Chapter Eleven

The bar had a long line, watched over by a huge bouncer under an umbrella that covered half the alleyway. The door to the place was open, and the smell of beer and wet jackets wafted out toward Graves and Bishop as they eased around the bouncer and in. It was barely eight o’clock, and the place was starting to get loud.

“I found this place through the lads at the embassy,” Bishop said. He was in street clothes—jeans and boots and a bomber jacket beaded with rainwater. Graves had agreed to jeans, but still wore a good shirt and jacket. He had standards, by God. A few days of scruff on his face and head would have to do for coverage.

I’m two bloody meters and shaped like a brahma bull—I can’t hide anyway.

“It’s perfect, David. He would have loved it,” Graves said. It had been a terrible week. They needed a break. Sadly, this wasn’t it.

They pushed into the main part of the bar. It was dark and crowded. There were American Marines and British sailors and plenty of longshoremen from the docks. Music played from dusty speakers barely audible over the scrum of expats at the bar. No one looked at them twice.

It was ideal. This was a tough anniversary for them. It was one they preferred to honor in public. Being taller than everyone helped in this case—Graves saw Russ waiting in the corner and nudged David that way. They maneuvered their way through the crowd of off-duty soldiers and sailors to the back and slid into the round booth beside their friend. There were four drinks already set on the table.

They all hesitated a moment, staring at the fourth glass.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” Russ said finally. Graves felt a squeeze in his chest. Of all the losses they had suffered over the years, it was fair to say this one had cut them the hardest. No, they would never get over it.

Colin. Their stupid, gallant, big-wave surfing friend had lost his fight with his demons and taken his own life two years ago—ten years after his last deployment to Iraq.

“I miss him,” Graves said finally. He held up his beer. “To Colin.”

“To Colin,” the others echoed and they all drank.

“Do you remember the cockroach caper?” Graves asked. The memory had surfaced as he was waking, untangling himself from Jeanne’s long limbs. Even his subconscious mind had been aware that it was Colin’s day. The other two grinned. Russ tried not to snort his drink.

“Or the time he took that American Jeep…”

The stories came like clockwork, and so did the beers, brought by a pretty young thing who tried flirting with Graves before she caught the table’s mood. Now, she just kept the beers coming. The three men, the lone survivors of their unit—told stories, laughed, and if a few tears were shed—no one saw or commented.

“He was the best of us,” Russ said, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes. Graves slung an arm over his friend’s shoulder. Russ and Colin had been frequent co-conspirators.

“Kept us from a lot of stupidity,” Graves agreed. “Imagine if he had been there in Dhaka.”

“We would never have done that police station,” Bishop agreed. “What a cock-up.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Graves started. “It was the—”

“Oi!” Russ said. He banged his elbow into Graves’s ribs, cutting him off and nearly spilling his beer. “Look!”

“What?”

“It’s the American!” Russ said and elbowed Graves again. Graves flinched as he saw the familiar mop of red curls. Nick was there with an older woman and Morris, the security deputy.

“Who’s the bird?” Bishop asked.

“That’s Elena Jarrett from Special Branch. Intelligence,” Russ said darkly. Graves didn’t care. The Americans were not their problem. Well, Thomas Macauley was their problem. But that was a whole other issue. And in the meantime—

Christ. Why is he here? And he has no right to look so good. Nick was in jeans and a tight gray T-shirt, dappled with rain. He must be furious with me. I left him hanging; we had such a nice time too.

He stared at his hands, hoping Russ wouldn’t notice, or Bishop wouldn’t comment—anything. Sadly, Bishop and Russ were on to him. As always.

“You should take him somewhere nice, Boss,” Russ said, his scar making his grin as lopsided as ever. Graves shot him a dirty look.

“Yeah,” Bishop agreed. “I like that kid. And he could use a big, strong, brown—”

“Shut it,” Graves snapped. “N-n-not tonight, lads, please.” And, damn it all, he was starting to stammer. Just when he needed his words, aphasia was going to screw him; wasn’t it? Of course, it was.

Russ and Bishop schooled their faces but they were already drunk, and they knew him too well. And Graves had to admit Nick’s smiling face, the way he was leaned back in his seat, wide shoulders resting on the back of the booth, happy and comfortable— It twisted something in Graves’s chest.

Damn it all. It’s merely because he has those curls and that freckled little—

“Oh shit, there’s trouble,” Russ said. Graves leaned over to see, his senses on alert. A huge drunk in a wrinkled suit was leaning over Lena, practically slobbering down her blouse. Morris was trying to reason the drunk away but Nick was pushing to his feet, his face closing in anger.

“Again?” Graves muttered. “This boy would fight a traffic sign.”

“Hard out,” Bishop agreed. “Do you think we should—?”

The crowd parted suddenly, enough to give the men at the table a crystal-clear view as Nick Erickson grabbed the offending drunk’s tie and jerked his face down against the table with a brisk crack.

“Bloody hell!”

The man crumbled to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut, blood fountaining from a broken nose. Then complete mayhem broke out. Graves slapped a hand over his eyes, shaking his head.

The drunk’s friends waded in, but Nick wasn’t the slightest bit deterred. Graves shot to his feet with Bishop and Russ, ready to end the whole thing.

But instead of going to Nick’s defense, he watched with his jaw hanging as Nick cracked a bottle between one man’s legs and punched another so hard he spun sideways, assisted to the floor by a kick from Morris. People were shouting and pushing and trying to move out of the way.

“Jesus, look at him!” Russ said as the bouncer waded in and dragged a red-faced and still swinging Nick off the poor slob he was beating. Morris and Lena were arguing loudly with the bartender.

Graves gave an inadvertent bark of laughter as Nick slipped free and ran in again, taking a few last swings before he was lifted bodily into the air by the bouncer and carried out.

Graves spun and signaled the waitress. When she came, he pulled her close and handed her a thick wad of bills.

“No one c-call the police. I will pay for everything,” he said. It didn’t look like there was much damage, but she seemed to understand his real message which was: I’ll pay whatever you need not to call the police.

*

By the time payment was sorted, Nick and his friends were long gone. A quick call to Tony found them at a hawker pavilion around the way, devouring a pile of chicken rice and toasting their victory. They had been joined by a couple of Marines and the laughter from their table made it clear no one was hurt or needed any help.

Graves hesitated, hanging back. If Nick was all right, they could go. The urge to see him, to sit down and join was warring with a dull shame over the last time they were together. Bishop shoved him forward and the movement caught Nick’s eye.

“Graves! Bishop! Come sit! Hey, Russ,” Nick called. Under the dangling colored lights they could see his left eye was swelling shut, and his bright red hair was sticking in every direction. The look was so endearing Graves stumbled, the servo in his left knee giving a whirr of protest. He forced his fists to unclench and stuffed them in his pockets.

Russ trotted ahead and dropped into a chair between Nick and Morris, which gave a plastic shriek of protest against the damp floor.

“We saw the whole thing! Sweet as!” he crowed. “Our Nick. Who knew you were such a hardcase?”

When the Marines saw Graves, they jumped to their feet in a loud rattle of chairs, and one almost saluted before Graves waved them all down. He cringed and glanced around. No one else had seen.

Of course, the Marines happened to be the three who walked me into the bloody gala.

Lena was staring, not even pretending to hide. Her dark eyes were wide.

“You’re Nelson fucking Graves,” she said, digging an elbow into Nick’s side. Nick batted her hand away. He grabbed the nearest Marine and pulled him down as well.

“Stop! All of you! Jesus! He’s not important!” Nick laughed. “He’s just some asshole who almost ran me over, then got me fired! Ignore him—he slurps ramen like everyone else.”

Graves wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Then Nick winked at him, and his heart sped up. He cleared his throat and sat, letting Bishop and Russ carry the conversation for him. If he had a goal, it was not to stare. And he was failing at it.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that, our Nick?” Bishop asked. Graves caught the shadow that passed over Nick’s face. Interesting. What is that about then?

Bishop didn’t catch it—was too drunk and too happy to focus. Instead, he told Morris their complete amazement at the whole scene. Morris tapped his beer in agreement.

“When he snapped that bloke’s face against the table!”

Graves tried to follow, but he kept glancing at Nick, seeing his discomfort and losing the thread of the talk.

“You’re being awful quiet,” Russ said in Malay.

“J-j-just wuh—damn! Only wardrobe—no. Only w-watching,” Graves said. He closed his eyes. The stammering had been the start. But now words were switching in his mouth. Don’t talk.

“Watching the freckles,” Russ countered.

“He sure is,” Bishop said, catching on. “Look at him. Like an ox with a bee on his nose.”

“You two dogs can shut up n-n-now,” Graves snarled.

“I’m not sure Nick is interested in men,” Lena said in perfect Malay, pretending to blow on her chicken before taking a bite. Graves froze for a moment before dropping his face in his hands.

“I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars in cash to ignore my friends,” he said, wishing they had never come. They should have gone home.

“I’m an official of the United States government and completely above bribes,” Lena said, chin in the air. Then she winked. “But if you hurt him I’ll have every ship you dock seized and the contents tossed in the Straits. Do not doubt for a moment I would.”

Her smile twinkled. A dimple appeared in her cheek. But her eyes were rock-hard. Graves sighed. She would do it too. He had a feeling Lena Jarrett knew more than she let on. Had Mac spoken with her?

Graves pushed to his feet. The movement was too abrupt and his chair fell over sideways, knocking over another table. He righted it, his face burning. He wanted to talk to Nick. He wanted to be alone with him again. He wanted…what, exactly?

I want the way he looked up at me after the race. I want him in my arms like after Leon’s. I want to have a normal life where I can ask a pretty boy out for a drink and maybe try to talk him into my bed without it costing anyone their lives.

“Well, early d-d-d-day,” he said, texting the driver. “Good n-n-” He gave up; the letter n was too much.

Bishop and Russ were squinting at him in confusion. It wasn’t even nine. There was absolutely nothing planned for tomorrow and they knew it. Graves ignored them. They weren’t the problem. Nick’s eyes were boring into his, seeing right through his excuses. Graves felt a twist of anger somewhere in his chest. He rubbed it. I can’t. I can’t. Please understand. I simply can’t.

The silence had lasted a heartbeat too long. He had been staring. Bishop and Russ were rolling their eyes at each other, and Lena looked ready to skewer him. Nick stood as well, cocking his head sideways to look out of his good eye.

“Hey, mind giving me a ride back to the bungalow?” he said. Graves opened his mouth, but absolutely no plausible excuse came to him. None. He nodded, turning to where the car was pulling up. Bishop and Russ got up, sharing worried looks. Graves spun on his heels with no more than a nod to the others. He didn’t trust his own voice.