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something more, needed to reassure myself that he was really mine, that it wasn t just
kindness or self-sacrifice. He took it with bemused, heavy-lidded calm, kissing my face, my
bruised throat as I clutched him, nuzzled his hair and thrust awkwardly into his taut, aroused
body.
 Easy, easy. You re going to break something, he murmured, his mouth finding my
lips. He rubbed his cheek against mine, his beard rasping teasingly against my sensitized skin.
 Sorry. I tried to slow myself down, catching my breath in pained little gulps.  Am I
hurting you? It felt so good sheathed deep inside his body, the dark velvet grip that owned
me even as I tried to possess him. I stilled my movements with an effort.
 Not me. His hands slid down my sides, trying to ease my position.  You. His hands
settled on my arse, stroking with feathering fingertips.
And I chuckled, surprising him, because broken bones notwithstanding, for the first
time in my life I felt completely whole.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
 Now what in the world is that? remarked Lena, staring out the window over the sink
as we had breakfast in the kitchen alcove the following day.  As if we haven t had enough
trouble around here.
 Well, what do you know, Stephen said grimly.  I think the mountain has decided it
would be faster to visit Mohammed.
I looked up sharply from my blueberry French toast in time to watch a helicopter
rocking slowly down behind the trees to settle by the lake.
The geese, who had finally returned after the excitement of thirty-six hours earlier,
took flight once more. The reeds around the lake whipped in the wind from the helicopter
blades.
 Goddamn it, I said, and Lena made a disapproving noise.
As we stared, the door to the helicopter opened and a young man hopped out. He
turned to help a tall and familiar figure disembark. Even from where we sat I recognized the
shock of white hair and stooped shoulders.  It s the Old Man himself, I said in disbelief.
Stephen swore quietly.
I rose and went out onto the porch. Stephen followed me down the hill, past the
yellow crime scene tape marking off the gun battle of two nights earlier.
The old man, impeccably tailored as always, strode toward us, moving with that
characteristic decisiveness and dispatch. He held an official-looking manila envelop.
 Well, Mr. Hardwicke, he said as he reached us, his eyes taking in Stephen standing
calmly at my shoulder.  It s nice to see you looking so well. I was led to believe your health
was in a far more precarious state.
 Just seeing you again is a tonic, sir, I said gravely.
The wind whipped his long white hair over his forehead and he raked it back
impatiently, glaring at us with his pale blue eyes. Then his shoulders slumped and he sighed.
 I shall miss you, Mark. I had you earmarked for bigger and better things. However, ours is
an organization that does not thrive in the limelight, and events of the past few days have
brought undue and unwelcome attention your way -- and thus our way.
He handed me the envelope.
Stephen snorted.  You re giving him his pink slip?
The Old Man said haughtily,  I think Mr. Hardwicke will agree the terms are quite
generous -- provided he agrees to all our terms.
 Terms? Stephen inquired warily, looking from me to my employer.  What are we
talking about here? A no compete?
I felt my mouth twitching into an inappropriate smile, but catching the Old Man s
glare, I bit it back.  I have to agree to keep my mouth shut. As Stephen s eyes narrowed, I
added,  I hope I can find work teaching because I won t be able to write that bestselling
roman á clef after all.
 You won t starve, the Old Man said.
 Thank you, sir, I said, and I meant it. I didn t care about my pension. He was letting
me go without a fuss, and that was all that mattered to me now.
The Old Man nodded curtly, and started to turn away. I realized that I would probably
never see him again.
I said,  Sir, would you care for some breakfast before you head back? Stephen threw
me a look of disbelief.
The Old Man fastened that pale gaze on me.  No, thank you, Mr. Hardwicke. I must be
away. I merely happened to be in the neighborhood.
 Ah.
He turned, then paused.  There is one final thing. You may hear on the news tonight
that several high ranking Taliban were killed in a missile attack in Kandahar yesterday. One
of the dead has been confirmed as Mullah Arsullah.
I stared at him. It seemed too much to hope for, but I couldn t see any point in his lying
about it.
 There s no mistake?
 There s no mistake. Just for an instant there was something I had rarely seen in his
eyes -- something I d used to crave -- an emotion dangerously akin to affection.  Let us hope,
Mr. Hardwicke, that you don t grow bored with what seems destined to be a very long and
uneventful retirement.
 Not much chance of that, sir.
In silence we watched as he made his way swiftly down the hill, climbed back into the
helicopter. The blades picked up speed, the helicopter lifted and whirled away. In a few
moments it was a tiny speck in the distance.
Stephen s hand rested warmly on my shoulder, and I turned to him.
 Welcome home, he said.
THE END
THE END
THE END
THE END
Josh Lanyon
Josh Lanyon
Josh Lanyon
Josh Lanyon
Josh Lanyon is the author of three Adrien English mystery novels. THE HELL YOU
SAY was nominated for a Lambda Literary Award and is the winner of the 2006
USABookNews awards for GLBT fiction. Josh lives in Los Angeles, California, and is
currently at work on the fourth book in the series, DEATH OF A PIRATE KING. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]