Page 127 of Hush
Mike laughed at him. “Not after being on my feet all day, Your Honor. There’s no way Judge Brewer is going to massage my stinky feet.”
“Tom will.” He kissed Mike’s wrist again, tugging him around until Mike was in front of him. He pulled, and Mike sat in his lap. “Judge Brewer is for out there. Here, between us, I’m always Tom.”
Mike kissed him, sweetly. “I have to say, though… Sitting on Judge Brewer’s lap is kinda turning me on.”
They both laughed, and then they kissed, and Tom got two handfuls of Mike’s ass in his hands. Kissing turned to making out, and then into heavy petting, and then into Tom wanting to lie back on his desk and pull Mike down on top of him. But, he pushed Mike back gently, putting space between them. “I miss you, I do. But I want to do this right. Be smart about us.”
Mike nodded, and he clambered off Tom’s lap. “Yeah, I agree.”
It had been a while since they’d made love. Tom had moved into the Hyatt, and that left no space or time at all for them to be together. Theoretically, Mike could have sneaked over in the middle of the night, and they could have tried to make love silently, in-between the rooms on either side of Tom filled with marshals. Mike could have tried to slip out of Tom’s room before anyone saw him. But that wasn’t the way to have a relationship. They weren’t sex fiends, and what they were doing wasn’t illegal. Just unwise. They didn’t have to sneak around, feel like ten shades of crap while doing it.
And, if they waited until the end of the trial, there’d be no more secrets.
That was worth the wait.
“Dinner together at the hotel?” Tom grabbed Mike’s hand.
“I have some emails I have to send. I’ll meet you in the restaurant an hour after we get back?”
“It’s a date.”
Chapter 33
Mike ran his fingers through his hair, trying to fluff up his pompadour after the long day. He’d ditched his tie and undone his top shirt buttons. Did he look all right? Or just tired?
Day one of the trial was over. Thank God.
He spun in the mirror, trying to catch his reflection. Tom had seen him all day, stern and sentinel by his side. But still. He wanted to look good for Tom.
He spruced his hair once more and gave up, tossing his comb on the hotel counter before heading out the door. Marshals were milling in the hall, stretching and chatting and drinking coffee as they relaxed while Tom was out of his room. One was writing down everyone’s food order.
“Hey Mike.” Gordon, one of the guys he knew from headquarters, nodded to him. “Want to grab dinner with us?”
“Thanks, but I’m going downstairs. Eating dinner with Judge Brewer.”
Eyebrows rose, but no one said anything.
Last week, he would have tried to spin it. ‘We’re discussing the trial today’ or ‘Just reviewing security procedures’ or ‘Walking him through the next few days’. But he didn’t say anything.
When the trial was over, they’d be coming out. The questions would be answered. The raised eyebrows would stop. He didn’t need to lie anymore, cover up their relationship with heaps of bullshit. He could have dinner with Tom. Maybe it looked weird to the guys right now, but in a few weeks, everyone would understand.
It was dinner. Just a blurry line being crossed. Not high treason.
Tom was waiting at the bar, sipping on a margarita. Marshals hung back, shadowing him around the hotel lounge, but not crowding him. The TVs were all tuned to the news. Russian tanks paraded in long rows in Moscow, and Russian radar painted NATO jets over Europe. Carriers were scrambling fighters every hour, responding to suspected Russian missile launches. The Gulf countries were talking about reducing output of oil exports amid the uncertainty. Oil prices had skyrocketed. OPEC rumbled about cutting output, their attempt at strangling a war before it even began. Doom and gloom poured from the screen, cascading bad and worse news.
He slid in beside him, pressing his shoulder to Tom’s. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Tom leaned back, almost rested his cheek on Mike’s arm. “Can I get you something?”
“Not while I’m on duty protecting you.” He winked. “I’ll just have water.”
They moved to a corner booth in the hotel’s upscale steakhouse. It was dark enough to tangle their feet together beneath the table, and quiet enough to lean in close, keeping their voices soft. A few marshals drifted into the restaurant, sitting at the bar and at the scattered high tops and studiously not looking in their direction. Mike held back from reaching across and holding Tom’s hand, but if he was looking at Tom the way Tom was looking at him, well—
They just needed to get through this trial.
And, hopefully not trigger a new war between Russia and the U.S.
They both ordered steak but got different sides to share. He goofed once, eating off Tom’s plate, but when he glanced around the dining room, none of the marshals were looking their way. Tom had a second margarita, and he relaxed against the corner of the booth, loose and gazing at Mike in a way that made his skin burn. He kept their feet tangled, ankles rubbing gently together.
