Kick Start: Dangerous Ground 5 (2 page)

“I guess so,” Taylor said. “I guess you had enough. I didn’t get a choice.”

“Did you want that posting?” Will snapped. “Because if you did, if you do, I will talk to Alice Stone myself. I will move heaven and earth to get you your job and that goddamned posting back.”

“Not the point, Brandt,” Taylor said coolly. “The point is, you didn’t give me a say. You didn’t tell me Stone wanted to offer a posting, that maybe we could have worked together in France. You —”

Will broke in, “Are you telling me you would have made a different choice?”

“I don’t know.”

“The hell.” Will stared at Taylor’s profile for a long moment before turning to scowl out the side window. Office buildings and restaurants and billboards and busy side streets slid past while he tried to deal with that.

“Not about us. Obviously.” Taylor’s voice softened briefly. “But you hustled me into this freelance gig, and we don’t have the assets or the contacts or the experience.”

Will started to protest, but Taylor cut across. “We’re experienced field agents, sure. We’re not experienced business owners. We’re not even experienced office managers. We’re sinking. We rushed into this and we did it for all the wrong reasons.”

What Taylor meant was, Will had rushed
him
into it for the wrong reasons. Not true. Not fair. Not even close.

Was it?

“I did it because I wanted us to start our life together. Our real life together. I wanted us to have control of our future. Of our fate.”

“You did it because…” Taylor didn’t finish the thought. But, again, he didn’t have to. They could usually read each other’s minds.

Will let it go. If he answered Taylor now, it would not go well. They were both tired and frustrated and, yes, worried. He put his head back and let Taylor take his aggressions out on the other drivers crowding into the sluggish river of metal and glass.

He didn’t sleep, but maybe he did doze because the next time he opened his eyes they were pulling into Taylor’s driveway and the security gate was rolling shut behind them.

Actually, it was Will’s driveway too. He’d been living with Taylor in this small beach community since his return from Paris last summer. The house, an original Craftsman bungalow they had been restoring in their free time — back when they still had free time — was large and comfortable. The street was quiet and felt secluded; old but lovingly maintained homes beneath venerable shade trees.

“I’d burn those jeans if I were you,” was Taylor’s only comment as they went into the house.

In the bathroom, Will examined himself in the long mirror over the sink counter. His torso and the back of his thighs were mottled with bruises and contusions. His hands were scraped, his left knee swelling.

He turned the shower on full blast, cranked up the heat to just short of scalding, and stepped under the stinging spray. After a few minutes, and a lot of soap and water, he was both cleaner and calmer.

True, things were not going strictly according to plan. Maybe they needed to adjust their plans. Or maybe it was their expectations they needed to adjust? It was a tough time to start a business, naturally there would be challenges, a few setbacks. Regardless of what Taylor thought, or didn’t think, they did have the experience and the qualifications to make a success of this business. They just needed to give it time.

Will turned off the water, toweled down, and shaved. He dressed in a pair of soft jeans and an even softer gray T-shirt that read:
To err is human, to forgive divine. Neither of which is Marine Corps policy
.

He found Taylor in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading
American COP
. He must have used the guest bathroom because he had showered too, and had changed into faded jeans and an olive T-shirt that made his eyes look greener than ever. He needed a haircut and a shave, but he was still the best looking guy Will knew. Even if Will did want to strangle him sometimes.

The smell of coffee and toast warmed the kitchen. The washer was rumbling peaceably in the laundry room. Riley lay on the rug in front of the stove. He thumped his tail in welcome. Taylor glanced up, offered a crooked smile, tossed the magazine aside. “Coffee?”

Something eased inside Will. He’d been mentally arguing with Taylor all the time he’d been in the shower, but the residue of frustration and irritation drained away. They were home. They were whole. They were together. That had to count for a lot.

Will shook his head to the coffee. He was still wired from ten days worth of endless cups of lousy coffee. He was looking forward to eventually sleeping.

He sat down at the table across from Taylor. Taylor gazed back at him steadily.

“I was thinking. Since the job is a bust, maybe I’ll drive up north and see Grant while he’s home on leave.” Will’s kid brother had dropped out of college to join the marines. Grant was currently home in Oregon on a ten-day leave. Will had wanted to make the trek north, but the protection detail had come up. Now Will’s dance card was suddenly empty, so why not take advantage?

Taylor nodded.

Will took a deep breath, expelled it, and said, “If you want to talk to Richard, go ahead. It’s up to you.”

“I
don’t
want to.” Taylor sounded tired too, and more conciliatory. “I don’t think we have a lot of choice here, Will. We’ve sunk just about everything we have into this venture. We can’t pull out without losing it all, but to make a success of it, we’d need to invest more. We need money. We need the right equipment. We need an assistant. Hell, we need an office.”

“I don’t agree. We don’t need an office. We don’t need an assistant.”

“Will.”
Taylor stopped. He ran both hands through his damp hair, clearly trying to restrain himself, which put Will’s temper on edge again. “
You’re
the one who said it. If we want to attract the kind of clients we originally talked about, high-end clients — if we want to run a
global
security consulting business — we’ve got to
look
the part. We’ve got to seem like we could handle that kind of job. An answering machine and a website aren’t going to cut it.”

Developing the kind of image Taylor was talking about wasn’t going to be in their budget, with or without a loan from the folks. They’d need Richard’s help just to get out from under their credit cards. Will was willing to take that hit to his ego because it was Taylor’s credit score at risk too.

When the hell had they turned into guys who worried about their credit scores?

“Look. Here’s how I see it. We can make due without an office or support staff. At least for a while. Till we’re on our feet. But you’re the one who has to ask for the cash. You’re the one who thinks we’re not going to make it.”

Taylor opened his mouth to protest, but that
was
the truth and they both knew it.

“So it’s up to you,” Will concluded. “You figure out how much you can bear to be into Richard for, and I’ll go along with your decision.”

Taylor thought it over and then nodded. “Okay. Fair enough.”

Probably. Will absently rubbed his freshly shaved jaw. “Your mom and Richard are in Bahrain now. Does that mean you’re planning to fly out to talk to them?”

“Well, there’s this newfangled invention called the telephone. I thought maybe I’d give that a try first.”

Will smiled reluctantly. “If you think you can make the case for that size loan long distance.”

“I think Richard will give us the money.”

“Okay.” Was it that simple? Maybe it was. Lamprell seemed pretty generous with his family, and unlike his siblings, Taylor had never asked his multimillionaire stepdaddy for anything. Maybe he’d racked up some credits for being the fiscally sound stepkid. Maybe no business plans or pie charts of the economic trends within the security industry would be needed.

The ancient washer jogged into its spin cycle filling the silence between them. Taylor said slowly, “That doesn’t mean I have to go to Oregon with you. If you want to head home on your own, that’s okay. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy here.”

It was tempting. God, it was tempting. With everything going on between them — the unexpected tensions of learning to live together at the same time they were trying to get this business off the ground, the blow up after Taylor had discovered that RSO Stone would have offered him a posting in Paris if Will hadn’t informed her they were resigning… Yes, it was very tempting to snatch an opportunity to get away, to put a little space between himself and Taylor who was riding his ass relentlessly — and not in a good way — to give himself some breathing room. Just a very little space for a very little time.

Because as much as Will loved Taylor, as much as he hated the thought of being separated from him for even a day, yes, he could use a break.
Needed
a break maybe.

Especially given the situation at home. Home in Oregon, not home in Ventura. Home in Oregon, Will’s sexual orientation was not widely known. In fact,
nobody
knew except for his father. Yeah, that had been an awkward conversation — not that you could exactly call the gruff assertion that he was not ever going to be “settling down,” exactly a conversation. He wasn’t even sure his brother knew he was gay. And sure as hell nobody knew about Taylor.

And Will would have been happy to keep it that way. Which would be impossible if Taylor chose to ride shotgun on this trip.

He looked at Taylor. Taylor looked back at him. He was smiling faintly, a complicated sort of smile. There was complete understanding there, and a little friendly mockery, and something else.

What?

What was that emotion lurking in the back of Taylor’s gaze?

Will stared, and he felt a funny dip in his chest. His heart sank.

That look in Taylor’s eyes…was that the beginning of disappointment? Maybe…disillusion?

No.

No, he could take Taylor chewing on his last nerve from now to eternity before he could take one second of Taylor feeling disappointed or disillusioned with him.

“What? Are you serious? Hell, yeah, I want you to come!” Will said it with such conviction, he almost believed it himself.

Chapter Two

“S
o Gretchen Hart now works for Glukhov.”
Jeeeezus
the relief of stretching out in his own bed. Taylor arched luxuriously and felt his spine unkink for the first time in ten godawful days. Thank God. Thank
God
it was over. Even if they had spent almost two weeks working for a scumbag like Dragomirov for free.

Through the open bathroom door he could hear the taps running, see Will brushing his teeth. Will scowled at his mirrored reflection, his thoughts seemingly a million miles away. He was bare-chested, his skin tawny and smooth against the pale blue flannel sleep pants. Tawny and smooth where he wasn’t bruised and contused. Will had been lucky today. They both had. Just a few inches either way and it could have been all over.

Anxiety, an increasingly common sensation, gnawed at his guts. Or maybe he was getting an ulcer. Except he couldn’t afford to get an ulcer. Neither of them could afford to get sick or injured. Not without health insurance.

When the hell had they turned into guys who worried about their health insurance?

Will spat toothpaste into the sink, scooped up a couple of mouthfuls of water, rinsed. He turned off the taps, scrubbed his face with Taylor’s towel.

Always Taylor’s towel. Never his own.

Taylor sighed.

“You say something?” Will turned the light out in the bathroom and crossed through the moonlit bedroom to the bed. He was limping a little. Even in the gloom, Taylor could tell.

He swallowed the things he wanted to say, unproductive things that would not be conducive to a peaceful night’s rest, saying instead, “I said I wonder how that came about? Gretchen working for Glukhov.”

The mattress dipped as Will climbed into bed. Will eased himself down with a long, heartfelt sigh. His shoulder brushed Taylor’s. He tiredly patted Taylor’s thigh. “God, I’m beat.”

“You want a backrub?” Taylor asked. He prayed Will would say no because he didn’t think he had the strength to sit up.

“I don’t think I can turn over.”

Taylor snorted. “You want a front rub?”

“I don’t think I can get it up to save my life.”

“Me neither,” Taylor admitted.

“What?”
Will raised his head and peered into Taylor’s face, breathing minty fresh over him. “Oh, sweetheart!
No
. Are you sick?” He clumsily felt Taylor’s forehead, and Taylor started to laugh.

“Jackass.”

Will laughed too and dropped back on his pillows. He groaned. “I don’t think there’s a part of my body that doesn’t hurt.”

Taylor was silent and then, against his will, he started to laugh.

“What?” Will asked, amused.

“You. James Bond. On the roof of that car.” He couldn’t help it. All at once it was funny. Not funny at the time. But now? He was going to be giggling any second.

Will started to laugh too. “Christ. I must have been crazy.”

“No argument.”

“What the hell was I thinking?”

“That was your expression.
What the hell was I thinking?
”

“It’s the kind of thing you’d do.”

“
I
wouldn’t miss the dumpster.”

“You might not have missed it. Or you might have plowed your head through the lid.”

For a couple of seconds they leaned against each other laughing. That was relief, more than anything. Not just the relief that Will hadn’t been killed or seriously hurt; the relief from the nervous strain of two weeks playing bodyguard to the kind of dirtball they’d spent most of their law enforcement careers trying to put away.

“Gretchen Hart,” Will said finally, reminiscently. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…”

“Yeah. Well, I guess with Bashnakov in prison, she had to find a new mob boss.”

“Neither Glukhov nor Dragomirov are mob bosses.”