The Parting
The warehouse looked as if it had been empty for years. The weeds that poked through the cracks in the asphalt loading area were waist high in places. Rust stained the overhead doors and trailed down the brick wall beside the corroded rain gutters. High in the wall beneath the eaves, the rising moon glinted from a row of windows. The darkness behind the broken panes stood out like missing teeth.
Finn eased back on the throttle and let his bike coast toward the middle door. "It's Braveheart," he said quietly.
The door lifted on well-oiled rollers. Staff Sergeant Lang was on duty. He averted his rifle and motioned Finn to drive inside.
The bike's headlight revealed several parked vehicles beside a canvas tarp that formed a wall directly in front of him. Finn took off his helmet and waited until the warehouse door rolled shut, then swung his leg off the bike and headed toward the tarp.
In fact, the tarp was one side of a large canvas military tent that had been erected inside the warehouse as part of their security precautions. The ruse was low-tech, fast to implement and surprisingly effective when it came to ensuring the outside of the building continued to appear dark and deserted.
The operational detachments from Nighthawk were accustomed to working on their own. After some spectacular failures decades ago when the group was first formed; they had learned the hard way not to trust outside intelligence. They had also learned the more fingers there were in the pie, the more likely that matters would spiral out of control. The best way to keep a secret was not tell anyone, so besides the president and the brass at the Pentagon, no one knew that the Nighthawks were here.
Finn lifted aside a flap, stepped over a bundle of electrical cables and strode into a blaze of light and activity. The tent was organized into two areas: one for equipments, the other for personnel. To his left he saw two soldiers cleaning their guns while Wildman sorted out the ordnance they had assembled. On Finn's right, the team's communications center had been set up on a table crammed with radio, telephone and computer equipment. Scale maps of the area and photos of known members of Boko Haram had been taped to the poles that supported the roof. Some folding chairs, a trestle table, a small refrigerator and a microwave oven marked the mess hall and beyond that were two rows of cots that would serve as their barracks for the duration of the mission.
They had brought only the bare necessities to Washington when they had loaded the transport plane at Fort Braggs – vehicles, equipment and shelter. This self-contained temporary base of operations could be packed up and stacked in the back of a truck as quickly as it had been assembled. The living conditions were cramped and far from comfortable, but the plumbing in the warehouse bathrooms worked and Blake had coaxed hot water from the showers. Compared to other places where the Nighthawks had set up shop, this tent was downright luxurious.
As far as Finn knew, the mission was still a go. According to the latest news, the damage done by the mix-up at the ransom drop and the scuffle at Abraham's apartment appeared to have been successfully contained. To everyone's relief, the team had moved swiftly enough so that no word had leaked to the media or to the local authorities. How much damage had been done to Nigerian relations with Boko Haram was another matter.
Finn turned right and headed toward the stocky, bald man who was seated in front of the radio. "Is there any word from the Nigerian Embassy yet, Chief?"
Chief Warrant officer Esposito shook his head as he glanced up at Finn. His forehead creased like a pit bull's. "Boko Haram haven'tbeen in contact since they put the boy on the line."
"How's Ibru?"
"Not doing well. He had to be sedated."
"That's rough. He didn't look in good shape when I saw him at the ransom drop."
Esposito bared his teeth, exposing a flash of gold. "I can't blame him. If anyone snatched my boys, I'd have to be tied down to keep me from going after the bastards myself."
"Do you think the Ibru kid is still alive?"
"At this point, the odds are in his favor. The ransom money isn't all Boko Haram are after. They want to terrorize Ibru and the Nigerian government and as long as their hostage is alive, they can keep turning the screws."
"Yeah, it's win-win situation for them. If they get the money, they finance more terrorism. And if they execute their hostage, they demoralize the government and gain worldwide publicity."
Esposito gestured at the pact that Finn carried on his back. "Is that the money?"
Finn slipped the straps of the pack off his shoulder and held it out to Esposito. "Yeah. It's all there. Where do you want me to put it?"
"The box I used for my equipment is under the table. You could put the money there to keep it out of the way until we are ready for the next round."
Finn peered under the table and spotted a battered steel trunk. He bent down to slide it toward him, stuffed the pack inside and closed the lid. By the time he had straightened up, Esposito had already turned back to the radio as if he was totally disinterested in the twenty million dollars in cash that rested inches away from his feet.
Neither man considered the situation to be strange. People in their line of work were motivated by loyalty, honor and duty – if they had been interested in money, they would have been accountants.
"Hey, Braveheart. Let me look at that arm."
Finn glanced at the lanky man who was walking towards him. Jack Norton - Irish - had the easy gait and a whipcord leanness of a marathon runner. His specialty was field medicine, but no one made the mistake of believing that that made him soft.
"Forget it, Irish," Finn said, moving toward the mess area. He grabbed a can of soda from one of the cases on the floor, opened the top and took a long swig. "It's just a flesh wound."
"Yeah, I've heard that before," Irish said as he followed him. His hard Irish drawl echoed in his loose limbed strides. "Humor me, anyway. It's the commander's orders."
Finn looked around. "Where is the commander anyway?"
Irish tipped his head toward the far corner where some extra canvas tarps had been strung to partition off a small room. "Back there, doing his best to keep any more, ah, surprises from hitting the fan. He told me to send you in when I'm done."
"Fine," Finn muttered. He pulled one of the chairs close to the trestle table, sat down and extended his arm. "Knock yourself out."
Irish sat across from him and opened up the red tackle box where he kept his medical supplies. He let out a low whistle as he peeled back the blood-encrusted sleeve of Finn's shirt.
Finn gritted his teeth. Not from the pain – he was trained to ignore far worse than this – but from embarrassment. He was a Nighthawk. He was an expert marksman. He could use his feet and his hands as lethal weapons. He had disabled three MEND terrorists less than an hour ago without breaking a sweat.
But he hadn't been able to stop a five foot plus schoolteacher from stabbing him with a screwdriver.
Why? Sure, the grip he had used to restrain him hadn't been all that solid because he hadn't wanted to give him bruises, but he should have been able to catch Abe before he had bolted into the parking garage. The truth was that Abe had distracted him with all that wiggling in the elevator.
His hand had been clamped over the back of Abe's thighs, his face had been level with the curve his buttocks and he had felt Abe's breath on his shoulder blades. He had been engulfed by the warm scent of freshly washed male. Even with the voices of his team giving curt reports though his earpiece, he had been aware of every panting breath Abe had drawn.
Yet the lapse in his concentration could have been more than embarrassing: it could have been dangerous. If Songbird hadn't shown up with her van when she had, the outcome might have been entirely different. The mission could have been compromised because, instead of focusing on his job, Finn had been thinking about how good Abe Locke felt against his body.
He scowled. Hell, he wasn't even his type.
"Hold on there, big boy. I'll be done in a minute."
Finn returned his attention to Jack (Irish). "Did Songbird get in yet?"
"Uh-huh. She and your little friend are in with the commander."
Finn's gaze strayed to the partition that defined the commander's "office". He should be wondering how the security background check had panned out or how Abe was handling the situation. Yet instead, he wondered if Abe's hair had dried.
"This looks ugly," Jack added his voice suspiciously sympathetic as he cleaned the dried blood from the area around the wound; he swabbed on a generous amount of disinfectant. "I have to give the schoolteacher credit; he has got some good penetration after he pierced your sleeve."
"It wasn't that deep. The bleeding stopped after a few minutes."
"I can't tell the caliber or the make of the screwdriver he used." Jack took a pair of tweezers and picked some shirts fibers that clung to the sides of the hole. "Was it Robertson?"
"It was a Philips."
"Ah, yes. Now that you mention it, I can see the four point stars." He gave the wound a final cleaning, laid a piece of gauze over the top and taped it in place. "Next time, make sure your tool belt isn't loaded."
Finn folded the bloodstained sleeve above his elbow and flexed his arm, watching the white bandage ride up a ridge of muscle. He wasn't going to respond to jack's nagging. If the men knew how much this bothered him, they would never let him hear the end of it. "I'll ask Wildman to install safeties on the screwdriver, okay?"
Jack packed up his supplies.
Finn finished his soda and got to his feet. "Thanks for the Band-Aid, Jack. Got any lollipops to go with your usual, sweet bedside manners?"
"I'm fresh out of both." He lowered his voice. "If you are going to see the commander now, you might not want to go in there unarmed."
"He's not still pissed about the ransom mix-up at the drop, is he?"
"Not him. I'm talking about his guest." He raised an eyebrow. "I hear he might be armed with a pencil."
Unbelievable. That's all that came to Abe's mind. The whole situation was simply beyond his comprehension. Things like this didn't happen to people like him. He glanced around the canvas cubicle. It didn't look like a rabbit hole, and his name wasn't Alice, but any minute now he half expected to see a white rabbit in a waist coat and top hat... The bubble of hysteria that rose in his throat frightened him almost as much as the events of the past hour. Had it only been an hour? He rubbed the empty spot on his wrist where his watch should have been. He felt naked without it, but he hadn't been able to find it when he had been scrambling in the dark for his clothes and then he had gone to answer the door and Finn had talked his way inside his apartment and his life had turned upside down... Oh, God. He had to get a hold of himself, he thought. He took a deep breath and his head reeled at the strong aroma of canvas and dusty cement. This cubicle was the only private area in the hidden tent Sandra had brought him to. It was tiny, with barely enough space for a small table and a handful of folding metal chairs. A bare light bulb hung on a cord from one of the poles that propped up the roof, adding a stark glare to the already grim surroundings. "These are standard government nondisclosure forms, Mister Locke. You are welcome to read them over before you sign." Abe jerked as a sheaf of papers was pushed across the table in front of him. He looked at the man who sat at the other side. Commander Aston - Ghost wasn't wearing a uniform. In a gold shirt and pleated khakis he should have looked more like a lawyer on his day off than an army officer, yet he radiated an air of authority. Maybe it was from the distinguished looking silver that threaded the dark hair at his temples or the ramrod stiffness of his posture. Or maybe it was the unwavering gray steel in his gaze. Whatever the cause, the overall effect made him grateful that he was facing the commander across a table and not be a battlefield. He took the papers from the commander's hands, but when he tried to focus on the words, his shaking fingers made the print blur. "We are sorry for the inconvenience," the commander continued. "We'll take you home as soon as it's safe to do so." Inconvenience? Abe thought wildly. Was that how he described having his door broken down by three armed men and being kidnapped by a bunch of soldiers? Abe moved his gaze to the third person in the room. Sandra Fox stood by the canvas flap that formed the door, his arms folded over his chest. Like the commander, she didn't need a uniform to assume an air of command. Even in the lemon-yellow sleeveless sweater and her short skirt, there was something intimidating about her. She was only a few inches shorter than Abe was, but she was one of those people who had the kind of presence that made her appear larger than she was. She had seemed so nice at fist, Abe thought. Before they had left the garage, Sandra had identified herself as a member of a unit in the United States Army and had done her best to stem Abe's budding panic. She had explained that Abe had accidentally put himself in the middle of a ransom exchange and then she had calmly taken off the cardigan that matched her yellow sweater and loaned it to Abe to cover his upper body. It had been a kind gesture – Abe hadn't realized that he hadn't been wearing a shirt. His chest was fully exposed and his hard nipples had been twinkling at Finn the entire time. Had Finn noticed? What a stupid thing to worry about. How could he be concerned about himself at all? He wasn't the only one who had been kidnapped. A child's life was at stake here, and he had unwittingly made things worse. The papers crumpled in his grasp. "What is going to happen now?" he asked. "As commander Redginer said, you'll be taken home as soon as possible," Sandra replied. "No, I meant to the child? Is he going to be all right?" "We are working on it." "Who is he?" "I'm sorry, Mister Locke, but in the interest of national security, we can't give you any more details." Sandra said. "I hadn't meant to interfere. I didn't realize what was in that pack. I thought that one of my students had left it." "Yes, we realize that." "What happened to those men who broke into my apartment? Were they arrested?" "No, we couldn't do that at this stage," the commander said. "Once they regained consciousness and saw that the ransom was not in your apartment, they left. They are under surveillance, so they won't pose any further danger to you." "But what about the child they kidnapped? If they didn't get the ransom..." "Don't be concerned. They will negotiate again." "But I still don't understand why the army is involved. Aren't the police supposed to deal with kidnappings?" "Normally, yes, but these are special circumstances. When it comes to hostage rescue, our expertise surpasses that of the FBI." Something stirred in Abe's memory. A movie he had seen, or some news report about a clandestine mission. The army had special units with commandos who were trained in hostage rescue amongst other things. Their skill and dedication were legendary but they were so secret, their existence wasn't officially acknowledged. These people weren't ordinary soldiers, they were... "Are you from Nighthawks?" Sandra and the commander exchanged a look. "That has to be why this is all so secret," Abe persisted. "You are from the Nighthawks, right? Like those movies?" "We are a far cry from the Hollywood version, Mister Locke. We are Special Unit Forces, not Ninjas." The commander held up his palm. "Please, don't press us for more information. We want to keep your involvement to a minimum so that you can return home. You do want to help us, don't you?" "Of course I want to help." "Then all you have to do is sign those forms in triplets and give us your oath that you won't divulge anything that has happened." Abe had to suppress another bubble of hysteria. How could he divulge what had happened? Even if he wanted to, who would believe him? He placed the forms on his lap, smothered them out and then bent over to read them. He had only managed to finish the first paragraph when footsteps sounded outside the cubicle. There was a sudden draft of cool air as the door flap was pushed aside. "You wanted to see me, commander?" At the deep voice, Abe's head snapped up. It was Finn. Or to be more accurate, it was Sergeant First Class Finn O'Brian, codenamed Braveheart. He was a soldier, just like everyone else here. No, he was more than simply a soldier; he was a Nighthawk commando, one of the most elite fighting men in the armed forces. Abe could see it in the proud tilt of his head, the square set of his shoulders and the rigid straightness of his spine. The rumpled plaid flannel shirt and those worn jeans didn't detract from his air of confidence. Neither did the dark, stain that covered Finn's sleeve where he had rolled it above his elbow or the small white bandage that was taped to his forearm. Abe felt sick as he saw the evidence of his attack on Finn. So far, no one had appeared to blame him. Sandra had seemed to find the incident amusing and had even joked about the way Abe had been running away from Finn. But it hadn't been funny. Abe had been terrified and had believed that he had been acting in self defense. He cleared his throat. "Mr. O'Brian...Sergeant?" Finn turned his head to look at Abe. He wasn't smiling. No, Sergeant O'Brian – Braveheart's gorgeous dimples weren't anywhere to be seen. He looked hard; as predatory as the last time he had seen him. Yet, Finn was still handsome enough to send his stomach into that doomed little dance. He had to fight the urge to make another run for it. "I'm sorry about stabbing you." "No problem, mister," he said stiffly. "It was a minor injury." "Still, I want to apologize." "You did what you had to do. You can't be faulted for that." "Are the repairs at Mister Locke's apartment completed, Braveheart?" the commander asked. "We fixed your door frame and cleaned the blood out of your carpet," Finn replied. "I'm sorry about those flowers; they couldn't be saved." It took Abe a moment to realize that Finn was talking about the geraniums that had been on the bookshelf. The pot had fallen on the tall man's head. The petals had mingled with the blood... There was blood on his carpet, guns in his apartment, soldiers and secret tents and national security. His life was spinning out control. Oh, God! The sooner this ended the better. The sound of crumpling paper made his glance down. He smoothed out the nondisclosure forms once again and scanned them as fast as he could, and then reached for the pan the commander had placed on the table. Without any more delay, he scrawled his signature in triplicate.Rumor had it that Ghost didn't have a sense of humor, but Finn wasn't sure. Why else had the commander assigned Finn to take Abe home? Sandra had already established a rapport with him, so she would have been a better choice. Was this the commander's subtle way of reminding Finn of his failure to keep the man contained in the first place?
The commander was a fair man. He never chewed anyone out when they made a mistake. Instead, he found a way to work with them to ensure the mistake wouldn't be repeated. But had it really been necessary to use this particular mode of transportation?
Bringing his motorcycle on this mission didn't seem like such a good idea now. Sure, it was maneuverable, but it required body contact with his passenger. Requisitioning a van like Sandra's would have been better. Hell, when it came to that, maybe he should have gone with a Hummer; a vehicle that size would have kept Abe safely away from his reach.
Riding in a Hummer wouldn't have kept him from smelling him, though. Whenever Abe moved, he got a whiff of apples and strawberries. The scent wasn't seductive; it was as wholesome as apple pie and Thanksgiving dinners; but it was wrapping around his senses as intimately as Abe's arms were wrapping his body. With each bump in the road that the bike hit, the inside of Abe's thighs rubbed his hips. Abe's hands had started out clasped over his chest, but they had gradually slid lower until they were now only a stray thought above Finn's belt buckle.
Ignore it, Finn told himself as he turned into the street that led to Abe's apartment building. He had to stay alert. Travelling on a bike like this, they were completely exposed to anyone who might be watching...
Understanding finally dawned. Of course. This was the reason the commander had insisted that Finn use the bike. It wasn't the only lesson in keeping his mind on business; it was for the sake of any potential observers. If someone from Boko Haram was watching for Abe's return, they would see he didn't have the money with him. They would also see him wrapped around Finn's back and assume he had to be his...friend, which would explain why he had been in his apartment and why he had defended him.
Good. The loose ends were getting tied up in a nice neat package. He could consider this awareness of Abe's body all in the line of duty.
The only people they encountered once they entered the building were other tenants, so they reached Abe's apartment without incident. Finn locked the door behind them and instructed Abe to wait there while he turned on the light and did a thorough check of the rooms. Once he was satisfied that everything was as he had left it, he returned to where Abe was standing and held out a set of keys. "Here. The new dead bolt I installed won't pop open as easily as the last one."
Abe hesitated, and then reached out and plucked the keys from his fingers. "Thank you."
"We appreciate your cooperation, Mister Locke."
"Would you let me know how everything turns out?"
"I'm sorry; that information would be classified."
"Can't you at least let me know whether or not the child is alright? There wouldn't be any harm in that, would there?"
"Fine," he said. "I'll be in touch."
"Thanks. I'll give you my number."
"That's okay, I've got it."
"Oh. Of course. I should have thought of that." He slipped the strap of his bag off his shoulder and put the keys inside, and then stored the bag on a shelf in the closet beside the door. "Captain Fox said she did a background check on me before I signed those papers. You'd have known something as simple as my phone number."
"Yes."
"This has all happened so fast, I'm still having trouble taking it in." He reached for the buttons of the sweater he was wearing. "Could you give this back to Sandra for me?"
Finn told himself not to look as Abe shrugged off the sweater, yet at Abe's exclamation he glanced down. His muscles flexed and his ribs popped out as he took the sweater over his head. Abe's hair was caught around one of the buttons. He fumbled to untangle it.
"Here." Finn gently moved Abe's hand aside. "Let me help."
"No, please. I can manage."
"It's no problem." Finn eased his hair from the shank of the buttons and rubbed it against his forefinger, enjoying the texture for an instant before he realized what he was doing and dropped his hand.
What was it about this man anyway? Why did he affect him like this? The more he learned about him, the more he realized how poorly suited they were. He usually gave men like Abraham Locke a wide berth, and even if he hadn't known the facts of his profession and his family background, the details he had noticed while he had cleaned up this apartment should have doused any interest before it got started.
In addition to those overgrown, man eating plants, Abe had populated the place with snapshots of his family and framed photos of his classes. There were wooden geese with blue bows around their necks in his kitchen and a cross-stitched house with a white picket fence on his bedroom wall. Obviously, he was a serious nester, which confirmed his initial assessment of him. He would want more from a man; – he was eighty percent sure that Abe was gay now; – than a few nights of mutual pleasure.
Sweet words and sex: that's what men usually wanted from him, and he was only too happy to oblige. He genuinely liked men. He liked the way their lips met his and the pleasure they bring. He enjoyed the desire that sparked when two people were physically compatible. He respected the differences in some men; those who had fondness for romance and a way of regarding the world through the eye of primal gatherers than hunters.
Finn took the sweater and moved past Abe to the door. "As I said, we appreciate your cooperation, Mister Locke."
"And you will tell me what happens, right?"
"Absolutely." Just as he reached for the doorknob, the phone in the living room began to ring. He looked up at Abe. "Better let your machine pick up until you know who it is."
The color drained from Abe's face. "Would those men have my number?"
"This is merely a precaution," Finn said.
There was a beep, and then a woman's voice came through the answering machine. "Abe? If you are there, please pick up. We are getting worried?"
Abe covered his mouth with his hands. "Oh, Lord," he mumbled. "My birthday. I can't believe I completely forgot about it."
Finn left the door and returned to Abe's side. "Is that your mother?"
"Yes. I was supposed to be there hours ago. I don't know what to tell them."
"You have to make an excuse. You can't tell them the truth."
"I know. I took an oath. I just don't know what to say."
"Say you had car trouble."
"They will offer to pick me up."
"Say you are sick."
"Someone will want to come and check on me."
"Say you are contagious."
Abe frowned. "It's easy for you, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Lying."
"I do whatever's necessary for the good of the mission." He caught Abe's shoulders. "You need to tell them something or this could get more complicated."
"More complicated?" Abe made a noise that was a cross between a laugh and a sob.
"Abe, please. It's almost over. This is the last loose end."
Abe stepped back, jerking away from Finn's touch. He held Finn's gaze for a long moment, and then spun around and walked to the phone. "Mom, hi. I'm sorry I..."
There was a frantic burst of conversation from the receiver that was audible, across the room. Finn moved closer and watched Abe carefully. He seemed reliable, but he was prepared to sever the telephone connection if Abe showed signs of revealing too much.
"Yes. I mean, not really." He said. "It's a long story. I'm sorry for worrying you." There was a pause. "I was on my way to your place when I started to feel sick and thought I'd better come home."
Finn caught Abe's gaze and nodded encouragement.
Abe inhaled deeply through his nose before he continued. "I couldn't call earlier, Mom. I was, uh, indisposed. I must have picked up something nasty on that class trip today... No, I'll be fine. I don't want to spread this to the rest of the family. Joshua is still recovering from that ear infection, and if Ellie caught this on top of her morning sickness..." There was a longer pause. Abe's knuckles tightened on the phone. "It's all right, Mom. You knew that I knew about the party, and I'm really sorry for missing it. I'm sure Martha's brood will be happy to eat the cake. Give some hugs to the kids for me and pass on my apologies to everyone, okay? ... Love you, too. 'Bye."
He hung up the phone and stared at it blankly. He looked lost.
"You did well," Finn said.
"This is the first time in thirty years that I've missed my party."
"I'm sorry."
"You would have missed yours by now too..." His words trailed off. He shook his head. "Today isn't your birthday, is it?"
"No. I'm afraid not. I told you that so you would let me in."
"How did you know what to say?"
"Captain Fox had already started running your background check. She conveyed the information to me through my ear piece."
"And so you would know exactly the right button to push. I should have known it was too much of a coincidence. You are not a history buff, are you?"
"Puts me to sleep."
"And I bet you don't like children either."
"Never had much to do with them."
"I should have known."
Finn felt a stirring of guilt. He shouldn't. "I said those things for the good of the mission. It wasn't personal, Abe."
"No, of course not. None of it was. And with a child's life in danger, it was completely justified." He sighed. "And it's not as if I wanted to celebrate turning thirty. It is just that..."
"Let me guess." Finn put his finger under Abe's chin. "Getting manhandled by a complete stranger and shanghaied by an operational detachment - the Nighthawks - wasn't how you planned to mark the occasion, right?"
Abe gave him another one of those part laughs; part sobs. "No, that wouldn't have been my first choice."
"Then what would have been?"
Abe blinked a few times, and then lifted his gaze to Finn's. "What do you mean?"
"If you had a wish, what would you have wanted for your birthday?"
Abe regarded Finn in silence for a minute before his lips curved into one of those intriguing private smiles. "I have my wish on a list somewhere, but I already decided I'll have to make a few adjustments."
Why did Abe have to smile? Finn thought. He had been doing fine. He had been almost out the door. Now that Abe had explained his absence to his mother, the last loose end had been tied up and he was free to get on with the mission.
But there was no way he could walk away from that alluring tilt of Abe's mouth.
Oh, what the hell. They would never see each other again, anyway, so what harm would there be if he indulged himself before he left? Besides, after what Abe had gone through tonight, he looked like he could use a kiss. He crooked his finger to tip his chin upward and lowered his head.
The contact jolted him. Heat flowed through his veins and stiffened his body. He had meant to keep this friendly, a causal kiss for an attractive man, but there was nothing causal about the way he wanted to feel Abe's thighs rub over his hips and his hands reach for his belt buckle and be nowhere near a bike this time.
Abe's breath mingled with Finn's. Abe tasted as good as he smelled. He kissed the same way he smiled, as if there were secrets here only waiting to be discovered. Finn dipped his tongue past Abe's lips in a bold exploration. Abe responded with a low sound in his throat that was somewhere between a moan...and a protest.
Finn lifted his head. He searched for something clever to say, something that would smooth over the situation, but for the first time he could remember, his usual knack with words had deserted him.
Abe pressed his fingertips to his mouth. He seemed as much at a loss as Finn was.
Finn stroked Abe's cheek and tried to smile, but his easy charm had deserted him too. He didn't want to smile and he didn't want to say anything. He wanted to thrust his fingers into Abe's hair, haul him against him and kiss him again. He wanted to stay.
Finn turned around and walked to the door. He gripped the knob so tightly the tendons ridged across the back of his hand. "Happy Birthday, Abe," he said.
Then he did what he had done all his life.
He left.
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