Blaster didn’t bother looking at the ground. He already knew what was there. Cigarette butts and prints. Looking at Sheena was much more interesting. She was an elegant, dark angel and he couldn’t even remain mad at her. The close-up view siphoned his blood supply south at a dangerous rate again. Was it possible to incur brain damage from a persistent hard-on? Probably not or he’d have noticed the effects when he was thirteen, but it sure could put rational thought out of reach. At this age, that was a problem.
“Name is Blaster. Barry asked me to come by,” he introduced himself, ignoring the belligerent questions.
She glanced at him. She was exactly the same height though quite a few pounds lighter. She didn’t waste an ounce of what she had. She carried extra on her chest and filled out the back of her leathers in a way that could make a strong man weep. And he’d been correct about her face. Large eyes, high forehead, molded cheekbones, distinctive nose and full, glistening lips. Her chin was firm and a bit pointed, giving her face strength where it might have been softly rounded without it. She could drop a red-blooded male at twenty paces with a look.
He hadn’t found a view of her that didn’t stand every one of his hormones up in the ready position. There were women who tripped the animal switch, women who drew out the gentleman and women who brought the boy out to play. She blew his animal-fuck meter outta the water.
Jas’ eyebrows went up as her gaze slid over him. It was for show. She’d looked him over while arguing with Barry. “You always armed when you go visiting, Huck?”
Even the timbre of her voice strummed down his body. A husky female pitch that spoke of whisky-drenched murmurs on sweltering summer nights. She was speaking softly and if he didn’t listen to the words, he’d have been seduced by the tone alone. Shit, yet another thing about her that stroked his beast.
Behind them, the confusion on the movie set was not dying down. Obviously some people wanted to leave and others were trying to convince them to stay. General yelling and slamming things around seemed to be gaining momentum. Blaster couldn’t resist the slow grin at her sexy, sassy self.
“I’m a prepared sort,” he acknowledged just as softly. His voice rumbled low and intimate, thick with Southern charm. “You always armed when you’re on the set?” Blaster returned her question as his eyes traveled down her in obvious enjoyment of her costume or lack of it.
“Tie it in a knot, Huck.” She glanced down at his bulging crotch. Ignoring his question, she turned away from him to stride toward the set. “Sista’ envy looks bad on you, Huckleberry.”
“You’re mistaking lust for envy. I guess I was too subtle.” He followed her, captivated by the sway of that full bottom as she moved through the forest. Round and firm, she didn’t bounce, she flowed in a loose gait that mesmerized him. Delicious muscles flexed with each light step. The power in her thighs and ass brought to mind hours of rhythmic movement that left a man dry in the deepest sense of the word. He nearly groaned just watching her.
Jas knew she hadn’t mistaken one damn little thing. Huckleberry was pumping out invitations to sin with every breath he took. The lust was real but she wasn’t fooled. He was using the adrenaline high to enhance it as a shield and distract her from his real talents. Actually, sticking to that particular truth was a good choice. She felt the sexual current between them too and flirting siphoned off some of the stress.
Considering the Southern background his deep voice betrayed, she hadn’t expected respect from him. The lust was no surprise though.
Pausing for a moment, she didn’t turn as her hand came back to smack her own bottom. “If you’re going to keep staring at my ass, try shutting your mouth when you break the trees. You’ll look less stupid.”
He had been staring, but her move showed him she was as fully alert. All her senses were whirling if she could feel his eyes glued to her swaying ass. Could she sense what was going through his mind? Probably not, she’d have slapped him by now.
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, enjoying her more every minute. “But when I’m officially in charge of security, there’ll be a few rules. Number one being, your lickable ass moves away from the crazy people with guns.”
She stopped to turn. “Barry summoned Huckleberry Finn to handle security? Amazing. I guess it takes one to deal with them. Tell me, are these cousins or just school chums? Damn! Sorry. I forgot. White boys don’t get schooling south of the Mason Dixon, jus’ possum and coon hunting tips from Daddy.”
“No need to be sorry, angel face. I know your delicate nerves are upset over the shooting.” Blaster smiled condescendingly at her just to see what she’d do next. “And you’re mistaking a smooth Mississippi drawl for the local Carolina accent.”
Her body didn’t even ripple at his return barbs. “Aren’t you just the hopeful Huckleberry?” She smiled and turned away from him to proceed across the meadow. “Hang on to that sad little hope that I’ll do something stupid and give you an excuse to get your eager hands on me.” She laughed softly. “Course you’d lose a limb, Huck. Try not to think about it. You’ll live longer.”
“Depending on which limb, the sacrifice could be worth it,” Blaster murmured as he followed her again. This time the reason was to keep his body between her and the forest as much as possible. It’d be a pure crime if someone put a mark on her that couldn’t be licked away. Course there were several ways to mark her that could be licked up and they had to flash across his brain now.
She glanced back and snorted. “The first thing to go would be that stub you think with, Huck.”
Blaster rubbed his hand through the buzz cut on top of his head and grinned at her second snort of derision. Her reaction to his obvious misunderstanding of what she’d remove tickled him a bit. She had a spark that was about to burn him bad. She knew what she was doing when she pulled the handgun and again tracking in dense undergrowth. Whoever she really was, it wasn’t a Hollywood princess.
They reached the center of chaos, Barry was yelling directions and people were packing equipment into rental trucks. He turned to Blaster. “You owe me,” the director started belligerently.
“Relax, Bare. I’m here for you. No need fer’ the favor callin’.” Blaster grinned in his slow way, enjoying this. “Now just for the record, clear up who I am to Sheena.”
“Sheena? Who the hell is Sheena? Oh you mean Jasmina. Sure. Jasmina Carson, this is Samuel Callaway, better know as Blaster. Blaster this is Jas.” Barry turned away to yell instructions into the activity.
“No, Bare. Why I am here. Now.” But Barry was striding off, shouting at someone about handling something gently. Distant sirens were whining up the mountain and Jas turned away, laughing softly.
Blaster kept pace beside her and she glanced at him. “Where you goin’, Huck?”
“To help you find a shirt.”
They reached the actors’ trailer, which was bustling with activity, being packed up and people getting into street clothes. It was simply a long trailer with a row of doors to narrow cubicles where people could change. Nothing fancy about it.
“No. Really?” She stopped at the door to her small space. The sirens were much closer.
“Hurry up. They’ll be here in a minute.” He opened the door by reaching around her back, his body brushing hers.
Jasmina glanced toward the dirt path where the police cars would soon appear. “You have a problem with my clothes? I seem to remember you enjoying the view. Run along and play with the boys.” Cop cars nosed through the narrow path and into the clearing, sirens still blaring.
Blaster frowned at her a second. “Don’t disappear. They’ll want to question you too. You know you’re stone sexy, woman. I assumed you’d want men to at least glance at your face when they talk to you.”
“I’ll hold my breath.” A husky chuckle accompanied the shrug as she stepped into her small dressing room, pulling the door shut behind her.
An hour later the meadow was cleared except for Barry, Blaster and the sheriff’s car. Blaster h
ad had enough. The sheriff wasn’t dumb. Blaring sirens all the way up the mountain and his attitude about “flighty Hollywood folks and their imaginations…” told Blaster exactly where the guy stood. He was retiring in three months and didn’t have a reason in the world to let this little fracas mess that up.
“Boys was prolly huntin’. Didn’t mean a thing by it. Ya’ll jus’ finish up your little movie,” the rotund sheriff repeated for the hundredth time as Barry went over the events again, trying to impress the sheriff with the need to investigate.
Blaster was standing to the side, his arms crossed, watching them. It was actually the first time he’d heard the whole list of miss-events and near injuries. The film company was having a serious run of bad luck and it’d started when they’d moved up to the high country.
At first Blaster had been worried he’d be tripping over the local law, messing up evidence and such or just making a pain of themselves. Right now he knew for a fact that they’d not see the sheriff or his staff until the next incident, at which time he’d only appear after a long drive with sirens blaring to make sure the perpetrators had vacated the area before he arrived.
The only person Blaster was sure of was Barry. It was obvious Barry needed help of a special sort. “Special Help” was Blaster’s favorite kind and beautiful, dangerous women were his next favorite.
Barry was Blaster’s family or as near to it as foster kids get. The two boys had spent seven formative years in the same house. Since then they’d gone vastly different directions but that didn’t change the fact Barry Levine and Samuel—Blaster—Callaway were and would always be brothers.
Barry allowed no trace of Mississippi mud to remain in his manner or speech. The slender movie director appeared taller than six feet two. It was his clothes and manner. He looked as if he’d sprung up fully formed from the stardust floating around Hollywood. His sharp features reminded a person of a hawk if they were being kind. A crow, if they were being honest. Black hair, beak nose and thin lips, his features were not perfect, but on his face they came together in a rather appealing way.
He just looked smart. Barry appeared always in motion. The air around him was charged with energy as if his active brain needed more space to work.
Blaster was the other side of that coin. A flat six feet, ash blond hair cut in a buzz was striking in contrast to the ruddy tan of his skin. He appeared a man constantly outdoors. His baby-blue eyes were surrounded by laugh lines. He had a Robert Redford type of all-American look. The easy smile and unhurried air was in complete contrast to Barry. Blaster’s indolent stance was a well-practiced lie.
Blaster had left Mississippi on his eighteenth birthday with a judge’s gavel ringing in his ears. Youthful indiscretions, a kind phrase for what he’d been doing, would turn into jail time shortly. The choice was do the time in jail or in the Armed Forces. Blaster now knew he owed a debt to the judge for giving him that choice. Besides Barry, the judge was probably the only other person who’d seen something more than just the smart-mouthed ass in him back then.
Now the people who mattered in his life knew him as a highly decorated and respected demolition expert and Special Forces retiree. He had medals for doing things in places that didn’t exist during action that never happened. Most of his career was still highly classified so there was no point talking about it. He enjoyed appearing the relaxed Southern boy who smiled more than he should. It gave him the jump on people who assumed he didn’t see the details.
The details were adding up to a whole different “animal” than Barry had told him on the phone. The incidents had been carefully scripted to appear racial. Making an action movie starring an African-American woman in North Carolina was certainly a natural setting to get hillbillies ruffled at seeing a beautiful black chick kicking white ass. But even deep in the mountains, Blaster didn’t believe the local boys would have put up this kind of fuss.
What he’d seen this afternoon under the trees had been another “set”. Things left to make it look as if the men standing there were dumbasses.
First, the men who’d been there didn’t smoke. The butts were props. Blaster had one fine nose and as a demolition expert, he could smell smoke and tell what caused it an hour later. He’d reached the place the men stood minutes after they left and the only scent on the air was gunpowder residue. No, they didn’t smoke. Nor were they hillbillies. They had left common tennis shoe impressions under the tree. But on the exit route there had been no sign at all. If the people exiting the area had been wearing the same shoes as the prints under the tree indicated, they couldn’t have helped leaving an impression.
He’d found no sign of them on the exit route, which he’d inspected again after everyone left. There was only one tiny splatter of blood where he knew he’d creased one of them. Not one footprint. No blood trail, no other sign at all. Damn professional.
Then there was the puzzle of Sheena, starring in Barry’s film. She was a professional something other than actress. The fight scene had been acting for the stunt men but she’d been fully engaged and enjoying it. Her frustration at its conclusion had been real. The stunt men were not fighting her. They’d been following scripted steps and rolls to get through the scene.
What was she doing here? This many professionals did not accidentally congregate in backwoods North Carolina. He could understand men gathered to watch her. He even understood that most of them would find her alarming in several basic ways. She was that rare combination of extreme beauty and lethal skill that stood a man’s dick up and made him want to protect his balls at the same time. And there it was, his main problem. There had to be something wrong with her. No one was the perfect combination. He needed to find her fatal flaw fast while he could still manage to coax blood above his belt buckle.
Chapter Two
After the ride down the mountain in the crew van, Jas cautiously opened the door to her motel room. Flicking on the light, she surveyed the relatively small space carefully. Nothing seemed out of order. The bedspread didn’t move. No horrid spray-painted messages. Two days ago, she’d opened the door a lot less cautiously to find a revolting scene.
The first thing that caught her eye had been racial slurs crudely scrawled everywhere. Then she’d noticed the bedspread moving. The words NIGGER WHORE spray-painted on the spread in huge black letters seemed to writhe luridly as long slithering forms moved. She’d shut the door quickly and found Barry and the hotel manager.
The poor manager had been beside himself. They’d eventually removed three large black rat snakes from the room. Not poisonous but still disgusting. The room had to be gutted and repainted.
Snakes and rude names she could deal with. The last two days had been much more serious. The motorcycle incident could have killed her. Whoever shot at them today had the opportunity to kill her. She was pretty sure the miss had been deliberate. But still, too damn close. Someone wanted her to know he could kill her any time. He was playing a game. Fear was his weapon, intimidation his goal.
Jas glanced at the time and quickly calculated the difference to Southern California. Liana would be getting ready for tonight’s event. Jas had to smile as she dialed the phone. Liana loved dressing up. She enjoyed it more than the reason for it usually. Jas hated to ruin the fun with a call, but she had to be sure everything was okay.
It took four rings before the phone was answered. “Hey, Jas.”
“Is everything all right,” Jas worriedly needed to know.
Liana laughed. “Of course it is. Except I’m having my nails done to match my dress and the phone rang.”
“Sorry. I had to check on you. I know you’re in middle of the endless dressing ritual but there’s been another incident and I wanted to make sure you’re paying attention to security.”
“What happened?” Liana demanded. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Someone took a shot across the set today. They didn’t hit anyone. So what color are you getting painted?”
“My God, Jas. Do you think
he’d really hurt us now?” Liana’s voice faltered.
“No. He can’t afford to kill us, but I’m glad he’s focused on me instead of you right now. So what color is the new diva wearing for her awards gala?” Jas tried again to lighten the mood with the delights of dressing up.
“The award is as much your’s as mine, Jas. You should be the one accepting it, however since you’re on the other side of the county being a movie star, I get to.” Liana laughed softly.
“Yeah, yeah. You know how much I enjoy those things. You’re the one who does “Cinderella” well. I work myself up to it and I still hate it. Now tell what you’re wearing.”
“A coral dress that’s not too revealing but not too stuffy. It’s difficult to find something decent in this town that doesn’t involve T&A display.” They both laughed. “So now I’m getting my nails done to match and then having my hair done. Not going coral with the hair though. I had to draw the line somewhere.
Wanna Play (Ghost Unit, Book Three) Page 2
