Title: Mother Said There'd Be Days Like This

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer

Rating: R

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: Donald Bellisario thought them up and then just left them to spin in the wind. How unjust is that? I wouldn't do that to them! The rentboys are mine.

Status: new/complete

Date: 4/02

Series/Sequel: This is eleven in the Mind Fuck series, and follows How Long Has This Been Going On

Other Web Site: http://www.angelfire.com/fl5/tinnssinns
http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel

Archive: OK, I surrender. Yes to all the list archives. (I'm so easy!)

Summary: There are days that start well and go downhill from there. Then there are the ones that are the pits from the getgo. Those are the days Mama warned us about.

Warnings: m/m, minor character death

Notes: Robert Osbourne is one of the hosts of American Movie Classics. #### denotes change in POV. Adam's Ribs does not refer to the franchise in the Maryland area. This is the rib joint mentioned in the MASH episode, Adam's Ribs, in which Hawkeye Pierce has had a river of liver and an ocean of fish, and goes to extraordinary lengths to get his ribs, but then forgets the slaw. Ah, well. Thanks to Gail for the websites, all the help, and the beta.

Mother Said There'd Be Days Like This
by Tinnean

There were days when everything fell sweetly into place. I brought down the asshole I'd been gunning for for years. I got a promotion. I actually had someone to celebrate that promotion with, and I wound up in bed with him, fucking his brains out.

And then there were days when nothing went right. The CIA spook I'd been playing mind games with found out where I lived and brought me a bottle of champagne to celebrate that promotion. I actually wound up in bed with him, and it was the best sex I'd ever had.

But now I didn't know if it was because of the champagne or that goddamned fucking game. Or if ... there was another reason.

That was the kind of day I was having.

****

The door closed behind Clayton Webb, and I had to struggle not to go after him and inform him in no uncertain terms that he was spending the night with me.

Finally, sure that the elevator had had more than enough time to pick him up and drop him off in the lobby, and that I wouldn't give in to temptation, I walked to my door and began to twist the bolts in careful sequence. The last thing I needed was getting myself blown to smithereens. It was bad enough I had let that CIA spook get to me with that bottle of Pol Roger, and his interest in the story my Uncle Steve used to tell me when I was a little kid.

Champagne always made me horny. That had to be why I'd lost control and fucked him.

Clayton Webb, Deputy Director of Counter Intelligence in the C fucking I fucking A, didn't bottom. Of all the intelligence I had been able to amass on him, I found nothing to indicate that he would take it up the ass. Oh, he took the occasional male lover, but to my knowledge, he'd let none of them fuck him.

So why had he let me? Was it just another move in the game we were playing? I knew I would have gone that far, but would he?

Had I hurt him? No, of course not. I had no doubt he would have informed me in no uncertain terms if he wasn't enjoying himself. And he had enjoyed himself. Both our abdomens had been smeared with the evidence of his pleasure.

I loaded the dishwasher, lost in the haze of memories, of tumbling him to my bed, preparing his back passage, slamming into him and making him whimper when I found his prostate. Absently, I filled one of the basins in the side by side sink with soapy water for the champagne flutes and contemplated the way he kissed. How did a CIA spook learn to kiss like that?

I went to the coffee table to gather up the glasses. I used to have a set of four, but I learned the hard way that fine crystal and modern appliances do not mix, so now, on the extremely rare occasions when I used them, I washed them by hand.

Robert Osbourne was saying something about the next movie that was coming on, and I hit the mute button to restore the sound. "...and now, They Died With Their Boots On!"

Oh, fuck. Just what I needed. Errol Flynn as General George Armstrong Custer, showing why the Battle of the Little Big Horn *really* happened. I shut the television in disgust, put the glasses in the sink, then emptied the remains of the beer down the second drain and placed the bottle in the recycling bin.

I drank a couple of glasses of water. Everything had to be settled for the night. I went into the spare room off the living area. It was actually supposed to be a second bedroom, but I used it as my study. It contained my home computer. I made sure it was turned off, then shut the light and returned to the other room.

The television was off, the front door was bolted, the kitchen was fairly tidy...

"Shit!" I realized I was stalling.

I couldn't avoid my bedroom for the rest of my life. I strode down the hall and paused in the doorway. In spite of the fact that I'd straightened the spread, my bed still looked like a wreck, and the scent of our lovemaking was still faintly in the air. My cock hardened.

//Didn't you just have some?// I snarled down at it. //Don't tell me you want more!//

//You promised I could!//

Jesus, just what I needed, conversations with my dick! I looked at the clock, considering what might be a dumb move. *Might*, fuck. It was, without a doubt, stupid.

*Had* I hurt him? Clay should have reached his home by this time; I needed to know. I picked up the phone and dialed his number from memory.

His machine picked up. "Webb. Go."

"Webb. You home yet?" Where the fuck was he? And then I realized he was probably doing what I would do: screening his calls. I wasn't even sure what I wanted to say. //Think fast, Palmer!// "I...uh... I didn't thank you for the champagne. I appreciate the thought. And ... uh... Jesus, I can't believe... Listen, forget I ever called, okay? Fuck!"

What the fuck was wrong with me? I should have just hung up the fucking phone! Now he had my voice on his answering machine. Shit, shit, shit!

Okay, I'd take care of it tomorrow.

I pulled off my sweatpants and tee shirt and went into the bathroom.

The towel was folded neatly and hung over the shower stall. I took it down and buried my face in it, inhaling deeply. All I could smell was the soap he had used.

I made sure the bandage on my shoulder was protected, turned on the water and showered quickly, then used the same towel to dry myself. Oh, god, how pathetic was that?

My toothbrush was already in my mouth when my brain picked up the delayed message that it was damp. Webb was the only one who could have used it, and I froze in shock. I never used someone else's toothbrush; it was too intimate.

//Oh, get real! His cock has been in your mouth, for piss sake! You've had *your* cock up his ass! How much more intimate can you get?//

That was just sex, I argued with myself. Somehow, this was different.

//Yeah, right!// The annoying voice shut up, leaving me to make the decision to dispose of the toothbrush or not on my own.

I finished brushing my teeth.

****

"Matheson is here, Mr. Palmer. Oh, and that package you were expecting."

"Thank you, Ms. Parker."

There was a tap on my door, and then the young agent entered. I noted with approval that his expression revealed nothing. I indicated the seat opposite mine, and before he took it he handed me the slim 8x10 package he carried. It had taken almost a week, but I had no doubt the photo would be exactly what I wanted. I set it aside.

"Have a seat, Matheson, and let's get down to business." I had dug up a series of cases that were languishing in the DSD dead end pile, wanting to see how William Matheson would deal with them. These were jobs that had never been completed, for one reason or another, but sometimes because the CIA got there ahead of us. None of them were mine, but quite a few seemed to be directly related to my predecessor, Sperling.

Matheson was good. He spotted things other agents had overlooked, offered suggestions for a tangent line of questioning. I began to have hopes for him. He might even make a decent special agent, if he lived long enough and if he didn't start questioning the death of his friend, Michael Shaw.

My trainee had stripped off his jacket. His shirt clung damply to his back, and he worried a pencil between his teeth.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost two. "Break for lunch, Matheson. When you get back, you can finish the rest of this exercise in your office. I'll see you here first thing tomorrow morning. Oh, and dress comfortably." He could demonstrate his timing in the field. A lot of agents were good behind desks, but put them out in the real world, where they had to get their hands dirty, and they fell apart.

"Yes, sir." I had worked him hard, and his sigh of relief was almost silent. If I hadn't been looking for it I might have missed it. He stood, put his jacket back on and gathered up the computer printouts. "Have a good afternoon, sir."

Oh, yes. I'd have an excellent afternoon.

****

This time when I entered Clayton Webb's townhouse, I did so as a FedEx delivery man. I removed the photograph from its plain brown wrapper and smiled at the woman who gazed back at me.

Her name was Arianne DiNois. She worked at the front desk accepting deliveries, sorting the mail, directing phone calls. Her hair was a lustrous brown that fell in waves to her shoulders. She had soft, doe's eyes, and a mouth that always seemed on the verge of trembling.

Arianne was exactly what I had in mind, and she had a weakness for designer dresses. Promised her choice from Donatella Versace's latest line, she was quite willing to pose for any picture I might require.

We met in a fairly large set of rooms used by the photographer who worked solely for the DSD. They held all his supplies, as well as any clothing that might prove to be necessary. He even had the precise outfit I wanted her to wear, a biscuit-colored skirt suit with a nipped in waist, and a flirty hem that fell to just below her knees. A felt hat with a modest brim shaded the
upper portion of her face and completed her ensemble. She looked like just the sort of woman who would intrigue Deputy Director Webb.

She looked perfect.

I put the photograph on the table, dropped the vapid blonde into a wastebasket and dusted off my hands.

While I was paying Clay this visit, I'd erase the message I had left on his answering machine as well. I still couldn't believe I had done such a stupid, fucking thing!

It only took a moment, and I was careful not to delete the message from his mother. I felt a fleeting stab of an emotion I was reluctant to name as I listened to her cultured tones teasing her son about his social life. I wondered what she'd do if she ever learned that I was the one he had been with the night before, that I had fucked her son's hot, tight, ass. I was uncomfortable even thinking about Webb's ass while his mother's voice spoke from the answering machine.

My own old lady was nothing like the elegant woman I had met that day. After my father split, and my Uncle Steve was no longer in my life, I'd lucked out in the quality of men she had chosen. Most of them didn't last long, not surprising since she picked them up in various bars, but they were all good to me, sparing me beatings that abounded when it was just the two of us. I had no doubt that if any of them had shown an inclination to have me as well as her, she would have held me down while they raped me.

Until I actually spoke with Porter Webb, I'd believed that such a thing as a loving mother didn't really exist. I envied Clayton Webb that intelligent, classy, caring woman ... her Sunday morning rides with him, her presence in his life... fuck, everything!

Jesus, I hated when I got maudlin. This had to be Webb's fault. Fucking CIA operative!

I wandered into his kitchen, and saw a coffee cup and newspaper on the table in the breakfast nook. I rinsed the cup, and then checked the coffee maker. There was just enough for one more cup, and I poured it and placed it in the microwave.

Before it was ready my cell phone rang, and I fished it from my pocket and flipped it open. "Palmer."

"Why man? Why'd you do this?" The voice was drowned in tears. "We trusted you!" It had been some time since I had last heard it, but I recognized it immediately.

"Sweetcheeks?" He was one of the group of rentboys, male hustlers, who shared the dingy apartment house where I'd lived when I'd first been recruited by the DSD. I still kept in sporadic contact with them. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, sure, like you don't know! Fucking bastard! Fucking, cocksucking..."

"Sweetcheeks! What the fuck is going on?" The sharpness of my tone got through to him.

"You really don't know?" There was a watery sniff on the other end of the line. "Palm, you didn't send him to us? He told us..." Another sniff. "Oh, god, Palm, it's Pretty Boy! He's hurt so bad; there was so much blood!"

I felt an icy finger tiptoe-ing up my spine. Their profession could be hazardous. More than once, when I'd lived there, I'd beaten the shit out of an over-enthusiastic john. When I moved out, I made sure to provide them with security cameras and heavy duty locks. And my cell phone number, just in case.

I headed out the door for the FedEx van, resetting Clay's alarm system only from force of habit. "Did he give you a name?"

"He said his name was Michael Shaw." The rentboy chuckled, but it wasn't a happy sound. "We didn't believe him."

"Fuck!" Shaw was dead. Someone else was using his name. I'd think about that on the ride to the hospital. "Where are you, Sweetcheeks?"

"The paramedics took us to WH. Palm, what if he doesn't make it?"

"He's going to make it. I'll kill him if he doesn't. Okay, listen to me, Sweetcheeks. Washington Hospital has one of the best trauma centers in D.C. Pretty Boy is going to be fine."

"Palm, can you... I know you're busy..."

"I'm on my way." It took me five minutes to dispose of the van and the uniform, shrug into my suit jacket, and get my car started. Another twenty minutes, and I was pulling into the parking lot of the emergency room. There were no spaces available, except for handicapped parking, so I pulled the tag from the glove compartment and hung it from the mirror.

Sweetcheeks was waiting for me just inside the sliding doors. A tall, thin man with a thatch of russet curls, he was in his late twenties, although he passed for much younger. He was almost dancing with nerves. "He's in here, Palm!" He led me to a draped area. "The police have already taken a statement and left."

"Fuck!" The slight body lying on the hospital bed looked so fragile. The johnny gown he wore seemed to swim on him. His eyes were swollen shut, his nose had been broken, and a gash over his cheekbone sported a butterfly bandage. A large area of his thick, black hair had been shaved, and the deep laceration that extended from his temple to just behind his left ear had been neatly stitched. A tube led from a point between his ribs to a gizmo on the floor, aiding in the re-inflating of a collapsed lung. "What did you tell them?"

"That he fell down a flight of stairs."

"And they believed you." I swore under my breath.

He grimaced and shrugged. "The cops don't give a fuck what happens to the likes of us, and I knew you would take care of it."

A nurse in blue scrubs parted the curtains and came in. She took Pretty Boy's vital signs. "You're with him?" She directed the question to me while she scrawled some numbers on a chart, and then squatted down to check the amount of drainage in the bottle.

"Yes. How bad is he? When will he be transferred to a regular floor?"

She shrugged. "The pneumothorax, the collapsed lung, was the worst of his injuries. Whoever whaled on his ribs did a primo job; they're turning a nice shade of purple right about now. Four of them are fractured, and one was so bad it punctured his lung. The scalp wound bled like a bastard. Sorry," she apologized indifferently for her language. "We'll send him up to Surgical as
soon as we can find a bed for him there."

"I want him to have a room now."

"He'll get one whenever it becomes free."

"Listen, woman. If it's a question of money..."

Her grin was tight and extremely unfriendly. "No, *you* listen. I can't conjure up a bed out of thin air, buster! As soon as one becomes available, he'll get it. You got that?"

I took a step toward her, and her eyes widened, and then narrowed. Sweetcheeks wedged his body between us. "*Palm*!" he hissed, his hands braced on my chest. He gave the nurse a sickly smile over his shoulder. "Thank you."


She left us, her ire evident in her stride. If she had been a man, I would have tried my damnedest to recruit her for the DSD.

The curtain whipped aside, and the youngest, newest of the rentboys came barreling in. His hair was bleached white and stood up in disheveled tufts.

"Spike!"

One of his johns had told him he had a strong resemblance to a certain character on television, and ever since he'd made it a habit of sucking in his cheeks, desperate to throw his cheekbones into prominence. He took one shocked look at the man in the bed and threw himself into Sweetcheeks' arms.

"Oh, god, Sweetcheeks!" Tears pooled in his grey eyes. "That should be me! I was supposed to go with the john! Palm?" He was shocked to see me at the bedside. "Sweet Jesus, Pretty Boy's going to die!" The tears spilled over, and mascara streaked Spike's cheeks.

"No, baby, no!" Sweetcheeks tried to comfort the younger man. "He'll be all right, they promised us! Listen, I have to talk to Palmer. Will you stay here with Pretty Boy, so he won't be alone when he wakes up? We're going to the cafeteria, but we'll be right back, I promise."

"You want us to bring you back something?" I asked him.

Spike nodded and wiped at his tears with the heels of his hands. "A Coke and a thing of Oreos?" He was very young. I patted his shoulder and left the area with the older hustler.

Sweetcheeks headed for the elevator, but I steered him to the stairs. "Quicker and safer."

Once in the stairwell, he started talking. "This john, Michael Shaw, called and told me you'd given him our number. I was going to send Spike, but Shaw said he'd heard good things about Pretty Boy, that you'd rec'd him highly." I paused on the stair below and glared back at him. He ducked his head. "Yeah, I know, you'd never pimp for us, but he named a figure, and I stopped
thinking. And I know that was really stupid too."

"Fuck. He wanted Pretty Boy because somehow he'd learned that he was the one out of all of you that I'd slept with." And because he was after me. But I didn't say that.

The other man stared at me, his mouth agape. "How'd you figure that, Palm?"

"It's what *I* would do. What happened?"

"I went with him and stayed outside. After the john left, I waited a few minutes, but when Pretty Boy didn't come out right away, I let myself in. Oh, god, Palm, I thought he was dead! There was so much blood! I called 9-1-1, and once we got here, I called you. I couldn't understand how you would set us up with a psycho like that!"

"And now you know I didn't set you up." Unconsciously, I withdrew a knife from my pocket, letting the blade extend and retract repeatedly.

"Palmer! What are you going to do?" He glanced around frantically, hearing footsteps on the stair.

I gazed down at the knife, then put it away. "Right now?" I shoved open the door that led to the corridor outside the cafeteria. "Right now I'm going to get a cup of coffee, and you're going to tell me everything you can remember about this asshole."

Sweetcheeks swallowed hard and began to talk. I listened carefully, asking specific questions, then nodded. It had to be Sperling.

If he figured out that I was behind his demotion, he might want revenge. Of course he had no proof, but in the DSD you didn't have to have proof.

My hand slid into the pocket that held the knife. I was going to track the son of a bitch down and slice the flesh from his conscious body, starting with his pathetic dick.

By the time we got back to the emergency room, Pretty Boy had regained consciousness, although he was still flying from the pain killers he'd been given. His lips parted in a silly grin when he saw me.

"Hi, babe." He reached out for my hand. I stroked my fingers over his palm.

"If you'd wanted to see me so badly, you really didn't have to go to these lengths, baby. A call would have been sufficient," I joked. Poor joke. "Look, I have some errands to run, but I'll be back, probably before these assholes can find a room for you." I was impatient to get my hands on Sperling; he'd polluted the earth for too fucking long.

Pretty Boy's hand tightened on me. "No, please!" His eyes, what I could see of them through the slitted lids, were frightened, and his voice had grown panicky. "Please don't leave me!"

I couldn't stand seeing him like that, and besides, I owed him. My first and only partner had been gutted and strangled with his own intestines, and I'd been wild with pain and fury. When I'd returned to D.C. from tracking down and slaughtering the cocksucking scumbag who had done it, the sable-haired rentboy had let me fuck him, when any intelligent person would have run screaming for the hills. He didn't complain about how rough I was, or the bruises my grip left on his fair skin, and afterward he'd refused to accept money. "Hey, man," he'd said, holding me until the worst of the shudders stopped, "you kept my name out of it when that congressman had a heart attack in my bed. The least I could do is let you borrow my ass."

Now I said, "Okay, Pretty Boy. I won't leave." I'd find Sperling, sooner or later, and after I was done with him, there wouldn't be anything left to identify.

Meanwhile, I needed to check my answering machine. I dialed my number and punched in the code. There were three messages, from my bank, from a telemarketer, who was lucky I hadn't been home to pick up; I loved fucking with their minds, almost as much as with a certain CIA operative's. The last call...

"It's me." Webb? Fuck! And how did he know I'd recognize his voice? "I just found the new picture, and I wanted to thank you. I'm looking forward to meeting her." He waited a second before continuing, "You did leave it because you thought she was my type, right?"

I stared at the phone in disbelief.

"Palm, you okay? That wasn't bad news, was it?"

"Uh, prank call." I pressed the number that would erase the message. It wasn't likely that anyone else would access my home phone, but I never took chances.

Sweetcheeks took a deck of cards from his pocket, and he and I played two-handed solitaire while Spike nibbled on his cookies, and the injured man kept his fingers on my arm.

We'd been there for hours when my cell phone rang. "Palmer."

There was a sharp gasp on the other end. "Mr. Palmer? I *knew* you were alive!"

####

The male prostitute lay face down, unconscious on the bed. I went into the bathroom to wash off the blood spatters. Then I dressed and left the room I had rented for a few hours, ignoring the hustler who had insisted on coming with us, even though I had lied and told him I'd been recommended by a very good friend of theirs.

That prick, Clark Palmer, never gave me credit for being able to put together an operation, but he was about to find out how wrong he was.

He was behind the information that had been leaked about me, I had no doubt about that. He was probably behind the death of Michael Shaw also, but that didn't concern me half as much as my loss of status within the DSD. I'd been about to break off my relationship with the ambitious but foolish agent anyway.

It had taken more work than I had expected to find someone that Palmer cared about, and when I had finally succeeded, it was to learn it was a prostitute. I curled my lip at the idea of having to pay for my pleasure. I was willing to bet no one at the DSD was aware of that. Everyone from Trevor Wallace to that bitch who was Palmer's secretary thought the bastard walked on water.

Well, *I* knew better. Clark Palmer was nothing, a nobody who had somehow managed to get himself promoted to special agent. Probably by getting on his hands and knees for The Boss and taking it up the ass. Sex was the way you got anywhere in the DSD.

It hadn't been my fault that operation a few years previous had turned sour, it *hadn't*, but Palmer had had it in for me ever since.

He was going to see you didn't fuck with Robert Sperling.

When his trashy friend called him in a panic, Palmer would rush to the hospital, or the morgue, or wherever they wound up taking the hustler, and I'd break into his apartment. I was the best computer operator the DSD had ever known. They didn't appreciate me. I'd hack into his home computer and find the file that Michael Shaw had hinted about.

Irritating young man. While I'd been fucking him, he'd mocked me with tidbits of information that he had gathered, never giving me enough to bring down Palmer.

But now I'd have more than enough.

I parked the car I had rented under a fictitious name in the garage under the apartment house and took the elevator up to the fifth floor. No one was around, but that didn't matter. As long as I looked as though I belonged, I wouldn't be questioned.

His apartment was at the far end of the corridor, and I approached it with growing excitement. I examined the door thoroughly, then chortled. The fool! Did he really think that six deadbolts would deter me? I pulled a compact kit from my overcoat pocket and extracted a lock pick. Carefully I inserted it into the first lock and listened for the quiet snap. As each one surrendered
to my expertise, I became more and more aroused. Perhaps I'd take the time to masturbate on his bed.

The last tumbler fell into place, and I reached for the doorknob. There was a deep, breathless hush, and then a sudden, bright light, an ear-shattering roar and unendurable heat...

Part 2

It started out as a decent enough day. The sun was shining, my favorite music was playing on the radio, and I'd had a marvelous night's sleep. It *was* going to be a good day. That's what I thought until I turned over in bed, stretched, and then winced as muscles unused to the workout they had gotten the night before protested.

I had gone to Palmer's apartment with a bottle of Pol Roger 1990, ostensibly to celebrate his promotion to Deputy Director of Interior Affairs, but with the actual agenda of fucking with his mind, and perhaps his body. Instead...

I had been fucked by Clark Palmer.

Palmer hadn't been bragging when he'd stated that he was the best. He had driven me so wild with his kisses and his touches that before I realized it, he had me on his bed, my trousers stripped off, my sweater rucked up so he could get at my nipples, and his slicked fingers preparing my hole for his invasion.

No one should kiss like that. It should be declared illegal.

He got his cock in me and... I shivered, growing hard just from the memory. I hadn't been fucked in a long time, preferring to top the few male lovers with whom I had gone to bed. How was it I let Clark Palmer get to me?

It had to have been the champagne. Usually I've got a good head for it, but last night... And to top it off, I had asked to stay over. Fuck.

A hot shower soaked most of the aches from my body. I stood before the mirror, running the shaver over my jaw, and groaned at the sight of the mark Palmer had left on my throat. It was a deep purple, and it wasn't going to be easy to conceal it. I sighed and reached for the box of Band-Aids. It was a good thing I wouldn't be running into D.B. Cooper during the day. He would have thought nothing of asking if I'd tried to cut my throat again. I'd call him later and see if he was able to keep our dinner date that evening. If he was, I'd have to make sure I wore something with a very high neck.

I finished dressing and went down to the kitchen, where the automatic coffee maker had just finished brewing a pot. I poured a cup, and while it cooled enough to sip, I retrieved my newspaper from the front step. I took it to the table in the breakfast nook, then toasted an English muffin. When it was ready, I slathered it with butter and sat down to eat while I thumbed through the paper and drink my coffee.

I would be working in D.C. today, and before I left for State I made a copy of the message Clark had left on my answering machine and locked it in a desk drawer in my study. I had no doubt that at some time in the future it would come in handy to have a voice print of the DSD agent.

"Oh, hell!" A glance at the clock told me if I didn't leave now, I'd be running into rush hour traffic. I took a final gulp of coffee. The maid service wasn't scheduled for today, so I left my cup and the newspaper on the table and headed out the door. I punched in the numbers to alarm my security system. Although Clark Palmer had no trouble circumventing it, there was still a criminal element out there that it worked against just fine.

****

The intercomm buzzed, and I reached for it, shifting in my chair. Every time I moved, that deep ache in my ass made itself felt. And I'd get hard all over again. I didn't even bother trying to deny to myself how much I'd *liked* having Clark Palmer's cock in my ass. The only thing I wanted more than to experience that again, was having my cock in Palmer's ass. I pictured him bent over his couch as I pounded into him, and my mouth grew dry.

Bette Johnson, the secretary I used whenever I was at State, buzzed me, breaking into my thoughts. "Mr. Webb, I have Agent Cooper on line one." Before I could ask for clarification, she murmured, "The one with the Y chromosome."

"Thanks, Bette," I laughed, and pressed the button. "Glad you called, D.B. I was just about to get in touch with you. I didn't want to take the chance of calling earlier, in case you were sleeping in."

"What'd you think, that my guests were still lolling about in bed?" He yawned.

"*Guests*? *Plural*?"

"I'm a gentleman, Clay." I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Gentlemen do not kiss and tell!"

"Now you've made me very curious, D.B."

"You'll just have to wait. I wanted to make sure we were still on for tonight."

"Well, after a teaser like that, I should think so! Did you have any place in particular in mind?"

"How does Adam's Ribs sound to you?"

"Fine by me. I've been meaning to try them. I understand the original in Chicago has excellent barbecue."

"Yeah, the owner's son decided to open a branch in D.C. The food is so great you actually have to tie your head up with panty hose so your brains don't fall out!"

"Excuse me? D.B., are you channeling Soupy Sales again?"

When he had been in his teens, a local cable station had shown reruns of the old after-school show, and during our early days in the Company, D.B. used to do impressions of White Fang and Black Tooth.

He laughed uproariously. "I'll meet you there at seven, okay? See you then, Clay. Oh, man, do I have a lot to tell you!"

Smiling, I hung up the phone and shifted again in my chair, trying to get comfortable. Dinner with my friend would be uncomplicated, unlike having a meal with that exasperating special agent who was now a deputy director of the DSD.

How long should I wait before making my next move? Would Clark object to another visit tonight, or should I perhaps play hard to get?

I pondered that for a few minutes before deciding that being coy was vastly overrated. After I parted company with D.B. after dinner, I'd drive over to a certain apartment house in Forest Heights. This time *I'd* fuck *him*. I licked my lips at the thought of riding his hot, tight ass, then determinedly got back to work.

It was so unbelievably quiet for a Thursday afternoon at State that in spite of my distracted thoughts, I actually had the week's worth of paperwork finished and ready for Bette to file away.

For a change, nothing earth-shattering demanded my attention, and I was able to drive home at a reasonable hour. I'd take a shower and change into casual clothing, I mused as I turned onto the 395. By the time I was ready to leave for Adam's Ribs, traffic would be just starting to lighten up, and I should have no trouble getting to the restaurant at the appointed time. Rather than garaging it, I left the car in the driveway and strode briskly up the walk. My movement caused the sensor lights to blink on and illuminate the entire front yard.

Interior lights had been programmed to turn on at dusk, and since it was still Standard Time a soft, yellow glow bathed the first floor of my townhouse. I walked through the music room to reach the stairs. The picture on the occasional table was standing in its proper place, and I smiled complacently as I passed it, but something about it caught my eye. I came to an abrupt, stunned halt, wheeled around to look at it and began to swear. "That motherfucking, cocksucking son of a bitch bastard! That prick! That asshole! That..."

I might as well fucking *give* him the key to my house!

Instead of JessicaTheDumbBlonde, the photograph was of a young woman who looked remarkably like Ingrid Bergman. I had no doubt Clark Palmer had broken into my house *once again* and abducted the photograph that had graced that table, replacing it with the elegant beauty.

And then I started to laugh. I laughed until I was gasping for breath. When I finally had myself under control once more, I pulled out my cell phone and speed dialed his number. I had convinced myself while I was programming it into my phone that it was only fitting for a deputy director of the CIA to be able to reach a deputy director of the DSD. In case we had to discuss deputy director-type things.

Two rings, and the machine picked up. "Palmer. Go."

"It's me." I always hated it when people did that to me. Even if Clark did recognize my voice, my casual assumption that he would was going to drive him insane. "I just found the new picture, and I wanted to thank you. I'm looking forward to meeting her." I paused a beat, purposefully. "You did leave it because you thought she was my type, right?" I hung up without another word.

The woman in the photo was everything that normally drew me in a member of the opposite sex. She was drop dead gorgeous, and she looked as if she had more than two functioning brain cells, but it was the thought of Clark Palmer's reaction to my phone call that made me hard.

I went up to my bedroom, showered quickly and dressed in navy blue slacks and a matching turtleneck jersey that rose to my jaw, and incidentally covered the love bite on my throat.

There was still no response to the message I'd left on Clark's machine when I left for the evening. I wondered what he was up to. I drove back to D.C. and found a parking spot a couple of blocks from the small restaurant.

D.B. hadn't arrived yet, so I sat at the bar waiting for him. I ordered a beer and helped myself to a handful of pretzels. The local news was on, and I watched desultorily as the anchor spoke of some random acts of violence in the parts of D.C. tourists don't visit, a three car pile-up on the Beltway, an unexplained explosion in...

A hand landed on my shoulder. "Clay! Been waiting long?"

I turned and smiled at my friend. "It's about time you got here! I'm starving! Good thing it's Thursday, or I doubt if we'd be able to get a table!"

"Then let's get a move on!"

I slid off the stool and followed him, bringing my beer. I hoped he wouldn't notice my limp. I was still a bit stiff from the night before, and he'd be sure to question me about it. I had no intention of giving him the Technicolor details. "You're in a chipper mood, D.B."

He grinned at me over his shoulder. "Ah, Clay, everyone should have gotten as lucky as I did last night!" My friend was aware of the exceptionally long dry spell I'd been experiencing.

I hid my own smug grin. I wasn't about to explain it had abruptly been ended, and by whom.

We sat down and ordered a pitcher of beer. After our waitress brought it and a glass for D.B., we listened as she rattled off the specials.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. "The Buffalo wings?"

He agreed with my choice of appetizer.

The waitress noted it. "Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?"

"We'll order now. The rack and a half of baby back ribs sounds good," I told her. "And I'd like the house salad with vinaigrette, fries and slaw."

"I'll have the same. Only instead of a rack and a half, I'd like the full rack of ribs and the half of a barbecued chicken; house salad with Ranch, baked potato loaded, and tomato slices." He gave her a sweet smile, and she smiled and shook her head as she wrote down our orders and went to the kitchen to place them.

I took a sip of my beer. "So. You want to tell me how you went from a quiet solo evening of take-out and Aliens to a night of wild, unbridled sex?" I grinned. For too long he had devoted himself to work. A little action between the sheets would be good for him.

He tried to look innocent. "Who said anything about wild, unbridled sex?"

"D.B.," I said patiently. Our waitress placed the chicken wings on the table between us and turned away to wait on another table. "You do not leave a message on my machine at 11:45 on a work night, telling me you've had the most unbelievable night, and expect me to believe it isn't about sex!"

"Welll..."

"C'mon, David Brendan! Spill!"

For a minute he looked serious. "I won't divulge names, Clay."

I reached for a piece of the cornbread the waitress had brought us and buttered it. "All right, D.B. No names." I knew I could find out who had visited him if I put my mind to it.

He let out a puff of air. "Okay, so I've finished dinner, and I've just nuked a bag of popcorn, so I can throw it at the screen when Carter Burke shows up, y'know? Hey, you know something, Clay? I bet Burke was DSD in the future!" I gave him a look, and he laughed and pulled apart a wing, dipping it in the sauce it came with. "Aliens is right at the part where Ripley is telling Gorman the Marines can't fire their weapons because they're right under the heat exchange, and they'll cause a nuclear reaction, when there's a knock on the door. I mute the sound and go to answer it, and there are..." For a second I thought he was going to name names, but then he caught himself and continued, "... two of the most gorgeous women..."

The waitress brought our salads, and I waited until she left before prodding my friend. "And? What happened?"

He smirked, picked up a wedge of mandarin orange from the bed of greens and slid it into his mouth. "What *didn't* happen! They asked if they could come in and..."

"Jesus, David! Don't tell me you were so stupid as to let two strangers in!"

"They weren't strangers!" he retorted hotly. "They were... Oh, no, Clayton Webb, you're not going to trick me into telling you which two women we work with it was!" His mouth snapped shut, and he glared at me and turned his attention back to his neglected salad.

"Oh, fuck!" I groused. "I hope you're happy! Now I'm going to look at every woman I come across at Langley and wonder if she was the one who let you fuck her through the mattress!"

"Listen, Clay, they came to my place!" He was almost sulking. "I didn't ask them!"

"Jesus! Never mind, I don't want to know!" Our entrees arrived, and we began to eat in silence, which dragged on. And on. "Oh, fuck it!" I exploded. "Finish the goddamn story!"

D.B. turned his head, trying to hide his triumphant smile. I'd let him think he'd won. "Well, they started making out on the couch..." Every heterosexual male's wet dream. Two beautiful women kissing, touching each other... I sighed, aroused in spite of myself. "I had to leave them for a minute. Geez, Clay, it was so hot, I had to go put cold water on my dick!"

I began to choke on the rib I was eating. He handed me a glass of water and I took a sip. "Thanks so much for sharing that with me! Well, don't stop now. What happened next?"

"I put clean sheets on the bed!" he said in a rush, and my jaw dropped. "And then..." D.B.'s eyes narrowed. They were fastened intently on me.

"What? Have I got barbecue sauce on my chin?"

"No." He leaned toward me and hooked a finger in the collar of my turtleneck, lowering it slightly. "But you've got a huge fucking hickey on your neck! Looks like I wasn't the only one who got lucky last night! How about *you* tell me who?"

My cheeks felt hot. Before I could bluff my way out of an uncomfortable situation, my friend's cell phone chirruped. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. "Cooper." I put a french fry in my mouth and watched as his face grew grim. "You're sure of that? Yes, yes, I'm not doubting you. I understand! All right, thanks for letting me know." He shut the phone and just sat there for a moment. "Well, it seems we won't need to keep track of Clark Palmer's movements anymore."

"Really? Why is that?" I asked cautiously.

"Looks like he was too paranoid for his own good. His front door exploded when he was trying to get in. Some kind of flash explosive. He was charred to a cinder. He's in the District morgue."

The glass I had been placing back on the table slipped from suddenly numb fingers, and I stared at the spreading stain as beer soaked into the cloth. "You're... you're sure, D.B.?" My chest felt as if an elephant was sitting on it, and I wondered if I was having a heart attack.

He signaled the waitress to bring more napkins. "As sure as my contact can be without an autopsy, and they'll be doing that first thing in the morning. Are you all right, Clay?"

"I... I can't believe it." Somehow I managed to keep my voice from revealing my emotions. I shoved my chair back and got to my feet. "I have to see for myself!"

"Sure, Clay. I understand. The guy's caused you nothing but grief. You'll want to make sure the bastard is dead. I'll come with you."

"No. Uh... no. You don't have to miss your meal because of this. The District morgue, you said?" I was pulling bills from my wallet and dropped them on the table. D.B.'s expression was concerned as he jotted down directions to the morgue.

"Clay?"

"I'll talk to you, D.B." I walked out of the restaurant without looking back. The night air was cold, but I didn't notice it. I was chilled from the inside out. He couldn't be dead. A man like Clark Palmer didn't die because he unlocked his fucking door the wrong way! "Goddamn you! Don't be dead! Don't you dare be dead!" If he was, I'd ...

I'd what? Kill him myself? I drew in a deep breath, then let myself into my car. It took three tries before I could get the key in the ignition. My right hand clenched, and I beat it on the steering wheel.

A sudden tapping on the window caused me to jump. I rolled down the window. "Clay, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm..."

"Bullshit. Shove over. I'll drive."

I unlocked the door and slid over, and D.B. got in. "I really am all right."

"Sure. Pull my other leg. Listen, Clay, you can't fool me. Buckle up. I can see what's going on." He nodded as he put the car in gear and pulled out into the street. "You two have been adversaries for so long. It has to be a shock to know you'll never butt heads with the son of a bitch again."

I looked out the window and let my friend ramble on, and made my mind stay blank.

####

We'd been there for hours when my cell phone rang. "Palmer."

There was a sharp gasp on the other end. "Mr. Palmer? You're alive?"

I stiffened. "Last time I looked. Matheson? What the fuck is this all about?"

"Sorry, sir. There's been an explosion at your apartment. Where are you, sir?"

"I'm visiting with a sick friend."

There was a pause. "A sick friend?"

"Contrary to popular belief, Matheson, I *do* have friends," I said sourly. "What's the damage?"

"One dead, sir. The body found was badly burned; it was assumed to be yours. I knew it couldn't be!"

"Fuck the body. If someone was trying to get into my apartment, they got what they deserved. How much damage was done to my apartment?" I knew how I had the explosives rigged, but I'd never had any opportunity to test them. Did I even have an apartment left?

"Your living room is pretty much toast, sir. No pun intended."

"Fuck."

"Palmer?" Mr. Wallace had taken the phone from the younger agent.

In spite of the fact that he couldn't see me, I rose to my feet. "Yes, sir."

"Thank God!"

"Sir?" Had his voice cracked? No, of course not. The Boss let nothing disturb his icy facade.

He cleared his throat. "It seems Matheson was correct in his hypothesis. You *wouldn't* do something as stupid as blowing yourself up with your own front door."

"Remind me to thank him for the vote of confidence, sir," I said dryly.

"You did an excellent job, Mr. Palmer. The damage isn't as extensive as one might have expected. I have our own forensics people over there gathering evidence."

"What about the police, sir?"

"That's all taken care of. Once we learn who the body belongs to, we'll deal with that as well."

A harried member of the staff approached. "Excuse me, the use of cell phones is not permitted within the hospital." One look at my expression convinced him there were more important things to be concerned about, like his continuing good health. He took his clipboard elsewhere.

"Sorry, sir. Has the body been taken to the D.C. morgue?"

"Yes. I assume you'll be going there to see what you can learn?"

"Yeah. I'm about to take a leap of intuition, sir, and I don't know how happy you'll be about it."

"That's what I admire about you, Mr. Palmer. Your intuitive grasp of a situation. You have some idea as to who it might be?"

"You have a pretty good grasp yourself, sir. I'm thinking it might be former Deputy Director Sperling."

"Fuck." I swallowed hard. No one ever heard the head of the DSD swear. And then he sighed. "I was afraid of that. Very well, Mr. Palmer. I'll send Matheson to meet you at the morgue. You will have a full report on my desk as soon as you've got all the facts."

He disconnected the call before I could object to the younger agent joining me.

"Um, Palm?" Sweetcheeks sounded nervous.

"Yeah? Oh fuck!" A security guard was standing just within the curtain, his hand resting suggestively on the weapon at his side. The staffer was at his shoulder, shifting from one foot to the other. "I'm leaving," I said shortly. I leaned over the bed. "I have to go, baby. Business. Sweetcheeks?"

"Go, Palm. I'll take care of him. You'll be back when you can?"

"You bet your ass." I glared at the guard, and he shuffled out of my way. As I walked out of the emergency room, the cold night air hit me like a slap in the face, and I hurried to my car. I got in and turned on the engine, waiting until the heater began blowing out hot air.

And then I drove to the morgue.

****

Matheson was waiting for me when I got there. We took the stairs down to the room where corpses filled the drawers, waiting to be disposed.

I shoved open the door and strode in, but someone was there ahead of us.

A drawer had been opened, and three men stood around it, the one in the white lab coat saying patiently, "The apparent lack of height is illusory. Firstly, the body is supine. Secondly, the extensive loss of body fluids makes it seem smaller."

The shorter of the other two men was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I can't believe that's Clark Palmer." Webb? What the fuck was the CIA doing in the District morgue, ostensibly identifying my body? Making sure I was dead?

"That's because that isn't me," I said as Matheson and I crossed the tiled floor to join them. I recognized the man at Webb's side as the CIA operative I'd seen in his office when I'd gone there as Dwayne J. Lester. I let my eyes range over him disinterestedly, then dismissed him. "Deputy Director Webb. Disappointed?"

A host of expressions crossed Clay's face, shock, disbelief, amazement, relief. And then anger so hot I thought he would take a swing at me.

In a flash they were all gone, and he had himself under control. "Glad to know it wasn't you, Palmer. Let's go, D.B. Good night, gentlemen."

I stared after him, willing him to look at me before he left, but he didn't. Cooper was right behind him, throwing a sneer in my direction.

Fuck. I sighed, went to the open drawer, and looked down at the charred remains. "Will you be doing the autopsy?"

"No. Dr. Schmidt will be coming in to perform it, probably around 8 AM, unless something else comes up."

Nothing else would come up; Smitty was one of ours. "I'll be back in time for it." I checked my watch and wondered if Clay would be going directly home, or if he'd go somewhere with that blue-eyed agent.

I walked out, completely forgetting about Matheson. I pulled out my phone and punched in Clay's number. His machine picked up. "You there? Listen, I can explain..." Fuck, I sounded like a straying boyfriend. "Never mind."

"Mr. Palmer?" Matheson hurried to catch up with me. "Do you need a place to stay, sir? You're more than welcome to spend the night with me." A dull flush colored his cheeks. "Oh, fuck, sir, I meant at my apartment..."

"I got what you meant, Matheson, and I appreciate the offer. I'm good, though." We walked out to the parking lot in silence.

"I'm just over there, Mr. Palmer," he said, pointing to a nondescript, late model sedan.

"I'm in handicapped." I unlocked the door and paused. "When you get in to work in the morning, remember to put in a request for a tag. You never know when it'll come in handy."

"Yes, sir."

"Matheson."

"Sir?"

"Thanks. For not thinking I'd be so stupid as to blow myself up with my own booby trap." For being the only one, apparently, who had.

He smiled, and again I regretted my policy of not fucking trainees. "They'd have gotten it eventually."

"Yeah. When I came walking in. Good night, Matheson."

"Good night, Mr. Palmer."

I watched as he got in his car, turned on the ignition and drove out of the lot.

I got in my own car and sat there.

Yeah. It had definitely been one of those days.


~End~