A Ghost of a Chance
by Tinnean

The rentboy had me pressed up against the wall outside the darkened hospital cafeteria. Theo’s fingers flexed in my hair, massaging my scalp, and he swallowed my moan. His hips rocked lazily against me, his cock nudging the bulge of mine. I was so hard I thought I was about to explode.

Kissing him was like nothing I'd ever done before. His lips brushed from one side of my mouth to the other, nibbling and nipping until I opened with a gasp. I expected him to thrust his tongue past my teeth and try to determine if I still had my tonsils, but his kiss was almost delicate, almost tender, and I was so lost in the sensations that I'd have let him take me right there in that corridor.

He pulled his mouth off mine long enough to nip the tendon in my throat. "Are you gonna come for me, tough guy?" he growled. His hands slid into my suit jacket and down past the waistband of my trousers, and while one was rhythmically squeezing my butt cheeks and tracing the crevice between them, the other stroked my dick through my shorts.

Oh, god, I'd never felt anything that good before, not from the women I'd had in my bed, and definitely not from those encounters with my friend, Michael.

I took his face between my palms and brought it up, then ran my tongue over his lips, teasing them into opening.

"Holy shit!"

I had Theo's hands out of my pants, had him spun behind me, and had my gun out before he realized I was moving.

Spike, the youngest rentboy, stood at the end of the corridor, his mouth gaping like a hooked fish as he took in the Mauser that was cocked, aimed, and ready to be fired at his head.

"Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me!"

The man at my back gave a snort of laughter, and leaned forward and stuck his tongue in my ear. I shivered. "Don't shoot him, Wills." I hunched my shoulder and shivered again when his warm breath tickled the sensitive shell of my ear.

I scowled at the kid and put my gun away. Spike's eyes were enormous. He appeared fascinated with a spot below my waist. A quick glance down revealed my shirttail was out of my pants. I was tempted to pull my overcoat closed, but thought that would be too obvious. "You down here for a reason?" I snarled.

"Palm sent me to get you guys. He said Pretty Boy's being transferred up to room 412, and he wants you there."

"Okay, thanks." I headed for the stairs, tucking my shirt in.

"Hey, wait a second! The elevator's over here!"

I gave him a look over my shoulder. "I'm taking the stairs." Absently I fumbled with the buttons of my jacket.

"So am I," Sweetcheeks grinned at me. My erection, which had vanished at the first sign of perceived danger, was back with a vengeance. I knew once we were in the stairwell he would have his hands all over me.

Spike chewed irresolutely on his lower lip, then rushed across the space between us. He threw himself at Sweetcheeks. "What if he… what if he dies?" His voice was thick with tears.

"He isn't going to die." They both looked at me in surprise. I shrugged. "Mr. Palmer won't allow it. Let's get going, all right? I don't want to hang around a hospital basement all night." I didn't want to tell them that while Mr. Palmer was their friend, he was my boss, and he'd have my ass if I didn't ask how high when he said to jump.

I opened the door and began to jog up the stairs. I could feel Sweetcheeks right behind me, although he didn't touch me. Behind him was Spike, griping unhappily every step of the way.

****

Mr. Palmer had given me the okay to sit in on the autopsy with him, and then left after he’d ascertained that I’d be driving the rentboys home. While I was waiting for Sweetcheeks and Spike to say goodnight to their injured partner, I went into the patient bathroom to take a leak. A look in the mirror as I washed my hands had me swearing softly. "Fuck! Aw, fuck!" I ran a hand over my hair, trying to smooth it, then shoved the door open. Look at me! You could have told me!" I complained. My mouth was swollen, my hair was so disheveled it looked like I'd try to comb it with an eggbeater, and just above my collar was a vermilion love bite. I scowled at my reflection one last time and stalked out of the bathroom.

Sweetcheeks turned from the bedside and came to where I was standing. "Why, Wills? You look kind of cute, all mussed like that!"

"Oh sure, real professional! I'll bet Mr. Palmer thought so, too. Do you know what I look like?"

"You look like you just got out of bed!" I glared at him, and he started to laugh. "Sorry, didn't realize that was rhetorical."

"Well, it was!" Maybe Mr. Palmer hadn't noticed it? I sighed. Sure, and maybe I'd be elected the next Pope. "Are you ready to go?"

Spike leaned over and kissed the sleeping figure gently on the mouth. "I love you, Pretty Boy," he said quietly. "I'll be back tomorrow as soon as visiting hours start."

We went down to the parking pavilion. I unlocked my car with the remote and waited while Spike got in the back seat, and Sweetcheeks slid in beside me. He gave me the directions, and within twenty minutes we were in front of the ancient apartment house where they lived.

And we just sat there.

"I'm going to bed," Spike mumbled. "You two can do what you want." He slammed the car door behind him and climbed the stairs to the outer door.

"Do you want to come up?" Sweetcheeks asked me.

My mouth went dry. "I'd like that. But… I can't. I can't stay. I have that autopsy in the morning."

"I can set the alarm. I’ll even make you breakfast." Was it wishful thinking on my part, or did he really seem to be clutching at straws to get me to spend the night?

I turned off the engine, and I wondered how much this was going to cost me. Not simply in monetary terms, but in emotional terms as well.

I wasn't going to let anything stop me, though. I followed him up to his apartment and into his bedroom.

####

I reached the edge of consciousness, gasping and shuddering, tears streaking my cheeks. Something terrible had happened, and I'd had to be strong for all of us, but now I was finally able to release the restraint I had kept over my emotions. A warm body pressed against my back, arms held me, and gentle hands stroked my torso. "Shhh," a husky voice whispered in my ear. "It's okay, Theo. Go back to sleep."

"Spike?" Sometimes, when Pretty Boy was out on a 'date', and we were in for the night, Spike would crawl into bed with me for comfort, but he always called me Sweetcheeks.

"No, it's not Spike." Lips nuzzled the spot where my neck and shoulder joined, and I sighed sleepily. My mind was too fogged to try to figure out who was speaking, and I slid back into slumber.

It was almost 6 when I woke up again. The clock radio had come on. Fuck, it was too early for this shit. What had possessed me to set the alarm for such an ungodly hour? I rolled over and blindly slapped the snooze button, and the newscaster's annoying voice was cut off in mid vowel.

I snuggled back under the covers, about to fall asleep once more, when disgruntled muttering alerted me to the fact that I was not alone.

I opened an eye and peered cautiously at the body in bed next to me, and groaned. We made it a point never to bring clients home, and it looked as if I had broken our cardinal rule. Pretty Boy was going to be so pissed at me!

Abruptly, I remembered that he was in the hospital, and would be for some days to come. And I remembered who I had met at in the emergency room, Palm's delicious associate. I had taken him to bed? I carefully eased the covers down off the broad shoulders. He grumbled a bit, searched unsuccessfully for the blankets, then lapsed back into sleep.

The smooth skin of his back was marred by a ridge of flesh that started just above his left kidney and ended at his shoulder blade. It wasn't an old scar, but it wasn't as new as some I had seen. I had felt it under my fingers the night before.

I drew the sheets lower, and finally got a look at his butt. My breath caught as I had a chance to observe the firmly sculpted muscles. When I'd first got him into my bed, I'd been too absorbed with… other things… to give it the attention it deserved. He had another scar, and I swallowed a chuckle. It appeared someone had shot him in the ass.

His head was turned away from me, and all I could see was dark brown hair that fell in soft waves over his skull.

The radio came on again, and I reached out again to shut it off.

"Five more minutes, please!" he muttered into the pillow. I leaned forward and ran my tongue over the raised scar on his butt.

He hummed and rubbed his groin restlessly against the sheets, and spread his legs. I made a place for myself between them and parted his cheeks. His hole was a tight, pale pucker, and I flicked my tongue against it. Last night it had been virgin. This morning it wasn't.

****

When we'd finally made it into my bedroom and had gotten naked, I'd taken out a condom and was about to roll it on his very nicely shaped cock. He'd stopped me. "Will you… will you fuck me?" he'd asked, trying to appear casual about it, but something in his attitude struck me as being a little tense.

"You don’t want to fuck me?"

"Well, yes, I'd like to try that too. But right now, I want this."

"You trust me not to hurt you?"

The corner of his mouth had curved in a grin. "Of the two of us, I think you're the one who knows the most about the mechanics of this thing."

"I know the most…? Fucking hell, you're a virgin?"

He'd pokered up. "I didn't say that."

"Have you ever been fucked up the ass?" Reluctantly he shook his head. "Then you're a virgin, Wills!"

"Look, if this is a problem… if you'd rather not… Shit, this was not a good idea. Where're my clothes?"

"Oh, no, tough guy! I've been fantasizing about having sex with you since you walked into the emergency room behind Palm, and you in my ass is only slightly better than me in your ass. Get on the bed, baby. We're gonna rock and roll!"

And just like that, no questions, no protests, he'd lain down on the bed and spread his legs for me.

"I won't hurt you, I promise," I murmured as I got the condom on and slicked my fingers with the lube. He'd jerked a bit when I'd first touched him there, but he steadied himself and relaxed. What kind of training did the man have, that he could accept two fingers so readily? I didn't care; I squirted more lube on my fingers and got three into him, curling them and finding his prostate. He made a started sound.

"Like that, tough guy?"

"Ye… oh, yeah!"

I scrabbled for a couple of pillows and shoved them under his hips, then took my fingers out of his ass and replaced them with my dick. "Okay, baby, here we go."

He stiffened. "Say my name."

"What?"

"I'm letting you fuck me. I know you'll be good; this is what you do for a living. But I need to know you know whose ass you're in."

I'd licked the back of his neck. "Wills." He moaned as I pushed forward, my dick stretching him wider than my fingers had. "Wills." I was past the tight ring of muscle, and his breathing had become harsh. I knew he was feeling the burn. "Wills." I was lodged deep in his ass, and I held myself still while he adjusted to the bulk of my cock inside him.

His head dropped down, and he'd bucked back against me. That was all the encouragement I needed. I started moving, keeping the pace smooth and gentle. This was his first time, after all.

The thought hit me that I was taking his cherry. I'd never done that before, never had a virgin, and I almost lost control. He took what I gave him, though, begged me for more, and I began pounding into him. His passage was like a hot, satin glove, and I wished there wasn't a barrier between us. When I came, I wanted to be in him so deep he'd feel me in his throat. When I came, I wanted to fill him with blood-hot semen. When I came, I…

With a startled yelp, I came.

He was trembling, on the brink, the sounds he made desperate. My right hand was still slicked with lube, and I reached under him and began pumping his weeping dick. Somehow I stayed inside him, and he rocked forward into my fist, and then back onto the cock that impaled him. I watched him, and it didn't take much to tip him over. He turned his head and bit the pillow to muffle his deep groan, and spilled himself over my hand.

"Jesus fucking god!" he'd panted, and I grinned proudly. It was nice to have one's talents appreciated. "Was I too… too noisy?"

"Never, Wills!" I could see he was uneasy. Had someone made him feel uncomfortable in bed? I scattered kisses over his upper back, then withdrew from him carefully and removed the condom. "I'm going to get rid of this and get something to clean us both up." He nodded, and I went into the bathroom. I chucked the used condom into the john and flushed, and then I ran the water in the sink.

I lounged in the bathroom doorway, just looking at him, just watching the long body in my bed. He had rolled onto his back, and his breathing was slowly coming under control. His cock rested on his thigh, flaccid now. Who'd have thought he had this fantastic body hidden under the suit he wore? Nicely defined pecs covered by a pelt of hair slightly darker than that on his head, a six-pack of abs that I knew from personal exploration were rock hard.

When the water was hot enough for my taste, I soaked a washcloth, wrung it out and wiped myself off, then rinsed it and went back into the bedroom. He was almost asleep. Once I was finished running the cloth over his front, I dried him off, and nudged him onto his belly. I checked to make sure I hadn't torn him. There was no blood, and I gently pressed the still-warm cloth to his well-used hole. I'd done a good job initiating him.

"Mmm." He arched under my ministrations. "Feels nice."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Theo." His voice was becoming indistinct.

"It was my pleasure, Wills." I brought the washcloth back to the bathroom and snapped off the light.

"Theo? Set the alarm for 6, will you? And come to bed. I've got to get some sleep."

****

So that was why the alarm had gone off so early.

I turned my face and gave his ass cheek a sharp nip, then levered myself back on my heels. "You have to be at the morgue in an hour, Wild Bill."

He groaned and sat up, wincing a bit. "Damn. I'm not going to have time for breakfast. Breakfast is our friend," he groused, as if repeating something he had been told more than once.

"Take a shower while I make some coffee. I know a route that will avoid the worst of the morning traffic."

"Sounds good, thanks." Unselfconsciously, he strode into the bathroom, totally naked. And I saw that his right calf also bore a scar. Shaking my head, I went around the room, picking up his clothes and laying them out on the bed. And next to them I placed his shoulder holster, and the little clutch piece he'd worn on his ankle.

I tugged on a pair of sweat pants and went to the kitchen. While the coffee was brewing, I wrote down the directions, then began rifling through the pantry. He wouldn't be able to have breakfast, but he'd need something on his stomach. Triumphantly, I pulled a box of saltines from the top shelf, where it was lurking behind the Hamburger Helper. It wasn't exactly a brand new box, but they should still be fairly fresh. I took out a sleeve of crackers and placed it on the kitchen table, then turned.

He was standing in the doorway, fastening his watch on his wrist, and I almost swallowed my tongue. He had let me fuck him. He had trusted me enough not to hurt him.

I must have said that out loud, because he looked up with a small smile and opened his jacket, revealing the heat he was packing. "I knew you wouldn't hurt me, Theo. But if you had, I'd have shot your dick off." He grinned and went back to fiddling with his watchstrap.

"Humph." I took a mug from the cabinet over the sink, filled it, and handed it to him. "Take these saltines with you. They should settle your stomach if it gets queasy."

"Hey," he said softly, and I waved away his thanks.

"I just don't want you getting docked. I'm easy, but I'm not cheap!"

He finished the coffee, crossed to the sink and put the cup on the drain. "Speaking of which, how much do I owe you?"

"Well, now, you see, I don't rightly see how I can charge you, when I was the one who fucked you."

His color was high. "Just out of curiosity, what do you usually get?"

"Five hundred a night. I don't do hourly rates anymore."

He looked stunned. "Jesus! Look, can we negotiate?"

"Huh?"

Wills slanted a glance at me. "I'd like to see you again."

"Yes! I mean… uh… sure. That would be nice."

He walked toward the door, shrugging into his overcoat, and nodded. "Good. I'll give you a call after work. We'll set something up. Dinner, maybe." Wills came back, pulled me out of the chair I had dropped into and ground his mouth into mine. "I've gotta go!" He put the saltines in his pocket and fished for his car keys.

For a second I thought he would come back to me again, but then the door closed quietly behind him, and I was alone. I poured myself a cup of coffee and went to the fridge for the milk.

When I sat down again, I realized the directions for the shortcut were lying forgotten on the table. "Aw, fuck!" I'd also scrawled my phone number on the paper.

Well, Palm would know how to get in touch with Wills. And I knew how to get in touch with Palm.

I emptied my coffee into the sink and went back to bed. Visiting hours didn't start until 11, and I needed my beauty sleep.

####

I pulled my car into Webb's driveway and let it sit there idling while I rested my head on the steering wheel.

This wasn't the smartest idea I'd ever agreed with, but the hour was too late and I was too tired to go looking for another place to stay.

I turned off the ignition, grabbed my overnight bag and got out, walking across the lawn instead of using the sidewalk. It felt odd pressing the doorbell and waiting for Webb to let me in, rather than letting myself in, but he didn't keep me waiting there.

The chimes had no sooner finished sounding than the door swung open. I gave him a grin.

"Come on in, Clark, before you frighten the neighbors."

I scowled and brushed past him.

"You look like death warmed over, Clark."

//Yeah, and I love you, too, Webb.//

"Go on into the kitchen; I'm sure you know where it is. I'll take your bag up to the guest bedroom." He reached for the overnighter.

"Jesus, Webb. We're adversaries. Don't treat me like a fucking guest." I tightened my grip on the bag.

"Palmer, shut the fuck up. I have no intention of searching through your clothes, so give me your fucking bag, go in the kitchen, and eat your goddamned sandwich."

It must have been a measure of how the day's events had gotten to me that I actually obeyed him.

On the butcher block table in the kitchen was a plate with a BLT, the crusts neatly cut off. Next to it was a steaming mug of a dark liquid. I sniffed. //Fucking hell! Earl Grey!// What was it with the Webbs, mother and son, and that tea that smelled like flowers, but tasted nothing like?

Still, he'd gone to the trouble of brewing me a cup. I sighed, sat down and made myself take a sip, barely restraining a shudder. God, that was awful!

Webb had just come back in, and he stared at me. "Clark, you drink that tea with cream."

"What?"

"That can be the vilest stuff in creation straight!" He went to the refrigerator and took out a container of cream.

Porter Webb had played me for a chump! She'd let me drink it that way, had never suggested otherwise. I started to smile. That clever lady!

****

Webb showed me up to the bedroom, which was just down the hall from his. I'd poked my head into all the rooms in his townhouse, but hadn't bothered to give this one more than a cursory inspection. It had a light patterned paper covering the walls, and a couple of Impressionist prints. I was pretty sure one was a Monet, and I thought the other might be a Matisse. The bed was a queen sized sleigh bed. No place to fasten handcuffs.

"This is fine, Webb. Thanks."

"Don't mention it, Clark. There's a bathroom right through that door. The coffee maker is set to go off automatically at 5:30, so if you need to leave early for that autopsy, it will be ready. " He started to go back downstairs to lock up his house, but came back, wound his fingers in my lapels, and dragged me chest to chest with him. "Clark, if you ever pull a stunt like that again… "

"Yeah?" What the fuck was he doing? I reached up to pull his hands off me, but found myself holding on to them and not letting go. What the fuck was I doing?

"Well, let's just say I won't be happy about it."

"You won't…"

He jerked my mouth down to his in a hard, punishing kiss. Then he shoved me away from him. "Goddamn you, Palmer. I thought you were dead! Do you know why your sandwich had no crusts?" I'd have sworn his eyes were shooting sparks. "I cut them off. I took a butcher knife, for god's sake, and fucking chopped those crusts off, because otherwise I would have been tempted to run it through your black, DSD heart!" He turned on his heel and stalked down the hall.

Jesus. This was one fucking weird day. Clayton Webb was that upset because of what happened, or didn't happen? He was up to something. He had to be up to something.

I took a shower and went to bed, but it was a long time before I could fall sleep. I kept seeing Pretty Boy in that hospital bed, Sperling in that drawer in the morgue, Sam a shapeless mass of metal…

The most irritating buzzing sound I had ever heard woke me out of a deep sleep, and I sat up with a start, fumbling for the Glock under my pillow. Before I could do anything rash, I realized it was not a swarm of bees but the alarm. I turned it off, when what I really wanted to do was heave it across the room to shatter against the wall.

It had interrupted the most vivid dream, of Clay on his knees as he had been in the men's room of Raphael's, sucking my dick, giving me a fantastic blowjob. It was probably a good thing the alarm had gone off. I'd been on the verge of coming, and this was the only pair of clean shorts I had with me.

Fucking spook. Giving me problems even when he wasn't there!

I threw back the covers and rose to face the day. I had places to go, the morgue, the hospital, and a subordinate to whip into shape, and I had no time for mooning over a deputy CIA director. I took a quick shower, dressed in clothes that smelled faintly of smoke, and went down to the kitchen.

As Clay had promised, the coffee was brewed and waiting for me. I filled the mug that had been left out for me and sipped it, gazing off into space while I tried to determine which motel I should use in DC. I wouldn't be able to go home any time soon, that was for damned sure.

"Morning, Clark." Fuck! I hadn't even heard him come down the stairs! Clay walked into the kitchen, looking tousled and still half asleep. He rubbed a hand over his hair and crossed to the cupboard to get down a cup for himself. "Did you sleep well?"

I scowled at him. Those pajamas looked familiar. "Sure. I hope I didn't wake you."

"No. I had to get up anyway. And no, Clark, I have no intention of telling you why." He brushed the lock of hair out of his eyes. He saw what had captured my gaze. "Like the way the pajamas look, Clark? You have good taste." He stroked his palm over the sleeve. "Nice feel. Nice fit too. How'd you guess my size? Or did you go rummaging in my drawers?"

"What do you think, Webb?" I grinned. I really liked the idea of having my hands in his drawers, but I hadn't even gone into his dresser. The saleswoman at Beau Brummel's, the very exclusive men's shop where I'd purchased the pajamas, had helped me choose the correct size. And he'd worn them the night before? Now, that was telling. Too bad I hadn't known, and had been too wiped out to do anything about it if I had.

"Never mind, I'm sorry I asked." He waved it aside as if it didn't matter. But if it didn't, why had he brought it up? And why had he fucking worn them? I turned away so he wouldn't see me glaring at the pajamas. "Anyway, thank you again." He raised the cup to his lips. "So, what would you like for dinner?"

"What?"

"Well, I assumed you'd be staying here until something could be done about your apartment. You're not going to be stubborn about this, are you? There's a perfectly good bedroom available here." I opened my mouth to object, but he cut me off with a wry smile. "And you can always tell any of your superiors who might ask that you're staying here in hopes of getting Company secrets out of me."

I shut my mouth. Clay nodded as if I had agreed with him. "Looks like you've got all the angles covered," I said shortly.

"That's why I was made deputy director."

I grunted and finished my coffee. "I don't know what my schedule will be like today. Why don't I give you a call later? We could go out to dinner." Had I really just suggested that? He must have put something in the water for the coffee. "I've got to go!"

"Fuck! Clark." He waited until I paused at the door. "I'd like dinner, but I just remembered I have something else on the calendar for tonight. Can I take a rain check?" He waited until I nodded before he disarmed his security system. What, was he going to keep me prisoner here until I said yes? I swallowed. I liked that idea. Oh, god, he was so fucking me up! "Oh, and call this number." He extended a slip of paper. "This is the service I use. They're quite good, and they'll see your apartment is inhabitable by the beginning of the week. Of course, I've never had my home blown up." His eyes never left my face, and when I didn't accept the paper, his hand dropped, and he sighed. "Unless the DSD has a service they prefer. Goddamned paranoid son of a bitch!" he muttered under his breath.

I found myself taking the number from him. "Thanks, Clay. I'll talk to you later." Once I heard the lock click into place behind me, I left.

There was a McDonald's on the way to the morgue. Well, fuck, there was a McDonald's on the way to anywhere. I stopped there to get another cup of coffee and an Egg McMuffin.

It was a little before 7:30 when I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot close to the entrance. Matheson was waiting for me by the door, the familiar red, white and yellow cup in his hand. It seemed he had stopped by the Golden Arches also.

"Good morning, Mr. Palmer." He stepped ahead of me to pull the door open, and I noticed his gait was stiff, as if he had a roll of quarters up his butt. I didn't say anything. The DSD had no hard and fast policies regarding its agents' sexual orientation, and as long as it didn't get me killed, he could fuck the entire defensive squad of the Washington Redskins for all I cared. Or get fucked by them. "Dr. Schmidt has already arrived. He said he would start as soon as you got here." He fell into step beside me.

As we took the stairs to the lower level, my cell phone rang. "Palmer."

"Palm, it's Sweetcheeks."

I looked at my watch. "What are you doing up at this hour? Is everything all right?" The hospital knew to call this number if anything happened, but I couldn't see any other reason for the rentboy to get in touch with me.

"Oh, yeah, sure, everything is fine. I mean, I haven't heard anything." His voice suddenly got tight. "Why, have you?"

I growled into the phone. "Sweetcheeks…"

"Okay, sorry. Um… is Wills there? Um… Agent Matheson? He… uh… he forgot something this morning."

"'Wills'?" I arched my eyebrow at the agent beside me.

He returned my look curiously. "Something wrong, sir?" I handed him the phone, and his expression became cautious. "Matheson."

Matheson's eyes shot to mine, and I knew he wanted to put some distance between us, but this was not a conversation I wanted to miss out on. I stayed where I was in the stairwell and smiled. A blush began to sweep over Matheson's cheeks, and then vanished abruptly. Interesting ability. It wasn't listed in his files. I wondered how he did that.

"No, I didn't forget it, Theo."

Theo? Sweetcheeks had told my agent his real name? That was intriguing. I had known him for almost four years before he'd told me what his name was. Of course, I'd learned what it was, learned a great deal about the stable of rentboys who lived on the floor below mine not long after I’d moved in. I made it a point to find out as much as possible about my neighbors. You never could tell who might be living next door. I brought my attention back to Matheson's side of the conversation.

"Theo, I didn't need the paper; I have a photographic memory. Your number is …" He recited it. "I thought you'd have gone back to bed. I was going to call you later."

Matheson was what?

"You are in bed?" This time he made no effort to control the color that rose to his hairline. He licked his lips and glanced at me, but I still wasn't going anywhere. If he was as aroused as his voice let on, the cut of his trousers concealed it. "Will you be able to sleep now, Theo?" His expression became almost dreamy, and his voice took on a husky quality. "Good. Yeah, I wish I was there, too." What in fucking hell was going on between those two?

"I'll let you know if I'm in trouble when I talk to you later, Theo. Bye." He switched off the phone and handed it back to me. "Sorry, sir."

I stuffed the phone in my suit jacket, and continued down the stairs and into the room where the autopsy was to take place. //It's spring, smart guy!// Oh, fuck! That voice was back. //Cherry blossoms are in bloom,// it informed me smugly, //and you know where a young man's fancy lightly turns.//

"Sir?"

I realized I must have said something aloud. "Nothing, Matheson. Stand over there, and don't get in the way." The look I gave him clearly stated that if he passed out, I'd take it out on his ass.

Dr. Avery 'Smitty' Schmidt gave me a nod and picked up a scalpel. He wore a headset and would speak into the mouthpiece, verbally recording the entire procedure. "We have the body of a male, approximately …" As he went into detail, he made the first incision, starting at the shoulder and going to mid-chest, then joining it from the other shoulder and slicing down to the pubic area.

My agent and I watched. I finished my Egg McMuffin, and occasionally Matheson would munch on a saltine he fished from the package in his pocket with one hand, while he juggled his cup of coffee in the other. The pathologist covered his mic. "You really shouldn't be eating in here, you know." He nodded at the look I gave him, resigned. "Right. Okay." He went back to his work.

Samples were prepared, and would be sent out to positively identify the body. I had no doubt it was Sperling, but the DSD liked to dot every i and cross every t.

"Tsk," Smitty murmured, shaking his head. "He's been cooked pretty good."

"Pity." I took a last sip of my coffee and looked around for a wastebasket.

"I'll get rid of that for you, Mr. Palmer," Matheson said. "I noticed there was a trash can in the corridor."

He had just left the room when my phone went off again. "Palmer."

"Mr. Palmer."

"Mr. Wallace!" Fuck! What was The Boss calling for so early on a Friday morning?

"E.T."

"Yes, sir." I disconnected and turned to face the pathologist. "Smitty, I want all pertinent data faxed to my office. Copies go to the usual."

"I know, I know." He waved me off. "Later, Palmer."

I went out just as the younger agent was coming back in. "Matheson." In the DSD you develop a kind of shorthand. In one word I had told him we were done with the autopsy, and he was to come with me. Just as by saying 'E.T.' Mr. Matheson had informed me I was to call him at his office on a land line.

There were a couple of pay phones in the lobby. I pointed to one and took the other. "See that no one comes close enough to overhear."

"Yes, sir." He picked up the phone and stood there, keeping an eye on the drones who were starting the last work day of the week.

I slid a small device onto the receiver and punched in a series of numbers. The phone was answered on the first ring. "There's a problem?"

"Yes." Mr. Wallace's distinctive voice came back over the line. "A situation has arisen in our Boston office." He proceeded to outline the problem in a flat tone.

"I'll catch the first shuttle up to Logan," I told him when he had finished.

"No. State is sponsoring a ball for the ambassador of Bosnia and Herzegovina. I need someone there."

I swallowed. "Me, sir?" I wondered if my tux had survived the explosion.

"You. You're a deputy director now, Mr. Palmer. Delegate the task." He hung up, having no doubt that I would do as he ordered. I dialed another set of numbers.

"Mr. Palmer's office. How may I help you?"

"Ms. Parker, I need the first available flight out of DC and into Logan."

I could hear her fingers flying over her keyboard. "That would be out of Washington Reagan at 12:55, sir. It will get into Logan at 2:15. Shall I see that a ticket is waiting at check-in?"

"Yes. Matheson will be picking it up."

"Sir?" Surprise was evident in her voice, and then was smoothly erased. "Of course, Mr. Palmer. I'll see someone meets him at the airport with photo identification. Business ID, sir?"

"Yes." The DSD had a number of identities that were used in situations like this, and this one would get my agent past security with the gun I would need to provide him. "Good work, Ms. Parker."

"Thank you, sir. And wish Mr. Matheson success."

Mr. Matheson? Obviously the agent had done something to impress my unimpressable secretary. I'd have to look into that.

I studied the young man beside me. "Matheson." He hung up the phone he'd been pretending to monopolize and stepped closer to me. "I have a job for you."

His eyes lit up.

"If I recall correctly, you lived in Cambridge for a time. You're familiar with the Boston area."

It wasn't a question, and if he was surprised at the extent of my knowledge of his background, he hid it well. He waited for me to continue.

"Let's go take a ride." I considered what The Boss had told me. Apparently, a computer geek had uploaded some new software for the entire accounting department in the Boston office. It was supposed to contain a simple debugging program, but instead of running a scan and making any corrections automatically, it was exponentially increasing the errors, thereby increasing the problems to the point the entire office was at a standstill.

Matheson sat in the passenger seat of my boxy sedan and listened while I drove. By the time we arrived at the airport, I had given him all the pertinent data, including the little fucker's name and the floor he worked on. "You'll meet your contact, Whithers, on the concourse. He'll have the identification papers you need to claim your ticket and get you onboard with the gun I’ll give you."

"Very good, sir." His expression became thoughtful. "I know the building, Mr. Palmer, and it shouldn't take me long to get there from Logan. How far do you want me to go?"

I let the car idle in front of Departures. The last time I'd had a job like this, I'd been hamstrung by the wishes of Paul Wolfe, the head of Section One. It had been frustrating, and left the possibility of a loose end that could unravel. I leaned over and opened the glove compartment, and removed a case that contained a cold pistol. All its serial numbers had been filed off, and it was untraceable. Next to it was a silencer and a clip of ammunition. "I want him taken out with extreme prejudice."

"Yes, sir! Do you want any messages left on the body, sir?" He accepted the case, glancing in casually, and then closing the lid and slipping it into his coat pocket.

I tugged at my lower lip. "I believe I'll leave that up to you." He reached for the door handle. "Just one thing, Matheson. Don't get caught."

He grinned at me and got out of the car. There was something familiar about that grin.

And then I recognized it. I'd caught a glimpse of my face once, when I was on the hunt. It was a duplicate of mine.

####

I had a seat by the emergency exit. The extra space gave me room to stretch out my legs. I crossed my feet at the ankles and rested my head against the back of my seat. The flight attendant would be coming around soon with the beverage service. Even if it hadn't been so early in the day, I would have restricted myself to a tomato juice on the rocks. Once in Boston, I'd need a clear head to accomplish the first mission my superior had assigned me as a special agent, and I had no intention of blowing it.

Blowing it… That brought to mind the talented rentboy who had fucked me into the mattress the night before. I sighed and shifted, and the ache deep inside my ass made itself felt. I'd have to call him when I got this business at the Corporation's New England headquarters squared away. Maybe we could have dinner when I got back to the Capital. Maybe we could do more than that.

The previous night had been like nothing I had ever experienced before. For months now my dreams had been filled with images of me getting fucked, consensually, non-consensually, tied up and helpless, and I spent some time after work reading about it online. I jumped at the opportunity to fulfill at least one of those dreams.

When Theo realized I was a … that I’d never had a cock in my ass before, I thought he was going to turn me down. But instead, he’d said, "Oh, no, tough guy! I've been fantasizing about having sex with you since you walked into the emergency room behind Palm, and you in my ass is only slightly better than me in your ass. Get on the bed, baby. We're gonna rock and roll!"

I was already hot, but the thought that he wanted me made me hotter. I knew enough self-hypnosis to insure I was relaxed enough to accept the fingers he inserted in me to stretch me. The first time he’d rubbed across my prostate I nearly came, and I thought it couldn’t get better than that. And then he’d replaced his fingers with his cock, and I learned how wrong I was.

Michael had always demanded silence when we had sex, no matter where we were, whether it was his beat up old car, or my dorm room. Although we didn’t do it often, it was a lesson that stayed with me.

But Theo seemed to relish the sounds I made. He had pushed me so high that I hadn't been able to contain the groans, and gasps, and whimpers of pleasure. He’d stroked my cock and fucked my ass, and I’d come apart under him, biting the pillow in a futile attempt to muffle the sounds.

I had no doubt that if it weren't for the fact that my ass would have been grass if I’d missed that morning’s appointment with Mr. Palmer at the morgue, Theo would have flipped me over onto my back and run his tongue up and down my dick before deep throating me. I shifted again, this time to ease the constriction of my trousers.

The flight attendant interrupted my reverie when he brought my tomato juice and a package of blue taco chips, and I pushed thoughts of Theo out of my mind and began to format a plan to deal with the problem in Boston.

****

The flight was only an hour and twenty minutes, and the attendants had no sooner gone through the cabin collecting plastic cups and wrappers than the pilot announced we'd be landing in Logan shortly. Once we touched down, it was simply a matter of hailing a cab and giving him the address.

Near Boston Common was a very large, very old building. The New England headquarters of the Bradenhurst Corporation were not housed there, although that was where I directed the driver. I paid the fare, gave him the correct tip so I wouldn't be remembered for having tipped too little or too much, and casually crossed the street and entered the building.

I found a men's room and went into an empty handicapped stall. After I took a piss and washed my hands, I opened the case. To avoid the possibility of leaving fingerprints behind, in case some over-zealous cop arrived on the scene before it had been gone over by in-house security, I put on a pair of gloves. I screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the gun, loaded it and slid it into my pocket. The case was buried at the bottom of a wastebasket.

I made my way to an exit on the north side of the building, then continued north on Charles Street. I'd worked in the headquarters for about a year before the powers that be decided I was suitable for the big leagues, and I made the transfer to Washington. But while I was there, I'd learned all the ins and outs, and I knew the quickest route to get out on a Friday afternoon when all everyone wanted was to hit the bars and hoist a few.

It was one of the only unguarded entrances in the building. Once inside, it was easy to blend with every other working stiff. I looked at the elevators, then at the door to the stairwell beside them, and almost whimpered.

I could just picture myself climbing those stairs to the seventy-first floor, and I straightened my shoulders and took the first elevator that arrived.

Funny thing about elevators. Everyone stood facing the front, and nobody met anybody's eyes.

When the doors opened on seventy-one, a few other people got out with me, but they hurried off in different directions. I headed down the hall to a small cubbyhole of an office and turned the knob to let myself in.

The geek at the computer was hunched over the keyboard. He jerked nervously at the sound of the door closing, and his head shot up. He didn't look more than twenty, although he was probably closer to my age. His skin had a sallow caste and was pocked with acne scars, and his puffy eyes were magnified behind coke bottle glasses. "Can I help you?"

I rested a hip against his desk. "I dunno. Can you?"

He licked his lips. "Uh… I don’t think you're supposed to be in here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Are you?" I shrugged. "No problem. I do have a question for you, though. How much are you being paid to sabotage the Corporation's computers? I'm sure selling out your employer in today's market is worth more than thirty pieces of silver."

"What? I don't know… That's a ... Fuck you, man!" He reached for his phone, to call security, I supposed, but it was too late for him. I had the gun out and pressed hard under his chin, forcing his head back.

"You didn't really think you'd get away with this, did you?" I chided him. I forced his hand to hold the grip beneath mine and began to tighten my finger on the trigger.

"No! Please, no! I'll tell you everything!" His eyes were wild with panic.

"But you don't understand, four-eyes. I don't care." Mr. Palmer hadn't said anything about making him sweat, so I squeezed the trigger. There was a muffled 'pop'. The top of his head exploded, and brain matter splattered all over the wall behind him. I let his hand fall, dropping the gun. An autopsy would pick up the grains of powder imbedded in his skin. I picked up his right hand, extended his forefinger and began to tap out a message on his keyboard, watching as it appeared on the monitor.

When I was finished, I regarded it thoughtfully. 'I've betrayed those who trusted me, and I can't live with myself anymore. I'm sorry." Yes, that should convince any outside authorities who might be called upon to look into this that it was simply a suicide. If it didn’t… Well, the Boston office would have to deal with it, unless Mr. Palmer ordered otherwise.

I checked my suit to make sure there were no stains on it, although I didn’t think that was likely with the angle of the gun aiming away from me. I walked out of the little office, found the nearest staircase and walked down three flights before exiting to take an elevator the rest of the way down. It never hurt to cover as many bases as possible, although I was fairly positive no one had really seen me.

As I reversed my path and went south on Charles Street, I checked my watch. I had a couple of hours before my flight was scheduled to leave. Back on Boston Common I caught a cab to Logan. It would still be early by the time the jet landed in Washington.

I’d call Sweetcheeks. If he didn’t have anything planned, I’d take him out to dinner.

~End~