Flash Fiction ~ Man on Phone

“For fuck’s sake, Dungeon, would you stop looking at your phone? Cannon said he’d call as soon as Brady got back to him regarding Gibson. Staring at an empty screen isn’t going to make the man contact us any quicker.”

Mason “Dungeon” Cross bit back a curse, mentally listing all the reasons he wouldn’t stand up and kick his buddy’s ass. Not that Priest didn’t deserve it. The man had been hounding him ever since they’d gotten the assignment—since Cannon had called and dropped it in Dungeon’s lap. Apparently, he was the only guy among them that would fit in. Could actually compete in the Dragonflight Con and not make a fool of himself. And Priest had been itching to find him backup ever since. To the point Dungeon had done the one thing he’d sworn he’d never do.

He’d called in a favor.

Not that Cannon wouldn’t have helped him, regardless, but Dungeon knew if he left the selection up to Priest, the guy would volunteer to go, himself. And that wasn’t going to work. Not when Priest didn’t know an RPG from a MUD.

Of course, most of the guys had started firing questions at him when they’d heard him and Priest talking—shouting, if he were being honest. Asking Dungeon why the con was going to have rocket propelled grenades, and what new kind of weapon MUD stood for. It had taken longer than he’d anticipated to explain role-playing games and multi-user dungeons. No one had asked another question since. 

Besides, he needed a partner who wouldn’t be recognized as part of his former squad. Any squad, to be precise. The bastard they were after, a rogue CIA agent by the name of Ian Slader, might believe one ex-Delta Force soldier had a penchant for tabletop games. But two?

That was one too many, and Dungeon’s cover would be blown before he’d even started. Add to that the fact he’d officially come out of the closet since retiring, and he was batting a whopping zero with respect to finding a suitable teammate. If he was going to have backup, they’d need to stay close. And their best bet would be posing as a couple. 

Which meant partnering with someone he trusted who also fit in. Being attracted to men was a bonus, especially if the situation arose where they’d have to sell their cover. Hold hands. Kiss. A tall order during the best circumstances—not that he didn’t know a few qualified guys who swung his way. But they were still active, and Dungeon would not risk their livelihood to save his own ass. Forward thinking or not, staying under the radar was still the safest option. Sure, his unit had always known about his preference—something he hadn’t wanted to hide from them—but those were men he trusted. Were brothers.  This… This was different. And seemingly impossible. 

In fact, there was only one name on the list that was remotely doable. Gibson Miller. Ex-British Special Forces, and the one guy Dungeon hadn’t been able to get off his mind since they’d worked briefly together a few months back. Dungeon didn’t know if Gibson—Gib, as he seemed to prefer—knew anything about gaming, but the man was smart, strong, and lethal. Didn’t hurt that he looked like sin in denim, and Dungeon had no doubts Gib could fit in. That he had the wits to learn how to blend—quickly. And he was definitely the caliber of backup Dungeon would like. He’d seen the man kill up close—knives, guns, his bare hands—and he knew Gibson would have Dungeon’s back if shit went sideways.

When it went sideways. Because it always did.

Dungeon glared at Priest. “If you must know, jackass, I’m researching the con. Determining what kind of games I can compete in. The level of players I might face. How many tickets are left. I realize it’s not your forte, but these things sell out quickly. Not to mention needing to find a room.”

“I thought you already did that?”

“You said, and I quote—’No backup, no mission.’ So far, I don’t have any backup.”

“This is important.”

“You think I don’t know that? That bastard, Slader, has slipped through the cracks far too many times for my liking. He’s a damn snake. And if he manages to hand off that list…”

“Then, why don’t you just let me go? I’ll have your back.”

“Because I’d rather not have you punch me when I have to slap a wet one on you.” Dungeon held up his hand. “I know. Anything for the mission, but I promise you, Slader and whoever he has with him will be looking for plants. If you can’t sell that we’re…together, it’s game over. And as much as you love me—as a brother, a teammate—you’d never sell that.” He held up his hand. “I’m not judging. I doubt I’d be able to sell being a straight guy, so…”

Priest frowned. “I…” A blast of music drowned him out. He grabbed his phone, answering the call. “Hey, Cannon, thought you’d be calling Dungeon, directly. But, tell me you have good news.”

Dungeon waited, heart beating strangely erratically as Priest nodded, mumbling a few words he couldn’t hear before ending the call. Dungeon waited to see what Priest would say, but the man just sat there, staring off into space. “Well?”

Priest glanced over, a slow smile curving his lips. “Buy the tickets and book the room. Gibson’s in.” His smile flourished. “And while you’re at it, you should change your Facebook status, because you’re officially in a relationship.”