Laney ran a hand over her upper chest and leaned in towards her monitor as if she could see him. In reality, she saw only a blank window on her screen with his user name in it. She could have done a search on his name to find out everything there was to know about him, but somehow, in this case, it felt like a violation of trust. No. She’d leave learning about him up to chance, something she rarely did. “Nice to meet you, Hagen.”
“Laney,” he said softly. “I’d like to really meet you. In person. I realize that may seem unwise given the short time we’ve been talking, and the fact that while we converse a great deal, we don’t know that much about one another.”
She enjoyed the way he talked, often as if he were a man out of place in time, while other moments he spoke like he was totally in the know. “I want to meet you in person too. Can you get away and meet for coffee around eight tonight? I know you’ve been spending a lot of time in your lab and that you want to crack whatever mystery it is you’re working on, so I’ll understand if you don’t want to take time out for this tonight.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Where do you want to meet?” he asked.
She licked her lower lip, very pleased that he wanted to see her too. “It’s a good thing we figured out we’re local our first night talking, or this meet up would take some serious planning.”
“True. But you should know, I’d do whatever it took to get a chance to meet you.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that, but did know that it warmed her to hear him say it. “Let’s meet at Mugs on Ninth,” she said. “Got a pen? I’m going to give you my cell.”
“Go ahead and tell me. I’m good. I’ll remember it.”
Chapter Five
James found himself humming classic rock tunes as he went back to work, feeling energized after speaking to GothGirl. He had a date with her and he felt like a young man again. He’d not been on a date in so long he only hoped he still remembered how to handle himself.
“Laney,” he said in a soft whisper.
He had a name now, and he knew he should notify Corbin of his progress, but he didn’t want to share her with anyone. Not even the captain.
She’s mine.
He mentally slammed to a stop.
Mine? Where the hell did that come from?
Had the Corporation’s experiments on him left him so out of touch with his natural responses that he was now fixating on some random woman—the first woman who caught his interest after his horrible ordeal? Was his body really betraying him in such a cruel way? Giving him false positives on his body’s inborn need to lay claim and mate?
The door to the lab swung open so fast it struck the wall. James tempered his elation over his upcoming date with Laney. He raised a brow and looked to the side as two of his teammates entered, arm in arm, swaying as if they might be too drunk to stand.
Knowing them, they were.
Being immortal shifters, the men could pack the liquor away and metabolize it at an extraordinary rate. For them to be in the state they were currently in, they must have drunk a whole hell of a lot. He’d once found Duke, Striker and Boomer asleep on a pile of empty bottles in an alley behind a bar in New York. None of them could remember how they’d gotten there and each smelled like they’d drank their weight in whiskey. It was the early eighties, and whatever had happened that night had left Duke wearing a pair of spandex pants—something he would never wear willingly. That wasn’t the best part. Striker had on full makeup and his hair teased all while wearing a t-shirt for a pop-rock band that James knew the guy hated.
That must have been one hell of a drinking night.
James’s mood lit with the memory of it all.
Miles “Boomer” Walsh’s long dark hair was down today, and when he entered the room more, the lights caught varying colors running through his hair. In the right light it looked almost blue-black. His unnaturally violet gaze found James and he stopped, causing the man currently hooked to him to nearly fall on his face.
That would have been something to see considering just how big Dougal “Striker” McCracken was. He was easily the biggest of James’s team of men. He was currently the hairiest as well. Already there was a challenge going at PSI to see who could convince the guy to shave. So far, no one had won. The auburn-haired giant had given up shaving some time back and resembled a mountain man more than the Scottish Highlands warrior he truly was.
James noted the kilt Striker wore and didn’t comment. No point. The man was the type of supernatural who was proud of his heritage, of the long life he’d lived. His friend was more comfortable in kilts and more often than not Striker said fuck it to society and wore one around. Of course, the guy paired it with combat boots because it was Striker and that was his personality. He’d been in jeans most of the week, which made James wonder if tonight was one of Striker’s “I miss the motherland” nights.
Songs and odes to William Wallace were sure to follow. James had been on the receiving end of countless conversations where Striker tried to convince him that PSI should get a day off work each year in honor of the fallen hero of Scottish lycans. So far Striker hadn’t made any great strides in making that happen.
Wasn’t for lack of trying though.
Striker had the kilt paired with a t-shirt that read Have Stake Will Use It. The man wore stranger things. James didn’t question.
Striker looked up, a shit-assed grin on his face. “Och, lookie, told ya we’d find the doc in here, playin’ with nerdy things. Find the beakers, find the doc. A quote we could live by. Well, unless the doc is in hiding for ten years again, then you do nae find jack shit.”
James refrained from comment as he had indeed gone to ground for a decade, lying low, going rogue before he’d been captured and held captive all those months. He was back now. That was all that mattered, despite how much it clearly still bothered Striker. Though he did miss some of his street contacts.
Boomer lifted his left arm and clicked his fingers. “You are a genius,” he said, his speech slurred. He made a move to high-five Striker, but ended up hitting Striker in the side of the head instead.
Striker didn’t seem to notice or care. He reached down with his free hand and scratched his ass, thankfully through the kilt, or James was sure he’d have gotten an eyeful of Striker’s naked self. Not that he hadn’t seen the man naked before. They were shifters after all and had run together when letting their wolves free too many times to count. Still, he wasn’t really up for getting a glimpse at the Scot’s man parts.
“You’re coming out with us tonight,” said Boomer, pointing to James. “We’re going clubbing.”
James hid his groan. Clubbing? They couldn’t be serious. “Aren’t you already drunk? Wouldn’t clubbing be excessive?”
“Och, we’re nae drunk. We’ve never been more sober,” said Striker, leaning hard to the right, taking Boomer with him. “We let Mercy try a new sedative on us. Dinnae work though.”
Dr. Mercy Deluca, Duke’s mate, was gifted in Biomedical Engineering. She’d started working in the Research and Development area of PSI the same day James returned to the fold. She also held a special place in his heart as they’d come through the other side of an ugly ordeal together. So far, in her limited amount of time with PSI, she’d managed to make quite an impression.
Boomer hiccupped. “Made us feel tipsy, but didn’t knock us out or anything. She’s in there now, trying to amp it up.”
“Did you just use the word tipsy?” asked Striker. “Does nae sound verra manly.”
Boomer tugged at Striker’s kilt. “Neither is wearing a dress.”
“Bite me,” returned Striker.
Boomer flashed fang. “Gladly.”
“You’d get a taste of me and realize nothin’ but a Scot will do for you from here on out,” said Striker, a serious note to his voice. “My milkshake is that powerful. Brings ’em all to the yard.”
James had no idea what the man was talking about. He was just happy that over the cent
uries Striker’s Scottish brogue had lessoned enough to make him understandable on most days.
“Bet I’d get indigestion instead,” returned Boomer. He made a grand gesture of rubbing his abs. “And the shits. I’m a werepanther and cats don’t tolerate milk nearly as well as people think we do. So, your milkshake would fuck up my digestive system.”
James shook his head.
“Do nae make me call yer girlfriend,” warned Striker, a wicked gleam in his green eyes. “I’ll get her sprung from the zoo and the two of you can get some quality cuddle time in. They tell me she’s in heat. Should make for a wild ride.”
James had heard all about what the other team members had done to Boomer when he’d passed out drunk. They’d carried him in shifted form to the local zoo and put him in the panther exhibit. He woke up with an eager panther female trying very hard to convince him to mate with her. The men had pictures of the entire ordeal and had them framed in the main hallway of PSI. Boomer had even won the famed and unofficial award of Asshole of the Week due to the incident.
James had won it many times in his past as well. Most incidents had sprung from his temper. Some were Striker’s fault.
Boomer blushed. “I can’t help if I’m wanted by the ladies.”
“Even the ones who cannae shift and walk on two feet,” said Striker with a snort. “If we hurry, we can get you to your hottie before the zoo closes. If yer a good boy, I’ll get you a balloon and ice cream when we’re there.”
Boomer groaned. “There you go with talk of milk products again.”
“Gentlemen,” interjected James. He licked his lower lip, a laugh wanting to come. Mercy had been using the men of PSI as willing lab rats since she’d been brought on. Her experiments never harmed anyone, but this one seemed to have some interesting side effects.
They were still better than what had happened to the captain while visiting Mercy’s office. James nearly laughed at the thought of it all. He paused. “You’re not armed are you?”
Striker grunted. “Och, Duke took our weapons before we let his wee slip of a wife inject us. Says we can have ’em back after she’s all done with us.”
Smart.
“I’m not sure you should be mixing alcohol and sedatives, even with your metabolisms. Seems unwise,” added James. He knew if he dared to allow them to leave in their current state they’d unleash pandemonium in the streets of the city. They were trouble on a normal day. Hopped up on Mercy-Juice could only make it worse.
“Bedding those wenches outside the barracks of the English encampment in the late seventeen hundreds was a bad idea,” pushed Striker, swaying more. When he managed to regain his footing, he made motions as if he was pumping into a woman when in reality he was using thin air to prove his point about his prowess. “They were screamers, but totally worth it. Woke the whole damn regiment. Bloody English chased me around when I was in naught more than what I’d been born in.”
James actually cracked a full, real smile at the thought of Striker trying to evade the English army. They’d been friends a very long time and been through quite a bit, including sharing a cell long ago. That was how they’d first met. They’d both been held in the same Scottish prison for a period of time. The place had been a hellhole. Striker had been a handful then and not much had changed.
“And how did that end for you?” asked Boomer.
James knew the answer already. “He spent a fortnight in the stockades before he finally broke free.”
Striker’s gaze found James. “Had me a wee bit of help.”
Boomer smiled. “Dumbass.”
“Och, I’m nae the Asshole of the Week,” returned Striker, attempting to stand on his own merit but tipping sideways, pulling Boomer with him. “Duke is still holdin’ that title good and tight.”
Duke had gone bat-shit crazy when his mate had been injured during the extraction to break James free. When Duke had seen Mercy there, on the floor, partially on James’s lap, bloody and not moving, he’d lost his shit and allowed the blood lust to take hold. That was a dangerous thing for a shifter to do. Some never bounced back from it. Duke had been stuck in shifter form for days—earning him the Asshole of the Week award.
James leaned on the stool, watching his friends, missing this type of interaction with them more than he’d thought he would. Boomer tried to go left and Striker went right, each still clinging to the other. They ended up bouncing back to the center, knocking heads.
“Bat boy, you got a hard head,” said Striker, rubbing his head slightly. “Like a rock.”
“Bat boy?” echoed Boomer, rubbing his head as well. “What are you talking ’bout, Scot?”
Striker pointed to the man’s leather pants. Boomer seemed to have an endless wardrobe of leather. And most had silver bats on them. The pair of leather pants he currently wore were no exception. “If the leather fits.”
Boomer grinned. “I’m Batman,” he said, throwing his voice even deeper than its normal level. “And I am kick ass.”
“Yer a dumbass,” offered Striker.
“I’m that too.” Boomer flashed another wide smile. He put his arms out wide. “I’m Bat-Panther.”
“Aye, and I’m Super-Wolf,” added Striker, lifting his arms into the air and simulating flight. “I need a cape.”
“Nah, your skirt should do the trick,” said Boomer.
“You’re both dumbasses.” James continued to smile.
The men continued to sway and knock into one another. James took note of Boomer’s t-shirt that read Got Sparkle and shook his head, putting it all together. “Let me guess, the Crimson Sentinels are coming in for their once-a-decade meeting with PSI Divisions.”
“Och, they came last year for it,” said Striker. “Blood suckers are comin’ back.”
“All the shit going down has the supernatural community scrambling to try to fix it,” added Boomer. “My guess, they’re as worried as the rest of us about it all. It affects them too.”
The Fang Gang, as they’d been nicknamed over the centuries as they were all vampires, journeyed in to various PSI Division Headquarters once every ten years for meetings. They only made visits sooner if something really bad was happening.
Coming back within a year meant the situation was dire.
Since most of PSI was made up of shifters, the vampires’ arrival was always met with a healthy dose of ribbing and good intended humor on both sides. The year prior to James leaving PSI for his decade break, the Sentinels had shown up in a van marked Dog Groomers. They’d left gift bags on all the PSI guys’ desks. Inside the bags was flea dip, dog nail clippers and pet pee pads.
Boomer ran a hand through his long, dark hair. “I got a shirt for you too. Says Vamps Suck. Striker got you one that says Team Edward. You pick which you want to wear. We’ll give Tut the other if he shows.”
Malik “Tut” Nasser was on forced leave. James had yet to see Tut since James’s return to PSI. While James did miss the guy and wanted to reconnect, he understood what needing to take time for one’s self was like.
“Which do you want?” asked Boomer. “Suck or Team Edward?”
James shrugged, unsure what they were talking about. The only Edward he knew was a shifter out of the London division of PSI, and James wasn’t about to join his team of ops. The guy was a total douchebag, all whiny and overly dramatic. The type of supernatural who led the tortured-soul kind of life because he couldn’t man up and accept what he was. And the hair—the guy was always worried about it being just right. What kind of shifter worried more about his hair than he did anything else?
No thank you.
Duke Marlow, a fellow PSI-Ops and team member, entered the lab behind Striker and Boomer. His shirt said You are my Sunshine. Which was actually hilarious considering how very un-sunshiny the guy was. Duke’s personality ran more on the lines of crotchety old dude who looked forever locked at thirty-five but who would more than likely yell at kids to stay off his lawn. James knew Duke was only wearing the shirt to take a d
ig at the vampires. And if James was right, Duke’s wife had pressed him to wear it.
Duke frowned at Boomer and Striker. “Aren’t you two supposed to be staying in my wife’s lab so she can oversee the effects of the sedative?”
“I’m doubting she could keep a handle on them,” said James, turning on his stool more. “They’re, and I quote, tipsy.”
Striker and Boomer swayed together and then began to rock back and forth in place, almost as if they were dancing. Duke walked around them, ignoring them as if their behavior was commonplace. It sort of was.
Duke’s onyx gaze went to James’s cane. “Still need that?”
James touched the top of the cane lightly. “When I’m on my feet too long, yes. But I’m getting around without it now, for the most part.”
“You should have healed by now,” Duke said bluntly, never one to pull punches or beat around the bush.
“I know.”
Duke neared him and glanced at the microscope. “Figure out what they fuck they did to you?”
“No,” said James softly.
“Corbin asked me if you were ready for fieldwork,” added Duke. “I lied and said yes, but between us, I don’t think you’re ready for shit.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” replied James. He wasn’t surprised by Duke’s remarks. Had Duke come in and sugarcoated everything, James would have been shocked. Hearing it spelled out by a guy he’d known a hell of a long time made sense.
Duke shrugged. “Hey, you know it’s true.”
James glanced over at Striker and Boomer to find they actually were dancing together now. They were waltzing through the lab as Striker started in on his William Wallace songs. James didn’t comment, instead looking at his longtime friend. He knew Duke had done him a solid by lying to their captain, but James didn’t think for a second Corbin really believed he was ready for full duty.
Duke took a seat on an extra stool. “Got anything in here that will blow up if those two dipshits run into it?”
Act of Surrender Page 6
