Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance)

by Irons, Aubrey

  His chest; Javier Toro’s chest.

  Oh holy fuck.

  The regrets start as one little nagging whine and slowly start to tumble faster and faster until the sheer cacophony of them is almost too much to bear.

  Oh my fucking God, I fucked a fugitive; I had sex with Javier.

  This is bad; this is real, real bad.

  The whirlwind of regrets hits a fever pitch inside my head. I think of my sister, and Logan and all the horrible bad blood there. I think of my job, and my sworn duty and responsibility. And I think of myself, and what ignoring all those things says about me as a person.

  Somehow, I don't think it says anything good.

  There are lines you don't cross, and family is a big one. No matter how charming I think Javier is, no matter how much I want to say he's "changed" or "different" than the man he was before, it doesn't change what happened. It doesn't change that he hurt my family. He made Logan fight in brutal underground fights with the threat of revealing his past to the world and then kidnapped him and my sister. He almost shattered everything I know.

  I stare at the man still sleeping next to me in the sand. This man may have changed so many notions I had of who he was, or who I thought I was, but it doesn't mean anything. Blood is thicker than water, and there's been blood spilled here.

  Jesus, what was I thinking?

  I'm pulling my clothes on as Javier stirs and slowly begins to open his eyes. He blinks, much in the same way I'm sure I just did, as consciousness and the reality of the world begins to dawn on him.

  I bite my lip as I watch him until his eyes blink and lock on me. I want to slip back into that comfort I first felt on waking. I want to go back to this new Javier and this new me, and this fugitive beach life existence. And I want to go back to last night; I want to go back to last night forever.

  But you can never go back, and I know I can't now; not to any of those things.

  He grins and starts to reach for me, but the walls are already going up. I force the warmth from my face and from my heart, and instead I steel myself for what I know has to happen here. I need to be cold; I need this to stop right here and right now, before it gets any worse.

  Right, worse; as if it can possibly get worse than you betraying your family and your country and your job.

  Javier frowns as he sees the frost in my look and the way I flinch away when he goes to take my hand with his; “And a good morning to you too, sunshine,” He mumbles, his brow furrowed.

  "You got me drunk."

  I don't know why I say it, especially because it's not the "coldness" I was going for, it's just plain accusatory and mean.

  And wrong.

  Because the truth is, everything that happened the previous night I did because I wanted it on a level that scares me. I wasn't drunk. I was tipsy perhaps, but certainly nowhere near drunk where I didn't know exactly what I was doing. Javier certainly didn't take advantage of any situation in any way, but for some reason, thats the vitriol I go with.

  He frowns, his eyes narrowing at me; "Are you serious?"

  I look away, hoping to move past my own awful words to the point where I can just be clear that this was a one-time thing; "Look, I'm just say-"

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" His voice is bolder now as he wakes more. His eyes search mine, furious and full of rage as he slowly shakes his head at me; "You're fucking unbelievable, you know that, Archer?”

  The horrible feeling in my gut grows bigger, and stronger, and I feel awful. But I need an excuse; I need someone to blame for the passion of last night besides myself.

  Like, him, for instance.

  He's up now, pulling his clothes on and muttering to himself in Spanish. He's not looking at me at all.

  I take a breath to steady myself and take a step towards him; "Look, I'm sorry.”

  "Forget it," He growls, yanking his shirt down over his head and pulling it down his gorgeous torso. The same torso that I clutched to last night in the throws of having the most incredible sex of my life; the torso I cried out against when I came screaming his name.

  "Javier, I-"

  "Probably just the tequila, right?" He smiles thinly at me; so thin that it’s just a single hard line across his lips; "Yeah well, you know, that’s my thing; getting poor little rich American girls drunk so I can take advantage of them." He shakes his head at me before he turns and spits into the sand.

  "Javier, I’m sorry I said-"

  "No sweat, princess; it’s nothing and it was nothing."

  Ouch.

  His look is hard as he turns back and meets my eyes, and I can feel the last of that comfortable feeling just shattering around me, breaking like glass.

  "Yeah, it- it's nothing." I mumble.

  "Well, just don’t go telling anyone about this, ok? Can't have people knowing I slept with the law."

  "Oh, like I want people to know I slept with a criminal."

  "Fine." He shrugs and starts walking down the beach.

  "Fine." I snarl as I begin to follow him at a distance.

  Great.

  “So, how’s Tulum?”

  I wince, closing my eyes and biting my lip. I hate this part of the job. Secrets are one thing; I mean I get that when it comes to the nature of who I work for and what I do, they’re part of the job. But it’s when I have to outright and bold-face lie to the people I love about my life that it all feels worse.

  “It’s, uh-”

  My sister Reagan sighs into the phone; “I cannot believe the Economic Development Conference picked a place in freaking paradise to have their conference, you lucky bitch.”

  “Ray, it’s not that nice, I mean we’re inside all day for the lecture ser-”

  “Oh, don’t even!” She says, laughing into the phone; “I saw your Facebook pictures; don’t try and downplay it, Chels.”

  Right, the Facebook page run by a group of first year interns at Langley, who probably also run a dozen other fake social media accounts for agents. I lean my forehead against the side of the payphone, looking out at the ocean across the street that’s somehow lost a bit of it’s luster today. I wonder what sort of wild vacation in Mexico I’m currently having on someone else’s media feed.

  “It’s OK, I guess.” I shake my head, trying to clear it, and quickly change the subject; “So how’s my favorite niece?” Reagan immediately starts baby-talking - literally, nonsensical baby-talking - on the phone; “Uh, Ray?”

  “It’s your Auntie Chelsea! Yes it is! Yes it is Chrissy!”

  I grin, feeling, well, not shitty for the first time all day. But there’s a pang, hearing her across the world with her daughter, surrounded by love in a life free of drama, and men with guns, and complications with complicated Spaniards.

  “She says hello, Chels. And she wants you to FaceTime us next time,” She pauses; “Are you calling me on a payphone, by the way?”

  Routed through a call-center in Eastern Mexico? Yep.

  “Uh, yeah, my cell service is nonexistent down here.”

  “But the conference is good?”

  “Yeah, it-” I look up from the phone booth and see Javier across the street, leaning against a tree and staring out over the ocean, and I frown, thinking about the things I said to him earlier when we woke up. I wrinkle my nose at the thought of it, knowing I was way out of line.

  “Yeah, it’s good,” I say quietly, trying to keep the hurt and the whirlwind of the previous night and the confusion of the morning out of my voice.

  Reagan’s not buying it; “What’s up?”

  “Hmm? Nothing.” I mutter, looking across the street at the man who’s got me questioning everything.

  What’s up? Oh, nothing much. I shot a man last night, and then got shot at myself when I was running from the police. Oh, and then I had mind-blowing sex with the man I’m supposed to be arresting. You might remember him as the same guy who kidnapped our other sister before she almost killed him. So anyways, how’s YOUR day?

  “Chelsea, you’ve got the m
opey-voice going on; c’mon, spill it. It’s just between you and me and Chrissy here. Isn’t that right Chrissy-girl? You won’t tell anyone Auntie Chelsea’s secrets?”

  Christine is fourteen months old, by the way.

  “Ray, it’s really nothing, forget it.”

  “Is it the conference?”

  “What? No, I-”

  “School?”

  “No. Ray, it’s really-”

  “Guy?”

  I shake my head; “It’s really not anything, Reagan, OK?”

  “You didn’t say ‘no’ on that last one.”

  “What?”

  I can practically hear my sister grinning on the other end of the line; “Oh yeah, it’s a guy isn’t it?”

  She’s like a fucking bloodhound.

  “Are you seriously this desperate for drama?”

  She snorts; “Chels, I spend ten hours a day with a one year old playing with jello and knocking down block towers,” She lowers her voice to a whisper; “I’m fucking starved for some adult drama.”

  I grin; “Well, forget it, there’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Is he married?”

  I roll my eyes; “Where do you get this stuff?”

  “I’m just trying to see what the obvious drama is here!” She says, laughing; “You know us Archer girls and scandalous relationships.”

  “I-” I shake my head, trying to turn my eyes away from Javier standing across the street; “I really can’t talk about it.” And really, I can’t; since the Agency is probably recording this call.

  I hear Reagan gasp suddenly, and panic shoots through me; “Ray! Reagan, whats wrong!”

  “You!”

  I frown; “Huh?”

  “Are you and Bryce-“

  “Eww! What?” I winkle my nose; “No, Jesus, Ray.”

  “What! C’mon, I had to ask! It’s not like no one else hasn’t wondered when the two of you are going to complete the circle!”

  “Not gonna happen; gross.”

  “Fine.”

  I’m grinning and rolling my eyes at my sister as I hear her laugh over the line. I miss this. I miss honest sisterly banter, and laughing, and not worrying about who might come around the corner and fire a gun at me.

  I miss home.

  “So, am I at least right about it being a guy?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “Is there a reason you two shouldn’t - you know - be together?”

  I choke out a laugh; “Is my last name Archer or not?”

  Reagan laughs, and I can hear Christine burbling away in the background; “Well, do you want to be talked out of it, or do you want the same speech I gave Quinn?”

  I close my eyes and lean into the phone again; that’s a great question.

  “Silence means number two, you know,” She says quietly, and I bite my lip as I just nod.

  “Hold on to something good, Chels. Even if the world says no, if you know something’s good, you don’t let go.” She sighs; “Look, I’ve gotta run, I just got peed on; sorry.”

  I laugh, biting back the stinging in my eyes; “Go clean up my niece, Ray.”

  “Call us when you get back, OK? And don’t get sunburned!”

  “Hey Ray?” I close my eyes, willing the lump in my throat to go away; “I love you.”

  “Love you too! And chin up, dork; you’re in paradise!”

  Right.

  Fuck this girl. I mean is she kidding me? Accusing me of…of that?

  It's infuriating, and it's insane to think of me as someone like that. Even if I have been a scoundrel and a scumbag to varying degrees my entire life, that is nothing I've ever been. But I also know that she's pulling shit like that so that she can feel like she's not at fault for what happened between us.

  By which, I mean, the single hottest fuck of my life. But still, fuck this girl, and fuck her bullshit.

  I'm rubbing the stubble of my chin, watching her through slit eyes across the street as she makes a call on a payphone. She's probably calling the C.I.A., and most likely talking about me and how best to put me in a fucking jail cell or something.

  Why the hell did I get involved with her like that? And for what? At the end of this whole little beach-life fantasy we're living out, there’s one outcome. Well, two, but neither are good. Either she turns me in and I go to jail, or Blackriver catches up to us and, fuck, who knows what then; certainly nothing good.

  But accusing me like that just to abstain herself from any guilt about her own poor choices, even after I warned her? Fuck that. I've been called a lot of things, but not that; no fucking way. Besides, no matter what shit she says to me, she can't change what’s going on inside that pretty little head of hers. Because I know she wanted that; that was all her.

  Well, I'm willing to accept that I had a bit to do with it, but still. I knew this was a bad idea.

  Nice work, asshole.

  *****

  "So what now, Agent Archer."

  She finishes crossing the street to where I'm leaning against the side of a house, and I can see her stiffen a little at the harsh tone in my voice.

  Good.

  "Look, I'm sorry about what I said. I- I just-" She looks away, stumbling over her words; "I just think we should pretend that never happened."

  "Done," I say, as off-handed and nonchalantly as I can. I say it quickly. My tone of voice is shit, but fuck it; I can play this game too.

  Chelsea looks like she doesn’t know what to say.

  "So, what's your plan now then, spy girl."

  She bites her lip as a blush of color washes through her cheeks; I should stop using those stupid fucking pet names I’ve been calling her.

  "Well, we need to get out of Aruba."

  I bark out a laugh; "No shit."

  Chelsea gives me a look; "No, I mean thats the plan; literally. Langley wants us off the island for extraction.”

  "And go where exactly?"

  "Venezuela, to the mainland."

  I snort out another laugh, shaking my head; "No fucking way."

  Fuck that; hell no. I'm never going back to that place I used to call home; not after they threw me in that hell hole of a prison.

  She shrugs; "Well, those are my orders, and I'm taking you with me.”

  For the eight-hundredth time, I think about how easy it would be to run. It might not be a great plan, but it’s sure as fuck better than going back there. I mean what would she even do to stop me? What’s she gonna do, insult me? She’s got bullets now, apparently, for that stupid gun she’s been carrying around. But bullets or not, she wouldn't shoot me.