The Bureau, page 6
Whitaker made a noncommittal grunt. Apart from introductions, he’d spoken very little tonight. He watched and listened instead, bright-eyed and thoughtful. Terry had no idea what he was thinking or whether Terry was passing his mysterious test.
“I like my name,” Terry said to the woman. “It’s short, and easy to spell and pronounce. It’s more or less neutral, so I think it fits any genre. But I’m not the expert here, and if Mr. Whitaker thinks I need a stage name, that’s not a problem.”
She nodded as if satisfied, then launched into a monologue about a casting disaster in her last movie: the star had dropped dead of an aneurysm halfway through filming. She didn’t show any sympathy for the deceased or his loved ones, just angst over how she had to scramble to find a suitable replacement.
Another drink, and by then the party had grown louder, the laughing more strident, the conversations sounding more like arguments. Terry was certain he must have met everyone there, yet Whitaker kept dragging him around, throwing more names at him. He was tired of shaking hands and of the overly warm room. He wished he could escape outside, maybe sip a glass of water while dangling his feet in the pool, but he kept an affable smile pasted on his face and played nice.
The drinks kid came back, except this time he carried a small mirrored tray containing a drinking straw, razor blade, and vial of white powder. He stood there, blank-faced, holding the tray toward Terry.
“Help yourself,” Whitaker said.
“I’m not a big fan of blow. I prefer booze.”
But Whitaker simply stared at him, head tilted just a bit and eyebrows raised. Shit. Terry wasn’t exactly shocked that this was part of the game, but he’d hoped to avoid it. He preferred to stay as clear-headed as possible under the circumstances, and he didn’t want to damage his already fragile sleep patterns. No good way around it, though.
He poured the powder onto the mirror, cut it into lines, and took up the straw. Then he snorted the first line and, when Whitaker gestured impatiently, the second as well. The kid scurried away with the tray.
An actor wandered over, young and ruggedly handsome, and sporting a small scar on one cheek that only added to his appeal. He’d starred in a run of blockbuster hits over the past few years, usually playing a swashbuckling space pilot or a cop who broke all the rules but always got the bad guy. Here in Whitaker’s living room, he swaggered as much as any of his characters.
“Terry, meet Jayce Mitchell. I’ll be right back, boys.” Whitaker disappeared into the crowd.
Mitchell grinned crookedly and winked. “So you’re the new kid, huh?”
“Maybe. Mr. Whitaker hasn’t decided yet.”
“Sure, sure. But so far so good. Man, I remember when I was in your place. Fresh out of Wilmington, green as grass. Before that I was a pizza delivery guy, if you can believe it.”
Terry’s mouth had gone dry and he wished he had something to drink. “Wow. You’ve come a long way.”
“You bet! I own an apartment in New York City, a mansion here, and a sweet little place in Hawaii, on Maui. I just got back from Paris the other day, and tomorrow I’m off to fucking Tokyo, man. It’s crazy.” He shook his head in wonder.
“And Mr. Whitaker represents you, huh?”
Jayce’s smile widened, becoming almost manic. “Of course. He fucking owns me, right?” A bark of laughter. “He made my dreams come true. I can buy whatever I want. Get any chick in my bed—or any guy, for that matter.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I have my own goddamn paparazzi.”
Terry’s exhaustion had disappeared, and now he jiggled a leg restlessly. He felt good. Strong. Invincible. He loved the music coming over the speakers—didn’t recognize it, but loved it—and he wanted to get up on a table and dance all night. Where was Edge? He wanted to dance with Edge. Wanted to howl at the fucking moon.
But somewhere in the back of his brain, he knew it was the cocaine speaking, and he tried to maintain his cool. “That’s amazing. You probably have to work really hard for it all.” Had he paused too long before responding?
“I work fucking hard, yeah. If you want to make it in this biz, you’ve gotta be ready to make sacrifices. Serious sacrifices.” He wasn’t smiling anymore, and there was something off about his expression.
“Like what?” Just a gentle push, because God, Terry really wished he had enough evidence to wrap this thing up and return to his ugly office downtown. He was done with Whitaker and his fancy friends and his fancy house and his stupid fucking tests. Done with the entire state of California, in fact. He wanted real winters with snow, for Christ’s sake, and real people who weren’t the product of plastic surgery and the right mixture of drugs, and real dogs who wagged their tails and barked at squirrels and slobbered on you.
But Jayce was still there, wasn’t he? And he leaned in closer. “Gotta give up everything, man. Big fame has a big price.”
Now Terry recognized what was in Jayce’s face: a terrifying mixture of sorrow, despair, and fear.
Before Terry could find the right words to push some more without being obvious—without breaking Jayce, who suddenly looked fragile—Whitaker whisked Terry away. Off to the next producer, the next director, the next former ingenue grown brittle around the edges. The room had become oppressively hot, but Terry didn’t want to take off his jacket. Every sound rubbed at his skin like a cheese grater. All the colors looked too bright. His heart rattled in his ribcage, and Jesus Christ he needed something to drink.
And then, just after he’d had too much, the guests disappeared. Not poof like a magic trick, but melting like ice in springtime. Going, going, gone—until nobody remained but Terry, Whitaker, and the dog. Even the music had ended.
Whitaker gazed solemnly at him. “Who runs the world, boy?”
“Uh… politicians?”
“No. They pass laws, that’s all, and they’re slaves to the people who elect them and the people who give them money. If you really wanna control things, you need a fat bank account and the media. Then you can tell the people what they want. For fuck’s sake, look at the last president.”
“Reagan?”
“Yeah, Reagan. He didn’t get elected because he was a brilliant fucking statesman. He bought that office with money and fame. Give someone celebrity and cash, and the rubes’ll vote him in every time.”
The coke wasn’t making Whitaker’s message any clearer. “Okay,” Terry said.
“I got money, boy. More than you can imagine. And movie stars? I got them too.”
Oh. “So you can run the world?”
Whitaker gave him a slow, thin smile. “Yeah. Or enough of it to satisfy me, anyway. The good news is, I’m willing to bring some people along with me. Take ’em from nowhere and give them their own little chunk of the world. Maybe you can be one of those people. But I have a price, and I ain’t talking about my commission.”
“What’s the price, Mr. Whitaker?”
“We’ll talk about it later, when I make a decision about you. Meantime, you think about how much you’re willing to pay.” He thudded Terry’s back with his palm. “Good night. We’ll chat later.” He whistled at the dog, who trotted over; when Whitaker strode out of the room, the dog stayed near Terry.
If he could have, Terry would have left for his apartment right then. But his car had disappeared, probably hidden away under the house, and the front gate was locked. He wasn’t certain Whitaker would let him out. But even if he had, Terry didn’t have enough yet to satisfy Townsend and the Bureau. He hadn’t collected all the pieces to the puzzle.
And then there was Edge.
“I hate this,” Terry whispered to the dog, who gazed at him.
Terry was able to retrace his steps to exit the house, which was good, because he didn’t see another soul. Except the dog, of course, who trotted at his side.
The outside air was blessedly cool, improved even more when Terry removed his jacket. While he was at it, he took off his shoes and socks, groaning with delight at the sensation of grass on bare feet. He headed toward the guest house, but when he reached the door, he couldn’t force himself to go inside. Too confining. Instead he dropped his shoes, socks, and jacket on a wrought-iron bench and, after skimming out of his trousers, abandoned them too. The dog looked at him askance.
“I’ll keep my underwear on,” Terry told him before taking off at a sprint.
He had no destination, but he needed to sweat the toxins out of his body and work off all the pent-up energy from the party. As he ran around the outside of the guest house, the dog at first seemed alarmed and stayed close on Terry’s heels. But by the third circuit, the dog had relaxed into a lope, and fuck, the beast finally looked happy. Panting, tongue lolling, paws beating an easy rhythm against the lawn. A full-speed dash for Terry was an easy pace for the dog.
Naturally Terry wore out before the dog did. He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping, near the front door. Even though his lungs burned and his muscles complained, he felt better by far than he had inside the big house.
“Thanks,” he said to the dog. “I needed that. And now I need a drink, a shower, and bed, in that order. Night.” The dog remained outside when Terry went in.
Edge wasn’t in Terry’s room, and the door to Edge’s room was closed. Maybe he’d taken advantage of an evening off and gone to bed early. It was stupid that Terry felt a pang of absence. The small fridge in his room held several bottles of water, and Terry emptied two before going into the bathroom. “You look like hell,” he told his reflection. Hair a mess, face flushed, eyes red. But at least there was life in his eyes—something most of Whitaker’s guests had seemed to lack.
Warm water over his skin, but not too hot. Oatmeal-almond soap that sudsed well. Shampoo to wash away the mousse. A few quick swipes with a thick towel. Then he tuned in a top-40 station on the stereo with the volume down low, turned out all the lights except the one on the nightstand, and climbed into the big bed. But he didn’t fall asleep. His mind had cleared, but his nerves still fizzed and popped with the residual drugs. He’d crash soon enough, though. All he had to do was wait.
He tilted his head back and stared at the light-and-shadow patterns on the ceiling, humming softly with Duran Duran.
Terry wasn’t surprised when the door to his room creaked slowly open and Edge crept inside. What stole his breath, however, was the fact that Edge was completely naked. And oh God, he was magnificent. He had a broad chest with pink nipples begging to be teased, eight-pack abs, and a trim waist. Below his navel, a narrow treasure trail lead to a nest of dark curls and a thick cock at half-mast.
“Jesus,” Terry groaned.
Edge gazed at him with eyes as dark as tar and as deep as the ocean. He ducked his head and chewed briefly on his lower lip, which made Terry envious—he wanted to be the one scraping that sweet bit of flesh with his teeth. Then Edge raised his head. “Do you want me?” His voice was even deeper than usual, and hoarse, as if he’d been shouting for hours.
Oh, dear God. “Yes.”
“Then fuck me. Please.” And Edge prowled toward the bed.
Chapter Seven
Edge had tried to be good, dammit. He’d sat there during the party and done nothing, watching the boss wind Brandt more tightly in his web. Edge’s jaw had ached to bite into the boss’s horrible friends. He was big and strong; he could have done a lot of damage before anybody stopped him. But he hadn’t, because he was the boss’s good dog.
But he hadn’t mentioned the gun, had he? Or his suspicion that Brandt was not who he was pretending to be. And although Edge had smelled the gun hidden behind the dresser in Brandt’s room, he hadn’t moved it. That… was not good.
He’d led Brandt back to the guest room as ordered. Good dog.
But when Brandt stripped and raced across the grounds, Edge had run along with him instead of herding him inside. Bad dog.
He’d shifted to man form while Brandt showered, and then he’d heard the music begin. Even heard Brandt humming quietly along. Still naked, Edge had stroked himself while imagining that the hand on his cock was Brandt’s, had grown erect in preparation for offering himself. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or not. Was he doing it because he’d been commanded to or because he yearned for Brandt to touch him? He didn’t know.
Not for the first time, he envied true dogs, who were unconcerned with complications such as these. A mastiff suffered no crises of identity, and as long as its immediate needs were met, it didn’t worry about its place in the world. It didn’t struggle with differentiating right from wrong and certainly not with the nuances in between.
Edge went to Brandt’s room, and Brandt seemed almost to be waiting for him. He sat bare-chested in bed, his lust so obvious that Edge could smell it.
With some difficulty, Edge found his voice. “Do you want me?”
“Yes.”
“Then fuck me. Please.” Without waiting for a response, Edge climbed onto the bed and positioned himself on all fours.
Brandt didn’t move at first, even though they were almost touching. Then he swallowed. “Are you one of the perks Mr. Whitaker mentioned?”
Edge didn’t want to lie, but the truth might make Brandt reject him. Edge turned his head to look at him. “Sometimes,” Edge finally admitted. Maybe that was vague enough.
Was that pity in Brandt’s eyes? Edge didn’t want pity. He firmed his jaw and looked away, yet remained in place.
Brandt touched his back very gently, making Edge shiver. “You have bruises. How’d you get them?”
“Part of the job.” Another not-quite-lie. Maybe Brandt would believe they came from a particularly harsh training session.
“Edge.” Brandt’s voice was so firm Edge had to look at him. “What do you really want right now? ’Cause I thought you were kind of into me, and that’s awesome, but I won’t… not if you aren’t a hundred percent willing.”
Deep in his heart, Edge was willing, even if he couldn’t discern his motives. So this time he could tell the absolute truth. “I want you.”
That made Brandt briefly close his eyes and shudder. Then he tugged at Edge’s arm. “Lie down facing me? It’s been… a long time since I did this.”
“Why?”
“A busy life. Fear, I guess. Complications.”
As Brandt had requested, Edge moved onto his side, and Brandt mirrored his position, their noses only inches apart. Brandt had beautiful eyes and a small scar on his forehead, as if someone had carved a tiny letter C. His pupils were enormous, which could have been due to the lingering effects of the drugs he snorted or the relative dimness of the light, but Edge hoped it was desire.
Although several of the boss’s potentials had fucked him, none of them had looked at him the way Brandt was. Solemnly—almost fiercely—as if Edge was interesting and important. As if Brandt saw something in him other than a strong, willing body.
Brandt tentatively petted Edge’s shoulder and upper arm, then moved his palm to the center of Edge’s back. “How badly do you hurt?”
“I don’t.”
“You were limping earlier today.”
“I heal fast.”
Brandt pressed slightly harder, which felt fine. He had long, slender fingers, and his skin was warm and dry. His breath was minty, and his hair smelled of spices and his body of almonds. Edible, Edge thought, and groaned.
“That hurt?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Brandt looked relieved. “Let me know if anything… feels bad.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“Neither am I, babe. Doesn’t mean I’m invincible, though.” Brandt seemed about to say something else but stopped. When he spoke again, brittleness had crept into his voice. “Why do you work for Whitaker?”
“It’s my job.”
“Right. But he’s not….” Some interior struggle flashed across Brandt’s face. “He’s not a good person. You know that, right? You’re not stupid.”
“I know. But he’s the boss.”
“Does he have something over you? Has he done something so that you can’t quit?”
Edge wanted to tell the truth, but that would end disastrously. So he settled for a piece of honesty that Brandt wouldn’t understand. “He owns me.” And then, because they were almost-confessing things, and because Edge truly wanted to know, he asked a question of his own. “Do you really want to be a movie star?”
“You don’t think I can make it in Hollywood?”
“The boss can make anyone a star. But you don’t seem…. You’re different from the others.”
For no reason Edge could decipher, Brandt laughed. “You could say that. Let’s just say I do want Whitaker to represent me, and we’ll leave it at that.”
All the lies and secrets filled the space between them, thick and sticky as tar. But then Brandt touched him again, just a ghosting of fingertip along Edge’s cheekbone, and the barrier evaporated. Although Edge usually let the man fucking him decide what to do, he was gathering the courage to touch Brandt in return. Unexpectedly, Brandt scooted a tiny bit closer and pressed their lips together.
It was a gentle kiss. Edge would have initiated something fiercer, but he found himself wanting to savor this moment as he first touched Brandt. That turned out to be an excellent decision, because just that soft brush of skin on skin was enough to make his dick throb urgently and his brain fizz like a TV screen gone to static. He moaned, which made Brandt chuckle softly.
“You do want me. Or you’re a much better actor than I’ll ever be.”
“I don’t— I’m not sure….” Edge gave up on words and kissed him again. Almost as gently as their first time, but he aimed for the corner of Brandt’s mouth, lingered there, moved to the other corner, and finally to the center. Brandt parted his lips with a sigh and cradled Edge’s skull with his palm. Brandt’s minty taste was pleasant enough, but it wasn’t truly him. Edge pulled away from the kiss to snuffle and lick at Brandt’s neck instead, and Brandt, seemingly content for Edge to take the lead, tilted his head back to grant better access.
