by Angel Payne
There was only one hitch to that joy.
Hashed yet again by the two guys on the barstools opposite him.
“Tracy Rhodes is still alive.” Archer still looked like he didn’t believe it.
“So we’ve been saying,” Z supplied.
“And right in the next room.”
“Ding-ding-double-ding,” Franz filled in.
“I’ll be a monkey’s bastard uncle.”
Z huffed and took another pull of his beer. Archer tapped a couple of agitated fingers over the top lip of his. Not the way to enjoy a good stout, but Franz was far past dictating to the guy. Ethan was almost out of the service himself, having put in for early discharge months ago, to no one’s surprise. As Ava, his wife, ascended through the elite ranks of Hollywood power stylists, Ethan attended a load of TV and film premieres—and eight months ago, one of those events had resulted in a lucrative modeling gig. Since then, Archer had been juggling the modeling assignments between missions, but now his agent was sending him movie scripts too. Archer was a perfect pick for global film stardom, since he fluently spoke eight languages and could get by in half a dozen more. Between the demands of his new career and the requirements of his old, dude spent most of his life on airplanes these days—and frankly, Franz had been shocked to find him stateside when he’d called. Nevertheless, the pretty boy hadn’t hesitated to cash in some flight miles and get himself here in a matter of hours—and Franz was damn glad of it. He was gathering the perfect team to help him keep Tracy safe—and technically, dead—until things calmed down and she could take her rightful seat as the nation’s leader.
If things calmed the hell down.
He had to believe they would. Had to fight the frustration of not being on the front lines of figuring out what the hell had gone so horribly wrong, spurring a global act of violence on a scale nobody had ever seen before. His nerves turned into new minefields every time he contemplated the audacious move, as well as what terrorist group had that kind of reach and those kinds of resources…
Okay, maybe it wasn’t just terrorists who’d gotten to his nervous system lately.
Maybe, goddammit, he still couldn’t dismiss that woman’s brass, as well.
More accurately, what she’d done to his brass.
Leaving him with one giant muck-fest of a dilemma.
How the hell was he supposed to safeguard her, when all he could think of was fucking her? After tying her down, of course. And blindfolding her. Yeah, that would definitely be part of it. Maybe clamping those gorgeous strawberry nipples of hers too. She’d moan as he sucked them to stiff peaks, then scream for mercy as he closed the clamps around each stiff bud…
“Franz? Dude?”
He jerked his head up, refocusing on Z and Runway, before snapping, “What?”
Archer’s stare, too lush a blue for a guy, focused on him. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
No.
And it was her damn fault. Filling his imagination. Consuming his every other thought. Engorging him, every second, from his screaming blue balls to the throbbing head leaking against his zipper…
“You don’t look all right.”
Steaming glare. “Yeah? And there’s leftover makeup on your neck, honey.”
Z spat a laugh as Archer actually checked his jaw. The big guy finished with a “Zsycho brow” in Franz’s direction. “So what’s the plan, at least for now?”
The last part of his statement earned Archer’s refreshed attention. They’d both logged enough hours under his leadership to know mission ops were often switched up by the second, especially ones like this. Off the books? Hell, this one was off the damn reservation. No wonder they both looked as somber as characters in a GI Joe movie, but as eager as two kids clutching the Target-exclusive action figures.
Franz leaned over, planting both elbows on the counter. Regarded the bottle of Perrier between his knuckled hands. Shit. He should’ve flung some crack at Z about the joys of domesticated life—water, with bubbles, from France?—but he was the pussy drinking said water, and Z would always be one of the finest soldiers and Doms he’d ever known. He was more than willing to give the guy a bye on the foo-foo water.
After taking a swig of the stuff—which wasn’t half-bad—he started with what felt like the obvious. “The plan is, we do this as by-the-book as we possibly can. So right now—”
“We need intel.” Runway supplied the obvious. “I’m all over it from the tech side.”
“And I can supply eyes and ears on the ground,” Z stated.
“Well, neither of you will be going at it alone.” Franz hit them both with the surety of his gaze. “Sam Mackenna, one of the guys who helped get us all out of Vegas undetected, put in for emergency leave with his RAF commander. He’s able to stay on here in Seattle for about fourteen days. Runway, you’re going to find him damn helpful to you on systems, as well as eyes from the air. And Zsycho—”
Zeke straightened, cutting him short. “If you tell me Hawk is coming home early from Thailand, I’ll kiss you on the lips.”
He grimaced as if the bastard had farted instead. “Nice try, Z, but you’re still not my type.”
Archer tossed a confused smirk. “You have a type?”
Z snorted. “Hell to the yes, he has a type.”
Franz pulled out the visual version of a broadsword, killing the subject there. Wasn’t because Z was wrong. The bastard was scarily right—and had been Franz’s wingman at enough playrooms and kink clubs, from here to Bangkok and back, to know those definitions. It didn’t boil down to physical requirements. Fuck, if it were only that easy—but he was a male with a reverence for the female form in all its magnificent expressions, from curvy and petite to willowy and sleek. His personal demands were more specific…much deeper. Things he required from a woman’s spirit. Surrender he needed. Trust he demanded. Passion he longed to stoke.
Like all the things you were offered by a stunning brunette bathed in midnight moonlight?
The things you turned down—like the royal idiot you are?
All because it felt too easy with her? Too right?
Too vanilla.
A flavor he hadn’t tasted in a very, very long time.
A sexual restraint he couldn’t promise to heed with this woman—that he’d been craving to toss away every half hour throughout the morning, every time he peeked in on her in the next room over with her girlfriends, her son, and the Hemingway girl. They’d enjoyed a movie before the kids discovered Z’s video game arsenal; now the women chatted in the corner while the kids faced off against each other. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail; he longed to grab it and yank her head back, opening her lips for his hard kiss. Rayna had lent her soft sweats and a loose sweater; he fantasized about peeling them away, then burying his nose in her naked pussy.
Eating her until she gasped.
Taunting her until she screamed.
Pinning her and fucking her…until she came.
And came.
And came.
Shit, shit, shit.
But what the hell was wrong with any of that? Last time he checked, wearing a woman out with orgasms still qualified as pure vanilla fun. Nothing hardcore there. Not even a soft spank in the scenario…
Said the alcoholic, fantasizing about “just a sip” of booze.
He’d already had “just a sip” of Tracy Rhodes.
And wanted more. So much more.
A more he craved like a goddamn vampire and blood. A more he’d keep seeking…returning for, again and again, no matter how damn unhealthy it was.
Abbie. I’m so sorry.
The words were useless. He made his mind say them anyway—as he stared into his designer water bottle and saw the woman’s big eyes in the green glow of the glass. Abbie’s stare had possessed a strange sheen as he hugged her for the last time, his apologies dueling with hers. She’d thought herself the “stud submissive” in refusing to safe word; he begged forgiveness for—
Everything else.
Letting the scene go as far as it did. Letting himself spiral out of control. Bleeding his impatience with the world into the chemistry of their dynamic—using her open surrender as his permission for unhinged anger.
It was fucked-up on an entirely new level.
He could not afford to be fucked-up with Tracy Rhodes.
No matter how stunning the silver of her eyes, as the word “please” whispered off her lips. No matter how mesmerizing those actual lips were, inspiring a thousand fantasies of how they’d feel around his cock. No matter how perfect her luscious little body, down to the tips of her damn fingers…knowing exactly how to grip his pulsing dick…
He gritted back a groan as laughter ripped him back to the present.
Two baritones, joining in sarcastic reverie. Z and Runway, to his rescue once again.
“Fine,” Zeke declared, smacking his hand on the counter. “No making out with my CO tonight.”
Franz emulated the action, adding a grunt. “Not your CO anymore, big guy.”
And on that note, it was really time for beer. He turned, closing in on the fridge, securing a stout for himself.
“Yeah,” Zeke grumbled. “Fine. Whatever.”
“I mean it,” he snapped. “I’m just Franz, okay? Not your CO. Not the head of your team. Not the guy riding your ass about everything. I’m just the buddy with a few friends in higher places on this one—”
“Ya think?” Archer inserted.
“—who’s damn grateful for how you’ve both dropped your lives to do this for me.”
“Awwww, honey.” Z pushed out a pout. “You sure you don’t want to make out?”
Before Franz could spin up a comeback, Archer countered with, “You want to talk gratitude, man? Okay, I can go there. Wasn’t too long ago you guys all dropped your shit to save my bacon from a full-board lunatic intent on nuking this coast down to San Diego.”
“Outstanding point.” Zeke fist-bumped him. “And six months before that, how ’bout the crazy times with the other nut job who implanted me with a neurotoxin?”
“Then there was Shay and his Dr. Moreau mad scientist.”
Z snorted. “We had to go after that fucker twice…”
Archer chuckled. “Damn. If I saw all this shit in a movie script, I’d wonder about the sanity of the writer.”
Franz and Z joined gruff laughs to that—though as they all took new pulls on their stouts, Franz sobered again. Fuck. He needed to tell them more, words better fitting a Rodgers and Hammerstein score than what they normally jawed over, but these two were worth it. All his guys were. They weren’t just the best of the best by the Army’s standards. They were good men, period. Someone would be lucky to call even one of them his friend. Fate had given him that gift eleven times over.
“Movie deal or not, I appreciate the hell out of you guys.” He abandoned his beer to give them simultaneous shoulder claps. “You’re ohana to me. Family. Always.”
At once, Ethan returned the gesture. “Ditto, brother.”
Z did the same, only ensuring they both saw his addition of a broad smirk. “Just remember that ohana shit when I want to borrow your place for family vacations.”
Archer’s black brows lowered. Jumped right back up again, before he repeated in a rasp, “Holy. Shit.”
Z’s lips quirked. “Warmer…” he teased.
“For…family…”
“Waarmmmer.”
“As in, a bigger one?”
“Red hot, sugar lips.”
“Fucker!” Franz barreled into his buddy with a full embrace.
Zeke snickered. “Yeah. I am that, huh?”
“Congratulations, man.”
Ethan moved in, repeating the gruff hug. “Well, this shit should be fun to watch. Ezekiel Hayes, proud papa man.”
“Yeah, well.” Z raised both hands as if being robbed. “Slow that roll for now. We’re not telling the entire world yet. Rayna’s only five weeks along.”
“Understood,” Archer replied. “But she’s doing great so far?”
“Knock wood.” Zeke dropped one of his hands, bonking it on his head. “Aside from some mild morning sickness, which is why the fridge looks like a Perrier ad, we’re so far, so good.”
“The gods just help the little keiki.” Franz couldn’t resist the jibe. “Especially if it’s a girl.”
One of Z’s brows arched. The hand he’d knocked to his noggin flipped around, middle finger extended. “That so, dragon jizz?”
Ethan tossed his head back on a loud laugh. “Hey, this Franz-ain’t-the-CO shit is kind of fun.”
Franz let his shit-eating grin serve as his agreement to that. “Sorry, Z. But if the shoe fits…”
“Yeah, well.” Zeke gave the counter another smack. “Just remember, you and I are the same shoe size.”
“Only now, we’ll be able to tell the boots apart.” He pointed at his friend’s feet. “Green poop in the soles…” Swung the finger back at his own. “Not a drop of green poop.”
“You’re wearing flip-flops. My flip-flops, I might add. You’re welcome for the loan on all those clothes, by the way.”
“He looks better in them than you,” Archer cracked.
“Yeah?” Z parried. “That’d be harsh—if I gave a shit.” He slung back some more beer. “I do, however, look forward to the day I take green poop recompense on you both.”
Ethan’s response was surprisingly serious. “Soon as I have a couple of movies under my belt, you may be doing exactly that, my friend.”
Zeke grinned. “Outstanding!”
As soon as they both swung gazes to him, John joined the laughter—with a bitter bark. “Don’t look at me for more of that happy-joy-joy.”
“Psshhh,” Zeke volleyed.
“Please,” Archer protested at the same time. “You’ll make a great daddy-o one day and you know it, Franz.”
He set his beer down so hard, the slam reverberated against the stainless-steel appliances. Into the uncomfortable silence that followed, he softly snarled. “Fuck off, okay?”
Great. Who needed infant shit to mess up the floor when there was his psychological baggage to do the job? Nothing like a great cue for getting the hell out—only the second he turned for the door, Archer’s angry voice chomped on the air.
“That’s not an order I have to care about.” Shock of shocks, the guy just got prettier when he was pissed, resembling a Renaissance oil angel as he stalked over. “So too bad, so sad; no fucking off for Runway today.” He halted the approach but braced his stance, balled hands at his sides. “What the hell is up with you?”
He relented, stopping as well. Dropped a shoulder but lifted a stare, the listen-because-I’m-only-saying-this once kind he usually saved for the thick of missions. “What’s ‘up’?” he fired back. “Not a damn thing, except that I’m running on fifteen seconds of sleep after nearly having my balls blown into my brain by a mystery terrorist yesterday afternoon.” He tilted a sunshiny smirk. “What’s up with you, guys? Long as we’re standing here shooting the shit.”
Ethan gave back nothing but a gruff grunt. “You live on sleeplessness the way the rest of us live on oxygen.”
Translation: he wasn’t buying the bullshit. Zeke, with ass parked on the counter and hands spread atop his thighs, clearly concurred. “Sleep is for sheep, not dragons,” he pronounced. “It’s one of my favorite Franz-isms.”
Archer chuffed. “Because it’s the only one not borrowed from Sondheim?”
“There is that.” As Z pushed all the way to his feet again, his stare remained intent—to the point of unnerving. “But this isn’t just about the dumb creeds, is it?” He stepped over too, though his movements weren’t as fired-up as Archer’s. He was full of stealth—of more unnerving attention. “What is this about, Franzen?”
John almost laughed. Did the bastard think the Batman shuffle and the ominous gaze would vet him a full gut spill? “I just told you, dammit. I’m on an empty tank.”
“Okay…yeah. An empty tank.” Z’s face tightened. “And a cracked engine block.”
Franz gave in to the laugh. “You’re just getting that now?”
“No,” Z stated. “But you are.”
“Pardon the hell out of me?”
“You are.” The guy emphasized it with such a determined nod, his head led the way into his next pair of steps. Slightly ahead of Archer now, Z stopped, letting the direct alignment of his gaze do a little work too. His eyes favored their copper tint more than the green—his ready-to-rumble color. “You’re not just acknowledging those cracks, buddy. You’re putting them to good use. They’re your goddamn fox holes. Your hiding places.”
Breath rushed up from his lungs. Exploded from his nostrils in incensed snorts. “And you hate it when I go off with the metaphors?”
Zeke might as well have not heard him. “But hiding…from what?”
“Christ.” He backed away. “Do you hear yourself right now? Is your wife juicing her pregnancy hormones for you to chug too?”
“Welllll, then.” Archer took a hard swig of his stout. “Is that Smash Bros I hear coming on line in the den?”
“It’s not the mission ops.” Zeke’s intent didn’t falter. “You’ve got Sol Wrightman on secret speed dial, and we’ve all performed these duties a thousand times.”
“Zsycho.” John gritted it from thinned lips. “Back. Off.”
“So if it’s not the mission—”
“Goddammit.”
“Fuck me.” Z blurted it with an oddly blank stare. He didn’t need to worry, since Archer’s gape conveyed enough shock for them both. “It’s the package.”
Franzen widened his stance. Dipped his head. If it made him look like a bull about to charge, all the better. “She has a name.”
“No shit.” Archer found his voice again. And, weirdly, another laugh. It stuttered out of him, bracketing his follow-up. “Tracy Rhodes. This is so epic. Our Dragon Man has a crush on Tracy Rhodes.”
