The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (40 page)

As they calmed, Fletch lay still in the heavy embrace, mouth on the verge of smiling, uncomfortable in the simple physical ways that Albert ensured he was never subjected to.

Once he had his breath back, Xavier leaned up on an elbow. “First times are never really spectacular, are they, lover man?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Fletch demurred.

“So let’s work on it, shall we?”

Fletcher smiled fully now. “Yes, let’s work on it.” And soon he put away thoughts of Albert and comparisons, favorable and not. Xavier deserved - and demanded - Fletcher’s full participation.

The cool gray light of dawn. Fletcher woke abruptly from an uneasy sleep, troubled dreams scattering away from him even as he chased those last images. Then he shook his head, and opened his eyes wide to let the morning in, realizing he probably wouldn’t want to confront the nightmares even if he could remember.

Xavier lay close behind him, providing welcome warmth and a generous embrace. The man provoked even while asleep: Xavier’s early morning erection was digging into Fletcher’s buttocks.

There had been a few precious times when Fletcher had woken before Albert, found himself being held as intimately as this, Albert’s mouth pressed to the nape of Fletcher’s neck, Albert’s penis as hungry as Xavier’s was. But upon waking, Albert had never done the obvious thing from that position, though he must surely have known all along that Fletcher would have welcomed it.

Fletch barely knew himself why being fucked so appealed to him. That first time with Albert, the only time the older man had ever given himself over to all the passion he felt, the act had been strange and painful. But it had also been necessary and compelling, and Fletcher had desperately wanted to get used to it, to learn to appreciate the pleasure to be gained from it. Why did Albert refuse them both something that must surely be even more pleasurable for Albert than for Fletcher? Was he too fastidious, perhaps? Did he find the idea of it distasteful or crude?

Albert must have known Fletch wanted it. He could always read Fletcher when it came to sex, read him better than Fletch knew himself and too many of Fletcher’s groans were of frustration. It got to the point where Albert’s hands on his buttocks mere inches away from where Fletch wanted them, while Albert sucked him, were enough to send Fletcher over the edge and beyond. Sometimes Fletcher lay back as Albert’s tongue invaded his mouth, dazed with all the imagined effects of surrendering to complete passion.

Perhaps Fletcher had moaned then, at the memory of being devastated by his other lover, at the thought of what Fletcher needed. Xavier stirred beside him, stretching and incoherently mumbling and, as he moved, rubbing his penis against Fletcher as if by sleepy instinct. Fletcher answered the pressure with his own, reaching an arm back to prevent the man from drawing away.

“Sweet man,” Xavier murmured, already finding a rhythm of thrusts, no matter that he hadn’t yet fully woken.

Fletcher chuckled breathlessly, delightedly. How absurdly invigorating to have a lover this eager. A hand, spread-eagled against his skin, explored the back of his thigh, then encouraged it higher and forward. Fletcher moaned again, wishing with all his might, turning to lie facedown, his arm keeping Xavier with him. The hand moved from his thigh up to his buttocks, then swept along the cleft between them to cup Fletcher’s balls. Fletch couldn’t stifle a pleading cry. Discarding his careful lack of reaction with Albert, his policy of polite but disappointed silence, Fletcher begged, “Fuck me, Xavier. Fuck me.”

The man’s answer was a needy groan, a surge of warm strength against his back. “Done this before?” Xavier asked, even as his fingers ran back along the ridge behind Fletch’s genitals to caress the pucker of flesh.

“Yes.” Fletcher cried out the word as a finger pressed inside him.

“Not often,” was the verdict. “So tight, lover man.”

They were both panting after air, needing this urgent ultimate act. Xavier moved away, kneeling above him, despite Fletch’s bereaved protest. Surely Xavier wouldn’t abandon him, too? “Just once,” Fletcher admitted. “A  dildo once. And a finger, sometimes, when I masturbate.” Telling all these secrets with his face in the pillow. “I  want it, Xavier, so damned bad. Don’t care if it hurts.”

“Patience,” was the reply, exhibiting more control than only moments before. “Need some stuff.”

Then the miracle of those fingers returning, soothing cool lube into him. A strip of condoms dropped onto the sheet beside him. It was going to happen. Fletcher almost whimpered with relief and crazy need.

“First I’m going to ease you up a little,” Xavier said in that rich brocade voice of his. “Make you come, let you relax. Then I’ll fuck you all you like, lover man. It’ll be so damned good.”

Xavier never breaks a promise.
Stripped of wry humor, it was the only coherent thought later, amidst the feverish hot and cold of being possessed. “So damned good,” Fletcher repeated again and again, even when the pain fought for supremacy.

“Sweet man,” Xavier murmured in reply, “my sweet lover man.”

“Are you all right, Fletcher?”

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Overwhelmed,” Fletch said, before thinking about it. “No, thoroughly annihilated.”

“That doesn’t sound so great.”

“It’s damned wonderful, actually.” The feel of this warm strength lying against him, after all they’d just done, was devastation in itself.

“Lover man  …” The voice hesitant, the body shifting uncomfortably. “I’m on a schedule, you understand.”

“Ah, yes.” Fletcher looked up at Lachance, moving now to kneel above him, and couldn’t help but smile at what he saw: Xavier was so damned beautiful. “I  excuse you from further duties,” Fletch intoned. Then, at the other man’s fleeting exasperation, “Sorry, you’ve got me feeling all whimsical. Whoever created the phrase
fucked silly
must have known me in a previous incarnation. I’ll start making sense again soon.”

“Good. You take first shower, if you’re up to it, and I’ll make the coffee, all right?”

“That would be fine,” Fletch said lightly, and then frowned at himself. Why did that sound wrong?

“What is it, Fletcher? I know I was pushy last night. And then this morning.” Xavier groaned in what sounded like confusion and disbelief. “One hell of a first date, but I have to take the opportunity when it comes these days.”

That would be fine.
It sounded wrong because it was one of Albert’s phrases. Fletch sighed, and looked up to where Xavier hovered over him, concerned but running late. “I’m all right, really, you haven’t hurt me. There might be a million reasons we shouldn’t have, but don’t ask me to regret it, okay? I  would have done the same even if I did have time to think. And I expect you not to regret it, either. There’s a difference between force and passion, isn’t there? And I like your passion, very much.” Having settled that to his satisfaction, and received a nod of assent from Xavier, Fletcher began the arduous task of sitting up. “You go have first shower, I’ll make the coffee,” he suggested. “I’ll only hold you up otherwise.”

“Are you sure?”

Fletcher smiled at him. “Yes. Now, go!” He was rewarded with a kiss on the nearest available piece of skin - his shoulder - and then he was alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

COLORADO

MARCH 1985

By rights, he should be exhausted, what with a lack of sleep and an abundance of sex. Instead, Fletcher was all euphoric energy as he rushed around his apartment, showering, shaving and dressing. Beyond this brief reflection, he didn’t even bother worrying about fatigue catching up with him. He just wanted to get ready and out on the case again. He just wanted to see Xavier, in any context, and talk to him and make it clear he’d enjoy more than the one night together.

But first he should check in with Caroline. He scooped up the phone from where he’d last left it, hunched his shoulder to hold the receiver, then tried to dial Caroline’s number while walking over to the kitchen and simultaneously untangling the phone cord. Sure, it was convenient to have the cord so long he could use the phone anywhere in the apartment - he’d often pace restlessly when talking to Albert, or sprawl on the sofa, or make endless cups of coffee, or lie on his bed - but it was damned inconvenient when the thing tied up his few pieces of furniture. “Caroline, it’s Fletcher. I’m probably not going to get to the office today.”

“Lucky you. How’s it going?”

“Fine.” Having reached his goal without mishap, Fletch poured himself a cup of coffee. “The fire could go either way: arson or accident. Hogan’s in charge of the police investigation and cooperating under token protest. Lachance has some theories about who might have done it, which aren’t as crazy as I was expecting but I’m going to step very carefully there. Frankly, if the fire turns out to be accidental, it won’t do anyone any good to make loud accusations and Xavier sees that as well as anyone. It’s his political career, after all. I’ll probably be running around all day doing follow-up interviews and checking alibis, and Hogan’s initial reports should be ready.”

“Fletcher,” Caroline said slowly, as she always did when thinking out loud or considering ramifications, “you sound like you’re having fun.”

An alarmed pause, then he quickly replied, “Actually, it seems like a pretty fruitless exercise.”

“So why do you sound a lot happier than you did yesterday morning?”

Damn
. He’d assumed the inundation of information would mask any evidence of the inane grin he knew he was wearing. “Change of scene, I  guess,” Fletch offered.

“Well, stay happy, and stay in touch, okay?”

“Sure. Look  -” How to word this? “You might find it hard to get hold of me. Xavier and his people keep long hours, so I’m fitting in interviews whenever I can. You could call his office number, that’s the same as before the fire, or his home number, or call Hogan, and if none of them know where I am, just leave a message with one of them. All right?”

“All right. As long as you stick to the usual routine.”

“Nice of you to care, Caroline.” The rules demanded that he phone in or physically check in at least once a day, and advise his location at any time if there were even the slightest chance of danger. He should also be contactable so that he could be assigned to a new case, or take care of developments in an old one, within two hours.

But Fletch didn’t want to tell Caroline he hadn’t gotten home until an hour ago. Not yet, anyway, not unless it became a habit. He’d already figured he could imply he’d slept with Lucy in the guest room, rather than with Xavier. And he loathed himself for thinking of such a self-serving lie, even more than he loathed the FBI for forcing him to consider telling it.

Hogan was at his desk in the middle of the chaos of the police station, typing with two fingers and great concentration.

“Is that a report on the fire?” Fletcher asked, sitting down beside him and casting a curious eye over the cluttered desk. No knowing what fascinating information lay here.

“No, it’s real work,” Hogan growled in reply. Then he said with mock politeness, “Good morning, Agent Ash. I  was expecting your interruption this morning.”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch me a coffee? Then I can get this finished before wasting my time with you.”

“All right.” To give the cop a few extra minutes, and to save himself from this precinct’s sad idea of coffee, Fletch headed over the road to a cafe he knew was decent. He returned laden with two cardboard cups and a half dozen bagels.

“The day is looking up,” Hogan observed, eyes lighting as they saw this offering. “I  don’t usually get bribed until lunch at the earliest.”

Fletcher contented himself with munching a bagel and sipping his coffee, while Hogan did the same and finished his report. When the police officer could spare him his attention, Fletcher’s first question was, “Why do you say it’s a waste of time?”

“I’ll bet you any money you like the fire was accidental.”

“So why does Lachance see it as more than that?”

Hogan shrugged. “He’s overly sensitive. Inclined to see life’s misfortunes as political commentary.”

It was hardly a new notion but Fletcher considered it with a frown and offered, “Lachance doesn’t strike me as likely to overreact.” But Fletch respected this cop’s hunches: if Hogan felt this wasn’t arson, he was probably right. “I  was wondering,” Fletcher said, “about the front doors of the office - they were hanging open. Were they like that when the fire department got there?”

“Another good question from the glorified accountant. No, they weren’t. The glass in the windows and doors had been blown outwards by the heat. There was very little broken glass inside the office, and the door frames appeared to be intact and securely locked, which indicates there was no forced entry. We busted the doors open yesterday morning, once we’d examined them, to get better access.”