A Barlow Lens (14 page)

Fern yawned and curled into a ball while Phoenix snored.

“The publishers are biased. The reviewers don't understand me… blah… blah. If I hear this shit one more time from him….” Clint looked from one dog to the other. “You guys aren't even listening to me. When I say ‘eat,' you two are all attentive.”

Both dogs rolled up and stared expectantly at him, tails thumping, ears forward. Clint sighed and shook his head. “You two are so predictable. Okay, c'mon.” When he looked out the window, he wasn't surprised to see the sunny afternoon was fading. Clint was hungry too and decided it was time to think about dinner.

The dogs, however, always came first.

They trotted ahead of him through the small house and pattered down the stairs, each going to their respective bowls, waiting. While they ate, Clint leaned against the doorframe separating the finished from the unfinished part of the basement, his back to the stairs. The manuscript from Dylan wasn't unusual. There were five authors, himself and four others, who corresponded with each other regularly. They traded projects they were working on for feedback, research assistance, and proofreading.

Dylan's repeated invitations to meet, as well as other choice statements he'd made recently, had been cropping up and slowly increasing over the last few months. Clint kept thinking Dylan's personality seemed different, but every time he pondered that change, he brushed it away as his imagination.

Dylan Hatchet had sold his first book around the same time as Clint. They'd even started with the same publisher, a publisher Clint was still with. They'd met at the occasional conference and developed a friendly competition for the first few years. The problems with their friendship began when sales of Clint's books began to steadily climb and Dylan's did not.

Clint had always liked to write. He'd dabble here and there, but had started putting serious effort in after he was laid off from the steel mill where he'd worked since graduating high school. At first it was something to do—a sort of therapy—while looking for another job. There was only so much gardening and home renovations he could do with his newfound free time. A little encouragement from a few people, his partner Griff on the top of that list, and he'd started sending manuscripts to publishers. Not that he expected those efforts to really lead anywhere. However, Griff pointed out if he didn't at least try, he was guaranteed to get nowhere.

His first book came out roughly nine months later, and he began putting a lot of time and effort into improving his skills. He took classes, badgered his editors constantly for help, and listened to advice handed out by more experienced authors to expand what he wrote and broaden his fan base.

It was hard work, but a job Clint discovered he loved, so he dove in, decided he could do this and do it well. He wasn't at the top of the
New York Times
Best Sellers list, but he'd done a few local book signings and had drawn a decent crowd. He was happy with how his new career was going.

For the past few months, though, Clint was getting invitations from Dylan to meet up, which was odd since Clint lived in Cleveland, Ohio, and Dylan in Minneapolis, Minnesota—the distance made this impractical. Dylan had also begun insinuating that Griff must be abusive or ignored Clint, neither of which was true, and Clint couldn't understand where Dylan would get that impression. Yes, Griff worked long hours and was often called out of town for work, but Clint worked long hours as well. No, he and Griff weren't all over each other like they'd been when they'd first met, but what couple was after ten years?

Clint was happy, content, and he was confused as to why anyone would think otherwise.

Then Dylan had started sending pictures. Not the normal vacation pictures or pictures of family and pets that friends exchange, but photos of himself in various stages of undress. Never completely nude, but shirtless and skimpy, wearing boxers, which was bad enough, but sometimes the boxers were wet. The guy did part-time work for a landscaper, so he was tanned and toned and looked nice enough, but it was still odd. Everything about Dylan seemed odd lately. He'd even taken a bit too much of an interest in Clint's relationship with Griff, what they did in their free time and their hobby of caving.

It was time to back away from Dylan; what had been a friendship had definitely shifted to territory Clint was uncomfortable with. He didn't want to hurt Dylan's feelings, though. He'd tried sending a few e-mails telling Dylan some of his pictures weren't appreciated, but it did no good. The guy was either dense or stubborn.

Unlike with some of his other friends, Clint knew nothing about Dylan's family or the people who lived near him. As far as Clint could tell, Dylan was alone in the world and his sudden attachment to Clint was starting to feel creepy. Lately, Clint had been taking longer and longer to answer e-mails and tried to keep subjects of conversation as neutral as possible or focused on writing projects.

The pictures Clint deleted. Griff would flip if he ever knew about those photos, not that Clint would blame him in the least. He would have loved to share some of his other concerns about Dylan's wellbeing with Griff, but Clint knew the man would turn Dylan into one of America's Most Wanted in under a minute.

Such was the hazard of sharing his life with a Deputy US Marshal.

He'd made a vow to himself long ago he'd never use Griff's job or badge unless there was a solid, valid reason. Someone he'd known for a few years all of a sudden annoying him online was neither solid nor valid. Clint kept reminding himself Dylan was lonely and had no family. He was probably merely one of those people who didn't get the concept of boundaries. That didn't make him a criminal, just socially awkward.

Clint nearly jumped out of his skin when someone's strong arm snaked around his waist and pulled him back against a firm body. Warm breath blew in his ear along with the words “You left the door unlocked again. I could be the neighborhood whack job here to bludgeon you to death after defiling you.”

“You scared the crap out of me!” Clint yelped, trying to squirm away, but it was useless. “You're the guy on this street with all the big guns.” Behind him Griff chuckled and used one finger to move Clint's hair away from his neck. He pressed a soft kiss to the spot. Clint glared down at the dogs. “And you two! You need watchdog lessons.”

Griff gave a little jerk forward with his hips and snickered. “And those big guns are all yours.” He let go of Clint, turned him, and shook him by the shoulders for a second. “Lock the goddamn doors. Even if someone smashes through the storm door, you'll at least hear them.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned away from Clint, letting him go. “For me. Please. 'Cause the only defiling that goes on in this house is done by me.”

Clint burst out laughing. Griff's blue-gray eyes twinkled, and the corners crinkled in a way Clint loved when he smiled. “Sorry, I'm late,” Griff said. He used his free hand to pet the dogs.

“I'll forgive you. It's not like you have a regular hours kind of job. Catch any bad guys today?”

Griff gave him a kiss on the lips, then let Clint go. “It's what I do. But it was a slow day. Mostly working some cyber leads. You kill anyone today?”

“No, but I'm damn close. How much do you know about grenades?”

“Um, we'll need dinner for that. I know I've been working and not around a lot, so I hit the West Side Market on the way home. Bought some good stuff for the grill.” Griff took Clint's hand and led the way up the stairs to the kitchen. Phoenix and Fern right behind them.

Griff paused at the landing and opened the side door, letting the dogs out to the backyard. Clint went to the right up the next few steps to the kitchen where half a dozen bags sat on the table. He started prowling through them.

Griff laughed. “You're like a little kid.” He opened a drawer right next to the doorway and dumped his badge, handcuffs, keys, and one of the two voice recorders he used for work inside. The other was kept on Clint's desk, charging. Griff swapped them out every couple of days. He took his sidearm from his shoulder holster and removed the magazine, placing both into the drawer where he also kept a few other loose magazines and another gun. Shutting the drawer, he snapped the safety lock Clint had rigged up for it years ago into place. It looked like a child safety lock, and unless someone searched the house or knew what Griff kept in that drawer, it wouldn't attract attention. In all their years in the house, no guest had even glanced at it.

Clint shook his head, watching Griff lock the drawer. “Most people just have junk in the junk drawer, not a small armory. Ooooh, shrimp kabobs!”

“Don't get too attached, we're going to grill them. Found a new beer I thought you might like. It's in the fridge already. I'm going to take a shower,” Griff said.

Clint didn't have to watch to know what Griff was doing now. They'd lived eight of their ten years together in this house, and Griff's routine was clockwork. The shoulder holster was hung in the closet in Clint's office. Suit and work shoes went to the larger walk-in closet in the attic. A T-shirt and Bermuda shorts would come out of one of the dressers up there, and black leather sandals would be grabbed from the closet in their bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, the tough, official-appearing man who'd accosted him in the basement was replaced by the guy Clint had fallen for a decade ago. Tall, with light brown-red hair, gray eyes, a quick smile, and broad shoulders, Griff was just a few years shy of forty and still the rugged outdoorsman that had attracted Clint's attention that first day. They were both from this part of Ohio but, oddly enough, had met in South Dakota at the Jewel Cave National Monument. It was a huge system of caverns that experienced cavers as well as casual tourists could all enjoy.

Griff was already an experienced caver and Clint was brand new to the sport of slithering around in caves. He'd always wanted to learn, and he spent the few weeks after high school graduation at Jewel Cave before starting his job at the steel mill. The vacation, a true adventure for Clint, was a graduation gift from his grandparents and parents.

His family had had mixed reactions to Clint coming out after he left high school. However, when he came home from his vacation with a new boyfriend who'd he'd met a thousand miles away but had graduated ten years earlier from the same high school Clint just left, his paternal grandmother called it kismet and the deal was cemented. Clint had always been a favorite grandson, and she was outspoken in her support. The rest of his family must have decided if Clint's being gay was all right with her, they didn't dare argue.

Their first attendance at a family function as a couple was tense in the beginning, but the good-looking, charming, college-educated man who was working his way up the ranks of the US Marshals had Clint's relatives suitably impressed within hours. In the words of his dear grandmother, “Griff Diamond could sell ice cubes to Eskimos and look good doing it too.” Clint secretly thought she had a bit of a crush on Griff.

Clint and Griff had been together ever since, and all their free vacation time was spent exploring various caves around the country. Jewel Cave remained their favorite, and they returned there every few years for an extended trip of a couple of weeks to a month.

Griff took two of the beers out of the cardboard carrier and handed one to Clint. He tapped Clint's elbow with one of the bottles and stepped close again, saying, “I'm going to GovSec again in the spring.”

“That big law enforcement conference? They making you do a talk again?”

“It was suggested. Want to come with? I hear you can bunk with a hot Marshal.” Griff nudged Clint's side. “I'm buying.”

Clint scratched the back of his head and glanced around the kitchen. “I… guess. I have a deadline then and….”

“Hey, don't worry about it. We have time to talk about it and decide. If you can't go, no big deal.” Even though it had been covered up quickly, Clint saw the hurt flash across Griff's features. He immediately picked up on the fact Griff said “can't” instead of “don't want.” Griff picked up one of the bags and headed out the side door to the backyard. “I'll go get the fire started so we can eat.”

“Crap,” Clint grumbled. If he could kick himself in the nuts, he would. Griff supported him in everything. He went to any event Clint asked him to attend and had kept after him until he submitted his first manuscript. He'd taken charge when Clint's parents, sister, and niece had been killed by a drunk driver, then picked up the pieces of the mess Clint became. When Clint was swamped with edits and deadlines, Griff mowed Clint's grandmother's lawn and made sure her groceries were bought and doctor appointments kept. Griff's parents had retired to Arizona and his brother lived in Maine, so he'd adopted Clint's family years ago.

All of that aside, Clint
liked
going to the seminars and bigger conventions Griff attended periodically for his job. They were inspiration for the eco-thrillers Clint was so fond of writing. The various displays were interesting, and the people were fun to watch.

Fortunately, Griff had bought a watermelon. That gave Clint a few minutes to think about how to put this right while he cut it up. He seemed to be making this sort of mistake too often lately; his mouth had a nasty habit of engaging before his brain did. He loved Griff—a lot, but some days Clint could do with a bit less predictable. Their lives weren't the ball of excitement and drama often depicted on television shows about cops and their families. In fact, they would probably be considered pathetically boring.

Clint piled the chunks of melon into a bowl and washed the sticky juice off his hands. He grabbed chew sticks for each dog on his way out the door. As soon as he was outside, the delightful aroma of Griff's grilling skills hit him and made his mouth water.