Page 30 of Escape into the Night

Whoever he was, he was good. He kept eye contact to a minimum despite scrutinizing Luke in the same way Luke scrutinized him. He was good, but not great. By the time he was only a few steps away, Luke had a list of all the things that didn't sit right, as well as the man’s physical attributes. Five-eleven, maybe six feet. Lean, but muscular. Tawny brown skin, short curly hair that was likely dark brown, if not completely black. The disguise was either poorly executed because it was done in a rush, or he wasn't as skilled in subterfuge as Luke had originally guessed. He’d made three critical errors—his black combat boots and tactical pants were clean and in good condition beneath the tattered rags tied around his waist, his hair and skin were flawless and spoke of good health from what he could see beneath the shapeless hood of his too-big poncho, and the idiot had used tactical black paint to make himself look dirty, the greasy, waterproof base shining a little too much in the limited light provided by the moon.

He predicted the movements before they happened, so he was ready to respond as the man stepped away from the building to block Luke’s path. He catalogued every shift of limb and muscle to learn more. Knowledge was key in potentially dangerous encounters. He planned to have as much intel as possible. Theman’s left arm stuck out a bit more than the right—pistol in a shoulder holster, he guessed. There was a bulge at his right ankle and it had a nearly imperceptible effect on his gait–gun or knife strapped to the instep. Luke’s eyes did a swift sweep of the immediate surroundings and identified potential cover, just in case.

“What a handsome beastie. Real pretty-pretty.” The stranger affected a casual stance before sinking into a crouch with his hand extended. Brody’s teeth flashed white for a brief moment as he rumbled low in his chest.

“Yep.” Luke stepped to the left, but the outstretched hand moved quicker, grabbing the leash close to where it was clipped to the collar. “You have one second to release my dog before—”

“Before you shoot me with the Glock under your left arm or slap me with the bracelets you got on your right hip? Mon frère, that's not a way to make friends.” The man slowly stood, running his fingers up the leash to refasten his grip right below Luke’s hand. “Relax, soldier. I ain't here to cause no trouble. No trouble.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Intense, dark eyes surveyed Luke’s face, a bright smile flashing over the man’s features with a wink. “Just a ghost looking for a new haunt.”

“Well, time to move along.” Luke slipped his fingers from the leash while reaching his free hand to unclip the restraint from Brody’s collar. “Home, boy.”

Brody took off, jubilant to have the chance to run off leash. Luke followed the dog’s path, calculating each step of his path and listening for every sound that might indicate a change in circumstances. If the man had wanted him dead, he’d had ample opportunity already. He wasn't a betting man, but Luke felt confident in his odds as he continued toward home.

“Mais, frère,” the man called in a lyrical sing-song voice. “We both know you and your Rainbow Brigade are bang in the middle of a shit storm. Thought it was time I introduced myself before things got even worse.”

Luke paused for just a fraction of a moment before continuing his stride. He desperately wanted to be back home, surrounded by his family and, yes, the damn arsenal they maintained in the two-family townhouse. He stepped off the corner just as another call broke through the cloying quietude of the street.

“Tell your friends I'll be in touch, mon ami.”

Luke spared a glance over his shoulder to find the man sauntering in the opposite direction, his stride precise and not even an ounce of effort put into masking the militaristic nature of his posture. Strangest of all, though, was what happened next—the man pulled something from his back pocket and brought it to his lips. Moments later, the bluesy wail of a harmonica infused the street with music, a stark incongruity amidst the darkness and fear. Long after he disappeared from view around a corner, the lingering notes remained, lancing through the humid air like a ghost from the bayou inhabiting the shadows of Anacostia.

Chapter Seventeen

Caleb

Onlyanhouroutsideof DC and the world was completely different. The penthouse suite of the luxury hotel was everything Caleb had demanded—spacious, elegant, and secure. He wasn't often frivolous with their money, but the idea of trying to keep them all safe and comfortable while running the kick off of a political campaign without running water or electricity was enough to give him nightmares. He had standards, after all. It would only be for a couple days. At least the electric company had promised as much. Even that felt like too long, but when the entire grid of the country’s capital got wiped out, it made sense. Replacing transformers, wiring, and the infrastructure behind it all took time. The fact that their neighborhood would be back on almost a full week before places like Luke’s was a stark reminder of their privilege that he wouldn't soon take for granted. Location, location, location.

The floor-to-ceiling window was cool against Caleb’s forehead as he nursed the glass of scotch in his hand, lost in his thoughts as he scanned the reflection of the room against the background of city lights and the pocket of darkness in the distance. Itwas like a gilded cage, the thick glass promising privacy and protection from the muted sounds of traffic below. Soft amber light infused the stark, expensive furnishings with a warm glow. The open floor plan, sleek and modern, boasted the best of the best. The massive couch in the seating area was home to a huddled body fighting sleep with the blue glow of some mindless video on his tablet, the chunky headphones causing Parker’s hair to stick up in all sorts of crazy directions. Each blink was longer than the one before it. It’d only be a matter of moments before he was lost to dreamland. Caleb hoped those dreams would be the whimsical makings of an innocent mind, not the haunted recollections of their reality.

The sound of running water broke Caleb from maudlin musing before the tap was shut off again. Aromas of fresh linen, hotel-grade citrus soap, and the ghost of Elias’ cologne, warm and grounding beneath the sterility of luxury, stirred him into movement. As if sensing his approach, the bathroom door opened a crack, steam billowing from within like a tempting neon sign screaming “Now Open” into the dim light of the suite. He set his glass on the counter en route to the promised land of a freshly showered Elias.

Slipping through the door, Caleb let his eyes wander over the reflection in the mirror and promptly shut the door behind him. The harsh overhead lighting did Elias no favors. His face was drawn tight with exhaustion, the troubled thoughts etched into the fine lines around his eyes. His silver-dusted hair was in disarray from a rough toweling, and the same towel clung to his hips with enough temerity to free his hands, which were braced on the counter as though it were the only thing holding him upright. Elias’ frosty blue eyes found Caleb’s in the mirror, a small smile playing over his lips despite the weight clearly torturing his mind.

“He asleep yet?” Elias’ voice was rough around the edges.

“Just about. I'll wrestle him into the bed once he’s well and truly down for the count.” Caleb crossed the tiled floor and slipped his arms around Elias’ narrow waist to toy with the dusting of hair below his navel. Their gazes locked again in the mirror, Caleb’s cheek resting against the side of Elias’ bicep. The way Elias looked at him was quietly devastating. He was a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, his toes perched on the precipice of something irreversible. The ache in Caleb’s chest was like a punch to the sternum.

“It's not too late to back out.” Elias whispered the words so quietly, Caleb would have strained to hear them if they were blessed by the acoustics of a luxury bathroom.

“Mm. That’s not really your style though, is it?” Cay nuzzled his cheek against Elias’ shower-warmed skin. His smile was subtle and sad, but it was the best he could muster.

“No,” he croaked with a heavy sigh, lifting one hand to rub it roughly over the silver-dark goatee Caleb adored. “No, it isn't. Are we making a mistake?”

Cay had two choices: carefully curate the perfect, evasive response he was good at or tell him the truth. Since this was Elias and not some stuck-up politician blowing hot air up his ass, the choice was simple. He would never, ever lie to his El.

“Not a mistake, no. But we both know there are risks. The reward is worth it, in my opinion. And we’re in this together. Hell or high water, I'm with you. You're stuck with me.” Caleb turned to press his lips to Elias’ shoulder.

His frame sagged with another lengthy exhale. “Good.”

The shift in the air was subtle, the cloying steam becoming charged as they moved in unison. Elias turned and grabbed a fistful of Caleb's shirt, pulling them flush as his head dipped, lips hovering in silent request just a breath away from Cay’s as they inhaled one another. Closing the distance between them, he sought the connection and melted into the slow-burn devotionof the kiss. It wasn't hurried or desperate. Elias tasted like mint toothpaste and exhaustion, like resolve and longing, like a man who needed someone to shore up his walls and restore his foundation. He tasted like Caleb's entire world.

His fingers found Elias’ jaw, tilting his head just right to deepen the connection, his tongue promising his husband that he wasn't alone. For a moment, the campaign, the chaos, the fear—it all disappeared. For a moment, it was just them.

Elias’ body became more pliant with each sweep of Caleb's lips, every thrust of his tongue inspiring a soft whimper of pleasure in return. Their cocks grew hard between the press of their bodies and it only took a matter of seconds before Elias had to break their kiss with a ragged gasp.

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