If Morse is smarting after the case with that striking young woman, Eve Thorne, he doesn’t say anything about it to Robbie, preferring to let his hips and his cock do the work of expressing all his frustration for him.
SOOOOOOOOOO. i'm going to put something from one of my Novels in the hopes that it'll spark a curiosity in someone, anyone, so i keep WRITING IT dammit
“I assume you’ve heard the news.”
“I have already been on a very tense call with Michael Forrester, where I explained I had no idea what those two Midwest chucklefucks were talking about, and that he does realize the Soviet Union is no friendlier a place for homosexuals than his country is.”
“Brown and Romanoff are being debriefed at the Kremlin right now, though.” Lazar had intercepted a teletype sent to Azar’s eyes only thanks to Svetlana’s undying crush on him. (It was really too bad he preferred older women. Much older women.)
“Brown is a genius programmer responsible for this country’s ridiculous computer security measures, which guard their nuclear weapons; Romanoff is a jackass, but he was clever enough to turn Brown in the middle of goddamn McCarthy and those poor idiot Rosenbergs. We’re interested strictly in their brains; I could care less about what makes their cocks twitch.”
Lazar leans back in his chair, refusing to stand in her presence, not out of any flouting of deference, but because every time she swears in her scratchy, husky voice, it makes him twitch.
Azar looks at him as she goes behind her desk and sits down with a groan, and she laughs. “God, you’re pathetic, you do know that, right?”
“It’s an involuntary response.”
“To the woman you want nothing more than to depose. Happy New Year’s by the way.”
“One year closer to your retirement.”
“I’m not going anywhere, sonny.”
“Were you behind the defection?”
“I arranged the plane out of Chicago, but that was just an order to follow. Did you know anything about this?”
He, of course, did. He had been Romanoff’s handler in the 60s, when Brown was off having children with his wife in a little podunk Illinois town and waffling about his allegiances and his sexuality. He had been the one to keep telling Romanoff to continue pressing Brown, but not to bring him in from the cold. Not yet.
And, on Christmas Day 1984, just days after Vicky Brown, longsuffering wife of Jimmy Brown, died from a sudden and mysterious onset of kidney failure, he had been the one to call up Romanoff in his hotel room in Chicago and order him to make one last seduction of a grieving Brown over to their side. Brown had been growing more religious since his Vietnam vet son had died from suicide; who knows where his brain and soul would’ve gone after his wife (finally) kicked it.
Romanoff called him the next morning from his hotel room’s balcony, light Russian accent tickling his full RP, cackling softly into the receiver. “He’s ready.”
Lazar looks at Azar and leans forward, feeling his arousal fade just enough. “I’m as in the dark as you are.”
