Marek And Tyrone

Marek and Tyrone Dedication To Lucy, you were so there for me during this story. I love you, friend Thank you, Tracey ...

Author: Massa J J

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Marek and Tyrone

Dedication To Lucy, you were so there for me during this story. I love you, friend Thank you, Tracey for always supporting me Thank you, Claudia, for everything you do, everything you are too many things to name

Scanning, uploading and/or distribution of this book via the Internet, print, audio recordings or any other means without the permission of the Publisher is illegal and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Agency: Marek and Tyrone Copyright©2006 J.J. Massa ISBN 1-60054-46-5 Yaoi: His and His Kisses Edition All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Published by loveyoudivine 2006 Find us on the World Wide Web at www.loveyoudivine.com

The Agency: Marek and Tyrone by J.J. Massa

J.J. Massa

Chapter 1

“ ?” Agent Caesar Medowes dropped to his knees beside the cadaverous body. “Agent Dublecek, say something.” He couldn’t even be sure this pathetic creature was in fact Marek Dublecek, though his heart raced, hopeful. Marek seemed to hear the voice as if from a great distance and he rolled toward Medowes. His arms were streaming red, alarming Agent Medowes as he helped him to his feet. “Who?” was all the blond collection of skin and bones could manage. “It’s me--it’s Agent Medowes, don’t worry.” He wanted to be careful of the younger man’s condition, but time was of the essence and Marek didn’t appear to have any time to spare. Medowes had been looking for this young man for days. The other agent had gone missing over a week ago. Word on the street rumored that some poor soul had been left in an abandoned warehouse to die. Nobody knew who and no one could say where, but the description had fit Marek. The Old Man hadn’t officially called off the search for his missing agent, but fewer teams were being detailed to look for him. This young man had saved Medowes, as well as a host of other agents, more times than he could count. Marek Dublecek, called --The Shadow, wasn’t the most personable of The Agency’s operatives, though he was 1

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one of the best. He was the youngest, however, at twentyfour years old. “ ” Marek murmured. Medowes scooped the thin body up, heading out of the dark alley where he’d found him. “Yes, Tieò, friend. I’m a friend,” he answered the younger man’s question. Dublecek probably didn’t realize he wasn’t speaking English. He was Slovakian by birth and had been raised in a Serbian work camp. Agent Medowes had gone out of his way to learn the language. “To je dobré,” Marek sighed, collapsing against the other agent’s chest. It is good he’d stated; his way of saying he was glad, that he felt safe. For several panicked moments, Medowes was certain that he held a dead man in his arms. It wouldn’t be the first time, but none had ever meant as much to him as this one did. “Tieò? Marek?” he called urgently, his ear pressed against the rough cheek of his light burden. Sinking to the ground, he pulled out his one-button cell. With a word, he could call whomever he chose, but pushing the button linked him straight to an Agency operator. “I need a medical unit at my location, urgent,” he rapped out, quickly ending the connection. “ ?” he repeated. A slight movement and the boney body seemed to snuggle into him, the cool face burying itself against his neck. Caesar took a deep breath, ignoring the rank smell of the battered and filthy man and burying his face in Marek’s hair. Alive. Agent Dublecek, The Shadow, was alive. He would live to fight another day. And fight he would, of that Caesar had no doubt. Every chance he got, Caesar would fight right beside him, he would see to it.

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Chapter 2 Tyrone

Johnson was aware the minute the furtive young man slid through the cafeteria doors. It had to be an internal thing because no sound was heard. He barely saw the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Still, he’d been waiting for this customer all night. Even knowing he wouldn’t be in until the place was empty, Tyrone had been anxious for his arrival. “Hey there,” he said, keeping his deep voice low as the thin blond slid his tray along the counter. His answer was a terse nod. “So, how’s that sweet tooth of yours?” Tyrone asked quietly, his tone gentle and lightly teasing. He’d noticed that the junkyard thin man sometimes ate only desserts. Dark gold eyes met his suspiciously. “Is hungry,” came his rusty, croaked reply. Tyrone covertly looked him over. The spare frame looked even thinner than the last time he’d seen him. Paler, too, in fact. “Well that’s just fine,” Tyrone smiled. “Jus’ fine. I’ve got something for you. Made it fresh.” He had to turn away from the startled look on the pallid white face. Leaning down, he fished around under the counter and produced a pecan pie, made special that very morning. “Here you go, friend.” He placed the glass pie plate on the counter. “Let me cut it for you. Come on, we’ll go over here to a table.” Tyrone slid the sugary pie off the counter and turned, 3


carrying it to a table in the corner. He didn’t look back to see if the other man was following. It might go either way. He couldn’t stop the smile blooming on his face when the almost-emaciated body slipped into a nearby chair. “Is…” Wary eyes looked at the pie and then up at Tyrone. “It is mine?” “Made it just for you. Knew you’d like it. It’s good for you, too, with the nuts and all,” Tyrone babbled, turning and cutting the pie. He deposited a gooey slice of the sweet, syrupy confection onto an empty plate. “I’m Tyrone, in case you didn’t know,” he mumbled, wiping his hands on his cooks’ apron, for want of something to do. “I am a spy,” the other man said dryly, shrugging his shoulders, a smile flitting across his face. “Marek,” he said with a nod, a forkful of pie making it clear that he had nothing else to say. “Marek,” Tyrone repeated, sinking into the vacant chair opposite. “Is that Dutch?” He was thrilled and a little stunned. He’d been nervous that his attentions would chase the other man away. Netting a name and a smile in the same visit was a lottery. Not to mention that this was the most talkative the thin blond had ever been. “Mmmm,” Marek groaned, audibly enjoying his pie. “Slav,” he mumbled. Taking yet another chance, Tyrone stuck a hand out. “Pleased to meet you, Marek,” he said. Marek studied the extended hand for long moments. Tyrone let it hang there, though he was beginning to feel awkward. Just when he’d decided to pull back, Marek’s bony fingers brushed his palm. “Thank you for this pie, Tyrone,” Marek said formally, adding, “It is very good.” Tyrone could no more stop the grin spreading across his face than he could stop the sunrise, and that’s what it felt 4

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like, holding the thin hand in his. “I really hoped you’d like…” his breath caught at the sight of angry red welts wrapped around the wrist and forearm of his companion. He felt his eyes moisten. “Marek?” Someone had hurt him. He reached across the table and covered the welts with his free hand. For a second, Marek attempted to pull his hand away; he stopped, instead reaching over, tapping lightly at Tyrone’s thick wrist. “It is over now, I am here.” He looked down and over again at Tyrone. “Here with this pie.” His lips turned up briefly, producing that elusive smile that Tyrone loved. “I am here with this pie and you.” “Yeah,” Tyrone nodded, blinking away the emotion, grateful. He gave the injured arm a little rub, trying not to think of what the other arm might look like, not to imagine how the welts had gotten there. “Yeah, you’re right here. Safe.” He took a deep breath, dropping his hands, reluctantly. “Bet you’d like a cup of coffee to go with that pie, huh? Maybe a glass of milk?” At Marek’s hesitant nod, Tyrone slid his chair back, gaining his feet. He’d rather sit and talk, and he would in a minute. Right now, he needed to collect himself. And while he was at it, he would see what he could do to help his young friend put on a few pounds. Marek watched the large black man bustle away. Somehow, he hadn’t really known he’d escaped the last mission until he passed through those heavy swinging doors and caught sight of Tyrone wiping down the counter. He wasn’t sure what it was about the big man with the gentle eyes that made him feel so safe. Made him feel safe… Marek shook his head. That was just crazy. The only person he was sure he could trust absolutely was The Old Man. There was something about Tyrone…something so compelling that he hadn’t been able to force himself to go home after Medical had released him. He had no food at his 5


apartment, anyway--it just made sense to come here to the cafeteria first. Marek knew better, though. He lied for a living, but he wouldn’t lie to himself. He had wanted to see Tyrone, wanted to hear his voice. Somewhere between a rumbling purr and a husky wheeze, Tyrone’s voice had drawn him from the start. His face, too. Tyrone was a big man, built like an American linebacker. He was big, imposing, muscular, with a bald head and soft black hair on the warm, welcoming brown skin of his face. Tyrone’s face was round and full, with generous, sensuous lips. His nose was wide, but not overly so. All in all, Marek found him mesmerizing--more so when Tyrone fixed his attention on him. And now, Tyrone had made him this wonderful pie, had been visibly upset that Marek had been hurt. Marek turned that over in his mind. Until The Old Man had entered his life, he’d forgotten what it was to be cared for. The Old Man had taken him back from the Serbians that had held him, who had kept him as a workhorse when his family had been lost, one by one, during the conflict. He’d given Marek a purpose, a place to be to make things right. The Old Man cared about Marek. He didn’t want Marek to be dead. Did he care if Marek was hurt? Yes, he did. But that was the cost of freedom. If Marek got hurt while making sure mothers and fathers could raise their babies, it was a small price to pay. And Marek didn’t mind paying it. He couldn’t deny the warmth he’d felt deep inside at the hurt on Tyrone’s face. Hurt just for him. Tyrone didn’t like that he was in pain. He had stroked the rope burns on Marek’s forearm as if he could feel the pain himself and wanted to take it away. At the same time, Marek didn’t like that Tyrone had to feel that. This care and consideration was strange to him. All 6

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he knew for sure was that he would go to great lengths to keep Tyrone from being hurt in any way. If that meant trying harder to avoid personal injury, he’d go that extra mile. Whatever it took to keep Tyrone smiling…and baking him pies. Two solid thunks followed by the smooth sound of heavy glass scooting over the vinyl laminate table surface garnered Marek’s attention. Without even trying, Tyrone had snuck up on him and now he was halfway across the room again. Brow furrowed, Marek watched as the large man poured himself a mug of coffee and turned back toward the table where Marek sat. He stopped short, pausing halfway between the counter and the table. “I can join you?” Tyrone asked now, seeming uneasy. “Yes,” Marek answered simply, nodding toward the other chair. “Please to… Uh, please have some of this lovely pie,” he said haltingly, wanting to say the right words, to be polite. He was nervous. Not the kind of about-to-die nervous he felt often. This was a have-to-live-with-it nervous that he almost never felt. He was going to take a chance. He would talk with Tyrone, find out about him, and maybe be found out about just a little, too. With a happy smile on his face, Tyrone settled in the seat opposite. “I jus’ had this feelin’ you’d be in tonight,” he rasped. “No good reason, just had a feelin’.” “I was in Medical…but I got out tonight,” Marek murmured, daring a look at Tyrone’s face. “Were you--were you there long?” Tyrone asked, hesitantly. He was obviously trying to keep his voice even. Marek could hear a slight tremor though. How had he inspired such care from this man? Over the course of the last year, he’d only exchanged the briefest pleasantries with him, yet those moments had comforted him 7


under duress. Was it possible that Tyrone thought of him even when he wasn’t here at The Agency? “Not long. It was only some days,” Marek evaded, trying to smile. “I was working for a time first.” “Now that I know your name,” Tyrone winked, though his smile was somewhat pained, “I’ll send more food on your tray if I see your name on the Medical order.” Marek suspected that Tyrone was thinking back to all the times he’d been on the Medical list. “I can tell when you are the cook,” Marek confessed, looking through his lashes at the other man. Would he make fun? Find it odd? “Really?” Tyrone’s smile was delighted. Marek nodded earnestly. “I was certain you would be in here tonight and I like your food the best. So I came instead of going home.” He couldn’t hold back a yawn, mumbling, “And you made me a wonderful pie.” Fatigue was tugging at him, more so now that his stomach wasn’t empty. He needed to go, to make his way home; however reluctant he was, he couldn’t sleep in the cafeteria. “I woke up this morning feeling like I needed to make you this pie. I’m so glad I did,” Tyrone beamed. “I must go now,” Marek said regretfully, forcing himself to his feet. “I can take my pie with me?” he asked, not wanting to be greedy, but unwilling to part with either the food, or the memento from Tyrone. “Of course you can,” Tyrone declared, rising with him. “I made it for you,” he insisted before startling him, placing a hand on his shoulder and lightly restraining him. “I bet you don’t have a thing to eat at your place if you’ve been away and then hurt.” “I will be fine,” Marek answered stiffly, unsure of what Tyrone meant, but leery. “No, I mean…what I mean is…would you come over for supper tomorrow?” the big man asked in a rush. Marek 8

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stared at him blankly. “I, you know, um, I love to cook…I’d really like to make you a nice, big meal. We could eat together.” “I don’t know where you live,” Marek responded, more than a little startled. Why would this man want to invite him to his home? Didn’t he know how dangerous that could be? “You’ll come? I’ll give you the address. It’s right on the bus line, and not far from a subway.” Tyrone squeezed his shoulder, a grin taking over his face. Before Marek could answer, the cook was busily writing out his address and phone number on the back of a paper menu. “I will come,” Marek promised. At the same time, he resolved that he wouldn’t let Tyrone regret this crazy impulse of generosity. He would treat this invitation like the gift that it was and cherish it, guarding Tyrone’s safety vigilantly while he was there.

9


Chapter 3

“Good morning, Sir,” Marek answered his old fashioned, jangling telephone. He didn’t need caller ID to identify this caller. Only The Old Man ever used his landline phone number. “Don’t you sound chipper this morning, my boy!” The Old Man said jovially, surprise in his voice. Marek felt even better, knowing he’d been able to surprise his usually unflappable superior. “May I take your abnormal brightness to suggest that you’ve both slept and eaten and now feel better?” “Yes, sir,” Marek laughed softly, as much at his own unique mood as his boss’s surprise. “I am, even now, on my way to procure groceries, but…” he stopped himself short. He wanted to talk, to share his pleasure, and he had no one else. Should he? “But? Come, my boy, you mustn’t leave me in suspense,” The Old Man mock-growled. Marek grinned to himself, or what passed for a grin to him. No, he shouldn’t leave The Old Man wondering. He’d taken Marek out of an intolerable situation. He’d seen him through shock, transition, education, and finally, had him trained so that he could help prevent tragedies such as what he’d lived through. He’d turned Marek’s frightening and awful experiences into something useful and positive. The Old Man wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want to know; Marek knew that without doubt. 10

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“I--I--I have been invited to dinner,” he explained in a rush. “It is Tyrone Johnson from the kitchens. He made me a pie!” What would The Old Man say? Would he laugh? “Excellent,” The Old Man declared. Marek released his pent up breath. Good. If it wasn’t good, The Old Man would tell him that, too. Marek knew that he was terribly socially awkward, that was no secret. “You will want to bring a gift.” Marek heard a rustling, a tapping as if The Old Man was typing. A gift? Marek nearly panicked. He was not equipped to choose a gift. “Tyrone doesn’t drink, or I’d suggest a bottle of wine. Choose a candle, in a color and scent that you like. He’ll like it, too.” Marek was silent, unsure. “He wants you to come to dinner, son. He likes you already; he’ll like what you choose.” “Thank you, sir,” Marek conceded with a sigh of relief. “Think nothing of it. And Marek,” The Old Man sounded stern now. “Yes, sir?” Marek found himself standing at attention, all alone in his studio apartment. “If you can be trusted to take your antibiotics and follow-up treatment, you’ll be released sooner next time,” he instructed, an edge to his voice. Marek had thought this recent stay in Medical was longer than his last. Now he knew why. The Old Man had made note of his frequently missed doctor’s appointments. If he had been released sooner, he could have gone to the cafeteria sooner. “Yes, sir,” Marek responded with chagrin. “Have a good dinner, my boy,” The Old Man all but ordered, ending the call abruptly, as was his habit. Marek smiled to himself. He would have a good dinner-a very good dinner. First, however, he had some shopping to do. He knew of a little store that sold very nice candles, just past the market. 11


Carefully setting his intruder alarms, Marek planned his day. First, he would find a gift, then he would buy some basic groceries. After that he could come back and get ready. It would be time to go to Tyrone’s house by that time. He smiled as he began his errands.

****

Tyrone shook his head at his dinner guest. The man was rail thin and appeared half starved. Yet, he’d managed to eat the better part of a pan of lasagna and would no doubt do justice to the chocolate cake Tyrone had made for dessert. He was perfect. “I will help you clean up,” Marek announced, moving to his feet and lifting his empty plate. “Oh, no!” Tyrone gasped, horrified. “You’re a guest, and besides, you’ve been sick.” “I wasn’t sick,” Marek argued, “I was tied up and denied food and water. I am quite well now.” Tyrone tried to keep his face calm when he asked, “How long?” letting Marek help stack the plates. He’d gone through the Medical orders for trays and had found Marek’s name beginning two weeks prior. As of last night, it had been five weeks since the last time he’d seen the young man. Intent on his task, Marek answered, “I was only captive ten days. And there was rain. I am lucky.” “I am lucky,” Tyrone mumbled, taking the dishes from his companion. “We’ll stack them in the sink for now. Let’s go sit in the other room for a while, want to? We’ll have cake after our supper settles.” Marek moved to the window, glancing up and down the street. Tyrone couldn’t help but think of what the young man 12

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had endured over the years, only to suffer even more as an adult. He hadn’t been descriptive about his childhood, but loosing one’s entire family didn’t require a lot of telling to be tragic. “I make you sad,” Marek said now, his voice flat as he regarded Tyrone. “I should go.” He moved toward the door. “No, oh, no!” Tyrone intercepted him, one hand on his arm, the other hovering near his cheek. “No, please don’t leave. You don’t make me sad.” “Your face is sad,” Marek countered, looking down at his feet. “It makes me sad that anyone would treat you badly, or that you had to suffer,” Tyrone explained, letting his hand drop to Marek’s shoulder. “Why?” Marek was studying his face now, clearly confused. Tyrone didn’t look away from the hard, dark gold gaze. He might as well be honest, and let the chips fall where they may. “I like you, Marek, I care about you.” “You want to have sex with me?” It wasn’t really an accusation, more an observation, Tyrone thought. “Eventually, if you want to. Not on the first date, though,” Tyrone quipped, half-smiling, nervous and unmoving. “This,” Marek inclined his head toward the table where they’d just eaten, “This is date? We are having a date?” His voice was a little unsteady, but Tyrone took his response as a positive sign. If he’d been offended, Tyrone would likely have been injured. “Yes, if that’s okay with you,” he answered, waiting. “So then,” Marek tilted his head, looking something like an undernourished Labrador retriever with his wide brown eyes and dark yellow hair. “Then we must kiss goodnight at the door, yes?” His brow furrowed. “I have never had a date before.” 13


“Ah, yes, we could, if you want, when it’s time to leave.” Tyrone gave in to the thing he’d been dying to do and lifted his hand, gently carding it though Marek’s soft, spiky hair. “But you don’t have to. Maybe we should sit down and talk about it before we have our cake.” Marek gave him another hard look before allowing Tyrone to take his hand and lead him to the sofa. He sat down, gently tugging the smaller man down beside him. Marek had so frankly asked if Tyrone wanted sex, leaving him in little doubt about the sum total of his intimate experiences. Tyrone schooled himself as best he could to control his responses. He was an emotional man and he couldn’t really help that. Still, he didn’t want Marek to get the idea that he was angry or upset with him. “So we are on a date and we should talk about it?” Marek asked artlessly. “Um, yes, we are. What do you know about being on a date?” Tyrone didn’t want to put thoughts into Marek’s head or upset him. “Well…” Marek looked sideways at Tyrone, pink heat staining his cheeks. “Dates are for…uh, they are special.” He looked away quickly, trying to pull back. Tyrone held his hands, keeping him from moving too far away. “I think you’re very special, Sweetheart,” Tyrone blurted, trying to keep Marek from slipping away. With those words, Marek did scoot away, retrieving his hands and running splayed fingers through his hair in agitation. “I can’t be your Sweetheart. I am a killer.” He turned his head to the side; having come up against the arm of the sofa, he was trapped unless he wanted to hurt Tyrone--which he decidedly did not. Tyrone reached over, taking back one of his hands, tracing the thin bones of Marek’s wrist with his thick index finger. “Do you like killing?” Marek looked into his face, surprised. Tyrone appeared 14

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to be curious and sincere. “No, I do not like it,” Marek growled, “But I am good at it.” Tyrone winced. Good. Let him understand the state of things clearly. “Why do you kill people, then, if you don’t like it? Why do you do it?” Tyrone continued to look into Marek’s eyes while his hands played games with Marek’s captured extremity, fitting the fingers together, measuring one hand against the other. Marek shrugged. “Sometimes I must kill--to prevent my own death or that of someone else.” “So you don’t do it for meanness, or revenge?” Tyrone pressed. “Um, no,” Marek answered, confused. Where was Tyrone going with this? “I’m glad you’re good at it, if it keeps you alive,” Tyrone rumbled, his eyes moist as his finger tips lightly grazed Marek’s cheek. “It takes a strong man to do something he doesn’t like in order to keep others safe. A strong man with a sweet heart.” Marek shook his head. “I am cold. People don’t like me.” “I don’t think you’re cold and I like you,” Tyrone countered, stroking Marek’s cheek. Marek shifted on the sofa, beginning to feel uncomfortable between his legs. “I want you to be my Sweetheart. One day, you’ll want me to have sex with you so much you’ll ask. It will be making love, which is better than plain ole sex. But today, we’ll have our cake and when you leave, you can kiss me goodbye on my cheek. How’s that?” Marek looked at Tyrone for a long time. The way he felt when the dark-skinned man touched his face, he could almost believe he’d ask. Still, Tyrone had heard him say that he had killed, would kill again, and wasn’t repulsed--and there was cake. He smiled. “I can kiss your cheek?” he asked. Tyrone nodded, smiling back. “I want to kiss your cheek. With soft hair on 15


it. I look forward to that.” “You’ll have to be my Sweetheart then. I can’t let just anyone who comes over for dinner kiss my face, you know,” Tyrone insisted with mock severity. Marek didn’t try to fight the feeling of well-being building inside. Perhaps it was dangerous, perhaps reckless. “Okay, then. I must be Sweetheart. Um,” he ducked his head, looking over at Tyrone. Did he dare? “If I am the only one who is.” Tyrone had a decidedly smug look on his face as he levered himself to his feet. He sighed heavily. “Well, if that’s the only way…” he began. Unable to maintain his put-upon demeanor, his laugh boomed out, happy and deep. “I’d better get us some cake!”

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Chapter 4

Hurrying to The Old Man’s office, Marek was studiously not thinking about Tyrone. Two days before, he’d taken the other man on his date. Although his Dating-forBeginners book treated dating as a man/woman event, he and Tyrone were taking turns. Apparently. Either way, this time Marek had invited Tyrone out. His how-to book had told him that the second date could be more relaxed, more carefree. It had, on the other hand, suggested that an imaginative second date could increase his chosen partner’s “passion” for him. Given that English was not his first language, Marek had looked the word up. Passion had been defined by his dictionary as a strong feeling or emotion. Thinking it over, Marek had decided that he wanted Tyrone to feel strongly about him. With those thoughts in mind, he’d planned his date. He wanted to take Tyrone somewhere fun and happy, even though he knew himself to be awkward and dour. But this date was for Tyrone, or specifically, so that Marek could see Tyrone enjoy himself. A day at the city’s largest petting zoo, topped off with a pretzel and hotdog picnic in the park, had served him well. Before leaving Tyrone at the door to his comfortable apartment, Marek had enjoyed a long, tight hug, and a kiss on his cheek. Just thinking about the rasp of Tyrone’s soft facial 17


hair against his cheek gave him the shivers. Good shivers, but definite shivers… That had been Saturday and today was Monday. The Old Man had called him just a short while ago. The Agency required his expertise if he would be so kind. There had been no doubt that he would. “Have a seat Mr. Dublecek,” The Old Man insisted as he waved Marek to a chair in the lower half of his office. Without a word, Marek did as he was bid, heading left to the U-shaped conference table. Several other Agency staff members were already seated, talking quietly amongst themselves. He chose a chair at the end and waited. Apparently, he was the final person expected for this mini-conference. The Old Man took his seat, glancing seriously around the table. “Gentlemen,” his British accent was pronounced, inflection heavy on the first syllable. He was deeply upset. “It isn’t unusual here--in fact it is the rule--that there be trouble afoot.” “Yes, sir,” mumbled from one and then another of those gathered. Marek said nothing, merely waiting. “Steps have advanced for the implanting and detonation of yet another incendiary device, thanks to the studious efforts of yet another terrorist faction. The group involved is an arm from the group that held you captive last month, Mr. Dublecek.” He leveled a serious look at Marek. “The fact that your captors tied you up and left you for dead in that abandoned basement will work in our favor in more than one way.” Several heads turned to regard Marek curiously. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with the spotlight. “How is that, sir?” he asked, as much to direct attention back to his senior than to garner any information. After all, The Old Man would tell him what he needed to know. “The information that you brought back, coupled with 18

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the fact that you are somewhat familiar with the group, while they believe you to be deceased, is an invaluable tool for us. Given the circumstance of your capture, I’m willing to bet that nobody there made especial note of you.” He waited. When nothing else was said, he went on. “I will need you to infiltrate the terrorist cell, gain any information you believe is helpful, and then destroy the device. Agent Medowes will be your contact.” “How will we connect, sir?” Agent Medowes was a handsome, starched, suburban-looking man, able to fill any number of roles. His dark good looks and muscular build made him appear either suave or rugged, depending on the part he needed to play. “Good question,” The Old Man nodded approvingly. Marek waited. Whatever Medowes’ cover was, that would surely spell out what or who he was supposed to be. “You will be a moderately successful businessman, Medowes, who is moving his home from one affluent address to a more prominent one. Mr. Dublecek will be an itinerant worker, but something of a ne’er do well. You will find work in one of the day labor services that cater to moving, Agent Dublecek. Equipment will provide you whatever gadgets they have that masquerade as this season’s must-haves for the hand-to-mouth Street Tough.” “And you need this when, sir?” someone asked from the far end of the table. “Mr. Dublecek will go down to the cafeteria and have lunch,” The Old Man answered, and glancing over at Marek, he stated sharply, “Two hours.” Marek nodded, fighting the urge to push back his chair. His face bland, he sat patiently. “You got that info on Eastern European insurgent groups, Dublecek?” someone asked. Marek couldn’t see whoever it was. “I gave it to Intel. You can go ask them,” he answered, 19


not caring. “You didn’t keep a copy?” the faceless man demanded. “Why should I? I know the information already,” Marek shrugged. He decided that he must’ve missed something. For some reason, The Old Man was coughing and clearing his throat. After a minute of self-organization, The Old Man continued. “Marek, you will make note of whatever address and phone number that Medowes has himself moved to. That will be how you connect again with him. Do eat a full meal before you go. Good luck.”

****

“Come on, damn it! Some of us have timelines to follow for fuck’s sake!” Tyrone ignored the smart-mouth comment, but something made him glance over his shoulder at the last second. A flash of spiky, dishwater blond hair caught his attention. “You must be polite,” he heard Marek say, his voice soft, almost musical. The man who’d yelled had gone pale. “Apologize, please,” Marek murmured, close behind the other man. “Uh, ah…Sorry.” A bead of sweat dripped down his reddening face. “My apologies, really. I was out of line,” the man flicked a glance over his shoulder. Marek nodded once and the other man moved away from him, leaving his tray behind. “I’ll come back later, when it’s not so busy,” he mumbled, hurrying out of the cafeteria. “Wonder what all that was about?” Tyrone asked, puzzled, as he watched the agitated man shoulder out through the swinging doors. Marek shrugged, apparently confused as well. “No 20

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manners, though. Is a shame.” “Hmmm,” Tyrone considered, more concerned about what had driven Marek to enter the dining room during its most crowded hour than he was about anyone else’s idiosyncrasies. “Have you a minute?” Marek asked, leaning toward Tyrone and ignoring the line building behind him. “Marcia? Take over, please?” Tyrone called out. He didn’t feel bad. She was ten years younger than he was and didn’t work half the hours. If Marek wanted to talk to him, it must be important. Everyone else could wait. The two men moved to a corner table out of the main area. “I have to go to work today,” Marek said as soon as they were away from the busy counter. “You are at work,” Tyrone began. Marek lifted his eyes to Tyrone’s. He shook his head once, slowly. “Oh,” Tyrone answered, understanding now. “Um, how long will you be gone?” Marek shrugged his answer, eyes focused on the table. With a quick glance around, Tyrone covered one of Marek’s fine-boned hands with his own. He didn’t want to embarrass Marek, but he needed the contact. “You’ll take good care of my Sweetheart, okay, while you’re away?” he stroked the cool skin, warming it, wanting to hold on and keep Marek there, safe. Stark eyes lifted, fixed on his. Marek moved to cover Tyrone’s hand, his lip curling on one side in a fleeting smile. “You will look after…please take care, too, yes?” he managed, and then, after a pause, he muttered, “Poseben .” “What…What’s that?” Tyrone asked, charmed by how shy Marek was acting upon uttering that short phrase. “Means you are special to me,” Marek mumbled, looking down at the table. “Let me get you some lunch, okay?” Tyrone offered, 21


squeezing the nearly skeletal hand under his. He would feel better watching Marek eat, knowing he had at least one good meal under his belt until he returned. He didn’t know how he would manage, but he would. Marek had attracted him from the first brief glimpse. A year had come and gone since that day and with every meeting, he cared more and more for the nearly feral young man. Working at a relationship with him had had its pitfalls, but at least now he would know what was happening…somewhat. Reluctantly, Tyrone made his way around the long counter, leaning over it to fill a plate for Marek. “Why’d The Old Man send Dublecek?” Tyrone heard one man say to another as they stood in line to collect their food. “He’s still half-dead from his last mission…” the first man trailed off. “He does good work. Gets in, gets out, and if he has a scrap of Intel for The Old Man, he’ll drag his beaten carcass back here to give it to him. I pity the bastard that gets in his way, too.” Tyrone froze, listening shamelessly. It was a public venue, after all. “Why do you think The Old Man sent him to go eat like that? I mean--I know he looks hungry…hell--he looks starved. But still, it’s unusual, you gotta admit.” “I imagine it’s because it’ll be a while before he gets another meal worth eating, if he gets anything at all. Might as well enjoy it, huh?” Tyrone grabbed a second plate and began filling it up.

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Chapter 5

Tyrone wiped down the counter absently, wondering where Marek was right that minute. How was he? Had he eaten? It had been almost three weeks since the younger man had come into the cafeteria for lunch. Starting almost immediately, Tyrone had fixated on the Medical food orders. That was the only way that he’d ever know if Marek was injured. What he would do if he was, he had no idea. He began to plot. The sound of a throat clearing interrupted his planning. Tyrone looked up to see a handsome, well dressed man standing on the other side of the stainless steel service counter. “Can I help you?” he asked, trying to place his visitor. He had such a familiar face, Tyrone was sure he must know him somehow. Sticking out a hand, the other man introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Agent Medowes. It seems we have a mutual acquaintance.” Tyrone smiled, always pleased to meet a friend, much less an agent--someone who might know something about Marek. “Is that so? Well, let’s have a cup of coffee and you can tell me about him…him or her?” It was a degree of separation, but only one. He would take it any way he could get it. 23


Agent Medowes smiled. “Him,” he answered, shrugging out of his coat. “Don’t mind if I do.” Truth be told, Tyrone admitted to himself, he was glad of the interruption. His own company had begun to wear on his nerves and all he could do was imagine Merek in everworsening scenarios. He slid two cups of coffee onto the table, setting a plate of cookies down with his other hand. Seating himself, Tyrone waited for the other man to finish preparing his coffee. For long minutes, neither spoke. Finally Agent Medowes looked at him and smiled. “Our friend, Agent Medowes?” Tyrone urged, smiling. “Ah, yes, ,” Medowes murmured. “I don’t get it?” Tyrone responded politely. The word was foreign, maybe a nickname, perhaps. “The Shadow,” he meant it to clarify, but didn’t. “I’m afraid the only shadow I know is my own,” Tyrone chuckled richly. “Ah, sorry. We call him that, but I guess he’d hardly introduce himself that way would he? He’s just so stealthy. One minute you’re alone and the light changes and there he is…and usually, he’s about as warm as your average patch of dark shapes.” Agent Medowes looked speculative for a moment before shaking himself out of it. “I’m sorry, it’s that I just left him and I feel guilty. Agent Dublecek,” he explained, finally. “Marek? You’ve seen Marek?” Tyrone heard his voice crack, but he couldn’t help it. He could never help it. Agent Medowes looked at him blankly for several heartbeats before his face broke into a smile. “Well, I’ll tell you, that man is damned smart. I’ve never met anyone more in need of a cook in his life,” he snorted. “Agent Medowes,” Tyrone pushed, nerves fraying. “Yes, Mr. Johnson, I’ve seen him. Bought him dinner, in fact. Him and half a dozen other poor, half-starved souls,” 24

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Medowes nodded. “I got ‘em pizzas. Pan pizzas with all the trimmings.” “Call me Tyrone,” he smiled, a relieved breath gusting out of him. “Thank you for telling me that. I really don’t know the details of what he’s doing, of course, but I was worried about him eating. I get the impression…” “That somehow he always ends up being starved somewhere? Yeah, that seems to be the way it goes for him. Damned if I know why. And here I am, someone who could easily miss a meal or two. Well, that’s how it goes, isn’t it?” “Yeah, I guess,” Tyrone tried for calm, casual, fighting the burning need for more, more information, more about Merek. Before he could open his mouth to speak, the other man slid something across the table to him. “This makes a little more sense to me now,” Medowes said, curiosity in his voice, an eyebrow arched. It was a heart. Specifically, it was a twenty-dollar bill folded in the shape of a heart and stained pink. Mostly stained pink… Tyrone looked up at the agent. “One of the punks he’s with apparently liberated someone’s money bag. That’s tamper-evident ink,” he grinned. “Makes the money worthless…to all but our creative friend, it appears.” Tyrone knew his pleasure in the small token was clearly written on his face. “Did he say anything?” he asked. “He said, and I quote,” the agent cleared his throat, “Please to give to Tyrone Johnson of the kitchen. Tell him I am fine,” Medowes reported, mimicking Marek’s accent-poorly in Tyrone’s opinion. Tyrone chuckled, fairly giddy with relief. “Don’t quit your day job,” he laughed, taking a deep swallow of his coffee. The silence was companionable as Medowes enjoyed two of the cookies and Tyrone basked in the relief that, up 25


until a few hours ago at least, Marek was fine. He’d had a filling meal and he was safe. Safe and thinking about Tyrone. He didn’t realize he was stroking the money heart until Agent Medowes spoke. “Hey,” he said quietly, reaching out to tap the heart briefly. “I’m glad he has someone to care about. I always knew he had a heart, no matter how much he pretended he didn’t. I don’t know all about it, but he’s been through some shit. He’s one of the good guys.” “Yeah,” Tyrone answered huskily. “Thanks.”

****

The pain was amazing, seeming to throb with his heartbeat. Marek held on, face to the right, watching for the moment when he’d need to let go. He could feel the blood trickling from the wound in his back. The bullet had been of a small caliber, clean through and maybe angled. Lucky shot--for me at least, he thought distantly, fighting the urge to let go of the speeding subway car. It was slick, hard to hold on to. Wind buffeted his aching body and his fingers throbbed. His hand strength was waning, one or more fingers on each hand dislocating even as he thought it. Time to push off and hope that he landed within a mile or two of Medowes’ upscale address. The mission had been a success. He had, in fact, foiled the terrorists’ plan to plant a bomb somewhere in the city. Not only that, he’d managed to get some names, as well as dates and places of further plans. The gunshot wound had come when he was trying to call the information in to The Old Man. The price hadn’t really even been all that high in his opinion. A few hurt fingers, a twisted wrist from grabbing a 26

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train in motion, a few missed meals, and a small hole in his body--things could be far worse. He was still breathing, after all. Now if only he could get up to Medowes’ door without alarming anyone. The way everything was swimming and graying around him was not a good sign. Maybe he’d lost more blood than he realized. He tried to believe it was only that he hadn’t gotten his sea legs yet, that he’d feel steadier in moments. It was no good. He’d have to rest. The building, Medowes’ building, kept swimming close and then fading away, the streetlights around it expanding and shrinking with a vague, foggy luminescence. His head was spinning; he couldn’t feel his hands, which was probably not a bad thing either under the circumstances. “ ? Dublecek? Is that you? Thank God. We’ve been looking all over. The Old Man has ordered cleanup…Shit!” Marek could feel painful hands gripping at him, smell a familiar aftershave--it reminded him of pizza. Not bad, but not what he would wear. “Agent Medowes, yes?” Marek gasped. “Tesí me…um, I mean, nice to meet, uh, see you… nice to see you.” He didn’t know if Agent Medowes answered or not. The world decided to step back for a minute. Marek realized he was losing consciousness as the street and everything around him faded to a dull fog.

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Chapter 6

Tyrone thanked the runner from Medical who brought the tray orders down. At any given time, there were three or four, sometimes more. He, of course, was looking for one name. Usually, it wasn’t there. He almost missed it. His heart pounding in his chest, he forced himself to calm down. Merek was here--had been for two days. Two days during which he, Tyrone, had been oddly jumpy and distracted. Looking at the orders, it seemed that Marek would be on a bland diet, which would start tomorrow. Tonight, Tyrone would deliver the trays. Nobody was at the nurses’ station when he arrived. As a senior employee of The Agency, Tyrone had access to many areas, patient rooms included. Without an impeccable security clearance, The Agency couldn’t take a chance. Tyrone had worked there for a decade. Leaving the two trays on the nurses’ station desk, Tyrone casually made his way to room three. He knew that he’d show up on security tapes. Since he wasn’t there for any nefarious reason, he wasn’t worried about it. Marek’s room was dim, dark, but he didn’t wait, slowly moving in and letting the door close behind him. He heard a shifting sound and edged closer to the bed while his eyes adjusted to the light. There. There was Marek, blinking sleepily, pain clear 28

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on his face. “Sweetheart,” Tyrone crooned, carefully edging himself down on the bed and lightly cupping the pinched and pale face between his wide palms. “Sweetheart,” he murmured again, his voice thick and husky. “Ty--Tyrone?” Marek croaked, attempting to move, somehow unable to adjust his position. “Yes, yes, it’s me,” he assured him, leaning in, planting a kiss on the tip of Marek’s aquiline nose. He couldn’t help it, and feathered a kiss across his prominent brow and down one gaunt cheekbone. “You are sad?” Marek rasped, tilting his head back. Tyrone started. “Sad?” he reached up, surprised to feel warm tears making tracks down his face. “Oh, no, God in Heaven help me! I’m so glad you’re here, not dead, not…” “Then you should kiss me now,” Marek squirmed to lever himself up. “I am happy you are here.” Tyrone brushed his mouth across Marek’s, just the briefest taste of those pouty lips. “Mmm, me, too,” he murmured, brushing his lips back across Marek’s sweet mouth. Before he could earn another moan of protest, Tyrone settled his lips over Marek’s, tracing and tasting with his tongue, nipping lightly. Marek’s mouth opened at the flick of a tongue, inviting Tyrone inside, deeper. He was drowning in the taste and feel of the younger man, his Sweetheart. So lost in the kiss was he that he didn’t notice the opening of the door until the lights flicked on. Even then, it took him a second or two to pull back. He was struggling to his feet when The Old Man harrumphed. “Stay seated, Mr. Johnson. I find that discovering your affections for Mr. Dublecek to be a most fortuitous happenstance. Most fortuitous…” Tyrone turned to look at Marek, his eyes widening as he took in the pale body, both hands extended and secured, each finger splinted. Merek’s right wrist was wrapped in a gel pack and splint, his left side, from just above his waist, was 29


wrapped and bandaged, a dot of red showing through, stark against his pale skin and white sheets. “Marek?” Tyrone breathed, stunned. The younger man’s torso was exposed, bruises coloring his ribs above his sterile dressings, so much so that even his nipples were masked in the plum colored marks. “Is okay,” Marek said, his voice uneven, but Tyrone could tell he was trying to soothe. “Is nothing.” “That’s…” Tyrone didn’t know what to say. “Quite,” The Old Man picked up the conversational gambit. “It is not nothing. And in fact, is most definitely something.” Marek glared at the older gentleman. “It will heal.” “In the meantime, you have lost a great deal of weight, can’t feed yourself, and growl and snap at anyone who comes near you with an eating utensil. You are cross and argumentative most of the time. Sleeping otherwise.” “You think I am a difficult patient?” Marek growled, a challenge clear on his face. “Manifestly!” snapped The Old Man, his scowl more decisive than Merek’s growl. “You have to eat, Marek,” Tyrone intervened, hopeful that he could mete out some calm and convince Marek to be more cooperative. “I couldn’t agree more,” The Old Man stated resolutely. “Therefore, I believe you to be the answer, Mr. Johnson.” Tyrone blinked, one dark hand resting on Marek’s sopale sternum. “In what way…sir?” he asked cautiously. “NO,” snapped Merek, a lip curled in defiance. “You do not give the orders around here, young man,” The Old Man barked back, much like a father at the end of his patience, Tyrone mused briefly. “Now, would you like to spend the next four to six weeks here in medical or would you like to go home at some point?” Marek turned his head to the side, looking away from 30

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The Old Man. Tyrone suspected that he would have stormed from the room had that option been available to him. “Why wouldn’t he be allowed to go home if he’s better, sir?” Tyrone asked, confused. “He won’t be able to bend his fingers for a few weeks and will need physical therapy during his recovery. Not to mention that he will be unable to feed himself for at least a week, possibly more than two,” The Old Man clarified. “I’m sure I can help out with that, Marek,” Tyrone volunteered, trying to contain the pleasure and hope in his voice at the very idea. “If you let me, I could help you…” he amended carefully, taking in Marek’s stubborn expression. Marek bit his lip, his gaze flicking between Tyrone and The Old Man. The Old Man’s face was an example of barely-concealed triumph. “This is your idea, yes?” Marek challenged The Old Man. “As it happens, yes,” The Old Man answered smugly. His tone softening somewhat, he added, “You hate medical, my boy. Mr. Johnson here will see that you’re well fed, comfortable, and don’t get poked and prodded for at least one eight hour increment out of every twenty-four.” “Besides, Marek,” Tyrone grinned, “I like you better than they do--and I’m a much better cook.” Marek studied both men for long seconds, finally bestowing each of them with the twitch of lips that passed for his smile. “Is true,” he yawned, giving tacit agreement, and fighting now to keep his eyes open. “It will be better.” Tyrone released his pent up breath, reaching over to stroke Marek‘s slightly stubbly cheek. He’d known that he wanted the chance, the right, to take care of Marek. He just didn’t realize how worried he had been that Marek would deny him. “This way, Mr. Johnson,” The Old Man tapped him lightly on the shoulder, angling his head toward the door. 31


Tyrone nodded, leaning over to leave a grateful kiss on Marek’s forehead before following the elegant older gentleman from the room. He’d never spent much time in The Old Man’s presence, only vaguely remembering his interview and the offer of a job. Even then, this man had seemed eternal, ageless, certainly not ancient but not young, either. “You wanted to speak to me, sir?” Tyrone asked when the door slipped closed behind him. “I did, Mr. Johnson,” The Old Man confirmed. He regarded Tyrone steadily for what seemed far too long. Finally, he spoke. “It can’t have escaped your notice how very socially reticent Marek is.” Tyrone opened his mouth to respond but The Old Man held up a hand. “In addition to that, you cannot be blind to his…shall we say--gruff persona?” Tyrone was a bit confused. He was sure it showed on his face. What could The Old Man mean? And then it dawned on him. “I would call you gruff, sir,” Tyrone smiled a little. “Marek is just plain mean… unless you know him, that is.” The Old Man snorted. “Yes, well, that’s one way to put it, Mr. Johnson. He’s also suspicious and territorial to put a fine point on it.” “I care about him, sir,” Tyrone informed his boss solemnly. “I don’t mind his moods.” “No?” The Old Man looked at him long and hard. “I believe you,” he decided after lengthy consideration. “If, for some reason, you should discover that you do mind them, I expect you to inform me immediately.” “Of course,” Tyrone nodded. “But it’ll be fine, I know it will.” He waited to see what the older gentleman would say. He was formidable when angry, his temper legend when provoked. That was the last thing Tyrone wanted to stir up. “I hope you’re right, Mr. Johnson,” The Old Man con32

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cluded. “Mr. Dublecek cares about you, too. Good day.” Tyrone expelled his pent-up breath feeling like he’d dodged a bullet. Now that his employer was gone, though, he had to fight the urge to turn and walk back into Marek’s room. He wanted to look at him, kiss him some more, look at him again, touch his cheek. With difficulty, Tyrone forced himself to turn and move toward the elevator. Tomorrow. He could come tomorrow.

33


Chapter 7

Marek half sat-half lay in his bed, angled away from the door so that no pressure bore down on his injured side. He kept his eyes closed, ignoring the aide as she came in to take his temperature and blood pressure. The hospital staff never attempted to make small talk with him as he’d seen them do with other agents. He supposed that was his fault. He wasn’t really welcoming or endearing in any way. He wouldn’t even know how to try. Instead, he pretended to sleep, regardless of how unlikely it was. As a courtesy, the nurses pretended to believe him. The only person who’d bothered to try with him, aside from The Old Man, had been Tyrone. Marek shifted slightly. Tyrone. He smiled, earning a startled gasp from the young woman taking his pulse. Something about her surprise struck Marek as funny and he chuckled. She was probably shocked that he could smile at all, let alone laugh. “That must tickle to make you laugh like that,” Tyrone greeted him jovially from the doorway. The nurses’ aide looked from one man to the other in confusion. Marek wondered fleetingly what she thought of his odd behavior. “Excuse me,” she said breathlessly, edging past Tyrone to scurry out the door. “I was thinking of you and scared her with my smile,” Marek explained. “It was funny.” 34

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“Oh, so scaring innocent women is how you amuse yourself when I’m not here?” Tyrone questioned, walking around the end of the bed. “Perhaps,” Marek looked him up at him boldly as Tyrone sat down next to his hip. Tyrone reached out, cupping his face with one hand. Leaning in, his lips covered Marek’s, a warm tongue tracing his mouth. Marek opened his lips on a sigh, tilting his head to give Tyrone better access. When the older man pulled back, Marek struggled to reach for him, but Tyrone smiled, shaking his head. “You aren’t supposed to move your hands. You have to be good so we can get you out of here.” Marek opened his mouth to answer and found himself chewing on a savory chunk of marinated meat. “Want to go home now,” Marek mumbled around his bite of food. “Kiss me again,” he demanded after he swallowed. Tyrone laughed, popping another bite of meat into Marek’s mouth and then kissing his furrowed brow. “You can come home with me tomorrow if you’re a good boy today,” Tyrone promised. “I asked the doctor when I saw him in the hall. He made me swear to all kinds of things.” He rubbed a seasoned potato against Marek’s lips until they opened, pushing the vegetable inside. “He’ll probably demand you to sign an agreement in blood before he lets you go. He should be by in a little while.” Marek turned his head away from a bite of meat, wanting to talk to Tyrone. “He will let me out or I will leave of my own accord,” Marek announced fiercely. He’d done it before; he knew he could do it again. “There is no place that can hold me against my will. And I want to go to my home.” Tyrone’s expression became worried. “Sweetheart, please let’s follow the doctor’s orders. I’ll take such good care of you.” Tyrone seemed so upset about the very idea of Marek on his own that Marek began to feel guilty. He 35


opened his mouth and accepted another bite of food. Tyrone beamed at him. “That’s it! You don’t need to break out! You can leave tomorrow if you just show them that you mean to do what’s best for you. They want you healthy, too. Why don’t we go to my house? I have lots of room and a big kitchen…” “I have kitchen. I like my home. It is mine.” Marek looked at Tyrone steadily. Would Tyrone insist? “Your home it is, then, Sweetheart. I’ll bring a few things over?” he asked, holding aloft a forkful of baked carrot. Shrugging, Marek allowed, “Bring what you like, I have room.” He ate quietly for a time, meekly allowing Tyrone to feed him steak, carrots, potatoes and finally, banana crème pie. The older man chattered on, filling him in on all the gossip he’d picked up as he served Agency personnel. It wasn’t that Marek wasn’t interested in what Tyrone was saying. It was simply that he had something in mind to talk about. “I want to have sex with you,” Marek stated during a pause in Tyrone’s dialogue. Tyrone began to sputter. “Don’t do that,” Marek growled. “I cannot pat your back.” “Sweetheart…” Tyrone began, clearing his throat. “I like how you kiss me and you said one day I would ask. So today I ask,” Marek crossed his arms, nodding his head once in affirmation. “Sweetheart,” Tyrone repeated, clearing his throat again while reaching over and stroking Marek’s set face. “I…Uh, it means so much that you’d want to, but…how about we wait and get you home first?” Tyrone glanced sideways at the door and back at Marek. “You have to eat and…what if someone walked in?” Marek looked down at his lap and then directly into Tyrone’s face. “Tomorrow then, yes?” he insisted stubbornly. 36

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“You might not feel…” Tyrone began. Marek’s eyes narrowed to slits of gold. “Tomorrow or I go out of here tonight by myself.” “Marek!” Tyrone gasped. One wheat-colored brow crooked up in an arch. “If you’re feeling up to it,” Tyrone grudgingly agreed. “You don’t want to. Is okay. I go…” Marek stated firmly, turning his head to the side, looking away from Tyrone. It was blatant manipulation, but Tyrone knew that Marek wasn’t trying to hide anything. He was being up front about how he felt and his response to what he believed of Tyrone. “Oh, no, no Marek. It’s not that I don’t want to! I want to very much!” Tyrone was distressed. He hadn’t meant to upset the younger man this way. “Sweetheart,” he tugged at Marek’s chin, trying to make him turn his face toward him again. “Please, Marek,” he kissed along the curve of Marek’s gaunt cheek. “I do want to make love with you…I just want it to be good for you--for both of us.” Marek shifted slightly in the bed, glancing guardedly at Tyrone through his thick fan of dark blond lashes. “Is okay if you don’t,” he mumbled. “I still like you…” Marek bit his lip, his face turning pink. Tyrone smiled, leaning forward to press a soft, almost chaste kiss to Marek’s turned down lips. “I’ve wanted to make love with you from the first minute I laid eyes on you. As soon as I get you into my bed, after a little nap,” he qualified, “I’m going to have my wicked way with you and show you just how much I want you, okay?” Marek reached out, skimming Tyrone’s lightly furred cheek with the tips of his fingers. Every other part of both hands and wrists were held rigid by lightweight, breathable gloves made of some stiff plastic-fabric amalgam. “Okay,” Marek agreed, smiling slightly before giving in to a jaw-cracking yawn. “Am no more hungry.” Marek 37


announced, closing his eyes. “You didn’t eat very much,” Tyrone objected gently. “Is hard to eat here.” Marek’s lower lip pushed up making him look about two-years-old in Tyrone’s opinion. “Is hard to do anything here.” The dark gold eyes opened, fixing themselves on Tyrone and closing again. Marek crossed his arms over his chest and graced Tyrone with a sullen nod, at the same time, bringing his knees up to his chin. “Am no more hungry,” he murmured. “Don’t want to sleep, either,” he pouted, brow furrowed. Realization struck Tyrone like a brick to the head and he moved to his feet. Three steps brought him to the heavy door, which he locked. Three more purposeful strides returned him to Marek’s bedside. One hand went to the bed controls, lowering the head of the bed and the guardrail at the same time. Leaning over the smaller man, Tyrone swept his sheet and blanket aside, reaching confidently into Marek’s flimsy pajama pants. He found exactly what he expected--a swollen cock, badly in need of attention. Wrapping his hand around it, Tyrone pumped Marek’s throbbing member, kissing his way across his downy chest, stopping at a one nipple, then the other, to nip and suckle. He counted prominent ribs with his lips, mouthing, kissing, nipping, tasting until he reached the bottom of the golden fur that arrowed down to what his hand held. “Mmm,” Tyrone purred, looking into wide, shocked eyes. With no further ado, he opened his mouth and sucked Marek in. Marek threw his head back and shouted, writhing in Tyrone's strong hands. Engulfed in Tyrone’s hot mouth, he bucked mindlessly, seeking only to perpetuate the tight, wet, electrifying sensation. “Neprestávajte!” he groaned, clarifying, “Don’t stop, don’t stop!” 38

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Urging him on, Tyrone encouraged his thrusts, his hands on Marek's hips lifting him, and then cupping the flexing, muscular cheeks in his palms as he guided Marek in and out of his hungry mouth. It was wild and wonderful and over much sooner than Tyrone expected. Perhaps it had simply been too long for Marek, or perhaps he merely wanted Tyrone too badly, the kisses, the cuddling and coddling taking their toll. Marek’s shout of completion was only partially muffled by one of his rigidly bandaged hands. Placing a soft kiss on one pale thigh, Tyrone carefully adjusted the light hospital pants. “Think you can sleep now?” Tyrone asked, pulling the sheet and blanket up to Marek’s chin. Marek blinked slowly, his mouth curving in that shortlived smile that melted Tyrone’s heart every time. “To je dobré,” he whispered, reaching toward Tyrone, barely brushing the bulge beneath Tyrone’s zipper. “Was--was good for me. Now for you…” Tyrone caught Marek’s fingertips, gently carrying the wandering hand to his lips. “That was for you, because I want to take my Sweetheart home tomorrow.” Marek’s eyes were closing now, in spite of his obvious attempts to keep them open. “Tomorrow…” he trailed off, sleep finally winning the battle. Tyrone leaned down, brushing another soft kiss across Marek’s forehead before retreating to the door, unlocking it. Quietly, he slid through the brief opening, pulling it closed before the dim light could shine on Marek’s face. “You did the right thing, man,” Agent Medowes’ voice startled Tyrone as the door clicked shut. “What? Giving him a blowjob?” Tyrone blurted, slapping his hand over his mouth a second too late. “Oh, hell!” Medowes guffawed, slapping Tyrone’s back. “I did not need that image in my head!” Still chuck39


ling, he went on, “I can’t deny the poor bastard deserves one…” “Good thing I’m black,” Tyrone grumbled, “or I’d damn sure be beet red. So what did you mean?” “Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee… on the outside. I was going to check on our shadowy friend in there, but I don’t know a man alive who can stay awake long after a good blowjob--even a bad one, come to that.” Tyrone turned, following Medowes into the elevator. Tyrone couldn’t help but appreciate the view as he followed the graceful, well built agent, though it did nothing for the sting of mortification he still felt. “You owe me a cup of coffee after scaring me like that. We won’t even talk about embarrassing me,” Tyrone grumbled as they made their way through the maze of hallways. Medowes was still snickering when both men stopped at the checkpoint desk before continuing down the hall and out into the subway. Sweeping an arm forward, Agent Medowes encouraged Tyrone to precede him up the subway stairs and into the heavy dusk of the cool autumn evening. The two strode in companionable silence until they entered and found a booth in a small diner. “Coffee,” both men said as one when the waitress arrived at their table, poised expectantly. “So, what were you talking about, Agent Medowes, when I came out of Marek’s room?” Tyrone asked after the waitress had moved on. “I did the right thing, you said…” he prompted. “Oh, call me Caesar,” Medowes responded absently, smiling at the waitress who had just reappeared with two steaming mugs. “Your Excellency,” Tyrone smirked, his tone ironic. “It’s my name,” Medowes glared, angry until he caught Tyrone’s twitching smile. “I don’t know what he sees in you,” Medowes groused playfully, “besides the food…and 40

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the blowjobs…” He laughed out loud when Tyrone choked on his coffee, letting him settle again before he addressed the implied question. “I meant that you did the right thing, bargaining with him to keep him in there, and going to his place. Here’s my number,” he jotted something on a paper napkin and slid it across to Tyrone. “Call me when you get to his loft. You’ll need some stuff, I promise.” “I know I’m gonna regret this, but tell me why,” Tyrone requested, using a small napkin to soak up splatters of coffee from the smooth tabletop. Medowes took a sip before answering. “He’s the reason there’s security on the Medical floor now. They don’t make anything that can hold that man, at least not if he’s conscious.” “He really has left Medical before he’s released?” Tyrone shook his head. It was unthinkable to him. Medowes nodded. “That’s the only order he’s ever broken from The Old Man. He can’t stand being restrained or caged. You can’t keep him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.” Tyrone sipped at his coffee, considering. Medowes had given him invaluable information. When he’d need it most, he wasn’t sure, but he had know doubt those words would come to mean a great deal to him in time.

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Chapter 8

Tyrone looked around the small one-room apartment as he waited for Marek to emerge from the bathroom. He didn’t understand why Marek liked this place so much. The bed was a dilapidated single and he might need to bring in a sleeping bag or some kind of cot. It was also incredibly dreary. Tyrone took off his lightweight jacket and looked for a closet with the modest intentions of hanging it up. An alarming lack of hangers impeded his simple plan. He grimaced and turned on his heel and headed towards the tiny table and the two chairs. He ran a cautious finger over the backrest of one of the chairs and scowled as he felt something, perhaps dust? He sighed, and folded his jacket, laying it over the back of the chair. Tyrone glanced over his shoulder when he heard Marek emerge from the bathroom. The younger man was a little pale. He stumbled slightly and flopped down on the bed. It appeared, at a glance, that he was fast asleep. It was warm enough in the room with what Marek was wearing, so Tyrone decided to let him sleep on top of the covers, at least for the short term. He heard Marek shifting, getting comfortable. Tyrone walked over to the phone and dialed the number written on a scrap of napkin he had in his wallet. A knowing voice with a pleasant, upper-crust accent answered on the 42

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first ring. “Knew you’d be calling. I was just throwing a few things together for you,” Caesar Medowes laughed. “Hi, Caesar,” Tyrone chuckled. “Would you add a couple of hangers to whatever you’re bringing?” “Ah, the minimalist at his worst,” the other man snickered. “I’ve been to his place. I’ll be over in about an hour-maybe two. Would you like me to bring you something to eat? I was going to pick up some chicken. Can Dublecek eat that yet?” Tyrone smiled, “He can, but he‘s fast asleep. I, however, would love it. Thanks, Caesar.” Meadow’s upbeat voice flowed over the line, “No problem. I’ll pick up extra for later. I have no doubt it won’t go to waste. I plan to stop at the grocery, too. See you in a while.”

****

The light touch wasn’t intrusive but it did wake him up. Marek shifted in the bed, dimly aware that he wasn’t under threat. The smooth glide of fingers up the back of his leg caused his entire body to come alive, goose bumps pebbling up to his torso. Someone was touching him, stroking him. It was a pleasant touch, fast approaching sensual. “Is Tyrone,” he murmured aloud. “And nobody else,” Tyrone’s hot breath fanned the back of his neck as the bed gave. He’d apparently taken a seat next to Marek, Tyrone’s fingers danced feather-light up the inside of Marek’s thigh and down to the bend of his knee. At the same time, full lips mouthed each prominent vertebra as they made their erotic journey along his spine. “You will fuck me now?” Marek inquired, sucking in a 43


deep breath when Tyrone nipped sharply at the curve of his left buttock. “I will make love to you now,” Tyrone corrected, his gravelly voice muffled as he kissed away the small hurt. Marek had been stunned--pleased, but stunned the day before when Tyrone had taken him in his mouth. That had never been done for him, though he’d had to do it many times in the course of his job, sometimes in the course of simply staying alive and uninjured. When he’d returned the next morning, mere hours ago, Tyrone had treated him like he was a treasured loved one. He’d touched him often, stroking his face, kissing his injured fingers and his lips. Even during the journey from The Agency to Tyrone’s house, Marek had been cosseted, cared for as if he were precious. Tyrone had clucked sympathetically while Marek grumbled about the bath forced on him in Medical, strange women touching him intimately, if impersonally, while they made sure he was clean inside and out. Now, here was Tyrone keeping his word, making love as Marek had demanded. And not once had Marek done anything to show Tyrone how much he meant to him. Marek attempted to turn over, intending to share the stimulation, wanting to touch Tyrone, somehow make him feel as good as Tyrone was making him feel. That plan was short-circuited, however, by the stroke of Tyrone’s tongue along his cleft. “Áno!” Marek encouraged. “Viac!” he begged, “Prosím, prosím!” Suddenly, Tyrone’s warm tongue moved away, along with the rest of him. “Tell me in English,” Tyrone asked of him, sitting up, his hand stroking Marek’s spiky hair. It was all Marek could do to keep from sobbing out the translation. In fact, he found it hard to find the right words in his borrowed language. “Yes, I said,” he rolled to his side, 44

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reaching for the buttons on Tyrone’s shirt. “More. I wanted more,” he choked out, “and then I asked you please.” “You asked so very nicely, didn’t you?” Tyrone smiled, making short work of the buttons on his shirt, standing to shrug out of it. “And you want more?” His hands moved to the button of his pants and he unfastened and unzipped them, pushing slacks and boxers down over his rounded belly and off. He hadn’t planned to instigate this lovemaking with Marek, somehow equating him with a blushing virgin in his mind. When he’d left the younger man to use the bathroom and then take a nap, Marek had been chastely covered in lightweight sports pants and a t-shirt. That wasn’t what he found when he hung up the phone minutes ago and turned to check on his beloved patient. Marek had managed to remove the pants and t-shirt and lay spread like a spare, enticing banquet across his rickety, twin-sized bed. The older man was many things, but selfsacrificing was not high on his list for the day. Marek wanted him and Tyrone wanted Marek, very much. Marek was certainly not a blushing virgin and Tyrone would do well to keep that in mind. His Sweetheart wanted a physical relationship, his desire a prize that Tyrone valued immensely. “I like your shape, your color,” Marek murmured, his hand stroking over Tyrone’s hip, the texture of his fingertips starkly different from the rigid “glove” splinting his hand. “I certainly have more meat on my bones than you do, don’t I?” Tyrone chuckled, his own hand going to Marek’s prominent hip, being careful of the small wound in his side. “I like that,” Marek whispered reverently, fingertips trailing along Tyrone’s abdomen, tracing the crease at the top of his thigh. Tyrone tugged Marek toward him, groaning aloud when their erect cocks brushed. Marek was murmuring in his 45


native language, all the more exciting to Tyrone since please and yes were clear to him now. His mouth covered Marek’s as the smaller man surged against him, lips parted, tongues tangling in the moist heat. Tyrone deftly rolled Marek underneath him, gazing down at his flushed face. The smaller man was all too desirable to him. He stroked Marek’s short blond hair, tracing the outline of his lush lips with his forefinger before kissing him once more. Marek wrapped his strong arms around Tyrone’s back, effortlessly pulling him closer, being careful, though, not to use his hands. Tyrone felt his hunger spiral higher, tighter; Marek was so beautiful to him and yet so dangerous, and he was his for the taking. He wanted Tyrone. As reticent as he was to interact with others, Marek had chosen Tyrone. “I want you so much, Sweetheart,” Tyrone whispered, moved; his voice hoarse with intensity. Marek looked up at him, dazed. “You can have me,” he replied dreamily. Tyrone felt the blood pulse in his ears. He was surprised by the ache, the lust this man stirred in him. Marek had offered himself freely; he wanted Tyrone to make love to him. Wanted Tyrone inside of him. Tyrone blindly found the pillows and pulled them to the middle of the bed. He nudged Marek, rolling him over to lie face down on the bed with the fluffy pillows bunched beneath his thighs and abdomen, and then he reached for the tube of lube he’d seen on the bedside table. Marek’s legs slid apart, allowing Tyrone easier access to the core of his body. His breathing was ragged--though he trusted Tyrone, it was obvious his ardor was dulled a little by nerves. Tyrone knelt between Marek’s spread thighs, his burning gaze taking in the firm, lithe body laid out willingly before him. Excited almost unbearably by the younger 46

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man’s capitulation, Tyrone kneaded the firm cheeks, pulling them apart. Holding one muscular buttock, he began stroking the pink and puckered opening with a slick finger. The alabaster skin so soft and accepting under his own mahogany hands was unbelievably erotic to Tyrone. Marek’s entrance was surprisingly tight and Tyrone forced himself to slow down; the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt him. He wanted this to be a beautiful experience for both of them. Marek quivered a little but made no objection, moaning low as his head tossed from side to side. Tyrone pushed his finger against Marek’s hole, sliding the tip inside. With his other hand, he rubbed the small of Marek’s back, small circles, rhythmic and soothing. Soon Tyrone could feel his Sweetheart’s muscles relaxing. Tyrone probed deeper, sliding his finger in and out to simulate the rhythm of intercourse. Marek gasped suddenly and his body went rigid, his hips angling up, asking, begging, signaling his readiness for something more, ready for Tyrone. Tyrone could barely contain himself as he entered the other man, sliding all the way in with one smooth, slow thrust. Marek sucked in a tight breath and Tyrone froze. He held still, hoping that he was not hurting his precious Sweetheart. After a long moment Marek moaned deep in his throat, encouraging. His hips rose and fell in an undulating motion, rocking Tyrone along with him. Tyrone moved with him, slowly sliding in and out, enjoying the smooth glide for as long as he could before his need overwhelmed him. He took control of the rhythm, overriding Marek and thrusting into him harder, faster, his moans echoing the smoother voice whispering and groaning beneath him. He closed his eyes for a moment, aware only of the perfect heat and tightness enveloping him, and the sound of Marek’s moaning interspersed with the frenzied squeaking 47


of the bedsprings. Opening his eyes, he leaned down and kissed Marek’s back, licking a spot between the smoothly muscled shoulder blades and tasting the salt of his sweat. He watched in fascination as Marek groaned and turned his head to the side, sinking his teeth into the flesh of his own upper arm. Tyrone hovered on the brink of orgasm, but he tried to stave it off, wanting to prolong this incredible experience. His conquest of this proud, reserved man intoxicated him; he didn’t know if he had ever felt this turned on by anyone in his life. Tyrone’s lust overpowered his attempts at self-control. He plunged into his lover’s yielding body, harder, faster, and Marek moaned with every stroke. At last Tyrone came, thrusting deeply one last time as Marek cried out beneath him, releasing into the pile of pillows without any direct stimulation to his cock. Tyrone withdrew and rolled off the other man, afraid that he was too heavy. Turning him around in his arms with one smooth motion, he pulled Marek into a tight embrace and kissed him hard, tasting, lingering, slowly letting go. Marek smiled sleepily up at him, a blissful expression on his face. “Was good. I should ask again later.” Tyrone chuckled softly. “I think later, I’ll be the one asking.” Marek snuggled into Tyrone, his hands curled between them, breathing evening out. “First you must nap,” Marek mumbled, “then we will see.” Tyrone had every intention of getting up and cleaning them. He would, too, in just a few minutes.

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Chapter 9

Tyrone shifted carefully on the tiny bed, stroking Marek’s hair. Over the last week, he had thought a lot about what he was getting into. Visiting Marek in Medical, feeding him and helping in his care had given him a great deal of insight about the younger man. He wanted a total relationship with Marek, but why? What was it about him that had pulled him so completely in? He gazed at the sleeping man and studied his features. He was attractive, but not conventionally so. That didn’t matter. Looks had never been enough for Tyrone. Marek’s soul beneath that prickly exterior was what had enveloped itself around Tyrone’s heart very early on. Little clues into his nature that had tugged and drawn him in like a moth to a flame. Tyrone sighed, he knew himself. He was a nurturer and he was going to have to control himself around Marek. Marek wasn’t going to be receptive to too much cuddling. Not to mention that Marek didn’t completely trust him yet. He wanted to wrap this man in his love, but he was sure he would have Marek running for the nearest exit if Marek began to feel smothered. He so didn’t want to mess this up. Tyrone had been shocked when Marek had demanded that first kiss. It had been hot, so hot, and desperate. Somehow, he had managed to cut away the surface layers of Marek’s reserve and defenses. Tyrone was not going to let 49


Marek rebuild them without himself firmly installed inside his heart. Slow and easy, that was the route he’d take. Marek stirred and Tyrone reached down for a coverlet and tugged it over him. Without thinking, he bent and kissed Marek’s forehead, trailing his fingers down the flushed face. The skin felt dry and thin, but had no fever. Tyrone dressed slowly, watching Marek sleep. Could this reserved young man love him? It didn’t matter, he realized. He loved Marek and he knew that Marek had strong feelings for him. Those feelings could easily turn to love. He sat down next to Marek, taking his injured hand, his heart calm, at peace. Several minutes later there was a coded tap on the door. Tyrone gently disengaged his hand from Marek’s; at the same time making sure he was suitably covered. Rising, he hurried to answer the door. Caesar stood with arms full of assorted bags and packages, one of which smelled very good. “Let’s eat. I’m double-parked downstairs and I’ve got more in the car for you. I picked up a few puzzle books for Marek. I noticed before that he’s always working on some kind of a word puzzle or another. You two can do that together, if you get bored with b…” Caesar smirked. “Don’t say it,” Tyrone warned, cutting him off. The agent chuckled and went on. “I grabbed some pots, pans, and basic food. I don’t think he cooks,” Caesar laughed, handing Tyrone a bag and heading toward the little table to put the food down. “How’s he doing?” Caesar asked with a quick look toward the bed. Tyrone followed his gaze. “Fine,” he smiled. “I think he just needs rest and food. His bullet wound is healing nicely and those super-fiber gloves are great. They’re keeping him from bending his wrist or his fingers and he seems pretty comfortable.” 50

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Tyrone followed Caesar downstairs to help with the bags, nearly running into a lost-looking pedestrian on the sidewalk as he turned back toward the building, arms full. The man quickly hustled out of the way, not looking or even responding when Tyrone apologized. “That was odd,” he murmured, looking over the top of a box full of supplies at Caesar. “I thought so,” the agent agreed, a contemplative expression on his face. Clapping Tyrone on the back, he snapped out of it. “You go on up, lover-boy,” he teased. “I’ll be right behind you.” For some reason, it took Caesar an extra few minutes, but he came through the door quietly, aware that Marek was still sleeping. “I really appreciate all this,” Tyrone nodded toward the boxes and bags filled with supplies. “I know Marek will, too, when he wakes up.” “He’s an attractive guy, in a starved waif kind of way. It’s misleading, really. But I like him,” Caesar walked over to the bed. Almost reverently, he reached down, one finger tracing the stubborn line of Marek’s jaw. “He’s backed me up twice now. He’s mean as hell and tough as nails. And those eyes…” He shrugged, moving toward the door. “You were interested in him?” Tyrone asked carefully. “I like women and men,” Caesar admitted. “I had a little crush on him, but I just didn’t have the balls, metaphorically speaking,” he grinned ironically, “to do anything about it. The better man walked away with the prize.” He looked over at Marek and back at Tyrone. “No worries, man. But I’ll be back in a few days, just to check on you both. Call me if you need me--like maybe you’ll need to go out, go to work, whatever.” He opened the door, standing half in-half out of the hallway. Tyrone nodded, taking a few steps and reaching out to shake Caesar’s hand. “I’m off for a week, but thanks. Real51


ly,” he emphasized. Caesar winked, pulling Tyrone into an impulsive halfhug. “Later, man.” His voice was husky, but Tyrone understood. They could be friends. A man couldn’t have enough real friends.

****

Marek opened his eyes just a bit, to locate the source of the rattling noises he heard. The man was still cleaning! He had woken up to cleaning sounds from the bathroom over an hour ago and now Tyrone was scrubbing away in the kitchen area. At first, Marek had been annoyed, but Tyrone’s own home had been very neat. He kept The Agency’s kitchens dust free and in perfect order. Marek’s cozy little home must be driving Tyrone just short of crazy. If cleaning would restore Tyrone’s sense of imbalance, Marek supposed he could put up with it. It made it easier that he could sleep through most of the flurry of activity. Eventually, Marek woke again, this time to the demands of his bladder and a wonderful aroma. He got up and went to the bathroom and returned. He was feeling somewhat hazy, but generally well. He listened to the sounds Tyrone was making as the large man moved around the small kitchen area. Marek sat crossed-legged on the bed and leaned back against the wall. It was strangely comforting to know that Tyrone was taking care of him. He smiled to himself. Tyrone was trying so hard to try to not look or act like he was tending him too well. He appreciated it more than he could express. He just wasn’t ready for all of this, but he decided that he truly wanted what Tyrone was offering him. 52

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Tyrone, what an amazing person! Did he know what he was offering Marek? Slow, take it slow, he cautioned himself. How did he really feel about Tyrone? He thought a lot about it and didn’t recognize some of the things he was feeling. He was attracted to him, but he was used to going without affection and had never had a real lover of any kind. He admired Tyrone. He couldn’t get enough of his cooking, could sit for hours listening to that gravelly voice. And what a sweet and sensitive man he was. He fascinated Marek. Marek had been unequipped and unprepared when Tyrone had showed interest in him. Marek felt inadequate to be in such an intimate position with him. He had just been easing into a hesitant friendship with him before this last mission. He wasn’t experienced with friendship or any other kind of relationship. This was crazy, but Tyrone seemed to need him, need him. Such an impossible concept. Marek wasn’t sure he loved Tyrone--didn’t know if he could love, but he cared for him more than he could ever remember caring for anyone. He wanted to make him happy and he wanted to touch him. A lot. “Ready to eat?” Tyrone interrupted his musings. “Yes. I am hungry. What did you make?” Marek asked eagerly, scooting forward. “Quail stuffed ravioli with parmesan cream sauce, Veal Scalloppine Marsala, and broccoli and cauliflower with Tillamook cheddar sauce…” Tyrone dipped his head, appearing embarrassed. “I got started and I just couldn’t stop.” Marek blinked slowly at him. “I went to the Institute of Culinary Education here in New York, before I joined the Army. After that, I came to The Agency,” he explained. “I really do just love to cook,” he said into the silence. Marek smiled his best smile, hoping to reassure Tyrone. “I really just love to eat,” he countered, levering himself to his feet. “We make a very good couple.” 53


Tyrone laughed out loud, relieved. “We sure do, Sweetheart. We sure do.” Another facet of the man, Marek thought. There was so much they didn’t know about each other. Marek couldn’t help wonder if Tyrone would be comfortable with everything he might learn about him. He wondered if he was going to be comfortable with everything he might learn about himself. Marek pushed the thoughts aside and moved to sit at the small table. It was amazing how just a little effort made such a difference. Marek watched as Tyrone flitted around and lit candle after candle until his studio apartment was transformed into sanctuary of enchantment. Marek was entranced, watching his lover make the transformation. His lover! Tyrone had already laid out the bowls and small plates for bread. Somewhere he had gotten an assortment of flowers and even had installed cloth napkins at the side of each cracked bowl and plate. It was simple, but probably the most elegant table at which Marek had ever sat. He was surprised to find that it made him feel good. It was…nice. That night, Marek lay awake, cuddled against Tyrone in the small bed, reviewing the day. He and Tyrone had made love. That’s what Tyrone had called it: making love. This was the first time for Marek, really. He’d had sex before, been fucked. He’d been forced in his time, or he’d learned that, in his job and in his life, it was sometimes necessary to trade sex for safety or information. But this was the first time that he could remember doing it because he wanted to, following what his instincts compelled him to do. It had been a wonderful, heady experience. Tyrone had given him that. Could this really work? Marek closed his eyes and his insides tightened up with the realization of how much he wanted this all to work. He was nervous. He had never been 54

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worried, frightened like this… but he thought back to the weeks he’d been away on that last mission, then later, fighting just to get back to Tyrone. He was not going to let his apprehension stop him from reaching out this one time. Was Tyrone his life-mate? Marek opened his eyes and sighed. He was not so different from anyone else. Didn’t everybody dream of a mate who would be with hem forever? He grinned. Oh, but Tyrone was a romantic. Would he ever get used to that? He closed his eyes and snuggled back, feeling Tyrone’s wide chest behind him. It felt so good and he decided that, yes, maybe he could get used to Tyrone’s romantic words and his sweet, sweet ways of doing things. He drifted to sleep thinking about the way Tyrone had transformed his simple one room apartment into an enchanted oasis and how much he had liked it.

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Chapter 10

The last two weeks had been nearly idyllic. Marek had never been so happy. Tyrone had talked him into purchasing a large futon, of which Marek had been very suspicious. “So that is the…futon?” he’d asked. “It does not look so big. My bed was bigger.” Tyrone had nodded. “It folds out flat and it’s comfortable. The padding is extra thick, the best. You can use regular sheets…I got some of those, too.” Marek had regarded it thoughtfully. “I will keep it only if it works well during sex,” he stated firmly. Tyrone looked earnestly at him, “Making love, Marek, making love. That’s what lovers do, that’s what we do. You’re my sweetheart.” It was so easy to forget what importance Tyrone placed on words. Marek raised his head and forced himself to look at Tyrone and reply evenly. “Yes, I will keep it if we can make love on it without injuring ourselves. It will not collapse or fold up with us in it, will it? You know, like in the movies? “No, it‘s perfectly safe,” Tyrone promised. “It has a hinge that secures it down after you unfold it.” “We should try it,” Marek decreed, looking at the futon instead of Tyrone. He could hear the smile in Tyrone’s voice when he agreed, “Yes, we should try it.” Tyrone reached over and 56

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cupped Marek’s chin and tilted his head up and stroked Marek’s cheek with his thumb. “Just in case, though, I think I should be on the bottom…to make sure it works right. What do you think?” Marek’s eyes had opened wider in shock. He had never considered the possibility that he would take the dominant role in their lovemaking. A gift. Marek recognized it a gift and Tyrone’s way of expressing his commitment. “Ano, um, yes, I think it would be fine. Come,” he took the larger man by the hand, trying to hide his own nervousness. This wasn’t just some mark, ordering him to perform. This was Tyrone; his milované srdce, his draha jedna, his dear one. Marek led Tyrone to the futon and gently pushed him down and peppered him with soft kisses, arousing him, both of them, more and more. Tyrone kissed him back, reaching to pull Marek’s boxers down and off. Marek smiled and slipped his fingers into the waistband of Tyrone’s boxers, rising to his knees as he pulled them down Tyrone’s thick legs. Tyrone flipped Marek over and suddenly, he was sitting between Marek’s legs as he inhaled Marek’s cock into his mouth and throat. Tyrone sucked and slurped, driving Marek wild. Marek dimly felt Tyrone’s cock stiffen where it prodded his bent knee. Marek pulled away before he could lose control, startling Tyrone. “Marek? What?” He sounded confused. “Shush, lay back. Open for me,” Marek coached him. Tyrone spread his legs and Marek inserted a gel covered finger and carefully started to pump. Tyrone was small there, so close and unyielding. It occurred to Marek that he didn’t know if Tyrone had ever had a man inside him. “You are very tight. How long has it been, Tyrone?” “Well, I never got this far, um…I was saving it, you know,” Tyrone hedged. 57


“Tyrone...” Marek didn’t know if he could do this. He hadn’t often taken this role. “Please, Sweetheart, don’t back out…I want you in me…I need you…It’s important to me,” Tyrone implored Marek nodded, his cock was hard and weeping at the very idea that Tyrone would want him this way. “Okay, turn on your stomach.” “No, I want to see you,” Tyrone objected. “Nie. Not this first time. It is easier this way. Less chance of injury…less burning…next time,” Marek was firm. Tyrone, seeing the apprehension on Marek’s face leaned up and lightly kissed his lips and then turned himself over. Marek shoved a pillow under his hips and then showered his broad, smooth back with licks and kisses while a second finger joined the first already sliding into and out of Tyrone’s opening. After a short time, a third finger joined and Marek felt Tyrone tightening; his climax was close. He pushed deep with his index finger, stroking the little bump inside. “Marek! Marek!” “Come, come for me. That is good. Let it come,” Marek urged, watching Tyrone’s face, cheek pressed hard into the futon cushion, marveling that he could be the cause of such pleasure. While Tyrone was still limp with sexual exhaustion, Marek lined himself up, pushing in. Before long, Tyrone was bucking back into Marek’s wild thrusts. Sweat trickled down his face. At the last minute, he remembered to reach down and take hold of Tyrone’s renewed erection, pumping as he emptied himself into him. He’d been so worried that he had hurt Tyrone with his roughness. It was wonderful, but he liked it more with Tyrone on top. Less to worry about. He’d confided his decision to Tyrone, who had squeezed him tight. “It’s your decision…our decision, Sweetheart,” Tyrone 58

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had murmured. “We’re in this together.” Now, Marek paced his cozy home, waiting for Tyrone to return. He would be starting physical therapy tomorrow; his hands were well enough now. He couldn’t wait to tell Tyrone.

****

Tyrone felt his stomach drop at Marek’s enthusiasm. He’d been dreading this moment since the first day he’d brought Marek home from Medical. He and Caesar had arrived at the same time and walked in together. Caesar didn’t waste a moment, congratulating Marek right away. The Old Man had informed Agent Medowes that he was to bring Agent Dublecek up to speed during his therapy sessions. “I’ve missed you skulking about headquarters, man,” Medowes grinned, reaching out to shake Marek’s hand, albeit carefully. “So, you’ll have PT and some light duty then, huh?” “Don’t squeeze too tight,” Tyrone cautioned, worried. Caesar rolled his eyes at Marek who smiled back. Tyrone didn’t much like that either. “Is okay,” Marek excused, pulling his hand back. “Yes, therapy for a time and I will help evaluate Eastern Bloc Intel until I can go back into the field.” “I won’t keep you, then, I know you guys wanna celebrate,” Caesar smiled at both men. “I’m on my way home, so I’ll see you downtown tomorrow, huh? You, too,” he nodded at Tyrone. “Yep, me, too,” Tyrone agreed, walking him to the door. He stepped out into the hall and waved, more to clear his head than to see the other man off. “I’d better put supper 59


on,” Tyrone called after closing the door and turning toward the tiny kitchen, not looking at Marek. “I want to take you out,” Marek smiled shyly. Tyrone felt his stomach lurch again. “No, I don’t want to go out.” He really didn’t feel like celebrating, in spite of what Caesar had said. “I’d rather just stay here.” “You cooked all day,” Marek reached out, laying a hand on Tyrone’s forearm. “I’m happy, I want to show you. Share with you…” Tyrone whirled around to face Marek, unaccountably angry. “How can you be happy?” he snapped, hurt clear in his voice. Marek’s face was a study in hopeful confusion. “I have you, moja láska, and I can soon do again what I am good at.” “What? What are you good at?” Tyrone couldn’t seem to stop his mouth, couldn’t control his snide tone. “Good at starving yourself? Good at getting hurt, captured, making me worry about you?” He could see the flicker of soul-deep hurt in Marek’s wide gold eyes, and then the controlled mask of indifference settled over Marek’s fine features. Why couldn’t he shut himself up? “And what does that mean? Speak English!” Tyrone barked. Marek looked at Tyrone for a long moment, no expression on his face. “I am good at solving puzzles, stopping crimes, surviving injury. Now, I wish to go out.” He turned and walked to the little closet by the door. Pulling down a battered leather jacket, Marek reached for the knob. “Means my love,” he explained, monotone, before slipping through the open door. Tyrone sank down on one of the rickety chairs. What the hell was his problem? He was so afraid that he would lose Marek to the dangers of his job. Now he’d driven him away with his out of control fears. The look on the younger man’s face… Tears filed his eyes and Tyrone slammed his fist down on the table. My 60

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Love. Marek had admitted to loving him and Tyrone had cut that right off at the source. What was he going to do? The sound of the door opening filled him with hope. “Marek, please…” he began. But it wasn’t Marek. “Hey…” And then… Nothing.

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Marek walked aimlessly for an hour or more, kicking at sidewalk debris, frightening pigeons, and basically not paying attention to where he was going. He felt numb. Just numb. What had happened? Tyrone didn’t like him to be well? Maybe Tyrone didn’t like him at all. He couldn’t, could he? Marek had known it was too good to be true. Tyrone had gotten to know him and hadn’t liked what he found. That was the only answer. Marek shook himself. He had to go home. No, not home. He had to go back to that little apartment. It wasn’t home anymore. No doubt Tyrone had packed and gone now. Marek would stay at The Agency tonight. He just couldn’t lay down on the futon without Tyrone. He couldn’t spend the night there--not ever again. The door to his studio apartment was standing open when he got there, causing the hair on the back of his neck to rise in warning. The place was empty of people, no hidden enemy lurking. An overturned chair lay on the floor by the small table. Tyrone’s thin little flower vase was shattered, a puddle of water had spread from the ruined leaves and petals mixed with shards of glass. The ringing of his telephone arrested Marek’s reaching hand. He turned and snatched up the jangling handset, press62

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ing it to his ear as if the answers he needed would pour forth. “Get in here, young man,” The Old Man ordered without preamble. “Agent Medowes and Mr. Johnson have been captured.” “Yes, sir,” Marek rasped, the dial tone buzzing before he’d even hung up. He didn’t bother to lock the door on his way out. He hadn’t locked it before and now Tyrone was gone. The fact that Agent Medowes was with him, wherever the two men were, was both reassuring and telling. It was reassuring because at least Tyrone wasn’t alone, and if he was alive, perhaps Agent Medowes could free him. It was telling because Marek knew that the two men had become friends. Medowes was more the kind of man that Tyrone needed. He was a good man, Marek had always thought so. Before he knew it, Marek found himself in front of The Old Man’s desk, explaining himself. “Is my fault, sir,” he admitted, looking straight into The Old Man’s eyes. “I left without securing the domicile. I did not set alarms. I did not advise Tyrone of my destination or how to reach me. I made him a target.” “Would that you were as powerful as you seem to think you are, my boy,” The Old Man growled. “Mr. Johnson has been taking care of himself for a number of years. As has Agent Medowes.” He looked hard at Marek until Marek dropped his gaze. “Now, are you finished wallowing?” “Almost, sir,” Marek mumbled. He’d never lied to The Old Man. He wouldn’t start today. The Old Man cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “Yes, well…fine.” Marek raised his head. “That’s enough of it for now. We have heard from an informer that Agent Medowes was taken in retaliation for the thwarted bomb attack a few weeks ago. Mr. Johnson was taken in an effort to make Agent Medowes talk about The Agency. They’ve 63


been seen together a few times and the other side has assumed that the two men are a couple. You were not out very much over the last two weeks, but Mr. Johnson and Agent Medowes entered and exited the apartment and the building frequently. In addition, Agent Medowes has been giving Mr. Johnson rides to work this week, as well as bringing him supplies for you. That would explain the mistake, I expect.” The Old Man paused for a moment, straightening some papers. Nothing was said for several long seconds. “Um,” Marek shuffled his feet, uncomfortable standing in front of The Old Man’s desk, uncomfortable with the silence. “They make a nice couple,” he said finally. At the sight of The Old Man’s arched brow, he blushed. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, embarrassed. He’d been wallowing again. “Indeed,” The Old Man harrumphed. “You were, according to our informer, shot in the back and killed nearly a month ago.” “Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated,” Marek quoted Mark Twain with a twist of his lips. “Quite right,” The Old Man nodded sharply. “Regarding this particular group, you are, of course, the most knowledgeable.” “Yes, sir,” Marek agreed. “I can get them out, sir,” he told his boss. “The doctor has only just cleared you for therapy today, son,” The Old Man looked at him sternly. “I will do this, sir,” Marek insisted. “I can do this.” He would do this; he only hoped The Old Man didn’t make him say that out loud to him. The Old Man considered him silently. Finally, he nodded. “Go get our men back, Agent Dublecek. Try not to get hurt. Do not get killed.” “Yes, sir,” Marek stood up straight. “Dismissed.” 64

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****

“Well, Mr. Sosa—or is that correct?” the oily voice was slightly accented, though Tyrone couldn’t trace its origins. “It’ll do,” Caesar shrugged. The slight movement looked like it meant to be a shrug. Hard to tell with Ceasar’s arms stretched over his head, muscles bunching, and wrists bound as tightly as they were. Caesar’s shirt had been stripped away leaving his torso bare. “I mean to have your real name,” the other man growled, raising his arm as if to strike his hostage. He dropped it, missing Caesar altogether, but Tyrone felt pain explode on the side of his face. “Your name is ‘Lover-boy’ as far as this one’s concerned, isn’t it?” the violent stranger asked, addressing Tyrone now. Tyrone could feel the blood dripping down his chin where his lip had been split. He wasn’t sure what the man wanted. He tried to make eye contact with Caesar who hung his head, not looking at him. “He calls me all kinds of things,” Tyrone mumbled. “Is that so?” the slippery voice had a wheedling, caressing quality to it now. “Which of you takes the top?” he asked, a hand stroking over Tyrone’s bald head. “You? Or the big, bad spy?” Tyrone’s eyes did make contact with Caesar’s this time. The anger he’d felt earlier shot to the surface now. After a long, hard look of challenge, Tyrone answered, not looking away from Caesar’s black eyes. “He did it once, but he’s afraid he’ll hurt me. He prefers the bottom. I think he just likes to cuddle sometimes.” The agent’s eyes widened and then burned. Tyrone broke the connection. Ashamed, he hung his head. “Doesn’t matter. We--we broke up tonight. I was an ass.” 65


He heard Caesar growl and the chains holding him rattle. Tyrone didn’t look at him again. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” their offensive captor oozed. “Trouble in paradise.” He violently slapped Tyrone’s cheek hard enough that lighter skin might have shown a handprint. “But that’s only a little skip in the music,” he crooned. “Love doesn’t turn off and on like a radio, does it? Hmmm,” he cuffed Tyrone’s face hard with a closed fist. “Of course, sometimes radios break if you handle them roughly.” “Leave him alone,” Caesar rumbled. “He has nothing to do with this.” Tyrone peeked up. He couldn’t believe that Caesar was trying to save him now. But he was. Why? Tyrone closed his eyes. Obviously, Caesar was a professional. It was his job to keep Tyrone safe. That wasn’t the only reason, though. Tyrone had suspected that Agent Medowes’ feelings for Marek went deeper than he’d let on. During the last mission, when Medowes’ had brought the little money heart to Tyrone, he’d been sincere when he’d said that Marek’s happiness had meant something to him. Caesar was in love with Marek. He’d keep Tyrone as safe as he could, knowing that it hadn’t been Marek’s choice to end things, but Tyrone’s idiocy. Although not in possession of all the facts, their tormentor had made similar assumptions. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the grating voice almost sounded apologetic. He trailed the tip of one finger down Caesar’s cheek, along his neck, tracing his collarbone, and then down to circle a flat nipple. “If it helps, he’s sorry.” The man blew a kiss to Tyrone, turning back to Caesar again. “When we picked him up, he was crying. Such a sensitive man…you both are.” Pinching Caesar’s flat nipple between his thumb and forefinger, the man twisted hard, drawing beads of sweat from Caesar’s face. 66

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“Don’t hurt him!” Tyrone yelped. He couldn’t be the cause of more hurt, just couldn’t. Caesar’s eyes rolled in annoyance and he shook his head. “See?” the vicious man smiled, “He really cares about you. But we don’t want him distracting you.” He turned toward a man standing quietly in the corner. “Billy, tape our African American guest’s mouth closed.” With a mocking expression on his face, the man apologized, “I know it’ll be frustrating, but you really don’t have the information we need…beyond his name. Don’t worry, though, he’ll tell us.” His smile turned truly frightening as he angled Tyrone’s head back. “You can help.”

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Marek was in full mission-mode. It was dark out and he pulled a black knit cap down over his spiky gold hair. His old leather jacket was dark with age and casual disregard; it could be left behind if need be. Under it, he wore a lightweight black turtleneck and thin but durable black pants. He wouldn’t look out of place getting to where he was going and he’d be all but invisible when he got there. His knowledge of the group that had his friends, coupled with input from The Old Man’s informer, made it easy to reason where they were being held. While “being dead” had helped him in the past, it would only go so far this time around. Nobody would be allowed into the area where Agent Medowes and Tyrone were. That was fine. Marek didn’t plan to ask permission anyway. In addition to his sleek black ensemble, Marek made sure he was equipped with everything he would need. A lot of agents used guns. Not Marek. His accuracy with a gun made him an expert marksman, but he just didn’t like them. He preferred the one-on-one approach to self defense and opponent injury. He was good at it. It had been ascertained that the men were lodged in the basement of a nearly impenetrable building in the business district. While that building seemed to be sealed tight, the building next to it could be breached…under certain circumstances. 68

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Marek didn’t have a lot of options, not a lot of opportunity to correct his mistakes. If he guessed wrong about where the two men were being held and most likely tortured, one or both of them could be dead before Marek could search a second building. His instincts screamed at him not to second guess. They’d never let him down before…with the possible exception of Tyrone. And even that hadn’t been wrong, only the idea that they had a future together…Marek ruthlessly blocked that avenue of thought. Having spent as long as he dared scouring the blueprints of both buildings, Marek now made his way around the back of a five-story abandoned warehouse that was a block to the east of his target. He would scale the side and make his way from rooftop to rooftop until he arrived at the neighbor to the dilapidated office structure he needed to infiltrate. Not willing to chance the rusted fire escapes, Marek pulled out a tiny, hand-held crossbow. Aiming carefully, he let fly at the underside of the ancient concrete shelf that projected from the building just below the roofline fifty-odd feet above. The suction cup flew to its mark with a hollow thud. He rapidly swarmed up the re-enforced rope, hooked a leg over the crumbling ledge and pulled himself onto the roof when he reached the top. His wrists and fingers throbbed dully, unused to the strenuous activity after being immobilized for so long. He stuffed the pain down and crouched low, detaching the miniscule suction cup and pulling up the rope. Marek made his way lightly across the roof, taking shelter behind an angled doorframe that protected the entrance and exit to the roof. He triggered the mechanism that coiled the rope back inside of its little crossbow and stuffed that into his jacket pocket. He might need it again before he got to Medowes and Tyrone. After he recovered the men, he 69


intended to walk out the front door, leaving untold wreckage behind. Swallowing the malevolent smile that idea brought to his lips, Marek forced his concentration back to the matter at hand. Two more buildings southwest and he found what he was looking for. Edging toward a rectangular structure built into the roof, Marek reassured himself that he had found entrance to the ventilation system that served both buildings. The two structures were joined three stories down with only a two foot recessed gap giving the illusion of separation. On the far side of the little structure, a locked steel door fell prey to his lock-pick in a matter of seconds. He carefully opened the heavy door, taking one last look around the rooftop. If his calculations were correct, he would need to work his way west, to the center of the other building. The building was old; otherwise the ventilation system wouldn’t have held him, much less allowed him to move from one structure to the other. It had been constructed during a time when craftsmanship mattered and things were made to last. Marek clicked on his small flashlight and descended the metal rungs of the built-in ladder that lay just inside the door. When he reached the bottom, he began to move through the dirty, cobweb-filled utility shaft, being careful not to clang against the metal walls. He reached a break in the wall where the shaft split in two directions, turning unerringly to the right. The ceiling of the shaft was lower now, forcing him to crawl. His hands radiated pain, difficult to ignore. He had to, though, he couldn’t allow failure. He reached within himself for the strength to ignore his body and ignore his anxiety for Tyrone. Tyrone would have no chance if he gave into his panic now. He would indulge in his emotions later. He felt a stab of despair that took his breath away. Tyrone might already 70

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be dead, in fact, was most likely dead. No, he wouldn’t think about that. Sweat and tears intermingled on his cheeks, he didn’t notice. He pressed onward, drawing even with a metal grate and peering through it. The building was older than he’d realized. Below him was a room with people in it, prisoners it looked like, but it was not the room he sought. Craning his head to see as much of the room as possible, Marek took a closer look. Two of its occupants were young men that he’d hung out with during the last mission. They looked as thin and underfed as he ever had. One appeared to be injured. The other could be dead. There were no guards in evidence. The clean up team would take care of them. A few yards later he came to another break in the wall of the shaft, presenting him with a choice of going straight ahead or turning to the right. Calculating that the right turn would lead him toward the far side of the building, he crawled on. The vent was angling down, heading for the basement, he hoped. Marek moved slowly towards a glimmer of light directly ahead, soon reaching another metal grate where the shaft split to the left and right. He cocked his head and looked through the grille. In the middle of the room hung Agent Medowes. He was bruised, angry, but not seriously injured. Looking toward the left side of the room, he saw Tyrone. A red haze filled his vision. Red like the drops of blood trickling from Tyrone’s tape-covered mouth where he’d been hit. Red like the cuts being sliced in the beautiful brown skin of Tyrone’s chest. Marek’s first impulse was to rip aside the metal grating and wreak havoc on the man hurting Tyrone. He stilled his breath and counted, forcing himself to remain calm. He waited there, unmoving, watching. 71


“Who informed you of our plans?” Marek knew that voice, knew that man. “Who?” he asked again, an unwieldy, inelegant box-cutter sinking into the skin just under Tyrone’s shoulder. Agent Medowes squeezed his eyes shut and said, “You killed him.” The blade sank deeper and Tyrone’s frightened eyes widened and then closed. “Try again, Agent Medowes,” the man sneered. A narrow rivulet of red made its way down Tyrone’s chest, catching on a tightly wound hair and diverting to trickle over and down his stomach. Almost forgetting himself, Marek snatched his knit cap off and pushed his screaming fingers through his tousled hair. Medowes’ eyes popped open. He glared at a corner of the room. “We called him ,” he gritted. “It’s a Slovak word.” “I am familiar with the word,” Tyrone’s assailant bit out. “Who is it?” he demanded. Marek pulled his cap back on, slowly backing away from the grate. He stopped long enough to make eye contact with Agent Medowes. Medowes eyes were barely slitted. One of them dropped closed--briefly. Marek gave him a twitch of a smile and winked back. He didn’t know positively if the other agent had seen; he thought he had. It didn’t matter. “Dublecek,” Caesar mumbled, confirming that Medowes had seen him. “Marek Dublecek. You left him in an abandoned building to die…” A wounded bellow of rage sounded from Tyrone’s tape-sealed mouth. Still backing away, Marek didn’t see what had caused the loud bang and shouts from the room. He used the cacophony erupting from the torture-room to mask any noise he made. Using his multi-purpose tool, Marek quickly removed 72

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one of the nearby grates, allowing himself to drop through it onto the floor. He slipped into the dimly lit corridor, all but unnoticed by the glut of muscular young men fighting to get into the room with their leader. Aided by a device created by one of The Agency’s most clever gadget makers, Marek began taking his opponents by surprise and taking them down, one by one. A flick of his thin switchblade, slide the sedative-coated blade between one of the lower atypical ribs, possibly nicking a lung, and down. One man after another rapidly crumpled to the floor, no time to struggle, until four had fallen in a matter of seconds. There was value in being able to question a suspect later, Marek realized. It was simply very inconvenient when they were in his way. The last opponent suddenly noticed that he was alone when the man beside him inexplicably dropped. Whirling, he caught at Marek, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring in anger at the threat of his blade. The enemy guard managed to wrap a beefy hand over Marek’s thin, pained fingers, grappling with him for the switchblade. Another bellow from within the room, from Tyrone, distracted the guard and empowered Marek. Rage and terror for Tyrone, and for Medowes, surged in a gush of adrenaline, pushing his hand harder, at the throat of his foe, pressing his thumb down, cutting off the other man’s oxygen. As his enemy lapsed into unconsciousness, Marek transferred the knife from his crushed left hand to his slightly less injured right hand, slicing a little sedative into the forearm of his foe as he did so. With a wobbly stagger, he managed to regain his feet and clear his head. Stepping over the last fallen opponent, his agonized hands chanting in pain, Marek entered the room. Tyrone, standing but still tied to a chair, was looming over the man that Marek had recognized. The obnoxious terrorist held his box-cutter tightly to Agent Medowes’ neck. Blood poured 73


down, though the jugular vein was still intact. “Is okay, Tyrone, I am here,” Marek said quietly. As he stepped into the room, he unobtrusively flicked his switchblade. Housed in his pocket with the small crossbow, it was a simple matter to spear through the suction cup and slice the inner lining of his jacket at the same time. Now, all he needed was an opening. Tyrone whirled around in disbelief, the chair dangling from him making a wide arc. Narrowly missing the chained agent, the protruding legs of the chair stabbed at the man holding the box-cutter. He stumbled backward, the weapon embedding itself deeper into Agent Medowes’ throat. Medowes, seizing his moment, grabbed tightly to the chains above his wrists. With a mighty heave, he pulled himself up, blood spurting from under the buried blade, and wrapped his legs around his attacker. Marek neatly side-stepped Tyrone and lifted the hand still stuffed in his jacket pocket, bending his aching wrist backward. Reaching deep to force his tortured fingers to move, Marek pressed the trigger on the small crossbow.

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Chapter 13

Tyrone stepped back, out of the way, agog as the thin cord shot across the room and buried itself in the stomach of his aggressor. He fought his first impulse, which was to run to Marek. Instead, he turned, bringing a shoulder up under Caesar’s ribs, lifting him enough to relieve the stress on his shoulders and wrists. He heard Marek move behind him and assumed he was coming to help. “Stand up! Stand up,” growled Caesar. “Quick!” Tyrone did, lifting him higher. Caesar leaned over Tyrone’s head, most of his weight resting on Tyrone’s back. Seconds of rattling above him and Tyrone wondered why Marek wasn’t helping. Streaming down Tyrone’s back, Caesar slid to the floor, dislodging the blade at his throat and slicing Tyrone’s bindings with a roar of pain. Free of the chair, Tyrone turned, only to find Caesar stumbling over to a prone Marek. Marek lay facedown on the floor, his legs pinned under an unconscious guard, a silvery blade oozing blood down the back of his battered old jacket. “Marek? Caesar, pull it out!” Tyrone choked, reaching for the blade. “No!” Caesar barked groaning in pain as he blocked Tyrone’s hand. “Could do more damage on the way out than it did on the way in,” he wheezed in explanation, one hand 75


at Marek’s throat, his other hand disappearing under Marek’s hip. He pulled out what looked like a very small cell phone and pressed a button. “Clean up,” he rapped out, snapping it shut. Turning, he looked at Tyrone. “You okay?” he managed. Tyrone didn’t know how the other man was staying upright. Blood poured from Medowes’ throat and both shoulders appeared to be dislocated. Tyrone would need stitches, no doubt, but these two men were in very bad shape. Noises from outside, the rapid popping of gunshots, banging, and a general orchestra of violence announced the arrival of The Agency’s clean up team. A rhythmic thudding that grew louder and louder alerted Tyrone to a large number of boot-wearing people running toward them. He forced himself to his feet, standing protectively over both men, the two most important people in his life. When that had come to be, he had no idea, but it would remain so for the rest of his life--that certainty lived deep in his heart. “Sir, Mr. Johnson?” someone was talking to him. When had he stopped paying attention? What kind of protector… “Mr. Johnson, you need treatment. Come on, there’s room for all three of you in the buggy.” The voice was kind; for all that the speaker looked like a professional wrestler. Tyrone stepped back, allowing The Agency’s team into the room. Half of the entourage began collecting and treating the terrorists, while four or five stayed with him. Two men were bent over Caesar, two more hunched over Marek, working silently. He knew that at least one person was treating his cuts, superficial injuries, but he couldn’t be sure of the count. Tyrone was seeing two of everyone now--at least he thought he was. “This way, pal,” the wrestler-looking man slid a blanket over his shoulders, wrapping an arm over to guide him out. Tyrone forced the man to wait, they were an even match in size, and allowed Marek and Caesar, and their caregivers, 76

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to leave the room first. His escort nodded, understanding and approval clear on his face.

****

Marek floated in a pool of dim awareness. The pain was there, somewhere, just a little apart from him. At one point his world had been rushing rapids of sound, activity, lights. For awhile, everything had been dark, still, nothing. But now--now he ebbed and flowed like small breakers on a calm shore. Tyrone had been there, floating in and out. Marek dreamed that Tyrone had touched him, kissed his face. He thought he heard Agent Medowes--Caesar--calling his name. In the distance, voices mingled. Tyrone stood, bent, kissed Agent Medowes. Left. Gone. He thought he would die of the pain. Wished he would. Didn’t. Marek was alone in the hospital room he shared with the other agent. He had been more oblivious than lucid the past day or two, but he’d realized along the way that he had a roommate. Right this minute, though, he had other things on his mind. Right now, he had a visitor. “How are you, my boy?” It was The Old Man. “You’re looking better.” “Am fine, sir,” Marek forced between dry lips. “I want to come back,” he croaked, making himself say it before he lost his chance. “You are here, Marek,” The Old Man began. “You are back.” “Nie. Blázon,” Marek choked. “Did you just call me a fool, lad?” The Old Man asked carefully. 77


“Nie, nie,” Marek got out quickly, “Is me. I am blaznivy idiot.” He felt the back of his eyes sting. “Want to come home. Live here. No more studio apartment.” He closed his eyes, willing the moisture away. A cold wet trail streaked down his temple and he turned away from his failure. He heard The Old Man move to his feet. A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I’ll have your things stored until you’re released. We’ll discuss it again then.” How long he lay there fighting his misery, Marek didn’t know. He still floated in and out, but he was so sad. He’d been sad a long time before Tyrone, yet he’d managed to ignore it. Tyrone had come and gone in his life and he couldn’t ignore it anymore. And his face was wet again. “Shh,” the bed dipped beside him in the dark, a warm hand cupped his cheek. “Don’t. You’re not alone.” “Cezar, um Agent…” he tried to correct himself, pull himself together. Fingers covered his lips, just briefly. “Caesar. I like how you say it.” “You will be good to Tyrone?” Marek’s voice was a raspy husk. A fresh gush of tears sealed his humiliation. “I’ll be good to him.” Caesar bent and brushed his lips across one eye and then the other. Marek blinked up at him. “I’ll be good to both of you.” Marek’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak. “Caesar Medowes, what are you doing out of bed?” The nurse’s voice sounded more flirtatious than strident to Marek. Caesar turned toward her, his fingertips grazed Marek’s lips, the back of his fingers resting to hide the tear tracks at the side of Marek’s face. “Pretty Nurse Pauline, I’m only helping you. My friend here is in pain. What would The Old Man say if our Tieò became agitated?” Caesar’s hand slid down to Marek’s shoulder. “It’s not as if he can ring the buzzer himself. Poor guy,” his voice affected a flirtatious pout now and Marek 78

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had to fight not to smile. “Lying here in pain, can’t call for help, nobody here but me…” The nurse ended Caesar’s litany, sliding an arm around his back, as if he needed help to walk. Marek decided that she had forgotten that it was Caesar’s arms, not his legs that had been injured, and his throat, of course. “What a Good Samaritan you are,” she cooed. Marek heard her whisper, “Thank you, he can be very difficult…” Meadowes’ voice dropped an octave, “Count on me, Pauline, I’ll be your go-between. I’ll stay right on top of him.” “Stop that,” the nurse admonished playfully, accompanied by the ring of a light slap. “And keep your hands to yourself!” Louder, she said, “Agent Dublecek, I’ll be right back with something for your pain, okay?” Marek grunted, working not to laugh at Caesar’s antics. He didn’t know what to make of the other man’s seeming affection toward him. He would be fun for Tyrone, though. That was a good thing. He sniffed heavily. “Don’t make me come over there again,” Caesar warned. “You’ll get us both in trouble.” Marek smiled to himself. Maybe he would live through this.

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Tyrone felt like a giant bird had landed on his chest. His stomach clenched and roiled and he could barely breathe. “They made me sign for it, Caesar, and the bag had all my clothes from his place.” Tyrone took a deep breath. “I went over there and it was empty of everything but the futon…and the linens for it.” Tyrone squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head. “We bought that together.” Caesar pushed the button elevating the head of the bed. “Coffee,” he murmured. Tyrone lifted the mug and tipped it against the other man’s lips to allow him to sip. Absently, he acknowledged to himself that Caesar Medowes was an attractive man. Rumpled with sleep, his dark hair hung down over his forehead, a crease marking one swarthy cheek. Caesar could move his arms somewhat, though only a little. Luckily, he hadn’t torn his rotator cuffs when his shoulders had dislocated. Still, he had to be careful and wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than a fork. Tyrone didn’t mind helping him. He liked to care for others. “You said it yourself, Big Guy,” Caesar reached up and tapped Tyrone’s cheek. “You were an ass. He has trust issues.” He leaned forward and touched foreheads with Tyrone. “I’ll talk to him, you’ll talk to him. We’ll work on him, okay?” 80

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“I love him, Caesar. What am I going to do?” Tyrone heard the whine in his voice but couldn’t help it. He was desperate. “You’re going to sit here with me and wait for him to get back from X-Ray. It wears him out, but he’ll be less likely to argue or resist you,” Caesar began, and then cut him off before Tyrone could get started fretting about Marek’s injuries. “It sounds worse than it is,” he stated firmly. Tyrone did believe him, but a punctured lung sounded so threatening. “What if he doesn’t want to talk to me? What if...” Tyrone’s ever tightening spiral of worry was cut short when the door opened to an orderly pulling a gurney, another guiding it. Hot on their heels was a tiny woman that Tyrone knew to be Marek’s doctor, Caesar’s, too, for that matter. “What’s up, doc?” Caesar asked. The doctor ignored him in favor of the small device that she was talking into. “No, sir. Yes, sir. I am positive we got it in time.” Heavy sigh. “This time, yes, sir,” she went on. “It’s called hemopneumothorax, sir. In the supine position, air within the pleural space rises to the highest point in the hemithorax, which is in the area of the hemidiaphragm. This makes it less likely that one will see the classic visceral pleural line…I’m sorry sir. I just said that this condition is hard to spot in someone lying down all the time…we inserted a small tube, drained the blood and air that filled a space in the lung, and then sewed it up better than it had been…” “Ouch,” Caesar frowned. “Sounds like The Old Man is ripping her a new one.” Looking at Tyrone, he added, “Marek is a favorite son of sorts, Big Guy. You’re gonna want to lay low and avoid our august leader.” The doctor stepped out into the hall as two nurses moved in around Marek and pulled closed the curtain surrounding his bed. 81


“Mr. Johnson, you’re going to have to leave for a while,” one of the nurses approached him. Tyrone tensed, ready to argue. “Oh, but Lydia, he was going to help me a little,” Caesar wheedled. Tyrone held the coffee mug aloft, offering her a smile of entreaty. The nurse rolled her eyes at both men, hands on her hips. “How’s our friend over there?” Caesar angled his head toward the closed-off bed. “What happened?” “Oh, well, they apparently didn’t close the injury to the lung very well or something. Air and blood built up in his chest cavity, that’s what hemopneumothorax is. He should be lucid by tomorrow. Don’t worry,” she smiled sweetly at Caesar, and then at Tyrone--almost an afterthought. She sighed in mock-impatience. “Anyway, you can go over there and see him really breifly when we’re all done with him, then you’ll have to go.” It took an hour, but finally, the room was quiet. Even Caesar had begun to doze--a testament to his own collection of injuries. Tyrone’s cuts and facial swellings were healing nicely. He had needed some stitches, but suffered no more than pain and possibly light scarring. Marek looked so gaunt and pale to Tyrone as he stood over him, stroking his cheek. “Just let me take care of you, Sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ll find a way to live with your injuries if you just let me help you heal. I’ll help you every time, I’ll be more understanding,” he swore, “Just let me stay in your life…” “Mr. Johnson?” The nurse, Lydia, tapped him on the shoulder. “He’ll be eating again soon.” She smiled, “Maybe if you made him something special?” she suggested as she gently urged him toward the door. “Good idea, Lydia, I think I will.” Tyrone stepped back to the bed and pressed a light kiss to Marek’s temple. “I’d better be fair, huh?” he winked, moving over to Caesar’s 82

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bedside and brushing his forehead in a fleeting kiss. Lydia’s smile looked a little strained as she led him from the room.

****

“NIE! Pomoc!” Marek struggled against the bindings holding him in place. Tyrone was in trouble. They were hurting him and he was bleeding. “Pomôžte mi!” Caesar was there. He could help. “Pomôžte mu!” “Help?” Caesar slid an arm under Marek’s shoulders, turning him. “Help who, Tieò?” Marek couldn’t stop shaking. What was wrong with him? Tyrone! “Tyrone--he is injured, help him…” “Hush, it’s okay, he’s okay.” Caesar gently touched Marek’s face and it felt nice, but Tyrone! “Nie, is hurt, Cezar, Tyrone…” he started shaking again. Caesar tapped Marek lightly on the jaw. “No,” he said firmly. “Tyrone is okay. You are hurt. You are,” he emphasized. Marek was a punctured balloon, deflating against Caesar. “He is fine?” he asked in a small voice. “Quite fine,” Caesar smiled. “Aside from being worried about you.” He stroked through Marek’s disheveled hair. Marek rested his head on the larger agent’s shoulder. He couldn’t seem to help it, his splinted hands worthless between them. “Why he is worried? And you? Why are you nice to me?” he asked, meaning to sound intimidating, not like the frightened toddler who spoke with his voice. “I’m nice to you for the same reason that Tyrone is worried.” Marek rubbed his face against the other man’s pajama clad shoulder, still not understanding. “We love you, plain and simple.” 83


Marek sniffed, rocking his head back to get a better look into those black eyes. “Is not possible,” he whispered. “And he said no when I wanted to take him out.” Marek closed his eyes, remembering. “He said I was good only at getting hurt and starved. Tyrone doesn’t want me. Instead, he likes you.” “He acted badly, , because he was afraid. He likes me, and I like him. We both love you…maybe we love each other, too, but not like we love you.” Marek leaned back, swiping at the oxygen lines above his upper lip. “Am not to be loved…” he finally snagged it, attempting to pull it down. “I am difficult.” “Yes, you are,” Caesar agreed, gently trapping Marek’s misbehaving hand and pinning it against the pillow. Leaning down, he nudged the tubing back into place with his lips leaving a warm kiss behind. “You are a very bad boy, with a very good heart.” Marek tracked him with wide eyes as Caesar leaned down and kissed him again, causing his eyes to close. It was a soft kiss, almost chaste, but not quite, with the tip of a tongue caressing Marek’s lower lip. “Cezar?” Marek choked, uncertain, his head spinning. “You have kissed me?” “Yes, I have,” Caesar confirmed. “Your heart needs special handling.” Caesar brushed his lips over Marek’s cheekbone, releasing his injured hand. “I’m not sure that either Tyrone or I alone could take care of it right.” Marek stared at him wide-eyed, taking in the half-buttoned pajama top stretched over broad shoulders, a dark forelock brushing well-sculpted brows. “You want to have sex with me?” He remembered asking the same thing of Tyrone so long ago. At the time, he hadn’t known what he really wanted. He still didn’t. “Mmm,” Caesar hummed, placing an open palm on Merek’s bare chest. “Maybe…I don’t know for sure. Probably,” he smiled widely. “How helpful an answer was that?” Marek shook his swimming head. “Wasn’t. And you 84

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like girls anyway.” Caesar leaned down and kissed Marek again, slow and long, tasting him, dipping the tip of his tongue between Marek’s slightly parted lips. Pulling back, he addressed Marek’s statement. “Women. I like women, also, not anyway. But you, I love. At least I want to. Part of that is getting you back with Tyrone. I think you love him. I know he loves you.” Marek stared at Caesar, trying to figure it out, a wide yawn taking him by surprise. “I don’t know how to love,” he mumbled around his yawn. “I do it wrong.” Two broad palms cupped his face, thumbs sweeping his cheeks. “That’s because you went so long without it. That’s why you need two people to love you. Will you give the Big Guy a chance?” Marek felt his eyes water. “Talk to him?” Marek nodded. “Give me a chance, too?” Caesar asked, his voice husky. Marek looked up at Caesar, searching his face. Those black eyes pinned him intently, riveted on his every twitch. Convinced, Marek nodded slowly. He didn’t want to live alone and sad. Maybe Caesar was right. Maybe he needed both men to do it right…

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Chapter 15

“Marek, I’m so sorry.” It was Tyrone. Tyrone was here! Marek woke fuzzy, foggy, but he was awake. His gaze skittered across the small room, frantically seeking Caesar’s comforting presence. The other man sent him a wink, a nod of encouragement. The head of his bed had already been raised. He’d fallen asleep sitting up. Marek blinked slowly, took a deep breath and looked down at his bellybutton. The cotton pants he wore sagged alarmingly at his middle. He glanced at his water pitcher and back at his lap. “You want a drink, Sweetheart?” Tyrone offered eagerly. Marek couldn’t help it. He cringed away from the pet name, from all that it had meant to him. The other side of his bed dipped. A broad chest moved in behind him and muscular arms met over his flat stomach. “You are a Sweetheart,” Caesar murmured in his ear. “Tyrone is sorry.” Slightly ashamed of his weakness, Marek nonetheless took advantage of the shelter of Caesar’s arms, turning into his shoulder a bit, mumbling to Tyrone. “You said I wasn’t good…I was good only to hurt myself and worry to you. You wouldn’t… didn’t…” He squeezed his eyes shut, hating this vulnerability. “I like to do my job…because it makes me, um, it is… I hate this lan86

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guage!” He began to wheeze and choke. Caesar rested his cheek on the top of Marek’s head, rubbing his arms and giving him a little squeeze, somehow helping him breathe easier, giving him time to calm, to recover. Tyrone reached over, cupping Marek’s chin and tipping his face up. “I love you, Marek. I am proud of you. I just…I hate when you’re hurt, that’s all. I hate the idea of you getting hurt more.” Tyrone held a plastic cup to Marek’s lips, pressing and tipping until the younger man opened his mouth and accepted the cool liquid. “I behaved badly, I admit it. I just couldn’t shut myself up. I wanted to,” he admitted, nearly pleading. “I really wanted to.” “I will be injured again,” Marek said stiffly, pulling back from Tyrone’s fingers caressing his face. “And then you won’t shut up again.” He angled his chin, turning his head away. “Anyway, I wanted you to shut up, too,” he growled softly. Caesar snorted into Marek’s neck, his arms tightening around him. Marek caught a glare from Tyrone aimed at Caesar and bit his lip. He didn’t know if he should laugh or be anxious. “Swe…Marek,” Tyrone started, his voice soft. “You mean everything to me. Please think about it. Try to forgive me.” Marek studied his face. Tyrone’s emotions were clearly broadcast. He did seem to care. “Won’t you think about it, please, Marek? Caesar says he’ll help…” The door to the room burst open before Marek could even form an answer. He was leaning toward saying ‘yes’, he could admit that to himself. It was Lydia, the married nurse. She liked to flirt with Caesar, but she didn’t expect him to touch her. “Agent Medowes, Mr. Johnson, The Old Man wants to see you both, right away.” Turning to Caesar, who still sat behind Marek, holding him, she said, “You’ll need help 87


getting dressed, you shouldn’t raise your arms above your head.” Her look was speculative as she took in all three men. “I’ll go get you a wheelchair.” “I don’t need a wheelchair,” Caesar snapped. His fingers brushed under the waistband of Marek’s sagging pajama bottoms at his hip as he slid out from behind him. Goosebumps pebbled up Marek’s torso and he hid his blushing face behind an arm. “Please let The Old Man know that we’re on our way,” Caesar smiled at Lydia, his voice softer, slightly apologetic. She smiled back; Marek could hear it in her voice. “No problem.” Turning to Marek, she said, “I’ll be right back for your breathing treatment, Agent Dublecek,” her tone sounded a little defensive. He did want to be nice, he did. He wished it came easier to him. He dropped his arm and glanced toward her. “Is good,” he mumbled, giving her a slight nod. She relaxed and headed for the door. Caesar winked at him and followed Tyrone across the room to dress.

****

“Take a seat,” The Old Man ordered, his voice hard. He didn’t look up as the two men settled themselves into his deliberately uncomfortable chairs. For several minutes, he continued to sign long overdue work orders and generally let the men squirm. Finally, he decided he’d made them stew long enough. He lifted his head and aimed a beady eye first at Mr. Johnson and then at Agent Medowes. “You both realize that Agent Dublecek blames himself for your capture and subsequent injuries?” he rapped out 88

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with no prelude. Both men opened their mouths to speak and he held up a hand. “You were advised, Mr. Johnson, that if you for some reason became tired of Agent Dublecek, you were to call me.” “Sir, I never became tired of him…I,” The Old Man sent him a quelling glare, cutting Tyrone off. “You, Agent Medowes, are expected to back your fellow agents, not cause them further distress when they are injured.” He took a breath to marshal his thoughts. “Sir, I have every intention of backing Agent Dublecek both in the field and at home.” When The Old Man didn’t stop him, he went on. “Mr. Johnson and I were not and are not interested in an intimate relationship with one another except as concerns Agent Dublecek.” The Old Man considered Agent Medowes for a moment. “You are aware of his--shall we say--limited exposure to corporeal intimacies?” “It has come to my attention, yes sir,” Medowes held his gaze. “And you, Mr. Johnson?” “Sir, I--we,” Tyrone glanced briefly at Agent Medowes, “We want to take care of him.” The Old Man’s brows drew together. Surly these men couldn’t be saying what he thought they were saying. Neither man wavered. Apparently they were. The Old Man came to a quick decision. “Both Agent Dublecek and Agent Medowes will need to relocate. I have secured a townhouse in The Village for Agent Dublecek. It is roomy enough to accommodate three grown men comfortably.” The Old Man straightened the papers on his desk, giving himself a moment to change his mind. He disliked becoming involved in the personal lives of his men. Marek Dublecek was an exception, however. This wasn’t the first time in that young man’s life that he wondered if he was doing the right thing. It wasn’t the first 89


time he decided to take a chance on his behalf, either. “Mr. Johnson, you have broken my agent’s heart. See that you fix it. Agent Medowes, back him up.” He lifted the receiver on his phone, looking away and effectively dismissing the two astonished men.

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Chapter 16

Marek stretched out in the middle enormous bed, arms and legs reaching for the corners. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring either of his bandaged hands within two feet of any corner. Relaxing, he allowed his eyes to slide shut so that he could mull over all that had taken place during the last week. He’d been feeling so weak and emotional since his latest injury; he’d barely recognized himself. Tyrone had asked him, literally begged him, to be allowed to care for Marek and Caesar when they were released from Medical. Caesar had seemed amenable, but Marek had his own ideas. “I will not go back to studio apartment and sleep on futon,” Marek had huffed, determined, even though he knew he sounded like a petulant three-year-old. “Actually,” Caesar had intervened, “The Old Man has reserved a townhouse not far from your old place. He says it’s big enough for three grown men.” Marek trusted his judgment on the job implicitly. When it came to interpersonal relations, however, he had no confidence in himself at all. This time, though, The Old Man and Caesar seemed to think Tyrone really cared about him. He hoped that was true because he really cared about Tyrone. He cared about Caesar, too. Was that all right, he wondered. Dark wavy hair, burning black eyes, rich olive 91


skin…sometimes Caesar made his heart beat fast. He admired Caesar’s muscular frame and his smooth way of talking and making everything all right. Caesar acted like he cared about Marek. Did he? A smooth finger stroked the furrow between his brows. “What are you thinking about so hard?” Caesar murmured, stretching out beside him, an elbow propping him, his chin resting in one palm. “You,” Marek looked at Caesar and then away, up at the ceiling. “Me?” Caesar questioned, a smile in his husky voice. “What about me?” “I am wondering if…should…” he took a deep breath and turned his head toward Caesar. “Is it okay if I am…” he bit his lip, trying to find the words. “Is it okay that I am liking both you and Tyrone…that way?” he finally managed. Caesar smiled, one hand cupping Marek’s lean cheek, trailing down his throat, all the way to his hand. He lifted Marek’s glove encased hand, fingers free above the second knuckle. He spent a minute studying the half-glove, folding Marek’s thin fingers carefully inside his own, and then pressed his lips against them. They jerked a little in his palm, but Marek made no attempt to pull away. Caesar kissed his hand again, mouth hot and leisurely on the third finger. “I want you to like me that way, ,” he murmured, pulling Marek’s hand to his lap. “I certainly like you that way.” Caesar opened his own hand, leaving Marek free to withdraw, but he didn't, he just lay very still, then bent his head and stroked Caesar there, lightly, being careful of his injuries. He fingered Caesar’s rigid erection, marveling at how solid it was even through all the clothing covering it. He cleared his throat and looked up at Caesar again. Caesar hadn’t moved while Marek explored him, touching the tip with one tentative finger, sliding down the shaft, 92

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reaching below to cup him, then withdrawing. “You won't hurt me,” Marek whispered, and it wasn't a question. Caesar shook his head. “Never,” he promised, his dark eyes fixed intently on Marek’s. “You,” Marek cleared his throat a second time. “You can touch me, too,” he told Caesar shyly. His expression serious, Caesar reached down between Marek's legs and ran a thumbnail up the length of his cock. It throbbed against his hand and Marek gasped, hips flexing involuntarily. Caesar’s warm hand settled at Marek’s waist and he leaned in, covering Marek’s lips with his. The kiss deepened slowly, Caesar brushing his lips back and forth over Marek’s mouth, teasing at the seam. Marek parted his lips at Caesar’s tender onslaught, his tongue sinking deep for timeless moments. “See how much I like you that way?” Caesar asked huskily. “And I don’t think Tyrone minds a bit.” “Well,” Tyrone joined the conversation, the bed on the other side of Marek dipping under his considerable weight. “I think it’s okay if you like Caesar that way, as long as you still like me that way, too.” He reached out and trailed two dark fingers up Marek’s pale forearm. “I care about Caesar and he cares about me. I think we can have a fine family if we all care about each other.” “A family?” Marek looked from Tyrone to Caesar and back again. “We can be a family?” He tore his gaze from Tyrone to look at the other man in the bed. “Cezar?” Marek’s throat burned and he cleared it. “Cezar, you want to have a family with us? Um, be a family with us?” A family… Tyrone wanted to be his family. Marek had not allowed the thought of family, as applied to himself, in a very long time. Now, here were two men he cared for, even loved if that were possible, all in this bed with him. A family? 93


“Yes,” Caesar murmured, leaning down to kiss Marek gently on the lips. “I do want us to be a family.” He smiled across at Tyrone. “You can be the black sheep,” he quipped with a grin. Tyrone flopped to his back, choking with laughter. Shaking his head, he rolled back toward Marek, teasing at the hem of his t-shirt with one finger. Marek edged back a little, encouraging Tyrone to touch him further, more. “Any idea what we should do with this little lamb?” Tyrone’s voice had dropped to a low, intimate pitch, sending a thrill up Marek’s spine. “I think he needs a nap,” Caesar’s voice held the same, suggestive tone as Tyrone’s. Marek was confused. Caesar and Tyrone sounded amorous, sexy, but they wanted him to take a nap? “I am not sleepy. I do not want to sleep,” Marek muttered resentfully. “We’ll just have to make you sleepy, then. What do you think, Caesar?” rumbled Tyrone. “Mmm,” purred Caesar, one warm hand making its way under Marek’s t-shirt and up his chest. Tyrone moved in behind Marek, pulling him to a sitting position and pushing the shirt up and over his head. Caesar guided Marek back down, his own shirt discarded now, hands moving ceaselessly. Marek felt Tyrone’s bare torso press against his back, warm lips on his neck as Caesar thumbed his nipples, tweaking and pinching lightly. Marek could hear himself moaning but couldn’t seem to stop. Caesar nibbled along his clavicle, stopping to suck here and there. Tyrone’s hands settled on his hips and pushed his sweatpants down. He could barely keep his eyes open as he watched Caesar unsnap his own pants, stripping his clothing away until his powerful body loomed over Marek. Tyrone shifted behind his back and Marek heard the brushing sound of fabric and skin. Tyrone was taking his pants off, too. Hazily, Marek wondered what they were 94

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doing. Marek knew that Caesar and Tyrone wouldn’t hurt him but he couldn’t imagine what they would do. Tyrone eased Marek up on his side. He slid in behind him and adjusted Marek’s leg so that his thighs trapped Tyrone’s long, thick cock snugly. Marek groaned when the head of Tyrone’s cock bumped up against his perineum, nudging his balls. Tyrone’s abundant, welcoming body pressing along the length of him felt so good, so electric, so amazing. Tyrone’s arm stretched over Marek’s waist and waited. Caesar came down in front of Marek, fitting himself along his front, soft to soft, hard to hard. Marek gasped as Caesar’s cock slid against his, sending jolts of heat, need throughout his body, all of it concentrating in his cock, in his balls. Tyrone’s arm reached over until his hand rested at Caesar’s waist; Caesar’s hand splayed on Tyrone’s hip. Tyrone began to move behind him, slowly drawing back, his thick, silky cock sliding up Marek’s cleft, between his cheeks, caressing his hole and pushing back down between his legs. In front of Marek, Caesar surged against him, rocking rhythmically against him in time to Tyrone’s thrusts. The stimulation, the wonder, the warmth and heat touching every secret part of him, all of it stoked a fire in Marek until his entire body felt ablaze. Pressing back into Tyrone, arching up against Caesar, Marek came hard, moaning as first Tyrone and then Caesar bathed him in their mingled seed. Floating on a blissful cloud of satiation, Marek smiled against Caesar as the two other men in the room squabbled. “I can’t clean it up,” he heard Caesar growl, “we’re stuck together.” “I’m too comfortable to move,” Tyrone sighed. “This is nice. Won’t bother me if you’re stuck like that.” “Just go get a washcloth, Big Guy,” Caesar demanded impatiently. “Otherwise, you’re stuck with the back half.” 95


Marek felt Tyrone’s warmth roll away. “There ain’t a damn thing wrong with his back half,” he rumbled, stopping at the edge of the bed, a warm palm cupping one of Marek’s rear cheeks. “You know, someday, you might just want a conversation with his front half. Maybe a kiss or something from one of us…” Caesar grumped. “All right, all right, you big whiner,” Tyrone grumped back, though his warm chuckle and the light slap on Caesar’s rump took the heat out of his name calling. Marek attempted to snuggle down against Caesar, protesting sleepily when he was pushed to his back. The warm cloth cleaned him, stroking damply against the sticky culmination of their family joining. The comforter was tugged, pulled, and then he was under it, safe, warm and satisfied. One kiss, then another on his forehead. “Ow! Oh, gawd, my head!” “Ohh, man. The Three Stooges have a love affair.” “You’re Curly!” “I am not, you are. You’re bald, after all.” “What, you think you’re Moe?” The voices faded as the two men left the room, playfully sniping at each other. Marek rolled onto his stomach, hiding his happy face in a pillow. He knew there would be spats, sad moments, happy ones. All families had those. He and Caesar would have to go to work again. That would be hard for Tyrone, though maybe not as hard knowing that Caesar would be out there with Marek. When they were together, Tyrone and Caesar could explain the nice things, the polite things to him that he didn’t understand. He, in turn, would protect them both from the evil things he knew they didn’t understand--Tyrone more than Caesar, of course. And Tyrone would worry about Caesar, too. He couldn’t help it, he was just that way. 96

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A family. Marek hugged his pillow tighter in the middle of the outrageously large bed. His family, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep.

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Marek And Tyrone

Fixin' Tyrone

Ksiądz Marek

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TYRONE THE HORRIBLE

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Humans and Demons and Elves

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Ksiądz Marek

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Tyrone and the Swamp Gang

TYRONE THE HORRIBLE

Tyrone - The Big Bad Bully

Samoloty Luftwaffe, Marek Murawski (t.2)

Schick sie in die Hölle, Marek!

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Pride And Prejudice And Zombies

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