Kickass Anthology (6 page)

"If they favour the wrong people, they're stupid rules. I don't follow those."

"You could get caught."

"I beg your pardon?" 

Jack Horwood now looked deeply offended – much more so than when Tom had accused him of being a thief. Tom found that funny, until the words Jack muttered under his breath sank into his mind.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Don't give me that look. What did you just say?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing." Ice crept down Tom's spine and dread took up residence in his guts. "Repeat what you said."

"I said," Jack finally enunciated clearly, "that Her Majesty's government would hardly be prepared to shell out taxpayer's money for my services if I were in the habit of getting caught." His narrowed eyes glittered silver as he turned his head to regard Tom and there wasn’t even a hint of humour anywhere on his face now. "And if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll have to kill you."

"Wow. I had no idea!" Tom sank into the sofa cushions, his knees suddenly a little unsteady.

"That's sort of the point."

"Then why did you tell me?"

"Because you were going to ask me to stop showing Declan the errors of his ways."

It was true. Jack's pranks were so sleek, effective and incessant that Tom had started to feel guilty about making Declan a target. And after witnessing the incident in the bar, he'd been about to ask Jack to lay off. He just hadn't thought he'd been that obvious about it. "How did you know?"

"You're not exactly difficult to read, Walken."

"Are you going to? Stop, I mean."

Jack's lips turned down at the corners. "Have you watched the oaf? He's clueless. It hasn't occurred to his arrogant ass that he brought all of this on himself. Unless he does... I think I'll keep going."

"You don't think it's... I dunno... cruel?"

"Sure. If it's not, I've done a crap job," Jack said. "And I avoid those."

For a time, the night held nothing but lamplight, soft jazz and the rapid dance of Jack's long fingers over soft touch computer keys. Tom's world had shifted out of alignment with Jack's words. He contemplated choices and consequences, and a side of his friend he'd not seen before. A side he'd not even known existed.

"Beating the shit out of him would have been easier," he concluded.

"For him, yeah," Jack looked up and his gaze – a deeper green now that he was calm – trapped Tom's eyes and held them. "I can see you feel like shit for knowing I'm doing this. And for knowing there's a bit more coming. But think about all the stuff he's pulled since you've met him. Then tell me he hasn't gotten worse."

Tom couldn't. "He wouldn't have hit anyone. Not two years ago."

"That's what I gathered. He's out of control and needs to be stopped before he does real damage. And since humiliation is his drug of choice, I'll feed it to him until he chokes on it."

Everything Jack said was true. In some twisted way it even made sense, but it left Tom feeling as if he'd called in a breeze only to reap a whirlwind. Maybe it was time to accept that Jack Horwood wasn't what he seemed, and that Tom had asked a mischievous, vindictive hacker for help fixing his Irish problem. One, moreover, who wouldn't stop until he was satisfied he'd made his point.

Tom pushed himself out of the depths of the sofa with a sigh. "You wanna beer?"

Jack had gone back to fiddling with his laptop and didn't look up. "Thanks."

"You know, you haven't been out in weeks," Tom stated as he came back from the fridge with two tins of Stella.

It was true, too.

Almost four weeks without late nights.

Almost four weeks without more than the odd beer.

Almost four weeks without a single hookup. 

All that after three months of Jack staggering home at dawn each day reeking of sex and booze. And Tom hadn't found that odd until now.

"Is something up?" he asked, trepidation in his voice.

Jack shrugged and ran a finger over the tattoo on his temple. The redness around the new ink had faded since their epic fight, just as Tom's bruised ribs were only a painful memory. Now, the tattoo blended with the choppy lengths of Jack's black hair, flashing in and out of existence seductively with each of his movements. It didn't stand out nearly as much as Tom had expected it to. In actual fact, it suited his friend surprisingly well.

"I got that for a reason."

"You didn't say."

"Didn't have time before you went postal on my ass."

"State you were in that day, you wouldn't have told me anyway."

"No." The dark spikes swished and bobbed in what might have been a nod. "Probably not."

"Wanna do it now?"

"Not really." Jack didn't sound final about that, though, and when Tom held out the tin of Stella he settled the laptop on the armrest and leaned back into the cushions.

"Ask you something?"

"G'head." Jack popped the top on the beer and took a long draught.

"Why d'you even bother with a PhD?" Tom had wondered about that for a while. Jack's vibe had never been
student
. From the moment Tom had first heard him speak, he'd known he faced someone practised and sure of his skills, someone who had nothing to prove. "I heard your prof bragging the other day that you're writing up... and it's barely been a year."

"Funny that," Jack muttered around his beer. "I distinctly remember him wanting to kick my ass out the door not two months ago."

"So why d'you bother with it?" Tom asked once more. "I can't see you being desperate for a title, or letters behind your name... so why?"

"Needed something to do when I left the army. Going to school sounded... novel, I suppose."

"Novel."

Jack shrugged. "Never really done it before, so, yeah. Novel."

"You've never been to school."

"No. The army had online courses. 's where I got my degree."

Tom had no idea how to answer that. Jack was intensely private and not given to sharing. Tom had accepted that and didn't dig beyond the little things he learned here and there. Recently, though, every new revelation was as unexpected as a slap with a wet fish. He knew that Jack had served in the army. He remembered Jack saying he'd lived on the streets. But how those two fit together? For once, Tom wasn't comfortable with silence between them. It felt... wrong... to leave the conversation where it sat, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Did you hate the army so much you got out?"

THE YEARS living in Rio's house had given Jack an eclectic taste in music, as well as a phenomenally huge collection of tracks, and he idly skimmed through the listings on his laptop trying to find something that matched his mood. He wasn't falling down drunk, just starting to mellow enough for his mind to relax and for Jack to crave a soothing background for Tom's searching questions.

"I didn't leave the army because I hated it," he said, replacing the soft waves of Touhou Jazz with a mix of Al di Meola, Paco de Lucia and Carlos Santana. "I loved being there. Loved what I was doing, but...I had to leave."

"They threw you out?"

"No. I...," Jack grew silent and took another long draught from his beer. His mind conjured up images of heat and sand and blood. Gods, so much blood! It had soaked his fatigues, had compromised his grip on rifle and tourniquet alike, and his nails had retained traces of it even three days and four showers later. The wash of blood wasn't the worst part of that particular memory, though. That was reserved for the rough, raspy voice urging him to leave and Jack stubbornly refusing to take a direct order. After a time, Jack sighed and set the beer down. "I made a mistake and someone got hurt."

"Who?"

"My CO."

"He was mad at you?"

"No."

"You lost me," Tom admitted. "If he wasn't mad at you, and..."

Jack sought the words for an explanation when the room around him disappeared. He stared into the middle distance, seeing himself standing once more outside the barracks, just days before Christmas and exactly one year after the mission that had ended with Gareth Flynn on a med-evac flight home.

Jack had known that Gareth would be at the gate to see him off. Despite the previous night's angry words, Gareth cared. Just… not the way Jack wanted him to. The way Jack did.

He drew a deep breath and hefted his duffel bag more comfortably over his shoulder, trying to burn those last images of Gareth into his memory. He had made a promise to himself that he would cut all ties and not keep tabs on anyone here. Ever.

And he needed the reminders.

Standing in the morning sun, Gareth Flynn looked as impressive as he had the first time Jack had seen him. The uniform sat easily on his taut frame. He had the sleeves rolled up and tabbed despite the chilly air, muscled forearms and the strong hands that could take a grown man down in a single swipe on display. Captain Gareth Flynn looked like a tree, rooted deep, solid and dependable. And Jack had to swallow past the lump in his throat, had to force himself to put one foot in front of the other and move towards the gate.

It would be so easy to recant his decision. So easy to stay and continue to serve alongside men he trusted. So easy... and he just couldn't.

Gareth turned his head as Jack approached and the liquid gold gaze swept over Jack for the last time. For once, Jack didn't care if he was presentable, if he passed inspection. He stared shamelessly… one last time.

"Remember what we've taught you," Gareth rasped when he saw that Jack hadn't changed his mind. "And whatever you do, don't do anything stupid, brat."

"No, sir," Jack mumbled. His voice failed him for anything more, and then Gareth's arms were around him in a tight hug. Jack wished that this wasn't a simple hug goodbye. For one long heartbeat, he let himself go, leaned in and pretended that he hung in a lover's embrace. Then he drew back and squared his shoulders.

"Thank you, sir. For everything."

Jack was so spun into his memories that he didn't see Tom move from the sofa to kneel beside Jack's armchair, and his friend's sudden whisper startled him.

"You're... in love with him?"

"No." Jack's denial came swiftly, automatically, and Tom promptly shut his mouth. He got another beer from the fridge and held it out in silent apology. Jack took it with a nod, popped the top and downed half the contents in one long swallow. He had no idea why he kept denying something he'd known for years, especially now that he no longer served and whatever he said wouldn't hurt Gareth Flynn. It was one of those things he simply didn't think about.

"So that's why Pam didn't even get a look in, eh?" Tom tried to lighten the mood.

"Pam didn't get a look in because she's a narrow-minded, bigoted piece of... never mind," Jack's tone settled as quickly as it had risen. The woman really wasn't worth the energy it took for him to get properly riled. "I wouldn't give her the time of day if she was the only pair of tits left in London."

"So you noticed that?"

"Which? The tits or the bigotry?"

"Hey, you can't miss the tits."

"Don't I know it. Had the damn things shoved in my face enough times."

"So you're what... bi? Wouldn't have guessed that."

Jack made a face. "I hate labels. Save 'em for your stupid rock samples."

"I hear you, but still..."

"You're as hot for gossip as a squeeing fan girl." Jack ignored Tom's protest, finished the beer and got up to grab the bottle of Islay malt from his bedroom. Memories of Gareth deserved the company of a fine spirit. And it would help him keep his cool when Tom got to digging around in his soul. "Before it kills you, I am more attracted by what someone has to say for themselves than the plumbing they're born with. If that makes me bi, then go ahead, slap on the label."

"WE'RE on," Paul Grabin said as he pushed the door open and stepped into the room. "He's got a date for tonight."

Jack turned his head and slitted his eyes, trying to see their visitor without the sun frying his eyeballs or starting a snowstorm of pain in his head. Truth be told, he couldn't tell if he was actually awake or trapped in a whisky-fuelled revenge fantasy. They'd finished the Islay along with the beers the previous night, talking about things that hurt and stuff Jack couldn't even remember in the bright light of day. He just knew that they'd talked until his throat was raw and his voice a husky rasp. Or maybe the malt was to blame for that.

It was probably the whisky's fault that he'd fallen asleep where he sat.

Jack uncurled his legs and winced when his spine cracked loudly the moment he started to straighten up. His knees hurt as if he'd spent the night doing more exciting things than sleep in an armchair and his neck felt as if someone had pinned it to his left shoulder with a broad iron stake.

The armchair was his favourite place to work, but that certainly didn't make it the most comfortable space to sleep. He really had to remember that.