LANYON Josh (3 page)

Will could feel that fury still shaking Taylor -- locked in this ugly parody of a lover’s embrace. He shook with exhaustion too, breath shuddering in his lungs as he panted into Will’s shoulder. His wind was shit these days, his heart banging frantically against Will’s. These marks of physical distress undermined Will’s own anger, reminding him how recently he had almost lost Taylor for good.

Taylor’s moist breath against Will’s ear was sending a confusingly erotic message, his body hot and sweaty -- but Christ, he was thin. Will could feel -- could practically count -- ribs, the hard links of spine, the ridges of scapula in Taylor’s fleshless back. And it scared him; his hold changed instinctively from lock to hug.

“You crazy bastard,” he muttered into Taylor’s hair.

Taylor struggled again, and this time Will let him go. Taylor got up, not looking at Will, not speaking, walking unsteadily, but with a peculiar dignity, over to the tent.

Watching him, Will opened his mouth, then shut it. Why the hell would he apologize? Taylor had jumped
him
. He watched, scowling, as Taylor crawled inside the tent, rolled out his sleeping bag onto the air mattress Will had remembered to set up for him, pulled his boots off, and climbed into the bag, pulling the flap over his head -- like something going back into its shell.

This is stupid, Will thought. We neither of us want this. But what he said was, “Sweet dreams to you too.”

Taylor said nothing.

Chapter Two

Will looked like hell. Eyes red-rimmed, hair ruffled. There was a black-and-blue bruise on his jaw, which Taylor tried to feel sorry about -- but Will looked sorry enough for himself for both of them.

Taylor watched him pour a shot of bourbon into his coffee without comment. Yep, Will was definitely having a bad day, and it was only seven o’clock in the morning.

As though reading his thoughts, Will looked up and met his eyes. Taylor, feeling weirdly self-conscious, looked away.

“So I guess we’re still not speaking this morning?” Will asked.

And despite the fact that he didn’t want to fight with Will, that he wanted to find some way to step back from the precipice he teetered on, Taylor shrugged and said coolly, “What did you want to talk about?”

And Will just gave a kind of disgusted half-laugh, and turned back to his spiked coffee.

So that was that.

They moved around camp, neither of them speaking, moving efficiently and swiftly as they breakfasted
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

and then packed up -- like the day before and the day before that, only this morning the silence between them was not the easy silence of a long and comfortable partnership; it was as heavy and ominous as the rain clouds to the north.

It was still early in the season -- and the weather poor enough -- that they met no one as they started down the steep trail, stepping carefully on the gravel and small stones. It was a strenuous descent, requiring attention, and Taylor was glad to concentrate on something besides Will. He’d been thinking about Will way too much lately. For the last year, really.

The view was spectacular: huge clouds rolling in from the north, snow-covered mountains all around them, and a long, green valley way below, moody sunlight glinting off the surface of a slate blue lake. The scent of sagebrush was in the air -- and the hum of bees. The sun felt good on his face after weeks of being indoors in bed.

Will, the experienced hiker, went first down the trail. The set of his wide shoulders was uncompromising, his back ramrod straight as though he could feel Taylor’s stare resting between his shoulder blades --

which he probably could. They’d got pretty good at reading each other’s thoughts, and half the time they communicated with no more than a glance.

Back when they used to communicate.

The bulky sweater and comfortable fatigues couldn’t conceal the lithe beauty of that tall, strong male body. Will was the most naturally gorgeous guy Taylor had ever known. And no little part of his attractiveness had to do with the fact that he was pretty much unaware of just how good-looking he was.

Taylor’s gaze dropped automatically to Will’s taut ass. Yep, gorgeous.

Will’s boot slipped on shale, and Taylor’s hand shot out, grabbing him, steadying him.

Will grunted thanks, not looking at him. Taylor let go reluctantly.

It was weird the way his body craved contact with Will’s. Any contact. A nudge in the ribs or a pat on the ass. It was like an addiction. In the hospital he’d lived every day waiting for Will to drop by -- and to give Will credit, he’d managed to visit almost every single day, even if it was just for a few minutes. It had been strange, though, with Will so gentle and careful with him; at the time Taylor had been too ill to question it.

Even when Will didn’t touch him, when he just stood next to him, Taylor could feel his nearness in every cell, his skin anticipating Will’s touch -- longing for the lover’s touch that never came. Was
never
going to come, because Will didn’t feel that way about him.

They couldn’t go on like this. Even Will had to see that -- although Will was pretty good at not seeing what he didn’t want to see.

* * * * *

They stopped midmorning for water and granola bars, still not looking at each other, still not talking. Will consulted his map. Checked his compass. High overhead, a pair of golden eagles threw insults at each other.

“Are they mating?” Taylor asked, suddenly tired of the stand off. He missed Will, missed their old companionship. He’d been missing him for six weeks -- and he was liable to be missing him from now
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

on. It seemed worth making an effort for whatever was left of their trip.

Will glanced skyward briefly. His eyes were very blue in his tanned face. They held Taylor’s gaze gravely. “That’s your idea of romance?”

He was partly kidding, but partly not, and Taylor felt himself coloring.

“Hey.” He lifted a shoulder. Not exactly sparkling repartee, but he didn’t want to fight anymore, didn’t know what Will wanted. He couldn’t not feel what he felt; he’d tried that -- had tried for well over a year to talk himself out of feeling what was obviously unwanted and unwelcome.

Will snorted, but he was smiling. Sort of. “You’re a nut, MacAllister. Did I ever tell you that?”

“A girl never gets tired of hearing it,” Taylor deadpanned, and Will did laugh then. He shoved the map back into his pocket, shrugged on his backpack.

* * * * *

They reached the meadow a little after one o’clock. The clouds roiling overhead were thunderous and black. The pine and fir trees were singing and swaying in the wind; the lake was choppy and dark. The gray green grass rippled like the earth was breathing beneath their feet.

“Let’s get under the trees,” Will said. “We’ll pitch the tent and have lunch. Wait it out.”

Taylor could see he was worried about the worsening weather conditions; Taylor was just grateful for flat terrain. He’d wanted to call for a rest an hour earlier, but he’d have died first. He could feel the ache of coming rain in his chest, and told himself to get used to it. The doctors had said the broken ribs were going to hurt forever -- especially when it rained. The bullet had torn through skin, muscles, and a couple of ribs. Following the shock of impact -- like a land mine going off inside his chest -- the pain had been unbelievable. Unimaginable.

The miracle had been that no major blood vessels had been hit while the bullet ricocheted around his chest cavity. But it hadn’t felt like a miracle at the time. His right lung had begun to squeeze, he’d had to struggle for each short breath, and it had been agony -- like getting stabbed over and over. His vision had grayed out, he hadn’t been able to call out or move, feeling the warm spill of his own blood on his chilled skin -- and the blood had felt good, that’s how cold he’d been. Cold to the core.

And then Will had been there. And he’d been glad. Glad for the chance to see him one last time, to say good-bye, even if it was just inside his own head because he sure wasn’t capable of speech. And the expression on Will’s face had been comforting. At least at the time. Now he knew it for what it was.

Guilt. But at the time it had looked like something else, something it had been worth dying to see.

He glanced at Will, walking beside him as they tramped across the long meadow. Will appeared a million miles away, but he felt Taylor’s gaze and looked over at him. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and Taylor knew he had been about to ask if Taylor was all right.

And as tired as he was of Will asking if he was okay, he realized he preferred that to this new awkwardness. And he sure as hell preferred it to Will no longer giving a damn.

He started to say so, but something in the brush caught his attention: the sheen of black material.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Hey,” he said, stopping and nodding.

Will glanced at him, tracked his gaze, and saw exactly what Taylor had. He followed as Taylor waded into the currant bushes dragging what at first glance appeared to be a black seat cushion from out of the bush.

“It’s a parachute,” Will said, taking it from Taylor and turning it over.

Taylor nodded. “Still packed.”

They met each other’s gaze, and Taylor raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s have a little look-see,” Will drawled.

“I’ll take the right.”

They separated, fanning out across the meadow. It took less than half an hour to locate the other three parachutes -- two still packed, one torn wide open by something with claws and a lot of optimism. It seemed clear to Taylor that all four parachutes had been jettisoned at the same time. The speed of the plane and the headwind had resulted in several yards between each landing, but not nearly the distance which would have resulted from dropping them out the plane door at deliberate intervals.

“That’s it,” Taylor said as Will rejoined him. “The fifth chute will have gone with the hijacker.”

“Then it won’t have gone far.” Will’s face was grim. He was staring past Taylor, and Taylor turned.

Near the lake the trees grew in a thick wall of white firs, Jeffrey pines, and incense cedars. And there, dangling from a twenty-feet tall cedar like a dreadful Christmas tree ornament, was what remained of the missing parachutist.

* * * * *

“He’s carrying a knapsack,” Taylor commented, as they stood gazing up at the macabre thing swinging gently in the wind.

“Christ,” Will said.

“I’ll go up.” Taylor started forward, but Will caught his arm.

“Uh, no, you sure won’t.”

That of course was a big mistake; Taylor freed himself, his face hard again. “Is that so?”

Will said calmly, “Yep, MacAllister, that is so.” Even if he had to knock Taylor on his ass to make it so.

“I’m lighter, I’m faster --”

“You’re sure as hell not faster these days.”

Which was true, but not guaranteed to win points. But Will wasn’t interested in winning points; he was interested in keeping Taylor in one piece, whatever it took, and maybe Taylor read that resolve in Will’s eyes because after a pause, he shrugged. Said tersely, “Hey, suit yourself. You always do.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

The injustice of that stung, and although Will had told himself he was not going to lose his temper again, that he could be patient, that Taylor and their partnership was worth working this through -- whatever the hell
this
was and however much work it took -- all the same he bit right back, “Christ, that’s rich coming from
you
.”

And instantly Taylor was cool, his body deceptively relaxed -- a fighter poised for action. Oh, yes, Will had seen that loose, easy stance a hundred times. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it.”

Taylor got in front of him. “I don’t want to forget it.”

Un-fucking-believable. In fact, if he didn’t know better he’d have suspected Taylor had been shot in his goddamn head. Who was this stranger who had taken over Taylor’s body?

Will planted both hands on Taylor’s chest and pushed him back a step. “What, are we supposed to have another wrestling match now?”

The physical aggression caught Taylor off guard, and Will pressed his advantage. “You’re self-centered, MacAllister. You do whatever you want whenever you feel like it, and to hell with everybody else. This is a perfect example.”

“
Thi
s?” Another time and place Taylor’s indignation might have been funny. “I didn’t even want to come on this goddamned trip. I did it for you. And what the hell you wanted out of it beats me since you obviously --” He broke off, and to their mutual horror, for an instant appeared to be choked with emotion.

Anger, Will could deal with. Arrogance, aggression, he knew what to do. This? No.

Before he had time to rethink, he reached out -- and just in time stopped himself from pulling Taylor into his arms. He settled for squeezing those rigid shoulders. “Look, Taylor, all I meant was…you don’t always think things through.” He offered a tentative smile. “Come on, I’ve known you three years. We both know your track record. When it comes to relationships you think with your dick and damn the torpedoes. And yes, for the record, I…find you attractive too. You know that. But there’s more at stake here. I don’t want to screw up our friendship or our partnership because we sleep together.”

“Why would it screw anything up?” Taylor was looking at him so seriously. So…earnestly. It cut him up inside. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Taylor. Ever. But Taylor just wouldn’t stay down. He kept getting up and coming back for more. And what the hell was Will supposed to do?

He said, struggling for patience, “It’s already screwing everything up and we haven’t even done it!”

“Why couldn’t we give it a real shot?”

“What are you talking about? Give it a real shot? Give
what
a real shot?” Will let go of him, and gestured to the scene before them. “Here’s why. Because we’re in the middle of a crime scene and we’re arguing about our goddamned
romance
.”