The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

“Feels nice,” he mumbled.

He was too tired to get worked up about it, but yeah. Nice.

Sam said, “My mother used to rub my head when I had trouble sleeping.”

Jason huffed amusement. It was hard to imagine Sam ever lying still long enough for a head rub. It was hard imagining Sam as a little kid. But he’d seen the pictures to prove it.

“All those bees buzzing around your bonnet, no wonder you cain’t sleep.” Sam’s droll mimicking of Ruby Kennedy’s Western drawl won a tired laugh from Jason.

“Her secret weapon.”

“One of them,” Sam agreed.

He continued that slow, restful head massage, and Jason tried to convince himself he was going to drift off. Of course, the more he tried to tell himself he was sleepy, the less likely sleep was.

“It won’t go on forever,” Sam said after a time.

Jason moved his head in assent. Was that the good news or the bad news? Sometimes he wasn’t sure.

“And I know you know this, but it’s not just about situation awareness or staying sharp. You have to take care of yourself. Eat right. Sleep right.” Sam added neutrally, “Go easy on the alcohol.”

Jason grimaced. “I know.”

Sam’s fingertips lightly brushed his ribs. Jason amended, “I’m trying.”

Sam didn’t say anything else, or at least didn’t verbalize anything else, but he was saying plenty through touch, and Jason let himself be reassured, comforted, by those silent caresses.

Chapter Six

JOGGING read the single word scribbled on Holiday Inn stationery.

Jason peered blearily at the paper on the pillow next to him, sighed, and dropped back to stare up at the ceiling sprinkler heads. Sam was by nature an early riser. Also a late-to-beder. In fact, he did not sleep much, period. Which was why waking him up in the middle of the night when he did finally manage to rest was really not okay.

But thank God he had been there last night. Last night… Last night Jason had needed a friend as well as a lover, and he was just very grateful Sam had been there.

But how the hell much longer was this going to go on?

Most of the time he was too busy to worry about— Well, that was a lie. He did not ever entirely forget that Kyser was out there. It was like knowing you had some dreaded virus sleeping in your bloodstream, something that hadn’t manifested yet but was probably going to kill you one of these days.

Hopefully the Bureau would find the cure first, but there was no guarantee.

Jason heard the hotel room door slam as he was stepping out of the shower. He had delayed returning to his own room in hopes of a final few private moments with Sam. He already knew Sam was having breakfast with SAC Phillips, so that possibility was out.

He dried off—making sure to leave a clean towel for Sam—and opened the bathroom door.

Sam was on the phone, of course. He raised his brows in silent greeting.

“See you in twenty.” He disconnected, tossed his phone to the bed. “Morning. Sleep okay?”

His face had a healthy flush beneath the sheen of perspiration. His hair was damp. He wore navy sweats and a sweat-stained navy T-shirt with the gold initials FBI.

“You mean the part of the night when I wasn’t shouting down the house?”

“You don’t talk in your sleep, let alone shout.” Sam smiled faintly. “It’s the only time you don’t talk.”

“Hey.”

But Jason was not offended. It was true. He was verbal. Strong communication skills was a notation on every report card and job evaluation he’d ever had. Not always a compliment.