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If Handcuffs Could Talk 03
by Marilyn (Ranger Hunters) and Kevan
uploaded by Alfonsina
A Dance Before Dinner (Bobby)A glance at the clock told me the bad news. Three a.m. and I was still awake. Counting sheep hadn't helped. The ceiling didn't have any holes to count. Meditation hadn't worked. Neither had reciting multiplication tables or singing ninety-nine bottles of beer. I did not drink warm milk and, with that, I ran out of sleep inducing activities. With a groan, I accepted the fact that sleep was not in my foreseeable future and climbed out of bed.
Well, there was always web surfing. If I couldn't sleep, I could at least be entertained. I grabbed a glass of water and sat down at the table that served as my home office.
While trying to decide whether I wanted to log into one of the on-line games I play or just surf the web, I opened the app that showed the monitor feeds inside the RangeMan building. Habit. I flipped through the various feeds. Garage. Nothing. Main conference room. Nothing. Hallway outside my door. Nothing. Roof. Nothing. Gun range. Nothing. Well, it was three in the morning. What did I expect? That someone—
Huh? Someone was in the gym and they were… I didn't quite know what they were doing. They were… Dancing?
It was Az, the guy I knew the least about. In the year he'd worked for RangeMan, I'd learned that he was of Russian and Japanese descent, and spoke five or six languages fluently. I knew that at one point in his life, he'd been a sniper or assassin or something similar. He was far and away the best shot of all the guys. It was the reason for his street name—Azrael, the angel of death. Beyond that, nada.
Az was private, keeping to himself for the most part. Didn't hang out with the rest of us outside of work. Didn't live in one of the in-house apartments. As far as I knew, no one knew where he lived. He frequently disappeared for weeks at a time. I knew Ranger routinely assigned him the really bat-shit-crazy stuff. The stuff that made most of us, as skilled as we were, pause. Even by RangeMan standards, he was dangerous.
And at three a.m. in a dimly lit gym, he was dancing.
Well, not exactly dancing. At least not dancing as I thought of it. Some of the moves looked like ballet. Some looked like martial arts. Some looked like ballroom dances, only without the partner. Some looked like salsa. Some looked like hip-hop. Some looked like street fighting or hand-to-hand combat moves. But they flowed together, blending from one to the other and back seamlessly.
Az was barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of running shorts, and he was working hard, his body sheened with sweat. Reaching, bending, and stretching to the limits of his body. His muscles bunched and flowed under his dark bronze skin. His eyes were closed, lips slightly parted. Az wore his dark, waist length hair in a multitude of slim braids, all tied together high on the back of his head, and they flared out as he spun.
It was mesmerizing.
Audio. What the hell was he listening to? Was he listening to anything or was it in his head?
I clicked on the control to open the audio feed to go with the video, and immediately reached for the volume. The noise level was staggering. In the gym, it had to be like standing directly in front of the speakers at an AC/DC concert. It was the level where you didn't just hear the music, you felt it in your bones. Good thing the insulation between areas in the building made them nearly soundproof or all the guys would be awake and complaining.
After I had the volume adjusted to where I could make out what I was hearing, I realized that, just like his movements, it was a blend. No complete song. No single theme or style. If you took all the songs you liked—party songs, rebellious songs, soothing songs, happy songs, sad songs. Rock, classical, dance, blues, latin. If you took them all, mixed them all up, and then sampled the best part of each song. If you did that and then mixed all the parts together in a random order, you would have the soundtrack of your soul. That's what I was listening to—the soundtrack of Az's soul.
As I listened, I realized that his movements were the personification of the music. Hard and driving when the music was. Smooth when it was. Playful. Serious. Angry. Az's music—and his movements—ran the gamut of emotion. It was intensely personal, but I wasn't about to kill the feed. I couldn't.
And then Az wasn't dancing alone. There was another dancer. Someone had joined him. Someone who knew where and what Az was doing at three in the morning. Someone who, it was obvious, had danced with him before. It had to be another RangeMan employee. No one else could access the building. But who? The light in the gym was too dim for me to tell and the new dancer was on the far side, mostly in shadow. I knew a few guys it couldn't be, based on height and general body shape, but not who it was.
Their movements weren't the same. Each interpreted the music in his own way, but they danced together. I could see that they were aware of each other, connected by an invisible string. Never in each other's way. Never interfering with the other's movements. Graceful, moving toward and away from each other. It was seduction without words. Their bodies spoke for them.
When the second dancer moved into a place where I could make out who it was, I froze with a glass of water halfway to my lips, my brain convinced my eyes were lying to it.
Rav.
Rav is to women what catnip is to cats. They flock to him like moths to a light. Anytime we went out to a club, Rav had women throwing themselves at him. I'm straight. I've never been attracted to guys but even I could see why women loved him. Rav—no one was sure if it was a nickname or what it stood for—is Italian and Romani, and has the whole dark, broody, dangerous air down to a science. His cheek bones could be registered as lethal weapons. Maybe even more than Ranger, Rav could have his pick of women. Although, when I thought about it, I didn't remember ever seeing him leaving with any of them; he left alone.
And I'd never seen him with his hair loose. He always wore it in a thick, waist-length braid, but tonight it was loose, and as he danced it shifted and flowed around him like a black silk cape.
Absently, I set the water glass back down.
When the music wound down, Az and Rav stood mere inches apart, facing each other. Both were breathing heavily from exertion, bodies sheened with sweat. Az cupped the side of Rav's face with one hand while Rav placed both hands on Az's hips. Tilting his head, Az kissed Rav, a kiss that was hot and carnal. Rav responded, pulling Az closer so that their bodies were pressed together and sliding a hand down the back Az's shorts to feel his ass. Az's free hand slid into Rav's shorts, moving them down on one side and reaching into the cleft between his buttocks.
Shit! I wasn't gay, but after watching them for only a few minutes as they continued to do everything short of have vertical sex, I had a hard-on that tented my shorts and bordered on painful.
When at last they broke apart and left the gym, I blew out a huge breath. With a start, I realized my hand was in my shorts, stroking my cock. Crap! I'd been so caught up in watching Az and Rav, I hadn't even realized I was jerking off.
Wednesday 8 p.m.
An address
That's it. No explanation. Just a time and a place.
I'd found the note taped to my door this morning. No idea who'd left it; the handwriting wasn't familiar. Had to be someone with access to the RangeMan building which meant someone who worked here. Which meant one of the guys I work with. Which meant it was probably a set up. Which meant Santos was probably behind it or at least involved. Which meant I needed to watch my ass.
Lester's pranks were legendary. Devious, intricate, well planned and well executed. They were works of art. They were appreciated by everyone who wasn't the victim. And we had all been the victim at one time or another. It was a rite of passage. Every RangeMan employee eventually fell victim—except Ranger. Lester was crazy, but he didn't have a death wish.
I looked up the address online. Huh, a beach house. And I couldn't get any info on the owner. I tried but everything dead-ended at a holding company named AR Ltd. that was out of the Cayman Islands. Someone did not want anyone finding out they owned that house. It was overkill even for one of Lester's pranks.
Wednesday 8 p.m.
What the hell. It might be entertaining—even if I did wind up looking like a fool. Wasn't like I had any plans.
There was one vehicle in the driveway when I pulled in—a black SUV with dark tinted windows. Okay, I was definitely thinking this was a set up. That suspicion was confirmed when I checked the front window of the SUV and saw the small transponder that opened the gate at the Rangeman building.
So, I hadn't been crazy to come in full gear. If this was one of Lester's pranks, I might well need the Kevlar vest I wore. Hell, I might need Kevlar pants.
But, why would he leave a vehicle out in the open that he knew I would recognize? And why weren't there any other vehicles? There was no garage.
I eyed the house. It was neither small nor large, just a typical mid-size clapboard beach house with a steeply pitched metal roof. There was a covered front porch with three steps leading up to it. Add a dog and a couple of kids and it would be a Norman Rockwell painting.
Telling myself it was better to be safe than sorry, I slipped my Sig Sauer out of its holster and held it down by my thigh as I stepped up on the porch. There was a light on outside the front door which I cursed. It gave whoever was inside the advantage; there was no way they could not see me. The door was solid with no glass insert or even a peephole. I cursed again. I preferred doors with lots of glass—the more the better—so I could see what was on the other side. Okay, Lester, let's see what you're up to this time.
Standing to one side, I knocked on the door.
I thought I was ready for anything but when the door opened, I froze.
Rav stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but black drawstring pants and a turquoise necklace with his hair once again loose. I could see the whole of the tattooing that covered his right arm and shoulder. And he had wide silver bracelets around both wrists that I'd never seen before.
Not what I was expecting by a long shot. Not even in the same universe.
He chuckled and leaned against the edge of the door as he looked me over. "You're not going to need that," he nodded toward my gun, "or the vest, but you might need the handcuffs."
Huh? What was going on?
"What were you expecting?" Rav asked.
"Uh, from what the note said, I thought this was one of Lester's stupid ass pranks."
He laughed, a full-on laugh I'd never heard from him before. It was a good laugh—a rich, full baritone laugh. "What exactly did the note say?" he asked when he reined in his laughter.
"Wednesday 8 p.m. and the address."
"That's it?"
I nodded.
"Crap! That's the last time I let Az write an invitation. I swear he and Ranger have a competition to see who can use the fewest words in the year."
Az? Az was here too? Invitation? I was seriously lost.
"Come on in, Bobby," Rav nodded his head toward the inside of the house. "Food's ready. Let's eat."
Food? The damn note had been a dinner invitation? Rav was right. Az needed serious help with his social skills.
"Beer, wine, or water?" Az asked. "We banned liquor from the house after the Spiderman incident."
What? I'd shed my vest and utility belt, and was no longer tensed, waiting for Lester to spring out of the other room with some wild-ass prank, but I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Rav and Az a) were apparently living together and b) had invited me to dinner. And now Spiderman?
"Spiderman?"
Az laughed—the first time I'd seen him laugh. Actually, he seemed totally relaxed, something I'd never seen from him either. On the job, Az was intense, focused, all business. And displayed no sense of humor.
"Rav is not good with liquor."
"Az don't—" Rav started but Az cut him off with a raised hand. Rav shook his head and disappeared into the kitchen, apparently resigned that the Spiderman incident would get explained.
"It started with tequila and ended with Rav—naked—trying to crawl up the roof to prove he has Spiderman abilities."
"It was a dare! You dared me!" Rav yelled from the kitchen.
I couldn't help it. I laughed. The mental image of a drunk, naked Rav trying to scale the steeply pitched tin roof of the cottage—and of Az daring him like a schoolboy—was just too funny.
Rav returned and set a large bowl in the middle of the table. The aroma wafting up from it had me salivating. Damn! I, like the other guys, rarely got to eat anything home-cooked—food was box-on-top from the freezer or take-out—and this was definitely made from scratch. Cioppino. Man, I love cioppino—a taste I'd acquired while working a job in San Francisco. Rav added a round loaf of hot, crusty bread and a crock of butter. Awesome.
"Beer, wine, or water?" Az asked again.
"Beer is good," I replied absently, my mind, like my eyes, fixed on the bowl of cioppino.
After the first taste, I was ready to adopt Rav. Or kiss his feet. Or offer to bear his child. Anything. Crap, how could I get a standing invitation to dinner?
Rav flopped down on the sofa beside me, stretched his legs out and propped them on a table. He dropped his head back, sighed contentedly, and closed his eyes.
"So, how did you get Az to agree to clean up the kitchen?" I asked.
"We have a deal. I cook; he cleans."
Seriously? This was sounding way too domestic. I mean, all of us, all the guys, we were…well, not domestic.
"How did you learn to cook?" I asked.
Rav smiled without opening his eyes. "Went to a culinary school in Italy. Studied food and wine."
Well, that explained why he'd drunk wine with dinner instead of beer. I could reliably tell red wine from white wine and that was about it. "Seriously? You went to a school to learn to cook?"
"Yeah," he answered, the smile still playing around his lips. "I like food and wine. It's like music or art—it's expression of emotion—which I totally suck at when I try to use words."
Art. I hadn't paid much attention earlier, but now that I did I saw that pictures covered the walls of the room. Some were paintings, some were pencil and ink sketches, some looked like colored chalk. The subjects were mostly body parts. A hand. A face in silhouette. A hip and thigh. Some were only a few lines, a bare suggestion. Some were incredibly detailed. And they covered the walls, crowded so closely together that it was difficult to tell what color the walls were painted.
"Yours?" I asked.
"Huh?" Rav opened his eyes.
I gestured to the walls, the art.
He shook his head. "No. That's Az."
Okay. Deep breath. Rav is a kick-ass cook and Az is an artist. Who would have guessed?
And they were fucking each other. Based on the level of comfort and familiarity with each other they displayed, it was a long-standing relationship. Which begged the question—
"Why am I here?"
Rav rolled his head to look at me, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't get me wrong. That cioppino was awesome and I will never turn down an invitation if you're cooking, but why am I here? Why did you invite me and what is it going to cost me?"
Several minutes passed as Rav studied me. At last, he sighed and sat up, putting his feet back on the floor and leaning his forearms on his thighs. "You watched us when we danced."
Images from that night flashed through my mind. I still wasn't sure how I felt about what I'd seen—or my reaction to it. "How—?"
Rav cut me off. "Remember the blinking light on the monitor? Goes from red to green when it's active? We were curious who was watching and bribed Malware to check the logs to find out."
Malware. Crap. Mal is crazy. As in certifiable, as in do anything, anytime, anywhere crazy. Mal is also blatantly bisexual, like Lester. I didn't want to imagine what Rav and Az bribed him with.
"I'm straight," I blurted out, without thinking.
Rav laughed. "We know that. Hell, we're not trying to get you in our bed—although I admit I would love to see you there. It's just dinner."
Az chose that moment to plop down sideways in an armchair and throw a leg over the arm. Like Rav, he wore nothing more than black drawstring pants. Unlike Rav, he wore no jewelry. "Relax, Bobby. I agree with Rav. Straight up, I'd love to have you in our bed, but if that's not happening for you, then it's not. You're still invited back for dinner."
A wicked grin spread across Rav's face. He rolled off the sofa and went to where I'd dumped my gear. I couldn't see what he was doing and wasn't sure I wanted to know.
He came back and stood in front of me, my handcuffs dangling from one finger. They were gently swinging side-to-side and my eyes followed them—back-and-forth, tick-tock. What the hell? He'd said I might need them but for what?
Rav straddled me, his knees on each side of my hips. "Here's something to think about." He looped the handcuffs behind my neck and pulled me toward him. And kissed me. It was amazing. Awesome. Mind blowing. It was—no woman had ever kissed me so thoroughly. My mind might have hesitated, but my body left me with no doubt that it approved—and wanted more.
And then he drew back. He stroked a finger down my jaw. "Your decision." He pointed toward a closed door I hadn't noticed before. "Guest room is that direction. You're welcome to stay if you don't want to drive back tonight. Sheets are clean. There's a bathroom and some extra clothes in the closet. And I'll cook breakfast in the morning."
He stood up—and held up the handcuffs. "But I'm going to cuff me and Az together tonight with your cuffs, and I'm going to scream your name when he fucks me."
He headed toward the door leading to their bedroom, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Whatever you decide tonight, dinner next Saturday is osso bucco. 8 p.m."
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