Page 9 of Chained
Comprehension dawned. “You live next door to me?”
A muscle in Edge’s jaw twitched—a sign, Terry had already learned, that he was thinking about what to say. “I stay here sometimes.”
“And now is one of those times?”
No response aside from that stare, so Terry simply shrugged and continued to his own room. He wasn’t sure what to make of Edge’s proximity. Whitaker obviously wanted Edge to stay close to Terry, but was that standard procedure with all his new fish? Or did Whitaker suspect Terry in particular? No way to know right now, and even if Terry found a nonincriminating way to ask about it, Edge wouldn’t answer.
Terry felt uneasy hanging his jacket in the closet with the gun still inside, but he couldn’t find a better place to stash it right now, and he certainly couldn’t hide it in his gym clothes. As he changed, he had a sudden mental image of Edge on the other side of the wall, nearly naked as he changed too, and Terry’s unease was replaced by a hotter emotion.
Shit. He really, really needed to keep his head on straight.
Wearing shorts, an old T-shirt, and tennis shoes, Terry grabbed his Discman and popped in a CD: Bon Jovi, because they were always good for moving. When he opened his door, Edge was leaning against the hallway wall, waiting.
Jesus. He’d looked good in a suit, but in tight shorts and a form-fitting white tank top, he stole Terry’s breath. Solid slabs of muscle in his arms, his chest, his back, his glutes, and his thighs. Trim waist. A surprisingly light-colored dusting of hair on his forearms and legs. And a package sizable enough to make Terry’s eyes widen.
He took a deep breath. “Ready?”
Edge grunted an answer and pushed away from the wall.
Terry wasn’t surprised that the gym was so well equipped. He ran on the treadmill for a few miles, listening to his music and, out of the corner of his eye, watching Edge use the weight machine. The guy wasstrong. Terry wiped the sweat from his face, drank one of the bottles of water from the room’s well-stocked fridge, and did a series of reps with hand weights. He was tired and sore by the time he finished, but Edge looked unfazed, with just a hint of sheen on his skin.
“I’d like a swim,” Terry said. He didn’t often get the opportunity, and it would give him an excuse to spend more time outside the confines of his room.
Edge nodded.
This time when Terry emerged into the hallway, his hair damp from a quick shower—and a towel around his hips covering his tiny swimming briefs—Edge was waiting in his business suit.
“You’re not going in?”
“I don’t swim.”
But of course that didn’t stop Edge from accompanying him to the pool, where he stood under the shade of an umbrella and… watched. Terry jumped right in and began to swim laps, and as far as he could tell, Edge never looked away. It was impossible to tell if his interest was professional or salacious. Maybe it was both.
When Terry emerged from the pool dripping wet and barely clothed, there was no question that at least part of Edge’s attention was entirely personal. He watched Terry hungrily—and Terry showed off a little, stretching his muscles just so and bending more than necessary as he toweled off. His fit body was hard earned, and it had been some time since anyone appreciated it. How far would Edge’s appreciation go—and would encouraging those activities further Terry’s mission or interfere with it?
“I think I’ve thoroughly exhausted myself,” Terry said. “I’m going to veg in front of the TV for a while. If you want a break from guard duty, I promise I won’t budge from my room for a few hours. Unless Mr. Whitaker wants me for something, that is.”
“He won’t.” Edge winced as if he’d admitted more than he intended.
Edge tailed him all the way to Terry’s room, but he didn’t come inside. Terry grinned at him and deliberately left the door open, which could be interpreted as Terry proving he had nothing to hide—or as an invitation. Edge hovered for a few moments before going to his own room and leaving his door open as well.
Terry wasn’t good with downtime. On the rare occasions when he wasn’t actively working a case, he never knew quite what to do with himself. Sometimes he wished he was a robot that could be tucked away in a closet when unneeded; then he wouldn’t have to think about who he was other than an agent for the Bureau. Music helped. He could get temporarily lost in the lyrics and the beat. So instead of turning on the TV, he sat in the armchair, listened to music on the stereo, and wondered whether Edge was listening too.
Two evenings later, Terry was incredibly, dangerously bored. He hadn’t seen Whitaker or received any instructions from him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone except a guy who’d come to measure him for clothing, the woman who answered the house phone when he called for meals, and a couple of the gardeners who nodded and kept on with their work. He’d spoken to Edge, of course, but Edge rarely said much in return. Every sentence Terry was able to draw from him felt like a triumph. Terry had also exercised to the point of exhaustion and listened to all of his CDs. And he’d thought about Edge both nights, right there on the other side of the wall, and he’d silently jacked off.
Classy.
Now Terry sat listlessly in front of anL.A. Lawepisode, wondering if any of the actors were Whitaker’s clients. That got him thinking about why people wanted to be actors to begin with. Was it the money and the fame? Or did some of them yearn for the comfort of slipping into a role, the opportunity to be anyone but themselves? He could understand that.
“Boss wants to see you.”
Edge’s voice startled Terry. The door to the room had been open and he hadn’t heard Edge enter. Terry got quickly to his feet and clicked off the TV. “Should I change?” He wore jeans and a cotton sweater that was baggy enough to hide his gun.
“No. Follow me.”
All the gardeners had gone home, and although the pool was brightly lit, it was empty. In fact, Terry hadn’t seen anybody else use it over the past days. The air smelled of jasmine and newly mowed grass.
Edge took him through the main house to a moderately sized room with white walls, white carpet, and gray furniture. Flames crackled in a stone-fronted fireplace even though the evening was warm. Whitaker sat in an oversized chair with a glass in his hand and a dog on either side of him. “Enjoying your stay?” he asked without preamble.
