Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (15 page)

Elliot moaned into Tucker’s mouth and leaned into that knowledgeable touch.

Game over.

Tucker was literally leading him around by his balls.

Except this wasn’t a game. Elliot had been—still was—genuinely angry, disappointed with Tucker...even if his body didn’t seem to know it, didn’t care, was no longer listening to the urgent messages his brain was still sending from an ever-growing distance.
Nobody home.
Try back later
.

He shook his head, and Tucker kissed him harder, tongue delving. Even if Elliot could control his own longing, how the hell did he control Tucker?

He didn’t. He couldn’t. That was the best part of it.

* * *

They were naked. Elliot’s shins pressed into the edge of the seat cushion, and Tucker’s hairy legs pressed into the backs of his. Elliot’s arms were braced atop the back of the chair where he’d been sitting a few minutes before. An awkward angle that strained his knee. It was painful. He didn’t care. Tucker’s cock was pressing into the cleft of Elliot’s ass. He’d used something to make entry easier, though not enough of it, but even that didn’t seem to matter in the excitement of the moment. Elliot’s eyes closed tight, his breath came hard and fast. His guts were churning with something like panic.

I
shouldn’t give in.
This is weakness.
I
shouldn’t let this happen without a fight...

Huge, smooth roundness pressed against the bulkhead of his body, and Elliot groaned with fear and delight. There it was. Too late now. He held himself still, rigid, not giving anything away, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to give anything away. Tucker was taking everything whether Elliot wanted it or not, and the idea was unbearably exciting and disturbing all at the same time.

“Jesus God,” Tucker panted. “You make me crazy, Elliot...”

It
was
crazy. Tucker was too big, enormous and rock hard. Tucker putting his shoulder to the door and shoving right in, ignoring or just not seeing the signs:
Do Not Disturb
,
No Trespassing
,
Keep Out
...pushing past, pushing in still further, just as far as he could go, till the coarse, red bush of his pubic hair tickled Elliot’s buttocks. They were joined, locked together. And if the human body was not designed for this, why the fuck did it feel so
right?

Elliot’s former panic and frustration eased a little. Why should he deny himself this release? It was just sex. He focused on everything he was feeling, waiting for whatever came next. His bad leg trembled with the strain of the weird position, and Tucker lightly slapped the back of his thigh.

“Kneel on the cushion.”

“We’re going to knock the chair over.” But he obeyed, climbing into the chair, and one of Tucker’s brawny, muscular arms wrapped around his torso, taking some of his weight. It was still awkward, but no longer painful, and if the chair did crash through the window with them, what was one more disaster this week?

Tucker asked gruffly, reluctantly, “Okay?”

Elliot said impatiently, “Fine. Get it over with.”

But Tucker just continued to hold him, his heart pounding steadily against Elliot’s bare back, as they breathed in unison. Oddly, Tucker wasn’t saying anything. Elliot moved experimentally, and Tucker held him still. He still didn’t speak. Elliot flexed his shoulder muscles and Tucker’s arms tightened.

Weird.

Long moments passed. Elliot counted ten seconds. A very long time to be held motionless. To be held captive. That was it. Captive. Tucker was still not letting him move.

The silence got to him. Why didn’t Tucker say something? What the hell was this?

Elliot made a serious try at wriggling loose and Tucker wrapped his big arms more tightly, with a kind of finality, letting Elliot absorb the situation fully. He was on his knees, helpless.

And a little freaked out.

He could always headbutt Tucker, though he’d probably knock himself out clunking that block of bone. He knew plenty of dirty moves that would guarantee Tucker letting go of him for a few vital seconds. But in a real fight? Against Tucker? He was almost certainly going to lose. And if Tucker wanted to snap his spine right now, he could do it.

Elliot’s breath went fast and fluttery in his chest. He felt claustrophobic. He
had
to move, get away, get to a safe distance. But there was no easing up in that all powerful body hug. Instead Tucker rested his head in the curve of Elliot’s shoulder, his cheek pressed to Elliot’s. He could feel the flicker of Tucker’s eyelashes. Smell the ghost of his aftershave. Feel the bristle on his jaw. Feel his throat move every time he swallowed.

How the hell long were they going to do this? It had to have been thirty seconds by now. A minute? Had it been an entire minute?

Wasn’t this what they did for patients with attachment disorder? Holding therapy? Well, minus the giant cock rammed up his ass. He opened his mouth to—he wasn’t sure what—howl protest? Cry? Laugh? This was...too much.

But all at once it occurred to him what Tucker was telling him, showing him.

Safety. Protection. Support. Whatever Elliot needed from Tucker. But most of all,
Dominance
.

Understanding, relief swept over him. It wasn’t defeat when you were given what you most wanted
.
Yes.
He whimpered, pressing back on Tucker’s cock.
Please
. Tucker’s grip relaxed, became cradling instead of controlling. He kissed the underside of Elliot’s jaw, and Elliot’s cock jutted up again, with refreshed interest in the proceedings.

As though taking his cue from Elliot, Tucker began to move, not softly and not tentatively, but strongly, taking charge, in control, and that was fine. All the better. Elliot moved to meet him, pushing back into Tucker’s slow, deliberate thrusts, falling into time and rhythm with him. Easy and natural. Despite the discomfort of their position, standing in this room with all its open windows, and despite their recent difficulties, it was suddenly all simple and right again.

“This is the truth,” Tucker whispered. “You and me like this.” He kissed Elliot’s naked shoulder, and his free hand reached around to cover Elliot’s cock.

Well, it was one truth. Fair enough. The naked truth. And it was a powerful truth. It wasn’t the only truth, and when the night was over they would have to get back to wrestling with their other truths. But for now...

For now Elliot was implicitly obeying Tucker’s commands, deaf, dumb, blind to everything but Tucker’s touch and Tucker’s voice, his world shrinking to everything Tucker was making him feel, allowing him to feel. So much sensation, from the thump of his own heart against his breastbone to Tucker’s big hands caressing him.

Physical pleasure. Not a small thing. And Elliot went with it, letting—needing—Tucker to control how fast and how hard and how long, reveling in the act of warm, bare skin riding warm, bare skin. Tucker was breathing hard as though he’d had to chase Elliot down, thrusting possessively into him, and Elliot responded with needy grunts.

Tucker sped up, fucking him hard now. Fast, hard pokes of rigid flesh into tight channel. Elliot moaned loudly.

“Christ, Tucker.
Yes.
More. I need more...”

And Tucker gave him more. Gave him what he needed. Took him right to his limits and then pushed him a little further than Elliot thought he could go. He felt alight, heat pooling in his belly, every nerve and fiber limned and singing with tension. The tensity mounted, yanked tighter, tighter. Blood thundered in Elliot’s ears, lights flashed behind his eyelids, every muscle in his body seemed to constrict and then convulse.

Tucker groaned from deep in his chest.

Elliot arched, yelled out, which turned into a smothered yelp at the strain on his knee, and he was coming in huge hot spurts. And judging by the hot spill inside him, Tucker was coming too. The wet and messy final mark of his ownership. Elliot could feel the tremors shaking Tucker, feel Tucker’s legs shaking, and when Tucker slowly began to fold, Elliot let himself fall too.

* * *

Later, when they had stumbled their way upstairs and fallen, sticky, exhausted, sated into their cool, clean sheets, Tucker said gruffly, “Elliot?”

Elliot turned his head. “Mmm?”

Tucker seemed to be trying to find the right words. He said, “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s not that I don’t respect you.”

“No?”

“No. Because I do.” Tucker hesitated again. His voice went even quieter, lower, “What you said this morning...about not trusting me? I already feel that sometimes. That you don’t respect my judgment, trust my decisions.”

Into Elliot’s astonished silence, Tucker gave a small, odd laugh. “Now you know.”

Elliot lifted his head, trying to read Tucker’s features in the flickering shadows of rain speckling the windows. “If that’s true...you’re wrong. As far as I’m concerned, this is an equal partnership. In every way.”

Tucker nodded noncommittally.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you. I know we want the same thing. I just thought it might help if you knew.”

Meaning if Elliot knew, could understand that—as with his own mistakes in this still fragile relationship—not all Tucker’s blunders sprang from arrogance or the need to control and dominate. Sometimes insecurity was the culprit. And yeah, maybe because of their sexual games, Elliot was a little more touchy about who was in charge outside of the bedroom.

For the second time that night, Tucker’s honesty startled him. Disarmed him.

“Do you really not want me to go to Montreal?”

“I’m not crazy about the idea, but that’s mostly because I miss you even when it’s just overnight. I don’t see what you hope to accomplish, but I can’t see any logical reason you shouldn’t go.”

“You’re probably right, but I want to see for myself.”

Tucker didn’t answer.

The silence stretched. The rain whispered outside. The rumble of thunder rolled in from the direction of the Sound. Elliot closed his eyes.

He was starting to fall asleep when Tucker said suddenly, “If your dad thought someone he knew had committed murder, what do you think he would do?”

Elliot mumbled, “He wouldn’t hunt her down in Montreal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“This Star chick was in love with McGavin—Zelvin—right? If anyone would feel betrayed when his real identity and purpose for being in the group was revealed, it would be her.”

“Yes. And hysterically blaming someone else for the murder could have been a smokescreen. She could have accused my dad to cover up her own guilt. Or because she blamed him for making her see the truth that caused her to do something terrible. In fact, any way you look at it, it could have been a smokescreen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Thinking out loud. Why was J.Z.’s body never found?”

“Bodies aren’t always found.”

Elliot thought of Corian and his victims’ missing heads. Definitely not the time to bring up that subject again. “True. But we’re talking about a young girl, maybe not even sixteen. Emotional instability is part of the package. So I buy that she might have committed murder in the heat of teenaged angst, but the idea that she would be strong enough and savvy enough to hide a grown man’s body—and hide it so well it hasn’t been found to this day?”

“She could have had help.”

“That’s a good point. I’m sure she did have help.” Elliot considered. “I’ve finished the manuscript. Dad writes about J.Z. being outed as FBI and disappearing. In fact, that’s the point at which the Collective split up and everyone went underground. But that’s it. He doesn’t suggest J.Z. was killed and he sure as hell doesn’t hint at anyone being guilty of his murder. I think he may not have even realized what the others believed until all this started.”

Tucker said thoughtfully, “The guilty fleeth when no man pursueth.”

“Pursueth?”

“You get my meaning. Maybe your dad knows something he doesn’t realize he knows. And maybe that something is in the book, just waiting for the right person to read it and put two and two together.”

“With the exception of Tom Baker, everybody I’ve talked to has speculated that J.Z. was killed, but as far as I can tell it’s just speculation. No one saw the murder or the body.”

“I thought Star did.”

“Okay, other than Star, who also disappeared.”

“But they all disappeared. You just said the group broke up at that point and they all went underground. And Zelvin didn’t resurface. He didn’t report back and he didn’t go home again.”

“One thing for sure, someone’s willing to kill my father to stop him from publishing that book.”

Tucker said, “Killing him is the worst thing they could do. Killing him won’t stop the book from being published. It guarantees it’ll be a bestseller. I don’t know anything about publishing, but even I know that much.”

Elliot turned his head on the pillow. Tucker’s eyes were a gleam in the darkness.

Chapter Twenty-One

Elliot arrived in Montreal at four-thirty on a hot and humid afternoon.

He was pretty sure he had not been followed, but even so he took a circuitous route to the hotel he had booked close to Star Books, grabbing a cab from the Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport and stopping for a late lunch at a downtown sports bar which offered the exotic fare of hot dog poutine.

This delicacy turned out to be fries topped with brown gravy and cheese curds dumped on a bratwurst and a whole grain baguette. The mess was alarmingly tasty and Tucker would be duly horrified to hear about it.

From the sports bar Elliot rode the Metro a couple of stops to the McGill station, took the University Street exit, and worked off his poutine hiking a few blocks back to his hotel.

It was his first trip to Montreal, and he liked what he’d seen so far. Beautiful old buildings, intriguing side streets and alleys, old parks, bikes in every size and color, window boxes and outdoor steel staircases, and restaurants from every part of the world. The air was redolent with exotic and mouthwatering scents. And though French was the official language, everyone seemed to speak or at least understand English, and the people appeared good humored.

It seemed like a cultured and mostly civilized city. The traffic was bad, but they had working public transportation, and the streets were surprisingly clean. In fact, it was Montreal, in the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, where John Lennon had held his second Bed-In with Yoko Ono and written “Give Peace a Chance,” the anthem of the antiwar movement.

A lot of people. A lot of different cultures rubbing shoulders. It seemed to Elliot like a good city to disappear in.

It had been a long flight and he felt better for the walk to the hotel. He was confident now that he had not been followed from the States. What would be the point? But then what would be the point of sending hired muscle to try and intimidate him?

He still couldn’t think of a good reason Will MacAuley would do something like that, but he couldn’t think of a better candidate either. That pair had been professional. Not punks hired off the street. These were guys who earned a salary at thuggery. And not a bad salary, in Elliot’s experience.

The one member of the Collective who might be on favor-calling-in acquaintanceship with goons was Tom Baker. Though most of Tom’s clients were wealthy and respected members of Seattle society, he also did pro bono work for less savory customers. Tom probably had a couple of useful underworld connections.

Even so, it was such a clumsy move. Elliot was an ex-FBI agent, for Christ’s sake. How likely was it that he would be scared off by a couple of bruisers making threats? Anyone who knew him at all had to know that would have the reverse intended effect.

So unless someone actually did want him digging deeper—and that just seemed too Machiavellian—whoever sent those jerks to frighten him off was either not too bright or didn’t know Elliot at all. Or maybe both. And whatever else he might be, Tom was not clumsy or stupid.

* * *

If he came back to Montreal with Tucker, they would stay in one of the pretty old historic hotels with ceiling friezes and fireplaces and Art Deco lamps. Tucker would like that; he was a sucker for turn-down service and a chocolate mint on the pillowcase. But Elliot had only been interested in proximity to Star Books, and his hotel was small, shabby and reasonably priced—which suited him fine.

He unpacked his bag—which took two minutes—and opened his laptop. He checked Roland’s mail and uneasily noted that Roland did not appear to be doing the same. He checked Roland’s sent mail folder, but Roland had not sent any mail in the past week.

“Where the hell are you?” Elliot muttered.

Roland’s cell phone had been lost in the fire, but since he had a bad habit of turning it off anyway, that probably wouldn’t have offered much of an avenue.

Elliot checked his own email, scanning quickly as he moved through the preview pane. Nothing of interest. Or rather, everything was school related. He mentally shook his head at himself.

He had promised to let Tucker know when he had arrived safely at his hotel, so he phoned Tucker’s cell. Tucker did not pick up. Taking the time difference into account, Tucker was in the middle of his workday. Elliot left a message, giving Tucker the details of the hotel.

“Take care,” he finished softly. He disconnected.

He was disappointed he hadn’t got to talk to Tucker, but maybe also a little relieved. Things were still a little uneasy between them. Not uncertain—there was no question they were going to work it out—just uneasy. Tucker had a protective streak a mile wide, and the innate character traits that made it easy for him to give Elliot what Elliot craved in bed were some of the same qualities that made them clash outside the bedroom.

For the first time Elliot considered that Tucker might reasonably be a little confused sometimes by the dichotomy between Elliot’s sexual neediness and his normal self-sufficient self. How fair was it—how realistic—to expect Tucker to take complete control, have absolute authority over him in one part of their life, and
never
make the mistake of trespassing anywhere else. Especially given that Tucker was by nature a born alpha.

Tucker had crossed a line, but it was possible that Elliot had unwittingly created a dynamic where Tucker thought he had tacit approval to make those decisions for Elliot, that secretly Elliot wanted him to make those decisions. In which case, no wonder Tucker felt hurt, even a little betrayed.

Viewing it from that perspective was startling, and Elliot was uncomfortable when he considered his own harsh reaction. Harsh because probably in a shadowy recess of his subconscious, he did worry that maybe he was giving Tucker too much power, too much control. Elliot had never been as honest, as open with anyone as he was Tucker. That kind of trust was exhilarating—and alarming.

Most of the time Tucker did get it right. Elliot had wanted—needed—Tucker to take charge last night. It had been a relief to be overruled and taken in hand. Literally in hand.

The fact was, sex was complicated. Relationships were complicated. And while they both had plenty of experience with the first, they were neither of them practiced at the second.

Elliot finished checking through his phone messages and then decided it was time to scope out Star Books. He left his room and went downstairs and outside onto the street, still busy and bustling at six-thirty in the evening.

He thought the subway might be faster, and rode the Metro to the Place des Arts station, took the Bleury Street exit, and headed north up the tree-lined street until he came to the intersection of Sherbrooke and Bleury. Here, Bleury became Parc. Parc was not nearly as busy as the main thoroughfare. The pavement needed resurfacing and even the trees had a dusty look.

According to his guidebook, back in the sixties and seventies there had been a whole string of small “alternative” businesses: poster shops, a head shop and an herb and vitamin shop, among others, all in ramshackle old buildings with uneven wooden floors and Victorian trim. But now only Star Books was left with its mullioned windows and twin green-trimmed entrances. Red decorative tiles adorned the lower façade of the building. To the right of the building, a long, deep alley plunged off the main street and disappeared behind trash bins and bicycles. The building across the alley was undergoing renovations.

Elliot studied the
Fermé
/Closed sign in the dim window. Weekday business hours looked to be nine to five.
Samedi—
that was Saturday—nine to seven.

He stared up. It looked like the upper half of all these old buildings were apartments—living quarters for the shop owners? The line of windows above Star Books were dark.

Tomorrow then.

Elliot headed back to his hotel, stopping along Sherbrooke for a beer. He’d always pictured Montreal as a town for wine drinkers, but according to the guidebook, beer was the beverage of choice. He sipped his Molson, trying to decide if the local brew tasted any different from the version imported to the States.

Back at his hotel, he went slowly, thoughtfully once again through the photos selected for
Power to the People
. He studied the faces of each member of the Collective. They had been so young. So...certain. It was the kind of certainty that made the impossible achievable.

And it was the kind of certainty that made you ruthless.

There were only a couple of photos of J.Z.—no doubt he had worked to keep it that way—and they were all profile or partials. The men all looked the same though. Flowing hair, flowing beards, and that fanatical glow in their eyes.

Of course, J.Z.’s true cause had been a completely different one from that of his comrades.

Elliot studied the group photo taken at Nobby’s farm. It was tempting to label them. Frank was the sensitive one, Mischa the brainy one, Roland... Elliot’s smile twisted. Suzy was the sexy one, Nobby was the crazy one, Ruth...the idealist? Hard to say. Despite reading Roland’s manuscript, he still didn’t have any real sense of her. Tom was the shrewd one, the guy with all the angles. And then there was Star. The blithe spirit.

Something in the background caught his attention. He looked more closely. In the furthest distance were trees. But a few yards forward...tiny and blurry, but were those stacks of hay bales? He peered down. Hay bales with target sheets. A shooting range.

Okay. Nothing remarkable about that, right? They were revolutionaries.

But Roland never mentioned firearm training. And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t bothered with details.

Elliot studied the foreground more meticulously. Left to right. Frank Blue with guitar and scattered sheets of paper, Mischa sitting on a picnic blanket with Roland. Some kind of ice chest. A tire swing with a smiling blonde girl—Suzy D. Nobby lying on the grass, smoking a joint. Ruth smoking a joint and scowling at the camera. Tom Baker cuddling Star. Beer bottles. And the last section of an undetermined object lying in the grass, cut off by the far right of the photo. Cylindrical. Probably leather. A carrying case. A
quiver?

That was what it was called. A carrying case for arrows.

Elliot looked up the URL for Nobb’s Organic Farm, found the phone number and entered the numbers.

A recorded female voice came on the line reciting the operating hours of the farm and reminding him to eat his fruit and veggies.

He muttered under his breath and began to search for “Oscar Nobb” in the white pages.

No luck.

He moved on to a site that deep searched the web for things like court records, news articles, property taxes...and score. Oscar Nobb in Bellevue. And not the same number as the farm.

Elliot punched in the number and Nobby’s irascible voice told him to leave a message.

“Nobby, this is Elliot. I had a question and I thought you might be able to answer it. Can you give me a call back?” He recited his number and disconnected.

A few minutes later his cell rang. He picked it up and Tucker said, “I got your message. Thanks. Detective Pine called to tell you that the Washington State Archery Association doesn’t have any members that match the list of names you sent him.”

Elliot sighed. “I figured.”

“He also drew a blank with the Department of Fish and Wildlife.”

“Damn. Now that’s a disappointment.”

Tucker said nothing and Elliot felt a stab of alarm.

“How’s it going?” he asked. No way in hell were they suddenly not going to talk to each other.

“Okay,” Tucker said. He added, “You’re not a blabby guy, so I’m not sure why this house seems so quiet without you in it. But it does.”

“I miss you too.”

He could feel Tucker’s surprise. Tucker said, “Tova phoned.”

“She did?”

He heard Tucker’s faraway snort. “Yes. She left a message. She said it was very nice meeting me and she hoped I felt the same. She said if I ever came to Wyoming, she hoped I’d let her know.”

“Well.” Elliot had no real response to that. He felt like Tova could have and should have made more of an effort, but maybe this
was
an enormous effort for her. All that really mattered was how Tucker felt about it.

Tucker said, “Yeah.”

“I think the fact that she called—”

Tucker laughed. It was his easy, normal laugh. “It’s okay, Elliot. I think she’d have had trouble with this even if I hadn’t turned out to be gay. I’m fine. We’ll see what happens down the line.”

Elliot’s phone dinged, letting him know he had an incoming call. Nobby. “Damn. I’ve got to take this.”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Take—”

“I love you,” Tucker said, and disconnected.