Danger Zone (The Elite Book 1)

by Brooke Blaine

  What the hell does he see in that guy? Not that I cared; I was just genuinely curious at this point how Smooth would manage to get it up with someone like that.

  Like he felt my eyes on him, Smooth glanced up, and even from across the room it was impossible not to get sucked into those piercing, cold baby blues. And that was only if you managed to look away from his well-toned physique, one that screamed of hours spent honing each and every curve of muscle.

  Too bad his body wouldn’t be put to good use tonight. Not with limp dick over there, anyway.

  I chuckled as I brought the cold beer up to my mouth, causing Smooth—still looking my way—to frown. With his brows pulled down, he narrowed his eyes, the question in them as loud and clear as if he’d asked it out loud: What the hell is so funny?

  If he couldn’t figure that answer out for himself, I wasn’t gonna be the one to tell him.

  Leaning back against the bar, I propped my elbows behind me, beer in hand, and cocked my head to the side. This guy needed a challenge, not the sure-to-be-a-disappointment in front of him. My lips curved, and I gave Smooth my most seductive grin, the one that had a ninety-five percent success rate, and waited for him to realize his mistake.

  He held my gaze for a long moment, and just when I thought I had him, he shook his head, said something to peanut dick, and slid out of the booth. As his “date” followed suit, I kept my eyes locked on the two of them. It was clear I’d provoked some kind of reaction from the guy, but what I wasn’t quite sure.

  Was he about to peace out on the idiot who’d shown up late to claim his prize tonight? Or was he—yeah, fuck my luck—about to take him out the back and try to prove to himself that he wasn’t more interested in me than the guy whose hand he was now taking hold of?

  As Smooth wrapped his long fingers around the dipshit’s hand, I imagined how it would feel having them tightening around my cock instead. I widened my legs a fraction, my jeans growing uncomfortably tight as Smooth weaved the two of them through the crowd in my direction. I knew he wasn’t heading my way, but the fact that I could see his chiseled jaw and the stubble lining it just made my dick throb even harder. Because hell if that wouldn’t feel amazing between my thighs.

  As though he’d read my mind, Smooth whipped his head in my direction, his eyes locking on mine like a missile finding its target, and just before he disappeared down the side of the bar, I threw a wink his way and then ran my tongue around the top of my beer before taking another sip.

  Fuck it. If he was about to go out the back and get his rocks off with one of the most boring men to walk through the doors of this bar, he might as well do it with the image of me in his head, because let’s face it, we both knew whose tongue he wished he could be tasting here—and it wasn’t the guy he was now aiming a fake-ass smile at.

  When Smooth disappeared from sight, I scanned the bar looking to see if there were any other viable options for the night. With NAFTA looming just around the corner, I’d come here tonight with a plan—to get laid. I had ten arduous weeks ahead, which meant ten weeks of celibacy. But with the only person I’d taken an interest in now off fucking someone much less interesting than myself, it seemed my plan had just taken a nosedive.

  I turned back to face the bar and gestured for the bartender. I didn’t need the shot of tequila, but since my options had been find someone to fuck or get fucked, it looked like plan B was in effect: get off-my-face wasted. Nothing like a bangin’ hangover to make a good first impression on my instructors. Not that they’ll be expecting anything less from Mateo Morgan, I thought, rolling my eyes as I swallowed down the shot. I was more than aware of how my reputation preceded me, and the fact that I’d been accepted into the most elite fighter pilot academy in the world? Hey, they knew what they were getting into by shooting me an invite. After all, my last evaluation had read: While Mateo Morgan remains an excellent pilot, we have concerns about his reckless behavior, aggressive maneuvers, and his lack of willingness to be a team player.

  “Team player,” I muttered to myself, holding my shot glass out for a refill. Maybe I’d be a fucking team player if everyone else got their heads out of their asses and learned how to fly a goddamn plane.

  I downed the shot, not even feeling the burn this time, and then scrubbed my face with my hands. I hadn’t come here to think, not about anything other than my dick, and I refused to sit here wallowing with no prospects. This might’ve been the only gay bar on the outskirts of town, but from the look of it, I’d have a better chance hooking up with some random in an alley. Heading to a bar anywhere near the base wasn’t the smartest move, not with the way our small community talked, and God knew I already had a target on my back.

  I motioned for one last shot and then closed out my tab, ready to find somewhere more promising, when Smooth’s plain-vanilla fuckboy walked out of the bar—alone.

  Huh. That’s an interesting development…

  Shoving my wallet in my back pocket, I headed in the direction the guys had disappeared to. It’d only been, what? Five minutes? Definitely less than ten.

  I snorted. Called it.

  The short hallway seemed to branch off into different rooms—how had I missed this?—but before I had to guess which one they’d gone into, Smooth stepped out of the one on my right.

  A quick once-over told me whatever had happened had indeed been unimpressive. Barely a hair mussed, his stunning face relaxed with no hint of excitement in his cheeks.

  “Aww, leaving so soon?”

  At the sound of my voice, Smooth raised his head and his eyes found mine, and I wasn’t shocked in the least to see them filled with frustration instead of desire—satisfied or otherwise.

  “You know, I’m all for a quick fuck, but that would’ve had to have set records. Lemme guess, he couldn’t get it up?”

  When a dangerous gleam entered Smooth’s eyes, my lips twitched. There was nothing I liked more than a little danger to ramp up the adrenaline, and this guy seemed to have a knack for making my pulse go from zero to a hundred in mere seconds.

  Oh, he also had a knack for making me shoot my mouth off.

  “Ahh, that’s not it? So maybe it was you who couldn’t get it up.” As the word up left my tongue, Smooth took several steps forward until I was forced to back up, and when my ass met the solid wall behind me, I couldn’t stop the smile that curved my lips. Seemed I’d struck a nerve.

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  I let my eyes rove over the stunning face now only inches from my own, and took in the sinful body I wanted pressed up against me, then brought my eyes back to his. “Not when I see something I want.”

  Smooth placed a hand up against the wall by my head, his eyes now so dark they were almost black. The danger from seconds ago was still there, but it was now coupled with the desire that had been missing.

  “And you don’t care if that something has made it clear he’s not interested?”

  “Not always. Sometimes that makes it even more fun.”

  “Fun, huh?”

  “Well, I guarantee you wouldn’t be walking out in less than five minutes. Aaand”—I glanced down between our bodies—“it’s pretty obvious you wouldn’t have a problem getting it up.”

  “That was never a problem to begin with.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then what was?” I knew the answer to that question already. You took the wrong fucking guy out back. But whether Smooth here would admit it was left to be seen.

  “A pair of whiskey-colored eyes, tanned skin, and a mouth I really want to shut up but somehow know I shouldn’t.”

  Well, shit, that sounded promising—and surprising, considering I hadn’t expected a truthful answer. I reached for the belt loops of Smooth’s jeans and tugged him in, closing the final distance between us. I needed to feel that rock-hard body against mine, and when he thrust his hips forward, I couldn’t help the moan that escaped my lips. His erection was hard and thick against mine, and I pushed
my hips up against his to feel the friction again.

  “This is what you want?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

  “Feels like it’s what we both want.”

  “Maybe.” He brushed his thumb over my lips before trailing his fingers down my throat and over my shirt. I felt him trace the outline of the dog tags I wore, and then he leaned in so close I closed my eyes, expecting his mouth to take mine. Instead, he said, “But I know your kind, and you’re the kind of trouble I can’t afford.”

  Then Smooth, or whatever his name was, dropped his hand and stepped back, giving me one final look before turning for the door.

  “So that’s it?” I pushed off the wall. “I don’t even get a name?”

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What do you need my name for?”

  With a smirk playing on my lips, I decided to give him one last memory to think about. “So I know what to call out when I get myself off later.”

  Surprise lit his face before the hunger settled in, and he dropped his head and chuckled. Then he started to push the door open, paused, and when he looked back my way, he said, “Grant. That’s the name you can use later.”

  3 Mateo Morgan

  Call Sign: SOLO

  “SOLO, MY MAN.” A hand slapped down on my shoulder as I opened the locker I’d been assigned, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Gucci a.k.a. Pete Carter, my best friend, with a big, goofy grin on his mug. “Can you believe we’re doin’ this?”

  “Fuck yeah, I can,” I said, as we clapped hands and went into the special handshake we’d come up with a decade ago, back when we were silly teenagers with big dreams. Now we were just foolish bastards with even bigger dreams.

  “You check out your plane yet?” he asked, opening the locker beside mine.

  “You know I have.”

  “Some dicklicker posted a sign on mine that says Chanel. Fucking Chanel. Can you believe that shit?”

  I snorted, unpacking the contents of my bag into my locker. “Gucci, Chanel. Easy mistake.”

  “Oh, fuck you, man. It’s your fault I’m stuck with the name for life.”

  “That’s what you get for puking your guts in a girl’s handbag right before training.”

  Gucci groaned, slamming his head into his locker repeatedly. “Four rounds of three wisemen and you expect me to keep that shit in my body? Why couldn’t I get ‘wiseman’?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You really want me to answer that?”

  “Or even ‘lightweight.’ Hell, I’d take that.”

  “Could be worse. You could be stuck with ‘vomit.’ Or ‘hurl.’”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Gucci haphazardly tossed his toiletries into the locker, muttering, “Chanel…”

  With more care than my former copilot, I set each item in its place and ran my fingers over the tan flight suit hanging up—I was already wearing the green one. Ready for day one. The Naval Aviation Fighter Academy, or NAFTA, here in Mesamir, California, would be my home for the next ten weeks. I was used to living out of a duffel bag, going from base to base wherever I was assigned, never putting roots down anywhere. Who knew where the hell I’d end up once I finished the competition here? Guess that’d depend on whether I choked or won the whole damn thing.

  “So what’d your ass get up to last night?” Gucci let out a moronic snort of laughter as he added, “Or is it too tired to answer?”

  A smirk tugged at my lips as I closed the locker door. “You’re such a class act, Gooch.”

  “What can I say, my mother raised me right.”

  As I leaned up against the locker, I thought back to last night and Mr. Smooth, and while I wished the slight discomfort in my body this morning was due to being pounded into my mattress by that phenomenal body, the alcohol was what was responsible for my less-than-tiptop condition.

  But Gucci didn’t need to know that.

  “Your mother’s a wonderful lady who has the unfortunate luck of claiming you as her son.”

  Gucci flashed a toothy grin my way. “Whatever. I’m her favorite son—”

  “You’re her only son.”

  “Exactly. Heather and Holly can battle over who’s the favorite daughter, but I will always be the favorite son.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “And you’re avoiding the question. So, lemme guess.” Gucci stroked a finger over his chin. “You went to some seedy bar on the outskirts of town…”

  Okay, the fact that he zeroed in on that so quick was fucking alarming. But then again, if anyone knew a seedy bar, it was my man Gooch.

  “You perched that sweet little tush of yours at the end of some banged-up bar counter, ordered yourself a”—Gucci paused and ran his eyes up and down my body and then nodded—“a beer to start with, but looks like you hit something harder later, and perused the dimly lit interior for a burning heap of hulking man.”

  “Okay.” I raised my hand to halt him. “Please stop talking or I might hurl.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong?”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Gucci narrowed his eyes, and I made sure to keep my face neutral, but the bastard had known me way too long.

  “Ha! You’re lying.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.” Gucci pointed to my eyebrows, first one and then the other. “It’s twitching. The left one. And it only twitches when you’re lying.”

  Fucker knew my tells better than I did. “Fine. You nailed it.”

  “Uh huh, but did you, uh, nail it?” Gucci winked at me as he changed into his flight suit, and I rolled my eyes, taking a seat on the bench.

  “You know me.”

  “Yeah, I do. And the way you’re not blasting off at the mouth tells me it was either the worst you ever had or you couldn’t manage to get any.”

  “Oh, I got some.” I shoved my feet into my boots as another smirk crossed Gucci’s lips.

  “Of course you did.”

  “I did,” I said, annoyance creeping into my voice. “What the fuck did you do last night that was so amazing?”

  “Flew in on a redeye. No mile-high action, but I did get the flight attendant’s phone number.”

  “How exciting.”

  Gucci shrugged and zipped up his suit. “That’s why I’m trying to live vicariously through you, my man. Gimme somethin’ so I don’t feel like my weekend was a total waste.”

  “You called it with the bar. Some dive on the outskirts and zero prospects except one.”

  Leaning back against the lockers, Gucci crossed his big, bulky arms. “There it is. And?”

  “And he was a wild, hot ride. Ya happy?”

  Gucci threw back his head and laughed. “You didn’t even get a name this time, did you? Just ‘wild, hot ride.’”

  “Actually, I did,” I said, standing up. “Grant.”

  “Grant? You sure that’s his real name?”

  “Why the hell would it be fake?”

  “Huh. What did this Grant guy look like?”

  “Jesus, you really do want a play-by-play.” I sighed, cracking my neck from side to side. “Little taller than me, phenomenal body. Pitch-black hair like a—”

  “Panther?” Gucci offered, his eyes cutting past me as several other trainees entered the locker room.

  “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

  Gucci nodded and then slung his heavy arm over my shoulder, and just as I was about to ask him what his deal was, he pivoted us to where the other guys were now chatting and stowing their gear.

  A shiver of recognition raced up my spine as I took in the long legs, firm ass, and broad shoulders standing only feet away from me. My eyes continued their hungry path up to a dark head of hair the color of a…panther’s, and that was when Gucci leaned in close to my ear and said, “Please tell me that’s not the Grant you were mooning all over?”

  I would’ve paid good money to have the answer to that be no, but as Grant’s piercing blue eyes found mine, my stomach dropped.

  “Fuck.”

  4 Grant
Hughes

  Call Sign: PANTHER

  WITH THE STRAP of my bag firmly over my shoulder, I stared up at the words written across the cream-colored building: Naval Aviation Fighter Academy.

  The last time I’d been here I was twelve, following my father through the corridors as he worked, watching the pilots gear up and wishing I was one of them. It’d been a long fourteen years since then, and though my father no longer served as the top instructor for the academy, his legacy would follow me the moment I stepped through those doors.

  I took in a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself that I had earned the right to be here on my own merit. No matter what my name was, there was no way a fighter pilot walked through these doors as a favor to anyone. That was how people got killed.

  “You plannin’ on goin’ in?”

  At the familiar Southern drawl, I turned around. “Well, if it isn’t Houdini himself.” I grinned as I greeted him with a fist bump. “How the hell did they let you in?”

  “Oh, you know. Sexual favors.”

  Though I knew he was joking, I wouldn’t put it past him to offer up his body in exchange for getting him what he wanted. Houdini was the embodiment of the good ole Southern boy but with a helluva naughty streak. He looked like Robert Redford in the Butch Cassidy days, and he had a constant twinkle in his eyes and a smile that would charm the pants off just about anyone.

  Hence the name Houdini: the guy could get out of—and into—practically anything.

  “If I thought for one second they let you in for because of that, I’d be in the commander’s office right now demanding they reevaluate. Everyone knows you’re a flight risk when it comes to hookups. That’s something we can’t afford up there in the sky.”

  Houdini looked me up and down as he slowly chewed on a piece of gum, then leaned in close to me. “Aww, don’t worry, Panther. I’d make sure you were purrin’ before I’d leave.”