Badass: Jungle Fever (Complete): A Billionaire Military Romance

by Leslie Johnson

  “You know what? Women are crazy! Crazy!” I take a deep breath and begin to talk slowly, enunciating one word at a time. “You think I used her when, in fact, she was using you for months so she could kidnap your ass, hold you for ransom and cut your fingers off knuckle by knuckle.”

  She says nothing. Just continues to glare at me.

  “You know what else? I bet if this were a chick movie or some damn romance novel, the readers or watchers or whoever would have their hands plastered over their mouths saying, ‘That Tate is sooo mean.’”

  I’m losing it. I feel how hard I’m losing it, but seem unable to stop. I go on in a sing-song voice.

  “They’d say, ‘He’s such a male chauvinist. If he only held their hands and sang Kumbaya, that poor Janine would see the errors of her way and stop trying to kill Camille every fucking few minutes.’” I’m yelling again. I stop and clear my throat.

  Camille has a hand plastered over her mouth and her blue eyes are shining with barely suppressed laughter. Janine has stopped crying and is watching me with both eyebrows nearly meeting her hairline. It pisses me off even more.

  “Now, we have some shit to do if we’re ever going home again.” I point at Janine. “You! You have like seventeen strikes against you and I’ll be damned if there will be an eighteenth one. Do you understand?”

  Her lips twitch. Her fucking lips twitch at me. I’m going to hit her. I know it.

  “And I swear to God, if you don’t give Camille her grandmother’s earrings back, I’ll cut them off myself.”

  Turning on my heel, I stalk over to the gun and start gathering all the supplies, cutting off a section of one of the parachutes to make a bag. I curse when I look at the white strip of skin on my wrist that is supposed to be wearing a watch. The one taken from me back at the first house we were kept because I was stupid enough for us to get caught.

  Damn Janine.

  Damn Camille.

  Damn everything and everyone.

  And especially, damn me.

  Chapter Six – Camille

  I’m either bordering on hysteria or that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Tate Rodgers just had a hissy fit. A seriously big one, complete with girly voices and twirling. When he put his hands on his hips and stuck his ass out, I didn’t think I could keep the laughter in.

  At my feet, Janine giggles and I swear, it just about breaks me in two. Is it the stress of our situation that makes this seem funny? Or am I really as dumb as everyone seems to think? I don’t have time to dwell on that for too long, because Tate is glaring at me and crooking a finger, signaling for me to come over.

  “You need better protection for your feet,” he says, his voice as gruff as gravel. He spreads a parachute out and points at it. I take it as my signal to sit down. “We need to clean your wound too. Good thinking on bringing the vodka. Take a long drink.” He looks me in the eye for the first time, as he hands it to me. “You’re going to need it. Just so you know, those look much better on you.”

  I smile and reach up to touch them, grateful to have them back. Twisting off the lid, I’m once again thankful for plastic, and turn it up for a long drink. Something screeches above us and Janine stands from where she’s sitting, turning in a circle, her eyes wide.

  “That’s enough. As much as I’d love to drink the entire bottle myself, we need it more for sterilization. Drink enough for this to not hurt as much, then we only use it for wound cleaning from here on out.”

  I take another small sip, then twist the cap back on and watch Tate as he starts wrapping pieces of leather around my feet. Then he takes my sandals and to my horror, cuts the straps off in four quick cuts.

  “Oh, my heart. I can’t believe you just did that. Do you know how much they cost?”

  He says nothing, just begins wrapping leather around the sole, then begins fitting it all to my foot. Each movement is concise and deliberate, an economy of movement that’s so appealing to watch.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, after a few moments.

  He keeps his eyes down and cuts the leather into strips, wrapping it around my feet and ankles. “For what?”

  I look up at the trees, searching for what to say. “Oh, let me count the ways.”

  He glances up at me, then back down just as quickly. His jaw pulses in and out, and I know my apology is far from adequate.

  “I’m sorry for not hiring your security company to protect me. I’m sorry for not leaving Colombia when you wanted me to. I’m sorry for trusting someone without researching them completely. I’m sorry for getting kidnapped.”

  I reach up and brush my palm against his forehead, wiping the sweat trailing down his skin. He still doesn’t look at me. Just rips off a piece of duct tape and fashions the leather into makeshift boots.

  “I’m sorry for being the reason we’re now lost in the middle of the jungle with a crazy woman. I’m sorry I let her take the gun from me. I’m sorry for accusing you of using her.” I lift his chin until he looks at me. “I’m sorry for feeling jealous that you did whatever you needed to do to save me. You’re a good man. You didn’t deserve that.”

  His eyes almost seem to glow in the dim light surrounding us and to my utter relief, he grins before ripping another piece of duct tape off with his teeth. “You, jealous? You once told me that wasn’t possible.”

  I swipe my thumb down his temple, catching another bead of sweat. “I didn’t think so. But it’s true, even way back when we had that threesome together. Remember that?”

  Another rip of duct tape. “Oooh yeah.”

  I punch him in the shoulder. “I hated watching you with her. I thought it would be fun, but…”

  “But you wanted me all to yourself?”

  Nodding, I swallow. I did want him all to myself. Every frustrating part of him. “Yes. And it became harder and harder to let you go.”

  This time, he reaches for me, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I know,” he agrees. “It was almost easier not seeing you so much, because then I didn’t have to say goodbye.”

  Footsteps approach and I look up to see Janine coming closer. Tate glares at her and she turns to pace back the other way.

  “Are we going to die out here, Tate?” I wait until he looks at me again. “Don’t lie to me this time.”

  He drops the duct tape and molds the make-shift boots around my feet, carefully examining them. “Wiggle them, see if there are any places that rub.” I do as he says and they actually feel really good. “I almost made Janine give you her boots, but her feet are about three sizes bigger. They’d offer better protection, but we’d be dealing with blisters and increased risk of infection from those. Be sure to let me know right away if anything begins to hurt.”

  I nod. “Thank you. They’re actually kind of gladiator slash Pocahontas. When we get home, I bet they’ll be the hit of the season.” I try again. “Do you think we’ll ever get home?”

  He blows out a breath. “We’re going to give it our best shot.”

  Not wanting to press him any further, I nod again. “Yes, we will.” Then I swallow when he holds out his hand, nodding at my left one. Shit. It’s time.

  Feeling immediately panicked, my fingers tremble when I place them in his palm. He begins by unwrapping the gauze and I do my best not to cry when he pours vodka over the last bit of bloody material, wetting it enough that he can pull it off.

  When I see my hand for the first time, I do begin to cry and shame wells up. It’s a fucking pinky. Not a leg, like my brother lost. Not an arm, like so many other soldiers lost. Not an important limb. Not my mind. Not my breasts. Not my life.

  A pinky.

  And I lost it, not because I was fighting for my country. Or against a disease. I lost it because I won the lottery at birth and then was stupid enough to think it somehow shielded me from all this.

  “Breathe in,” he says and douses my hand with the vodka. Fire shoots up my arm and to my brain in an instant. “Come on, baby, breathe. In. Out. In. Out.” I try to f
ocus on his words, I try to do as he says, but it’s a pain like I’ve never ever experienced. I don’t know what to do with it.

  Opening a corner of the cocaine, he takes some powder and sprinkles it on the open wound. “This is pure. It will help with the pain. Do you feel it kicking in already? Feel it numbing?” His voice is steady and calm as he speaks to me, until finally, either through the miracle of the drug or the miracle of my belief in his words, it does hurt less and less.

  “While we’re hiking to our camping spot for tonight, I’ll be looking for herbs and things that will work even better. This jungle is filled with medicine. Plants that will help almost anything that ails you.”

  I know he’s being reassuring and I appreciate the effort more than he’ll ever know. “Where are we going to go?” I ask.

  “Not far today. I need to scout the area, see if I can get any sense of direction. Maybe find an open spot where we can build a fire and bunk for the night. It will get dark early here, or seem like it.” He looks up through the canopy above us. “It’s probably still early afternoon now, but it already feels like it’s nearly dusk.”

  He’s pulling things out of the small emergency kit. There’s a little packet of antibiotic cream and he squirts some onto a bandage. “Breathe in,” he says, and places it on the gory stump, then wraps gauze around it. Pain flares, but not as bad this time.

  “Tate.”

  The golden eyes meet mine. “What?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know. And it’s okay. Lots to be scared of around here.”

  I look at the cut on his forehead. The one on his shoulder. The long scratches on his arms. “We need to clean those too.”

  He nods and steps away from me, pouring a little vodka in the palm of his hand. I wince for him when he dribbles it over the wounds and pink water runs down his skin. He takes a strip of gauze and cleans them up, before swiping a little ointment on each one.

  “Tate.”

  Those golden eyes once again turn my way. “What?”

  “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Okay.” He looks around us. “Piss or shit?”

  My face grows hot and I scowl at him. “Just pee.” In my mind, I add, for now. Then I silently beg my bowels to slow down their digestion process. Or stop all together. Doesn’t matter. Just please oh please don’t make me need number two out here. Please.

  He walks over to a pile of scrap metal he pulled from the plane earlier and picks up a strip about a foot long. His muscles bulge as he bends it until it curves into almost a tube. Then he’s standing in front of me again. “Use this. Safer to limit how often you have to squat out here.” I stare at the near-tube, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with that. “Too many insects and poisonous plants. Don’t want anything to bite your sweet ass.” I still stare at it. He does remember I’m female, doesn’t he?

  Sighing heavily, he reaches down and pulls me up from the parachute. He grabs the gun, the knife and propeller, then points the last thing at Janine. “You try one damn thing. Just one, and I’ll chop your fool head off with this. Understood?” Janine nods, walks over to the parachute and sits down. “Do I need to tie you up?” he asks her, and she shakes her head rapidly. He glares at her a few more seconds and she lays down and curls into a ball.

  Seemingly satisfied, he takes my arm and walks me over to a bush, laying the weapons on the ground.

  “Always examine everything carefully.” He picks up a stick and pokes at the foliage. I hold my breath, but nothing jumps out with the intent to eat our faces. “This should be good.” He hands me the curved metal.

  I must be a true idiot, because I have no idea what he wants me to do and my mouth won’t open enough to ask. He sighs again and moves behind me, reaching around me to unbutton my shorts. My mouth remembers how to work. “Tate. No. Just tell me what to do.”

  My zipper is down, then my shorts are pushed to my thighs. I try to pull away, but I’m caught in the circle of his arms, my back pressed tightly to his chest. “Tate. It’s okay. I don’t need to pee anymore.” My panties follow the same path. “I can wait, really.”

  “Stop wiggling. No shame in this, Camille. Normal body function.” He takes the piece of metal from my hands and places it between my legs. “See, now you can piss standing up like a man, with no risk of fangs sinking into your ass.”

  I stare down at the metal. Billionaire Heiress Learns New Tricks During Jungle Adventures.

  “Come on, Cam. Let it fly.”

  I can’t. I think my bladder is paralyzed, shamed to within an inch of its life. Behind me, Tate leans close to my ear and makes a hissing sound that is supposed to replicate the sound of running water. It doesn’t. My kidneys have staged a protest.

  “Would it help if I peed too?” he asks me. “We could see who pisses further. Guys do it all the time.”

  My head snaps up. Is he serious?

  Stepping away, he stands beside me, nearly shoulder to shoulder. He unzips and soon his cock is in his hand. He glances down at me, a smile curling up his lips. “Three, two, one…”

  Oh God.

  A thick stream of urine comes streaming from his tip, arching impressively into the bush. I take a deep breath, then relax and let it go. Mine is pathetic. It dribbles down the metal and drips off the edge. Surely a baby mouse could produce more.

  “Come on, Cam. You can do better than that.”

  Contracting my stomach, I push and the little creek becomes a river and picks up speed, actually jetting off the edge this time. I laugh. I cannot believe I’m doing this. Peeing standing up. In a jungle. Next to a man. This brings a new definition to a pissing contest.

  Tate’s finished before I am, tucked and zipped, while I’m still preening with my success and drip drying. Then it occurs to me. I have a urine soaked piece of metal and no soap and water. What the hell do I do now?

  “Uh, Tate.”

  “Yes, oh goddess of the jungle?” The low rumble of his laughter makes me smile.

  “How do I wash this?” I lay it down on a grassy area and pull my panties and shorts back up where they belong.

  “You don’t.”

  I look at him in horror. True horror. Just carry around my pee stained metal until next time? I look over my shoulder at Janine, who still has her back to us. And what about her? Do we share our pee stained metal? And who gets to carry it? I am so not an outdoor girl.

  There’s another low rumble, followed by an all-out laugh. He bends and picks up my little urinal. “Tate, no. Let me.”

  “Oh, be quiet. You don’t fuss when I wash our sex toys, so why get all girly about this?”

  He has a point. But still … I reach for the metal. “I’ll take it. Just tell me what to do.”

  Stepping over to a tangle of vines, he drops the pee tube to the ground, then reaches into his pocket. I watch him cut a vine and to my amazement, water flows out of it. He lets it fall onto the metal. He has to cut several vines to get enough water to get it marginally clean, but I’m guessing good enough will have to do out here.

  “Come on, Queen of Peeza. We need to get out of here.”

  With a last chuckle, he walks off and finishes gathering supplies. Maybe someday I’ll think of a come back to that one.

  Chapter Seven – Tate

  Eight hundred and fifteen.

  I bring down the propeller again, slashing at the underbrush in front of me. Eight hundred and sixteen. I’m averaging about five seconds per swing. That’s twelve swings a minute. Seven hundred and twenty swings an hour.

  Slash. Eight hundred and seventeen. That means we’ve been moving for about an hour and ten minutes, give or take a few swings.

  This place sucks. Give me a desert. Sand. Hot as hell sun, any day. The bugs and the humidity here are enough to drive a sane man crazy. Add to that the fucking snakes and the inability to walk more than two feet without having to chop your way through a wall of vines, sums up the absolute horror of the place.

  Slash. E
ight hundred and eighteen.

  “Are we there yet?”

  I swear to God, I’m going to kill her. One slash and her pretty head will be rolling on the ground. I’ll feed it to the monkeys that have begun to follow us, swinging from tree to tree above our heads. The little shits are yacking, throwing things at us, most likely things that came out of their ass. I wonder if this is the first time they’ve ever seen a human. They have no idea how much I wish I was no longer trespassing on their property.

  “Seriously, Tate,” Camille says. “No more jokes, I promise. But can you give us some kind of idea of your plan.”

  I swing twice more for an even eight hundred and twenty before I turn and face her. Then I wish I hadn’t because both women look hilarious. We got caught in a brief downpour ten minutes ago and their hair is stuck to their heads and the mud masks I’d made to protect their faces from insects is dripping from their chins. I’d cut up a section of one of the parachutes to fashion pants and long sleeves, to cover their exposed arms. There are no words for how absolutely ridiculous they look now. If I could have one thing in this moment, it would be a camera, swear to God.

  Camille’s eyes narrow and she plants her hands on her hips, as I struggle to keep the smile from my face. “This is the wet season, so large parts of the jungle floor will have water from the rivers that have overflowed,” I tell her. “I’m hoping to find a small stream before we have to bunk down for the night.”

  “Do you think we have a good chance of find…” Janine stops when I glower at her. Actually, I can see why Camille liked her so much. She’s funny when she’s not chopping off body parts or being a gigantic bitch.

  “I don’t know,” I finally say. “At this point, I’d settle for finding a ten by ten clearing where we could build a fire. By my estimate, we’ve only gone about a mile in over an hour.”

  Camille pipes in. “Do you think we might have gone the wrong way?”

  I’m. Going. To. Kill. Her.

  Inhaling the humidity sodden oxygen deeply into my lungs, I spread out my arms. “Wrong way?” I repeat. “Wrong way?” I repeat again. “Who the fuck knows!”