Chapter Seven

Nick lived on the ship for a week. It was a fun interlude. He got up early every morning and drove to Jeanne’s house in time to arrive for breakfast. They planned their day, then worked until the early afternoon. Usually they ate lunch out. Nick made notes about everywhere they went, especially if the food was good.

He met a whole series of her friends and colleagues. He expected a much more serious crew, given the whole Mandalay Peace Accords bit. But no, they were artists and bloggers and other rich patrons. They seemed superficial on the surface, but Nick quickly picked up how passionate they were, how devoted to their respective arts. It was eye-opening. In addition to Roger Yeung, with his movie-star looks and opinions about food, there was Margo and Mina and Kai and Colette and Delphine and Xiaoyi and… There was simply no way for Nick to track people except to write down what he could and hope for the best.

Nick stuck to his general policy of keeping his mouth shut and ears open. They spoke English for his benefit, though the conversation often slipped into Singlish before circling back. They took up Jeanne’s habit of giving him things for his list—reaching out to tap his phone and spelling words he didn’t know. He had an endless list of names, media, and styles to look up.

Tony set Nick up with a computer so he could learn about art and study his list from the day. They quickly bonded over being the only twentysomethings in their circle. They shared a sense of humor and sent each other memes all day. Tony was endlessly cheerful and easy to love.

The exploding foam…bomb?…he had used to punk Russ had been genius. Tony’s work consoles were like something out of a movie, all wires and cords and half a dozen monitors, half of which just seemed to be covered in code, the other half of which were broadcasting soccer matches. He stayed up late in the night working, and Nick joined him, sorting his lists and trying to cram as best he could. He hadn’t studied this much since college.

He missed the horsemen after he moved into a guest suite across the garden from Jeanne’s main house. Tony made sure his computer and tech was up to the task, but Nick still visited the yacht a couple nights a week. Bishop and Russ had been in Special Forces with Graves; they were full of ridiculous stories Nick didn’t quite believe. Charlotte Rook helped Nick with his research, organizing his lists and even finding books for him from who knew where.

But it wasn’t all work. There was some kind of rugby tournament happening, and Graves declared a mandatory holiday for the final. Jeanne agreed, and after Nick helped her move some frames into her warehouse, he was free to go. He grabbed a bag so he could stay late with the horsemen, being sure to remember his surprise for Bishop and Graves.

The steward led him up the ramp to the main stateroom where he found Graves and his security team and crew watching rugby on the huge flat-screen TV. The tables were covered in beer and food and half the people seemed roaring drunk. Most of the people were in red and yellow, a few blue and white jerseys lost in the mix. Graves, the only one in red and black, was laughing at Bishop whose head hung between his knees. Bishop was one of the few in blue and white. They spotted Nick and waved him over, raising their glasses.

Nick stood frozen with a wide grin. Finally, something he could relate to! Nick was a red-blooded Midwestern boy and so football had made up every Sunday of his upbringing, as regular as Lutheran services at Our Lady of the Mills. Groups of men in team colors drinking beer and hurling insults at the television made him feel right at home. I guess some things are universal. Oh, man, wait until he sees…

He held a finger up to Graves a moment and reached into his backpack before handing the bag to the steward. When he turned back, he held up a rugby jersey with a flourish before pulling it over his shirt. It was blue and white. The room exploded into a mix of cheers and insults. Bishop jumped up and dragged Nick into a hug, shouting “Good lad! Good lad! Auckland forever!” He pressed their foreheads and noses together in the way Nick had just started getting used to.

Rook and a few others threw chips at him, but he dodged and vaulted over the couch to sit by a grim-faced Graves.

“What do you think?” Nick said, grinning as the boss rolled his eyes.

“I see Jeanne’s hand all over this,” he grumbled.

“Not at all!” Nick said. “She told me you owned a team. That you bought it just so you could hire a coach?”

“So I could fire the coach!” Graves said, jabbing Nick’s chest with a blunt finger. He was drunk enough that his accent was less pronounced, closer to his Kiwi roots. “And what I do with my bloody riches is my business, pākehā boy.”

“So, I then asked who their rival was and bought the jersey myself!” Nick slapped the big man’s hand away with a tilt of his chin. Their knees were tangled together, and they were nose to nose. Graves smelled like coffee and dope and cologne, a smell Nick was rapidly associating with laughter and confused feelings.

“You cocky little shit!” Graves laughed, pressing his forehead against Nick’s in greeting and settling back with his arm over Nick’s shoulders. “I’ll buy you a proper Caledonia jersey as soon as possible.”

It felt good to be jostled about. Graves’s crew were so physical with one another it made Nick dizzy. His body didn’t know what to do with the stimulus. Having Graves’s heavy arm over his shoulders was only natural in that crowd, where everyone seemed to be leaning on someone else. But to Nick it was like finding water in the desert. His nerves soaked it in.

Something happened on the field and the red-and-yellow side of the room groaned while Bishop and the other Auckland fans jumped up and cheered, giving everyone else the finger. Graves shook his head.

“His club beat mine in the quarter final—so I don’t have a dog in this fight except wanting to see Auckland lose, the bastards,” he said. Nick caught himself peeking at Graves’s legs, wondering what was real and what wasn’t. It was impossible to tell under his sweats. His right thigh, jammed up against Nick was certainly a warm, living weight.

Nick got up to grab a beer and make himself a sandwich. Sitting that close to Graves was too distracting. He went and sat by Bishop so the man could explain who he was supposed to be rooting for. But Graves’s reaction had been just as he’d hoped. He settled on Bishop’s other side and ate, grateful rugby wasn’t as complicated as cricket.

When he stood up to get more beer, Graves was out by the cooler, having a smoke.

“You’re a clever boy,” he said, his eyes hidden behind shades. “I am very pleasantly surprised.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Nick asked. “Why surprised?”

“My crew likes you,” Graves breathed out a blue cloud, pointed with his pipe. “But buying the Auckland jersey was a brilliant maneuver.” He coughed hard, his voice scratchy and a little slurred. “It showed you aren’t going to kiss my ass for anything—and it won Bishop at the same time. The more I think about it, the more impressed I am. A power move.”

“I like you, Graves,” Nick said, shaking his head in disbelief. “But you are kind of a bastard.”

Graves shrugged, smiling like a shark. He didn’t say anything else so Nick went inside.

The game ended with a victory for the others, but no one seemed sore about it. They decided out of nowhere to go down to the marina park to play a match. Nick, beyond delighted, if not quite clear on the rules, was lightning quick and perfectly willing to stiff-arm his best friend Tony right in the sternum.

“Damn boy,” Bishop said, “you can be on my side any day.” Nick’s face lit up and Graves caught his gaze, cocking a brow as if to say: see?

Nick mouthed “You’re an asshole” at Graves and went back to the lineup. He was drinking in the compliments and shoves and jokes and hugs like a man dying of thirst. The sheer visceral thrill of the game more than made up for the ribbing about American football he endured.

Until Graves came out of nowhere and tackled him flat, taking a few extra seconds to rub grass in his hair. Nick burst out laughing, yelling breathless curses, struggling to get free. Graves’s booming laugh made his whole torso shake.

“Goddamn it, Graves,” Nick said, popping up like a cork. “You’re too fucking big to be sneaky. Where did you come from, you no-leg motherfucker?”

“Your blind side—and I will again, you little shit,” Graves barked before they all lined up again.

It ended with a scuffle and singing and more drinking. Nick stood in front of the mirror after his shower, admiring his bruises. He hugged himself; he could hear the party continuing out on the main deck. He was wobbling with physical exhaustion, happier than he had been in longer than he could even remember.

*

N2T

Nick looked at his phone, puzzling what the text meant. Not To Think? Never Too something? He didn’t recognize the number and decided to ignore it. He had woken around ten, sore and happy, ready to start a new day. Charlotte asked for his help with some books and he settled on a chair by the rail to work. Until this text came. N2T Nothing To Take? What does that mean?

“Nick! Oi, Nick!”

It was Bishop— He was naked, shining with sweat, red-faced and breathing hard. He pointed at Nick with his radio.

“Don’t make him wait!”

“What the fuck? Put on pants you—”

“Why should I? I’m fucking my Tony! Now get to kaihe upstairs!”

“What?” He assumed to kaihe meant your ass, but he didn’t follow what Bishop was saying, averting his eyes. Bishop’s body was all hard planes and bad tattoos, the hair on his chest as grey as it was brown.

“N2T!”

“What?”

“Nick To Tops! Get up to the tops you muppet—he’s calling you!”

“I don’t work for him,” Nick snapped, affronted. I’m here to help Charlotte with—”

“Boy…”

“I ain’t no man’s boy,” Nick warned.

The Boss’s voice came over the radio.

“Where the hell is the American? Send him at once!”

“Told you.” Bishop looked smug.

“Gimme that,” Nick snatched the radio out of Bishop’s hand. “Hey, asshole!” He shouted into it.

“Erickson, is that you?”

“Yeah, and you don’t get to summon me like some flunky who—”

Bishop grabbed the radio back.

“Sorry, Boss! He’ll be along sharpish—”

“No! You ask me nice!” Nick shouted in the general direction of the radio and sat back down to his lists.

Next thing he knew, he was being snatched up. Bishop and Tony, thankfully in shorts, hauled him bodily up the stairs, despite his curses, kicks and twisting arms. They lost him twice, once right at the end. Nick, incensed, landed a jab across Bishop’s cheek that knocked the old man flat on his back.

“What in the blazes!” Came a bellowing roar, and they all froze, their fists raised, limbs tangled. It was Graves, bulling toward them, shirtless and brick red with anger.

Nick had a moment of perfect clarity, seeing Major Nelson Graves of the New Zealand Special Air Service as the big man drew himself up, face a thunderhead. Bishop and Tony scrambled to their feet.

“Master Sergeant! Get this mayhem under control! Are you in command of this crew or are you—” He went on at length, switching languages at least twice. Graves had a big voice. It echoed off the marina’s walls, scattering the seagulls, and sending the other two men scrambling down the stairs. Even though the tirade had not been directed at him, Nick caught himself standing straighter and tugging his shirt when Graves turned his way.

“Hello Mr. Erickson,” Graves said smoothly, fighting a smile. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“Oh, my absolute pleasure,” Nick snapped, but Graves’s grin was contagious, eyes full of mischief. He gestured for Nick to follow him.

“My tailor arrived this morning with my new suit. I invited you up to see if you needed a proper one. He could measure you here and now.”

Graves wore loose linen pants, hanging low on his hips, very low. The wide band of a jockstrap was clearly visible. Walking behind, Nick’s gaze trailed down the wide planes of his back. And to the tangle of hideous scars over his left hip.

Nick tried not to look at the scars and failed. Repeatedly. They were bad, very bad in some places, but Graves had a strong ass. Paler than the rest of him, with a deep divot at the top of—

“It’s rude to stare,” Graves said coldly, and Nick snapped his head up.

“I wasn’t—”

Graves cut him off, indicating the man who came bustling toward them.

“Nicholas, this is René Toussaint, my tailor. René, this is Nicholas Erickson, from America.”

“Very good, Monsieur le Comte, I have arranged everything for your valet.”

“I’m afraid my valet is rather more than a thousand nautical miles from here,” Graves laughed. “I shall have to manage on my own.”

Nick shook his head.

“You sound like that guy from Downton Abbey. The earl?”

“Well, sorry to disappoint you,” Graves said, pulling on an undershirt. “I’m afraid I’m only a baron.”

“Whatever,” Nick waved him off. “I’m American and I don’t care.”

“Pity,” Graves said. “I could make you a prince if you asked me nicely.” Before Nick could answer, Graves went into the adjoining room—presumably to get his clothes on.

René gestured to a low wooden stand positioned under the curved skylights. It was directly before the wood monstrosity of Graves’s desk. A mirrored screen had been arranged on each side. The sunlight would have been brutal but it was diffused by some polarization in the glass. The room was bathed in soft golden light, which complimented the art on the walls, a display of bronzes, shelves of old books. Nick looked around, openly curious. Other than the obvious opulence, there was nothing to indicate it was Graves’s space. Not one photo? Not one personal detail? Look at that fucking lamp— That isn’t his.

René was a tall, wiry man, with a shock of gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He was in a white shirt with a trim vest patterned in vivid blues. He gestured again, but Nick had no idea what he wanted.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what to do here.”

“Ah, pardon,” René said. “One moment.” He snapped his fingers.

“Patrick?”

“Coming!” A young man appeared, carrying a box. He also wore a vest and a bow tie in matching blue silk, both embroidered with flowers.

“I will help Lord Graves,” René said. “Patrick will explain.”

“Please remove all your clothes and stand here.” Patrick said, gesturing to the stand.

“What?” Nick said, panicking. “Naked?”

“No, no, down to your undergarments, please.”

“Oh, okay.” Nick was glad he had the fancy new ones Jeanne had paid for. But this was a very different experience. Why would Graves do this for me? I hate feeling like their pet charity case. He glanced at the door, at the stand, then back at the door. Did he really need—

“Well, well, glad I’m not missing this.”

Graves was back, straightening his tie. It was ink-black over a cream shirt with a crisp high collar and a black vest. His pants and the jacket held up by René were a deep, dark blue.

Graves had changed into black-rimmed glasses and his cuff links were black chips of rough stone. He looked—Nick swallowed, realizing he had frozen like a rabbit. The grass-stained and joking friend from the day before now felt like a dream.

“You all right there, Mr. Erickson?”

“Yeah, no, for sure, but maybe this isn’t a good…” Graves didn’t seem to be listening, shrugging into the jacket René held.

The tailor smoothed the lapels with brisk strokes, muttering to himself in French.

“Magnifique,” he said finally, standing back.

“It is rather good,” Graves said, adjusting his cuff links. “I didn’t think the blue would answer, but it is rather good.”

“Wot, wot, old chap,” Nick laughed, “I say.”

Graves shot him a dirty look.

“Strip, peasant,” he said, with a jerk of his chin. Nick didn’t take it seriously. He could tell when Graves was joking. The lines in the corners of his eyes gave him away. Maybe the rugby guy isn’t all that far after all. He is just doing his Lord Graves bit.

“I was well overdue for a new suit,” Graves said, turning to see himself in a side view.

“What for?”

“Mr. Erickson,” Graves said, catching Nick’s eye in the mirror. “Who are you spending Saturday with?”

“I dunno, maybe my friend Roger Yeung, go to that new hawker pavilion. Why?”

“This Saturday I am having lunch with the Sultan of Brunei, his son the crown prince, and the president of Malaysia.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, rather. So you see, I need a new suit, while you are fine with that hideous thing Jeanne bought you at Colette’s.”

“It’s not hideous! It’s um…some kind of boss something. Howard Boss? It’s nice.”

Graves, René, and Patrick all laughed.

“René,” Graves said, turning side to side. “How soon can you put this boy into something decent?”

“Two months.”

“Make it one. He is to be at an event of Jeanne Kyaw’s for New Year’s.”

“Oh dear, you should have said. A month and two fittings.”

“See my quartermaster if you want to fly in Jules and what was that girl’s name?”

“Monsieur le Comte knows her name perfectly well,” René said dryly. “Since he was gasping it behind the screen last time she was here.”

“Traitor,” Graves said. He took off the jacket and held it out to Patrick, or presumably to where he thought Patrick should be since he dropped it without looking, making the boy scramble.

“Monique,” Graves said dreamily. “Vicious thing. She handles the accounts. I had to make sure all my bills were paid.”

“Pfft, espece de pute.”

“Hey I know that word!” Nick said, snapping his fingers. “He just called you a—”

“I speak seven languages, Mr. Erickson. I assure you I know exactly what le vieux pédé said.”

“Why am I here?” Nick asked. “Aside from witnessing what an absolute tool and enemy of the people you are?”

“Have you been talking to Anatoly?” Graves asked, rolling his eyes.

“Who?”

“Never mind. He’s a filthy oligarch who talks like a communist. He frequently says I am the enemy of the people.”

“You are. I come from a proud union family. Both my parents are lifers in the IAM Local77.”

“How dreadful,” Graves said, his eyes vanishing in his smile. He threw himself into the leather chair and pulled out his cigarette case. “I’ll have you all enslaved in my mines—teach you a lesson.” He lit a joint, rolling it between his fingers. Nick thought of their time at the awards ceremony.

“Ignore him,” René said. He paused, considering. “Tu sait? ‘Please ignore le Comte de Diarmuit et Cuylon’ is a phrase I must say depressingly often.”

Graves didn’t seem too upset by this. He held the joint out to René who took a drag before passing it to Nick.

“Might as well,” Nick said, taking a long drag. “This can’t get any weirder.” He stripped quickly, trying to do as René said and ignore Monsieur le Comte sprawled in his chair. Graves didn’t say anything as Nick undressed, but the air got thin, and Nick caught himself wiping his palms on his hips.

“Turn around! You aren’t even going to pretend to be polite?” he said. Graves blew a stream of fragrant smoke up to the ceiling.

“Not for all the jade in Burma”

“Dick,” Nick said, cross and embarrassed. René’s touches were brisk, professional, and entirely platonic. But Graves’s gaze felt like a hand. A memory surfaced, vivid. He was nineteen, on his college swim team. The locker room came to him, with its mix of homophobia and juvenile bullshit.

“I had a guy look at me like that once,” he blurted. He closed his eyes. “Never mind. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Tell me,” Graves said, his deep voice quiet, chin on his hand.

“I was a swimmer, pretty good too. Guys were being stupid, like in the showers you know?”

“I boxed at university. I remember.”

“Well there was one guy. He ignored everyone else. But he looked at me like…” Nick gestured vaguely at Graves. “That.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing. I guess I let him. Look, I mean. Gave him a show? I dunno.”

“Did that bother you?” A crease appeared in Graves’s brow, shifting his tattoos.

Nick sighed, closing his eyes—this time not because he was embarrassed—but remembering. He turned as René pushed him.

“No. I didn’t mind somehow. It’s hard to remember those years now.”

“Indeed,” Graves said.

“Well, we have everything we need,” René said. He and Patrick handed Nick his folded clothes and began packing their things, pointedly ignoring the two men. Nick was still remembering. I pretended I didn’t notice. Just took slower showers, maybe posed a little. It was flattering.

He studied Graves, still relaxed, temple resting against his curled fist.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Nick pulled his shorts back on.

“I’m beginning to wonder,” Graves answered. A frown line appeared again, and he drummed his fingers on the desk. “Not about being nice, but about how easily you’ve slipped into my crew.”

“I like them.” Nick jerked his shirt on, defensive. “It ain’t just about buying a jersey.”

“That’s true,” Graves said. “But I’m not sure. No matter what René says, I am very selective about who I spend my time with. I have very little to myself. My children, their mothers, my family in New Zealand—they have priority of course. My business dealings—”

“The Sultan of Brunei,” Nick said.

“Yes, even him,” Graves said. “But despite that, and our inauspicious first meeting, I think I like having you about the place.”

“Well, that’s flattering,” Nick said, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t flatter.” His voice took on an edge and he stood. “Now run along. I have a nasty week ahead of me. I’ll make sure René has your number. He’ll bring everything to Jeanne’s.” He went over to the desk, back to Nick, clearly a dismissal.

*

A nasty week was right. Graves had barely slept, the pain in his hip and his worry blending into nightmares that woke him up sweating. Now he could barely follow what Bishop was saying.

“The Americans are crossing the border, not many—a few small teams, with Thai Army,” Bishop said, tapping the screen to reveal the next image. It was grainy, stolen from an Indian satellite. But it showed the road above Chiang Rai clearly enough, and the high pass into Burma. A couple of trucks, some SUVs, and a Jeep, all driving hard enough to make a trail of dust that swept off over the trees in the image in a series of gray triangles.

“This is Mac’s doing,” Graves said. “He is up to something.”

“I think it’s bullshit,” Bishop said. He went to the next image, showing the same vehicles going the other way. “He knows we are in Singapore. He is waiting for us to do something. Make some move.”

“It will be Hong Kong,” Graves said. “Chow got the schedule changed. He will be bringing that ship in himself. Let’s see how Louie Tang reacts when we’ve slipped his net. Send Mac back to Texas.” Graves leaned back in his seat, loosening his tie.

Bishop was watching him, tapping his pen against his cheek.

“Sonny,” he said, his voice softer than anyone outside their circle would believe. “When are you going to let us kill that son of a bitch for you?”

“Please don’t ask me that.” Graves said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I have enough to think about. There is something wrong. Something I am not seeing. I can’t… I can’t see it.”

“Theroux was hard, Sonny,” Bishop continued. “I see you hurting, eh. And you been stuttering.”

Graves waved that off. The stuttering was just part of his aphasia. He was lucky it wasn’t more severe. It was almost helpful, in a way. He knew when he stuttered that he was going to lose words and had better stop talking. Half his reputation as the strong silent type came from being forced not to talk. No one but the horsemen knew, luckily.

“I am still trying to understand it,” Graves said, stabbing his finger onto his desk. “Theroux has been in the game with us since the aughts. Why did he even do it?”

“Joe Stinton was pissed as,” Bishop said. “I never seen him so mad, eh.”

“I’m worried about him,” Graves said. “Louie Tang and Mac are obviously up to something. It’s risky having someone so close to me in Hong Kong right now.”

“Bah, Joe’s an old hand,” Bishop said. “Remember when he and Colin did for that bank? Cool as a cucumber our boy was.”

There was a moment’s silence. Colin. Who you showing off for, Major? That was the other thing wasn’t it? The thing that was keeping Graves from enjoying himself. Theroux’s betrayal was hard enough. But it was almost Colin’s day, and it was an anniversary that hit them all hard.

“I don’t want to go to this show tomorrow, David,” Graves said. “I promised Jeanne. But I really don’t want to go. I just don’t have the heart for it.”

“Maybe our Nick will be there,” Bishop said. “I love that little ginger and his temper.”

Graves smiled. The little ginger with the temper had certainly enlivened the week. Jeanne said she adored him, was keeping him forever and ever. And rugby the day before had been a great time. But then, with René. He was looking right through me. Didn’t buy into the Lord Graves nonsense for a moment.

“Maybe,” Graves said. He had to admit, the thought of the American did cheer him up. He remembered the boy’s face when he tackled him. It had been a long time since anyone had laughed at Nelson Graves quite like that.

Little bastard. I bet he bites when cornered. What did he call me? Too big, no-leg motherfucker?

“Once the ship is in,” Bishop said, rubbing Graves’s head. It rasped; he needed to shave. “You can get that shrapnel out, you’ll feel much more charming. Then you can seduce the little ginger boy. That would cheer you up.”

“Pfft. Too young,” Graves said. Bishop shot him an incredulous look.

“What a load of toss. He’s the same as our Tony!” he laughed.

“Well, I’d rather be with Jeanne,” Graves said, waving him off. “Think I’ll go there tonight. Get away from you gossipy old matchmakers. Add a couple of lads to Jojo’s team, will you?”

*

Nick crossed the garden to Jeanne’s patio, humming quietly. The morning was misty and silent, except for the birds and little ripples of the fountain in Jeanne’s garden. The stone path was damp and cool under his bare feet. Jeanne’s cook said she was out on the patio and even handed Nick a pot of tea to take. He padded along the tiles, careful not to spill.

The pot was hot, and he shifted his hands as the heat made him bobble a little. He didn’t want to drop it and wake Graves. He only wanted to sit with Jeanne and start their morning. The nightmares had been bad: the boy’s screams, the smell of burning rubber and oil. Nick wanted company. He needed to be distracted.

But they weren’t sleeping, not by any stretch. Jeanne was straddling Graves’s hips. She was tied in a crisscross pattern of red ropes, arms high above her head. A series of harsh grunts were bursting from behind a silk gag. It looked like—it was—a man’s necktie, the same that covered her eyes. It was red like the huge jewel that hung around her neck on a gold chain, sparkling with her movements.

Nick drew in a shaky breath at the sight before him. He felt his own balls draw up as Jeanne twisted her body, moaning and trying to talk behind the gag. To Nick’s horror, Graves sat up, his face appearing over Jeanne’s sweaty shoulder, bracing himself with one arm. He ran his tongue up the side of her neck, but as he did, he caught sight of Nick in the doorway. Nick froze. He was still holding the teapot in both hands. Graves grinned.

Deliberately, holding Nick’s eyes with his, he began to thrust upward.

“I’m the only one who can give you this, you know,” Graves growled into Jeanne’s ear, but it was Nick he was speaking to. “Keep you tied like this on the deck of my ship; make you mine.”

Jeanne let out a garbled shout, her body arching, abdomen working.

“That’s it, give me what’s mine.” He bit his lower lip. Jeanne’s orgasm tore through her, and she snapped her hips hard. Graves’s face was open, defenseless, amber eyes locked on Nick’s. That’s what he looks like when he comes. It was the only coherent thought in the roar through Nick’s mind. He came, untouched, soaking the front of his pajamas and nearly buckling his knees. Hot tea sloshed over his hands, a burning reminder of where he was. He staggered backward and fled, leaving the teapot on the first table he passed.

*

Nick showered and went back to the kitchen. He had changed to a bathing suit so he could do some laps, work off his nervous energy, try to exhaust himself, so he wouldn’t think, for fuck’s sake!

He was reaching for the sugar when he heard Graves come in, the clink of his prosthetics clear against the marble. The man didn’t even pause, coming right up behind Nick and dropping his hands on either side of him, gripping the edge of the counter. He boxed Nick in, surrounding and encasing him. The smell of Jeanne and sex, opium, and coffee—all of it enveloped Nick, making his knees weak. Graves wasn’t touching him, but Nick could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his breath hot against the top of his head.

“You got an eyeful didn’t you, boy?” Graves said directly into Nick’s ear. He kept his head bent, breathing against the side of Nick’s neck. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”

Nick couldn’t speak even if he wanted to.

“Maybe you should have knocked,” Graves said. Goose bumps chased all the way down Nick’s neck and across his bare shoulders. “Jeanne would be very angry if she knew you saw her like that. And I prefer Jeanne happy. Don’t you?”

Nick tilted his head away, shuddering. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut.

“If you sneak in like that again,” Graves continued. His voice slid down into a harsh growl. “I’ll make you howl for it. I know you liked what you saw. I saw you dirty the front of your pajamas. Next time,” Graves snapped his hips forward, grinding his crotch into Nick’s ass and bending him over the counter. The stone surface was cold on Nick’s naked chest and belly, but he barely registered it through the heat of the huge body pinning him. Graves grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled Nick’s head back so he was speaking directly into Nick’s ear.

“Next time you spy on us like that, I’ll beat you like a whore and breed you until it takes. Do you understand?”

Nick nodded frantically, his toes scrabbling against the floor. Just like that, Graves was gone, limping back down the hall with the click-click of his prosthetics against the floor. Nick spun and saw the man’s broad back. He was wearing nothing but a pair of old sweatpants, all shoulders, shaking his head in annoyance as he stalked away. Nick had no doubt Graves meant it.

So, of course, Nick’s temper flared.

“Hey!” he shouted and trotted after Graves, who turned, looking surprised.

“Fuck you, pal!” Nick snapped and gave Graves a little two-handed shove. It was like shoving a wall, but so be it, Nick was ready to throw down. “You think I wanted to watch? You think I would be so disrespectful? You think I’m some peeping little fuck outside your window? Fuck you! I love Jeanne. I would never betray her trust! Never!” He was talking in a low voice, not wanting to broadcast their argument, but it was hard not to shout. “You don’t get to threaten me, asshole. And you don’t get to talk shit about Jeanne, just be—”

“Why, you presumptuous little shit,” Graves started, leaning forward and pointing at Nick who batted the finger away.

“Fuck you!” Nick said. I don’t have to take his shit just because he could pick me up and stick me in his pocket. “What are you gonna do? Kick my ass right here in Jeanne’s hallway? Go for it, big guy, fucking go for it.”

Graves drew back. But instead of looking angry, a smile spread across his face. He held up his hands.

“Well, aren’t you a fiery little bastard?” he said. “You know I could have you wiped off the face of the earth—and you don’t care?”

“You ain’t got the balls,” Nick snapped, jerking his chin. Inside he was terrified. He’s a big fucking guy. And he has the morals of a jackal, the fucker. He would just tell Jeanne I vanished.

“Oh, Nick,” Graves breathed and stepped right up to Nick so they were chest to chest—or chest to face since Graves was so much bigger. “I would love to show you…exactly…what I have the balls for.” He leaned down so he was speaking straight into Nick’s ear again. “I think you already saw. Do let me know if you want a more…personal…demonstration. But don’t forget what curiosity did to the cat.”

And, with that, he stepped back. Nick let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He was hard again, and worse, Graves was staring right at his crotch.

“You know where to find me,” Graves said and walked down the hall with his characteristic rolling step.