by Angel Payne
“The rest, Miss Monet?”
He mocked—a little—with the words. If it bothered Brynn at all, her composure didn’t betray it. As best as he observed, she really believed she could help her friend by doing this—no matter what it took. Her tenacity floored him.
And terrified him.
“You know only a few definite aspects of the situation you’re dealing with right now,” she said, “and Nyles Royce is one of them.” A lengthy breath filled her lungs then released. “And we know he likes redheads, right?”
A bizarre sound echoed through his brain. He identified the deafening whoop-whoop from the recesses of his past, watching reruns on the TV in the laundromat on his way home from school.
Code red, captain. Warp core breach eminent.
“Uh-uh.” It tumbled out of him just like the chuckle of a minute ago, beyond his understanding or control. That was just fine. She needed to hear the vehemence in it. Everyone in the room did—especially fucking Rhett, who seemed to be giving her some serious consideration. “No way,” he snarled before spinning fully at his friend, forefinger extended. “No fucking way, man.”
His exclamation worked like the start bell to a prize fight, at least to Brynna. She shot forward, hands on hips, tossing back her hair—like he needed a reminder of the strands that made her perfect Nyles Royce bait—and leveled a withering glare. “You don’t think I can do it.”
He fumed. “I didn’t say that. Or mean it.”
“The hell you didn’t.” Her lips were perfect ribbons, even in her fury. “So Zoe could be drafted for a mission to save Shay, but I’m not good enough for your op to save her. Is that about right, Sergeant?”
Was she fucking kidding? That wasn’t about right. Not at all. Didn’t she see? Couldn’t she tell? She really had to be some Amazonian goddess, meant to be worshipped in the center of a temple, not slogging through the Texas back country with a pair of knuckle-draggers like Rhett and him, seeking out scum like Homer Adler and Nyles Royce.
“Well?” She actually tapped her foot and cocked her head. When one was a demigod, they apparently could get away with that shit.
It also meant they could deal with a dose of their own medicine. He was sure as hell down with that. “Well what?” He cocked his own head, proving she hadn’t invented obstinacy on her own. “You’re not coming to Texas with us, damn it.”
“Because you’ve given me a valid reason why not?”
“Because you’ve given me a valid reason to allow it?”
“Zoe—”
“Was drafted for a mission under very unusual circumstances.”
One side of her mouth quirked. “And these aren’t…unusual?”
Rebel stomped closer to her. Actually loomed over her. Channeling his outlaw ancestors like this had made more than a few men quake, but the saucy little wench just widened her eyes and tugged that sweet mouth a little higher.
“Stop it,” he said from locked teeth.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that.” He added, after her breathless tone fully hit his consciousness. “And sounding like that.”
“Like what?” She was goading him now but there was no defense against it. The way she worked her lips together, dragging his stare toward them. The way she pressed a little closer, letting him inhale her essence, some light flowery body spray mixed with the earthier tang of her sweat. The way she reached across the inches between them, skimming fingertips over the back of his hand. “Like I don’t ‘have what it takes’ to keep my cool around a guy like Royce?”
Behind him, Z and Garrett snickered. To his right, Kell did the same. There was no sound from Rhett—yet. He imagined the ass munch just bided his time, waiting for the ideal moment to fire off his own ridicule.
He didn’t care.
All he could think about was leaning deeper in, seizing the back of Brynn Monet’s gorgeous goddess head, and positioning her to receive his tongue straight down the wet heaven of her throat.
Exactly what Nyles would do to her. And worse.
“The answer’s still no.”
Especially now, in this special moment of a hell, and all the disgusting visions that had brought it on. Especially as she quit the come-fuck-me lips thing, opting for an incensed pout that was even more kissable.
“And that’s still not an acceptable answer.”
Kissing fantasies be damned. He tossed those aside. Replaced them with an image of marching her back into the bedroom, shoving down her cute yoga pants, throwing her over his knee, and reddening her taut little ass—at discipline-level impact. He was so incensed, the fantasy didn’t even include a happy ending for them.
Almost.
Damn. He needed to curb his fucking libido—five minutes ago.
And as the appropriate saying went, sometimes the best defense was damn good offense.
“Hmm. Criminal psych, huh?” He purposely stepped back, jogging up his chin, yielding a much better view of her incredible swan’s neck, blending into gracefully sweeping shoulders. Winning choice, asswipe. Now keep your focus on the goddamn goal. Offense. “So…this is what they teach in those courses? To act like a seven year-old, refusing to accept answers besides the one you want, even if issued from the senior officer on your case?”
She paused before answering. Just long enough to make him worry.
“So it is my case now?”
Even Rhett couldn’t help but join in the laughs at that one. Rebel braced hands to his hips and bolted his stare into hers—satisfied that he at least brought on her blush. You want to play with the Moonstormer, lady? Then let’s play. He let his wildest interpretations of that run across his mind and his gaze. Though Brynn couldn’t see the details, she at least comprehended the intent—every naughty, nasty detail of it.
Her blush darkened.
His smirk widened.
You like that, ma petite chatte? The innuendo of it, while stamping his cock with pain, filled his will with confidence.
“This isn’t a decision I like making, Brynna.” He told it like the truth it was. “But we’re all going to be under a lot of pressure—”
“I can handle pressure.”
El tapped a finger on the air. “That girl can handle the pressure!”
Brynn lifted her chin.
Rebel didn’t make a secret of his frown.
“You won’t be coddled.”
She glared. Insulted? “I don’t do coddled.”
El lifted another finger. “She hates being coddled.”
Rhett huffed. Snarled. Pressed over her again, nearly hunching his shoulders, feeling like a goddamn ape. The little fool only stared back with eyes full of Olympus’s own lightning. Fuck. The only thing that seemed to faze her was the unspoken promise of spankings. A lot of spankings.
And now, every time his eyes closed, the only way he kept envisioning her.
And wouldn’t that be a dandy way to start a mission with her?
You’re not starting anything with her, you moron!
The charge stabbed into him enough to drive him backward, gaining the necessary distance from her for rational thought. Or so he assumed. Now standing next to Double-Oh again, he grabbed his friend by the elbow then jerked a nod over the path he’d just come, silently enlisting his friend to back him the hell up with their cute but crazy resident redhead.
Wasn’t happening.
Rhett flung a stare like he’d chugged the bloody Kool-Aid, confusion twisting his all-too-pretty features. “Reb, I’ve always got your back, man…but what’s this about?”
His jaw didn’t drop often. He saved that special reaction for times just like this. “Are you fucking joking?”
“Are you?”
He forced his jaw back up, closing it on grinding teeth. Actually took his time about it, just in case Rhett wanted to let him in on the psych-out. “She has no fucking field experience!”
Rhett released an enduring sigh. “Not a stitch. But she does have a point. Neither did Zoe. But without her, Sha
y might still be the filet of the day inside that D.C. ware—”
Too late, the idiot realized what kind of a red cape that’d throw in front of the bull they were still barely calling Shay. Sure enough, Bommer swung fully around and kicked out, flipping the couch all the way over onto its side, then left the room by stomping up and over the destroyed furniture—
Not before burying one more fist in the wall.
Rebel expelled a hard breath. He admitted—very secretly—to a wash of confusion at Shay’s torment. To have that kind of love for a woman…for anyone…what must it be like? He’d been alive for close to thirty years and was damn sure he’d never felt anything close to it, or ever would. He’d never even missed it, either. And wasn’t that just poetic? The hell of his childhood had simply replaced its curse in his adulthood. Deeper scars were easier to cover. They were nothing like the pain he watched slithering up every inch of I-Man’s back, sinking fangs deeper with every step Shay took through the dining room, to finally escape outside. Nothing like the clawed, desperate hand the man drove through his hair as dawn peeked over the crags of Red Rock Canyon, the sky’s cheerful glow like a full-blown mockery.
No more confusion. The answer blared clear as the emerging light of the day. Loving anyone like that wasn’t just an ability he didn’t have; it was a burden he didn’t want. Ever.
That did him no good with the problem of Brynna Monet.
And her goddess’s magic.
And her wild-ass notions about what “helping” a friend entailed.
And the fact that she now walked over with an arm hooked beneath Rhett’s—apparently enlisting him on her side, too.
“What the fuck?” He glowered at Double-Oh as they stepped over. “I’m distracted for a second by I-Man hurling couches across the room, and you’re now on her side?”
Rhett flashed his best blasé smirk. Asswipe. It was the same look he used to charm women right out of their panties, everywhere they went—but the idea of Brynn’s lacy bits in Double-Oh’s pocket made him want to puke.
“Just so we’re all straight, I’ve always been on her side.”
Rhett let him have it eye-to-eye without a chaser of wimp, but if the guy thought that got him off any easier, he was vastly mistaken.
“We’re not all straight,” Rebel snarled. “This mission—”
“Mission?” his friend rejoined. “I haven’t heard anything about a ‘mission’. Last I knew, we were headed for some nice, no-stress down time out in Texas—especially if we have some extra support along in the way of getting on with the locals.”
A few layers of his tooth enamel disappeared as he bit down. “You’re seriously going with that, huh?”
Rhett didn’t even give that a shrug of reply. “Brynn’s come up with a good idea for mitigating your concerns about the situation.”
He slid a wry look toward the sweet-smiling woman. “Is that so?” The big bad wolf gig wasn’t gaining him traction. Maybe smooth panther was the way to go. Her continued geniality was definitely encouraging.
“You object to my inexperience, my unpreparedness, and my…innocence.” From the last, she visibly held back a giggle. “Is that all correct, Sergeant?”
Rebel thought fast, attempting to examine her answer from all angles. What was her end game? Can’t con a con artist, cher. I learned at the skirts of the best.
“Yes.” He firmed his stance. “That’s correct. More or less.”
“So what if I put your fears to rest—with a personal test?”
“What do you mean?”
She stepped away from Rhett and tilted a look of open challenge. “Why don’t you step outside and find out?”
He let his laugh spurt out. Gave her—and the smirking baboon next to her—a look that meant only one thing. Are you fucking kidding me? “You’re asking me to ‘step outside’ with you, Miss Monet?”
She twitched her head a little. Flipped her hair back again, only to gather the thick, waist-length glory into one hand and secure it into a ponytail. “Well, isn’t that how you ‘boys’ like to settle things, Sergeant Stafford?”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. What the hell kind of response was good for something like that?
Rhett didn’t wait for him to decide. With a snort that became a smirk, he turned for the slider that led out to the backyard, tossing over his shoulder in the process, “This is going to be so good.”
* * *
EIGHT HOURS LATER, the shithead wasn’t any more tired of that annoying-as-fuck jam—demonstrated by the bellows of laughter from the tall ginger soldier waiting on the tarmac outside the private charter terminal at McCarran for him. RAF Commander Sam Mackenna was a hardworking guy who got along with everyone he met, but in the years Reb had known the man, his laughter could never be qualified as bellowing—until now.
Well, wasn’t that fucking special? Especially when a glance at his watch instantly narrowed down the list of who could be calling Mackenna at exactly this moment.
Take rocks. Dump into gut. Grind into acid. Stir. Repeat.
“Fuck,” he muttered beneath his breath, though kept his approach to Sam at a definite don’t-mess-with-me stride. Didn’t do him a short curly hair of good. As he got close enough to make his glare blatantly clear, Sam covered his mouth and dedicated himself to a very loud, very fake, cough.
“Desert air drying you out, Braw Boy?” He growled both syllables of Sam’s call-sign, a reference to the Gaelic slang for the rugged face most women couldn’t resist. If the emphasis didn’t get through to Mackenna, Rebel would be more than happy to illustrate further by “prettying up” that square jaw with an upper left hook.
God, he damn near prayed for it.
After the events with Brynna in the backyard last night, he was looking for any reason for a good dust-up. He watched a roadrunner skitter across the runway, tempted to call the damn bird out for a few rounds—especially as Sam pocketed his phone, barely able to control the quirks of his “bonny” Scottish lips.
That did it for niceties.
He leaned over, “patting” Sam on the back so hard, a lesser man would’ve tumbled into the brush. Sam stayed put but really did begin to choke. Reb clucked his tongue. “Damn. That sounds bad. Maybe you should go see somebody about that, boyo.”
Sam added laughs between the chokes. “Not if I’m feckin’ dead, ya lice-ridden oaf.”
Rebel snickered despite his tension. “Haven’t lost a damn bit of your touch, Braw.”
“Better with age, Moonstormer. Like good Scotch and my very talented cock.”
He groaned. “Oh now, that’s a good one. You been saving that up the entire two years we haven’t seen each other?”
Sam snorted. “I really have had better things to do.”
“Like talking to Rhett on the phone?” He peered out toward all the mirrored buildings on the horizon. Sin City was oddly pretty in the late afternoon sun. He wished he was in a better frame of mind to enjoy it. “That was him, wasn’t it?”
Sam’s back was turned as he inspected the five-seat Piper Lance they were taking to Texas, in lieu of anything available at the base. But if this “off duty escape” was truly going to fly below the radar, so were they.
They…meaning Sam, Brynn, and him.
He still couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this.
“Well, we didn’t talk long.” Sam’s tone was suddenly matter-of-fact, lending the hope that not long was the honest-to-fuck truth and Rhett hadn’t relayed anything about the startling events in the Bommers’ backyard last night. But he didn’t trust the Scot’s nonchalance. Not for a second. “He, errrmm, just wanted you to know he’s already unloaded at the landing strip in Austin, and is getting ready to drive out to the complex you secured—after he stops at Hopdoddy for a triple patty special. Wasn’t sure if he meant that last part, or if he said it just to taunt me.”
“Both,” Rebel supplied, though allowed himself a whoosh of relief past his small smirk. “Okay, then. That all sounds
good. Real good.”
“Hrrmm.”
Something about the guy’s hum told him the relief had been premature.
“Yeah, well…he also wanted to know if you’d gotten all the air back in your lungs, seeing as how a sweet little lass named Brynna managed to—how’d he say it?—‘flatten you like a pizza’ three times in a row last night?”
Yeah. Really premature.
Rebel shot over a glare—only to have it smack the Scot’s massive shoulders, which shook with distinct intent. Those muscles couldn’t hide much, especially if Sam was laughing his ass off at someone.
“Damn it. She took me by surprise.”
“Right.” Sam sniffed against his mirth. “Because after four years in the Special Forces, you’re not used to that or anything.”
He spun, more than happy to show the guy what his shoulders were up to—a demeanor he was more than happy to bear out, in every coiled inch of his stance. “You want to tell me the shifty little heathen wouldn’t have duped you?”
Sam shrugged. “Way I heard it, there wasn’t a lot of shifty. She proposed her conditions, fair and clear. Three solid chances to prove she wasn’t the little wilting little violet you assumed.” Sam swung out from beneath the wing, tugging at rivet points as he went. Whether the man was flying a jet, a helo, or something in between, he was famous for his personal aircraft cross-check. “And you know what happens when you ‘assume,’ my dearie.”
“I’m not your goddamn dearie.”
“No. She’s meeting me in a room at Catacomb tonight.” His ginger brows waggled. “And I guarantee she’ll be calling me a lot more than ‘dearie’ by the time we’re done.”
Reb chuckled. Couldn’t help it. Forget trying to stay immune to Mackenna’s charm, even as a guy. The man was like a fucking TV weatherman. One had to smile even if he brought news of raining cats and snow flurries. Worst part was trying to visualize the guy as a Dom. He’d heard tales about the guy’s legions of dripping subbies back home. Nope. The gray matter wasn’t going to cooperate with that image right now—especially as Sam’s face brightened in an even more affable smile, as he looked somewhere over Reb’s shoulder.
“Ah. This must be the ‘shifty little heathen’ now.”
