Love & Loyalty (16 page)
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Jim chuckled as he put Griffin's shoes under the bed. He headed back down to the kitchen to get their lunch/dinner started and leave Griffin to his nap.
The balcony was made for days like this: slightly overcast as usual, but warm and breezy. Jim set up the grill and sat down with the rest of his novel, passing a few hours of quiet anticipation.
“Thanks, I needed that,” Griffin's gravelly voice said, and Jim startled awake from a postbook nap. “Sorry.”
“No, no. Just a doze.” Jim turned in his chair with a smile. Griffin looked a lot less hangdog, his hair crazy in every possible direction. “You need something to drink?”
“Nursing a hangover, so, uh—anything that isn't alcoholic.” Griffin laughed, settling into the second Adirondack chair.
“I have iced tea.”
“That works.”
Jim brought out two glasses and the plate of steaks, plus two foil-wrapped potatoes. Griffin gave him a whistle as he reappeared, relieving him of the drinks.
“Wow. When you said you were going to cook for me, I had no idea it involved the grilling of meat.”
“It's either this or spaghetti.”
“That's like…two more things than I can make.”
“I thought your dad was a feminist. Didn't he teach you to cook?”
“Nah, that's his domain. I think he thinks it's a great secret he's keeping, lest he be declared obsolete.” Griffin yawned and drank the iced tea, stretching out in a pocket of sun like a contented cat.
“Your dad is an interesting character.”
“Oh, that's a really great way to put it.” Griffin cracked open one eye in Jim's direction. “You'd like him, I think. He's pretty no-nonsense.” Love & Loyalty
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“I'm no-nonsense?”
“Dude, nonsense is actually afraid of you, that's how no-nonsense you are.”
Jim shook his head as he put the steaks and potatoes on the grill.
“What about your dad? I saw—well, I read your mom passed away when you were really young,” Griffin said apologetically.
“I was two. I really don't remember her at all.” Jim shrugged. His mother was a stranger in photographs, so missing her never made sense to him. It was easier to miss having a father when one lived in the house with you but didn't seem to give a shit. “My brother was seven, so he has more memories of her.”
“Are you close?”
“To my father or my brother? The answer's the same for both—we barely speak. Once a year we get together to visit my father at the home he's in, and that's about it.”
“That sucks.” Griffin lost his relaxed pose, leaning forward to angle his body toward Jim, to give him his attention. “I'm not super close to my sisters, but we all talk and see each other as much as we can.”
“How many sisters did you have again?”
“Eight. All older.”
“Eight?” Jim whistled.
Griffin shrugged. “It's what you do where I'm from. Winters are long. Plus there are two sets of twins, so that adds up.”
“Eight sisters, and you're the youngest? That must've been fun.” Jim settled down in the chair next to Griffin, glad to have changed the subject from his family. It wasn't something he liked revisiting.
“Actually, it was. I didn't have to suffer through hand-me-downs, my sisters beat up anyone who got in my face, and the neighborhood kids let me play ball with them on the off chance they would come watch.” Jim laughed. “Well, there's a bright side, then.” 128
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“After my mom died, they were all my moms. Plus my dad was my mom.
Basically I go broke every Mother's Day.”
“How…” Jim stopped. “Never mind, sorry.”
“How old was I? Hey, it's okay; I asked you stuff.” Griffin shrugged. “She died when I was six. Aneurysm. One minute, hanging out laundry. Next minute, gone.” He snapped his fingers. “A really good reminder of how life changes in an instant, you know?”
Jim remembered Della Kelly's face the seconds before she collapsed, and nodded.
“You have to live your life and not count on things being there tomorrow or the next day.” Griffin looked off into the distance, then shook his head.
“Sorry—you see reminders of that every single day. No need for me to wax philosophically like a talking fortune cookie.”
“No, no. You're right.” Jim took a sip of iced tea. “I forget that sometimes, even with my line of work. I get caught up on the bad stuff, feeling hopeless and helpless and forgetting that for all the shit I see, there's gotta be good stuff going on somewhere.”
“Man, you need a vacation.”
“Probably. But I won't take one.”
“At least you're honest.” Griffin paused. “I guess when you love what you do that much, it's hard to walk away.”
Jim started to agree, then stopped, twisting thoughts around in his head.
Loved his job? Did he?
“I don't know if it's love…”
“Oh, come on, Jim—it's not a person; it's your career. You can commit a little,” Griffin teased.
“No, I mean—I joined the army to piss off my father. It wasn't what I wanted, but I was good at aspects of it. So when I got out, I thought—what else Love & Loyalty
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can I do that's like the military? And I came up with police work…which also had the benefit of pissing my father off.”
Jim kicked one of Griffin's outstretched legs. “Stop making that face.”
“I'm just a little surprised, man—I guess I had this vision of you as heroic savior guy.”
“Nah. I'm a workaholic, I like details, I like a neatly tied bow on the end of everything. It works out.”
“Wouldn't you rather do something you love?”
“I don't really love anything.”
“That's not true! You love, uh…cleaning.”
“So I should chuck the police thing and become a janitor?”
“If you love it, why not?”
Jim rolled his eyes and headed for the grill.
“No, wait—you could open one of those cleaning companies where they clean up crime scenes…”
“Yeah, no.” Jim turned the steaks over and poked the potatoes a few times.
“How about consultant work? Come to Hollywood, get a job on a television show as a consultant, and sit by the pool answering questions about bullet holes.”
“I might not be in love with police work, but I am good at it. I'm staying put. No offense.”
“Hmph.”
“So I'm guessing you love what you do? Even though you're, uh—what did you call it? A Twinkie?”
Griffin rolled out of the chair and walked around the balcony. “Yeah, well—my job is artificial cake with a gooey filling, but I never wanted to be anything but a writer. Ever.”
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“Huh.”
“Is that surprising?”
“Guess not. Writing doesn't seem like something you do without some sort of passion behind it.”
“That's true.” Jim's words seemed to trigger something in Griffin; he walked around the balcony again, that look of processing back on his face. “I do have a passion for it—I think I just forgot to fire it up for a while.”
“But Ed's story—that's firing you up again?” Griffin looked at Jim, a little surprise on his face, but he nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I think Ed's story is exactly what I need, maybe for reasons I didn't even think of.” He smiled. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
Griffin walked over close and leaned into Jim's personal space, or at least the space not taken up by the grill. “For picking me up at the airport, for making me dinner, and for helping me get my head out of my ass.” Jim smirked as their lips met; he had a really awesome double entendre to throw on that comment but accepted being halted by the sweet curl of Griffin's tongue against his.
* * * * *
Everything was going according to his “plan,” including the side benefit of an orgasm that nearly shook him over the edge of the sleeping loft to the ground below.
“What a way to go.” He wheezed into the pillow, as Griffin pumped through his own release with an unhurried pace.
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“Whu?”
“Nothin'.”
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Chapter Eighteen
Griffin got up quietly, leaving Jim sleeping peacefully and drooling on his pillow. The clock said 5:38, and the movement of the clouds outside said maybe some rain very shortly.
He walked downstairs without bothering with clothes. There was something on his mind, something he had to do right now before he lost his nerve.
The MacBook was set up on the counter, his BlackBerry right beside it. He made the transfer through his bank account first, moving the money to his checking account with an audible gulp. It represented a lot of his savings. It was a gamble. But it would give him some peace of mind…
The next thing he pulled up was a contract template, filling in the blanks rapidly as he gained some momentum with every word. Daisy wanted to stay in the crazy? Fine. He wasn't going to. He wasn't waiting for her to get tired of the never-ending drama.
The contract and electronic check were double-checked, triple-checked—
Griffin said a nondenominational prayer—and forwarded the whole thing to Daisy's private e-mail address.
A perfectly legitimate offer for the rights to Ed Kelly's story.
* * * * *
“Shit—did I wake you?” Griffin climbed into bed, sprawling over Jim's sleep-warm body like he belonged there.
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“Nah. Not used to napping in the middle of the day.”
“I wore you out, admit it.” Griffin rubbed his hands over Jim's stomach and chest, eager to move his thoughts from the e-mail he had just sent and onto things less earth-shattering but much more fun. Like sex with Jim.
“I admit no such thing.” Jim returned the favor, stroking his hand straight down to grip Griffin's cock.
“Touché.”
Griffin rolled onto his back, taking Jim's hand with him. Followed by Jim's mouth, which joined his hand a few moments later.
He closed his eyes and spread his legs, all eager and unashamed as Jim chuckled, the vibrations dancing through Griffin's body.
“That feels good. Gonna tell you jokes while you blow me.” Jim didn't seem to agree with that option; he doubled his efforts from “lazy suck” to “vacuum cleaner,” and Griffin's back arched and his hands gripped the sheets. There was no slacking off, no slowing down, no teasing. Griffin couldn't get another word out, just puffs of breath and moans trickling out as Jim worked his shaft up and down like he had a point to prove.
Like—Jim gives outstanding blowjobs, and frankly, Griffin should feel ashamed of his subpar ones.
“Slow…down,” Griffin finally ground out, but it was too late because Jim had a rhythm down that gave him no chance to do anything but curse Jim's parentage and spill down his throat.
* * * * *
He thumped him in the side instead.
Jim laughed. “You want anything?”
“Air?”
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“Wuss.”
Jim threw back the covers and headed downstairs; Griffin admired the view until it was gone.
“Water!” he yelled.
“Right,” Jim yelled back.
Griffin rolled around on the giant bed like a kid. He had a buzz of energy growing under his skin. He wanted to
do
something (besides Jim), and then he wanted to take his laptop onto Jim's balcony and write something fabulous.
“We should do something,” Griffin said as Jim came back up the stairs.
“We just did.”
“Something else.”
Jim drank some of the bottled water and handed it to Griffin. “I got nothing.”
“Come on, man, help me out here. Call your friends or something.” It was clearly on Jim's mind to say no, but Griffin was pleasantly surprised when Jim capitulated with only the smallest sigh.
“Okay, but I warned you in advance about the yenta factor.”
“Duly noted.”
Jim mumbled a few things under his breath and picked up his cell; he dialed a number, then mock glared at Griffin.
“Hey, Terry? Jim. How's it going? So, you and Mimi up for some dinner?” He paused. “No, I didn't hit my head. No, this isn't a code because I'm being held hostage.”
Griffin almost rolled off the bed laughing.
“Six thirty? You sure? Okay. We'll meet you at the diner.” He hung up and hmphed.
“Happy?”
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“Yeah.” Griffin wiped the tears of mirth out of his eyes and got out of bed, stalking Jim with a predatory glare. “You made dinner plans for me. I'm touched.”
“Terry said double date,” Jim despaired. “I could hear Mimi giggling in the background. It's going to be a nightmare.”
“It's going to be awesome.”
* * * * *
There were introductions and smiles and then some goofy grins. Mimi and Terry Oh were the epitome of a cute couple; they clearly each believed the other hung the moon, and their shirts kinda matched. They looked at Jim with affection and Griffin with complete amazement.
Griffin liked them immediately.
“You're real,” Mimi announced as they opened their menus.