Moonlight Becomes You

Chapter 3

Chapter 3After his breakup with Julie, Kyle didn’t have the time—or money—to date, circumstances being what they were. It looked like he was going to spend the rest of his life dateless and bussing tables at the Pizza π, but then the gang at work told him they planned to take him out on his twenty-first birthday to the Drink and Be Merry and would treat him to his first legal beer, which of course he had to write Brady about.

That was the night his world changed. He happened to overhear a couple of men in the booth in front of the one he and the gang were sitting in, talking about a company headquartered in Boston that happened to need someone who could read and write Braille. It sounded cool, a real Godsend actually, and he thought “Why not?”

Kyle applied, and as luck would have it, he landed the job, and he was so hopped up on getting it and being able to use his knowledge of Braille that he didn’t think to mention his fluency in other languages, especially since nothing had come of it with any of the colleges he’d applied to.

But he’d have to tell his sister he was leaving town. Maybe she’d decide to come with him. But even if she chose Sonny over him, he wanted her to know where he’d be.

* * * *

Kyle watched the small house from a vantage point down the street. As soon as the asshole pulled out of the carport and headed off to his precinct, Kyle whipped his little Chevy into the drive and jogged across the tiny patch of lawn. He rapped lightly on the front door, the tattoo he and Cherrie had always used to signal one or the other was home.

The door opened, and Cherrie stood there, her auburn hair tied up in a messy knot, a dishrag dangling from a hand, and water spots on the flowered cotton blouse she wore. “Kyle. What are you doing here?” She seemed nervous. “You know Sonny doesn’t—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I just wanted to see you one last time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve got a job on the East coast.” He reached out and gripped her wrist. “Please come with me.”

“I can’t. I’m married.”

He’d been afraid this would be her reaction. “All right. I want you to have this.” He handed her an envelope with his company’s address on it. “I don’t have a place to stay just yet, but if you need to get in touch with me, you’ll be able to reach me through them.”

Tears welled up in eyes as violet as his. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did between you and Sonny. If only you hadn’t chosen to be gay…”

“Cherrie. Two things. One: being gay isn’t something you choose. You’re born that way. And two: I’m not gay.”

“Sonny said you’d say that.”

He sighed and shook his head. At one point she’d thought for herself, but not anymore it seemed. “I have to go home and finish packing.”

“Do you have enough money?”

“Since I haven’t had to give your husband all my pay, I’ll have enough.”

“Kyle, that’s not fair.”

The way Sonny treated him wasn’t fair, but she wasn’t going to accept that. He held up a hand to stop her from saying anything else. “I’ll be selling my car, and that will help until my first paycheck. Anyway, I’ll be here for a few more days, if you change your mind—”

“I won’t. I…can’t.”

“All right. My phone number is in that envelope, along with enough money for a train ticket to Boston.”

“I won’t—”

He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I love you, Cherrie. If you ever need me, call.”

She gave him a tight hug. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You, too.” He gazed into her tear-filled eyes for a long moment, then turned, walked down the steps, and crossed to his car.

He glanced back at his sister to give her a final wave, only to see the front door closing behind her.

He brushed a hand over his eyes, got in the car, and drew in a deep breath. Well, that settled it. Beyond a job that had been little more than a dead end, there wasn’t anything for him in Los Angeles. He switched on the ignition, stepped on the clutch, and put the Chevy in first gear.

Maybe he’d even find a nice girl to date.

* * * *

Boston was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. For one thing, it was cold. For another, it snowed almost four feet his first winter there. He’d wound up spending an entire paycheck buying appropriate clothing—thermal underwear, sweaters, flannel pajamas when he’d never worn pajamas…He’d also needed a number of fleece blankets because the heating in his apartment wasn’t worth mentioning, but he didn’t have enough left of his paycheck to buy any. Fortunately, there was a small shop not too far from where he lived that sold yarn and knitting supplies really cheap. He bought as many skeins as he could afford, a set of bamboo knitting needles, and an instruction booklet, and taught himself how to knit. It took a couple of weeks to get the hang of it, and then a couple of months to complete a single blanket, sitting next to his gas stove in the evening to stay warm.

Because it took so long, he wound up coming down with one head cold after another that winter and was sent home from work more than once.

And okay, that sucked, but worst of all, he was stuck doing data entry and had only gotten to use his knowledge of Braille a single time. Now he only got to use it when he responded to the odd letter from Brady.

I should have stayed in LA. He missed Brady, he missed his friends from work and shooting pool with them, he missed the weather, he even missed his low-paying job. Deliberately, he refused to think of his sister.

“Winchester.”

His fingers slipped on the keys of his computer, and he hit the wrong key, leaving a long row of forward slashes. He pulled his fingers away from the keyboard and looked up. Ms. Magali, who worked in HR, stood before his desk. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Mr. Weiss wants to see you. Come with me, please.”

The associate director of Human Resources? Kyle swallowed, pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet. There was no phone on his desk, which explained why someone had to come tell him in person, but why Ms. Magali? She was Mr. Weiss’s personal assistant, but if Huntingdon wasn’t so behind the times, she would have been running the department herself.

He followed her into the elevator and swallowed heavily as she pressed the button for 67. “Can you…can you tell me why Mr. Weiss wants to see me?”

She met Kyle’s eyes. Hers were so brown they were almost black. “I’m afraid not.”

His mouth went dry. Was he getting fired? The economy being what it was, he might not be able to find another job in Boston. He could…he could wind up homeless. Although if worst came to worst, he could always go back to bussing tables.

The elevator door slid open, and Ms. Magali strode out. Kyle followed her like a bedraggled puppy. She opened the door to Mr. Weiss’s office, gestured for him to enter, and then walked away.

Kyle swallowed hard. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I did.”

Kyle kept quiet, afraid if he said a word that would be all the man before him would need to boot him out.

“Sit down, please.” Mr. Weiss nodded to a chair. “I don’t think you’re happy here.”

He sank down into the chair. Crap, he was getting fired. “Isn’t my work satisfactory?”

“I didn’t say anything about the quality of your work.”

“No, sir.”

“Tell me. Why did you happen to apply to Huntingdon?”

“I was under the impression you could use someone who was familiar with Braille. I put it on my resume.”

“Hmm. Yes, I recall now. Unfortunately, as it turns out, Huntingdon has very little need for it at this time.”

Crap. Kyle wanted to do a facepalm. He didn’t of course, not in front of this man, but he really wanted to. Was he about to get fired? He hurried to inform Mr. Weiss, “I can also read, write, and speak Spanish, French, German, Latin, and Italian.”

“Why didn’t you put that on your resume?”

“I didn’t think it would make much difference.” It hadn’t to any of the universities he’d applied to.

“Interesting.” He tapped his pen on his desk blotter. “You’re from California, aren’t you?”

The sudden change of topic confused him. “Um…Yes, sir.” Was he going to label Kyle a Valley boy? “I’ve…uh…I’ve never surfed.”

“Good to know.” Mr. Weiss’s smile was chill. “I’d have expected you to know Spanish, but those other languages…” He paused a moment to jot something down on a notepad. “Yes, very interesting. Tell me, Winchester. How did you learn about Huntingdon?”

If he was going to lose this job, he saw no sense in lying about it. “I overheard a conversation about it at a bar where the people I used to work with took me for a beer. To celebrate my birthday.”

“Ah, yes. I recall now.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

He waved away Kyle’s confusion. “Tell me about it.”

So Kyle did, not that there was much to tell. When he finished, Mr. Weiss steepled his fingers and observed Kyle over them.

“According to your resume, you never went to college.”

“No, sir. Quite frankly, I couldn’t afford it.”

“I don’t understand. Considering your facility with languages, I’d have thought they’d jump through hoops to get you.”

Kyle shrugged. “They didn’t want me.”

“Hmm. Well, as it turns out, neither Huntingdon nor her sister organization require a knowledge of Braille at this time. However, someone with your linguistic capabilities…Would you be interested in being transferred to DC?”

Boston was a great city that offered amazing options to pass his free time—including picking up another language, which he hadn’t brought up, because he was still learning Russian—but to move somewhere warm and be paid for it?

Kyle didn’t have to think about it. “Thank you, sir. I’d like that very much.”

* * * *

So here he was, working for the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security—known by its employees as the WBIS—in Interior Affairs, and it really wasn’t anything like…anything…in either Boston or LA.

The apartment the WBIS had set Kyle up in was in a building that dated back to the 1930s. It served its purpose, and while it didn’t have a doorman, the outer door did have its own key, which Kyle kept on the same ring that held the keys to his apartment door and the late model Dodge he’d been assigned. After work, Kyle would usually pick up some takeout and drive home, where he’d park his car in the underground garage—he had his own assigned parking spot, and how freaking cool was that? He’d gather up his bag of Chinese, Italian, or…um…okay, he’d admit it: Burger King—unless Mickey D’s was offering its McRib sandwich, in which case he’d stop there every day for that—lock the Dodge for the night, and jog up the narrow metal staircase that opened into the lobby floor. He’d cross to the elevator, press the button, and wait for the car to arrive to take him up.

His apartment on the twelfth floor wasn’t much larger than a matchbox. He didn’t really mind its tiny size—his place out in LA had been as small, but it had tall ceilings and windows on every wall. This apartment only had a single window in the bedroom, since other apartments butted on his, and as a result it had an almost claustrophobic feel to it. That was one of the reasons why he spent most of his time after work at Cal’s Bookshelves, a local used bookstore on 18th Street NW. The owner had set up an area with a coffee bar and comfortable couches and armchairs, as well as tables where would-be writers could set up their laptops so they could work on their magnum opuses. Opusi? Screw it, all the strings of words they planned to put together. Kyle wasn’t a writer—except for the reports he had to prepare and his occasional letters to Brady and the fanfic he transcribed for his friend—but he did enjoy reading.

He guessed he led a fairly unexceptional life, quiet, bland, boring…lonely…

The WBIS had taught him to protect himself, but the powers that be seemed to feel he was better suited for the office. As a result, he didn’t often get an opportunity to go out in the field, even if the field was simply the area that made up the District of Columbia, but he was okay with that, because the pay and benefits were amazing. He’d even been given a disc containing the names, photos, and profiles of various young ladies and young men who were on the WBIS payroll for “stress relief.” The WBIS had no objection to whichever side of the street their agents strolled, thereby protecting them from the threat of blackmail over who they chose to sleep with.

Awesomesauce, right? Wrong. He’d dated a couple of the ladies, who were very kind to him, but he missed having a girlfriend. Added to that, he still wasn’t doing anything with his knowledge of Braille, was still doing glorified data entry. He could live with that, no biggie. The major drawback was the director Kyle worked under, a man named Robert Sperling. Sperling was as horrible as Kyle’s brother-in-law, but that gave Kyle an edge—he knew how to handle assholes like that, and he dealt with Sperling without seeming to deal with him.

There were times, though, when the Director of Interior Affairs left Kyle feeling as if his stomach was tying itself into knots, that an ulcer was in his immediate future—You’ve got no choice, dummy. You cut all your ties to home and can’t go back, so suck it up and do your f*****g job.

Which he did for more than a year, keeping his head down and watching as men—older, smarter, and with a shitload more experience—were ruined by Sperling and left the WBIS mentally shattered. One even got involved with autoerotic asphyxiation and died, although the official cause of death was given as the result of a home break-in gone wrong. Kyle wouldn’t have been surprised to learn Sperling was behind that, since he’d seen the unfortunate man leave Sperling’s office on more than one occasion, limping or wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and looking pale and unhappy.

But then later in the spring of 2002, Sperling himself turned up dead, and word flew around headquarters that Mark Vincent, senior special agent at the time, was responsible. It made sense, since there was no love lost between the two men, but Kyle didn’t care one way or the other. He was just relieved he no longer had to answer to Sperling…

Until he discovered who the new Deputy Director of Interior Affairs was going to be—the selfsame Mark Vincent. Oh God, just shoot me now.

Kyle kept his mouth shut, but his nerves were shredded, and as a result, he became more hyperactive than ever.

Fortunately, as hard a man as Mr. Vincent was, Kyle had no difficulties working for him, probably because for the most part he never challenged the man’s orders.

That winter, Mr. Vincent was promoted to Director of Interior Affairs. Kyle was called into his office.

“You’ll be working under Matheson,” Mr. Vincent told him. He stared at Kyle. “That means you’ll get your own office.”

Kyle gave a bounce—his own office—and opened his mouth to express his gratitude.

Mr. Vincent cut him off before he could say a word. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“No, sir.” But did that mean…“Do I get a secretary?”

Mr. Vincent gave him a look.

Okay, so no secretary. “Um…which office?”

“The one closest to the data analyst cubicles. It’s empty right now and probably smells it. I’ll have jobs for you to do, but The Boss wants you to be available in case they need your help. Contact Maintenance to air out your office and move your computer, then gather up your stuff.”

“Yes, sir.” He’d been at the WBIS long enough to know computers went with their masters.

“All right, get out of here.”

He did as Mr. Vincent ordered, and once he’d settled into his office and had his computer up and running, he took a moment to sit back in his chair, lace his hands behind his head, and stare up at the ceiling. What hurt could a bit of daydreaming do? He pictured a day down the road, when he was Deputy Director of Interior Affairs. He wasn’t dumb, even if those colleges thought so. He was pretty sure he’d do a decent job running the department on those days when Mr. Matheson was away, because if Kyle was deputy director that would mean Mr. Matheson had become the director. Kyle’s eyes widened. That would mean Mr. Wallace had retired and Mr. Vincent—

His phone rang, and he nearly spilled out of his chair in the rush to answer it. “Winchester.”

“Mr. Vincent wants you in his office.”

Okay, the time for daydreaming was over. “I’m on my way.”