Not My Spook

Quinton Mann, a highly ranked CIA officer, is used to being called the Ice Man. He’s astounded to discover himself in a relationship with Mark Vincent, not because Vincent is a man, but because he’s a top-rated WBIS agent. There they are though, for a total of five glorious days. But when Mark uses the excuse of going to Massachusetts for his mother’s funeral to end their relationship, Quinn’s not buying it.<br><br>No one screws with Mark Vincent. Even Mark doesn't screw with himself. Once he realizes how close he's allowed Quinton Mann to get to him, he does what any self-respecting spy would do -- he makes tracks out of there. But Quinn does something no one else ever has -- he comes after Mark. Maybe this relationship thing with a spook isn’t such a bad idea.<br><br>Meanwhile, something strange is going on in the intelligence community worldwide. It takes Quinn’s disappearance while investigating a rogue antiterrorism organization that results in Mark making up his mind. Quinn may be a spook, but he’s Mark’s spook, dammit -- and once he gets Quinn home, he intends to keep him. He knows without a doubt he’ll find Quinn. The question is, will he find Quinn in time?

Tinnean · LGBT+

เรตติ้งไม่พอ

102 Chs

Chapter 29

I tapped the pen against my teeth, then wrote. I’ve been called out of town….. No, that was no good. I wanted him to think I’d left because it had been fun, but now it was over. I tore it up, tried again, and stared at the results in disgust. How the fuck could I misspell “touch”? Hasta la vista, baby? Fuck it, was I channeling Arnold Schwarzenegger now? After three tries I still wasn’t happy with it, but I hada shuttle I needed to catch, and I was shit out of time. I scribbled down something without giving it any more thought and left the note where he would see it, propped onhis pillow.

Leaving his house key next to the note had to give him a clue that I wouldn’t be staying with him when I returned.

I made sure the alarm was reset, pulled the door shut behind me, and jogged down the walk to my car.

* * * *

Funeral homes all seemed to smell the same: refrigerated air, the cloying scent of flowers at war with each other, and underlying it all, the telltale odor of death.

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