You gonna tell me about Misha sometime?
McClane asked as Riley stepped over the threshold into the dim, smoky barroom.

“Nothing to tell,” Riley murmured, distracted. Kitchen to the right, bar in front. Restrooms in the back, behind two scuffed pool tables. Wooden dartboard in the left-hand corner, peppered with slotted knife marks. Booths along the walls, tables clustered haphazardly throughout the room. Not much space to maneuver, but then this wasn’t a dancing kind of place. It was clean enough, meaning there were no obvious cockroaches scuttling about and the air was thick with the smells of smoke, food, and spilled beer rather than puke and piss. Johnny Cash was playing on the jukebox at a decent volume. It was still early and most of the customers were busy eating, which suited Riley fine. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until he smelled the grease.

McClane shifted around in him like a muscle flutter when Riley slid into a free corner booth and reached for the menu.

“What’re you so excited about?” Riley muttered, careful not to move his lips too much. No reason to scare off the waitress. Seeing as McClane had picked up on his thoughts before, Riley figured he didn’t actually have to speak out loud to communicate with the alien, but the idea made him uncomfortable. Talking to himself might make him look crazy, but having a conversation with a disembodied voice in his head felt a lot worse.

Nothing, really
, McClane claimed.

Riley raised an eyebrow skeptically and waited, keeping his gaze firmly on the menu.

McClane broke satisfyingly fast.
Alien food
, he whispered, sounding both thrilled and a little uneasy.
It smells weird
, he added, a tad sheepishly.
Is it good? Do you think I’ll enjoy it?

Frankly, Riley hadn’t thought about it until now. He kept forgetting that, for the creature hiding in him, Riley and his world were as strange and probably as terrifying as the other way round. Everything was a matter of perspective.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he said quietly, “but if you’re anything like me, you’ll love the nachos.”

Did he ever.

K
OLYA
called with unerring timing the minute Misha gave in to his body’s demands and went to the bathroom. The way things had been going, it didn’t surprise Misha. It did make him whine unhappily, though, because, of course, he’d left his cell in the office. Keep pissing or answer the phone when it might be Kolya bringing news about Riley? His bladder lost that argument. He snapped the cell open on the fifth beep, because habits are hard to break and he’d been washing his hands before his brain had caught up with his manners.

“Tell me you have him,” he barked, hope and frustration bubbling merrily in his poor, stressed-out belly.

“Fucking I-10’s closed,” Kolya reported, disgust dripping from every syllable. “Fucking military all over. They say a pipeline ruptured near Junction.”

Misha frowned, picking up on the man’s tone. “You don’t believe that?”

“I don’t really give a shit, except that they’re in my way.” It was as close to bitching as Kolya got. “Since when does the Army bother with gas leaks, is all I’m saying.”

“Could’ve been a major incident?” Misha hazarded, not all that interested in the whys of the military blockade either beyond the fact that it was keeping Kolya from following Riley. “Any way you can get around it?”

“Nothing on the TV, nothing on the radio,” Kolya singsonged dourly. Apparently, the situation bugged him for some reason, but he shook it off and got back on topic with a little snort of annoyance. “I can bypass the area, but it’ll take time.”

Shit. They didn’t have time. Riley had already proved his ability to blend into the vast Texas landscape, lose his pursuers in the crowds of the big cities, then vanish in the maze of winding back roads and sleepy southern towns. It had taken Misha’s best bloodhound two months to find him the first time; if Riley slipped away again, there was no telling how long it’d be until Kolya ferreted him out once more. Too long, probably. Misha could stall and bullshit and wriggle out of his family obligations for another month, maybe. Two, if he could find or engineer an emergency that would buy him some leeway. Then he’d either have to give in and forget about Riley, or break with his family over a man who was likely to punch him in the face next time they met. He’d rather not let it go that far, especially since there wasn’t really a choice. He was way beyond the point of no return. Misha couldn’t even imagine a future without Riley.

Trouble was, his cowboy had given Kolya a run for his money when he hadn’t known for sure he was being followed, and he certainly would do it again if given half a chance. He’d pull a Keyser Söze and disappear into thin air. Feeling the urgency like the pressure in his lower belly, Misha ground his teeth and forced himself to stay calm, in control. The trail was still hot and Kolya always had a plan B.

“What’s the alternative?” he asked, surprised by the evenness of his own voice. It didn’t match the acid churning in his gut.

“I ditch the car and take the next flight out to El Paso.” Kolya fidgeted at the other end, cursing in Russian under his breath. “Fucking rentals.”

Misha didn’t think about it for long. Kolya’s instincts were usually dead on, so if the man said El Paso was their best bet, El Paso was their best bet.

“Do it,” he ordered. “How long do you figure? Do you need more money?”

“I’m good. I’m already at the airport.” Cocksure bastard. He probably had bought a ticket already as well. “Next flight’s in half an hour,” Kolya added, which pretty much confirmed Misha’s suspicion.

Misha wasn’t about to complain. He didn’t mind Kolya anticipating him occasionally; it was part of what made them such a good team.

“Call me when you get there,” he told Kolya, and ended the call.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and went to finish his business. The bathroom was as cool and quiet as the rest of the house. Everything felt different without Riley there, empty in a way that made Misha’s heart clench. He’d never understood how perfectly reasonable men could turn into broken wrecks over a pair of pretty eyes when there were so many more fish in the sea who wouldn’t turn them inside out. Easier to love ’em and leave ’em. All the fun and none of the pain and embarrassment.

He got it now, though. You didn’t walk into this with your eyes open; it sneaked up on you smile by smile, got in through a crack in your defenses, then dug deeper with each unguarded touch, every trust given, until one day you woke up and realized you’d given your soul to the sleepy-eyed devil cradled in your arms. And when he was gone, you didn’t only miss the sex, the good times… you missed everything, including the annoying habits, like the way his things messed up your perfect order or that irritating tendency he had to leave wet footprints all over the place after a shower. You found yourself fondly remembering his damn redneck music, grits for breakfast, having to hold on tight to the covers in the night or lose them, and always having to fight for the last clean towel because
someone
hated to do the laundry and couldn’t get used to the idea that there was a household staff for this kind of shit.

Sometimes, Misha had wanted to throttle Riley and ritually burn the man’s stuff, starting with those goddamn boots… but now all he could think was that he wanted it back. He wanted
Riley
back, shit kickers and all. Mighty Mikhail Tokarev had fallen so hard he barely recognized the person in the mirror anymore.

He finished up, shook himself, then scowled down at his dick. “This is your fault,” he muttered, and gave it a firm squeeze.

His dick—far from being repentant—perked up at the attention. Misha hadn’t touched himself much since Riley had left, too busy and upset to do more than mechanically clean the pipes, but Riley was almost within reach again. The thought made Misha Junior fill out and lengthen in anticipation. Misha stroked himself slowly, helpless to stop his hips from jerking forward eagerly at the sensation. He bit his lip to keep from moaning, but it felt too good to stop. He’d fucked Riley in this room once, had stood behind him as Riley relieved himself after a shower, riding the crack of Riley’s ass while Riley pissed, one hand on his hip, the other pressing against his middle just below the shallow dip of his navel until Riley was done and had flushed with a satisfyingly impatient slap of his hand.

Riley had shifted a bit and grumbled about personal space, about there being a time and a place, but he hadn’t stopped Misha or tried to squirm free. He’d just gone with it and let Misha’s passion carry him away as well. Riley’s skin had been damp and clean, smelling faintly of lemongrass shampoo when Misha nuzzled the crook of his neck, raising goose bumps with his teeth and his breath. He’d pushed Riley forward until Riley had been straddling the bowl, bracing himself against the wall, panting as Misha had guided himself in and slid deep with one slow, sure shove. Riley had been turned on and slick from fooling around in the shower, but also hesitant to allow himself to be put into such a vulnerable position. He’d showed his misgivings by shifting restlessly at first, still not entirely used to being on the receiving end but willing to let Misha have him this way because he’d wanted Misha as badly as Misha wanted him. Because Misha made it feel so good that Riley, who hated to give up control, had stopped giving a damn about who topped whom.