Coming to Colorado (2 page)

“Fuck, so good.” Roger arched his back, his body angling just right so Grant could get a better position.

Grant caressed Roger’s stiff dick, running his hand to the top and over the soft tip, loving the slick precum that beaded at the slit. He started jacking Roger more seriously, his hand tightening with each down stroke, just the way Roger liked it.

He wasn’t going to last much longer, but he sure as hell would take as much pleasure as he could. Roger let out a loud gasp as Grant stroked him again.

“God...Grant...Fuck.” Roger pitched forward, his hands braced on the side of the boat, his breath coming in gasps. Roger came, and the squeezing of his channel around Grant’s dick was enough to push him over the edge.

Grant came hard as he held onto Roger, his seed emptying deep in his lover’s guts. Skin on skin felt so freaking good. He never wanted to do this any other way. Being faithful was easy because Roger was absolutely amazing. No one else would ever measure up to this man.

After his orgasm, he pulled out, hating the loss of connection. Roger looked over his shoulder, his eyes full of love. He reached for Grant, pulling him close. Their lips met in a sweet brush, passion flowing between them.

“Thank you,” Roger said. “You make me so fucking hot. I love you. You’re the best.”

“I know what it takes for you to say that.” Grant ducked his head, his heart squeezing. Before coming to the ranch, Roger had experienced true love with a man named Hayden. For Roger to consider loving again... Grant knew it was a huge deal.

“I’ll always love Hayden. No question about it,” Roger said before kissing him again. “But since coming to Wild Bluff, I’ve grown to love you, maybe even more than I could have ever loved him.”

“I don’t need to hear—”

Roger put his finger on Grant’s lips. “Really, Hayden was the best, but experiencing how you love me and how open you are with me, I can say that Hayden never would have...hell, it’s just that you are different. I like it.”

“Thank you.” Grant kissed Roger’s cheek. “I can’t believe that we’ve been together for almost two years.”

“They’ve been the best two years of my life,” Roger said.

“When we met, I didn’t think I would ever love anyone else. It’s been wonderful getting to know you. Thank you.” Grant helped Roger up before tossing him a towel to wrap around his waist. After Roger cleaned up a bit, he pulled on his swim trunks and pointed the boat back towards the dock and dry land.

Grant tugged on his shorts as they drew closer to the shore. Tonight, he’d make sure Roger knew how special he was. They still had some time to hang out before they needed to get back to Colorado, but the desire to return home had started to weigh on him. Though they hadn’t been called back by Duff, he was kind of itching to get back to work.

Chapter Two

Davis Whitaker bit his tongue, hoping Duff would stop pressing him. He couldn’t explain to his father why he had no ambition. To a man like Duff, who’d apparently conquered the world in his youth, Davis going to estate sales, buying furniture then selling it, probably looked like a lazy way to live. That he only bought a few pieces a year, but traveled all over the world, had to be questionable in Duff’s mind.

Duff had spent the last week complaining about how Davis was wasting his potential. His father had given more than one angry speech that had left Davis ready to say, “
Listen, I’m a freaking operative for the CIA. I do other shit too
.”

When Duff had asked him about a unique chair, he’d told his dad that he’d traveled to Italy in the fall to acquire the piece. That had made Duff go ballistic. Davis could see clearly that Duff wanted to say something, maybe an accusation of something nefarious, but Duff never crossed that line, not once accusing him of doing anything illegal. He came close, saying that Davis had to be doing something strange to make the money he did with as little business as he had. The air between them was heavy with the issue, and he tried to stay calm and be nice, but bad blood was festering, and Davis didn’t know how long he could keep the truth from his father. Everything, from the fiancé who’d dumped him when he was twenty, to his being an antique dealer was a lie.

Hell, Duff wouldn’t understand what he did or who he was. Duff had always been a very
by the rules
kind of guy. He’d probably freak out if he knew some of the stuff Davis had done. Two weeks ago, he’d been in Saudi Arabia. His trip had resulted in the capture and death of an international drug lord who had taken up the cause of a terrorist organization. Of course, he’d used his connections in the antique trading business to find a unique battle mask that now sat over his mantle, but that wasn’t why he’d traveled to Saudi Arabia. He sure as hell couldn’t tell his dad the truth about his travels. Extradition to the US from the country was near impossible, and that’s why his group had gone in. If the truth came out, more than one politician would be in jail.

They were back on the subject again, this time after Duff asked him about the mask.

“I’m just saying, you could use that fancy college degree you have, and your time in the military is priceless,” Duff said for the fourth time this trip.

Davis tried not to bristle. He liked Duff, loved him actually. Hell, the man was his idol. He was the reason Davis had gone into the military, but his dad was such a bulldog at times it made them both angry.

“I’m happy doing what I’m doing.” Davis fought to keep his voice even.

“But you’re wasting your potential. I mean, really, you have so much to offer. You could really do some good.”

“Dad, I did my time in the military—”

“It wasn’t enough. I still don’t understand why you got out early. You could have been career military with full retirement. You could make a difference instead of trading worthless crap.”

“I didn’t get out early. I signed up for a certain number of years, and I met their requirements.” He didn’t feel like telling his dad that his leaving the Army
had
been early. The man thought he’d stayed in for eight years when he’d actually only been in the military for six of those years. The CIA needed him more than the Army had, and the government agencies had worked something out between themselves, allowing him to get out early. Once on the outside, he’d built up a background as someone who knew old furniture. When he’d moved to Seattle—not the best spot for an antique dealer—he’d already built a name in the New York market. Of course, most of his background had been manufactured, but few questioned him.

Davis knew he wouldn’t win this argument with his father, not without revealing the truth, and he couldn’t tell the man about the CIA. Davis put on as calm a face as he could muster, trying very hard to play the idiot son.

“How about we go for some pizza tonight? I know this great place. I think you’ll love it.”

Duff shook his head and huffed out a breath. “I want you to think about changing your profession.”

“Dad, drop it.”

“I won’t drop it. There is no way you’re earning enough money as an antique dealer. You travel all over the world and how the fuck do you pay for it? You’re certainly not doing it through legal means. Just...dammit, I don’t want you to get caught dealing. Prison is harsh, and you would be—fuck, just stop it with the drugs.”

Anger crashed through him. The control he held onto was slipping. He shrugged, reminding himself that his dad didn’t know what he really did. Davis smiled and nodded, still acting the fool. His dad was smart, and he knew something was off, but he wasn’t even close to guessing what was really going on. God, he wished he could let his dad know he wasn’t a drug dealer.

“How about that pizza?” Davis asked.

“I can’t, I just can’t deal with you—with you doing this right now. Damn it, stop doing—stop. You have to stop.”

Duff walked out, his head hung low. Davis wanted to call him back and tell him the truth, but right now wasn’t the time. Before his father got too old, Davis would let him know. Though he knew it wouldn’t really make any difference, he wanted his old man to be proud of what he’d accomplished. Maybe Duff would understand, but there was the risk that his dad would stick his nose into Davis’s business and try to help him. The Army and Marines operated on the same playing field, but the CIA was a whole different ballpark. He couldn’t let his dad get hurt by interfering, and the CIA wouldn’t take kindly to anyone meddling in their business.

Chapter Three

Zander stirred the pot of soup, wondering if they’d have enough food today. He glanced to Marshal then back to the line of people. Hell, they might need Marsh to run to the store.

“Hey, you look worried,” Marshal said.

“What do you think? Enough or not?” Zander stirred the soup again, his worry building.

“Babe, relax. We have other stuff too.”

Zander glanced around, surprised by the number of people in line. “There’s more of them today.”

“I know, but it will be enough. The guys in the back are making peanut butter sandwiches.”

“Where’d they get the bread from?” Zander asked.

“The store two blocks over dropped some stuff by.”

“Oh, okay.” Zander glanced back at the line, amazed by how many people showed up. Maybe it was because it was raining, or the cold, but the number of homeless who had come in for a meal had doubled from last week. Another storm was sliding up the coast, heading straight for New York. Next week wasn’t going to be any better for those without a bed to call their own.

In his regular job, he often cleaned up what the government couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t fix the problems here—hell, the state, city, and the US government couldn’t fix these problems, they’d tried and failed. But while he and Marshal had a few more weeks of vacation that stretched ahead of them, he was going to try to do something to make a dent, chip away at the mountain, even if his little paltry efforts amounted to nothing.

He dipped his ladle into the pot and scraped against the bottom. “Marsh, come over here and help me tilt this thing. We’re at the bottom.”

They served up six more bowls of soup before it was gone. He carried the empty pot back to the kitchen where it would be washed and made ready for tomorrow morning when they’d start this again just so a few hungry men, women, and unfortunately kids, could find something to fill their belly for a few hours before they hit the streets again.

“Hey, Z-man, thanks for your help. You two gonna be here tomorrow?” Frank, the guy who ran the soup kitchen, asked.

“Yes, sir, bright and early. We’re in town for a few more weeks and as long as we’re here, we’ll keep showing up to help.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done, and the donation. I know it was you two, don’t deny it. Anyway, that gave us the boost we needed to buy a food truck.”

“Really? What are your plans?” Zander asked.

“We’re going to make it donation based. A friend is painting the sides. The city is helping us out with the permits. We’ll be operational in a couple of weeks. Then we’ll take the truck on the road. The homeless can eat for free, or pennies if they choose to pay. We’re hoping that some of the richer folks around the city will think it’s cool and will come for the food then give a lot of money once they realize how awesome we are. If we can do more than break even on the truck, we’ll be golden. Then we can start funneling the money into buying more space for beds, or something like that. The board is looking at options.”

“Wow, that’s impressive,” Zander said.

Marshal entered the kitchen and stopped. “What’s impressive?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, we need to get these sandwiches out there.” Zander handed Marshal a tray and followed him out of the kitchen. The peanut butter sandwiches were a hit, and after an hour, the lunch crowd thinned out. At two, he and Marshal went to the kitchen to say goodbye to Frank.

The subway ride to the Upper East Side was uneventful. Marshal was silent most of the way. They stopped for some fruits and vegetables before going up to the apartment they were renting. Once in their place, Marshal removed his jacket and leaned against the counter. Zander stared at him, taking in his long legs and trim waist. Marshal had been injured in Craig’s attack on the ranch, but he was doing okay now. It was nice to see how much he’d recovered. He wasn’t one hundred percent, but he was close. The silence stretched on, and Zander moved to stand in front of Marshal, placing his hand on the man’s waist.

“What’s up?” Zander asked.

“I was wondering—it’s nothing really, just wondering if staying at the ranch is the right move.”

Zander stared at Marshal, trying to figure out what he was thinking. “Leaving forever? Like we’d no longer do what we do?”

Marshal’s lips thinned out and his brows bunched before he spoke. “I see what happens here, well, at the soup kitchen, and I wonder if I could do more somewhere else. You know, like when we actually save someone.”

“Marsh, what we do is tough. It may seem like we’re not doing any good, but you know we are. There are literally thousands of people who can do what we did today. They just have to get off their asses and actually do it.”

Marshal shook his head. “Most people have to work.”

“I know. It’s tough out there. We do have extra money and we could buy a small place here, or in another area of the city and spend our days working at the kitchen, driving their new truck, and feeding the homeless.”

“Exactly,” Marshal said.

“But who is going to take care of the next fuckwit who abducts thirty little girls and sells them to some asshole in Asia, the Middle-East, here, or South America? What happens when a guy plots to kill the president, forcing us to step in and take him down? How many law enforcement agencies can actually handle eliminating the scum in this world without having to answer to someone who won’t approve? We make the hard decisions that no one else will.”

Marshal blew out a breath and turned to the cabinets, taking a clear glass out and filling it with water from the tap. He drank half the water before pouring the rest into the potted plant beside their table.