Bone Rider (11 page)

Misha grunted, his hips pumping faster, his stiff cock pistoning in his fist as he replayed the memory of Riley giving in with a drawn-out, barely audible moan, bowing his head and tilting his hips to grant Misha better access. Legs spread wide by the cold porcelain between his knees, ass stretched tight around Misha’s girth, he’d been the single most gorgeous thing Misha had ever seen. It had been a thrill unlike any other to have Riley yield to him, trusting Misha to make it about pleasure, not domination. To be able to lean forward and bite Riley’s nape, lick the sweat off his skin, taste him, smell him. He’d put his arms around Riley’s broad chest and molded them together while he’d worked his cock as deeply into the damp sheath of Riley’s body as possible; never deep enough. Never close enough. He’d held on when Riley had bucked against him, helpless against the rush of sensation, wanting it so badly, wanting
Misha
so much he’d been trembling with need.

God, the sounds Riley had made… the….

Misha came with a muffled whimper that seemed too loud in the empty bathroom, shooting like a porn star with Riley’s breathless cries echoing in his mind.

C
OMING
down was sobering. He was alone, sweaty, sticky, and the toilet tank was a mess. He glanced down at his limp-again dick. It looked forlorn, sated but not satisfied, the pressure of Misha’s hand falling short of the friction of Riley’s skin against his. Talk about pathetic. Jesus. He tucked himself back in, cleaned up, flushed. When he washed his hands, he made the mistake of looking up and meeting his own eyes in the mirror. The man who stared back at him was a stranger, pale and grim, little left of the untouchable professional in complete control of his life. There was a feverish glint in his eyes, the look of a man obsessed, or possibly possessed. Maybe he should try an exorcism; see if that got rid of this unhealthy fixation on Riley Cooper.

Let it go
, he thought at the man in the mirror.
Let him go. C’mon, you can do it. He wasn’t that good a fuck, really
.

The man glared back at him with obsidian eyes, begging to differ. Just like every other time Misha had tried this. He hadn’t kept his emotions in check and was paying the price now. In too deep. Gone too far. It wasn’t the pure, fairy-tale kind of love Riley deserved, but it was the best Misha could do.

In the world Misha had grown up in, true loyalty was hard to come by and trust too often repaid with betrayal. Misha had learned his lessons early and he’d learned them well. Tender feelings were a liability. Attachments equaled weakness equaled pain. He could break and die, or break others and live, so he’d become the kind of ruthless that could survive the brutal training and move among killers and cutthroats without fear. Misha hadn’t been born a sociopath, but he’d tried to fashion himself into one and he’d gotten so good at faking it he’d believed it himself at times.

By the time he’d discovered he was gay, he’d already toughened up enough to stand up to the inevitable pressure that followed. His preference wasn’t accepted, never that, but it was overlooked, ignored. He’d made sure everybody knew, to nip the idea of blackmail in the bud, but he hadn’t done the relationship thing, ever. It wasn’t that he’d had trouble finding a willing piece of ass to fuck. He was handsome and rich, could be charming when he chose to, and the clubs were full of starry-eyed twinks eager to spread them for tall, dark, and dangerous. He’d gone for the obvious: slender, pretty, not too bright or ambitious. Easy pickings and one-night stands only, no attachment, no complications.

Riley had caught him by surprise, tending bar in a New Orleans dive Misha would’ve never stepped a foot in if he hadn’t been fresh from a job and in dire need of a drink and a good, hard fuck. Chance. Dumb luck. A single step off the beaten path and that had been it. There had been that voice, like bourbon and black coffee, that brilliant smile, and a devil-may-care attitude that had clicked instantly with Misha’s own lingering adrenaline high. Riley hadn’t been Misha’s usual type, not even close—too tall, too old, too everything—and Misha hadn’t cared, not for a second. Something about the handsome Texan made his cock hard from the get-go, made the emptiness inside recede until all the dark places in Misha prickled with awareness and a thrilling, unknown kind of want.

And then Riley hadn’t put out, the bastard.

Misha might’ve gotten out of it in one piece if Riley had been on the same page, looking for a quick fuck, some meaningless fun between the sheets. Alas, this particular bartender didn’t give it up for strangers, much less customers. He was perfectly happy doing for himself and turned out to be an expert at keeping people at arm’s length with an airtight smile and unreadable eyes. Sociable as he could be, Riley Cooper was a tough man to befriend. Even tougher to seduce, as it turned out.

It was exactly the kind of situation that usually made Misha bow out gracefully and go looking for an easier hookup. Instead, he’d broken his rules. Still didn’t know why, but looking back, he thought it’d been inevitable. He’d been a goner the second he’d met Riley’s eyes for the first time. Misha had left the bar in the early morning hours with blue balls and his belly aching with a weird, kindled hunger that wasn’t slaked by anything but Riley’s company. It had driven him to come back, to spend time with this strange someone who was neither part of Misha’s violent world nor an anonymous ass to fuck.

For the first time ever, he’d made an effort, had ditched common sense and followed his baser instincts. He’d given up pieces of himself so Riley would reciprocate and they’d become tangled up in the process, all those tiny barbs and burrs of their lives catching and holding until Misha forgot why it was such a bad idea to let it happen. By the time he had finally gotten in Riley’s pants, everything that remained of Misha’s ability to care had already latched on to Riley like crazy. The sex had become a bonus, no longer the prize.

The sad truth was he was neither willing nor able to give up. Not unless he was dead sure Riley didn’t want him back… frankly, probably not even then. It was a matter of pride and passion and the visceral knowledge that he’d never meet another Riley. Most people spent their entire life looking for that kind of certainty without ever coming close. Misha wasn’t about to let it slip away without one hell of a fight.

I
T
WAS
a subdued but unwavering Misha who went back into the office, once again drawn to the Texas road map on top of the pile on his desk. He’d spent so much time studying it, he knew it by heart. Every highway, every street. He could name each of the two hundred and fifty-four counties; point out every little speck of a town blind. He’d traced the lines with his gaze and fingers over and over, knowing Riley was out there somewhere, driving one of those roads, living in one of those towns. Misha felt a bit closer to him when he was touching the map, as though maybe, if he wanted it enough, was tenacious enough, he’d be able to reach through the paper and grab the man. Hadn’t worked so far, but that didn’t stop him. His need for Riley had never been entirely rational.

El Paso. He circled the city with his index finger, round and round. El Paso.

Hold still, you stubborn bastard. Let me get to you. We’re not done yet
.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Somehow, he wasn’t particularly surprised to see Andrej slip into the room with a “man, we’re up shit creek without a paddle again” expression on his artfully unshaven face. Misha knew that look well. He’d seen it a lot when they’d been kids and the two of them had gotten in trouble on a regular basis. The last time Andrej had looked this unhappy, Misha had ended up with those fucking stars tattooed on his shoulders and knees. The ones on his shoulders were to show he was a high ranking member in the organization, the ones on his knees indicated he knelt before no one… which was ironic, considering how often he’d been on his knees before Riley.

“What?” he asked, instantly alert. “What’s gone wrong now?”

“Long version or short one?”

“Just tell me.” Misha’s patience was starting to run thin. Figured, that after two months of nothing, everything would happen at once.

Andrej grimaced and waved his cell phone at Misha. “I don’t know what you told your dad, but he didn’t buy it. He’s on his way to New Orleans… and he’s bringing Anton.”

Anton. Oh shit. So much for avoiding that particular disaster. Well, all right. Misha mentally shifted gears. It was time to get moving, and honestly, he was grateful for it. He’d been getting desperate for action.

“Does he know we know?” he asked, already striding from the room.

Andrej shook his head, falling in step with him and watching him warily from the corner of his eye. “I talked to Nadia. She doesn’t blab. So what’s going on?”

“Mama,” Misha told him, ruefully. “She’s scheduled an engagement party.”

“Oh.” Andrej was silent for a moment, following Misha into his bedroom. “I take it we don’t plan to attend.”

Misha shot him a look. “Not in this life.”

“Oookay.” Andrej watched him pull his overnight bag from the dresser and retrieve his wallet from the bedside table. “So where are we going?”

Money, ID, fake ID, bag, gun… should he take the gun? He felt kinda naked without, but his weaponry had gotten him into this situation in the first place, and even with a permit it was a bitch to navigate airport security with a firearm. They’d have to fly commercial, make it harder for the family to find them. No gun, then. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need one anyway.

“We’re going to El Paso,” he informed Andrej absently, shoving his Glock back into the dresser compartment.

“El Paso,” Andrej echoed slowly. “You do know there’s nothing in El Paso but dust, heat, and illegal aliens, right?”

Oh, yeah, he hadn’t told Andrej yet. Misha turned around and grinned at his friend. “Kolya found Riley.”

Understanding dawned. “And Riley’s in El Paso.” Andrej rolled his eyes. “Should’ve known it had something to do with your cowboy. So, just for the record: are we running from your daddy or after your man?”

Misha shrugged. “Does it matter?”

His laissez-faire attitude made Andrej narrow his eyes at Misha. “It might to Kolya.”

Misha hefted his bag, grabbed his jacket, and made for the door, already halfway to Texas in spirit, if not body. “Then I suggest we don’t tell Kolya.”

Andrej rolled his eyes, but followed him into the corridor and made a beeline for his own room. “This is gonna end so badly,” he huffed. “Call the airport. I’ll grab my stuff. Meet you at the gate.”

And that was that. Misha smiled as he hurried down the stairs. He had Riley in his sights and Andrej at his back. Things were looking up.

G
ENERAL
Nick Young was not known for emotional outbursts, but as he stalked down the corridors of the Basement flanked by his stony-faced aide on the one side and the base commander’s second-in-command on the other, he all but brought his own thunderclouds. High security transportation, armed guards and whatnot, and nobody had noticed an alien life-form claw a quarter-sized hole into a sealed, metal-coated hazmat container and take off. He hadn’t wanted to believe it when he’d been told. Talk about screwing the pooch. Heads would roll for this as soon as he’d dealt with the immediate crisis.

Camp Jackson had been thoroughly searched and apparently hadn’t been compromised, which seemed to be a relief to Brigadier General Mike Hampton, the nimrod in charge of the facility. Young was much less thrilled. Had the alien been trapped on the base, at least they’d have known where to look for it. As it was, the fucking thing must have gotten free on the road somewhere between the crash site in Texas and the New Mexico Army installation. They’d locked down the I-10 to minimize civilian involvement and were doing a grid search, but considering the head start it had, the critter could be anywhere by now. An extraterrestrial creature, almost certainly hostile, at loose among the already unnervingly paranoid American population because the military had dropped the ball. This wasn’t only a nightmare with regard to national security; it was also a public relations disaster waiting to happen. Forget Iraq. This was a grand-scale fuckup on home ground. Heads would roll if the press found out about it. Important heads; one of them probably Young’s.

The president had gone off like a hand grenade when he’d received the report, and then he’d immediately called the head of the Special Operations Command. That happened to be one General Nicholas Zachariah Young. This was why Young was currently headed for the conference area with a deep scowl on his face and his escort scrambling to keep up with his long-legged stride. Can’t hunt an alien without intel, and Young was coldly determined to squeeze every last drop of information out of the people involved.

A flustered-looking aide jumped up and stood at attention when Young marched in, six foot five of gimlet-eyed, smooth-moving Special Forces general radiating power and blistering displeasure. For a quiet professional, Young certainly knew how to make an entrance.

“Hampton?” he inquired, his tone more order than actual question.

“Through here, sir,” the unfortunate aide replied hastily, glancing at the double doors leading to the conference room. He would’ve jumped and opened them, but the general’s bearing didn’t invite initiative. At attention the aide was, and at attention he stayed. His drill sergeant would’ve been proud of him. Young, on the other hand, barely acknowledged him as he started forward, his own aide darting past to push open the doors. God knew Young was pissed enough to march straight through without bothering with niceties like door handles. The combination of bad news and bumpy plane rides always made for one hell of a cranky general.

The occupants of the room—two men and a woman, all of them looking equally uptight—started when Young barged in. He assessed them quickly, identified them from the files he’d studied during the flight to New Mexico, and came to the conclusion that Brigadier General Mike Hampton was in over his head, Lieutenant Dr. Leandra Butler was actual top dog of the group, and Dr. Robert Weston desperately needed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Hampton opened his mouth, noticed the four stars glinting dully on Young’s shoulder epaulettes, and snapped it shut smartly.