Icecapade by Josh Lanyon
January 1st, 2000
The world did not end.
Given his hangover, maybe it should have. Noel stared up at the tiny red eye of the hotel room smoke detector. A little late for red lights, considering the warm weight lying against him, the muscular hairy leg tangled with his own, the big hand resting possessively on his groin.
Talk about having him by the balls.
He smiled faintly, turned his head on the fine linen pillowcase to study his bedmate. Tumbled black curls, a strong nose, a thin, ironic mouth. Not a handsome face, exactly, but undeniably attractive in a craggy, tough guy way.
So this was FBI Special Agent Robert Cuffe.
Noel’s lips twitched with self-mockery. Well, that answered one question.
He resisted the temptation to touch his mouth to the surprisingly soft lips a few inches from his own. As dearly as he’d love to wake Cuffe up for another round of fun and games, play time was over. He could see the watery frame of light around the top of the long ivory draperies. It must be five-thirty or so. Longer than he’d intended to stay.
Cuffe muttered in his sleep, a gust of alcohol-scented breath warming Noel’s ear. Noel’s mouth curved again. Cuffe was a big guy and he could hold his drink all right, but Noel knew a trick or two to even the odds. Even so, there was no pretending he too hadn’t been drunk off his ass last night. To take that kind of a chance?
Definitely the worse for drink.
But it had been worth it.
From his standpoint anyway. Cuffe might feel differently once he figured out who had actually been seducing whom. Not much of a sense of humor, Special Agent Cuffe. Took himself and his mission very seriously. And his mission last night had been to try and get the goods on diamond thief Noel Snow.
And he’d been close. Not as close as he thought, but close enough. Closer than anyone else had come in the three years Noel had been in business. In fact, Noel had begun to take a friendly interest in Cuffe—even before last night.
He stretched cautiously, respectful of his aching head and the tiny, mostly pleasurable pangs of a body well used. Cuffe’s hand flexed in a responsive, an unconscious caress, and Noel’s cock came instantly awake. He mentally shook his head. at himself.
But God, it had been good. What he wouldn’t give to lie curled against Cuffe’s long, strong body for a couple more hours. When Cuffe woke they could have a nice leisurely fuck, shower together, perhaps order room service. The Michelangelo had the best coffee and hot croissants outside of Paris.
But no. Cuffe would probably resemble a bear with a hangover. He was too smart not to start questioning his good luck the night before, and before long he’d put two and two together and Noel would be in bracelets—the stainless steel kind. After that, it would only be a matter of time before Cuffe figured out exactly where Dahlia Boaz’s 33-carat diamond ring had been stashed.
Speaking of which, Noel needed to get downstairs before the cleaning crew got rolling.
He threw his bedmate a final cautious look. Cuffe continued to sleep the sleep of the just. The just fucked. His face was hard even in his dreams, softened only by ridiculous eyelashes—as thick and dark as a doll’s.
Keeping his breaths even and slow, his movements minimal, Noel inched out from beneath Cuffe’s arm and slid to the edge of the bed. He rose, careful not to bounce the mattress, and stood for a moment watching Cuffe in the gloom.
Was he faking?
No.
Not much for subterfuge, Cuffe, regardless of what he believed. For nearly two years they’d been playing cat and mouse, and all this time Cuffe had imagined he was the cat. Noel had become quite fond of his endearingly single-minded nemesis. He always made sure to leave a few promising clues for him, enough to guarantee Cuffe remained point man on his case.
Of course after last night... well, Noel had his own problems to deal with after last night.
It took him less than three minutes to pack his remaining belongings. He never really unpacked. He’d enjoyed watching Cuffe painstakingly—considering how smashed he was—rifle through his suitcase last night while Noel feigned sleep.
Easing open the hotel door, he hung out the Do Not Disturb sign, slipped into the hall and soundlessly closed the door behind him.
At this time of the morning it only took a couple of seconds to catch an elevator to the main lobby, chill and pristine as a marble tomb following the revelries of the night before. A hint of antiseptic hung in the air. Noel could hear the distant howl of a vacuum. Through artful arrangements of creamy orchids and gilt Italian vases he spotted household staff going about their duties.
There was no sign of surveillance. No sign that anyone was paying him any attention at all. Why would they? Everyone in the city was probably recovering from the night before and the blow out New Year’s Eve party in Times Square.
Noel checked out without incident, and headed straight to the downstairs lavatory. Using the small, universal key on his fob, he opened the door of the metal trash container, moved the basket out of the way, and retrieved the plastic wrapped ring he had left tucked in the back of the metal compartment. He unzipped the lining of his London Fog trench coat, dropped the ring in and rezipped.
There was no real reason for the sick thud of his heart, the uncharacteristic tremor in his hands. He felt as nervous as when he’d pulled his first job. Why? It was going like clockwork. Hangover. That’s all this was. He needed a couple of Alka-Seltzer and sleep. He could have both on the flight to Amsterdam.
A moment later he pushed out of the restroom, strolled through the main lobby and walked out through the entrance of The Michelangelo.
Yellow dawn cast baked watercolor light across the tall buildings and shady streets. No planes fell from the sky. The computers of the world had not ground to a halt. The traffic signals continued to blink their messages to the eerily quiet streets.
Noel raised his arm to flag down a cab, and moments later one pulled to the curb, exhaust warming the cold air. From behind smudgy windows, he could hear the muffled blast of Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Only Living Boy in New York.”
He drew a deep breath of cold, dry air scented of exhaust and the salt and chemicals they used to keep the streets ice free—and something uncannily like expensive urine. The Manhattan cocktail. There was no place on earth that smelled like New York City.
Noel tossed his bags in the cab. No one tried to stop him. No one noticed him at all. It was the first day of the New Year. The first day of the new Millennium.
A new beginning.
So why did it feel like something was ending?
Men of Smithfield: Mark and Tony by LB Gregg
I stormed into St. Joe's at the height of the Noon Ash Wednesday Mass. Still dressed in my scrubs, I blew through those massive chapel doors like a gust of bitter February wind. I'd just seen Jamie's pretentious car parked in front of the church, and I figured he'd come to this penitential mass hoping for absolution. He sat in the third row, head bowed, his gloriously tousled mass of golden hair gleamed like a beacon of innocence next to the shining helmeted updo of his repressed, miraculously blonde mother.
I bypassed the ushers, ignoring the hello from Mrs. Banks, my seventh grade math teacher and the folded program she tried to place in my hand. Failing to genuflect or splash myself with holy water―it would have sizzled on contact―I marched straight down the center aisle. My red rubber Crocs squeaked my progress through the hushed, echoing chamber of the sanctuary. Heads turned as I passed, no doubt wondering who dared to clop down the tasteful Moravian tile in the midst of this somber service. It was officially the kickoff to Lent, and the house was packed with the well-dressed, good citizens of Smithfield.
Faces I'd known my entire life surrounded me, but I blocked them out. I'm sure that even Christ's eye was on me. The priest, Father David, droned the glum litany and looked my way for half a second, before dismissing me, as if he was the voice of reason and I, little Markie Meehan, needed to sit my ass down and get with the program.
Not happening.
I found a place in the pew behind Jamie and slid in. Glaring at the back of his head, I struggled with an overwhelming violence. Never in my life had I felt that kind of rage. I wanted to destroy him, not engage in some hissed conversation and exchange of keys. Fuck that. I was beyond civility. And Jamie DuPree wasn't stepping one Gucci-clad toe in to my apartment. Ever again. The prick.
As I clenched the book rack, my fingers brushed against the Bible proudly displayed there. Eyeing the curls that hugged Jamie's rough jaw, I slid the Good Book from its safe haven. The cracked leather felt worn, but the bulk was reassuring. Encouraging, even. So fueled by a boiling rage, I hauled back and gobsmacked that bastard as hard as I could in front of God and everyone.
The Bible hit the back of Jamie's head with a resounding thwack! and Jamie pitched forward. His beautiful face collided with the pew in front of us with a sick smack. He hit the wooden lip hard, the sound like a puck getting whacked by the high-priced stick he valued far too much, and he dissolved onto the tile.
My follow-through sent me into an awkward nosedive over the back of the pew and onto the maroon cushion. Legs kicking, ass high, my face came perilously close to landing in Mrs. Dupree's lap. I clambered to my feet, spewing outrage and fury and maybe a little filth.
"In our bed, you fucking bastard!" The words rang through the congregation as the entire community froze.
At least I assumed they were frozen. I wasn't paying attention to anyone except Jamie and his stiff mother. I had nearly landed on top of her when the cushion shifted under her skinny ass and she rose to her perfectly clad feet and clutched her pearls. Her sour-lemon lips pursed, and she stared me down with―and perhaps I imagined this―the glowing eyes of demonic satisfaction. "How dare you?"
What did she think? That her words mattered here? Conversation with Jamie was definitely not happening now. I didn't spare her another glance.
Liberated of my usual control, I felt free. Or just out of my fucking mind, so I cuffed him again with the Bible. He went down a second time.
Bending the Iron by Libby Drew
I stormed into St. Joe's at the height of the Noon Ash Wednesday Mass. Still dressed in my scrubs, I blew through those massive chapel doors like a gust of bitter February wind. I'd just seen Jamie's pretentious car parked in front of the church, and I figured he'd come to this penitential mass hoping for absolution. He sat in the third row, head bowed, his gloriously tousled mass of golden hair gleamed like a beacon of innocence next to the shining helmeted updo of his repressed, miraculously blonde mother.
I bypassed the ushers, ignoring the hello from Mrs. Banks, my seventh grade math teacher and the folded program she tried to place in my hand. Failing to genuflect or splash myself with holy water―it would have sizzled on contact―I marched straight down the center aisle. My red rubber Crocs squeaked my progress through the hushed, echoing chamber of the sanctuary. Heads turned as I passed, no doubt wondering who dared to clop down the tasteful Moravian tile in the midst of this somber service. It was officially the kickoff to Lent, and the house was packed with the well-dressed, good citizens of Smithfield.
Faces I'd known my entire life surrounded me, but I blocked them out. I'm sure that even Christ's eye was on me. The priest, Father David, droned the glum litany and looked my way for half a second, before dismissing me, as if he was the voice of reason and I, little Markie Meehan, needed to sit my ass down and get with the program.
Not happening.
I found a place in the pew behind Jamie and slid in. Glaring at the back of his head, I struggled with an overwhelming violence. Never in my life had I felt that kind of rage. I wanted to destroy him, not engage in some hissed conversation and exchange of keys. Fuck that. I was beyond civility. And Jamie DuPree wasn't stepping one Gucci-clad toe in to my apartment. Ever again. The prick.
As I clenched the book rack, my fingers brushed against the Bible proudly displayed there. Eyeing the curls that hugged Jamie's rough jaw, I slid the Good Book from its safe haven. The cracked leather felt worn, but the bulk was reassuring. Encouraging, even. So fueled by a boiling rage, I hauled back and gobsmacked that bastard as hard as I could in front of God and everyone.
The Bible hit the back of Jamie's head with a resounding thwack! and Jamie pitched forward. His beautiful face collided with the pew in front of us with a sick smack. He hit the wooden lip hard, the sound like a puck getting whacked by the high-priced stick he valued far too much, and he dissolved onto the tile.
My follow-through sent me into an awkward nosedive over the back of the pew and onto the maroon cushion. Legs kicking, ass high, my face came perilously close to landing in Mrs. Dupree's lap. I clambered to my feet, spewing outrage and fury and maybe a little filth.
"In our bed, you fucking bastard!" The words rang through the congregation as the entire community froze.
At least I assumed they were frozen. I wasn't paying attention to anyone except Jamie and his stiff mother. I had nearly landed on top of her when the cushion shifted under her skinny ass and she rose to her perfectly clad feet and clutched her pearls. Her sour-lemon lips pursed, and she stared me down with―and perhaps I imagined this―the glowing eyes of demonic satisfaction. "How dare you?"
What did she think? That her words mattered here? Conversation with Jamie was definitely not happening now. I didn't spare her another glance.
Liberated of my usual control, I felt free. Or just out of my fucking mind, so I cuffed him again with the Bible. He went down a second time.
First Time, Forever by KC Burn
Breathing heavily, Derrick leaned against the car. He had no idea how Luke’s stuff was going to fit in that tiny dorm room. Likely Luke wouldn’t care about the lack of space. Living on campus would be a hell of a lot more fun for the kid than living at home with his dads.
Trevor exited the dorm and headed to the car, tape measure dangling from one hand. He’d looked kind of lost all day.
Derrick moved to meet his husband, tracing a finger lightly down his forearm. Trevor needed a hug, but a campus full of university students and their parents was far too public for him.
“How are you doing, babe?” Derrick asked.
“Fine, fine.”
Derrick didn’t believe him for a second. “Where’s Luke gotten to?”
“He said he’d be down in a minute.” Trevor fiddled with the tape measure, gaze on the ground.
“Don’t worry, babe, we’ll get through this empty-nester thing together.”
Trevor gave him a sad little smile, which helped Derrick smother the giggle wanting to escape at the thought of them as empty-nesters. Hell, he was only thirty-four and Trevor was still six weeks away from forty.
Luke ran out and skidded to a stop. “Hey, Dad, Derrick, we done here?”
“Trying to get rid of us?” Derrick ruffled Luke’s hair, getting an embarrassed glare in return.
“No, but some of the guys are going out for dinner and I want to go with them.”
“I think we’re done here. I got the measurements for your desk and dresser, so I’ll have them delivered tomorrow.” Trevor pocketed the tape measure and opened the driver’s door, wincing slightly as he did so. He’d better not be moving that furniture himself, not after straining his shoulder earlier in the week. Derrick had tried to take the heaviest boxes, but Trevor hadn’t taken too kindly to his interference.
“And your new laptop will arrive sometime tomorrow, as well.” Luke was probably the only guy in the dorm who’d have antique furniture and a fully loaded, state-of-the-art laptop. Not surprising, when one dad owned an antique store and the other was a network security consultant.
“Okay, thanks. See ya later!”
Trevor opened his mouth to say something, but Luke was already running back toward the building.
“Come on, babe, let’s get home. He’ll be fine. We’re only forty-five minutes away.” Derrick got in the car as soon as Trevor did and they pulled away.
A strange sense of loss tugged at him as Trevor guided the car onto the highway. The house would be much more silent without Luke’s energy. Hell, he was going to miss the kid as much as Trevor would.
Luke had been the result of a very young Trevor trying to convince himself he was straight. Not sure who he’d actually fooled, poor man. While Cassie was alive, Trevor had regular visitation and Derrick had been introduced to Trevor’s eleven-year-old son, all very proper, once Derrick and Trevor had realized how serious it was between the two of them.
Their lives had changed irrevocably the instant an inattentive driver on a cell phone plowed into the side of Cassie’s car while she was on the way to pick up Luke from soccer practice. Having to fight Cassie’s parents for full custody had been a surprise, but his and Trevor’s stable marriage, as well as their willingness to purchase a home in Luke’s school district, swayed the balance with the judge.
At fourteen, Luke moved into their home, and at twenty-nine, Derrick had to learn how to become a second father to a petulant, grieving teen.
