Bone Rider (16 page)

It was different when you were asleep
, McClane admitted.

“T-then why did—?” Riley started, interrupting himself with a whine when something shifted below, nudged the best parts in him, stretched him in the best way. He felt full there, everywhere, heat in his belly and need in his heart, and tiny shocks of pleasure all over. His cock was hard, his nipples stiff and swollen with the almost painful attention they received, his skin so sensitive he could feel the steam brushing against it.

It was immensely satisfying to hear the hitch in McClane’s voice as he tried to give a coherent reply while blowing some fuses himself.

Wanted to… make you not afraid of me. Give you—give you something good
. He twisted sensuously, fucking in, fucking from the inside, every bit of Riley with every bit of himself.
Make you like me
.

Riley laughed breathlessly. “It’s working.”

Hmmm… no. Not then. Not until we got to know each other for real
.

And then McClane made Riley’s body feel as if it was being fucked and licked at the same time, in the same place, every inch of his skin kissed and caressed, and that was it with Riley’s ability to think.

It wasn’t like anything he’d ever done or felt. There was no other body to press against, nobody to touch back, but there was an intimacy to every touch, every moan and sigh, that made Riley’s head spin. There was no end to McClane’s creativity or his enthusiasm. He had a front row seat to Riley’s reactions and he abused the privileged position terribly, driving Riley crazy with the perfect blend of tender and rough. He kept Riley on the brink for what felt like hours, didn’t let them come, pushed them to their limits and beyond until Riley would’ve screamed had he still had the focus to do so.

He didn’t know how McClane experienced pleasure, but it seemed their passion fueled each other’s, because when McClane finally granted Riley release, he ended up howling a lot louder than Riley.

T
HEY
stood braced against the cold tile afterward, sweaty and swaying, Riley’s flanks heaving with his harsh panting. McClane had ridden him hard, in a good way, and he groaned gratefully when McClane nudged up his arm and turned the shower back on. Riley tilted his face into the spray, numb with the afterglow, mind thankfully empty of anything but a sleepy desire to get clean before he fell into bed. He lathered up automatically, washed himself gingerly, his skin still tender, nerves firing randomly in tingly little bursts of residual pleasure. McClane stayed quiet, an exhausted, completely blissed-out presence at the back of his mind.

Drying off and stumbling into the bedroom was a joint effort of coordinating tired limbs until they were safely under the covers. They drifted off wrapped up in each other, tangled in a way that was much more personal than before.

A
TASTE
of honeysuckle and magnolias hung in the still air, threaded with the cloying smell of rot. It was warm, a wet, suffocating kind of heat that filled a person’s lungs with lead and their head with cotton. Riley was back in New Orleans, walking up the stairs to the first floor of Misha’s Garden District mansion in search of the man. He’d been here before, had done this before, and the realization made him break out in cold sweat.
Turn around
, he thought, panicked.
Walk away. Don’t go up there.

This being a dream, his frantic efforts to change the course of events proved completely futile. He was trapped in his own body, forced to repeat history as he moved through the sunlit house toward destruction. His subconscious could have at least had the decency to make it rain and storm outside, match the background to the mood, but no. It had been a bright and sunny day then; it was a bright and sunny day now. The walls were painted white, the hardwood floor was smooth and honey-colored, birds were twittering outside, insects buzzing, and Riley was going up the stairs like a convict to the execution chamber.

He turned his head and saw two shadows ghosting along with him, only one of them his own, but when he glanced behind him, there was no one there. That was new. Riley blinked, but then his foot hit the landing and he forgot about the twinned shadows in the face of the much more pressing fear. There might’ve been a subtle smell of gun oil and blood, but it was hard to tell from the omnipresent stink of rotting vegetation.

The corridor was longer than Riley remembered and the door at the end was open wide, but other than that, everything was exactly as it had been. He could see Misha on the couch, talking to his friend Andrej, and he wanted to stop and take a moment to drink in the sight of Misha, happy and relaxed in the sunlight, smiling that beautiful smile of his. But his feet carried him forward and his gaze was drawn away from Misha’s face to the dark, hideous shape on his lap. The sniper rifle was a long and bulky thing, dull and dark, and it rested in Misha’s hands as though it belonged there. He was checking it over absentmindedly, those strong, clever fingers handling the weapon expertly and without need for visual confirmation.

“He’ll be at home,” Andrej said, in that annoyingly nasal New York accent he had; so much stronger than Misha’s, who’d spent more time in the South and had adapted somewhat. “He won’t be wearing body armor.”

“Why take the risk?” Misha retorted, patiently, as if this was a discussion they’d had before. Not worrying about a planned crime so much as talking about an upcoming job. “Tap him in the head, fuck whatever he’s wearing under his shirt. I can make the shot. I did before, no problem.”

Even though Riley knew the price he’d pay, he still made that little noise that had betrayed him the first time round. It was only a quiet huff that had accompanied the punched-in-the-gut feeling that had come with the realization of how badly he’d misjudged Misha, but it was enough to make those two handsome heads come up and swing around like Terminators.

Misha had the grace to look stricken. “Riley. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to drag you into this,” he said, and Riley believed him. Had believed him even when he hadn’t given Misha the time to say the actual words. Misha stood up, took a step toward Riley, his eyes wide and pained. “Why did you have to come in?”

Riley opened his mouth to answer, but he was distracted by the crimson stars blooming on Misha’s shirt, right over the tattoos on his shoulders, and the outline of a skull forming on his chest. Blood dripped from Misha’s outstretched hands, a pattern of splatters on the floor sprayed across the polished wood in a thick red line. Riley followed it with his eyes, realized he stood barefoot in a growing puddle of blood himself.

He gasped in surprise and because the air was suddenly punched out of his lungs, and stared down at the ragged hole in his chest. His shirt was in tatters around it, bits and pieces of cotton punched into his flesh. A slow, steady stream of bright scarlet was soaking his clothes, made them stick to his skin. Thick gore was pulsing from the exit wound between his shoulder blades, warm and silky, fat globs of it sliding out of him and down, down, down. It felt like a hand stroking his back. Soothing him, consoling him, killing him slowly. It stole what little remained of his breath. His ruptured heart struggled to keep going, contracted in painful spasms that pumped more blood out of his dying body.

Riley looked up, saw Andrej standing there with his gun still raised and pointed. A tendril of smoke rose from the barrel like a movie he-did-it. Andrej’s usually friendly face was expressionless, cold as marble. He didn’t talk. He tucked his gun back into its holster, laid a hand on Misha’s shoulder, and pulled Misha away.

“Misha,” Riley breathed, but no sound passed his lips. “Misha,” he tried again, no voice left, just the overwhelming, metallic taste of blood.

Misha didn’t turn around.

“This is not what happened,” McClane said from beside Riley.

Riley blinked and McClane was in front of him, blocking Riley’s view of Misha leaving. He looked a hell of a lot like a healthy, idealized version of Riley with silver eyes and a deep frown on his face.

“This didn’t happen,” he repeated and then he reached out a hand and slapped Riley’s forehead—

—and with a gasp, Riley woke up.

R
ILEY
jerked up in bed, one hand reaching instinctively for the wound he’d suffered in his dream. The skin was intact, his heart pounding but healthy. He groaned and fell back against his pillow. God, he hated nightmares. Hated them with a passion.

What the fuck was that?
McClane demanded, and it was a testament to how much Riley had become used to his passenger that he barely even twitched at the loud voice in his head.

“Nightmare,” he explained hoarsely, and let out a long, shaky breath. “Get used to it; it happens. It’s like a brain hiccup.”

Your brain sucks
, McClane told him, his tone deeply irritated.
It should let us sleep. Also, that was a big, fat lie. It never happened. You didn’t get shot, I checked
.

Riley smiled tiredly. McClane might sound pissy as hell, but he was rubbing and kneading his host’s rigid muscles anyway, and it was doing wonders for Riley’s post-nightmare jitters. He needed this right now, the feeling of being touched, of someone being there to lend his strength for a bit. Just for a minute or two, until Riley could get his metaphorical feet under him again.

So what did happen?
McClane asked when Riley’s heartbeat had finally slowed down to a healthier rhythm.

For once, Riley’s reluctance to talk about it outweighed his unease about McClane sifting through his memories. “Don’t you know already?”

Wouldn’t ask if I did
, McClane grumbled. He shifted his focus from Riley’s neck to his back and patiently set about loosening the knots between Riley’s shoulder blades.
You keep a pretty tight lock on the things you really don’t want to think about. You simply blank out whatever you can’t deal with
.

“Like what?”

Riley was stalling and they both knew it, but he also honestly wanted to know. He hadn’t realized there were memories he was actively avoiding. It was a coping mechanism his father had employed from time to time, one that had irritated Riley and the rest of the family like nobody’s business. He’d always sworn he wasn’t going to do the same, but it looked as though it had happened anyway. It made him squirm, uncomfortable as hell. He didn’t like thinking about his father this way, as though maybe the man hadn’t been quite as perfect as Riley chose to remember him.

“Like what?” he repeated, uneasy.

Like what happened with Misha
.

A deep-seated vibration made Riley moan softly in relieved pleasure and arch his back in a slow, unthinking stretch. He knew about the Misha thing. It had been a conscious decision to suppress those memories. He’d get to them in time; he just needed a little emotional distance first. Of course, McClane didn’t stop there.

Like how your daddy died
. Another humming sensation kept Riley from tensing up again, but it was a close call.
Like how you ended up all alone. Like—

“Okay,” Riley interrupted hastily, increasingly discomfited in spite of the preventive massage. “I get it.”

So do I
, McClane said quietly, squeezing the taut muscles along Riley’s spine.
I’m not trying to hurt you. You don’t want me to know, I’ll leave it alone. But Misha worries us
.

Us?
Riley thought fuzzily, but McClane dug in again and his confusion dissolved in the satisfying pop of strained tissue loosening up.

He’s a problem
, McClane continued, oblivious,
and I want to help, but I need to know what went wrong.

Oh, that was a sore subject. Riley grimaced and would’ve pulled away, but there was simply no way to avoid a creature nestled up against your bones. He submitted to the continued petting with ill grace, glaring at the ceiling.

“I was an idiot, that’s what went wrong,” he growled, his voice tight with vexation, humiliation, hurt, regret…. Misha had always been good at bringing out everything Riley was trying so hard to suppress. He’d resembled McClane in that respect.
Fuckers.
Riley rubbed his hands over his eyes angrily, wiping away the sleep grit. “I knew something was going on. Didn’t wanna see it.”

But, of course, he’d seen it anyway, because catching Misha with that rifle… that had been a shock, but it hadn’t been a surprise. All the odd calls Misha had fielded since they’d met; the locked drawers and sudden business trips, the armed visitors with their heavy Russian accents and detached gazes, the murmurs Riley had heard in the neighborhood about mob connections and blood money… those damn tattoos. Stars on his shoulders and on his knees, a skull over his heart. It wasn’t really all that subtle. You could google that sort of information, for Christ’s sake. For a career criminal, Misha was bad at hiding and a shit liar to boot.

“If I hadn’t wanted him so much, I’d’ve gotten out sooner,” Riley confessed, and, man, that still stung. He’d been led around by his dick like a stupid teenager. He’d been needy, starved for affection, and Misha had seemed so sincere, had been dogged in his pursuit like no one else before, and it had clouded Riley’s judgment to an unhealthy degree. Hadn’t helped that he’d been drawn to Misha from the start, like iron to a magnet. He still felt that damn pull, a deep, painful yearning that never quit.

His jaw ached and he realized he was gritting his teeth. It was an effort to stop.

“Couldn’t keep lying to myself anymore when I saw him with that gun.” Discussing the merits of a head shot over a body shot when murdering someone in his own home, no less. “So I got the fuck out.” Like a little bunny rabbit with its tail on fire.

He didn’t shoot you, though
, McClane stated, apparently needing to have that confirmed even though he already knew Riley had gotten out uninjured.
And Andrej didn’t shoot you, either
.