“I say, Major, what about that charming little hamlet on the next exit? I saw a rug vendor there, last week.”
“Nein,” said the driver.
“But I’d like to buy something for Bonham. He collects the ghastly things.”
As the Benz glided by a collection of rugs draped over
a roadside van, the driver snorted. “He collects made-in-
Hong-Kong Indian rugs, Eroica? I doubt that.”
The British thief shrugged. “You admit, Major, it
would have been an amusing joke on poor Bonham. And
better than me stealing that lovely Two Grey Hills rug we
saw up in Flagstaff.”
“I will search your room,” said Major von dem
Eberbach, “and if I find _that_ rug, I will roll you into
it and drop you off at the nearest police station.”
Eroica leaned sideways in the passenger seat, and
batted his blue eyes at the driver. “You could roll me
anywhere, Major. Care to play Caesar and Cleopatra, when
we get back to Phoenix?”
“Nein,” said the Major. “That story, I think, came to
a bad ending for both parties.”
“Say it isn’t so,” Eroica teased. “Herr Z, did you
sleep through as many history classes in school as I did?”
In the back seat, the NATO agent code-named ‘Z’ shook himself out of bittersweet reverie. “No. I’m afraid the Major’s right. Sad endings all around.”
Eroica sighed. “So, no fantasies about Caesars and
handsome centurions?”
The Major growled, “I should never have let you watch
illegitimate HBO downloads, on the flight over.”
Their sniping faded out of Z’s immediate thoughts,
as he watched the red-gold landscape flicker by.
Up until an hour ago, Z had been grateful he’d
volunteered to ride in the back of the rented Benz, on the
way to their debriefing.
The restrained and sedated prisoners, members of a proven al-Qaeda cell operating in northern Arizona, were already being transported back to custody in Phoenix. The rest of the Alphabets, along with some of their CIA counterparts, were _en route_ in a crowded government van. They’d drawn straws to determine who went in which vehicle.
Z got the Major and Eroica, which proved to be a
delightful, excruciating torment. Stopping to get more
petrol was no relief, either.
#
Beyond a sagging canopy of steel and corrugated tin, an empty noon-day sky shimmered over red sandstone hills. Feathery tamarisk trees shaded the roadside petrol station. Nothing eased the blast-furnace heat of a desert in summer. On NATO business, Z had visited lots of deserts lately: Morocco, Egypt, the Sudan, Afghanistan, western China, Jordan, and this place. Providence willing, he could spend the rest of the summer under a mild north-European sun. Far away from sandstorms, weapons caches, shoot-outs in abandoned warehouses, and the utterly-transparent bickering between the Major and Eroica.
He was getting tired of shielding them, those two
dear fools.
“Do you think they can get back to Phoenix without us?” teased Eroica, looking almost respectable in a tailored khaki ensemble and some new turquoise and silver jewelry that Z hoped wasn’t stolen. Had Eroica had any time to steal anything, in the breathless pace of the last week? Maybe from the crime scene? Z wasn’t going to ask.
“Hmhph,” said the Major, preoccupied with extracting one of several credit cards. “The terrorists have been
neutralized. If these new DHS Yanks are even slightly more efficient at their business than the CIA and the FBI, there will be no further trouble.”
“Aren’t you worried that you sent Agent A, F, and G
along with them?” the Earl pressed.
“That is why I am not concerned,” said Klaus, then his
lip curled. “My agents are the insurance policy. And neither of you are to ever repeat that to _them_.”
“Affirmative,” said Z, flattered and troubled that the
Major even noticed he was present.
“Ah, but darling, you should give your poor agents
some encouragement. They deserve -- oh, how pretty!” The Englishman seemed distracted with some garish little tins on the sales counter.
“Sweets,” the Major growled, shaking his head.
Z tried not to look too closely, knowing Klaus would sense the scrutiny. But the younger agent thought he caught a hint of a smile warming that stern face.
Z glanced over the newspapers on a plastic shelf near the door. Nothing in the local or state headlines even hinted at the delicate mission just completed.
“These aren’t bad,” the Earl said, picking up two tins, one a gem-bright yellow, the other a rich deep red-
purple. “Tiny. Low-calorie. Natural flavours.
Agave sweetener, not corn syrup. So why don’t you want any?”
“Because _you_ seem to like them well enough.”
“You might enjoy these.” The thief’s grin warmed
and softened, conveying far more than simple teasing.
“Tell me, Major, are you a blackcurrant or a lemondrop
man?”
Z rolled his eyes and went outside to wait.
From the corner of his eye, Dorian watched the younger
agent. When Klaus paid the petrol bill, Dorian lingered just long enough to buy two tins of each flavour.
#
Dawn crept into the canyon, rich gold light spilling over red-purple rocks, tangled palm groves, palo verde trees, and velvety lawns still gemmed by dew. The secluded resort didn’t seem surrounded by a city of three million people. Dorian felt more as if he’d been dropped into an exclusive hideaway in the Australian Outback or South Africa. Silk rustled as he wrapped the robe tighter around himself, and tried to appreciate the resort’s beauty.
He couldn’t look at Klaus, just now.
Not when the tears might come at any moment, the realization that he’d done entirely too-fine a job of healing the Major’s deepest wounds. He knew Klaus’s every look now, every nuance of emotion barely hinted on that
face. He’d taught Klaus how to smile again, how to laugh, how to love. How to look at another man and think of pleasure, without seeing humiliation and pain.
Up until the last week, that rare look had only been for Dorian. But the take-down outside of Flagstaff had been chancy and exciting, and Agent Z had once again proven himself the Major’s equal in intelligence and sheer bloody-minded efficiency.
And in the aftermath, Dorian had seen Klaus looking at Z. Appreciative. Speculating. The Major had seemed startled by the thought, instantly brushing it aside as unprofessional. But the look had been there.
_Z is much better suited to him,_ Dorian thought. _I’ll have done my job, if they bond._
When emotion had settled into wry pride, Dorian felt safe in returning to the bedroom.
For a moment he watched Klaus silently. Calmly nude in the big bed, his back propped by pillows, the Major sipped his ghastly coffee and read a copy of the _New York Times_. His lips were still flushed from lovemaking, an
absurd contrast to the sleek wire-framed reading glasses perched on his nose.
“Hey,” said Dorian.
“Guten Morgen,” said Klaus, flashing him a relaxed grin. “There is a scathing right-wing article about the American President. For some reason, they think he’s a Muslim. Or an illegal alien. Or both.” Nose back in the paper, Klaus barked a harsh laugh at some further comment.
“Sour grapes and temper tantrums, because some of them lost power,” Dorian purred, stalking closer and shedding the silk robe. “Silly Americans.”
“You like America,” said Klaus, behind the paper.
“Lots of pretty things to steal.”
“You’re sulking,” said Dorian, kneeling suddenly astride Klaus and whisking away the newspaper.
“I am not.” Klaus reached for the paper, leaning precariously to one side. With a deft push, Dorian sent him sprawling sideways across the big resort bed. The nude thief slithered up against Klaus, spooning warmly along his back.
“You are sulking, in this lovely bed that we made such
_delectable_ use of, just a few hours ago,” Dorian purred,
his gentle fingers stroking away Klaus’ incipient headache.
“Is it because of your birthday?”
“I do not normally choose to care about my birthday,”
the Major began.
“I’m sorry you have to stay in Arizona for the rest of the week,” said Dorian. “And I’m sorry I won’t be here for your birthday.”
“Some insane criminal caper is more important to you than me.” Klaus sounded near to a laugh, but Dorian heard the worry buried in his voice.
“No! You are always more important. I’ll give you some incredible birthday presents, they’ll just be a day or
so late.”
“I don’t want presents. Only you.” Klaus turned in the embrace, and trapped Dorian closer to his chest. The Major’s fast heartbeat made something equally delicate flutter in the thief’s throat. In Dorian’s ear, Klaus murmured, “Do I even want to know what you are going to steal now, Eroica?”
“Not stealing,” Dorian whispered against his shoulder.
“Putting something back, into a local museum where it belongs.”
“What does Mr. James say about that?”
“Oh, we’re being paid to do it.” Dorian laughed. “A Japanese collector died and left his stolen goods to his family, two daughters who do not get along. One young lady contacted me, offered her share and told me how to steal her sister’s. She said her father’s dishonour would stop with her, and that she wanted all the art to go back its rightful owners. It’s a big commission. It’s taken a couple of years to do it the right way.”
Klaus blinked. “So for the last year or two, you’ve been returning stolen goods?”
“Yes. And stealing, but more of the former. It’s just as challenging. And rather more fun. My, er, benefactress made sure the fees were high enough to keep us
from temptation, while on _her_ business. She said she was worried for my soul.”
“She’s Cartel, and she’s worried about souls?”
“Oh, yes, and I shan’t tell you her name, so don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t. Don’t get caught, Eroica. I do not want my birthday present to be the joy of bailing you out of a Yank prison. You do know that Arizona jails are legendary? They put people in tents out in the desert?”
Dorian chuckled. “My ass and my complexion will be just fine, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He nuzzled Klaus’ jaw, which led to a kiss, which led to some
slow and and deliberate groping.
Dorian gave a shuddering gasp and pulled away. “You never did answer my question, Klaus. Blackcurrant, or lemondrop?”
Wild grey-green eyes simply stared at him for a moment, then closed. “I do not believe you. You are insane.”
From somewhere on the nightstand, Eroica scooped up two minute tins and rattled them triumphantly. “Just choose one, dammit!”
“Er, lemon.”
Dorian leered at him. “Darling man.” He opened the yellow tin, and popped one tiny citrus candy into his mouth. Laid both tins on the nightstand. Flopped
back onto the bed in a spectacular display of golden curls and pink skin.
“Where is mine?” Klaus growled.
Dorian grinned up at him, tongue moving the candy around behind closed lips.
“Oh,” said Klaus, and kissed him.
He’d thought it was another of Dorian’s leisured love-
games, but there seemed more purpose in it. They traded the sweet between hungry mouths, Klaus learning from Dorian
how to wrap his tongue around the candy in a certain way.
Sculpting it, with flesh and heat and saliva, until the round pastille was a slim needle-shaped bullet several millimeters across.
Dorian took it back from Klaus, pulled away, and spat the sweet out into his palm. “Lovely. Now lie back and close your eyes.”
“You’re doing it again,” said Klaus, but complied.
“Doing what, love?”
“The, er, game. With food.”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“_Ja_.”
For the next few minutes, he thought Dorian had forgotten the sticky sweet. That clever, lemon-flavoured
mouth blew over his shaft, his balls, the tender skin below
them. Wet warmth followed, teasing him to readiness. Citrus scent mingled with musky-arousal, and the last lucid part of Klaus’ mind knew, just _knew_, he would never be able to taste lemon again without tasting sex. Brief electric thoughts left him wondering how it would be finished, and writhing at the very images of completion.
Dorian had at least taught him the uses of fantasy!
He was at once relaxed and straining, when Dorian’s mouth slid upward. Firm hands grasped the base of
Klaus’ cock, holding his climax at bay. Before Klaus could
protest or even grasp at the thief’s intent, Dorian’s fingers thrust into the weeping slit at the head. Something hard and slick drove into the passage, pain and pleasure concentrated into a single pinpoint sensation.
“Ah!” Klaus cried, and tried to buck away from it.
Dorian’s hands held him still. Dorian’s mouth clamped
around the tip of his cock, squeezing the intruder deeper into him, sealing his release behind a plug of flavoured sugar.
It was an unbearable itch, almost like the urge to urinate, but deeper, wilder. Klaus needed some other sensation to balance it, drown it in pleasure and another pain. He groaned wordlessly, opening his legs under Dorian’s.
Wise thief. Clever thief. Dorian understood his need, and shifted Klaus’ legs to clasp his waist. Wisely,
he kept one hand clenched around Klaus’ erection, as he dipped and thrust into that secret pucker of flesh.
Still slicked from the gentle, tentative lovemaking earlier, Klaus’ body opened easily before him. Hot sleek
muscles welcomed Dorian, clenching wildly around him.
Against Dorian’s lemon and musk-tasting lips, Klaus sobbed out: “Harder!”
So Dorian rode him, growling and pounding into that
eager body until they both shuddered at the brink, still holding back Klaus’ release until the man whimpered mindlessly beneath him.
Then, Dorian let go. His own release roared out, flooding Klaus’ channel with slick heat. Klaus felt the pulse over his prostate, sobbed again as his own climax
struck -- and was thwarted by the plug and the squeezing fingers at his base.
He moaned, thrashing as the pressure built steadily in his balls and shaft. Dorian withdrew, a minor blessing turned quickly to more torment as he slid down Klaus’ body.
Once again, the wicked mouth sucked at him, nibbled and laved him with saliva. Softening and massaging the sugar that held him captive, squeezing, coaxing until --
Klaus groaned loudly, wide-eyed as the plug gave and set him free. Dorian swallowed around him, lips and fingers pulling out every trace of sugar and climax.
“Mein. Gott.” He could barely speak, much less move.
He stared up at the stucco ceiling, until touseled gold hair and bright blue eyes moved into his field of vision.
“Well, my darling, we’ve established that you like
lemon.” Dorian smirked down at him. “Care to try blackcurrant on me, later?”
#
“Sir?” Agent Z’s voice sounded as tired as Klaus felt, after the long day of political nonsense. They all
_knew_ the prisoners were guilty, there was enough physical
evidence to prove they’d been planning a simultaneous attack on a dam in northern Arizona and a nuclear reactor near Phoenix. The paper trail led right back to Klaus’ beat, an al-Qaeda cell recently busted in Hamburg. So why was it taking a week to process these maniacs?
“Due process, sir,” said Z, answering the question Klaus had apparently muttered aloud. “Several of them are
American citizens.”
“We’re not.”
“All the paperwork’s been filed, sir. May I plan on taking the evening off?”
“Ja. Just keep your phone at hand, so I may reach you.” Klaus looked up from his laptop computer and
makeshift desk on a coffeehouse table. “What do you plan to do, if I may ask?”
“There’s a blues club downtown I’ve heard about for years. I thought I’d go listen for a few hours.”
Music. It appealed strongly to Klaus, even if it would probably be nothing like a decent classical piece.
He’d never understood Z’s interest in ‘American Black Music’, whatever that was. He couldn’t really understand his interest in Z, even if he meant sternly that it would never progress.
“You could come with me, sir,” Z said, uneasily looking around. Courtesy of Eroica’s extended bookings, the NATO agents had less-expensive rooms in the resort, rather than the staid downtown hotel Klaus had intended.
“This does not seem a place for us.”
_And what would you know about it?_ Klaus thought, remembering his wild night and morning with Dorian. Still,
the number of expensive bathing suits and expensive male and female bodies sauntering around left him nervous, as well. He was well aware that both Z and himself were the target of intrigued glances. And there truly was nothing to do here, except play or attend to NATO business.
Both of which, he’d already done.
“I would be honored to attend, Agent Z,” Klaus said. “If you will not take amiss my earplugs at the concert?”
Z laughed, which made him look far too young. “I always wear shooter’s earplugs to concerts, Major. The music’s so loud I never miss anything, and it saves my hearing.”
Z drove, competently threading the freeways and surface streets into a rundown area of the central city.
Low sunlight sparkled across gravel and broken glass. The palm trees grew shaggy. New facades, newly-planted ground cover, and new signs showed an effort at some kind of rebirth. The club itself was a cement-block building in a large dusty parking lot. A walled-off courtyard held umbrellas, tables, a trailer promising barbeque and beer. The lot was full of vehicles, from rusted heaps to limousines. Klaus’ rented Benz was in good company.
“Can’t,” said Z, deftly grabbing Klaus’ cigarette out of his fingers. “Smoke on the patio, or you’ll make all the old blues men cough.”
Klaus growled, but complied. With Dorian, he’d have picked a fight. This was Z’s world.
The beer was decent and cold, a necessity in summertime Arizona. Z paid the cover, and Klaus found them a spot beside the bar –- near the door, backs to a wall, and a good view of the tiny stage. The noise was already loud enough to irritate his ears, and Klaus sighed in relief as he slid the earplugs in. Several hundred chattering humans muted into a pleasant background hum. A tall wiry man with a harmonica and a dark haircut that screamed ‘Elvis Impersonator’ commanded the stage, going over sound checks with the band.
“That’s the owner,” Z said, into Klaus’s ear. “I met him at the Chicago Blues Festival a few years ago. Tonight, it will be him and the Rhythm Room Allstars, celebrating Big Pete Pearson’s new CD.”
Klaus turned too quickly, and caught himself inches away from the blond agent. Z grinned like a teenager.
The lights and shadows from neon bar signs slid across the
agent’s features, and Klaus found himself looking at a new
person. No longer a young callow soldier fresh from Hamburg, startled by gunfire and Klaus’ temper. Not even
the competent and dependable Agent Z, at the moment, but a good-looking German named Erich, on a well-earned holiday, sharing something he truly loved with -–
Someone he admired.
Erich didn’t blush, or look away. He lifted the bottle and took a long drink, neither overplaying nor denying the way his throat moved in several smooth swallows. When the bottle thunked back on the bar, Klaus was the one to blink. He opened his mouth to apologize, to
threaten, to do anything but stammer like a schoolboy.
“Hush,” said Erich. “Just listen to the music.”
#
The off-hours security at the Heard Museum was good enough to give Eroica pause, so he worked around it. The
team went in with guests to a fancy dinner, given to honour
some award-winning Native American artists. It was Eroica’s job and exquisite duty to return a long-lost, fourteen-inch-high sterling silver and turquoise plaque that once graced a famous Pullman car of the Santa Fe Railroad. A belt of silver and tiny slivers of coral, once photographed on a movie starlet’s slim waist. A kachina
doll of painted cottonwood root, long-mourned by its tribal owners. A perfect Hohokam carved-jet frog, inlaid with emerald chips traded up from central America. Each item known and documented, up to the moment it had vanished from the world. Eroica felt rather like Saint Nicholas, on Christmas Eve.
This was a different high than theft. Sweeter. He began to understand Klaus.
Later, after the lads had gone off to their own celebrations, Dorian Red Gloria poured himself a glass of
Pinot Noir and sat in the warm, starry dark of his resort balcony.
He’d been so greedy, most of his life. Always taking,
stealing, lusting for more beauty and more sensation. Giving back was just as challenging, and more fun. Somewhere out in the hot night, someone was stealing Klaus from him, at this very moment, and Dorian couldn’t find any bitterness in his heart.
He liked the man called Agent Z, of the NATO Alphabets. Dorian had a suspicion that he’d like Erich, the charming musician who had no idea he was a far better harmonica player than he thought. A definite part of him
growled with lust at the thought of Klaus and Erich together.
But what, if anything, would he do about it?
He was still in the dark, when he heard a familiar engine pull into the parking lot several hundred feet away.
Music sounded from an opened door: the pounding plaintive rhythms of the blues. Sad and wry, wise and uncomplicated, undeniably sexy -– no wonder Erich liked it.
Dorian’s excellent hearing lost both of them as they handed off the keys to a valet, and headed into the resort
proper. He knew where Z’s room was, far across the complex. Far enough, that he couldn’t possibly hear Klaus
crying out in unexpected passion, or Erich coaxing him in tenor groans.
Lost in that miserable and magnetic thought, Dorian
almost missed the keycard in the lock of his own suite.
He heard Klaus open the door, heard Erich stalk in behind the Major.
“Dorian?” Klaus called quietly into the empty suite.
“Herr Gloria?” said Erich, retreating into Agent Z’s
respectful deference.
Dorian could stand no more of it. Slightly drunk on the Pinot, he gathered his robe and his dignity, and stood
at the balcony door. “Condoms and lube are at the bedside
table,” he said with brittle precision. “In case you forgot your own, Agent Z. Is your own bed too small?
Shall I leave, now?”
Klaus made a disgusted noise, but Erich’s laugh stopped him. “Nein, Dorian,” said Erich. “It wouldn’t
be right, without you in it, too.”
Dorian had had more Pinot than he knew, because suddenly they flanked him, a warm body on either side, smelling of beer and smoke, barbeque and male sweat.
Erich mouthed his throat, along the jugular. Klaus covered Dorian’s mouth in a slow, asking kiss that Dorian answered
with a groan, and one hand tangled in Klaus’ hair.
“Are you both mad?” Dorian whispered, still wondering if this was a Pinot-driven dream.
“Certainly,” Klaus rumbled.
“Probably,” said Erich, “But we talked it over, and it seemed right. Klaus likes you, I like you, you like Klaus,
and I want to see if I like black-currant.”
“Ah,” said Dorian, to the darkness and the wonderful
sound of Klaus’ self-assured and _hungry_ chuckle.
Fin.