Page 8 of Connected
So he’d been thankful when Tenrael was able to find him a temporary rental, and even more thankful when it turned out to be a comfortable little house, spotlessly clean and tastefully decorated. Even better when the owner had brought him a tasty home-cooked dinner. Owen didn’t care that the guy was price-gouging; the Bureau could afford it.
The only thing missing was access to some exercise equipment, and due to the weather, he couldn’t even go for a run. He was sore and restless and generally pissed off at theworld, and he hadn’t brought any weed because cannabis was illegal in Wyoming. Sure, if pressed he could flash his federal ID, threaten to make a few phone calls, and get the local boys in blue to stand down. But he wasn’t in the mood for the hassle.
Why the fuck couldn’t people get stoned in Copper Springs? The poor bastards stuck in this shithole needed all the escape they could get.
Scowling, he washed his dishes and then sent a text to Gale.
Do you have any beer or booze? I’ll pay for it.
The reply came swiftly.
Sorry, no. And the stores are closed. I have iced tea and OJ if you want.
Owen huffed. Just great.
Never mind. Thanks.
He clomped over to the couch and collapsed into it, lacking the energy to turn on the TV or dick around on his phone.
Not long after he’d joined the Bureau, after it had sunk in that neither Townsend nor anyone else there gave a shit that he was gay, he spent a lot of his free time in clubs and bars. Later he used hookup apps. But now he was too old—and too tired—for that shit, so he usually worked out or watched TV. And here in Copper Springs, he couldn’t do one of those things and wasn’t in the mood for the other, which left him with… himself.
And thoughts about his host. What kind of name was Keaton Gale, and what the hell was he doing in Copper Springs? Owen couldn’t imagine what this town had to offer a man like that. Gale was roughly Owen’s age, had a general air of nervous energy, and was physically… delicate wasn’t the right word, but close. He was short and slender, with long dark hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Although a lot of his face was hidden, his eyes were bright blue and alert, as if they didn’t miss much. And they were familiar.
Owen was sure that he knew Gale from somewhere.
Maybe the two of them had hooked up at one point. Gale claimed he didn’t know Owen, but the event could have been forgettable. Gale could have had so many anonymous fucks that his partners were just a vague blur. Hell, maybe that was how he ended up in Copper Springs—fleeing to the spot least likely to offer opportunities for that kind of thing.
But no, Owen was fairly certain he’d never had sex with Gale, because if he had, Owen would remember. Maybe not the act itself, necessarily, but certainly being close to him. Touching that taut body. Trying to make some of the wariness fade from those hunted-animal eyes.
Then realization hit.
“Shit!”
Owen stood up so fast that the couch crashed against the wall, and he stampeded to the door and then outside. Barefoot, with marble-size hail pelting him like a punishment from the gods, he rushed across sodden grass to the big house, pounded up the porch stairs, and banged his fist on the door.
It opened a few moments later, his host wide-eyed and tense.
“You’re Criss Tempest!” Owen bellowed.
After a beat or two, Gale—no, Tempest—sighed, and his shoulders sagged a little.
“I guess you’d better come in.”
The interior of Tempest’shouse wasn’t relevant to the matter at hand, but Owen scanned it anyway, a habit born from two decades of caution. The foyer had a large wooden hall tree, likely antique. Same for the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Ahead, a glass-paned door was open, displaying a stairway and hall; to the right was a parlor that looked as if it had beenfalling apart for decades. The remains of shelving hung on the walls, along with water-mottled wallpaper and badly damaged wainscoting. The fireplace was just a gaping hole with no surround or mantel, and a few of the windows were boarded up.
“I haven’t gotten to that room yet.” Tempest sounded defensive. “Come this way.”
He led Owen to the room on the left, a smaller parlor that had been nicely restored and in which contemporary furniture somehow looked appropriate. He gestured at a loveseat and took an armchair for himself.
They sat and stared at each other for what felt like a long time, and through their silence, the storm roared outside.
“We might lose power,” Tempest finally said. “If we do, I’ve got a flashlight and a battery lantern you can use.”
“Why didn’t you tell me who you are?”
Another sigh. “I did. I’m Keaton Gale—it’s my legal name. Keaton after Buster, and Gale after Dorothy.”
“Gale has the same meaning as Tempest.”
