I’ve been shut out.
And I don’t like it. Not one bit.
When did you turn into such a whiny bitch, Deimos? You have your own shit to take care of. True. I can’t start looking into her while she’s sitting next to me, but I have other things that need my attention.
I’m tempted to try running another scan on her body.
Hah. Yeah right. She’d block it, and she’d be inside me again.
I shift at the thought, my cock stirring in my pants. Shit. Am I turned on by the thought of having her inside my systems?
My cock twitches and my eyes are drawn to the girl. I want this sexy little thing next to me.
I’ve been far from celibate recently, and yet, I want this girl in a way I haven’t wanted someone in a long time. Which is why you’re going to get back to work and ignore her unless necessary.
Right. Good plan. Probably isn’t going to be as easy as it sounds but what else can I do? She is my cargo. The fucking mission. I pick her up, protect her en route, and deliver her to her father. End of story.
“Please help her.”
Crap. I’d forgotten about that.
Frustrated, I log onto my email, determined to ignore this shit situation I find myself in as much as possible.
YOU KNOW WHAT'S PATHETIC? When you realize that—at twenty-eight years old—you've never watched a woman sleep. Weird thought right? There’s been so many of them in the last few hours that I stopped questioning them. I'm not getting any answers, and Einstein wasn't lying when he gave us the definition of insanity.
It's now almost 4AM and we’ve pulled into the airport's parking lot. Clark is already out of the car. Gage and the rest of the team as well. They're all standing outside, waiting.
I'm still inside, leaning back on the door. Watching. Studying.
Fascinated.
I've been a soldier since the age of seventeen. It's been an eleven-year, 24-7 career for me. I don't like to get into what it was like before that, but I lived a sheltered life. All that was missing was the padded room and plastic bubble. As a result, women and I didn't get acquainted until after I was eighteen and on my first tour.
Relationships? Not possible. I'm a soldier, as I said. Well, now I'm what people consider a special agent—God damn that 007 bullshit—but I see myself as a soldier. Always will.
When you live the life I live, you don't stop to think about the things that didn’t happened. What's missing. You don't care, either. Eat, sleep, sex. Keep myself in top shape. The endless medical visits to make sure I'm at one-thousand percent. And the mission statistics, planning, analyzing.
And most important of all: survive.
That's my life and I'm freaking ecstatic with it. Supremely comfortable, in fact. I never wanted anything more.
Yet here I am, unwilling to move, drinking in the sight of a young sleeping girl.
She fell asleep two hours ago. Did it in the middle of reading, too. One moment she'd ben awake, immersed in that book. In the blink of an eye, her eyes snapped shut, her head fell limp to the side, and she was out cold.
I caught her book before it fell out of her lap and made sure to place her bookmark where she'd left off. The book is now next to her on the seat.
It’s the oddest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve never witnessed anyone falling asleep like that. Is she narcoleptic? No, her file would’ve mentioned that. Maybe she’s developed some weird sleep disorder after everything she’s been through.
File would’ve mentioned that, too. It has to be her advanced technology.
The enigma that this girl is has me hooked. I’m sure of it. It has nothing to do with those thighs. Or the fact that her profile while sleeping is even sexier than her legs.
My head falls against the window with a loud bang. Deimos, whatever this is, figure it the fuck out and get over it. You’re fucking up the mission.
Someone knocks against the window, right where my head is. “Plane leaves in twenty-five. You planning on coming out of there any time before takeoff?”
Fuck you, Gage. Talk about proving my point.
Another thing I’ve realized about the girl is that she sleeps through any noise. There’s no way I could’ve stayed asleep considering how loud Gage had been.
I reach behind me. A simple flick of my fingers opens the door and I fling it open. The muffled “oomph” that comes from Gage makes me want to smile. I step out of the car. Eight pissy expressions are aimed in my direction.
“The girl is sleeping,” I tell them, meeting each and every stare.
You need a psychological evaluation. The words aren’t said out loud, but they’re written in every line on Gage’s face. “And? You want to delay the flight until she wakes up?”
A.K.A: What is wrong with you?
Let me pause here and state a fact that should be obvious by now.
I didn’t get the code name “Terror” by accident. Yes, when it comes to killing, I am a surgical-steel, six-blade slicing machine. I am. I don’t regret it. It’s kill or be killed in my world. Only regular civilians get the luxury of choosing otherwise.
And it’s because guys like me do the dirty work to protect them.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no motherfucking superhero. Would never want to be equated to one. If anyone comes near me with a cape, I’m shoving it up their asses.
Killing isn’t the only thing I excel at, though. Strategizing and being obsessed with finishing each mission on time—while making sure everyone on the mission sticks to every step of the plan? Guilty as charged. That’s me. The men came up with another nickname they think I don’t know about: The Tyrant.
Is it original? Hell no. Is it accurate? Damn right it is.
I’m proud of that fact. I’ve worked hard to deserve both nicknames. And I’ve cracked that whip enough times to give them all some sick version of Pavlovian Conditioning. I’m sure of it.
They follow the rules, the plan, and make sure the missions go off without a single hitch. It’s my M.O. and they have no choice but to stick to it when I’m in charge.
And now I want to delay the mission because the girl is sleeping? “I don’t think she can be woken up. She fell asleep pretty deep.” Yeah, it seems so.
“Fine.” Gage again. “If she can’t be woken up, I’ll carry her onto the plane.”
The hell did he say?
My hand has never moved so fast. I’m a very fast man in general, but the sheer speed with which my hand flies up to grab his arm leaves me shocked.
It seems that, at least on a physical level, I am functioning at over a thousand-percent.
Mentally, however…
“What’s the fucking problem now?” Gage snaps. His arm muscles bulge as he tests the tightness of my hold.
I make every one of my fingers clench harder. “If I can’t wake her up this time, I’ll carry her.”
“You wanna pound your fist against your chest next?” Gage rips his arm away and rubs his bicep. “That hand is a metallic machine under that skin, did you forget that?”
“Stop bitching. So is that arm.” I nod at where he’s rubbing.
He mumbles something about how I’m being an ever bigger douche than usual.
No arguments from me.
I move to enter the car. Fuck, she’s already awake.
I’m not usually struck stupid by a woman’s beauty. I’m not that type of guy. My dick and I came to an agreement a very long time ago. I make sure he gets off on a near constant basis; he gives me complete control.
We had our deal solidified. That contract was iron-clad. We signed it in blood, for God’s sake.
So tell me: Why am I standing here, leaning half-way into this car, slack-jawed as I stare into her eyes?
I’m serious. Please tell me. I’m starting to think that something else is going on here. Something beyond what I think it is.
“I’m awake.”
Her soft whisper makes my hand flex on the door. “I can see that,” is all I say, and I can’t help
it. The corners of my lips stretch into a smile at her obvious statement.
Her face flares red. Bright, worrisome red. I can see it even in the darkness of the car.
She stares up at me, blinking, like she’s never seen me before. I feel like a misshapen, recently landed UFO. And when I say misshapen, I’m talking tentacles.
She somehow turns redder—I’m starting to worry about her health—and her head flies around to stare at the front of the car. She nervously tucks her hair behind her ear and fidgets.
The moment her incisor comes done and she bites on the corner of her plump lip, I catch it. I so fucking catch it.
Flares go off inside me, a primal nerve reaction that rushes through every muscle. I’m not a tentacle-infested UFO anymore. No. I’m a seventeen-foot tall God of Virility, standing on top of a mountain at the peak of my prime.
Attraction. I saw it. My body recognizes it on all levels. That reaction speeds ups, until my head is spinning from battling back every urge howling to life within me. I jerk back from the shock.
The sound of my head hitting the roof makes her gasp.
“Oh my God. Are you okay?”
The tone of her voice. It does things to me, man. “I’m fine.”
She shot across the seat and is now in front of me, staring up at me with eyes full of worry. For me?
“Are you sure?” Her hair moves over her shoulders as she tilts her head, assessing me.
“Yeah. I’m fine. I—” Have no idea what else I’m going to say. All I can do is take her in, getting sucked further into something I don’t understand. At all.
Why is this happening? It can’t be about the sex. As hot as this little thing is, I don’t understand why my body is acting so… so… deprived.
It’s not like I’m not getting any. I had sex yesterday morning, in fact.
The reminder that there is someone else should dampen things a bit. Right?
No.
I already told you, I don’t do relationships. It’s only sex, and I made that very clear from day one. Noemi knows the deal. But we work together. She’s part of the Organization. Starting something else without ending it first wouldn’t just be fucked up. It’d be straight up inconsiderate. Considering we work together, that wouldn’t be a smart move.
You can’t start anything anyway, you fucking genius. Cargo. Mission. Deliver. Pull out your phone and Google that shit if you forgot.
“Are we leaving? We have fifteen minutes before departure. And we can’t take the direct route to the plane, as planned. They closed that route.”
I fly out of the car, this time managing to spare my head any damage. “What do you mean they closed the direct route? Why?”
“Don’t know. No time to find out. We gotta go.” Gage stares pointedly at the car.
Alright, alright. I get it. Stop delaying the mission with your bullshit, Deimos.
When I lean into the car, the girl’s in the process of putting her things back in her bag. She slips on a dark hoodie next and lifts the hood. A black pair of Ray-Ban glasses is donned last.
I have the same exact pair.
I see her hesitate, and it’s all the excuse I need to lean back in.
Frigging hell, I’m magnetized.
“Is everything alright?” I don’t like the tone of my voice. It’s suspiciously close to sounding worried. Too intimate.
The girl shakes her head and stares up at me. “Yeah. I’m just a little out of it.”
Understandable. She’d died. Then she was brought back to life after countless surgeries. She’s bionic now. Part human, part machine.
I know from experience how much of a mind-fuck it is to wake up to that.
So why does her behavior make me suspicious? There’s this niggling doubt whispering like a devil in my ear.
I’m an idiot. I should’ve spent the time she was sleeping looking into that USB. Instead, I spent the time staring at her.
I’m aware of how stupid all of this is. These thoughts are going through my head and I hear them loud and clear. I am busy berating myself for being the most monolithic fool in history.
And I still hold out my hand to help her out.
She doesn’t grab it and that hesitation is back. I’m about to pull it back and move out of her way when she finally reaches for it.
Thick leather separates her flesh from mine, but the moment of contact reverberates everywhere.
Every-fucking-where.
I forget about the mission, about everyone waiting for us outside, about Noemi, and the million other reasons why I need to stay away.
I'm not the only one that feels it. Her glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose, so I see her eyes. I watch as those long lashes rise, and her stare moves from my hand to my face.
Fucked. So fucked. This thing is alive, palpitating back and forth between us.
I can't have her.
In a single, blazing instant my body decides otherwise. It doesn't care about anything. As a last ditch resort, I remind myself that the girl is almost a decade younger than me. Surely, if nothing else matters, at least that should.
The attraction doesn't abate. Not even a little. Her hand trembles in mine. I tighten my hold around her fingers and clench my jaw.
I need to get her on the plane and back to Mr. Heaton. After that, I’ll get as far away as possible. Our main base is in America. She'll be in England.
Guess it’s obvious where I'm heading next.
I doubt she'll bring up what's happening between us.
Please don't let her bring up what's happening. If this little thing ever hints at wanting me back, I'm going to forget everything. Every single reason why I can't take her.
"We need to go."
I'm going to snap Gage's neck in half if he doesn't stop repeating himself, so help me God. "I know."
He rolls his eyes at my tone.
The girl drops my hand and faces Gage nervously. "I'm sorry. I fell asleep."
Now, I explained to you how gorgeous this girl is, right? Well, here's the problem. She isn't just gorgeous. She's downright cute. Yes, a woman can be both, and being both is lethal to us men. Even the non-relationship type. That shit activates the conqueror and protective circuits like nothing else can.
So as the girl stands there, fidgeting while apologizing to Gage, I should be more understanding. I should remember, as I see the expression on Gage's face, that he's human.
When all his aggravation melts away, and he assures her that it's okay, I shouldn't be annoyed about it.
But remember that flare of attraction I recognized in her eyes? I'm seeing it again.
In Gage's fucking eyes as he looks down at her.
We've covered how my inner conqueror-slash-protector is fully activated. Well, guess which part rears to life when I realize what's going on with Gage?
Yeah. Exactly.
I'll be stuck on a plane with my new fixation and what my body now considers my competition. Nevermind that he's one of the closest things I have to a friend.
Oh, and six other men that can, at any moment, decide to look at the girl as a possibility.
Holy shit. I feel a migraine coming on.
ONCE INSIDE THE AIRPORT terminal, I realize that our "cargo" is a genius. With her hood pulled up, and the large glasses, there's no easy way of recognizing her. Add to that the two-toned hair, odd school-girl outfit, and her cheekbones, and she looks a young Japanese woman.
So that's not her preferred style? She did it to blend in?
Something tells me it's both, but it's still bloody brilliant.
A few heads turn as we walk by. No wondering why. It's one girl along with eight men. Six of my teammates are walking behind us. I'm beside her. Gage has decided that his chosen place is also next to her.
The flight also had to be delayed. Yeah. Because of my idiocy back at the car? Hell no. The flight was delayed for the same reason it's taken us fifteen minutes to walk through half the terminal.
If Gage stops to ask t
he girl if she wants something one more time...
We pass a small convenience store. This one has a magazine rack at the front.
"I need a drink," Clark calls out from behind us.
We slow down to wait for him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl stop in front of the magazine rack. At first, I think she's browsing, browsing the covers and whatnot. It doesn't take long for me to realize that's not the case. She's focused on one particular magazine.
Curiosity has me making my way over to her. I shouldn't let it—or my attraction for her—guide me.
But I already established that I'm no longer in control, so fuck it.
She bends down to reach for the magazine right as I stop behind her. Our height difference borders on ridiculous. It's easy for me to look over her shoulder at the magazine in her hands.
Wired. One of the very few magazines I take the time to read.
This is the Japanese edition, and she's reading the cover. I can't see her eyes but the movement of her head gives it away.
Her file mentioned fluency in English, Spanish, French and Chinese. It didn't mention anything about her knowing Japanese.
She must sense me behind her. Her head turns in my direction.
I hold out my hand.
She hands me the magazine. Then, she pauses, seeming to realize what she just did, and mutters a soft, "Wait."
It's too late. I'm already walking up to the register.
"Umm… what are you doing?"
I take my wallet out of my pocket. "You want it, right?"
"Um. Yeah?" The shock on her face is almost priceless. "But wait!" She flips open her bag and begins searching through it. "My—my father made sure I had my own card—"
Again, too late. I hand my card to the cashier and give her the magazine, feeling absurdly triumphant.
Gage had been walking up to us. He comes to a stop, eyes on the girl and me.
That triumph flares stronger.
"Oh. Thank you." She accepts the magazine from me and her cheeks turn pink.
"No problem," I tell her, giving her a small smile.
She bites the corner of her lip, and even though I realized it's a nervous habit, my body reacts in every inappropriate way possible.
The Exchange Part 1 Page 3
