Note: This is for Gail’s birthday, 2/25/14. Mark happens to share the day with her. ;-)
Happy Birthday, Baby Redux
I stared out the window of my corner office on the tenth floor of the building that housed the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security. It was a dismal day in DC, with another snowstorm in the forecast. Was this eight? Nine? A hundred?
This winter had been fucked up beyond belief.
I glanced at the calendar on my desk and scowled. February 25th. It hadn't miraculously changed in the time I had been looking out the window.
It was still my birthday.
And when the fuck had I gotten so soft? I’d gone for years without receiving a birthday card, and it hadn’t mattered. Now, just because no one had sent one this year….
Well, I knew that wasn’t the whole reason I was so bummed. I’d be spending this birthday alone.
Mind Fuck, the book Quinton Mann, my lover, had written, had evolved into a series. It was about us, although we’d been disguised as a spook from the CBI, the Central Bureau of Intelligence, and a spy from the ONS, the Organization for National Security. The sixth book, Charmed Life, had been released a few weeks ago, and Quinn was out of town on a book signing tour.
My son, Joe, was away at Cornell, working on his doctorate, while Clayton and Porter, Quinn’s twins, were visiting with their grandmother. Quinn had refused to have a nanny, and since he’d resigned from the CIA, he’d become a stay-at-home dad. Now, with him away and the twins’ school closed because of the snow, Portia had volunteered to have them stay with her until I came to pick them up.
My cell phone rang, shaking me out of my reverie. Bad to the Bone. Trevor Wallace was no longer The Boss—that was me, and had been for the past seven years—but that was still his ringtone.
“Hello, s-Trevor.” Eleven years ago, he’d told me to call him by his first name, but occasionally I still slipped.
“Hello, Mark. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
“Not at all.” I’d always have time for the man who’d been like a second father to me.
“Excellent. I was wondering if you’d mind having dinner with me?”
“Is anything wrong?”
“No. Nola is having a girls’ night out with Ms. Parker and Ms. DiNois, and I’m at loose ends.”
“Nola” was Ms. DiBlasi, his former secretary and actual partner, while Ms. Parker was my secretary, and Ms.DiNois was Matheson’s.
When I’d replaced The Boss as… The Boss, Matheson had taken over Interior Affairs and became the director of that department. I knew his husband was pleased he no longer worked in the field.
“I’d like that,” I told Trevor. “What time?”
“About six? I know that’s early for you, but old people need time to digest.”
“You’re not old, sir.” Although truthfully, he’d be facing down ninety in a year or so. I looked at my wristwatch. It was almost five, and I was supposed to leave soon to pick up the twins, but Trevor never asked for anything, and if he needed someone to talk to, I’d be there for him. “That’s fine. Where did you want to meet? Or would you rather I pick you up?”
“No, I don’t need a ride, but thank you. I thought… Raphael’s?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Raphael’s was the restaurant where Quinn had invited me to dinner on my birthday twelve years ago. We’d had penne ala vodka, veal piccata, and tiramisu, and Quinn ended the evening by giving me a present I hadn’t expected—a blow job in the men’s room. We had a standing arrangement to meet there every Friday evening. Not this week, but…. “I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”
“Thank you, Mark.”
“It’s my pleasure.” We said good-bye and hung up, and then I called the house in Great Falls, where Portia still lived.
“Mann residence. Alexander Vincent-Mann speaking,” Xander’s voice piped over the line. Gregor must have taught him that.
“Hi Xander. It’s your old man.”
“Hi Dad! Do you have to work late tonight?”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Oh. Well, can we stay a little longer at Grandmother’s? Gregor is teaching us to play Clue.”
“Sure, as long as it’s okay with Grandmother.” It still felt weird addressing Portia that way, but then it had taken me a while to get out of the habit of calling her “ma’am.” “Put her on, okay?”
“Okay, Dad. She’s right here.”
“Good afternoon, Mark. How are you?”
“Good, thanks. Missing Quinn.”
“We all are.”
“I think I may take a few days off and fly out to LA.” That was where he was scheduled to be for the next week. And while I was there, I thought we’d visit with Paul and Spike and stay for the Oscars. Spike had finally gotten his nomination, as best supporting actor. “Would you mind keeping the twins if I do?”
“Of course not. I think that’s a splendid idea.”
“Thanks.” The twins had little suitcases, and I’d help them pack—I could do that. And Gregor could drive them to school, if it ever opened again. “I have another favor to ask, Portia. Trevor Wallace invited me to dinner. Would it be an imposition if Clay and Porter stay with you for a few more hours?”
“Not at all, Mark. Gregor and I love having them visit with us.”
“I appreciate it. I should be by to pick them up around nine, but if I’m going to be later, I’ll call and let you know.”
“Don’t worry about it. You know they have spare clothes here if they have to stay another night.”
“Thank you again. I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, you will.” What did she find so amusing? “Good-bye, Mark.”
“Bye, Portia.”
**
Giovanni, who’d been maître’ d of Raphael’s since it opened, smiled broadly when I entered the restaurant. “Signore, it’s so good to see you!”
“Thanks, Giovanni. I’m supposed to meet a friend this evening.”
“Ah, sì. And dinner will be excellent. Penne ala vodka, veal piccata, tiramisu.” He snapped his fingers. “Cesare!”
The waiter popped up, almost like a jack in the box, and grinned broadly when he saw me. For a minute I thought he was going to kiss me on both cheeks as he’d done the last time I’d been here with The Boss, after he’d realized I wasn’t cheating on Quinn. “If you’ll come this way?”
Instead of leading me to the table in the alcove where Quinn and I usually dined or the table I’d shared with The Boss some years back, he ushered me through a door that opened into another area of the restaurant.
The room was dark, but that just meant my hearing went on alert. As soon as I heard the whisper of material brushing against something, heard the muffled voices, I crouched and reached for my Glock.
A hand rested on my arm. “It’s okay, babe.”
The lights went on and a wave of “Happy birthdays” washed over me. I knew my jaw had dropped, but I was speechless.
Joe, the twins, Portia and Gregor, all her brothers, Theo and Matheson, Paul and Spike, Trevor Wallace and Ms. DiBlasi, Granger, Ms. Parker, and Ms. DiNois, DB Cooper and his ladies.
“Did you think we’d forgotten, Dad?” Joe grinned at me.
I ruffled his hair, then looked toward Trevor. “No wonder why you didn’t want me to pick you up.”
“Portia came up with the idea of me calling you to have dinner.” He touched her shoulder, and Gregor growled and stepped between them.
“Devious, every last one of you.” So that was why the menu had been so familiar. It was what Quinn had ordered for that first birthday dinner.
“We are, aren’t we?” Quinn let his palm trail down my arm and twined his fingers with mine.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were out in LA.”
“Did you think I’d miss your birthday, Mark? Now, before we sit down to eat—” Quinn brought my mouth to his and then slid his arm around me. “Happy birthday, baby,” he whispered, and in front of family and friends, he kissed me.
