Cutter whirled on his brother. “I’m supposed to be calm when Walker fucking raped her?”
“Don’t say that. You don’t understand,” Brea insisted.
“Oh, I understand perfectly.” Her best friend looked murderous.
She turned to Cage with an imploring gaze.
The older Bryant brother nodded. “Bro, you’re not supposed to be out of bed. And you’re definitely not supposed to be driving.” He plucked the truck keys from Cutter’s grip. “Today isn’t the day to fight this battle.”
Cutter looked gutted. “You’re taking her side?”
“I’m taking yours,” Cage insisted. “That pain pill should be kicking in about now… The one that warns against operating heavy machinery or an automobile.”
Cutter clutched his head. “We can’t let Walker get away with this. He needs to die.”
Brea groped for her patience. “He did nothing wrong.”
But one look at Cutter’s face told her that he’d never believe her. He saw her as a little girl. He would never believe she had chosen to have sex with a man who wasn’t her husband, especially someone he held such a low opinion of. If burying her head in the sand was sometimes her downfall, Cutter’s was being stubbornly blind. He didn’t want the truth, so it didn’t exist.
“He did everything wrong,” Cutter growled. “And you let him take whatever he wanted from you to save my miserable ass. I will never forgive myself.”
Before she could say another word, he pivoted toward his mother’s house and marched for the front door, leaving her alone with Cage. His expression was more measured, equal parts righteous anger and curiosity. “Want to talk about it?”
Brea shook her head. She loved Cage like family, but she’d never been as close to him as she was to Cutter. The last thing she wanted to do was share her personal life with more people or bring anyone else into this strife. “I don’t, except to say that your brother is wrong.”
“Walker didn’t rape you?”
“No. Not at all.”
“That fits. You might be pious and soft-spoken, but if he’d hurt you, then you would have said so.”
“Thank you for being rational.”
“Cutter will be, too. Eventually. I hope.” He winced. “Right now, he’s just angry.”
“Your brother is so stubborn. We both know he may never change his mind.”
“Without a significant slap upside the head? Maybe not,” Cage conceded. “Anything I can do to help until then?”
“Get him back to the doctor. He shouldn’t return to work until he’s been medically cleared.”
“I’ll do my best. I need to be back on the road to Dallas. My shift was supposed to start about…now.”
Brea closed her eyes as more guilt enveloped her. No, she hadn’t called Cage and demanded that he spend half the night looking for her. Cutter had done that. But if she’d looked at her phone sooner or checked in or reached out… “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “I could use the extra day off. I’m going to escort Mama to church this morning. Then I’ll be heading down the road. You should probably take a shower before your father wakes up. I know you don’t wear makeup often, but you might want to put on some today.”
She blushed again. “Are the marks that obvious?”
He grimaced and pulled at the back of his neck. “Afraid so. I don’t have a particular beef with Walker. I don’t even know him. But I know you. So I know the guilt is probably eating you up inside. And if you exchanged your body for my brother’s safety, I regret whatever you had to endure, but I’ll forever be grateful that Cutter is alive today.”
Then Cage was gone.
Brea swallowed, standing stock-still until she heard the soft thump of their front door closing.
God, she didn’t even know what to feel anymore. Guilty, yes. Sorry? Some of that, too. Exhaustion, worry, uncertainty. Somewhere in there, shock that the world felt so different in some ways but exactly the same in others. Still, under it all, giddiness prevailed. Pierce Walker had more than touched her. He had stolen a piece of her heart. And rather than wring her hands and wonder how on earth she’d ever get it back, all she could do was wonder if—no, how—she could spend the night in his arms again.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday, August 19
One-Mile started Tuesday in a foul mood. Over forty-eight hours had passed since he’d last pressed his lips to Brea’s—while buried deep in the sweetest, snuggest cunt he’d ever felt. Then he’d awakened alone. After cursing a blue streak, he’d tried repeatedly to reach her.
Calls and texts on Sunday morning went unanswered. Fine. He’d figured she was sleeping or, better yet, breaking up with that asshole Bryant. But a few hours later, he’d rolled up to the little white house of worship her father preached at and, from his Jeep across the street, he’d seen her talking to a group of middle-aged moms. Cutter had been fucking glued to her side, his arm wrapped around her waist as if he owned her.
Brea hadn’t objected, simply curled up against him as if she was where she wanted to be.
The sight had been a punch in the gut.
After that, his mood had rolled downhill.
By Monday morning, he’d been itching for a fight. Since he’d promised Logan he wouldn’t bring their shit into the office, One-Mile had been more than prepared to beat the shit out of the asshole in the parking lot. But the Boy Scout had been a no-show. Normally, he would have relished a day without the insufferable bastard. Not today.
Later, he’d learned the bosses had insisted Bryant get medically cleared before he darkened their door again. Whatever. All One-Mile had cared about was the fact that Brea still hadn’t responded to him.
This morning she finally had—texting him four brief words.
I need some space.
That told him where he stood. Brea had enjoyed her night of fun with the bad boy and was now kicking him to the curb. He should just say fuck it and do his damnedest to forget her. But he already knew he’d fail.
Besides, two and two wasn’t adding up. Brea hadn’t merely fucked him to save her boyfriend. If she had, she would never have given him her virginity or let him take her repeatedly Saturday night. She would never have kissed him with such innocent gusto. She would never have moaned so uninhibitedly every time her pleasure climbed. She would never have screamed so loudly when her climaxes hit. She would never have clung to him while she slept like a baby. She’d wanted him. Her needing space now? That was either Bryant breathing suspicion down her neck or her good-girl guilt barking. Maybe both.
He was going to call bullshit—and call her bluff.
Once he’d tracked her down, he’d coax, cajole, or seduce her into listening to his pitch to leave her boyfriend—who had never treated her like a woman. Then she could move in with him. Sure, it was fast. Yes, he was probably crazy. One-Mile expected obstacles. But he wasn’t wrong about them. Brea Bell was his. The more he thought about it, the more his gut told him that was true.
Cutter was nothing more than a speed bump.
One-Mile slammed the door of his truck and locked it before shoving his way into EM Security Management’s offices. Just inside the lobby, their pretty blond receptionist, Tessa Lawrence, sat at the front desk, doing her best to ignore Zyron. But the big lug had perched his ass on the edge of her desk to flirt shamelessly, despite the fact their bosses had a strict policy against fraternization and the woman didn’t seem inclined to say yes. Even now, Tessa looked pale and nervous as she focused on her computer screen, typing away as if Zy didn’t exist. But he didn’t take the hint, instead asking her out—yet again—in low, suggestive tones while flashing his Hollywood smile.
Dumb ass. Her baby was only a few months old, and her ex-boyfriend’s desertion only a few weeks older than that. The last thing a woman like Tessa was looking for was some asshole to nail her.
As he passed them, Zy scowled—the nonverbal equivalent of get the fuck away from my woman. One-Mile held up a hand. Hi
s fellow operative was welcome to fall flat on his face all day with the cute receptionist. He wasn’t interested in any woman except Brea.
When he reached the dark corner of the building that housed his desk, One-Mile slumped into his chair and booted up his computer, eyeing the avalanche of unread messages dropping into his inbox. Updates on hotspots around the world. Information that might affect current and upcoming cases. Forensic reports on incidents they’d wrapped. Miscellaneous shit about new toys the bosses had acquired. Paperwork reminders. And on and on…
His mood went from dark to black as hell.
Why hadn’t Brea told Bryant to fuck off? Did she love the stupid Boy Scout, in spite of the fact he didn’t light her fire? Or had things changed? Now that she was no longer a virgin, had she and Cutter decided to screw waiting for marriage and fucked?
The thought made One-Mile homicidal.
He launched himself to his feet and headed for the coffeepot, wondering if Bryant would show up today. As he rounded the corner, he picked up a clean mug from the shelf and looked up.
Speak of the SOB…
“I want to talk to you.”
Cutter barely glanced away from the java he poured. “Fuck off.”
Maybe the asshole didn’t understand. “It’s about Brea.”
Bryant slammed the pot back onto the brewer. “You’re never touching her again, so whatever happened over the weekend? Forget it and move on. She’s going to.”
Was the Boy Scout bullshitting him? “You and me. Outside.”
“Not happening. I’ve already been warned against drama in the office. Since I can’t kick the ass of my esteemed fellow operative”—Cutter raised a sarcastic brow—“I want you the fuck out of my sight.”
With that, he turned away and slunk back to his desk on the far side of the adjacent conference room.
One-Mile had had enough—and he knew how to fix this.
He whirled around, in search of Logan. But when he entered the boss’s office, it wasn’t the younger Edgington he found. Instead, a completely unfamiliar man stood there. He was somewhere around thirty, had some awesome ink and a don’t-fuck-with-me vibe.
Logan hustled up behind him, bitching about some computer virus or another.
“Stone, this is Pierce,” Logan said to the other guy.
One-Mile looked the stranger up and down. Were they hiring him? He looked badass enough to fit with the crew. More importantly, he didn’t look like a snitch, a douche, or another Boy Scout.
He nodded toward Stone. “I prefer One-Mile.”
Logan sighed. “One-Mile, then. He’s our resident sniper. Rather than his given name, he prefers to be known by his longest kill shot. God save me from big egos.”
It had nothing to do with his ego and everything to do with hating his father, but he didn’t owe anyone that explanation.
Stone stuck out his hand. “Hey.”
“Good to meet you.” One-Mile shook it.
“Stone Sutter is a computer hacker extraordinaire. Jack Cole and the boys at Oracle are letting us borrow him to isolate a virus on the server, so don’t open any email attachments.”
“Not a problem,” he told Logan. “I’d like to speak to you.”
“What’s up?”
“I can’t work with Bryant. I quit.” Now that he’d delivered his news, he was free to find Cutter and beat the ever-loving fuck out of him.
Before he could escape Logan’s office, the former SEAL shut him down. “Nope. You can’t. I’ve got a contract. You signed. We paid the bonus, and you cashed the check. End of conversation.”
One-Mile halted. Fucking Logan throwing legalities in his face. Even worse, the bastard was right.
Naturally, Cutter chose that moment to stick his head in the door, glaring daggers. “Fucking douche.”
He barely managed to refrain from violence. “The feeling is mutual.”
“I told you no drama, so give it a rest, you two.” Logan rolled his eyes. “If I can work with my older brother, you can get along enough to get your shit done.”
Bryant raked a hand over his military-short hair and shook his head at Logan. “I will never trust him enough to be on an operational team with him again. If he wants to quit, I say good riddance.”
Logan slammed a fist on his desk. “Cutter, I don’t give a shit that Pierce slept with your girlfriend.”
“One-Mile,” he corrected through clenched teeth.
“Whatever.” Logan waved a hand through the air.
“No! It’s not whatever,” Cutter insisted. “I can’t work with Brea’s rapist.”
What? Had the dickhead convinced himself that the only way Brea would have ever been underneath him was unwillingly?
I got news for you, buddy, and it’s all bad…
“I had her consent.”
“You manipulated her so that she had no choice but to say yes.” Cutter clenched his fists.
One-Mile glared at the cockroach, arms crossed over his chest. “If you wanted her that badly, you should have claimed her sometime between junior high and July. You had plenty of time. But it took you too long to find your dick. That’s not my problem. She’s mine now.”
Cutter narrowed fierce eyes his way, glowering as if he’d lost his mind. “She’s not even speaking to you, asshat.”
He shrugged it off. “Misunderstanding.”
“No, reality. Something you’re clearly not familiar with. And if she fucking winds up pregnant—”
“That’s enough,” Logan shouted. “I don’t care if you beat the hell out of one another after hours, but stop bringing your personal shit to work. If you can’t, I’ll lock you in a room together until you learn to get along or one of you kills the other. I don’t care which at this point. Be professional and do your damn jobs.”
Silence fell in the wake of Logan’s verbal beatdown. Cutter swore and stomped away.
Despite Stone watching with rapt interest, One-Mile felt a stupid urge to explain, probably because if he was stuck in this job and his bosses despised him, the rest of his two years here would really suck. “I didn’t rape her.”
“Since she had to choose between saving her boyfriend’s life and sleeping with you, I’d say you coerced her. It doesn’t get much lower than that in my book. Now get the fuck out.”
Goddamn it to hell. They’d bought into Cutter’s version of events without talking to him. Even when he hadn’t done anything wrong, he got labeled the bad guy. Whatever. He could set them straight, but he really didn’t give two shits about their opinion of him as a human being.
“Roger that.” One-Mile sent Logan a mock salute, nodded Stone’s way, then marched the hell out, making a beeline for the coffeemaker.
Before he could pour his first jolt of liquid caffeine, the elder Edgington peeked his head around the corner. “I need you in my office.”
One-Mile rolled his eyes. “One minute.”
“Now.” Hunter disappeared around the corner.
One-Mile sighed. Somehow, this place had already become asshole central, and Hunter looked like he had even more attitude than Logan. He definitely needed java to deal with this.
After his mug was full of steaming fortification, he dragged his ass to the elder Edgington’s digs. Trees Scott slouched in one of the two office chairs yet somehow still towered over everyone.
“What’s up?” he asked, staring at the other two.
“Shut the door,” Hunter barked.
Frowning, One-Mile complied, then when his boss gestured him to put his ass into the empty chair, he planted it beside Trees.
Hunter pressed his fingertips together, face taut. His voice dipped to something just above a murmur. “We have a mole.”
“What?” One-Mile couldn’t have heard that right. Fuck, if they accused him…
Hunter nodded. “Yeah. Someone inside this office. We’ve autopsied the most recent Mexico mission, trying to figure out what the fuck went wrong. Both of you thought on your feet and kept the whole thing fro
m turning into a death trap. But I don’t have to tell you how close it was. Somehow, the Tierra Caliente thugs not only knew we were coming in but when and where, too. Trees, if you hadn’t hauled Zy out of there when something felt wrong—”
“We’d be dead,” said the tall man.
“Exactly. Same with you and Bryant.” Hunter nodded his way. “Logan, Joaquin, and I all talked to the colonel about this. We’re in agreement that someone on the inside must have fed the cartel information, so we’re trusting you two—and no one else—to help us figure out who.”
Being on the good guys’ team was an interesting turn of events.
One-Mile leaned in. “Uncle Sam hired us. No chance it was someone closer to Washington DC?”
Hunter shook his head. “We didn’t tell them our exact plans. Sure, they knew we were going in, but not when, where, or how. Only our guys had those details.”
So unless the cartel had guessed their multiple locations really fucking well—and what were the odds of that?—someone he worked with was a traitor.
The thought turned One-Mile’s blood to ice. “What’s the plan?”
“First, I have to take a step back and give you two a history lesson.” Hunter sighed. “About eighteen months ago, Arnold Waxman, a wealthy doctor from Atlanta, hired the colonel to infiltrate the Guerrero region in Mexico and find his daughter, Kendra. She had traveled there with a group of doctors to give medial aid to the poor. They got caught in the crossfire when a couple of factions within the Tierra Caliente cartel started warring and they were taken hostage. Waxman paid the ransom, but Kendra wasn’t released. That’s when Logan, Dad, and I stepped in and discovered that another rival splinter gang, headed by Emilo Montilla, had overrun the first and taken the hostages. We located them, got in, then extracted Kendra, along with the rest of the survivors.”
This was all news to One-Mile. But something must have gone to shit since because it definitely hadn’t been their last trip to Guerrero. “Then what?”
“While Kendra was in captivity, she made friends with Valeria Montilla, Emilo’s wife. She begged us to smuggle her out with the medical workers. She was pregnant and feared what would happen to her child if she stayed.”
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