Hold The Line: Inked 1 Read online

  And the Dom part? Yeah, no fucking way.

  Maybe he’d read Con’s vibe wrong but, but…yeah, no. Especially not when Con had given him that smile and boldly looked him up and down.

  Hell, had Scott known about him and told Con? Was this some kind of weird set-up?

  Granted, if it was, Con had seemed as clueless about it as Quinn’d been. At some point, Con had started looking through the itinerary again. “Christ, he turned this into a military op.”

  “That he did.”

  “Well, this is what he wanted. Can’t not comply with his wishes now,” Con pointed out.

  Two weeks. “Think we can make it in one?”

  “And hit all the hotspots he highlighted?” Con shook his head. “What’s the rush? I’m making the most of this—I plan to have fun in as many states as I can.”

  Jesus. Quinn rubbed his forehead. Nothing about this trip was fun, especially the endpoint. There was still time to say “fuck it,” to get on a plane and show up, and hell, what was Scott going to do? Send him back to gather up Con? The guy was a grown fucking man in the Army, for Christsakes—he could get himself across the country.

  And if he couldn’t? Well, then maybe Con had bigger problems than Quinn should be expected to handle.

  By the time Quinn pulled the truck into the hotel’s lot, it was close to three in the morning. Con let him check them in, take the keys, sign for the room, and then Con followed him into the elevator.

  The room was a two-bedroom suite. Con walked toward the room to the left immediately.

  “We’ll sleep in today and travel through late afternoon. We’ll get to the next stop before nine tomorrow night and we’ll be back on Scott’s schedule,” Quinn said firmly. Con grunted, went through the connecting doors (“Without shared suites you’ll never keep track of him,” were Scott’s instructions) and left the door open.

  Quinn glanced into Con’s room and saw the man’s clothes in a trail leading to the bed. And Con was only under the sheet—really, only partially under—and very obviously naked.

  And there was no ink on his body at all—at least from what Quinn could see, which was three quarters of a solid body. That was a shame, because Con really had the perfect contours.

  Stop thinking about his contours, Quinn.

  But he couldn’t stop. These next weeks would no doubt be a crash course in everything Con. And what an education it would be, if tonight was any indication.

  And since his mind was racing, he did what he always did when he needed to calm the fuck down—he sketched.

  He’d been born with art in his blood, and he’d been sketching from the time he could hold a pencil. He’d also liked giving orders. “Bossy as fuck,” his father would say. “He’ll make a good general.”

  He glanced back and forth between the bed and the paper in front of him, drawing freehand…and feeling oddly freer than he had in a long damned time.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  The rain pelted the hotel windows the next afternoon, but that’s not what woke Con. No, he’d slept while Quinn stayed up, almost guarding him, and once Quinn fell asleep, Con found himself doing the same thing.

  Except he wasn’t, he argued with himself. This was what he always did, thanks to the military. Both of them couldn’t sleep at the same time and still be safe, he’d reasoned. In his mind, Quinn had taken first shift, even if he hadn’t realized it.

  Con stayed in bed until Quinn stirred, though, not bothering to check the room service menu. The clock read noon, and if they were going to keep to Quinn’s schedule, the guy would be opening his eyes to an alarm clock in four, three, two…

  Quinn cursed sleepily at the loud buzz, slammed the snooze button with a large paw, and Con bit back a laugh. Plans always looked so much better in the dead of night, but morning always put a damper on even the best ones.

  Mornings brought reality. Con’d had too much of that shit lately to be a fan.

  He waited until Quinn showered to actually move from the bed. Tried not to picture Quinn in the shower and failed. It got worse when Quinn emerged with a towel around his waist and his tattoos showing in all their glory.

  Con wanted a close-up but he forced himself to look away as he strolled into the bathroom. Quinn grunted a hello, and at least the guy wasn’t all fucking happy in the morning. Con hated that shit. No one should be allowed to speak before noon, except through notes, hand signals and texts, unless the words bomb or sniper were involved.

  But since none of those words had been uttered, he was content to remain in the shower longer than necessary…jerked off thinking about Quinn’s tattoos and then dried and dressed.

  Quinn was facing the window, on his laptop when Con emerged, and didn’t bother to turn around. There were maps pulled up on the screen and that damned itinerary spread out on the table in front of him.

  “We’re leaving in ten,” Quinn called to him.

  Con’s bike was still covered in the back of Quinn’s truck and, at that moment, Con decided to spend the day’s travels on his bike and not in the comfortable dryness of Quinn’s cab. “Sir, yes sir,” Con muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  Con snorted. “Good for you. And I’ll get my bike down and you can leave in ten. I need a few extra minutes.”

  Quinn showed up in the doorway as Con was pulling his shirt on. “You can’t ride in this.”

  “Ridden in worse,” Con told him, digging for his rain gear.

  “You’ve got to follow the map.”

  Con’s lips twitched a little. “Map?”

  “Scott’s rules. He already gave us the guilt trip on paper,” Quinn reminded him.

  Whether Scott had decided to take this trip before his accident or during his recovery, Con hadn’t asked. It didn’t really matter. All that did was how carefully Scott had meticulously planned the journey that would take them all over the goddamned map, forty plus hours of time that would wind through places like the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest like they were goddamned tourists.

  Scott had insisted that this trip be Goddamned motherfucking fun. His exact words, written into Con’s itinerary. Thinking on that, Con sighed. “I’ll follow you, all right?”

  It would have to do—no way Quinn was going to let him out of his sight. Con could only imagine what Scott’s orders to Quinn had been.

  “Think it’s better if I follow you. Like I’ve got your back,” Quinn pointed out.

  “Can’t promise I won’t change the route.” Con knew that would get him.

  “Fine. Follow me. And give me your goddamned cell number,” he grouched, pulled his phone out and waited.

  Con took it from him, typed his number in and texted himself. “There. Now we’re set. You can take off.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “I’m calling room service. Unless Scott’s specified a breakfast place on that list.”

  Quinn sighed. “Fine. Call. I’ll have eggs and bacon. Side of pancakes. And coffee.”

  It was Con’s turn to sigh, but dammit all if he didn’t do as Quinn requested.

  *

  After a break in the rain and a stop at the Painted Desert, which both men admitted was gorgeous, it was back to their separate rides. They drove the next five or so hours toward New Mexico with very few stops, mainly for gas breaks, and on those, Con would eat something quickly and then want to get on with it.

  Con treated the ride like a military operation—something to get done, although he didn’t appear to be suffering.

  Quinn was, though, because the constant fucking looking in the rearview mirror to make sure the guy was all right had killed his neck. He’d had to worry about going too fast or too slow, had to make sure no one was coming up too close to Con on the sides or from behind, and no, Con hadn’t asked him to. That didn’t matter—Quinn had been tasked with getting Con to New York in one piece.

  Although honestly, Scott didn’t specify the “in one piece” part, so…

  Now,
Con parked next to him in the covered garage and followed him into the hotel, soaked, muddy and unfazed as he clomped through the lobby and into the elevator. He stripped in the hallway, and left his stuff in the bathroom on the way into the suite, which had two bedrooms on either side of the main room.

  “Nice place,” Con called from the bathroom where he was already getting into the shower.

  Thankfully, there were also two bathrooms. The guy was naked, in the shower and the door wasn’t even closed. “Room service?” Quinn called.

  “Not on the list, Quinn,” he called back. “Afraid to go out with me already?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he muttered to himself, didn’t answer Con. He took a shower of his own and found Con waiting for him, drinking a soda from the mini-bar, Scott’s paperwork spread everywhere.

  Con looked up and Quinn swore he started, just a touch, before meeting Quinn’s eyes. “Ready to go eat? I’m starving.”

  “Because you barely let us stop.”

  “We were on the road for five hours. I’ve done military maneuvers that went for days without stops,” Con offered. “And I did stop because I’m on vacation, dude.”

  “If this is your idea of vacation, you really have been off the grid.”

  “You have no idea,” Con muttered, then headed into the hallway and waited for Quinn to follow.

  The reservations were for nine-thirty, so the timing was perfect. It was a semi-casual restaurant that Scott assured them had excellent food. The restaurant was located in the middle of a strip of upscale bars. He saw Con note them with an easy grin. And hell, whatever. They could have dinner, Con could play his pool and Quinn would go to bed and think of a way to convince Con to ride with him tomorrow.

  Because worrying about Con riding in the rain all damned day hadn’t been his idea of fun.

  “You look tense,” Con noted once they’d been seated.

  “My neck hurts,” Quinn said distractedly, staring at the menu because his stomach had been growling for the better part of two hours. “All that time watching you in the rearview.”

  Con paused, like he was about to make a smart-assed remark, and then he stopped. “I wasn’t going to break off.”

  “I wasn’t as worried about that as I was about…”

  “What?”

  “The rain. It’s dangerous.” Again, he waited for Con to laugh at him, because really, the guy faced bigger dangers just setting foot on foreign soil. But again, Con surprised him.

  “Thanks for having my back,” he said simply, before turning his gaze to the menu in front of him. For several minutes, there was a comfortable silence. When the waiter came, Con ordered a ton of appetizers—“We’ll share them, okay?” he asked Quinn after he listed them, and Quinn sat back and let Con take care of him. Con’s way of paying him back.

  Once the food came, conversation fell by the wayside in favor of just sitting, eating and relaxing…and that seemed just fine to Con.

  “Scott was right about this place,” Quinn said at one point.

  Con smiled. “Scott’s a food snob, but he’s always right about it.”

  Quinn nodded his agreement, then pointed. “Grab me that water.” Quinn went about eating and Con did it without missing a beat—even poured it for Quinn.

  “Your bill’s been covered,” the waiter explained.

  Quinn just shook his head. “My brother really did think of everything.”

  Con fished in his wallet for a tip but the waiter said, “He took care of everything. He said to go have fun.”

  Con sat back, smiled, then muttered, “Controlling bastard,” once the waiter was out of earshot.

  “Scott or the waiter?”

  “Both,” Con grumped. “You ready to go?”

  It was no surprise when Con had them stop in the bar closest to the restaurant, the one with the pool sign in the window.

  “Really?” Quinn asked.

  “What?” Con assembled his face in some kind of semi-innocent expression. “I can get myself back to the hotel if you need to crash.”

  “You’re the driver tomorrow. Gotta make sure you get in at a decent hour.”

  After Quinn spoke, Con leaned in and began to massage Quinn’s sore shoulder. Quinn was left-handed, and so it was usually his left arm and shoulder that ached a bit, although those were better developed.

  “Sorry,” Con apologized as he worked Quinn’s neck with surprising expertise. It hurt at first, and then the knots eased under the warm, persistent touch. “I’ll ride with you tomorrow, okay? I’ll drive and you can rest, just like you said.”

  A wave of relief washed over Quinn at Con’s words. “That mean we’ll head back to the hotel now?”

  Con smirked. “You’re just looking for another massage.”

  “Maybe.” Definitely. He watched Con open the door, surprised that Con walked in first. It took a moment for Quinn to realize Con was staking out the place, the way he might check out a military installation.

  They grabbed some draft beers at the bar before Con naturally made his way to the pool tables toward the back. There were three, only one in use, so Con made himself at home at the one closest to the emergency exit.

  He held out a cue. “Play?”

  Quinn shook his head. “I don’t. Not like you need me to anyway.”

  Con didn’t bother to argue. Instead he nodded to the two men who’d ambled up to the table, a silent yes to them joining in the game. “I’m good.”

  The older man snorted. “I’ll bet.”

  “Wouldn’t bet against me. How about a friendly game?” Con persisted.

  “How about a bet? You break,” the man told Con.

  Quinn watched as he put down forty dollars on the side of the table. Con shrugged, did the same, then asked Quinn, “What am I walking into?”

  Quinn played dumb purposely, motioned to the pool table. “I figured you could tell me.”

  Con smirked. Picked up a pool cue and rubbed the tip in the chalk slowly, never taking his eyes off Quinn. “I’m supposed to bring Scott’s brother home. You haven’t seen him in years—”

  “We’ve talked. Skyped,” Quinn pointed out.

  Con continued to stare at him and, probably for the first time in memory, Quinn had to stop himself from squirming. Goddamn, this guy was dangerous.

  Fuck that—Con hadn’t given him anything, and Quinn certainly wouldn’t be the first to volunteer. “Was it hard to get leave?”

  Con set up the table before he answered. “I got two weeks warning.” He bent over and took the first shot. It was a terrible break, the way Quinn had noted from the night before. And it didn’t appear to be purposeful, but then again, he didn’t know a lot about hustling pool. Con stared at the balls with a frown then moved to set up another shot. “Had to pull a few favors in but hey, it’s for Scott, right?”

  “When did you get in?”

  “Took off from mission hell less than a week before I first met you. Changed in the hotel bathroom across the street and went into that restaurant to sniff out civilian life and see what’d changed in the past eight months.”

  Eight months? The guy was akin to a ticking time bomb. And still, Quinn was curious. “And? What did you learn?”

  “Same shit, different day,” Con confirmed. His next shot wasn’t much better, an awkward pocket, almost like the ball felt sorry for him at the last minute and rolled itself slowly toward the hole.

  Quinn heard the two men whispering to themselves about upping the bet.

  Con muttered to himself, and after two more awkward shots, he began to nail them. Quinn noted the men’s frustration mounting after Con bent to land another perfect shot after calling it.

  And here’s where the trouble would start. The older of the two men let his voice grow louder the more annoyed he got. When Quinn narrowed his eyes at him, the man edged closer. “You in on this shit with him?”

  I suppose I am now. “He’s legitimately kicking your ass. He’s good. And from what I heard, you twisted
his arm into playing after repeated warnings.”

  Con stilled next to him. “You and Scott—always trying to protect me.”

  “Obviously, you need it on a regular basis.”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean it’s not nice.” Con turned to the men. “Guys, you don’t want to fight me. Trust me, it’ll be more embarrassing than the pool game was. Cut your losses and move on.”

  “Now he’s telling us what to do,” the older man snarled. “Think it’s time someone showed him that there are consequences.”

  “People’ve been trying to teach me that my whole life. Obviously, it never stuck. But you’re certainly welcome to try.”

  “Let’s just go, Con,” Quinn urged.

  “I’m not running,” Con informed him, a smile on his face.

  “And here we go again.”

  *

  “Don’t turn around,” Con told him when they hit the sidewalk, and Quinn figured Con had the advantage. Hell, there was probably even some rule that said the amount of people who had to attack before Con could actually fight.

  Which could work out very well for Quinn, or not so much if that amount fell short. “You’ve got a plan?”

  “Always,” Con scoffed.

  The guys were right behind them when Con whirled around, catching the biggest one off guard and taking him down at the knees. Without really trying. “Gentlemen, you’re not getting your money back. I warned you, and you didn’t listen. Trust me, you don’t want this fight. You couldn’t handle me at pool.

  One of them stepped forward. In seconds, so fucking fast that Quinn actually didn’t see it, Con had the man down on his knees in front of him, in pain from his hold but not permanently harmed. “You don’t understand—I could really fucking hurt you. Bad. So I’d walk away, chalk up your losses and listen to people who tell you they don’t want to take your fucking money.”

  Con stepped back, freeing the man. He fell forward, then scrambled back, and his friend grabbed him before they headed back into the bar.

  “Yeah, it’s not over. Come on.” Con grabbed him and pulled him into an alley that was between the bar and a gay club, the techno music pouring out the back door. There were men from the club lined up along the wall—mainly two by two, but with the occasional threesome—and Quinn suspected that very few guys from the bar used this exit.