First Blood

  “Fine, fuck me and get the hell out.”

  Nikita unzipped and pulled his own cock free. Just a few lazy

  jerks had him ready. “Suck me first.”

  “Bastard.” The epithet was halfhearted at best, and Chris dropped

  to his knees on the cold tiled floor, gripped the base of Nikita's cock,

  and took in as much as he could.

  Nikita groaned, biting down on a gentle curse. He hadn't

  anticipated Chris would be that good at blowing, but it figured, didn't

  it? Chris was by far more experienced and, right now, incredibly eager.

  He didn't need encouragement, but Nikita still placed his hand against

  the man's neck, holding him, feeling the head move back and forth on

  his cock, feeling that hot mouth, the clever tongue. He pushed forward

  a little, swaying on his feet. Getting head from a man wasn't that

  different, he thought, only that, maybe, Chris was better. He knew what

  felt good. Nikita forced himself to focus rather than get lost in the

  sensation. He'd come in Chris's mouth later. Not this time. “What were

  you thinking of? When you jerked off during the night?”

  Chris let Nikita's dick pop from his mouth and glanced up. “So

  you came here to fuck my mind too?”

  “No point in the sex if I leave out your mind, is there?”

  “I hate you.”

  “You hate yourself for liking this.” Nikita slid his hand along the

  top of Chris's head, grabbed the short strands and tugged. “You like

  being controlled by me.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Suck me.”

  Chris glared up, yet remained on his knees. Both desire and

  indignation glittered in his eyes. Yet he didn't protest. He lowered his

  head, slid his hot, experienced mouth around Nikita's cock, and

  continued, adding to the experience by reaching into Nikita's pants to

  massage his balls with the perfect amount of pressure, his tongue and

  lips continuing their tease.

  Nikita closed his eyes and let it consume him, rocking with the

  rhythm Chris set up, fucking that moist mouth. So close. So good,

  consuming his senses, his reason.

  He was barely aware of sounds beyond the bathroom door, hardly

  heard the knock and the scrape of the door opening.

  “Chris. John and Stefan—” The words broke off into a gasp, the

  door slammed shut, and then another.

  Nikita jerked away, sudden recognition destroying the mood

  utterly, despite Chris's skill. Fuck. He pushed his cock back into his

  trousers and was about to head to the door when Chris blocked his path.

  “Don't.”

  It wasn't about finishing the sex. Chris was preventing him from

  following that man. “Was that who I think it was?”

  Chris stared at him, his lips still moist, and Nikita wanted to kiss

  him the way he looked right now.

  “It was nobody important.”

  “So you'd have me believe.” It would be child's play to shove

  Chris aside, and yet he didn't. “You didn't kill him.”

  “I've killed a lot of men.”

  “Not Andrei Voronin.”

  “Andrei Voronin is long gone.”

  “You didn't betray and murder him.”

  Chris exhaled, looking resigned. Defeated. It didn't suit him,

  looked utterly wrong on the man. “No, I didn't.”

  “Why the fuck didn't you tell me? I almost killed you for it!”

  Nikita knew he was almost shouting, but he couldn't stop it.

  “That's the risk in my job.” Chris still stood his ground,

  unapologetic and unafraid. “He got what everyone dreams of at some

  point in their life. The chance to start over from scratch. Let him have

  it.”

  What had his contact written? Unorthodox methods of recruiting?

  It made sense. Andrei Voronin had been recruited into GORGON.

  Everything else was a ruse, and Chris Gibson had betrayed nobody, just

  covered a teammate's ass. Fuck. He'd never been so wrong reading

  somebody. Never. “Why didn't you tell me?”

  Chris gave a hollow laugh. “On what grounds, Nicky? On what

  fucking grounds?” He shook his head and half-turned away, before

  Nikita placed a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the man tense under

  the touch but he didn't attack him.

  “I apologize.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “What do you want from me, Chris?”

  His laugh was bitter, and Nikita wasn't sure if it was directed at

  him or inward. “Fuck if I know.”

  Nikita gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Get your bath. We'll talk

  later.”

  “No, I should go talk to Andrei.” Chris stared at the bathtub,

  looking forlorn.

  “Then do that.” Nikita pulled a card from his pocket and wrote his

  cell phone number down. “Call me.”

  “Yeah.” Chris just remained standing when Nikita left.

  THE water had long gone cold when Chris decided to go for the bath,

  and he slid down into the tub, letting it cover his face. He briefly

  considered opening his mouth and drowning himself but decided that

  would be a fucked-up end to a fucked-up life, and he'd rather go out on

  the wrong end of a bullet.

  Someone else's, not his own.

  He washed up and got out, already hearing the buzz of angry little

  bees in the adjoining room as he wrapped the towel around his waist

  and exited.

  There they were: Stefan Wudarczek by the desk, glancing up

  from the portable printer attached to his laptop, his expression that of

  an affronted school headmaster forced to deal with his most

  problematic student. John, smugly wearing his most holier-than-thou

  aura, and Andrei, sitting at the foot of Stefan's bed looking like he

  wanted to throw up.

  Stefan snatched a couple papers from the printer one after another.

  “You're alone now?”

  “I don't think you three would be here if I wasn't.” Chris dressed,

  black jeans, button-down blue shirt.

  John breathed a weary sigh.

  God, that had gotten on his last nerve these past few months. “Get

  it over with, John. Give me the „I told you so' and fuck off.” He sat in

  an upholstered chair between the windows, pulled on socks and a pair

  of black lace-up boots.

  “It wouldn't do any good. It's like I don't know you anymore.”

  John sat next to Andrei, rubbed his hand across the Russian's back.

  Stefan came forward, held out the papers he'd printed to Chris.

  “You're off the mission, and I hope to fuck you haven't

  compromised what little we've held onto after that botched raid.”

  Chris took the papers and tossed them to the floor. “I didn't

  compromise jack shit. I don't do that.”

  “It doesn't matter,” Stefan said. “I won't have you on this case.”

  He pointed at the paperwork. “There's the word from on high, and

  there's your e-ticket back to Geneva. I suggest you clear out your desk

  once you get there. I don't think you'll need it much longer.”

  Chris picked up the papers and stood. He tore them one by one

  and threw the pieces back at Stefan. “Fuck you. Fuck your mission, and
r />   fuck GORGON for all I care.”

  He tossed his clothes into his suitcase and snapped it shut.

  “Chris….”

  Chris stopped at the door, turned to John. He couldn't deny that

  he cared for the guy, him and Andrei both, but sometimes three was too

  much of a crowd. “I hope to God they bring in a shooter who will

  watch your back, babe. You be careful. These Russians are some mean

  motherfuckers.”

  “Chris, I'm sorry,” Andrei said, sounding so miserable it made

  Chris's heart clench. Fuck him. Not for walking in on him and Nikita,

  but for finding that weak spot.

  “Good luck with this shit,” he muttered, to himself more than

  Andrei, and he was out of the door, his heart beating painfully under

  the roof of his skull. He half-expected John or Andrei to come after him,

  but that was an idle hope. They'd talked this through while he'd been in

  the bath, made up their minds, and presented a unified front against the

  renegade.

  Fuck them. He hadn't betrayed GORGON. How was it that

  people kept thinking he was a traitor? Nikita thought he'd betrayed

  Andrei, now his teammates—ex-teammates—thought he'd betrayed

  GORGON. What the fuck.

  And who'd back these guys up? Andrei was a rookie, Stefan was

  more a researcher than a fighter, and John would have his hands full

  just watching Andrei's back, let alone taking the fight to the enemy.

  Fuck.

  He stood outside the hotel, at a loss as to where to turn in this

  foreign city, with its unfamiliar skyline and dour natives. The anger and

  disorientation was a low hum in his bones. Cut loose. Just like that. For

  fucking the wrong guy. Why did they care, anyway?

  He went into a Starbucks, mostly because it didn't serve alcohol,

  and settled with a large coffee. Cell phone sitting on the table in front

  of him. Not on silent. No calls came in.

  It’s like I don’t know you anymore.

  That makes two of us, buddy. Chris fingered the card Nikita had

  given him. Well, if he was officially suspended, he could at least meet

  the Russian and fuck him, get fucked, whatever. Might as well scratch

  that itch that was driving him insane. Sex was one way to take his mind

  off things. It wouldn't compromise the mission, either. And it wasn't

  like he had anywhere else to go.

  He picked up the phone, punched in two numbers, and then shut it

  down. He was not some Moany Mary who had to go running to his Big

  Daddy because he'd gotten his hand slapped. And the last thing he

  needed was to have Nikita be all gaga over the fact that Andrei was still

  alive and ready for whatever plucking had given him that hard-on for

  the guy in the first place.

  Fuck. He couldn't win for losing these days. Maybe he could re-

  enlist in the military. He wasn't near the upper age limit, and they

  certainly could use the skills they'd taught him in some place in

  Afghanistan.

  Then again, with his luck that prick Wudarczek would see that

  GORGON HR made no secret that he'd been openly bisexual during

  his stint with them. They had no grounds for kicking him out. He

  hadn't compromised the mission. Once in Geneva, he'd take that to the

  Dragon Lady.

  Bastards.

  Maybe he should just go do what everyone was so ready to

  accuse him of—take a walk on the wild side and work for the Bad

  Guys. It was certainly lucrative, judging from the kind of money the

  criminals tossed around. But most criminals who could get him in were

  locked up or dead. Apart from Shkadov, who was the next on the list.

  He could tip Shkadov off. Question was, how would he react to that,

  and would that change any of the things Nikita and GORGON had in

  store for the criminal? He should fly back to Switzerland and talk to the

  Dragon Lady. Maybe grovel a bit, but she'd only send him to one of

  those psychological evaluations, and wasn't that a joy, being asked just

  about everything with a polygraph attached.

  He eyed the phone with increasing desperation. John knew him

  better than that. He did.

  It’s like I don’t know you anymore.

  Maybe he could at least explain this to John? John had to know

  he wouldn't just fly back and clear out his desk. Then why did the

  bastard not call him to talk some sense into him, or whatever John

  would call it? That felt like betrayal.

  And yet there he sat, doing nothing beyond feeling sorry for

  himself and dicking around with a cell phone game until his battery had

  run down. Only then did he leave the coffee shop, to find a seat in the

  sun to use his solar charger.

  He noticed the tail a little later than he should have and cursed his

  GORGON ex-teammates for both the mental distraction and the

  shadow. Holy fuck. Did he really come across as that level of a

  traitorous bastard?

  Christ. Maybe he needed to use this unexpected vacation to hone

  his people skills. Well, if they wanted a juicy report to send back to HQ,

  he'd give them one.

  NIKITA waited, eye on his phone, in a parked car, staying close

  enough to have a strong signal. When Chris moved after a good two

  hours, it was toward the parties and night clubs, where, knowing the

  man, he'd pick up some form of company or other and take care of that

  frustration. One of them had to give, he thought, and wasn't it ironic it

  would be him?

  He followed Chris to a nearby club, with enough distance that

  Chris wouldn't see him. When the signal paused, he knew Chris must

  have checked in his jacket, so he went into the club, too, spending the

  next fifteen minutes looking for him in the cold blue strobe lights.

  There he was, pushed up against the bar, looking pale in the blue light.

  His neck was bent; he didn't scan the crowd for somebody to chat up.

  In fact, he looked tired, worried, and sad. Nikita moved closer, right

  next to him, and placed a hand between Chris's shoulder blades.

  “I was waiting for your call.”

  Chris swallowed, hard, but didn't push him away, didn't even

  turn.

  “I wanted you to call,” Nikita added.

  “Yeah, well, I wanted lots of shit I never got.” Chris sipped his

  beer but did not look up. “I imagine you know all about that with good

  ol' Andrei, eh?”

  “Wanting and needing are different things, aren't they?”

  Chris's muscles tensed beneath his hand, and Nikita rubbed his

  palm up and across the tight shoulders.

  Had he ever wanted or needed anything as much as he did this

  man's submission?

  Chris pulled away, glanced over. “This is fucked up, is what it is.”

  Nikita nodded. “So much in the world is.”

  “Don't you have work to do?”

  Nikita shrugged. “It's a quiet night, all things considered.” He

  placed his hand on Chris's back once more. Chris did not pull away,

  and his glance lingered for one telling moment.

  “I'm not a replacement for Andrei,” Chris said. “Not your next

  best thing.” r />
  “Andrei Alexeyevich made me aware of something I wanted. I

  needed him to be safe. I promised him he'd be safe. My failure to keep

  him alive was what… made me hate you.” Nikita brushed against Chris.

  This wasn't about guilt anymore. “That was all it was. Avenging his

  trust.”

  “At least you'll stop now, going on and on about it.” Chris hung

  his head. “That shit was getting old.”

  There was the need, couched in vague terms, veiled innuendo.

  Would Chris ever admit it aloud? Had he even admitted it to himself?

  “Did he see it? Did he tell you what it meant?”

  Chris looked up once more, shifted his stance so that his stamp of

  ownership was facing away, hidden.

  “It's sick bullshit that will fade. It already has.”

  “The meaning will remain. Indefinitely.” He reached over, took

  Chris's glass, and finished the beer in one gulp. “The time for playing

  games has passed. Come.”

  “What the hell, I was looking to get laid anyway.” Chris pushed

  himself away from the bar, turned, the sense of exhaustion palpable

  around him.

  Here was a man who'd fought as long as he could, not unlike a

  stallion that had to be broken before he could be trained. There was still

  resistance, but it wasn't as fierce anymore, tempered by the need for

  acceptance. A gaping, hollow wound marked the man, a desperate need

  to be touched and explored and eventually filled.

  Chris stopped by the coat check, grabbed his jacket and a suitcase

  from the girl in charge of the wardrobe. Nikita didn't comment on that,

  but it explained why Chris was so frayed around the edges. Some kind

  of fight, undoubtedly including the Asian who'd had the air of a lover.

  He wished he'd left that camera when he'd exited the room. Even

  without sound it would have been telling. But that would never do.

  They'd undoubtedly searched, and if it was found, all fingers would

  have pointed to Chris. He didn't set up anyone unless they deserved the

  fall.

  Leading the way to his car, Nikita took them to the club where

  Katya had once worked as a cocktail waitress. It wasn't the more

  hardcore place like the one in London where they'd sometimes played.

  This club was posh, strictly vanilla on the main floor, but up above, the

  businessmen and bored couples came to dally in slightly more wicked