Draekon Heart: Exiled to the Prison Planet: A Sci-Fi Menage Romance (Dragons in Exile Book 3)

by Lili Zander

  CHAPTER TWO

  Declan:

  “Declan, you look like hell. What’s going on?”

  Blake Thorpe was my roommate in medical school and is one of the few people I can count on to be brutally honest.

  I pour myself a pint of beer from the pitcher on the table. If it were anyone else asking me the question, I’d lie and tell them nothing’s wrong, but Blake and I go back a long way, and even though we’re polar opposites, I value his judgment. “I’ve been having nightmares ever since I got back from the Congo,” I admit. “I’ve done rough stints before, but this time…” My voice trails off. “So many children.” I swallow hard. “No matter what I did, it wasn’t enough.”

  That’s the problem. It’s never enough. There’s always a war going on somewhere. People always die in pain and agony, and sometimes, they’re just kids. Though I’ve been Stateside for two weeks, I can’t forget my patients.

  Blake downs half his pint in one gulp, his expression concerned. “Declan, I love you as a brother, man, but you’ve got to stop. You’ve been going from epidemic to war zone. You’ve done six missions in the last three years. You were in the Congo, in Sierra Leone, Haiti, where else?”

  “Everywhere.” I take a deep breath. “I can’t stop. I’ve applied for a job at the United Nations.” Blake starts shaking his head disapprovingly, but before he can say anything, I cut him off. “Lecture me later. Tell me what’s been going on with you.”

  “Same old,” he replies with a shrug. “While you’re making the world a better place, I’m injecting Botox into Hollywood wannabes.”

  I chuckle, my dark mood lifting somewhat. Hearing about Blake’s misadventures always has that effect. My buddy is a locum—the doctor that works in the place of the regular doctor when that doctor is on vacation. “You filled in for a plastic surgeon? Really? Why on earth?”

  “I wanted somewhere warm to spend the winter,” he replies.

  My lips lift up in an unwilling grin. That’s typical of Blake. He’s a brilliant physician, but he hates being tied down. He’s been bouncing from one temporary stint to another ever since residency, refusing to settle down in one place.

  “Where’s next on the list?”

  “For the moment, vacation,” he replies. “Thank heavens. I thought I’d enjoy the Hollywood job, but for six months, I didn’t see a pair of real tits. Not a single one.” His expression is disgruntled. “Fake tits only look good in porn.” He refills his pint and takes a sip before he continues. “I’m flying out tomorrow to Oregon to visit Aunt Elvira.”

  Blake’s great-aunt is quite a character. She rarely talks about her youth, but I’ve pieced together enough to know it wasn’t entirely pleasant. It hasn’t affected her disposition though. She’s funny and endlessly entertaining, and she dotes on Blake. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s getting older.” Blake has an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. “I’m staying for a month.”

  The waitress comes up to us. She’s got dark hair, a great body, and a killer smile. “Can I get you another pitcher?” she asks.

  Blake perks up. “You read my mind, Janie,” he says with a wink. “Have you met my friend Declan? He’s a doctor too.” He pats the seat next to him. “Sit down, honey. Let the two of us buy you a drink.”

  Janie giggles. “I can’t,” she says reluctantly, “I just started my shift. If you guys stick around until I’m done though…” Her voice trails off suggestively, and she bends over to reach the pitcher, giving us a look at her ample cleavage. “I’m sure we could find something fun to do.”

  Blake says something to her with a flirtatious smile. I watch him, feeling a little envious. Once upon a time, the two of us worked hard and partied harder. Now, my life has narrowed to the next mission. I can’t remember the last time I did something fun and impulsive.

  When she’s gone, Blake turns to me. “Here’s an idea,” he says. “Why don’t you come with me to Goat?” Before I can reply, he continues in a rush. “I know it isn’t the most exciting destination, but you need a vacation badly, and I need someone to hang out with so I don’t go out of my mind with boredom.”

  My first response is to decline. I can’t go to the middle-of-nowhere Oregon for a month. What if the UN calls? What if Doctors Without Borders needs volunteers for a mission?

  Then I reconsider. Once I take the UN job, if they even offer it to me, it’ll be a long time before I can take any time off. This might be my last hurrah.

  “Okay.” My lips lift up in a grin. “I’m in.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lana:

  It’s well after noon by the time I get on the road. Goat, Oregon is just a four-hour drive from Portland, but it feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere. The last two hours of my journey, I pass only a handful of cars. There are no gas stations or restaurants, just pine forests and fresh mountain air.

  By the time I reach the outskirts of town and spot the ‘Welcome to Goat’ sign, I desperately need to pee.

  The town slogan of Goat, Oregon is ‘Embrace your weird.’ How do I know this? It’s carved into the sign, of course.

  This is going to be one hell of a place to spend the next two months.

  Grinning, I continue my drive into the center of town. It doesn’t take me long to find the Nanny Goat. It’s a large Victorian mansion, yellow in color, on a corner lot. I pull up in front of it and get out of my car, ready to get into character. Remember, I tell myself. You’re not a journalist. You write novels.

  I’ve worked out quite the cover story if anyone asks. I write cozy mysteries that feature a clever cat solving crimes. My first book did really well, and I’m writing the second while struggling against writer’s block.

  There’s no doorbell, and the front door is ajar, so I knock and push it open wider and enter, blinking as my eyes adjust to the sudden gloom. “You must be Lana Davey, dear,” a friendly voice says. “Welcome to the Nanny Goat.”

  A gray-haired old lady is sitting behind a desk in the makeshift lobby, knitting something green, though how she can see anything in the half-light, I have no idea. “Yes, I’m Lana,” I reply, moving inside.

  “Excellent,” she murmurs, taking the credit card I hand her. “So you’re a writer?”

  “I am,” I lie through my teeth. Hey, I didn’t come up with this cover story. John did. I’m just doing my job. “I’m hoping to finish my book this month.”

  “You’ll like it here then,” she replies. “It’s nice and quiet. There are only two other guests staying with us at the moment.” She looks up. “Oh, there they are. Hello, Blake. You made it.”

  I turn around to see who my fellow bed-and-breakfast guests are, and my mouth drops open.

  Because the two guys walking into the dimly-lit room are not just hot. They’re sexy-calendar hot. Chiseled jaws, tousled hair, tall, muscled, utterly drool-worthy.

  Thank you, Fate. You did me a solid. This is almost as good as lying on a beach and sipping fruity drinks with umbrellas.

  “Marla, it’s good to see you.” Hottie #1 goes around the counter and envelops the little old lady in a giant hug, lifting her off the ground. “It’s been too long. You remember Declan, don’t you?”

  Hottie #2 smiles at me as he reaches over to shake the little old lady’s hand. She immediately clucks and hugs him. “Of course I do. You look tired, Declan,” she scolds. “And you’ve lost weight.”

  Blake chuckles as Declan shakes his head, a wry twist on his lips. “I bet Declan fifty bucks that’d be the first thing you’d say, Marla,” he explains. “Pay up, buddy.”

  I shuffle from one foot to another, feeling out of place. Blake seems to notice me for the first time, and his expression turns rueful. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes. “We didn’t see you.”

  “You didn’t see her,” Hottie #2—Declan—corrects him immediately. He holds out his hand to me. “Hi,” he says, “I’m Declan Wilde. My oblivious friend here is Blake Thorpe.”

  “L
ana Davey.” My voice comes out as a squeak. It might have been the booze I drank last night, but I swear, when I shake hands with Declan, I feel tingles. Tingles on my palm, and tingles lower south.

  “Lana’s an author,” Marla chimes in. “She’s here for two months. How long are you boys staying this time?”

  “I told Elvira I’ll be here for a month,” Blake replies, turning back to the innkeeper.

  She nods approvingly at him. “That’s good, dear,” she says. “And you, Declan?”

  “I don’t know,” he replies, still holding onto my hand. I make no effort to pull it away—why would I? A hot guy’s holding my hand. This is the most action I’ve seen in years. “I’m waiting to hear about a job. It could be two weeks; it could be two months. Who knows?”

  He finally releases my hand, and Marla hands me a key. “I’ve put you upstairs in a corner room, dear,” she tells me. “It’s a nice quiet spot.”

  “Thank you.”

  Declan’s hazel-green eyes take in my purse. “That’s all the luggage you have for a two-month trip?”

  “My suitcases are in my car.”

  “Give us a second, and we’ll help you carry it up,” Declan says.

  “That’s not necessary,” I demur. That’s a lie. I totally want to see their biceps bulge as they drag my two heavy suitcases up the stairs, and I’m definitely going to use the occasion to check out their asses. Hey, it’s like the museum. It’s okay to look as long as I don’t touch.

  Blake chuckles. “You wouldn’t deny us the opportunity to look chivalrous in front of Marla, would you?”

  They carry my luggage up a narrow and steep flight of stairs, and the sight is every bit as hot as I’d hoped it would be. “Have you eaten dinner?” Blake asks me when we get to my door.

  “No.” Dinner? My thoughts aren’t on dinner. They’re on dessert, if you know what I mean.

  “Declan and I are going to the bar across the street to grab a bite to eat. Would you like to join us?”

  Most of the time, I’d be happier to stay in my room and think smutty thoughts of them. That way, there’s no real-life disappointment if they turn out to be boring asses. But there’s a loud voice yelling in my mind, and it sounds suspiciously like Hailey. Say Yes instead of No, Lana. You promised!

  “I’d love to.”

  “Excellent.” Declan smiles warmly at me, and my insides flutter. He has dimples on his cheeks, for crying out loud. Somebody better keep me from drinking more than I can handle tonight, because as God is my witness, if I get tipsy, I’m going to want to lick those dimples. And a whole lot more. “Meet us downstairs in thirty minutes, and we’ll head there together.”

  The bar’s called Randy Goat. Of course. You’ve got to give the town credit for sticking to a theme.

  It’s Saturday evening, but when we enter, the place isn’t horribly crowded. A burly, tattooed bartender gives Blake a friendly wave and points toward a table in the back. We take our seats, Declan sitting next to me, Blake across from us, and the bartender shows up with three laminated menus. “Hey Blake,” he says easily. “You in town to see Elvira?”

  “Elvira Grantham?” I ask curiously, once we order burgers and beer. Just one pint for you tonight, Lana. “Do you know her?”

  Blake gives me a puzzled look. “Yeah, she’s my great-aunt. Why?”

  I feel my cheeks heat. “I looked up the history of the town,” I admit sheepishly. “Writers. We can’t stop researching.” I lean forward eagerly. “So is it true? The millionaire died under mysterious circumstances, leaving his money to Ms. Grantham?”

  Declan chuckles. “Are you going to work it into your next book?”

  Not exactly, though I do find the story fascinating. I’d much rather do a feature about Elvira Grantham, who by all accounts has led a complex, colorful life, than write about two horny doctors that are feeling up their patients, but journalists who want to keep their jobs write the story their editor has assigned to them.

  Well, what if you do write about Elvira in addition to the doctors that can’t keep it in their pants? John wouldn’t be interested in it, but Hailey might feature it in Girl Power. Of course, I’d have to tell Elvira Grantham I’m a journalist, not a writer, and risk blowing my cover, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  “Maybe,” I reply vaguely. “The book’s still taking shape in my mind, and I don’t know exactly what I’m going to write about yet. Do you think I could talk to her?”

  “I’m not sure,” Blake says. “Aunt Elvira can be a bit touchy sometimes. I’m going to see her in the morning; I’ll ask her.”

  Our beers arrive. For a few moments, we lapse into silence, and I use the opportunity to study the men discreetly. They’re both impossibly hot, tall and muscled. Declan has dark hair, cut military-short. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and dark jeans, and his forearms are covered with tattoos. Despite the dimples, there’s an air of magnetic intensity about him.

  Blake, on the other hand, looks a lot more happy-go-lucky. His sandy-brown hair is longer than Declan’s. He’s wearing a navy-blue linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and faded jeans. His lips are curled into a smile, and the expression in his blue eyes is one of relaxed amusement.

  Serious or laid-back, one thing is crystal clear. Both guys are way out of my league.

  “What kind of books do you write?” Declan asks conversationally.

  “Cozy mysteries.”

  His brow furrows. “I don’t think I’ve heard of them. What are cozy mysteries?”

  Oh God. Kill me now. When I made up the details of my cover story, I didn’t plan on running into two good-looking guys, guys who are now going to think that I’m a crazy cat lady. “Have you read Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple books? Those are cozy mysteries.”

  Blake looks up. “Elvira will love you,” he says. “She’s a huge Miss Marple fan. She’s got first editions of all of Agatha Christie’s books. Are your books set in England too?”

  “No.” Dear God in Heaven, why are they interested in my imaginary books? I’m digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole. “They’re set in Portland. My heroine is a fifty-five-year-old lady who solves crimes with the help of her cat, Smokey.”

  “Cats solving crime?” Blake’s lips twitch, and his eyes run over me. “You don’t look like a cat person.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask indignantly. “What do cat people look like?”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Mostly,” he says, “their clothes tend to be covered in cat hair. Marla, for example, has stopped wearing black because her cat, Mr. Boots, sheds on her.”

  I have to grin. “Okay, I guess that’s fair. I like cats, but I’m horribly allergic. So I write about them instead. What about the two of you? What do you do?”

  “A little of this, a little of that,” Declan replies evasively. Blake gives him a sidelong look, his eyebrows raised, but doesn’t say anything.

  Okay, be that way. Our burgers have arrived, and I’m starving. They can keep their secrets; I’m far more interested in my food.

  It’s around my third drink—and yes, I remember I was supposed to drink only one, thanks for noticing—that I realize I’m having a really good time.

  Blake and Declan are well-traveled. I’m quite proud that I’ve visited ten countries, but when we compare numbers, Declan has me beat by a mile. “Sixty?” My mouth falls open as I stare at him. “You’ve been to sixty countries? How is that possible? How much vacation do you get anyway?”

  He chuckles at my indignant expression. “A lot of it is for work,” he says. “I lived in Europe for two years in my twenties, and I spent every weekend traveling to a different country.”

  Blake’s blue eyes twinkle. “There’s nothing wrong with your number, Lana,” he says, the double-entendre clear.

  “But if you want to add to it,” Declan adds, his tone suggestive, “we’re happy to help.”

  Lana’s Sex Bucket List. Item 4: Kiss a guy at a bar.
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  “Help?” I gaze up at them innocently, pretending I have no idea what they’re talking about. “How exactly do you suggest helping?”

  Declan’s lips twitch, and those sexy dimples flash into view. I have to dig my nails into my palms in order to stop myself from falling all over him. Would it be terrible if I reached out with my pinkie finger and traced that indentation? That’s not wrong, right?

  Should have stopped drinking after the first beer, Lana.

  Declan winks at me. “You wanted to go to Rio, right? My friend Yasmin loves showing people around her city. Want her phone number?”

  Well, that’s a whole lot of ice-water on my raging hormones. Then again, Declan just winked at me. Hello, mixed messages.

  And this is why you stay in your room, working on an article or reading smutty books on your phone, Lana. That’s also why you’ve never been picked up at a bar.

  Hailey flirts like it’s second nature to her. Me? I’m far more awkward. “Umm, sure thing,” I murmur, bending down to grab the handbag that I unceremoniously shoved under the table when we walked in. I pull my trusty spiral-bound notebook out and open it to the first free page. A sheet of paper flutters to the ground. “What’s her number?”

  Declan doesn’t reply right away. He bends to pick up the sheet, and my heart stops beating.

  Because he’s holding my Sex Bucket List in his hands.

  And judging from the way his eyes widen, he’s reading it.

  Ouch.

  A slow smile spreads across his face. “Writers are far more interesting than I would have imagined,” he says, handing the sheet to Blake, who takes it from him with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t you think, Blake?”

  My cheeks go hot with embarrassment.

  Blake scans the list and looks up, his eyes dancing with merriment. “You have threesomes on here twice,” he points out.

  My only option is to tough it out. I lift my head up and look steadily at the two men. “Can I have my list back?”