If You're Going Through Hell Keep Going

  Smashwords Edition

  If You’re Going Through Hell Keep Going

  Copyright © 2014 Tinnean

  All rights reserved

  WARNING:

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000!

  REMEMBER:

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author's imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places, is purely coincidental.

  PLEASE BE ADVISED:

  This book contains material that is only suitable for mature readers. It contains scenes of a sexual nature between two or more consenting men.

  Dedication:

  As always, this is for Bob, who keeps the household running so I can write. You’re the greatest, babe.

  Acknowledgements:

  Thanks to Jeff Adkins for a great cover, and to Liz Bachmann for the editing. A special thank you to Patricia Logan for pointing me in their direction.

  Thanks also to Tisha, Anita Guerrero Dockery, Trisha Harrington, Tim Mead, Trish, and of course, Tony, for their help.

  As always, to Gail Morse, for patiently listening to all the what ifs... thank you more than I can say, chere amie.

  Author’s note:

  The William Henry Harrison Hotel, the Madison Arms, Garland Rooms, le Petit Homme, and hôtel de l’Espoir are all fictional establishments.

  Prologue

  I’d never expected to have a guy like Quinton Mann in my life. They called him the Ice Man, but they were idiots. Maybe that was true when it came to business, but in bed? I’d never had a hotter lover. The first time he’d gone down on me, after the birthday dinner he’d bought me at Raphael’s… well, can we say “blown away?”

  The thing was, Quinn worked for the CIA, and CIA and WBIS—Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security, which I worked for—didn’t mix any better than oil and water. Added to that, he was considered royalty in the intelligence community. On his mother’s side were agents going back to Richard III, although on his father’s side, they only went back to the Spanish American War. Still, Manns were involved up to their hazel eyes in every conflict, major or minor, since that time.

  Me? I was just a blue-collar kid who couldn’t trace his ancestry back more than two generations. My old lady was an abusive drunk, and all I knew of my father was he was buried in some nameless grave in Europe.

  So it made sense we’d have nothing to do with each other. And beyond the professional, I’d never paid any attention to him.

  But then we’d crossed paths at the Wyman Brothers Warehouse on the Patapsco River. He was going after something the WBIS wanted, and I intended to see we got it and he didn’t.

  No one had ever tried to face me down before, not without crapping their pants, but there was Mann, wounded and hurting, shot by a rogue spook, and he still refused to surrender the briefcase with Bruchner’s formula for a renewable energy source.

  Now here we were, more than a year after that first blow job, and you’d think things would have cooled off a little, but we still went at each other hot and heavy. What the man could do with his cock!

  And his mouth and his ass and….

  But that was how it started with me and Quinn.

  Who’d have fucking thought I’d wind up in a relationship with a spook from the CIA?

  Who’d have thought I’d be in a relationship with anyone, period?

  But I was. We were.

  I hadn’t been certain.

  Senator Wexler’s ambitious plan was to become president and have Portia Mann as his first lady. It resulted in the accident meant for Quinn, which instead left Portia in a coma for a couple of days.

  Quinn had been distraught.

  And even after she came out of it, Portia had been in a good deal of pain. She’d been forced to use a walker and then a cane for months after, and couldn’t ride or dance. Her inability to climb the steps into her own house had been the icing on the cake for Quinn, and he’d not only asked me to deal with the good senator, but he’d insisted on coming along with me.

  After taking care of Wexler a few weeks earlier—as sort of a birthday present for Quinn—I’d given Quinn the opportunity to back away. It was one thing hearing or reading about what I was capable of, another to have a front row seat, watching while I did it.

  But Quinn surprised me. Seeing me with my hands around Wexler’s neck, putting just enough pressure on the arteries running to his brain to result in paralysis…. What I’d done hadn’t changed how Quinn felt about me.

  Well, he could be pretty ruthless himself, especially where those he loved were concerned.

  Wexler was still alive, machines feeding him, breathing for him…. I had hopes he’d continue that way for a long, long time.

  I thought it made a nice little payback.

  ***

  Quinn and I had come back from Isla del Placer Escarpado, my island off the coast of Costa Rica. Between dealing with Wexler and getting things straightened out—no pun—between me and Quinn, we didn’t get back to DC until after my birthday.

  I didn’t need a party or anything, although I wouldn’t have said no to a gift like the one he’d given me last year—a blow job was always a good gift.

  What he did give me was a first edition of Louis L’Amour’s Hondo. It replaced my father’s copy, which had been destroyed when that bastard Robert Sperling had tried to break into my apartment and the place had exploded.

  Now we were sprawled on the bed in my condo, watching the DVD of Hondo. Portia had given it to me as a token of her gratitude after I’d rescued Quinn when he’d been kidnapped by a rogue anti-terrorist organization.

  Mother and son both knew what the book and the movie meant to me.

  John Wayne had just finished telling Geraldine Page about the squaw-seeking ceremony, where they said one word: varlebena, which meant forever.

  I looked into Quinn’s eyes and said, “Forever, Quinn.”

  His eyes were almost green. “Forever, Mark.”

  That was nice of him to say, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think I was his “one”—how long could the prince stay in love with the commoner? There would come a day when he’d find the love of his life, but until he did, I’d hold on to what I had with him. And afterward, I’d cherish the memory of it.

  I lowered my head to take his lips in a kiss that would lead to some hot, sweaty sex... and my cell phone rang.

  I would have let it go to voice mail, but the ringtone was Bad to the Bone.

  It was Trevor Wallace, the man known as The Boss, and yeah, that was with caps. He ran the WBIS, where I’d worked for the past sixteen years.

  “Sorry, babe. I have to take this.”

  Quinn was a professional, in spite of the fact he worked for the CIA. He didn’t hassle me over it, just rolled off the bed and gathered up the bowl of popcorn we’d been munching on. “I’ll see about getting dinner started,” he murmured, and he left the room.

  If it had been anyone other than The Boss, I’d have gone after Quinn, admiring his ass and drooling every step of the way.

  Instead, I touched the button on my phone. “Yes, sir?”

  “Mark, I have a job for you in Phoenix.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He gave me the details and I made some notes, then hung up, took a suitcase from my closet, and began packing just as Quinn came in.

  “I thought I’d make rigatoni….” He stopped as he realized what I was doing. �
��No, I guess I won’t be making rigatoni.”

  “Sorry, babe. I’ve got a job.” There had been a time I’d never have told him that, but that time had long passed.

  “Okay.” He sat on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  “Quinn.”

  “Yes?” He looked up when I didn’t say anything more, and I could see his surprise when he realized what I was offering him: a ring of keys that would let him enter my condo. If the locks weren’t undone in a specific sequence, the door exploded. Robert Sperling hadn’t known the code and had wound up a crispy critter in the DC morgue.

  I didn’t want that to happen to Quinn.

  “Come on. Let me show you the sequence.”

  Chapter 1

  The job ran almost two weeks and included going out on the links with some executives from the Huntingdon campus in Phoenix, which had finally been completed.

  Once the job was done, I still had a couple of days to spare, so I rented a car and drove to LA to visit with Paul and Spike. I made sure the offer of a movie contract to Spike was legit, and then the three of us spent some time at Disneyland.

  Finally, on March 14, I caught a flight home and called Quinn as soon as I landed in Dulles. We’d meet at Raphael’s for dinner. The Italian restaurant was our place, and we had a standing date every Friday evening, as long as we were both in town. After dinner, he’d follow me back to my condo, and we’d spend the weekend together.

  “Hey, babe.”

  “Are you home, Mark?”

  I knew he meant DC. We’d talked almost every night, once even falling asleep with our phones pressed to our ears, listening to each other breathe when we ran out of conversation. “Yeah, my flight just landed. As soon as I get done at baggage claim, I’ll head home. I want to grab a shower, and then I’ll meet you at Raphael’s.”

  “Or....”

  “Or?”

  “I could meet you at your place instead. I’m only ten minutes away. I’ll make dinner.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see you in a little while.”

  ***

  Quinn got to use the keys I’d given him. He was already in my condo when I let myself in.

  “Hi, babe.”

  “Hello, Mark.” He smiled at me over his shoulder while he stirred something in a pot on the cooktop. He wore jeans, but that was as far as he’d taken casual. His shirt was a white button-down, with the sleeves rolled up.

  I put down my suitcase, went to him, and wrapped my arms around him. “I’m glad to see you.” I dropped a kiss just beneath his left ear.

  He turned in my embrace and ran his fingertips along my ear. “You look tired, Mark. Rough trip?”

  “The usual.”

  He didn’t press for details. “Do you want to take a nap? I haven’t started the pasta, and I can set the veal in the warming drawer. It will stay fine for an hour or so.”

  “Will you join me?”

  He tilted his head. “If I do, you know you won’t get any sleep.”

  “No, I won’t.” I grinned at him and strolled into my bedroom, leaving my suitcase where it was. After dinner, or maybe tomorrow, I’d empty it and do the laundry. I really wasn’t as tired as Quinn seemed to think.

  I did need a shower, though. I stripped off my clothes. Before I could turn on the water, Quinn was there, as naked as I was. I raised an eyebrow. He flipped up the lever, and the water began cascading down.

  “You did ask me to join you.” He ran his palm down my spine and over my ass.

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  I didn’t get that nap. We made love in the shower instead.

  Afterward, Quinn made me penne à la vodka, followed by veal piccata, which we’d had on my birthday last year.

  Candles were on the table, wine in goblets, a centerpiece of pansies, nemesia, and cyclamen—Quinn named the flowers. I had no clue—and then we went back to bed.

  And the good times just kept a-coming.

  ***

  The first time I woke Saturday morning, it was to the feeling of Quinn’s fingers in my hair. “I missed you,” he murmured softly. “It scares me how much I’ve missed you.”

  “Don’t let it. I’ll always be here, babe. Forever, remember?” I’d missed him too. It had been a long two weeks.

  “I remember.” He brushed a kiss over my temple, and we fell asleep with him still petting me.

  The second time I woke up, Quinn was in my arms, his head tucked under my chin.

  “Do you have to work today?”

  I should. I’d been out of the office for two weeks, and there was probably a shitload of paperwork to catch up on. But fuck it, The Boss was always after me to delegate. Matheson could deal with it.

  “No,” I told Quinn, and he leaned back to study my eyes.

  “No? Excellent! What did you want to do?”

  “Well, how does spending the morning in bed sound?”

  “Excellent!” he said again.

  ***

  Because it was the St. Patrick’s Day weekend, a local movie house was showing The Quiet Man, so we went to see it in the afternoon, and that evening, I took Quinn to the Dungarvan, a little Irish pub on H Street. We wore casual clothes—Vincent casual, which meant jeans, Doc Martens, fisherman knit sweaters, and bomber jackets. And of course we carried our clutch pieces.

  The Dungarvan was dark and rustic, with lots of wooden beams, sawdust on the floor, and tables and chairs as opposed to booths. We had corned beef on rye with a side of potato chips, washed down with Irish Red Ale, and we listened to the band sing about Irish rovers and colonial boys, flutes and wakes and “Brennan on the Moor.”

  I took it easy on the ale, since I’d be driving, but Quinn really liked the taste of it. That kind of surprised me, since he usually preferred seasonal beers like Spring Bock, which he got from a Virginia brewery. But what the hell? I figured he might as well enjoy himself.

  By the time we left, just before one, I got another surprise: Quinn was feeling no pain. The ale seemed to have gone right to his head.

  I had an arm around his waist, trying to keep him from falling on his ass. “You’d better hope no one decides to jump the fags,” I groused under my breath.

  In spite of the fact he’d been humming “The Seven Drunken Nights,” he must have heard me. “There are fags around here?” He looked around as if searching for them.

  “Jesus, Quinn.”

  He leaned close and kissed my cheek.

  “How drunk are you?”

  “I am not drunk,” he said, with drunken dignity.

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “And anyway, that’s what you get for filling me with beer.”

  “Are you going to have a hangover tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Fortunately, by that point we’d reached my car, and I unlocked it and poured him into the front seat. He stretched his legs, tipped back his head, and closed his eyes. I buckled him up and closed the door.

  “I guess this means no sex tonight,” I muttered as I put the key in the ignition and switched it on. From the corner of my eye I could see Quinn straighten and unfasten his seat belt. “Quinn....”

  And then he toppled over, landing with his head in my lap.

  “Fuck a geezley goddamn!”

  His hand was busy on my fly.

  “Quinn....”

  “Hush.”

  “We’re gonna get arrested!”

  “No we won’t.” He had my cock out, and his breath was warm on it. “You’ll keep us safe.”

  Okay, maybe he was drunk, but the fact he knew I wouldn’t let anything happen to him indicated he still had it together.

  A car not doing anything but sitting with its engine running would draw attention. I turned off the ignition just as Quinn’s mouth closed around me.

  We should not be doing this, but God, it felt
good!

  There was a tap on the driver’s side window, and I wanted to punch something, mainly whoever was standing there. Quinn was lost in what he was doing, but I didn’t want to take a chance he’d sit back and show his face. I put my hand on his neck. He took it as encouragement and continued bobbing up and down.

  Whoever was outside was getting impatient. He rapped harder on the window. And of course it was a cop.

  I sighed and pressed the button to lower the window. “Yes, Officer?”

  “You can’t—Mr. Vincent, is that you?”

  Fuck. “Hello, Samuels.” He was one of my sources at the DCPD.

  “Geez, I didn’t realize….”

  “You didn’t realize what?”

  He looked at his watch. “How late it was. I’d better be going. Um... I think it might be a good idea for you to go too.”

  “I guess so.” Quinn’s movements had slowed, and now there was a soft snore coming from the direction of my lap.

  “Good night, sir.”

  “’Night, Samuels.” I waited until he crossed to his vehicle before pressing the button for the window. It slid shut, and I eased Quinn back into his seat. “Come on, baby. A little cooperation would be appreciated.”

  “Hmm?” But he was still asleep.

  I got his seat belt fastened again and lowered his seat so he wouldn’t slump sideways and bang his head on the door. Only then did I do up my fly.

  And as I fastened my own seat belt, I started chuckling. Quinton Mann, wasted on beer. I shook my head, turned the ignition back on, put the car in gear, and headed home.

  It only took about twenty-five minutes to arrive at Aspen Reach. I pulled up to the gate, pressed the button on the remote I kept on the visor, and the gate opened.

  “Mark?” Quinn turned toward me, curled a leg under him, and reached across the console to rest a hand just above my knee.

  “Oh, you’re with us again?” There was no response. “Baby?”

  Nope, he was still asleep.

  Shit. I drove through the gate and followed the curved road that would take me to my building.