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Wiseguy

"Long Shot"
by Suz

1991

"I need a job, Rog," he tells me, taking another swallow of his beer.

"So what do you want to be, now that you're all grown up?" I ask him, nursing my own bottle. We've been alone together on a tropical island off the coast of St. Croix for almost six weeks while Vince recovers from his ordeal at the hands of a vicious splinter group of Salvadorans who kidnapped and tortured him. Physically, he's more-or-less recovered. Psychologically, I'm not so sure.

"Who says I'm grown up?" he asks me with a flicker of that shit-eating grin of his.

"Just an expression, Buckwheat," I smile back with the same restraint. I'm more worried than amused by his vaguely fatalistic tone.

"Yeah, well, maybe over-grown juvenile delinquent is more accurate," he says with noticeable self-mockery.

I'm no stranger to dark moods, myself, so I recognize one when I see it. Vince has yet to really talk about what happened to him in El Salvador, or what the bastards did to him there. Considering the condition he was in when I found him, I'm reasonably sure it's not going to be a pretty story. I also know that ugly as the physical results of what happened were, they won't hold a candle to the potential for ugliness that comes with repressing the memories. "Well Frank pretty well blew your cover wide open, at your mother's insistence, when he delivered your eulogy," I remind him. "Your days as a caped crusader are over." Thank god. Vince has been working for the FBI since they recruited him out of Fordham University, in the Organized Crime Bureau, as an undercover agent whose sole purpose has been to infiltrate the Mob. He's done a hellova job. He was single-handedly responsible for decimating the upper echelons of the east coast crime families about four years ago, not to mention the odd success here and there since. Like helping me stop a whacko brother-and-sister team named Mel and Susan Profitt, a pair of badly wired drug lords-turned-munitions tycoons. Well, okay, I had my own agenda that didn't include bringing down their empire, but I'll take credit for helping do it, since that's the way it turned out.

Vinnie snorts, the sound bitter. "I'm washed up as a cop, and I'm persona non grata with the Mob, now, too. I once told Frank he and my mom were the only reasons I didn't just join them. Hell, they eat better, and they sure as hell dress better. So what the hell do I do now? Being a cop - being a wiseguy - is about the only job experience I've got."

Well, you could be a kept man, I think to myself. I have a fortune that'd allow most of the population of a small nation to live comfortably for generations. But Vince refuses every offer I've made to divvy up the loot with him. He has the mistaken impression that wealth is a dirty word. Granted, I stole my seed capital from the Profitts, but the bulk of the money I've earned myself. Legitimately. For the most part. We've had variations on this conversation since he first started talking again a few weeks ago.

I've offered to set him up in any business he wants, I've offered to give him half my money, I've offered to hire him into my own company as a security consultant, a bodyguard, a lover, whatever he wants. It's taken me this long to figure out he doesn't want a solution, he wants an excuse to feel sorry for himself for not being able to keep playing the game. He's an adrenaline junkie, like every other cop I've ever known. I lean that way myself, but being eight years older than him, I've been rode hard and put away wet just a little too often to miss the rush the way he does.

The problem is, I want him in my life, and he knows it, the bastard. I'm not sure what he feels. I'm not sure he's sure. We've been lovers for barely three weeks, and he's like an addiction. A drug. I don't know if it's intimacy with him, or if it's the whole novelty of intimacy in general, but he's wormed his way into my soul in ways that make me wonder if I'll ever get him back out. And if I even want to. So I sit and watch him, keeping my mouth shut this time, letting him work it out for himself.

He sits there, brooding, staring out at the neon blue ocean that surrounds this little slice of paradise. As far as I'm concerned, we can stay here, alone, together, for the rest of our lives. With maybe the occasional foray to St. Croix for a little female variation on the theme. We may be lovers, but neither one of us has any intention of giving up women completely. In fact, part of Vinnie's problem is that he still wants the whole wife and family thing. And a male lover doesn't exactly fit that little picture of traditional domestic tranquility. I guess the pop psychologists would say he's conflicted.

I'm not. I'm in love. No conflict there. Except the man I'm in love with may not feel the same way about me. He has yet to say the words, even though he's the one who came to my bed, asked me if I wanted him. I'm willing to share him with whatever dream he latches onto, whatever job, whatever woman. But I want him, and I'll fight for him. And who the hell figured I'd turn into a romantic in my dotage?

"So, Rog," he says after a while, the tone ironically conversational. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I don't HAVE to do anything for a living. Not for money, anyway. "I want to get old," I say. That surprises him and he scowls at me.

"Old?" he repeats.

"I want to live long enough to grow up, Buckwheat," I say, the words and the tone spiked with irony of my own. I take the opportunity to remind him that my neck is in a noose with the CIA when I can. Just a little reality check. Maybe it'll put his own problems into some kind of perspective. I see the point sink in, and the sadness in those summer sky eyes of his makes me regret bringing it up. "Maybe I'll be a fireman," I add, belatedly trying to lighten the mood.

"Or maybe a toy designer," he suggests dryly, a reference to my fondness for weapons design.

I lean back in the chaise lounge and look up at the sky overhead. It's the same shade as Vinnie's eyes, when he's happy. "You're the only toy I'm interested in playing with at the moment," I answer, the inference obvious.

He laughs softly. "You have your own. So play with it," he says.

"Yours is more fun," I answer, dropping my gaze to his. I can see the blue darken, and by this time I know what it means. The bulge in his jeans confirms it, and I feel an answering stir in my own groin.

"So when are you going to let me fuck you?" he asks quietly, voice a little husky. It's been something of a sore point, but the man is built like a horse. There's a very real possibility he'd rupture something if I let him fuck me. And fucking him is maybe the most intense sexual experience either of has had. He claims, and I've seen it, felt it, that when I'm in him, he has what can only be termed a dry orgasm that's even more intense than a wet one. I'll have to take his word for it until I try it myself. It's not that I don't want to, let him fuck me, I mean, but neither of us is what I'd call widely experienced in same sex intercourse, so we've kind of made it up as we've gone along.

My experience is limited to what I gained at the hands of a sixteen year-old upperclassman at Berchardt Prep School in Texas, when I was thirteen. He seduced me, and we fucked like rabbits till he graduated, a year later. When he told me I was being 'inherited' by one of his buddies, a real prick named Mathew Ainsley, I said 'no thanks', and got myself gang-raped for my pains. Aside from a similar experience as a prisoner of war in 'Nam, Vince is the only male lover I've ever had as an adult. And I was all too willing to take him. The whole time I spent tracking him down to a rundown plantation house in El Salvador, I had wet dreams about him.

I'm not sure when I actually fell in love with him, it's hard to say, exactly. We met when I recruited what I thought was a Mob hitman into my palace guard when I was head of the Profitts' security. He didn't know it at the time, but I auditioned him in bed, with three stewardesses/whores Susan sent along to relieve the boredom of being stuck in Stockton, California. He handled himself well, not touching me, but not shy, either. No performance anxiety. That was something no one working for the Profitts could afford. It also showed he could handle himself in 'vulnerable' situations. Mel and Susan's parties were known for getting a little... wild. Group sex was the end result of most of the week-long drug-fogged bashes they threw.

I know when I figured it out, though. It was when Frank McPike, Vinnie's field supervisor in the OCB, showed up on my doorstep in San Francisco to give me the stuff Vince had left me in his will, and tell me Vinnie had been snatched by a handful of political crazies with CIA backing. He was the one who expected me to drop everything and go haring off to Central America to find our lost sheep. It took me a while to realize that I wasn't going to let someone I care this much about disappear. Like about a minute and a half. So off I went. And I found what I was looking for. And things I didn't know I was looking for, and all in all, I'd die a relatively happy man if I could do it in bed, with Vince.

In case you missed it, love is kind of a new thing for me. After twenty years in the CIA, trust doesn't come easy. The only other brush I've had with it was with the Chinese whore in Vietnam who took that particular version of my virginity. My then-commanding officer was also sleeping with her, and he was convinced that she'd blown an operation he tried to run, so he told me to kill her. I refused. So he ordered me to maim her, instead. Gallant asshole that I am, I obeyed. And I never forgave myself for it. I took her with me everywhere for the next twenty years. She was all the family I had, till Herb Ketcher, my commanding officer, had her killed to keep me in line. That was the move that made me 'retire' from the Company. With a price on my head, after I blew open a scheme they'd had me orchestrating to get Mel to fund a CIA-backed coup. I testified to it in front of a televised Senate Investigating Committee. They've been looking for payback ever since. Vince was the only one who fought for me, not just beside me. He risked his cover to corroborate my version of events. Not that it did any good, but he was willing to take that kind of risk. For me. Maybe that's when he slipped past all the defenses I've erected against getting too close to anyone.

I'm startled out of this musing by his hand on my shoulder, and his fingers brush up the side of my neck to weave through my hair. I glance up at him with the look he calls shit-eating-meets-inscrutable, then grin against his mouth as he bends down to kiss me. He tastes like the beer we've been drinking, bittersweet and rich. My cock is suddenly tight against my jeans and he crouches beside my lounge chair as that hand slides down my chest to my crotch. The heat of his hand on me makes me ache as it curves over my balls and he kisses me deeper. I can't help the groan as his tongue slides over mine. He grins at me as he unzips my pants and strokes his hand down my belly and inside the waist. He knows it makes me nuts when he touches me like this, and I'm damned near panting. From zero to sixty in less than thirty seconds. No woman on the planet can get me this hard this fast. At least none of the ones I've slept with.

"Something tells me you want me to play with your toys, instead of the other way around," he teases me as he bites my lower lip gently.

I catch his head in my hands, the thick, nearly black hair as smooth as silk to the touch, and I kiss him back with something like savagery. I want him, his skin against mine, with the same urgency I've wanted him since the first night he came to my bed. "You're an asshole, Vinnie," I say when I let him go.

He laughs. "But I'm your asshole," he says as he pulls his T-shirt over his head and starts unfastening his jeans. "So are you taking me to bed, or what?" he asks me, that grin never wavering.

"Yeah, you jerk, and I'm gonna fuck your brains out," I tell him as I stand up, grabbing him by the bicep and dragging him after me. He yanks my shirttails out of my pants and slides his hands up my back, then forward around my waist, fitting himself against my back and making it hard to walk, as much because all the blood has rushed out of my head as because his legs are tangling with my own.

He's nuzzling the back of my neck as we stumble into the nearest bedroom, his, in this case, and I nearly pass out when he slips his hands down inside the front of my jeans to fondle me. His fingertips are soft on my penis as he traces the big vein along the underside and I swear I'm about two heartbeats from ejaculating into his hand when he wraps those fingers around me and clamps me off. He goes on kissing my neck as his other hand moves back up my belly and he starts unbuttoning my shirt as I begin breathing again. We've figured out how to tease each other to the brink, then back off, until the satisfaction, when we do reach orgasm, is mind-blowing. Fucking another man has advantages I never expected, chief among which is the fact that the physiology is no mystery, for the most part. Since we share the same equipment, a knowledge of how to use it and what feels good is mutual and unspoken. There's no learning curve except the one that teaches us the best ways to make it last. It gets better every time we do this, and we do it plenty, and if I don't feel his bare ass against my thighs right now, I'm going to implode. I shrug out of the shirt as he pulls it back off my shoulders with one hand, his encircling fingers tightening down on me as he brushes his free hand over my chest, ruffling the sandy red-gold hair there. By the time that hand has slid down to my waist, I have myself under some sort of control, and I grit my teeth as he lets me go to push the pants down my hips, kneeling behind me to tug them off my bare feet. The kiss he plants at the small of my back, just above my ass, makes me gasp silently as my lungs stop working for a second, and I'm standing there stark naked, Vinnie at my back, ready for him to be the same.

I turn and grab his shoulders, forcing him to his feet so I can get his jeans off, and he laughs quietly while I undress him, then I kiss him, violently, when we're both stripped, belly to belly, cock to cock. He's as hard as I am, and a good inch longer. He must be close to nine inches, and his diameter is huge. He scares me, and I wonder how many of the women he's fucked have been able to take that whole impressive length. I feel him move against me, teasing, as I rape his mouth, my hands holding his head immobile. I feel his hands curve over my ass, hot as branding irons, and the sneak attack on my balls from behind brings me back to a heartbeat's distance from coming. Only the pressure of his fingers at the base of my scrotum keeps me from creaming his belly, and my groan makes him grin against my mouth.

"Roger, slow down," he says, laughing softly. "We've got all day."

"You're the one with the fast hands, Buckwheat," I tell him as I catch my breath.

He reaches behind me and yanks back the blankets, and we tumble onto the bed to lie there laughing at each other while we neck, content to take it slow. We spend the better part of an hour just tasting each other's skins, breathing in each other's scent. This is the difference between having sex and making love, at least for me. By now, I know his body as well as I know my own, every scar, every freckle, every chest hair, every inch of that majestic prick of his. Time is the biggest luxury we have. Time to know each other intimately. Every physical characteristic that makes Vince Terranova unique makes him mine as only a lover can be. I only pray he feels the same. He is the shrine I worship before, and I take that penis into my mouth, courting him with the roughness of my tongue. His hands in my hair encourage me, and I go deeper around him, timing my breathing to the rhythm of my strokes, concentrating on tasting him, teasing him. When I can tell he's close, I ease off, fingers firm against the bulge in the perineum behind his testicles, the pressure short-circuiting an ejaculation, and run my tongue inside his foreskin. It's torture. I know, because he's done it to me. It's the sort of thing that makes you beg for release, for the pleasure to end - and to never end. Every time he does this to me, I go totally mindless, my whole being concentrated on feeling. There's no way for a coherent thought to emerge under that kind of sensory onslaught. He's the same way, and he's shaking, moaning my name like a chant under my touch. I release the pressure as I extend my tongue down the length of him and then suck hard on the head of his cock as I flick my tongue fast over the bulging vein where it meets the under-edge of his glans. His sperm roars down my throat like the stream from a high-pressure fire hose, bittersweet as the beer, and as intoxicating. I watch every muscle in his abdomen convulse with his orgasm, his head thrown back on the pillow, while he sucks air through clenched teeth as I caress his balls lightly, just to make sure I tease him completely empty. He has stamina like mine, and he'll be ready for another go-round before we're done here, but this should hold him while I fuck him. Slowly, I relax my touch on him, tonguing him more and more lightly as he lies there, hands in my hair, panting.

"I love it when you do that," he sighs as I kiss my way up his body and run my tongue over his lower lip. He kisses me gently to taste himself on my mouth and I feel his hands run over my back and ass lightly.

"That makes both of us," I agree as I roll onto my back so he can take over. As much as I love touching him, I love being touched by him even more. Like everything else about him, his hands are big. Broad across the palms, blunt fingered, callused from years of weight training. The unmistakable roughness on the area between thumb and forefinger from target practice is a weirdly erotic thing to notice, but every time he circles my cock with his right hand, that little added friction makes for one of those things you never knew you were missing.

I don't know what kind of experience he has with this sort of thing, but not a lot more than me. I know for a fact that he was raped in the Jersey Tombs during his stint there for cigarette smuggling to set his cover story, and that it was no more of a turn-on for him than it was for me. The nasty scar that runs along the inside of his right thigh is his souvenir from that episode. But I also know for a fact that he was in love with Sonny Steelgrave, the middle-management Mob cappo whose operation he infiltrated and brought down. When he talked me into staying with him at an OCB safehouse during my senate testimony, I got part of the story out of him, and since we've been lovers, he's let the odd detail here and there slip out. Like me, Sonny was apparently a little spooked by his sheer size. Between that and the fact that Vince was supposed to be Steelgrave's employee and subordinate, I guess it's no surprise that Vinnie found himself catching instead of pitching. It's definitely a dominance thing, in that it requires a high level of trust to let another man penetrate you that way, as an act of possession.

Don't get me wrong, I do trust him. I do want him. But I'm definitely having a harder time not letting past experience color current actions than he is. The fact that we're both alpha males means we clash on things as a matter of course, but he's never had a problem with my wanting to do the fucking when we sleep together, beyond wanting his shot at me, eventually. At some point, I'm going to have to get over it. Maybe today. Especially if he keeps doing whatever it is he's doing right now, geezus.

He's nuzzling the inside of my left thigh, lips and tongue running along the skin just hard enough to drive me totally out of my mind. When he finally goes down on me, he has to use all his tricks to keep me from coming before he's ready for me to, and every one of them makes me want him more intensely. I've only had this kind of reaction to a lover once or twice in my life, this mindless need to be touched, to be loved, to be fucked dry. I'm in love...

	I'm in love...

			I'm in love...

					Jesus Christ, I'm in love.

It's not like it's ever happened to me before. I guess that's starting to be obvious, huh? I figured, at forty, it wasn't going to happen at all. Not to me, Lococco, the lone wolf. I've had my share of one-night stands, even periods of time when I slept with the same woman more than just once or twice. But except for Preet, the Chinese whore I mentioned, none of them have ever been long term. And even that relationship wasn't between equals. This one is. Maybe that's what's scaring me the most. Vince doesn't particularly need anything I can give him. He's made that pretty clear. He's with me because he wants to be. Not because he expects me to take care of him, or because he wants my money, or anything else I have. Except me. Body, soul, heart. And I don't really know if he wants any of those things, or if he just feels some sort of obligation to me for dragging him back from the jungles. Shit, it takes real talent to depress yourself when the hottest piece of ass in the Caribbean is making love to you like there's no tomorrow.

His next ploy succeeds in returning my focus to the immediate activity as he reaches into the nightstand drawer for the KY jelly we keep there and lubes my balls and ass, then slips a pair of fingers into me as he brushes his mouth over my abdomen just above the pubic hair.

"I thought that'd get your attention," he mumbles against my skin, sticking his tongue into my navel.

"Geeze, Vinnie," I groan as he moves those fingers inside me. He's gentle, but he's also insistent, distracting me, keeping me from tensing up by sucking on my prick like a lollipop, big wet strokes of his tongue that start at the base and move up to the head. When he slips his tongue inside the foreskin again, only the pressure of his thumb on my perineum keeps me from exploding into his mouth. He eases off again, and I swear, he's determined to make me beg for it.

"You want me?" he asks around a mouthful of my cock, his fingers still inside me. I can feel his own erection against my calf, and I don't know if he's asking to fuck me or be fucked himself, and I know I'm not ready for him inside me. Not yet. Shit.

"Yes, damn you. You don't let me in and I'm going to mess us both," I tell him.

"Just checking," he says with that grin of his as he eases his body up along mine nice and slow, slick fingers wrapping around me. He hands me the KY and turns his back to me, letting me take charge.

I'm practically shaking, I want him so bad. I'm generous with the jelly, on both of us, and I move into him with more self restraint than I would have thought myself capable of, knowing the slower I go, at least at first, the deeper I can go. When I'm buried in him, my balls sliding against his, I reach forward to stroke his penis, aware that if we do this right, both of us will come like it's Armageddon, even if Vinnie's is dry. I make love to him with the same single-mindedness he used on me, aware not only of every tremor in his body, but my own. I pace myself. I have to stay in control until I feel him lose it. Then, and only then, will I permit myself the luxury of an orgasm buried to the balls in the hot, tight ass of a man I don't want to live without. It's not my nature to keep dwelling on losing him, and I concentrate instead on what's happening in both our bodies, right here, right now.

And it's worth concentrating on. God. As I move in him, working his penis with my hands, I feel his breathing quicken to match my own, feel the sweat slick on my chest, feel my balls tighten with that aching tautness that signals immanent orgasm, feel his big hands over mine along his own softening cock, feel him bear down to meet my thrusts, and I feel everything in him clench. He's so tight around me that there'd be no way to free myself, even if I wanted to, and we climax almost simultaneously. The first time this happened, he had to reassure me that losing the erection was sort of a bonus for him. Not only did he wind up with an orgasm that beats the regular ones all to hell, but he gets to have the regular kind, too. No wonder he doesn't mind being on the receiving end too much. He says it was like this with Steelgrave, too.

We lie there, breathing hard, watching as another postcard sunset streaks the vast sky outside his windows. It's romantic as hell, and I can't even believe something like that would enter my head with my penis still deep in another man's ass. There are minutes, a lot of them, when the incongruity of my current feelings compared to my past experience is so glaring that it makes me freeze up like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights. Romance in another man's arms is... unexpected, to say the least. Particularly since I've been a confirmed homophobe all my adult life. I guess it just took the right man's arms. Feeling him so hot around me makes me wish that sexual aftermaths didn't require losing my own erection. I could lie like this forever. His back is warm against my chest, and I go back to stroking his prick gently, knowing he's still hyper-sensitized. His sigh of pleasure is soundless, but I feel the expansion of his lungs with his quick intake of breath. He lays his hands lightly over mine, caressing the backs of my fingers and hands while I masturbate him. He hardens again as slowly as I soften inside him, until I slip free of him and his cock is rigid in my grasp. As always, its mass startles me, exhilarates me, excites me. I've been working on increasing the amount of its length I can take down my throat before the gag reflex kicks in, and nowadays, when I go down on him, I can feel the head of his cock ram against the back of my throat. It's a little like being a sword swallower, I imagine. I circle a forefinger around the rim of his foreskin, just brushing his glans, and I can feel him start to tremble again, the tiny quiver of muscles straining against release.

"Rog, let me fuck you. Please. God, I want you," he says, voice breaking as the pressure of his hands over mine intensifies, unconsciously urging me to increase the speed and pressure of my sliding grip. And suddenly, I'm ready. Whatever psychological barrier it is that's prevented me from allowing him into me evaporates in the face of that utterly uncontrived plea. He wants me. Right now, maybe as desperately as I usually want him at this stage of things.

"Yes," I murmur against the nape of his neck, the midnight dark of his long-ish hair sweat-spiked and salty against my lips.

He rolls over to face me, his hands cupping my face as he searches my eyes for reassurance that I'm serious, then kisses me deeply, eyes sweeping shut in relief, long lashes dark against his cheeks. I love watching him kiss me, and usually, he doesn't close his eyes, at least not all the way, letting me see his pupils dilate with desire. It's a hell of a turn on, but the knowledge that he's about to get something he's wanted since he came to my bed in the first place, and that he can't believe his luck, is even more arousing. Suddenly I can't wait for the feel of him against me, inside me, and I rub myself against his rigid cock, encouraging him. As if he needed any. Encouragement, I mean. He rolls me over and settles against my back.

So naturally, that's when the phone rings. The house has a couple of private lines, and one of them is jacked into Vinnie's guest room. Maybe three people on the planet have that number, and none of them is anyone I care to hear from. Vinnie laughs against the nape of my neck almost soundlessly, clearly amused at the timing. Neither of us makes any move to reach for the phone on the nightstand, too busy with what we're doing to care who's calling.

About the time the answering machine picks up, Vinnie's slicked me up thoroughly with the KY, and he's sliding two fingers into me while he brushes the head of my penis with his other hand. His cock feels like a flag pole against my ass, and as he pulls his fingers out of me and positions himself against me, his glans pushing into me, Frank McPike's dulcet tones issue from the machine's speaker. Vinnie groans and I swear, our frustration mutual and total. He pauses, masturbating me with supreme gentleness as he listens to McPike's message.

"Vinnie, it's Frank," he states the obvious. "If you're there, pick up. Vince?" There's a pause before he continues. "Vinnie, your mother's had some sort of episode. She's in Montebello Hospital in the cardiac unit. She's going to be -"

The speaker cuts out as Vince picks up the phone, abandoning his touch along me, and I swear again. Goddammit-to-fucking-hell. Now, of course, I want him and I can already feel him softening against me as his attention shifts to McPike completely. I get out of bed and stalk from his room as he converses with Frank, tuning out his half of the conversation as soon as I know his mother the bitch is still alive. Too bad, as far as I'm concerned. He's told me about the way she cut him off when she thought he was taking up a life of crime. The double standard the old harpy adheres to ticks me off, since she had the gall to marry a 'retired' Mob Godfather after all the moaning and wailing about the company Vince keeps. I've only met the bitch twice, but her holier-than-thou judgementalism gets my back up but good. Her son is a better man than she'll ever know, and it's just my luck he loves her like one of the lost treasures of the ancient world.

It's a forgone conclusion that he's going home to Mom, the rat-bastard, and I fume as I get into my shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it. It's another ten minutes before Vince steps in under the water with me, running his hands down my ribs and cupping my balls softly. I step away, too angry to kiss and make up that easily, ignoring him as I feel him soap my back and run the bath sponge over my skin and between my buttocks.

"McPikeus Interruptus," he says ruefully. "He's got a real knack for crappy timing. I'm sorry, Rog. I have to go back to New York. My mother's in the hospital again, some weirdness with her heart."

"Yeah, so I gathered," I say. The iciness in my voice makes him flinch. "I called my local pilot. He'll fly the helicopter over in an hour, and take you to New York in the Lear."

He pauses at this, mid-lather, and his silence is deafening. I turn to face him at last, and I can tell from his face my expression must be as stormy as my mood.

"Thanks, Roger," he says, a peace offering.

I shrug. "I've always known where I stood in the hierarchy of Vince Terranova's affections," I snap, sarcasm sharpening my tongue. "I'll always be a distant third behind Mom and McPike. Come to think of it, I guess it's actually fourth place, if you count your sainted Uncle Mike," I add as an afterthought, my voice cutting. I'm looking to hurt, and I don't care how irrational I'm being. Jealousy rages in my chest, backing up my throat like bile. I finish rinsing off the soap and move to step out of the shower.

"Roger," Vince says sharply, catching hold of my arm, "cut it out. Stop being an asshole. She's my mother. Of course she's important to me. And yeah, I know the two of you didn't exactly hit it off three years ago, but maybe you could give the hostility a rest?"

I glare at him until he lets me go and I get out of the shower. He follows me out a couple of seconds later, grabbing a towel and drying himself off without a word. He leaves me standing there and disappears back into his own room. I can hear him slamming around in his dresser and the closet, working off his anger. That's one of the drawbacks to a relationship with him. We both have volatile tempers. I'm more prone to going off on him than the other way around, but I've pissed him off, and frankly, I couldn't care less. In fact, I'm starting to feel better. A little vengeance goes a long way. He wants to go running off every time some clingy family member or a former work buddy calls, fine by me. It's not like I plan on sitting around waiting for him. I have an empire to run that I've already neglected too long as it is, so while Vince is getting ready to desert me, I call my business managers back in California and warn them I'm coming home as soon as the Lear is free. Then I call my pilot again, and tell him to come back when he's dropped Vinnie in the city. If Vince expects to return to the fold, he's going to have to track me back down. Not that I'm planning on disappearing or anything, but I sure as hell don't intend to spend the next however many weeks sitting around on a beach waiting for him to come back to me. I'm not that desperate. And I don't like the inexplicable sense of being abandoned. Suddenly the idea of staying here by myself leaves me cold. More than just cold, I feel something I don't really want to look at too closely, so I settle for nursing my bad mood.

By the time the helicopter lands on the pad a few hundred yards from the house, Vince is packed and more than ready to go. I don't bother getting up from where I've sprawled in an over-stuffed leather club chair, ignoring him when he sticks his head in through the big livingroom doorway. The chilly reception makes him think better of whatever it was he was going to say and I see him shake his head infinitesimally out of the corner of my eye as he shoulders his duffel bag and walks out the front door without a word.

So much for guilting him into changing his mind, I think, as I hear the chopper lift off and clatter away into the night. Well, shit. I hadn't expected it to work, I tell myself, trying to hold onto that conviction. I'm not fooling anyone, least of all myself, but maybe if I believe it strongly enough, we'll all fall for the bluff...

*******

My pilot shows back up on my island the next afternoon before two, and flies me to St. Croix. I've booked myself a commercial flight to San Francisco rather than making my corporate pilot, who's based out west, fly east to collect me. Since it doesn't leave till this evening at nine, I have some time to kill, so I spend my time hanging out in the Conch, a bar Vince and I visit on the rare occasions we come to the main island. We come here often enough that the bartenders know us. It's not a dive, not quite, but it's sure as hell not designed to cater to the tourist trade. The patrons are working stiffs for the most part, like deep sea fishermen who run the tourist boats, dive instructors, off-duty waitresses, you get the picture. It's the sort of place Vince gravitates to, his blue collar roots showing. It's also the sort of place I'm more comfortable in when I'm looking for neutral territory. The tourist bars are fine if you're trolling for an easy lay, but sex is definitely not my priority tonight. Or rather, sex with unknown women. If Vince walked through the door right now, I can't swear I wouldn't kiss him in full view of the moderate crowd that carries on their noisy conversation around me. Which is something that makes me sweat to admit even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

I order a beer and prop myself against a wall near the trio of pool tables, watching the game in progress on the nearest one as I sip the brew. Two of the three women playing look like they belong here, snug jeans, 'night out' make-up, flashy costume jewelry and hair that shows evidence of too many trips to the beauty parlor for dye jobs, crispy and lifeless looking. Or maybe all that's just in comparison to the third one. I watch her as she leans over the table, sizing up her shot, then snicks the cue-ball with her stick using just enough english to sink the ball she was hoping to nail. She's wearing black. Black jeans, black scoop-necked T-shirt, a simple but heavy silver chain with matching earrings, and no rings. Aside from the way the jeans hug her shapely ass, what catches my attention about her is the hair. It's a little longer than Vinnie's, cut in a girl-version of his fifties biker thug style, and it's the most amazing shade of red gold. It looks like antique rose gold, patinated with gleaming highlights of burnished copper. Thick, the wispy fringe along the back of her neck damp with a light sweat, I want to run my hands through that mane. It has a sheen, a texture, a depth of color that didn't come out of a bottle. The fact that a few pale freckles dust the bridge of her nose confirms the fact that the hair is natural. Forget what I said about sex not being a priority. I'd take this one to bed in a heartbeat, if only to see whether I'm right about the haircolor.

She circles the table, calculating her next shot, focused on the arrangement of balls and the trajectories that will clear the table with minimum fuss. The other two women lean on their cues, resigned to losing the game. Red is clearly a pool sharp. It's hard to tell through the light-absorbing black wardrobe, but the body under the clothes shows the signs of hard workouts, tight-muscled, sleek. She's about five seven or eight in her shoes, black boots that look like standard issue riding accessories. They're polished, gleaming, but show signs of use. She sets up for her next shot directly opposite me across the table, and sinks another ball with a tricky rebound hit off the edge. "Nice," I comment.

She looks up to meet my eyes briefly before concentrating on the game again. "Thanks," she answers, moving on to the next ball.

I'm not sure, but her eyes looked green. Really green. Not the sort of stormy gray-green mine are, but honest to god emerald. It's hard to tell for sure in the relative gloom of the bar. The other two women exchange looks and focus their attention on me, since it's pretty clear the game is over, for them. The pool game, at least.

"You new around here?" one of them asks.

I shake my head negatively. "Just haven't been in in a while," I assure them.

"You play?" the other asks.

"Some," I admit. Actually, I play pretty well. Maybe as well as Red. I can tell she's following the conversation, even if she's not participating, as she sinks the next to last ball in a corner pocket. "But I think your friend, here, could probably teach me a few things."

She glances at me as she slips past on her way to set up for her final shot, and the look is one I can't identify, but her eyes are definitely green as grass.

White trash babe number one snorts ironically. "What friend? She's cleaning us out!"

I catch Red's grin out of the corner of my eye at this comment.

"We had to have three people in order to get a table," the second bimbo adds. Which explains the incongruity of this particular threesome.

"You could play with us instead," number one suggests, voice going sultry as she brushes against my hip.

Not what I had in mind. It's Red I want to play with, and pool is not the game I plan on playing. Right about then, one of the bartenders cruises past on his way to the bar.

"Hey, Lococco, where's your friend?" he asks. He's the usual night shift drinks wizard, and the one Vince and I have the most dealings with. Vince is a social creature by nature, and he'll strike up conversations with damned near anyone. So he knows Vinnie by virtue of those little alcohol-lubed chats across the marble bar top they've had in the last month. And he knows me by association.

"He had business back in the states. He took off yesterday," I tell him. And my radar goes off as Red looks up sharply at this news before going back to her last shot.

"So you here for the company, or the game?" he asks grinning at me as the two bimbos move closer to me in a proprietary kind of way.

"The beer," I say and raise my glass slightly. "And maybe the company, if the right offer comes along." I ignore the pair behind me, locking eyes with Red as she racks the balls. The bartender moves on with a laugh, leaving me and Red to watch each other. The bimbos clear out in a huff when it becomes clear their presence is no longer required. "Care for a game?" I ask her as she chalks her cue.

She thinks about this for a minute and it's obvious to me she recognizes the edge I can never quite hide. Most women are either fascinated or repulsed by that dangerous quality, but Red is neither. She's interested, but wary, and I can see her brain working behind those eyes of hers.

"As long as it's pool," she answers after a minute.

I grin as I pick up a cue, sighting along it to make sure it's straight.

We play three games, whoever breaks winning without the other ever getting a chance at a shot. She wins her two and I win my one, and I offer to buy her a drink, which she accepts, having relaxed a bit. This one is not going to be a pushover. I don't make a move on her, feigning lack of intent. I know she can see through it to some extent, but the question is, how much? Enough to dump me? Or just enough to think I'm being a gentleman? Our conversation is carefully casual, and halfway through the first drink, I introduce myself. She gives me her name in exchange. Tess. Tess MacTavish.

I can't tell if we're getting anywhere, even after our second drink, and by this time I've pretty much decided I have to have her. Careful courtships are not my strength. Usually, I'm more or less up front with my agenda, and if the woman is amenable, we're in business. But instinct tells me that method isn't going to get me very far with Red. There's an animal wariness about her that interests me. It's not the usual vibe I get off women, shy ones, and it takes me a while to figure it out. She's not shy, not in the usual way. It's more that she doesn't seem to play by the usual 'girl' rules. She is what she is, no apologies, no excuses. And she isn't sure she needs men. My job is to convince her otherwise, if I'm serious about getting her into bed. Which may take a lot longer than I have to devote to a one night stand.

I decide to play that particular hand to see where we stand, telling her I'm scheduled to take off for points west in less than three hours. "It'll probably be a while till I'm back this way," I finish.

"You joining your friend?" she asks.

I eye her with surprise. "What makes you think so?" I inquire. My alarms go off again, this time full force. Something is definitely different, here.

She shrugs. "I just heard Davey ask about him, and you said he was stateside. I assumed you were business acquaintances, and that you'd be off after him doing whatever deals it is you do. I mean, you don't look like a local."

"I look like I make deals?" I ask, surprised. Generally, people don't mistake me for the run-of-the-mill business type. My current get-up is faded jeans, worn a little thin over knees, ass and crotch, and a black button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up to mid-forearm. It's not exactly standard power garb. "What about you? You a local?"

"Seasonal," she replies. "I'm a croupier in one of the big casinos during the summers. I make enough to take the winter off, if I'm careful with the bucks," she tells me. "It's reasonably easy work, and it pays great. The tips aren't bad, either."

"Yeah, but the hours suck," I say, and she grins. The expression lightens her eyes and I feel her relax.

"So are you?" she asks a few minutes later after an extended but comfortable silence.

"Am I what?" I ask as I sip my drink without glancing at her. Instead, I watch her in the mirror behind the bar. She really is spectacular. What's odd, is, she doesn't seem to have a clue.

"Going to join your friend," she fills in the rest like she's talking to someone in slow class.

"He's off on personal business and I have business-business on the other side of the country. I doubt I'll be seeing him for a while." And right then, a certain reluctant regret starts nagging at me for sending Vince packing. I've staved it off until now by nursing my pique, but the reality is, if he hadn't gone home to mom, he wouldn't be the man he is. Family is everything to him, and he doesn't have much of it left. Just his pain-in-the-ass mother. And his goomba stepfather, if that counts. And me, even if I acted like a jealous high school cheerleader whose favorite tight end is suddenly distracted by some other pretty face.

Something in my tone must tip her off that there's more to the story than that brief synopsis, and she turns to look at me while I stare into the bar mirror, not seeing either of us as I wonder how Vinnie is, where he is. Shit.

"I guess I was wrong. He's not a business partner?" she persists.

I shake my head. "Nope. Not for lack of effort on my part, but he's stubborn, he's independent, and he thinks taking a job is more of a handout, at least if I'm the one offering it."

"Is it? A handout, I mean?" she asks interestedly.

I don't answer right away, thinking about it. Really thinking about it, and trying it out from Vinnie's point of view. I can see why he might feel that way, considering his overdeveloped pride. "All that matters is that he thinks it is. I just want him around."

She frowns. "He must be a pretty good friend, if you're going to get all sappy about it," she comments dryly, and I feel myself blush.

"He is," I say sharply, swallowing the last of my drink and getting to my feet. "Maybe I'll see you around next summer, if you're back," I say coolly as I turn to walk away. She's pissed me off with her sarcastic little dig, and even knowing she hasn't jerked my chain intentionally, I'm suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the crowd. I miss Vince, and the strength of that feeling scares me.

"Roger, wait." She lays a light hand on my wrist and I freeze. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean -"

I don't let her finish. Instead, I cup her jaw in my hands and kiss her deeply, tasting her gin and tonic on her lips, then on her tongue as I go deeper. Surprise widens her eyes, so I see the pupils dilate at the same time I feel her nipples harden against my chest and she sags against me as if her knees are about to buckle, her arms sliding around my waist. She's snug against me, and I know she feels me, knows how hard I am. When I break the kiss and step away from her, she catches my hand, thumb brushing the palm and up the inside of my wrist lightly.

"Roger," she begins, slightly breathless.

"I think I made my point," I say and shake her hand off, taking another step backward, away from her.

Her laugh is empty of amusement. "I thought it was the woman who was supposed to be a tease," she says bitterly. "You're going to kiss me like that and leave?"

I shrug. "I thought you doubted my... ability to perform," I say, thawing slightly.

"I never doubted your ability," she says, her eyes darkening again. "I just wondered where your sights were set."

"That answer your question?" I ask. With my usual mercurial perverseness, I'm now amused at the idea that she wondered, when it pissed me off less than a minute ago. I never said I was predictable.

Her answering kiss is all the 'yes' I need and she doesn't resist when I lead her off.

It doesn't take us long to find a semi-respectable hotel and secure a room. I lock the door behind us and turn to find her barefoot, pulling her shirt over her head. I flash on Vince two days before, when he did the same thing, with the same objective in mind. She's not wearing a bra, and her breasts are perfect. They fill my hands without vanishing under my palms, nipples and areolas the palest rose. I run my thumbs over them, feeling them tighten, then bend my head to suckle each of them, feeling them harden further as the wetness chills delicate flesh. It's been months since I've fucked a woman, and I'm pleasantly surprised at how much I want this one. The subtle female taste of her nipples is noticeably different than Vinnie's, and I decide to make a detailed comparison. I concentrate on her breasts and mouth while she unbuttons my shirt and unfastens my jeans, sliding her hands down inside over my ass. I do the same to her, relishing the sensual slipperiness of her silk underwear under my hands. I push her jeans down her long legs, crouching in front of her and nuzzling her belly as she catches hold of my shoulders and steps out of the pants.

I move my head lower, towards the source of the spicy muskiness of her scent mixed with the faintest of perfumes that wafts into my nose. The heat between her thighs is sending the subtle scent weaving through my senses, intoxicating, intensely erotic. I definitely like girls. I particularly like this one. I can feel the crisply springy curls of her pubic hair through her panties, and I run my tongue over the fabric covering her labia. Her own arousal has soaked the material, and the taste of her is lemony, slightly salty, completely delectable.

I feel her fingers thread through my hair, cradling my skull, and I hear her moan as I slide my fingers under the edge of the panties and into her. She's dripping wet, slick, ready for me, eager.

"God, Roger," she sighs.

I pull my fingers out of her and glance up at her as I put them into my mouth, sucking them clean, savoring the taste of her.

She laughs down at me silently, breasts bobbing enticingly with her amusement. I relieve her of the panties and bury my nose in the dark copper of her damp pubic hair, waxed into the narrow tell-tail triangle that tells me she wears a bikini. I knew she was a real redhead...

I love oral sex. There's an immediacy about it, a total involvement with a partner. You can sense every change of mood, readiness and pleasure. Women definitely taste different than men, delicately scented and flavored, exotic, while men are potent, pungent. It's a little like the difference between tea and coffee. Tess is like jasmine tea, floral, smoothly acidic, exquisite in both bouquet and taste, and I linger between her thighs doing things that have her quaking, moaning, sweating, begging me for release. I back off again, determined to make sure she's completely convinced of my experience as a lover of women, and slowly rise to a standing position in front of her, tasting the rest of her along the way, finally taking possession of her mouth again to let her taste herself. Her tongue flirts along mine and I take her full lower lip between my teeth gently, letting her feel the edge in me that's never far away. It's one of the things Vince and I have both discovered we like, the slight intimation of danger, the hint that pain and pleasure aren't unrelated, the little rush of adrenaline that heightens sensation. Tess is apparently one of us. She nips me back just hard enough to make the point and I feel her hands inside my jockey shorts, warm around me.

Now she slides along my chest, her breasts brushing against me all the way down, and then takes off my jeans and underwear simultaneously. Her mouth on me is volcanic, her tongue and teeth demonic, and she has me at her mercy in minutes. Like Vince, she's into prolonging things as much as possible, bringing me to the edge then pulling me back, only to lead me up to it again. And again. Until both of us are beyond waiting any longer. I pick her up and drop her on the bed, falling onto it beside her, pinning her legs with one of my own as I latch onto her breast again. She strokes my hair gently, running a fingertip along the edge of my ear as she opens her legs to me. I accept the invitation without bothering to remember to use the condoms I carry with me. I got out of the habit of using them with Vince, who tested clean in the hospital before they released him into my custody, and who has kind of a thing about them. As I move into her, I'm struck by the flash of recollection, the feel of a woman's body around me, her juices and mine mingling in that primal biological dance. It's incredibly sensual.

We make love as slowly as we can, until we're both at a fever pitch, and as her hands sweep down my back to my buttocks, she urges me deeper in, her body moving to meet me as she arches her spine, her head back, keening her pleasure with a trill like a mocking bird. She comes like an atomic explosion, and her orgasm triggers mine, pumping into her heat, quenching the fire in us both. I stay where I am, held by her legs wrapping around me, her ankles crossed over the backs of my thighs, feeling her caress over my buttocks as I soften within her. I go back to playing with her breasts, sucking on her still-hard nipples, teasing them with teeth and tongue. I feel her lips against my forehead, her hands stroking along my back. We lie there like that for a long time, feeling each other's heartbeats as they slow to normal. I like facing my partner when I'm having sex, and it's one of the things I consider a drawback when I'm with Vince. I want to see into their eyes, know that the universe has narrowed to just the two of us, that the earth has moved for them. Call it egocentric. But Vinnie's eyes are like doorways into his soul; a blue so pure it could have been stolen from a summer evening. Looking into them at moments like that is like swimming in the heavens. Or maybe flying.

Tess's are emerald, flecked with amber, and right now, her pupils are dilated, the expression in them dreamy, like she's still light years from the mundane world in whatever place it is she goes. "Mmmm," she sighs and focuses on me again. "God, it's been a long time."

"Since what?" I ask her, kissing her lightly.

"Since I've been laid, smart-guy," she retorts, smiling against my mouth.

This surprises me, and I draw back to look at her. "Not through lack of male interest," I deny.

She laughs. "No, just my own lack of interest in the choices available," she tells me.

"Are you trying to stroke my ego?" I ask, suppressing a smile.

"If it gets me some more of whatever that was, I'll stroke a lot more than your ego, lover boy." She eyes me with that same flare of sarcasm I saw earlier, and it unsettles me, making me wonder what I've gotten myself into, here. Is she a world class tease, or is she serious? She can tell I'm wondering, and the sarcasm lingers a moment longer before she smiles, dispelling both the attitude and the tremors in my fragile male ego.

"We'll see what we can do," I say.

"What about your flight?" she asks, and I realize she was assuming this was going to be a quickie, hence the sarcasm. Well, hell, that's what I assumed, too, but all work and no play makes Roger Lococco a very dull boy. And I definitely want some more of 'whatever that was'.

"There's always another one," I tell her, cocking an eyebrow.

She begins to laugh as her hands slip over my back. "Maybe I'll make that the philosophy of my life," she says, then kisses me.

We spend the next several hours making love, and I can't help wishing Vince was here to share this little redheaded treasure with me. He'd've liked her. A lot. I wonder if she'd be open to the idea of a threesome as I hold her against my chest, her back to me, buried to the balls in her dripping cunt while I play her with the lightest of touches, alternating between the satin skin of the inside of her thighs and the taut little nub of her clitoris, making occasional forays over her belly and breasts for the sake of variation. I bring her to orgasm four or five times in rapid succession before my own release takes on an undeniable urgency, and I decide to press my luck and take her in the ass, pulling out of her and urging her onto all fours, then positioning myself. I hear her little gasp of surprise, then feel her press back against my thighs, allowing me in. I'm so slick with her juices that penetration is relatively easy. The fact that she's willing, maybe even eager, and that I'm moving as slowly as I can to minimize the discomfort helps, too, and when I'm as deep as I can get, I reach forward between her thighs with one hand while I hold her around the waist with my other arm, and I begin to move. This time, there's nothing gentle about it, and I focus on my own satisfaction, her tiny whimpers of pleasure as I stroke her assuring me that I'm not alone on this particular ride. We come together, a shuddering, heaving convulsion of pelvic muscles that feed each other's orgasms before reaction kicks in and we collapse back on the mattress, breathless and sweaty.

"Where have you been all my life?" she asks as she stretches, lithe as any cat, and guides one of my hands back to her breast. "I could spend the rest of my life in bed with you."

I laugh silently into her thick silky hair, smelling the subtle fragrance of her shampoo mingled with that indefinable essence of her own. I have to admit, the idea has a certain appeal. "I wish you'd met Vinnie before he left," I say.

She turns her head to look at me over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched. "He's your friend? The one Davey was talking about?" she asks.

"Yeah. Vince Terranova. You'd have liked him. And I can guarantee he'd have liked you."

She pulls free of me, rolling onto her side to face me, and props her elbow on the bed, resting her head in her hand as she smiles down at me faintly, very obviously not missing the implication. "So you share everything with him?" she asks, curiously.

I spend a few seconds thinking about how I want to answer that, knowing that saying yes is going to open a can of worms that still makes me squeamish when I think about it in company other than Vinnie's. Having a male lover is not part of my self image, and it's definitely not part of the image I cultivate in the eyes of others. I wonder what McPike would say, or what he did said, if Vince let him in on the little change in our relationship. I wonder if Frank has been down that road himself, maybe with Vince? Now I'm just rubbing salt in the wounds of Vinnie's desertion, postulating a liaison with McPike. But it's occurred to me as a possibility before, and maybe I'll ask Vince about it some day. Meanwhile, Tess is waiting patiently for an answer, and the length of the silence is probably telling her more than a response would have. So I wade in with both feet, hoping - shit, I don't know - that someday honesty now may see the three of us in the same bed. It'd be a hellova lot of fun. "Yeah, when he'll let me," I say after a considerable pause.

"When he'll let you?" she repeats, confused.

"We're having an ongoing disagreement on how I should dispose of my ill-gotten gains. I want to split it with him, he doesn't think money is important." In for a penny, in for a pound, I figure.

She's intrigued, now. "What does he think is important?" she wants to know.

A good question, and one I'm still working on pinning down. But there's one safe answer, and a true one. "Family," I say.

"I don't see that those two things are necessarily at odds," Tess comments, interested in the direction the conversation has turned. I don't either, but Vince has an idiosyncratic take on honor that makes him resistant to the notion of accepting help, or in this case, half of a good-sized fortune. The money I did get him to accept, he used in a vain attempt at altruism by giving it to McPike to fund his wife's liver transplant. Oh, the transplant worked, alright, but she left Frank as soon as she got out of the hospital. I think they finally got the divorce finalized just before Vince disappeared into the jungles of El Salvador.

"In my opinion, they aren't," I agree. "He knows I consider him all the family I've got, so what the hell is the problem?" The topic is pushing my buttons, and I roll onto my back to stare up at the ceiling of our rented love nest. No mirrors, thank god, not that I don't like watching, but there are limits.

"So how does he feel about you?" she asks quietly.

That is the big question. And the truth is, I don't exactly know. Not all of it, anyway. And I'm realizing the answer to that question is beginning to take on considerable significance, at least to me. "Good question," I say, more than a little sharply. "He didn't exactly take off under the best of circumstances," I admit.

She hesitates before she asks the next question. The one I've been dreading. "Are you sleeping with him?" she wants to know.

"Yes," I tell her flatly. "It just kind of... happened. I saved his life a few months ago, and maybe it was his way of saying 'thanks'," I say sarcastically.

She thinks about it for a few minutes. "You don't strike me as the type," she says at last.

I can't help the ironic laugh. "I'm not," I say. "It came as a major surprise to me to fall for him the way I have."

She eyes me, considering this. "Was it his idea or yours? To sleep together, I mean."

"That depends on your take on things," I answer. "He made the first move, but it wasn't like the thought hadn't occurred to me. I was pretty sure it was something I wanted, paradigm-changing though it was."

She ignores the sarcasm, recognizing it for what it is; vulnerability and the associated fear. She runs a palm over my chest softly, as if she's stroking a pet. "You love him?" she asks, then laughs at herself. "Of course you do, or you wouldn't want him... sexually, I mean." Her expression is contemplative, focused inward on her own thoughts as she mulls over the whole discussion. After a while, she continues. "So why did he leave you?"

"He didn't leave me," I snap, stung by the same criticism I've leveled at Vince in the privacy of my own thoughts. It's a whole different proposition to hear them voiced. By someone else. "His mother is in the hospital with some kind of chronic heart condition. He went home to see her."

"Ahh," she murmurs, "the family thing again. Why didn't you go with him to wherever it is?"

"New York," I say shortly. "Because I can't stand his mother. And I'm reasonably sure the feeling is mutual. She considers me a bad influence on her perfect son. And she may very well be right." The bitterness in my voice catches me by surprise, and her, too.

"What about him?" she asks gently.

"What about him? He's not a bad influence on me, he's perfect," I say with heavy irony.

"That's not what I meant, Roger," she says. "Does he think she's right? What sort of influence does he think you are on him?"

I turn my head to stare at her, not knowing the answer to that question, and realizing I should.

"What sort of influence is he on you?" she wants to know.

That one's easy. "He gave me back something I didn't even know I'd lost," I say quietly, looking back up at the ceiling again.

The long silence prompts her to press me. "And what was that?" she asks.

"My honor." I go quiet for a second, then rephrase. "No, make that my humanity, my soul. Honor is only a facet of a whole spectrum of things I lost somewhere along the way. And Vince forced me to face that. We're... like reflections in a mirror, sweet thing. He's the light, I'm the dark. Only, a little of his light's rubbed off on me, like it or not. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. A bullet to the head would have been a lot less painful."

The bleakness in my tone troubles her, and she brushes the side of her forefinger along my jaw delicately. "And a lot less fun," she reminds me. "Is loving him really so scary you'd rather be dead?"

I stare at her in silence as the words penetrate. Something in my chest aches, and my eyes blur. I blink rapidly to clear my vision. It takes a second to figure out what it is I'm feeling. Despair. Yes, I'd rather be dead than lose him, or realize he doesn't need me in his life the way I need him, want him in mine. Permanently. Intimately. Inextricably. Jesus Christ, I really am in love. It's a new one on me, and right now, it hurts like hell. "Losing him is," I say.

"Have you told him that?" she prods.

"This isn't exactly a 'guy' kind of conversation," I laugh, the sound strangled.

She scowls at me. "It the sort of conversation two people who love each other should be able to have, Roger, whoever they are. It's not about 'guy-ness', or 'girl-ness', or 'gay-ness, or 'straight-ness'. It's about love. And you are definitely in love, in case you hadn't noticed."

I have. Believe me, I have. But I hadn't realized it was written all over me in letters ten feet high. I'm startled when she lies back down beside me, an arm across my waist, stroking my hair with her other hand. It's oddly comforting in a platonic sort of way, and the warmth of her against my side eases some of the dull pain in my chest. I fall asleep with her holding me, something I've only done with two other people in my adult life.

When I wake at dawn, Tess MacTavish is gone.

I lie there wondering where the hell she went, and it takes me close to an hour to realize who she is, and why she went to bed with me the night before. My pulse skyrockets as I grope for the phone and start calling every number I have memorized for Vince. I leave messages for him at the little house he 'inherited' from his mother when she married the Godfather, then leave one for McPike and the Lifeguard. I wrack my brain to try and recall the name of the hospital his mother is at, failing as something like panic buzzes through my skull, making it hard to think. I get hold of my local pilot and tell him to meet me at the Lear in an hour for a trip to New York, then grab a shower in world record time and try to wrap my brain around the fact that Tess didn't kill me last night while she had the chance.

Frank catches me as I'm about to leave the hotel, and I take the call, trying not to let my apprehension show in my voice.

"What the hell is going on?" McPike demands irritably, the equivalent of a good mood, for him. A shame I'm going to have to spoil his day.

"I'm reasonably sure a CIA agent named Tess MacTavish is on her way to New York right now to kill Vince," I announce grimly. "If she's not Company, then she's freelance, and either way, she's probably gunning for Vinnie."

"Why?! Jesus Christ, Lococco, what the hell did you get him involved in?"

Why he immediately assumes this is my fault escapes me, but it pisses me off, which helps counter the adrenaline levels some. "You want the whole list? It could be unfinished business with General Masters, or it could have to do with the Salvadoran thing he was mixed up in. I mean, they've already tried to eliminate him!" I retort sharply. "And that's not even counting any of his mob connections that might have found a reason for icing him with that stupid eulogy of yours blowing his cover wide open." I'm starting to build up a head of steam, and it's a good thing McPike is almost a thousand miles away, or I'd be inclined to reach down his throat and pull out his spleen.

The silence on his end is thunderous, and I can almost feel him struggling to get a grip on that Irish temper of his. Despite the last name, my own ancestry is primarily Irish, so I share that trait with him. Both of us work on it for a minute, then he goes on.

"What makes you so sure this MacTavish woman is an assassin?" he asks grimly.

"Trust me, Frank. I recognize muscle when I see it." Even if I don't always spot it right away. Particularly not when it comes in as appealing a package as Tess. "Run the name through your computers and see what you come up with, but I'm betting you won't find her, not unless you look under a lot of rocks. The physical description may help, or at least give you and Vince some idea what you're looking for until I can get there -"

"If she's after Vince, she's probably after you, too. Just stay the hell out of the way and let me handle this," Frank interrupts.

Like hell. "You don't know what you're dealing with, here, Frank," I snap. "Now do you want a description, or don't you?" I take the silence as an affirmative and continue. "She's about five seven, maybe five eight, red hair, green eyes, all hers, not the cosmetic industry's. Double pierce in the left ear -" like mine "- small tattoo on her right hip. Slender build, in great shape."

"How do you know she has a fucking tattoo?" Frank demands. "I thought she was trying to kill you, not sleep with you!"

"Yeah, well, she kind of forgot the killing part after we tangled between the sheets," I snarl, beyond caring what he makes of that little tidbit. "Make that 'tangoed'," I correct myself, then slam the receiver down and roar out of the hotel lobby to catch the first cab I see to the airport.

*******

Frank meets me at a west Long Island municipal airfield and drives me into Brooklyn toward the hospital Vince's mother is currently terrorizing, the frigid silence suiting my mood perfectly. I use the twenty minutes it takes to look over the file Frank's put together on Tess. Make that Theresa. Theresa MacTavish, thirty four, graduated in the top three percent of her class out of Stanford with a degree in political theory and economics and a minor in diplomacy. Held a high-profile job as an analyst for a Wall Street investment firm, until she disappeared off the maps at the age of twenty six. The information from that point on is sketchy, and none of it confirms her employment in the CIA, but it is plenty suggestive.

I glance at McPike, whose attention is divided between me and the traffic he's plowing through. "This it?" I ask.

"So far," he agrees shortly. "If your girlfriend is a spook, she's in deep. Maybe as deep as you were."

"She'd have to be, if she's cleared to execute sanctioned targets," I reply coldly.

He's quiet for another mile or so. "Did you really sleep with her?" he asks at last. This time he's the one who takes the silence as an affirmative. "Why didn't she kill you when she had the opportunity?"

"That is the sixty four thousand dollar question," I admit starkly, unable to come up with an answer that's even remotely plausible. I've been asking myself the same thing all day, my mind running around and around that single question like a greyhound on a track, following some tantalizingly out of reach quarry. I may be conceited, but even I am not vain enough to assume I was good enough in bed to make her think twice about her assignment. The best possibility is that she slept with me to get an idea where she could find Vince. What her agenda was beyond that, I'm not sure. Maybe he's her only target. Maybe she figured I was so sloppy she could swing back and take me out any time she wanted. Or maybe... Maybe this was all about me leading her straight to Vinnie. I swear under my breath, furious that panic propelled me into action before all the ramifications of the situation had sorted themselves out. "Shit," I say aloud, and Frank turns his head to glance at me, frowning.

"What?" he wants to know.

"Shit. Shit. Shit." I stare out the windshield of the nondescript government issue sedan we're in and try to put the pieces together. "She played me. One way or the other, she played me like a violin," I say bitterly.

"Yeah, well that's plenty obvious, Einstein," Frank responds, his endearingly scathing wit out and ready to be sharpened on my hide. "So what is it? What's bugging you?"

"Have you been checking for tails?" I demand.

McPike glares at me. "I've been doing this a long time, Roger," he growls. "I don't need you to explain how to do the job."

"So what if our little redheaded trigger woman is out there, waiting to see which direction I run? Hoping I'll lead her straight to Vince?" I'm gratified to see the color fade from his face.

"Shit."

My sentiments exactly. "It's the easiest way for her to acquire him," I say. "It's also one of the oldest tricks in the book: if you're looking for something someone else doesn't want you to find, the fastest way to do it is to convince them you already know where it is. When they go running off to make sure it's where they left it, you tag along and help yourself." I don't tell him I gave her the general direction already, me and my big mouth. That's not the only thing that makes me cringe, inwardly, either. The idea of the CIA discovering my... extracurricular sexual activities with Vince makes my balls shrink into my abdomen. I'm on record as a womanizer, not a catamite.

"Okay, we're playing in your arena, Lococco. How do you want to handle this?" Frank asks eventually.

"Drop me somewhere. Anywhere. Preferably not in Brooklyn. Then bring Vince to me at the Astoria tonight. I'll meet you in the main lobby. I want to brief him myself," I add. I want a lot more than that, but first things first.

McPike nods and noses the car onto the cross town throughway that'll take us over the Brooklyn bridge into Manhattan.

It's about six in the evening when I check myself into the Waldorf Astoria hotel and scope out my rooms. Out of habit, I've chosen a suite, though this time my ulterior motive is the anticipation of conning Vince back into my bed. I pay a visit to the in-house men's shop and pick up a suit, black silk, and a silver gray silk shirt to go with, a black and dark gray harlequin patterned tie completing the ensemble. If nothing else, it can be used to bury me in.

Vince says he can always tell what mode I'm in by what I'm wearing - on duty, off duty, tough guy or smart ass, apparently I gravitate to different attire. I can't say I'd noticed, but it's a peculiarly intimate thing for Vinnie to have picked up on, and I intend to use it to my advantage. I need him to take me seriously. Take the threat Tess poses seriously. Wearing the slick, expensive hired gun get-up seems like a good way to help make the point. Because I take her seriously. Very seriously. She knows how to play the game, and more importantly, she knows how to play me. It's not an easy thing to do, but she did it without breaking a sweat. Even Vinnie usually has to work harder at it than she did. It's unnerving in retrospect to realize I'm no different than anyone else, that I have my blind spots, my defensive weaknesses... especially where lovers seem to be involved. The thing that gets me is that if I hadn't behaved like such an ass to Vince, I might never have been in the position of needing to cry on Tess's shoulder in the first place. I screwed up. Big time. And I've put both Vince and myself in jeopardy. I know that whichever of us is her primary target, she'll definitely try for both of us if the opportunity presents itself.

Even more than that, though, I need to make peace with Vince. I have no idea how bad off his witch of a mother is, or what his state of mind is as a result, but we need to talk, something I don't have much practice with. My interpersonal skills are fairly primitive, since the bulk of my career has been spent solo. Retirement includes the luxury of time, time to break old habits, learn new ones. Intimacy is the habit I seem to be working on establishing at the moment.

I guess it's mostly about trust. And for the most part, trust has been a commodity in extremely short supply in my life. It's a luxury I just haven't been able to afford, till now. Till Vince. Aside from Preet, he's probably the only person I've ever trusted completely, without reservation. He's totally straightforward with his personal beliefs, his philosophy, the things that motivate him. There's basically no mystery about him. At least not to me. It's strange to know someone as well as I know him, to understand him as well as I do. It's even stranger to know I'm known, understood, that well. It's frightening in a way I can't really explain, highlighting my vulnerabilities, triggering deeply held insecurities about my worth as a man, a human being. But there's a weird sort of comfort in knowing that, despite how well Vinnie knows me, he still considers me a friend. I wish I could say he loves me, but basically, a good-sized part of me has a hard time understanding why he would, or believing that he does. And I'm insecure enough, I realize abruptly, that I'm not sure I'd believe him, even if he said the words. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty pathetic state of affairs to find yourself in at the halfway point of your life. With that particularly gloomy thought, I snug the tie up under my collar and head down to the lobby to meet with the object of my affections, and his terrier of a former boss, Frank McPike.

I watch them as they walk in the front doors, McPike warily scanning the light crowds for any sign of me or Tess the hitman. Vince is looking around, too, but I know he's looking for me. There's an intensity in the way he's peering over the heads of the lesser mortals that eddy and drift around the hotel lobby that he reserves for things he cares about, and some of the knot in the pit of my stomach unwinds. I know Tess is nowhere around, unless she picked up Vince on her own, through luck, skill or happenstance. I sure as hell jumped through enough hoops to make sure I couldn't be followed to the hotel.

Vinnie spots me first, and I see the expression in his eyes lighten as worry is replaced by relief. He wades through the people politely, avoiding them instinctively, his eyes never leaving mine. It's a good thing he wasn't this focused when I let him see me on the streets of DC three years ago after my supposed demise. I'd never have lost him if he'd been this intent then. Of course, now, losing him isn't the point. He reaches me and sweeps me into a bear hug that's mercifully short and uncompromising, as those positions go, Frank arriving a moment later. I lead them into the dim hotel bar, decorated in vintage Old-Boy style, dark paneled, high ceilinged, tall booths lending an illusion of privacy. What we need is more than the illusion, and I've made arrangements to use a small room that's available for private functions. I shut the door after them as they trail in after me, and turn to face them.

"How's your mother?" I ask, Vince, hoping to get it over with first thing.

His grin tells me he sees right through me. "Better. She'll be released tomorrow or the next day. I think Rudy's been more upset by the whole thing than mom was," he says. "Now tell us what the hell is going on. Who's Theresa MacTavish?"

"McPike showed you the file, right? Well, you know as much about her as I do," I tell him shortly. His expression is skeptical, amused, but he doesn't press me for details. I can see he's planning on saving that for later. "The short version is that I'll lay odds she's looking to waste one or both of us, and she let me figure it out so I could lead her to you."

"Rog, there's nothing in that file to say she's with the CIA, much less some kind of assassin," he protests. He's watching me, evaluating me, and I see the furrow on his forehead as my formal attire sinks in.

"You aren't the one who met her, Buckwheat," I say flatly. "Just trust me on this, okay?" I head for the small bar that lines one wall and draw a trio of beers from the tap, handing each of them one as I take mine to the single table that sits in the middle of the barren room. "Vince, you can pretty much bet on the fact that she's in New York, and looking to pick you up at the places you usually go. Most of them are in your records, and the CIA isn't going to let a little thing like a citizen's right to privacy stand in the way of their pulling every iota of information the DOJ has on you out of the computers. Don't go home, don't go to your mother's, don't go to any of the places you usually hang out until we can find her."

"Roger, the easiest way to find her is to let her find us. You know that as well as I do," Vince contradicts.

This was not the direction I wanted this conversation to take. "I'm not risking either of our lives, Vince. You need to disappear. Permanently. So do I. I've got all my escape hatches in place, but I want you to come with me." His eyes darken with that stubbornness that warns me I'm going to have a fight on my hands, just when a fight was the last thing I wanted.

"Lococco's right, Vince. You have to leave this part of your life behind you. Between Masters and the mob heavies you've been responsible for putting away, your list of enemies is longer than some politicians'. I can put you through witness protection, bury you in obscurity somewhere, but I know you'll never stay put. But if you go with him," he nudges a shoulder in my direction, "you can watch each other's backs. Keep each other alive. And we all know Lococco has the resources to support a lifestyle most people would love the opportunity to become accustomed too."

"Frank, we've had this discussion before," Vinnie says mulishly. "As long as I have family here, I'm not running away. Not when people I care about can be used as leverage against me. Which means we stop this Theresa MacTavish before she has the same idea."

"Vinnie, even if we stop her, the Company will just send someone else. And they'll keep right on sending them until you're dead, or they can't find you anymore," McPike protests. "You can't beat the whole goddamned Agency!"

Vince folds his arms across his chest in a gesture that implicitly illustrates he's closed himself off from rational argument. His damned nobility, his exasperating pig-headedness, have me gritting my teeth in an effort to hold my tongue.

McPike recognizes it, too. "Vince, the only family you have left in New York they can use that way is your mother, and she's married to the former head of the Mafia's ruling Council! Anyone makes a move on her, and he can have the whole organization after whoever did it in the time it takes to make one phone call. Even the CIA is going to take that seriously."

Vinnie's laugh is harsh. "Rudy is seventy five years old, Frank. He can't protect anyone! Especially not my mother. I'm responsible for bringing this trouble down on her, so I'm responsible for cleaning it up. End of discussion."

"Goddammit, Vince, I'll shoot the old bag myself and remove her as an issue," I snarl, knowing I've just made a huge mistake. "Don't you think she'd rather know you're alive and well somewhere in witness protection - or even with me - than dead in a ditch somewhere?"

The glare he shoots at me is absolutely poisonous. "Fuck you, Roger. Stay the hell out of this. She's my mother, for god's sake. I know that doesn't mean anything to you, but it does to me! You don't know the first thing about family!"

Okay, that hurts. Granted, family, the way he means, is essentially nonexistent to me, but as a soldier, a Marine, I am all too familiar with the concept of loyalty, of the need to protect your fellow brothers in arms. I know if I open my mouth again, we're going to launch into another battle that's not going to get us anywhere except into trouble.

Vince turns back to McPike. "Theresa MacTavish is the problem, here, not me. And I am not leaving my mother unprotected. Period."

Frank sighs, burying his face in his hands, wearily. "I can wangle a couple of agents to stand guard outside her room, at least for a few days," he says reluctantly.

"And then what? Huh?" Vince challenges. "You said it yourself, Frank, the Agency will just keep sending people until they get what they want." I watch Frank's face settle into lines of helpless dissatisfaction.

I know exactly how McPike feels. "Then maybe I should just shoot you now, and get it over with," I state coldly to Vinnie. "At least I can make sure it's as painless as possible." I'm so frustrated with Vince right now that I'm almost serious. He narrows his eyes at me with that look that tells me I'd better shut up or the next words out of my mouth will be punctuated by his fist.

Vince and Frank go a few more rounds and I tune out the argument in favor of watching Vince at his most annoyingly passionate. It amazes me that after the four or five years he and McPike have worked hand in glove under incredibly dangerous circumstances, Frank still doesn't know when he's lost the battle. Vince is not leaving. Not as long as Mommy dearest is still alive and kicking.

I finish my beer and massage the back of my neck, trying to come up with some sort of plan, something that will pry Vince loose from his mother's apron strings. Oddly enough, it may very well be that the noxious old woman is the best potential ally I have in getting him the hell out of Dodge. I think about this some more, knowing that getting in to see her will be the easy part. Getting her to listen to what I have to say is the weak point in the nebulous scheme that's slowly coalescing in my brain. But if I can convince her it's up to her to make the sacrifice, to give her son permission to do what he has to to save his own life, absolve him of the responsibility for her safety, then maybe, just maybe, I can get him out of here.

My attention is returned abruptly to my surroundings as Vince slams his hand down on the table in a fit of temper he usually reserves for me. This time, it's directed at Frank. "No. That's it. I'm done arguing about it with you, Frank. No witness protection, at least not until this mess is straightened out." He turns to me. "Okay, Roger, who is the bitch, and how'd you run across her?' he demands.

"I assume you mean Tess, not your precious mother," I say acidly, ignoring the dangerous flare of his nostrils. "Like I said, you know as much about her as I do, if you read what Frank's dug up on her so far."

"Like hell, Rog. You know a hellova lot more about her than any computer if you know she's got a tattoo on her ass!"

"It's on her hip, and the rest of what I know isn't going to be of any help to us, anyway," I say through clenched teeth.

He stares at me, eyes narrowing. "But she helped you, didn't she?" he asks, and with a start, I realize the green-eyed monster he's battling right now is jealousy, in the guise of Tess MacTavish's assumed attentions on my person. I can't help the grin. Fair's fair, after all. I'm jealous of his mother, he's jealous of my most recent lover. Suddenly I'm tired of fighting with him, and I wish McPike would disappear and let us make up (and out) in peace.

"Vince, she used me to lead her to you, and I didn't figure it out until the damage was done. I just got you back and I'm damned if I was gonna risk your life again, so here I am, trying to figure out how to end this without either or both of us ending up in the morgue, and all you can do is moan about the fact that I think with my dick like every other man on the planet? Enough, already." That is the limit of the detail I'm willing to go into with Frank McPike sitting here with us. The rest of it can wait till we're alone.

I see the moment his eyes lighten to that sky-at-sunrise blue that tells me he understands that I understand he knows what happened, and that he knows what I wish were happening right now. My groin aches for the feel of his huge hands on me, the taste of his mouth, his cock. The sexual energy that flashes between us is unmistakable. Even McPike knows he's missing the subtext, and he looks from one to the other of us.

Vince and I look into each other's eyes for a long minute before Vinnie turns his head to address Frank. "Alright. I'll listen to what Roger has to say on this subject before I decide, but it's going to have to be a private conversation, if you're really serious about me disappearing. Even you can't know where Roger goes when he's not babysitting me."

I watch Frank bite back on his protest. He knows Vince is right, even if he also knows something is going on that he can't quite put a finger on. He also knows not to let on that he's aware I call San Francisco home, most of the time. After a minute, he swallows off the last of his beer and gets up. "Okay, I'll leave. I know when to take a hint. But I don't want either of you setting foot outside this hotel until you've talked to me. I want to know where you two are at all times. Got it?" he demands.

"Got it," Vince agrees. I nod. McPike leaves, reluctantly, but finally I have Vince to myself.

"You fucked her didn't you?" he asks, a faint smile flickering over his face, half wistful, half curious.

I nod. "You'd have liked her. She was hot, sweet, tight. I wish you'd been there."

"If I'd been there, we'd most likely both be dead," he points out dryly.

I know when to concede, and I grin. "If it makes you feel any better, I spent a lot of the time wondering what she'd be like with both of us. It'd be one hellova ride, Buckwheat," I assure him. "You ran off and left me alone on a beach in paradise, and I got lonesome," I jest with him, knowing he can see both the truth and the exaggeration in my face.

"You practically threw me off your island, Roger," he says softly, reaching across the little table to slide his hand up the back of my neck. He pulls me in toward the center of the table and rests his forehead against mine, staring into my eyes. I watch as his darken, see his pupils dilate, and know he's about to kiss me. The blood is rushing out of my head as his mouth covers mine gently, softly, and caution is the last thing I want. I want him. Right here, right now, and I can tell he knows it. His tongue brushes mine and I groan, catching his head in my hands and holding him as I practically jump down his throat, imagining it's my cock his tongue is circling like that.

"Vinnie," I whisper into his mouth, "fuck me."

He pulls back a fraction to stare at me, both startled and deeply aroused. "Here?" he answers, shocked.

I grin at him again, manic. "Chicken," I say lightly, and get his tongue down my throat for my insolence. If the goddamned table wasn't between us, our hands would be all over each other by now. We stumble to our feet, the chairs toppling back onto the floor with a clatter as he steps around the obstruction and yanks me against his chest, his mouth and tongue brushing the angle of my jaw on the way to my left earlobe. He flicks his tongue over the pair of earrings there, then returns to my mouth as his hand slides between our bodies to cup my penis where it tents the silk pants.

The low chuckle from the door shocks us like a dose of cold water.

"Get a room, guys," the barkeeper says as he peers in to check on the racket from the falling chairs, then backs out and closes the door. I hear the snick of the lock our interloper just activated, ensuring that we won't be interrupted again if we pick up where we left off.

Vince and I stare at each other. I'm exhilarated by the brush with public exposure, but I can see the blush that's coloring his cheekbones. "So?" I say, letting him interpret it any way he wants.

He's silent for maybe three heartbeats. "I say we take his advice," he says at last, kissing me lightly again and stepping away.

"I've already got one," I tell him, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

His laugh is a mingling of annoyance, resignation and amusement. "You are such a prick, Rog," he comments.

"Glad you noticed," I answer. I straighten my tie and jacket while he finger combs his hair, then we step bravely out into the bar and make our escape with nothing more than a lifted eyebrow from our friend the bartender. Part of me wishes we hadn't been interrupted, part of me wishes that Vince had picked up where we left off, afterwards, and part of me is relieved to be taking this to the secure privacy of a hotel suite. Because I have every intention of spending a long and sweaty night being fucked within an inch of my life. And with a cock the size of Vinnie's, it's not an exaggeration.

We get upstairs and I let us into my rooms, locking the door behind us. When I turn around, Vince is right there and I practically plow into him as I take a step. He catches me lightly by the upper arms and steadies me, then kisses me, making me wobble all over again. I swear to god, I haven't been this out of control since I was a teenager, whatever Vinnie may think. Yeah, I got my share of booty, but the kind of frantic impatience he brings on is practically cherry. Which, basically, I guess I am, at least emotionally.

"You really wanted me to... you know, downstairs?" he asks, curious, embarrassed, titillated.

I can feel his cock against my belly through his worn jeans, pressing against my own, and I answer without thinking, running my hands over his ass, pulling him closer against me. "Right now, I'll take you anywhere I can get you," I say, realizing I mean it. Another shock. But hell, New York has more than it's share of sexual deviants. Or alternatives. Or whatever you want to call it. And the answer is yes. If that's what it took, I'm pretty sure I'd bend over and take him up the ass in the middle of the Waldorf's grand lobby. Yeah, it'd cause a sensation, for about thirty seconds, but sex is basically wide open in a city like this. And fortunately, San Francisco is even more liberal in that regard. If I can get him out there, we can fuck in every cable car in the city, in every tourist trap, in every bar, hotel, motel, flophouse and alley, if that's what we decide we want. And right now, I want.

Vince laughs softly as he loosens my tie while I shrug out of the suit jacket and drop it on the floor. His hands on my belt nearly makes me come as he unbuckles me, then slips a hand under the waistband of the trousers, just barely grazing me. "Down, boy," he scolds when he feels me move against his fingers, and removes them. He strips me quickly, careful not to touch me, knowing how close I am, then sheds his own clothes in three seconds flat, pulling me into his embrace as he guides me blindly into one of the two bedrooms and we collapse onto the mattress.

I know I can't hold on much longer, adrenaline and testosterone a heady mix in my bloodstream that has me aroused beyond any hope of making this particular erection last more than another few minutes. "Vince," my croak brings relief in the form of his mouth on mine, moving down my throat, over my chest and belly until he surrounds me with wet heat. He lets me move into him, enticing me with the stroke of his tongue along the underside of my penis, and I begin to thrust with the rhythm that will ease the frantic need in me. I've never wanted someone like this - ever. I want the boundaries of our skins to dissolve, our bodies to fuse in that instant of perfect bliss, when my semen pumps down his throat in a torrent, my fingers laced through his hair as I grip his skull lightly, unable to stop the convulsive movement of my hips. He lets me set the pace, just caressing me with his tongue as I moan soundlessly. All I want is more. It's as if the orgasm has stripped away every sensory shield on every nerve, and instead of being released, eased, by my climax, I'm even more aroused than I was before. My pelvic muscles are contracting in shuddering waves as the orgasm lingers, my scrotum clenching and unclenching as my body tries to force every drop of semen out the end of my prick, still rock hard in Vinnie's mouth. It takes another five minutes before I can bare the thought of pulling out of his mouth.

When I do, he slides back up my body and wraps his arms around me, draping a thigh possessively over mine, pressing against me, belly to belly, his rampant cock bracing my finally softening one. "You okay, Rog?" he asks as he brushes his thumbs gently over my cheeks, and I'm shocked when I feel the wetness of tears there. He kisses me on the forehead, then on the eyelids when I'm unable to either answer or meet his worried gaze, and I taste both the salt of them and the bitterness of my sperm on his lips when he finally kisses me on the mouth. It's maybe the most tender kiss I've ever received, gentle, empathetic, exquisite.

The breath I draw is shaky, and I finally answer. "Sweet thing, I've never been better in my life," I tell him, charmed at his grin and the faint color that dusts his cheekbones. "You'd better remember how you did that, because I'm gonna want a repeat performance," I warn him.

He smiles as he brushes a lock of my wiry, wavy hair out of my face. "Count on it," he agrees.

We lie there, chest to chest, Vince stroking my back softly, just holding me as he looks into my eyes as though he's searching for something. His cock is still iron-hard between our bellies and I reach down to run my fingers over him, only to have him grip my wrist gently. "It's your turn, Buckwheat," I say with a half smile. "Maybe I can return the favor," I add, and he smiles as his mouth covers mine, still gently, heartbreakingly gently. Then I feel his hands slide down over my ass, fingertips running along the cleft between my buttocks, and I realize what he's asking for. Permission to make love to me the way I've asked him to, twice now. My stomach flutters with an unexpected case of butterflies, but my penis is already starting to harden again.

"Rog," he begins, still kissing me with that gentle insistence, his mouth punctuating his words. "Roger..." he repeats my name as though he's never spoken it before, or as though it was some word of endearment in a foreign language. "Roger, let me touch you."

"Yes," I answer, my mouth going suddenly dry as he runs his hands back up my spine to tangle his fingers in my hair, his tongue stroking mine with more urgency. He keeps kissing me, teeth grazing my lower lip as he sucks it into his mouth, then moves on to my throat, the angle of my jaw, and back to the earrings again. I hear the sigh of his breath as I feel the tip of his tongue trace wet fire along the ridges of my ear, and my own breathing starts to quicken again. Weird, disjointed thoughts flit through my mind like a flock of birds scattering in surprise. I'm glad I shaved again before I went downstairs to meet Vinnie... the wetness of his mouth cools the heat in my skin. I wonder what it's like, feeling him inside me, and the butterflies make another pass along with Vinnie's hands on my ass again. Ah, god, Vince, please. He knows I'm tense, he can feel it in the way all my muscles have tightened up under his touch, and he takes it slow, going back to kissing me, traveling down to my chest to suckle my left nipple as one hand moves between our bodies to caress my slowly reviving cock, then moving on to my balls.

"I won't hurt you, Rog," he whispers against my chest as he switches nipples, his teeth grazing me, sending little threads of fire along my nerves, headed straight for my groin. "I'd never hurt you." His voice is barely audible against my skin, but my muscles begin to loosen, thaw, and he senses it instantly. He slips his fingers behind my testicles and strokes a light touch along the perineum, moving on to my anus. I feel the teasing, infinitesimally delicate touch as though my skin has been stripped away to expose my nerves, and I expect his fingers to penetrate me. They don't. I feel the sudden tension in me drain away, diverted again by the things he's doing elsewhere. "You have any lubricant?" he asks quietly against my chest, glancing up at me, and I groan. So much for preparedness. I'd have failed as a boy scout, no question. "Rog, it's alright," he assures me as he stands, offering me a hand, hoisting me out of bed to stand in front of him. We're belly to belly again, and he's distracted by the contact, mouth and hands light on my skin.

"Where're we going?" I ask, my voice wobbling like my knees.

"The shower," Vince mumbles against my mouth, beginning to move in that direction.

One of the reasons I generally go for suites is that the accommodations are usually several steps above average. This particular bathroom is like set dressing for an Architectural Digest photo shoot. Marble counters, basins, tub and shower stall, sleek, elegant, and totally beside the point at the moment. What is important is that the shower is huge, a glass-enclosed cubical about seven feet square. He turns on the water one-handed as he goes on seducing me, that tongue of his probing the inside of my mouth like a curious snake. God, I want this, oh, god, yes. When the water is warm enough for his tastes, he steps backward into the stall, drawing me with him, and the water cascades over our heads, slicking his dark hair down and dripping off his aquiline nose.

Another bonus associated with high-end hotels is that all the bath accessories you could ever want are supplied for you. Vince squeezes liquid soap onto a wash cloth and starts soaping me down, bathing me the way he'd been kissing me, earlier, exploring me as though we've never done this before. He starts with my chest, and the roughness of the terrycloth against my nipples makes me tremble. But not as much as when he cups my balls gently in the cloth, moving outward along the shaft of my prick as it hardens further under his attentions. He kneels before me, washing my legs while I steady myself by grabbing hold of his shoulders. I'm glad I did when he goes down on me again and my already shaky equilibrium gets another jolt like lightning bolts from the blue. He slides his tongue between the foreskin and the head of my cock and I just about lose it on the spot as he tastes me, tastes the pre-ejaculate that beads at the tip. "Vince," I moan, my hands in his hair again. "God, please..."

And suddenly he's moved on, to my intense frustration, that is, until I feel him take my balls into his mouth, each in turn. The heat, and the roughness of his tongue on them brings me, shaking, to the edge of orgasm, prevented only by the pressure of his fingers behind them. "Jesus Christ, Vinnie," I beg, not knowing what I want, exactly, beyond release from the exquisite torment he visits upon me. And suddenly, his mouth is gone, and he rises to his feet like some Roman god, stepping around behind me and repeating his performance with the wash cloth on my back. He has one hell of future as a Geisha, if he can keep this up, I think dazedly when he begins in on my ass cheeks with one hand, his other massaging my abdomen softly, occasionally dipping down to stroke my cock lightly while the fingers on my ass move between the cheeks. Somewhere in there, he's switched from soap to bath oil, and I can feel the difference against my skin as he rubs it along the shaft of my penis and then moves back to my anus. This time, when he caresses the opening, he also fondles my balls, and the pleasure connection gets made on a neurological level. All I can do is stand there, panting, as he flirts with my ass, a finger, two, pushing slowly into me, then withdrawing. I stand, feet apart, water running over my skin the way his hands are, and I brace myself, gripping the bronze handrail that circles the inside of the stall's two glass walls. Vinnie, Vinnie, Vince, goddammit, please!

Vinnie's arm circles my waist, urging me to take a step backward, then a second as his hips, his cock, press against me. I stand, staring into the expanse of mirror above the sinks along the opposite wall, watching as Vince masturbates me gently. It's like watching someone else. It can't be me standing here, in another man's arms, begging for him to fuck me. This isn't who I am...

I feel the massive head of his cock against me, pushing into me, and he moves slowly, preventing me from freezing up on him by playing with me, teasing me, and the pleasure of his touch on my cock mingles with the pressure of his own moving into me. I feel sphincter muscles stretch, feel everything stretch, stretch beyond limits known in the past, stretch into the realm of pain. Pain that sears along my colon as he moves slowly, pausing as he gains fractions of inches at the time, pain that blurs into need as he moves deeper, then deeper still, until I've taken his whole gigantic prick, the head of it pressing past my prostate. And then he begins to move. His hands on my hips, he begins the thrusts that will bring us both to the orgasm that hovers tantalizingly just beyond our reach. The head of his cock slides back down past my prostate, and the sudden wave of intense pleasure that floods through me is repeated as he moves back into me, then out, then back, withdrawing further each time until only his glans is held within me, and he pounds back into me like a battering ram. I'm panting his name, mindless need, frantic desire, exploding through me with every one of his thrusts, and I know I'm on the very verge of the most intense orgasm of my life. I can feel my cock jerking with the pre-climax muscle contractions that radiate through my pelvis, and Vince nails me again, then again, like a jackhammer, and I come. Harder than I've ever come in my life. Harder than I thought possible. Harder even than the orgasm he brought me to less than an hour before. My soul is being ripped loose, torn from it's moorings, and as I feel Vinnie come, white hot semen pumping into me, I stare into our reflections in the mirror, see the concentration on Vinnie's face, his head thrown back, teeth clenched against the intensity of his own release. His grip on my hips is almost painful, and it and my own white-knuckled grasp on the rail are the only things keeping me upright. I stand there, staring at the strangers in the mirror across from me, my brain and my body drifting further and further apart as nerves and muscle relax, trembling, the warmth of Vinnie's body in me, against me, comforting me on a physical level, supporting me against the shaking that grips my limbs. This can't be happening to me. This is not who I am, goddammit! My throat tightens, and my heart continues to race, now with adrenaline, rather than arousal. I've been fucked before, goddammit. Anger and fear I recognize, and I embrace them like old friends against the stunning, world-altering realization that I have just been taken somewhere I've never been before.

Vince loosens his grip on me and his hands slide up my belly with the same delicate touch he's used throughout this whole... event. I don't know what the hell else to call it. I'm adrift, bearings gone, everything I thought I knew about myself destroyed by the man holding me so gently. I'd thought I'd wanted him before, wanted what had grown between us. What I wanted was possession. Of Vince. For him to bend his will to mine. For him to follow my lead. For him to take what I could give him. I never understood what it was he could give me, beyond the same blind obedience I demanded from any of the men I've commanded. Vinnie nuzzles the angle where my neck joins my shoulder, his exhalation warm, and his tongue makes its way back along the edge of my ear.

"Rog?" he queries quietly. "You okay?"

I can hear the hesitance in his voice, his sudden concern that my silence is the hallmark of pain, injury. As it is, only psychically, not physically. No, damn you, I'm not alright, I want to scream, nodding a feeble affirmative instead. He doesn't buy it and eases free of me, and the loss of his warmth is like a knife wound in my chest. He turns me to face him, forehead furrowed. "Rog? Talk to me, okay? Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

You've just destroyed my life, damn you! "No," I say raggedly. Just get a grip, Lococco. This wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault.

He cradles my face in his big hands, staring into my eyes. I don't know what he sees there, but he smiles gently, understanding lightening his eyes. "It's the first time, isn't it?" he asks. "The first time you've ever gotten anything out of it, huh?" he clarifies, as if I were as stupid as all that. "Kinda shakes your worldview, doesn't it?" He strokes my dripping hair out of my face, tracing one of my eyebrows with his thumb lightly, then kissing me. "I guess this kinda puts an end to your days as a raging homophobe," he grins faintly.

Anger, panic, make me jerk away from him. "So I can trade it in for life as raging queen, instead?" I snarl at him, then turn and bolt from the shower stall, seizing a towel in a blind rage and drying myself off, feeling the thickly slick trickle of his semen between my legs, intensely sensual, intensely disturbing.

"Roger, dammit, that's not what I meant," he answers, exasperated, as he follows me out and takes a towel for himself, rubbing it briskly through his wet hair. "You think either of us is gay? I don't know about you, Buckwheat, but I have no plans on boning every guy in sight! What I want is you, Roger. Not a series of one night stands, not a different ass every night. A different cock." He wraps his towel around his waist and glares at me. "What about you, Rog? What do you want?"

I want... to never have had the ground destroyed under my feet. I want my life to be the way it's always been, the comfortable isolation intact. I want my heart to be whole again. I want to be sure who I am. I want.... Vince. "I want you to get the jell out of my life," I say with glacial chill and turn my back on him, catching the shock, the pain in his eyes in his reflection in the mirror as I stalk out and lock myself into the bedroom.

When I emerge, it's only after I've heard the suite door slam shut on Vinnie's heels, and I set about drinking myself into a stupor. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. Nothing changes the certainty that I have just wantonly destroyed the one thing in my life that might redeem me. Give me a chance to mean something to someone, to love someone. God, to have someone love me. Coward. Coward. Goddamned fucking coward!

It's around six in the morning when I finally decide to earn the Medal of Honor they pinned on me in Vietnam. Drunk as I am, I know it's Dutch courage, but it's also the only way I can go to him and apologize. Beg him to come back. Beg him to love me. Tell him I love him. I know where I'll find him, the danger Tess poses ignored, or maybe courted.

And sure enough, the battered blue GTO he drives when he's in the city is parked on the street in front of the tiny little bungalow he grew up in. I have the cabby drop me on the sidewalk and I stand there watching the house, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans. It takes careful deliberation to keep from stumbling up the little walkway and up the front stairs, and all the courage I have to knock on the glass-paneled front door.

He opens the door, looking about the way I feel, hair tousled, obviously straight out of bed, tank top and sweat pants his idea of pajamas. He stands there, looking at me, then runs a hand absently through his hair, increasing its disarrangement. "Rog," he says, warily, stepping past me out onto the miniature front porch to reach down and retrieve the morning paper.

"I'm a jerk," I say flatly, turning to watch his profile, suddenly convinced this effort will fail, that the best I can hope for is to get the apology made, whether he accepts it or not.

"Yeah, you are," he says, still looking absently out onto the quiet neighborhood street. "But I love you anyway."

"You love me." Dazed disbelief gives way to something else. Something I don't recognize. It spreads through my chest like warmth from the sun, seeping through me, casting everything in the brilliance of that glow. "Glad to hear it," I say with mock sarcasm. I see the grin of recognition flash over his face. "So prove it," I say as he turns to face me, a hand curving around the back of my neck affectionately.

"Right here? On my mother's front porch? What'll the neighbors think?" he grins.

I grin back. "Who cares?" I ask, perfectly serious. And he laughs, that Vinnie-laugh that makes me want to join in, deep, unguarded, joyous, and he pulls me gently towards him, then bends his head towards mine. I have a split second to realize he intends to kiss me, right here, in front of everyone he grew up with, to realize what that means, to him, to me, before the single explosive concussion of a rifle shot echoes off concrete and shrubbery, and Vince collapses in my arms.

to be continued...

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