Mastered By The Mavericks

by Angel Payne

  What if he already had?

  “So do you always talk about pain with a smile, cher?”

  Her head jerked up, eyes popping as if he’d asked if she bit the heads off chickens. Astonishment and bewilderment, then rage and repulsion, flashed across her face. “Do you?”

  He thought about apologizing, but wasn’t sure what for. He chose to hold his stare steady, keeping hers locked to it. “Depends on who’s asking. And exactly what’s…hurting.” He drifted his regard downward with the last of it.

  She set down the gauze and alcohol with careful control. The same caution now defined her quiet glare. “Well, I don’t do ‘hurting’.”

  He inched his lips up a little more. Her mien didn’t change by an inch—and it was sexy as fuck. He’d always wanted to play frosty nurse and bad boy patient. “Oh, I think you do, lady. Maybe you should just…take your temperature, and find out.”

  She answered by stepping completely away. Her face tightened and pinched, as if she distilled her emotions into one terse vial of emotion.

  “I think I’m done here. You can clean the rest up yourself, Sergeant.”

  Her retreating steps sounded across the living room, toward the office. During the minute it took for the angry thumps to fade, he felt Rhett’s scrutiny on him. A look up, twining his gaze with his friend’s, told him what he already knew. The double meaning of her words hadn’t been lost on the guy—not a single accusing drop.

  Hell.

  He normally laughed this crap off. Wasn’t like Rhett had never given him that glare before. Christ, if he had a buck for every time the man had dragged out that combination of sadness, indictment, and confusion, he’d have enough flow for a mansion in the Garden District. He made it easier on them both by rowing his boat right on by, enjoying the scenery on his way to easier waters, letting Rhett wallow in his muck of holier-than-thou.

  He didn’t feel like rowing right now. Didn’t feel like pretending that Rhett’s walls were just as high and ugly as his, just because the fils de putain chose not to escape his emptiness in diving for pussy.

  Only this time, that was exactly what he’d done.

  Because Rhett hadn’t been escaping the emptiness.

  Rhett had been escaping him.

  The moments in the kitchen had shaken him so deeply, he’d coped by getting his dick into a female as soon as possible. Trouble was, she wasn’t just any female. She was Brynna Monet. Sexy, funny, whip-smart, open-hearted Brynna—a woman who deserved honesty and openness in return, not mooning stares and hints at “forever” when they all knew damn well that this was the craziest set of circumstances from which to expect a forever.

  Nope. No rowing by this time. Rhett had sure as hell not played fair, and neither would he.

  Nothing like that to lend the resolve to lean back, hands braced behind him, displaying his spread-out body for the attention of anyone who cared to look. And yeah, Rhett looked. And looked some more.

  Reb smiled. Leisurely. Knowingly. If Rhett wasn’t going to acknowledge the electricity between them, he’d sure as hell handle it for them both.

  “I still need cleaning up, Double-Oh.”

  The man didn’t move. Just filled the doorway with that hard tension on his lips, that palpable need in his presence—

  That was suddenly too much for the narrow space of the arch.

  His energy spilled through the room, hitting Rebel with its full force of fury—and lust.

  Immediately, Reb hissed from the impact.

  Instantly, his cock punched against his briefs.

  Violently, Rhett stumbled backward. From his new position, he hurled a glare back into the kitchen, stabbing the air like spears of ice. “You heard what the lady said. Do it yourself.”

  Chapter Eight

  ‡

  BRYNN ZOOMED FROM fast asleep to wide awake in three seconds. After silencing the alarm on her phone, she ran a hand through her hair and blinked in confusion. Where was she, and why had she set her alarm for the middle of the night?

  A gasp took over as the answers surged in. She was in one of the guest bedrooms at Dax Blake’s ranch, and it wasn’t the middle of the night. It was five-thirty a.m., the beginning of the day. In half an hour, she’d join Rhett and Rebel for a check-in with Say and El, then start her shift at the mouse cam console. Already she prayed it wouldn’t be another six hours of looking at nothing but live feeds of halls, doors, and feet. Lots and lots of feet.

  Rhett, Rebel, and she had followed those feet everywhere inside that damn building—for three days now. Breaking up the days and nights into rotating shifts of six hours each, none of them had left the mouse cam alone for a second. Rhett had trained Rebel and her on the basic maneuvering techniques for the device but if they encountered a special circumstance like stairs, elevators, or ramps, the protocol was to fetch him for help. Because of that, Rhett slept on the pull-out futon in the small den next to the office. In a strange display of solidarity, especially in light of the continued friction between the two, Rebel also slept close by, making his bed out of a couple of blankets and a pillow on the living room couch.

  Whatever.

  She hated—hated—being cavalier about it, but it seemed her only safe path to some semblance of emotional stability. “Semblance” was the right word for it, too, because their tense blood with each other hadn’t stopped either of them from warming more of hers—and endearing themselves deeper on just about every level.

  Just as disconcerting? On most of those occasions, the gorgeous bastards weren’t even trying. Like the morning she’d spied on Rebel as he tackled the parkour run in Dax’s gym, providing his own sportscaster commentary—landing himself in first place, of course. And the night she’d overheard Rhett in the shower, belting every perfectly memorized word of Welcome to the Jungle. Then there was Rebel’s laughter, given with all of himself, at her stupidest jokes—and Rhett’s “innocent” grin when he’d pranked her gullible side.

  Those events were easier to write off than the purposeful ones, like the way Rhett drove ten miles to find a store that carried her beloved hazelnut coffee creamer, and the afternoon Rebel had brought handpicked wildflowers to ease her grief that they hadn’t found Zoe on the camera feed yet.

  Zoe.

  There was her hugest reason to keep the distance from the guys. Good news: she wasn’t about to forget it; not with the endless ache in her stomach and the constant tear at her soul. Didn’t stop her from being damn glad that the guys were bunking across the house. The few hours of sleep she allowed herself each night were the key to staying alert during her shift in front of the monitors.

  Now, it was time to get to work again.

  That meant shutting off the swoony recollections of Sergeants Stafford and Lange, and focusing her mind completely on what mattered.

  Please, God…grant me insight about this. The right kind this time.

  So many times, she was sure they’d found Royce or Adler themselves—as if evil geniuses had a certain “walk” and she’d surely recognized it by now—but the urgent strides had always belonged to a scared minion or determined perimeter guard, on their way to some computer room or post. Rhett, Rebel and she still hadn’t found the one location in the place they needed to learn about: the exact location where those assholes were hiding Zoe.

  While washing her face in the en suite bathroom, she grimaced into her hands. Gulped away tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had no right to this frustration and sorrow when Zoe was living on a diet of the stuff, alone and terrified somewhere in that building, wondering if she’d ever be free—or alive—again.

  Hang on, Zo. Please hang on.

  She hitched up the pink T-shirt she’d worn to bed long enough to throw on a bra and apply fresh deodorant, not bothering to change out of her pajama bottoms. She’d showered before bed, knowing that right now, all she’d want to do was return to the office—though the fact that Rhett hadn’t woken her up yet wasn’t encouraging at all. If he’d found something, he�
�d have called her cell from the office. After brushing her hair into a fast ponytail—now was no time for vanity—it was time to get the update on what the mouse had discovered in the last five hours.

  Progress. Please God, just one more favor…let it be some kind of progress.

  She wasn’t surprised to enter the living room and see only Rebel’s mussed bedding on the couch. The pirate had started to stir when she went off to bed, having logged only two hours of sleep himself. By now, that wasn’t a surprise. Despite their charming moments, the vibe from both men this week had been, in a word, restless. Perhaps even hyper. It wasn’t normal for them. She knew it was silly to be so certain of it, but she was. The truth was emblazoned across both their faces, a far different thing than the tinkles they attempted as remnants of their earlier pissing match. This was something…strange. And different. For them both.

  Could she be off the mark? Possible but not probable. Though she’d spent only sparse time with both of them before now, there was also a reason the field of psychology was a perfect fit for her. The gut instincts she relied on for everything from dancing to cooking were especially accurate when it came to people.

  So why was this mission weirding them both out?

  Part of that replay was obvious. They usually didn’t have to deal with a mission tag-along, especially one who’d redefined “break the ice” with them both inside the first twenty-four hours of the op. But her intuition insisted there was more. Something about their dynamic had little to do with her or the demands of the mission, and everything to do with the demands of their relationship.

  If that was even what it was…

  Was that what was going on? And had her…“fun”…with them become a fly in their ointment?

  The questions were jarring. Certainly not because she had an issue with them as a couple—they were actually damn stunning together—but if they’d lied to her about their significance to each other, especially in light of the passion, intimacy, and orgasms she’d given to both…well, now they all had a problem.

  Though it sounded like the guys had just hunted up a fresh one of those for themselves.

  She stopped as the f word was bellowed so loud, it made the hallway’s glass walls tremble. Should she proceed? She felt like one of those too-stupid-to-live ingénues in a horror movie, investigating the bump in the darkest part of the woods.

  As she neared the office, another snarl erupted on the air. Fortunately, this one didn’t sound like King Kong with a tack in his paw. The words added onto it pegged the speaker as Rhett.

  “Moon, you’ve got to calm the hell down.”

  A bunch of pounding steps. More animalistic breaths. “That’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? You’re not the one who just blew this mission.”

  Her brows slammed together. What the hell? The mission was blown? Why? How?

  “Okay, chill. We have no idea what happened. You know there are probably a thousand explanations why—”

  “Why what?” She made the demand from the doorway. Spying from the hallway wasn’t going to cut it anymore. The pain in Reb’s voice wrenched her as much as what he’d said. But now that both the guys spun toward her, she wasn’t sure that was the right call, either. Aside from their tight black T-shirts and low-slung sweats, they looked like hell. No, worse. Like they’d been to hell, tried to climb out then kept getting tossed back in to give Satan his jollies.

  Rhett released the first resigned breath. Past a steeled jaw, he gritted, “The mouse cam went dark.”

  She drummed her fingers against her thighs. Sent back a look of bewilderment, though her heart thudded an equally urgent tattoo. “So what does that mean?”

  Rebel swung an arm toward the live feed monitors, both now black. “See for yourself. It means we’re fucking blind, is what it means.”

  Brynn shook her head. Wondered why she wasn’t throwing herself over into the same hell pit as them. “So we just reboot it or something…right?”

  “Tried,” Rhett supplied. “And failed.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Any number of things. Perhaps Adler’s boys finally detected the unit somehow, then snuck up and disabled it.”

  “Highly unlikely, since the last piece of footage would have shown the unit being picked up and examined.” Rebel sagged against the wall and clawed a hand through his hair. “Even if those goons figured out the unit was there, they’d have to fish around for a power switch.”

  “Theoretically.” Brynn hated saying it, but the premise made sense. “When El’s nieces come over to play, I have trouble finding the power buttons on their toys, and I can see those.” Five minutes with one’s thumb up Twilight Sparkle’s butt wasn’t an experience easily forgotten.

  Rebel rammed his head all the way back against the wall. “Which leads us back to the only possible explanation.”

  “Which is what?” She didn’t like saying that, either. Revision: she hated it. Felt like she’d been drafted to the Spanish Inquisition and been told to drill a steel peg through his leg. Same difference, judging from the pain on his face.

  “Primary battery life on the thing is three days,” he muttered. “You have to program the thing to activate the backup battery—a manual procedure after the unit is turned on.”

  She absorbed that with careful silence. “And you’re not sure if you did that.”

  His face contorted like that was the second steel peg. “Fucking. Idiot.”

  “Shut. Up.” Rhett wheeled back fully toward his partner. “You perform surgery on bombs, Stafford, not cameras. You’re used to being given space, silence and longer lead times for your work, instead of guards, alarms, and deadlines breathing down your business. Cut yourself some fucking slack and let’s move on with a new plan.”

  A new plan. Brynna darted a glance outside and wondered if Rhett had done the same. It was almost six o’clock. Dawn was already here; daybreak wouldn’t be far behind. If “a new plan” included the safer cloak of night, they were screwed for about thirteen hours.

  Rebel’s barking laugh conveyed his understanding of that fact, so she bit her thoughts into silence as he confronted Rhett with a narrow glare. “I’d state the obvious, but clearly, Sergeant Lange, you’re into ignoring the obvious lately.”

  The corners of Rhett’s eyes tightened. Other than that, he hardly moved. “I’m well aware of our present challenges. I just choose to look at them differently.” He nodded toward the patio. “This gives us a window to gather intel and form strategy.”

  Brynn released a resigned breath. “He’s right. We can whine about the setback or embrace the opportunity.”

  “How very Zen of him.” Rebel snorted softly before parting his lips, revealing a clenched smile. “On the other hand, who can’t be Mr. Zen when they’re pumping a load into the world’s most perfect redhead every night?”

  And there went her dilemma about remaining polite and silent. “Excuse the hell out of me?” Followed, weirdly and wildly, by the world’s most inappropriate follow-up thought. The world’s most perfect redhead? He really thinks that?

  Now was not the time for giddy and stupid—unless they were discussing Rebel’s idiocy. Rhett was all over it. He lunged two steps forward and snarled, “You want to reconsider that, Sir Douchebag, before I beat that three tons of bullshit out of you?”

  Rebel shoved away from the wall. His chest ended up an inch from Rhett’s. Brynna winced, instantly recognizing the irony. In any other situation, the sight of them like that, matched nearly muscle-for-muscle, would have her squirming and wet. Right now, she didn’t know whether to scream or bawl.

  “You want to tell me it’s not true?” Rebel slung back.

  “It’s not true!” But her outcry might have been a damn dog whistle. Neither of them heeded it, despite reminding her of a Doberman and a Pitbull in a growl-off.

  “You want to tell me you didn’t jump on her during the plane ride, just to tick me off by getting there first?”

  “You want to tell
me I didn’t?”

  “Oh my God,” Brynn blurted.

  Rhett pushed forward. Rammed Rebel hard enough to make him stumble back. He began to follow but stopped as if an invisible rope caught him short. His balled fists were yanked back; his heaving chest was thrust up. “You disgust me,” he seethed. “She’s a woman, not a pawn in your twisted game with me!”

  Rebel straightened. Smacked his hands together in mocking claps. “Nice, man. Real nice. Pretty speech. Now do you understand all of it? She is a woman. A woman—not an angel in human form, not a goddess without a pedestal, certainly not the hole-filler for all the shit your parents didn’t get right.” He stopped, too. Leaned over, dipping one shoulder and arching both brows. “How does that play on your little chess board?”

  Rhett blew out air like a bull about to charge. “You really going there with the Freudian baggage, asshole? Oh, wait. They don’t know what luggage is in the swamp, do they? Hold for a mike while I find that sack on your stick.”

  Rebel, already poised to pounce, took two seconds to twist his hand into Rhett’s shirt. Shockingly—or maybe not—Rhett leaned into the hold. The pair snarled at each other, though almost seemed to smile about it, leaving Brynna’s bloodstream to fend on its own in a mix of fear and fascination. There was no denying the effects of the charged testosterone on the air. As horrified as her mind might be, her pussy was a pure zing of heat.

  What the hell is wrong with you?

  What the hell is wrong with them?

  “Ha fucking ha. I’m so offended now, couillon. You going to make a joke about the voodoo priestess who popped my cherry now, too? I have a thousand chicken sacrifice jokes that’ll go well with that.”