Chapter 12: Panama Landmine
The humid Panamanian air clung to Matthew’s skin like a second shirt as he pushed through the revolving doors of the hotel. The lobby was a cathedral of faded glamour, all terrazzo floors and gilded ceiling fans that churned the scent of plumeria and old money. He’d just endured eight hours of panels on transnational narcotics policy, and the ghost of Conrad’s text—a screenshot of a positive COVID test with the caption Sorry, darling. The universe hates us.—still buzzed in his pocket like a trapped insect.
He’d been braced for it, for the awkward handshake, the professional smile, the entire painful ballet of pretending the Fourth of July never happened. Now, with Conrad stranded in Buenos Aires, the conference felt oddly weightless, and somehow more dangerous.
The bar was a long, dark slice of mahogany and low light. Matthew ordered a gin and tonic, the ice cracking loudly in the humid quiet. He was on his second, sketching idly in the condensation on his glass, when he felt the presence behind him. A shift in the air, a familiar, solid silence.
“Hayes.”
Matthew turned. Brandon Weber looked like he’d been carved from the same mahogany as the bar—all stern lines and weathered tension. He wore a crisp, short-sleeved polo that strained slightly across his chest, his DEA badge clipped to his belt. His eyes, always a little haunted, scanned the room before settling on Matthew.
“Weber. They make you wear the badge to bed, or just to the bar?”
A flicker of a smile, there and gone. “Habit.” He nodded to the stool beside Matthew. “This taken?”
“By all means.”
Brandon ordered a bourbon, neat. They sat for a moment, listening to the clink of glasses and the murmur of Spanish from a corner table. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full of the Fourth of July, of Matthew’s dimly lit apartment, of Brandon’s rough hands and the shocking, vulnerable sound he’d made when he’d finally let go.
“Conference is a circus,” Brandon finally said, swirling the amber liquid. “Same guys, different tropical locale. You get much out of the panels?”
“A profound understanding of my own limitations, and a headache. The usual.”
Another silence, thicker this time.
“Heard your… heard Conrad didn’t make it.”
“COVID,” Matthew said, taking a deliberate sip. “The diplomatic gift that keeps on giving.”
Brandon nodded, his jaw working. He downed half his bourbon in one go, the muscles in his forearm tightening. “Look, Matthew.” He said the name softly, a rare breach of protocol. “I’ve been… I need to say something. It’s been eating at me.”
Matthew stilled. “Okay.”
Brandon wouldn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the rows of bottles behind the bar. “That night. After the party. I can’t… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Which is stupid. It’s just a night.”
“It didn’t feel stupid,” Matthew said quietly.
“No.” The word was punched out of him. “It didn’t. It felt like the only honest thing I’d done in a decade. And I’ve hated myself for how I handled it after. The silence. The… retreat.” He finally turned, his eyes a storm of conflict. “I regret it. Not the night. The cowardice. I saw you pulling away, getting involved with… other people. And I just let it happen. Because it was easier than being brave.”
The confession hung between them, raw and astonishing. Matthew felt a pang of sharp, sweet sympathy, quickly followed by a cold wave of reality. He’d replayed that night too, often in the quiet moments after Arturo had left his apartment, the ghost of one man layered over the memory of another.
“Brandon,” Matthew began, his voice gentle. “I enjoyed that night, too. More than I should have, probably. You have no idea how much I…” He stopped, choosing his words with care. “But things are… complicated. I’m actually… I’ve gotten back with my boyfriend. With Conrad.”
The effect was immediate. Brandon’s entire body went rigid, a statue of a man. The haunted look in his eyes deepened into something like devastation before he masterfully shuttered it, replacing it with a stoic blankness Matthew recognized as his professional armor. He gave a single, tight nod.
“Right. Of course. That’s… that’s good. He’s your history. Makes sense.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Matthew said, frustration leaking into his tone. “Nothing about this makes sense. But it’s the situation.”
Brandon finished his bourbon, signaled for another. The air between them was now charged with a different energy—a tense, aching magnetism laced with impossibility. Matthew could see the pulse beating rapidly in Brandon’s neck, could remember the feel of his stubble against his throat.
“The situation,” Brandon repeated, his voice a low rumble. The new drink arrived. He didn’t touch it. “So that’s it, then.”
“I don’t know what else it can be.”
Brandon finally looked at him, really looked at him, and the raw want in his gaze was breathtaking. “We’re alone here for three more days, Matthew. In this hotel. In this city. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it.”
Matthew felt it. It was a physical pull, a heat in his gut that had nothing to do with the gin. He thought of Conrad’s meticulous plans, of Arturo’s possessive kiss in his minimalist apartment, of the exquisite mess he was making of everything. He thought of the simple, terrifying honesty of Brandon Weber sitting beside him, offering a truth he couldn’t afford to take.
“I feel it,” Matthew admitted, the words barely a whisper. “But feeling it and acting on it are two different countries.”
Brandon held his gaze for a long, searing moment. Then he let out a slow, controlled breath, the fight visibly leaving his shoulders. He stood up, leaving the full bourbon on the bar. He placed a hand on Matthew’s shoulder—a heavy, warm, final weight.
“For what it’s worth,” Brandon said, his voice thick. “I’m trying to be brave. Maybe too late, but I’m trying.”
He turned and walked away, his figure blending into the shadowy lobby and disappearing. Matthew stared at the untouched bourbon, the ice in his own drink now completely melted. The tension hadn’t left with Brandon; it had simply expanded, filling the entire humid, flower-scented air, a promise and a threat for all the empty days and nights ahead.
The tension hadn’t left with Brandon; it had simply expanded, filling the entire humid, flower-scented air, a promise and a threat for all the empty days and nights ahead. Matthew stared at the abandoned bourbon glass, its surface beaded with condensation. The ghost of Brandon’s hand on his shoulder burned through the linen of his shirt.
A reckless, dizzying impulse surged up through the gin haze. He couldn’t let that be the last touch. He threw a crumpled bill on the bar and stood, his chair scraping loudly. The lobby was vast, but he spotted the dark shape of Brandon just disappearing into a corridor leading toward the guest room elevators.
“Weber!” His voice echoed, sharper than he intended.
Brandon stopped but didn’t turn, his broad back a wall of tension. Matthew closed the distance, his footsteps silent on the patterned carpet. He stopped a foot behind him, close enough to smell his clean sweat and the faint, sharp note of bourbon.
“You said you were trying to be brave,” Matthew said, the words tumbling out. “So show me. What does being brave look like, right now, for you?”
Brandon turned slowly. His expression was stripped raw, all the professional polish gone, leaving only a stark, hungry conflict. He searched Matthew’s face, his eyes dropping to his mouth.
“This,” Brandon growled.
He closed the distance in one swift motion, his hands coming up to frame Matthew’s face, and kissed him. It was nothing like their first, tentative kiss in Mexico City. This was a claim, desperate and demanding, all heat and pressure and the faint, bitter taste of whiskey. Matthew gasped into his mouth, his own hands flying up to clutch at Brandon’s solid arms, the crisp polo shirt soft under his fingers.
Brandon’s tongue pushed past his lips, a deep, possessive stroke that made Matthew’s knees weaken. One of Brandon’s hands slid down to the small of his back, yanking him flush against a hardness that left no room for ambiguity. Matthew groaned, arching into him, the hallway spinning.
When they broke apart, breathing ragged, Brandon kept their foreheads pressed together. “My room or yours?” His voice was a rough scrape against Matthew’s skin.
“Mine. Tenth floor.”
The elevator ride was a silent, charged agony. They stood apart, but the space between them vibrated. Matthew watched the numbers climb, his blood pounding in his ears. Brandon stared straight ahead at the brass doors, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. The ding for the tenth floor made them both flinch.
Matthew fumbled with the key card, his hands unsteady. The green light flashed. He pushed the door open and Brandon followed him in, closing it with a solid, definitive thud. The room was dark, cool from the air conditioning, the city lights a distant grid beyond the window.
They didn’t turn on a lamp. Brandon pushed him back against the closed door, his body a heavy, welcome weight. His mouth found Matthew’s again, more controlled now but no less hungry. His hands were everywhere, pulling Matthew’s shirt from his trousers, rucking it up to feel the skin beneath.
“Fuck, I’ve thought about this,” Brandon muttered against his neck, his teeth grazing the tendon. “Every goddamn day since July.”
Matthew’s own hands were just as frantic, pulling Brandon’s polo up and over his head, revealing the dense, dark hair that covered his chest and trailed down his stomach. “Show me, then,” Matthew breathed, scraping his nails through that rough terrain. “Stop thinking and show me.”
Brandon made a sound like a gut punch and spun them, walking Matthew backward toward the bed until his knees hit the mattress. He pushed him down and stood over him, his eyes black in the dim city light. He unbuckled his belt with a sharp, metallic rasp, the sound obscenely loud. Matthew shucked his own trousers and briefs, kicking them off, his cock already hard and leaking against his belly.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” Brandon said, the words ragged, as he stripped the rest of the way. His body was a testament to sheer physicality—powerful thighs, a thick, heavy cock curving upward from a thatch of coarse hair. He knelt on the bed, the springs groaning, and covered Matthew’s body with his own. The full, hot weight of him was breathtaking.
Their cocks slid together, a slick, maddening friction. Brandon gripped them both in one big, callused hand and pumped, his forehead falling against Matthew’s. “Jesus Christ,” Matthew choked out, arching up into that rough, perfect touch. “Don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Brandon’s mouth was on his again, swallowing his moans. His hand worked them faster, his thumb smearing pre-come over the heads, the filth of it making Matthew’s hips jerk. “You gonna come just like this?” Brandon growled. “Like a kid?”
“Fuck you,” Matthew gasped, but he was close, the coil tightening low in his gut.
Brandon released him suddenly, leaving him aching and empty. He fumbled in the nightstand drawer, found a small bottle of lotion. “It’ll have to do.” He slicked his fingers, his eyes never leaving Matthew’s face. “Turn over.”
The command sent a shock through Matthew. He’d been the one to lead that first night, to guide a nervous Brandon. This was different. He obeyed, pushing himself up onto his knees, presenting himself. The cool air on his exposed skin was a sharp contrast to the heat of Brandon’s gaze.
A thick, lotion-slick finger pressed against him, then pushed slowly inside. Matthew dropped his head between his shoulders, a low groan tearing from his throat. It was a stretch, a burning, exquisite fullness. “More,” he muttered into the covers.
“Greedy.” Brandon added a second finger, scissoring him open with a ruthless, focused precision. He crooked his fingers, searching, and when he found the spot, Matthew cried out, his hands fisting in the sheets. “There it is,” Brandon murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He worked Matthew open until he was shuddering, pushing back onto those invading fingers, his own cock hanging heavy and neglected.
The fingers withdrew. Matthew heard the tear of a foil packet, the rustle of Brandon sheathing himself. Then the blunt, hot head of Brandon’s cock was pressing against him, a demand more than an invitation.
“Look at me,” Brandon said.
Matthew twisted his head, looking over his shoulder. Brandon’s expression was fierce, unprotected, his lips parted. He held Matthew’s gaze as he began to push inside.
The stretch was immense, a breathtaking burn that stole the air from Matthew’s lungs. He pushed back against it, wanting the pain, the solidity of it. Brandon sank deeper, inch by inexorable inch, until he was fully seated, his hips flush against Matthew’s ass. They both froze, swallowed by the feeling of being utterly connected, skin slick with sweat.
Brandon moved. A slow, devastating withdrawal, then a drive forward that punched the breath from Matthew’s body. He set a relentless, pounding rhythm, each thrust jolting Matthew forward on the bed. The slap of skin, Brandon’s ragged grunts, Matthew’s own broken sounds—they filled the sterile hotel room.
“Is this what you wanted?” Brandon gritted out, his hands vise-like on Matthew’s hips. “This what you thought about when you were with him?”
“Yes.” The admission was a gasp. “God, yes.”
Brandon fucked him harder, deeper, his control fraying. He leaned over, blanketing Matthew’s back, his mouth at his ear. “You feel me? You feel how much I fucking wanted this?” His thrusts became erratic, brutal, perfect. Matthew reached between his own legs, stroking his cock in time with Brandon’s drives, the pressure coiling beyond bearing.
“Brandon, I’m gonna—”
“Come.” It was an order. Matthew obeyed, his orgasm ripping through him with a silent, seizing intensity, stripes of white painting the rumpled duvet. The clenching of his body pulled Brandon over the edge a second later. Brandon buried himself deep and held there, a raw, broken shout muffled against Matthew’s shoulder as he pulsed inside him.
They collapsed onto the damp sheets, a tangled heap of spent limbs. Brandon carefully withdrew, disposed of the condom, and fell back beside him. The room was silent except for their labored breathing. Matthew expected the usual shift, the retreat, the immediate wall of regret. He braced for it.
It didn’t come.
Instead, Brandon shifted. He pulled Matthew against him, turning him so his back was to Brandon’s chest. He wrapped a heavy arm around Matthew’s waist, his hand splaying possessively over his stomach. He nestled his face into the nape of Matthew’s neck, his breath warm and even on his damp skin.
Matthew lay perfectly still, stunned. This was not the protocol. This quiet holding, this unspoken claiming of the entire night, was a vulnerability Brandon had never shown. The tenderness of it was more disorienting than the sex had been. He could feel the steady, strong beat of Brandon’s heart against his back.
Outside, Panama City hummed, indifferent. Inside, the air conditioner whirred. Brandon’s arm tightened, just slightly, a silent anchor in the dark.
Matthew closed his eyes. He didn’t move until Brandon’s breathing deepened into sleep, and even then, he stayed, wide awake, trying to map the unfamiliar territory of this man’s embrace.
He didn’t move until Brandon’s breathing deepened into sleep, and even then, he stayed, wide awake, trying to map the unfamiliar territory of this man’s embrace. The solid heat of him was a narcotic, lulling Matthew into a shallow, dream-troubled doze where Conrad’s disappointed voice blended with Arturo’s mocking laugh. He surfaced minutes or hours later to a sudden chill, the weight and warmth gone from the bed.
The sound of a zipper cut through the dark. Matthew blinked, disoriented, and made out Brandon’s silhouette by the faint light from the window. He was pulling on his trousers, his movements quiet and efficient. “Going somewhere?” Matthew’s voice was sleep-roughened, scratchy.
Brandon stilled. “Yeah. Back to my room.” He sat on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes, his back a tense curve. “Can’t have housekeeping or some early-rising attaché putting two and two together at six a.m.” The practical, paranoid explanation hung there, but the air felt charged with something else, something unsaid.
Matthew pushed himself up on his elbows. The sheet pooled at his waist. “Right. Of course.”
Brandon finished with his shoes but didn’t stand. He just sat there, looking down at his own hands, clasped loosely between his knees. The city’s amber glow etched the hard line of his profile. When he spoke again, his voice was so low Matthew almost missed it. “That was… I’ve never….” He stopped, cleared his throat. “It was the best sex of my life. For what that’s worth.”
The admission landed in the quiet room with the force of a physical blow. It was stripped of all pretense, a raw piece of truth offered without ceremony. Matthew’s breath caught. He thought of the careful, performative intimacy he’d shared with Conrad, the theatrical passion with Arturo. This had been none of that. This had been a collision.
“For me, too,” Matthew whispered. It was true, in its own devastating way. “It was more than I imagined.”
Brandon nodded slowly, as if absorbing the words. He finally stood, collecting his polo shirt from the floor. He didn’t put it on, just held it in one fist. He looked at Matthew, his eyes dark pools in the dimness. “Matthew.” He said the name like it was a fragile thing. “Is this… is it ever going to happen again?”
The question, thrown back at him, was a surprise. Matthew felt the ghost of Arturo’s warning in his Polanco apartment, the possessive bite of his teeth. He felt the phantom pressure of Conrad’s expectations, a whole reconciled future waiting in Buenos Aires. And then he felt the very real, very present ache in his body, a testament to the man standing half-dressed in a Panama hotel room.
“Do you want it to?” Matthew asked, his heart hammering against his ribs.
A slow, real smile touched Brandon’s mouth, there and gone like a shadow. “We’ve got a whole week here. No Conrad. No embassy. Just this circus of a conference.” He stepped closer, reached out, and brushed a thumb over Matthew’s lower lip, a gesture so tender it made Matthew’s chest hurt. “It happens again if you want it to.”
Then he turned and walked to the door. He paused, a hand on the knob. “Get some sleep, Hayes.” And he was gone, the door clicking shut with a soft, final sound.
Matthew fell back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The scent of them—sweat, bourbon, hotel lotion—still clung to the sheets. His skin felt oversensitive, alive with the memory of Brandon’s hands. The best sex of my life. The words echoed, a seismic claim that shifted the ground beneath him.
Three men. Conrad, with their complicated history and the safe, known path of reconciliation. Arturo, with his dangerous charisma and the thrilling, professional ruin he promised. And now Brandon, a locked box he’d somehow pried open, revealing a vulnerable, hungry center that felt more real than anything else.
He thought of Brandon’s haunted eyes finally looking at him without shields. He thought of the week ahead, a string of empty nights in a foreign city. A wild, reckless laugh bubbled up in his throat, but it died before it could escape. This wasn’t funny. This was a spectacularly bad idea waiting to detonate.
Outside, a siren wailed, a distant sound that faded into the hum of the tropical night. Matthew turned onto his side, curling into the space where Brandon had been. The pillow still held the impression of his head. The choice, it seemed, was already made. He just had to live with it.