A Barlow Lens (15 page)

“Here you go,” Clint said. Phoenix and Fern were prancing on either side of him; obviously they knew he'd brought something for them. As soon as they had their treat, both dogs sprawled on the grass, engrossed in chewing.

Griff looked up from the grill, watching them for a few seconds, smiling. Clint set the bowl on the table and stood behind Griff, sliding his arms around his waist and resting his chin on Griff's shoulder. He watched quietly for a few minutes while Griff turned the kabobs. He also had corn-on-the-cob cooking.

“Smells good,” Clint said.

“Thanks. We should be able to eat in a few minutes.”

Clint took a deep breath and inched closer. “You smell sort of good too.”

Griff turned his head slightly and arched one eyebrow. “You're up to no good.” His voice was soft in the way he reserved for when he teased Clint.

“I do want to go to the conference with you, really I do. I didn't mean for it to come out like that.”

Griff shrugged. “Like I said, we have time to work the details out. A drawback to working from home is you're always working, I guess.”

“And a benefit is I can take my work with me. I'll just spend a few hours in our room while you do your seminar stuff, but I want to go to your talks.” A warm tingle ran up the inside of Clint's thighs. It had been too long since they'd made love. He had to concentrate to remember when the last time was. “We'll have Wi-Fi, right?”

Griff chuckled, vibrating against Clint. Clint relaxed against Griff's back even more. The feeling of warm, solid muscle trembling against him ever so slightly was suddenly very sexy. “Yes, of course there will be Wi-Fi. I wouldn't
dream
of taking you somewhere with
no
Wi-Fi.”

“You have to admit, some of those people at that convention are a tad… um….”

“I think paranoid is the word you're looking for,” Griff said. “You have the latest parts of your novel printed out?”

Clint smiled and nuzzled Griff's neck. “I do.”

“Well, stop trying to cause trouble and go get it so I can read while I eat and work out this business with grenades. Don't forget I'm the only fan you have to please.”

“I'll be right back.” Clint was in the house, had snatched up the small stack of paper he had waiting and was back to the patio in time to see Griff setting plates on the round iron and glass table. “It's rough, needs work.”

“You let me be the judge of that,” Griff said. It had become sort of a tradition with them. Griff read everything first and was also the last one to see a manuscript just before Clint sent his submission in.

“You're biased. You do know I know that, right?”

Griff grinned and snorted, waving Clint off. He shuffled the papers between bites of food. “Is this the grenade part? The good thing about grenades, and bombs in general, is they blow things apart. The bad thing about them is they blow things apart. Your investigative team is going to be spending a lot of time combing through debris flung far and wide looking for evidence. Combine that with the fact you're using dirty bombs, and they'll be wearing hazmat suits.”

“I'm not really using dirty bombs. They just suspect that's what is used.”

Griff shrugged. “Same issue. Lots of extra equipment and they're out in the middle of nowhere. What good is this outside of a big population?”

“It's a test for what comes later.”

“That makes sense. You should mention that before this part comes up. I'm thinking lose the grenades and just go with the bomb test. Same result, really. Bombers tend not to waste supplies either. They don't like us—as in the people with guns and badges—to know what they have access to and what they can do. They also tend to stick with a few select favorites.”

As they ate, Griff offered a few more comments. Dinner done, they sat outside enjoying the nice weather and the beer Griff had bought. When it started getting dark, they headed into the house.

“Do you mind if I…?” Clint waved in the direction of his office. “An hour, no more, I promise.”

Griff laughed softly, shaking his head. “Of course I don't mind.”

“Leave this stuff. I'll get it in the morning.” Clint nodded at the dishes they'd just set in the sink.

“Okay.” Griff shrugged.

A few minutes later, Griff was flopped on the couch, giving Clint updates on the baseball game he was watching. Clint's office had double french doors that opened to the living room. He very rarely closed them. Phoenix sprawled in the doorway, and Fern was stretched on Griff's legs.

When the television turned off, Clint looked up. Griff's hand rested on his shoulder, fingers rubbing gently. “We won.”

“Oh damn, I'm sorry,” Clint said and looked up.

“It
was
an hour… on Jupiter,” Griff said.

Clint held out a few pieces of paper. He rubbed at the back of his neck and put a sheepish expression on his face. “Could you read this part again?”

Griff gave him a completely fake stern look and picked up the papers. “The things I do for you.” He turned his arm and looked pointedly at his watch. “After midnight.” A few minutes later, he set the papers on the corner of Clint's desk. “Oh yeah, I like that a lot better.” He looked over Clint's shoulder. “Tell me you didn't write that.”

Clint had been scanning the latest chapter Dylan had sent him earlier. “No. It's from Dylan.”

“Dylan? I met him at a convention last year?” Griff asked. When Clint nodded, he continued. “Six foot, light hair, thirtyish, and creepy.”

“He's not cre—okay, yeah that's him. Why do you describe everyone as a suspect?”

“I don't… sorry.” He rested one hand on Clint's head and brushed his fingers lightly over his hair a few times. “It's a habit.”

“Hmm… I can only imagine how you first described me.”

“Let's see. Over six foot. Mexican descent. Amazing smile and dimples in a few places. Soulful brown eyes and very thick and touchable hair,” Griff said softly. He gently tugged on a few strands of Clint's hair.

Clint smiled. “You're up to no good.”

“Yes, I am. So what is all this? One of those write-as-bad-as-possible contests?”

Clint burst out laughing. “I wish. Dylan has decided his problem is he needs more sex in his books.”

Griff leaned closer to the monitor. “Throbbing heat bat?” He straightened and pulled out the waistband of his shorts and looked down. “Hey, little buddy, you're a throbbing heat bat.”

“Griff, stop that.”

“What? You laughed.” He leaned closer to the monitor and pointed to a spot a few lines down. “Oh God, is that even possible? ‘Still joined, he picked his lover up and carried….' What? That's gotta hurt.” Griff looked from the screen to Clint to their bedroom door.

“Oh no, don't
even
think about it.”

“You don't even want to try a little bit?”

“No,” Clint sputtered. “Hell, no!”

Griff squinted at the screen again. “Does he sign everything to you with Xs and Os?”

Clint shrugged. “I don't know, I never paid attention or thought about it. Why?”

“That doesn't strike you as odd? And what's all this crap about Fern's foot? He says he's glad she's walking better and then running around the yard fine?” Griff was firing off questions in rapid order.

“Don't interrogate me. He doesn't have a lot of friends. Lots of people knew about Fern's foot when it happened. Readers like to hear about their favorite authors' lives, so I blog about our dogs. Everyone likes cute dogs.”

“How much detail do you give out about our lives?”

“Griff. They're dogs. However if you'd rather, I can write about my overly paranoid US Marshal boyfriend and his exploits.”

“Clint, he's focused on every little detail you have on your website
and
Facebook. Does he know your real name? Because keeping all of your friends and their secret identities straight is a challenge. Coming from me that says a lot. I'm supposed to be good at tracking aliases.” Griff's voice was steadily going up in volume.

“Oh, for God's sakes. Yes. A lot of people know Bishop Gryven and Clint Bishop are the same man. And they're not aliases, Griff, they're pen names!” Clint was shouting now. Because of Griff's job, Clint used a pseudonym, combining his own last name and a play on Griff's first name of Griffen. “I don't advertise it, but it's not a big secret. You've known that for years.”

“This guy right here is not normal. How can you not see that?”

“Griff, he's harmless.” Clint tried to sound convincing, but the truth was he wasn't so sure. The way Griff's eyes narrowed a small amount was a sure sign he sensed Clint's resolve faltering. “He is.”

“How do you know for sure?” Griff asked. He wasn't shouting anymore, but Clint heard the anger and concern in his voice.

“Because not everyone is the criminal you think they are,” Clint grumbled. Maybe neither he nor Griff should have had that last beer. “You know what? I'm not doing this. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.” Without waiting for a response, Clint abruptly stood, brushed past Griff, and stalked to the living room. He grabbed the remote control, flopped on the couch, made room for Fern when she jumped up with him, and stared at the television, not even knowing what he was watching.

Griff grunted and mumbled a few more unkind words about Dylan under his breath that Clint pretended not to hear, which was silly. The house was small and just about everything Griff said could be heard. Turning smartly on his heel, Griff marched through the other door in the office, heading down the short hall to their bedroom.

When Clint woke up, the room was lighter, the television off and a blanket had been thrown over him. “Aww, crap,” he mumbled and swung around to sit up. Fern stood on his thighs, licking his cheek and wagging her tail while he rubbed her ears. “Yeah, you guys hungry? Need out?” She barked, jumped off the couch, and turned in a few circles while Phoenix ran back and forth from the living room to the side door, his tail wagging as well. “You two are no help. What did you let me sleep here all night for?” he said and opened the door for them.

He heard the shower running, but the bathroom door was closed. They never closed the damn thing and having one bathroom meant sometimes using it at the same time. Clint sighed. “I guess if I'm desperate I can go outside and pee on a bush with the dogs.” Knocking on the bathroom door, Clint asked, “Want coffee?”

There was no answer. Clint leaned against the wall and waited. When the water turned off, he repeated his question.

The door opened and Griff stepped out. “I'm late. I'll grab something downtown.”

Clint grabbed Griff's arm. “Griff—”

Griff leaned in and brushed his lips over Clint's cheek. “I'm late, really I am. Candice will twist my balls about it all day. It's no big deal, honestly. I'll call you later if I get the chance and we'll talk tonight.”

Clint got his turn in the bathroom while Griff dressed. He went to the kitchen, still wanting coffee. Griff's laptop sat on the kitchen table, open but turned off, and Clint wondered how long he'd sat there working on it before showering. Dressed and shrugging into his shoulder holster, Griff walked through the kitchen, collected the things from their “junk” drawer, and closed the laptop, stuffing it into a carry bag slung over his opposite shoulder.

He stopped at the door and looked back. “Don't forget, lock the doors.”

Griff wasn't angry, Clint knew that, but he was hurt. Clint had screwed up. They fought like any other couple did, but they had a hard and fast golden rule and Clint had broken it. Even if they were angry, not speaking to one another, they always slept in the same bed. Maybe it was as far apart on that bed as possible, but neither had ever stayed the night on the couch, in another room, or in a hotel because of a fight.

Clint had more than overreacted to Griff's trepidation surrounding Dylan. It didn't help that Griff managed to put into words what Clint had been feeling and trying to dismiss for a while now. Griff was more of a methodical “think things through from every angle” sort of guy, while Clint was apt to have an emotional knee-jerk sort of reaction. The fact that Griff came to his conclusion so quickly made Clint feel a little foolish, and he'd felt the need to defend himself. Why he thought that justification was needed was a mystery to him.

He let the dogs in and watched them as they ate. “Hopefully he'll catch some really badass criminal today. I feel sort of sorry for them if they resist arrest.”

While Clint went about his normal routine, he chewed over in his head the coming evening with Griff. He played and replayed in his mind what he wanted to say. Hurting Griff's feelings had been unintentional, Clint was sure Griff knew that, but it didn't change the fact that Clint needed to correct his blunders.

E
LIZABETH
N
OBLE
started telling stories before she actually knew how to write, and her family was very happy when she learned to put words on a page. Those words turned into fan fiction that turned into a genuine love of M/M romance fiction. Being able to share her works with Dreamspinner is really a dream come true. She has a real love for a good mystery complete with murder and twisty plots as well as all things sci-fi, futuristic, and supernatural and a bit of an unnatural interest in a super-volcano in Wyoming.

Elizabeth has three grown children and is now happily owned by an adorable mixed breed canine princess named Rosie, and two cats, Murphy and Yeti. She lives in her native northeast Ohio, the perfect place for gardening and winter and summer sports (go Tribe!). When she's not writing she's working as a veterinary nurse, so don't be surprised to see her men with a pet or three who are a very big part of their lives.