The Men of Elite Metal: Platinum, Zinc, & Francium
Rebecca Royce
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The Men of Elite Metal: Platinum, Zinc & Francium
First Published in the Elite Metal Anthologies published by Never Settle Publishing.
New Publication: The Men of Elite Metal: Platinum, Zinc, & Francium
Copyright @ 2019 by Rebecca Royce
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-951349-26-4
Print ISBN: 978-1-951349-27-1
Cover art by German Creative
Final Proof Editing: Meghan Leigh Daigle
Formatting: Ripley Proserpina
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Rebecca Royce
www.rebeccaroyce.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
Foreword
Platinum
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Zinc
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Volume 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About the Author
Other books by Rebecca Royce…
Foreword
Dearest Reader,
Once upon a time in author land, a bunch of authors who loved each other’s work got together and put out three volumes of connected stories. The idea was both simple and complicated. The guys (and a few girls) would be Alpha, dominant, into various elements of BDSM, and all fighting back against an organization that tried to have them killed. It became a three-volume endeavor.
Well…all good things must come to an end. Recently, the rights came back to us individually, and now I am putting out my three stories on their own. They are Platinum. Zinc. And Francium.
For information on the other characters mentioned or the other authors who wrote these stories, please check out the works of Jenn Kacey, Anna Alexander, Heather Long, Virginia Nelson, Roxie Rivera, Sabrina York, and Saranna DeWylde.
Thanks for reading!
Rebecca
Platinum
1
Platinum stared at the man across the table and tried to think of all the reasons why killing him was a bad idea. One—they were in public. He actually liked coming to Bone Daddy’s. Getting kicked out for attempted murder would greatly affect the bars he could go locally to have fun. Bone Daddy’s was pretty much it.
Oh, who was he kidding? If he took the son of a bitch down, the charge wouldn’t be attempted murder. If Plat wanted to kill Tony De’Fallipi, he’d succeed even without his sniper rifle.
A man’s neck could be broken multiple ways. Snap. Crunch.
He took a pull from his beer.
Two—and it really was imperative he make a quick internal list to hold off his murderous rage—his teammates wouldn’t appreciate having to clean the mess. They’d assist without a doubt. Only Copper alone would never let him live it down. She’d want him to talk about why he’d committed murder in the middle of the day. In a bar.
The sheer amount of time spent managing the fallout would cut into his reading hours.
And finally—three—much as he hated to admit the sad truth, it really wasn’t Tony’s fault he was such a complete and total incompetent jackass. A certain portion of the population had to be born naturally stupid. Platinum could only blame himself for hiring him.
“Are you going to say something?” Tony fidgeted with the coaster on the table. Platinum specialized in noticing details. At the moment, he zeroed in on the tear in the corner of the cardboard drink holder. The picture on top—a pirate holding a beer—seemed ragged, half-destroyed.
Why was the bar using broken coasters? Were they running short on funds? He'd invest in the place, secretly if need be. Losing Bone Daddy’s wasn’t an option.
“Say something.” Tony threw the coaster down on the table and it bounced once before settling on its side. Plat watched the movement for an extra second before he turned his gaze on De’Fallipi.
Tony needed to lose weight, in a big way. Maybe take off two hundred pounds. He hadn’t been as obese the last time Plat met with him. He smoked, everything he had on reeked of it, and if the yellow stain on the side of his mouth indicated anything, probably chewed tobacco.
At five-foot-five inches, the gray haired mess in front of him was a foot shorter than Plat. He really hoped said mess wasn’t about to have a heart attack. The last thing he wanted to do was to have to resuscitate Tony on the floor of the bar.
“When was the last time you went for a physical? Had your sugars checked?”
Plat really shouldn’t care. He’d left medical school behind when he’d been kidnapped and brought into the Elite Metal fold. When he agreed to rejoin his brothers and sister in arms to make right a major cluster fuck, he’d given up healing and fully embraced the sniper within him once again.
Still, old habits died hard. Old personas too, it seemed.
Tony coughed violently before he answered. “Are you kidding? I told you the weird kid I’ve been watching for you for a year is missing, and you want to ask about my last physical? Are you on something? Meeting you here in a nowhere bar, never getting any answers. It’s a good thing your checks cash each month.”
His temper surged again. Outside of his team, there wasn’t a soul alive who would notice a change in him. Control and patience were his best friends.
The knocking on death’s door private investigator in front of him pushed all of his buttons. “I heard what you said.”
“I mean, why have I been watching a seven-year-old? Do you have some sick perverted thing about him?”
Platinum stood up. “Thank you for your help. The checks will be stopping. Permanently. I’ll take it from here. He’s eight, by the way.”
“The kid is missing. If I can’t find him, he’s gone.” Tony shrugged “You won’t make it further than I did.”
“Doubtful. Seriously.” Plat leaned forward. “And if you ever call the kid weird again, even in the back of your mind, I’ll put a bullet in your head. You’ll never see it coming.”
Since he’d spoken more in the last ten minutes than he talked usually in a week, he turned on his heel and left the bar. His son was missing. It might be nothing, or it could mean Platinum’s demons finally figured out how to hit him where it hurt. He’d spent his whole life trying not to make any connections. One drunken assignation with a
woman he barely remembered and boom, the universe gifted him with a kid he’d known nothing about for six years—a permanent soft underbelly. Even if Kent never learned his father existed.
One of the two people he cared about in the world was unaccounted for…
Rose was okay, she had to be.
The kid who never knew him, and the woman who probably hated the ground he walked on.
Two years earlier
He’d spent the morning watching The Boy. It was easier to think of him in the abstract than by the name The Boy’s mother bestowed upon him, Kent. Besides, Elijah knew how flexible names were. He’d owned so many in his life, he wasn’t certain what his real designation was anymore.
The government called him Elijah Jones. The name worked as well as any other. He was Elijah—a fake name for a brand new life. His previous self, according to public records, died overseas—killed in action. Since the new life was what he had, he needed to find a way to make it work.
New York City was loud, busy, and anonymous. The city worked perfectly for his current situation. Outside of class, he never talked to anyone. His son, The Boy—Kent, he tried to remind himself—seemed social enough.
He hadn’t inherited the introverted nature the men in Elijah’s family seemed cursed with. Must come from his mother—a woman he barely remembered except for some heated, drunken images. A little more than six years earlier he’d made a baby—a fact he’d not known for the last six years.
Eli might never meet his son. He’d accepted the facts of the situation. He could, however, funnel money from his hidden trust fund to the child, allowing him to attend private school—a necessity, it seemed, in all except a few neighborhoods in New York City.
Occasionally, he could watch him from afar while he ate his lunch.
Elijah hadn’t finished his sandwich. Glancing down, he stared at his half-consumed Subway concoction. The Boy didn’t need him to spy on him all the time, but he felt compelled to do it, nonetheless. As it turned out, The Boy had faced struggles in his young life. His mother died in a car accident when he was two. Her mother, Jessica, cared for him.
Leaving him to Eli hadn’t been an option, since he hadn’t known the kid existed. Uncle Sam apparently kept his mail from him and who knew what else. He’d gotten the I’m pregnant, you have a son, where the fuck are you, deadbeat letters all at once. Since his previous persona, the man he’d been born as, Tim O’Connell, ‘died’ it wasn’t likely he’d ever speak to The Boy at all.
It sucked.
At least The O’Connell money—hidden away where the IRS couldn’t touch it—would give his son a hell of an education. Anonymous donations. Scholarships. The Boy would want for nothing, ever.
Except a father and a mother. The same way as Eli. Like father, like son. Only in his case, Thomas O’Connell hadn’t been dead, fake or otherwise. He’d been busy with his fourth wife and fifteenth mistress. Most of the time, the old man hadn’t remembered he fathered any offspring.
Eli jumped in his seat when the woman plopped down next to him. He hadn’t seen her coming or felt her approach in his gut. Jeezus—how out of practice have I gotten? Years as a Marine sniper trained him better. People never snuck up on him, ever. New York and medical school were making him soft.
“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” The woman smiled cheerfully. She possessed red hair and blue eyes, as well as a string of freckles over her nose and cheeks that gave the appearance of youth. Probably looked younger than she was. Eli pegged her between twenty and twenty-five.
Maybe it was the Star Wars t-shirt she donned throwing him off. The women in New York were always so put together. Did anyone older than a college student strut around Manhattan in Luke Skywalker is my Hero clothing?
And what did it say about him that his cock hardened so instantly when her perfume—was it vanilla?—hit his nostrils?
“You don’t, do you?”
Oh, she wanted an answer, and he supposed he should get used to giving them. He was going to need a bedside manner, and he might as well figure out how to communicate with strangers sooner than later.
“The bench doesn’t belong to me.”
If he’d met this woman in a bar, he would know what to do. A few drinks, some giggles—hers not his—and back to his place, where he would either introduce her to or continue her education to some serious rope play. On a park bench? He had no earthly idea what he should say.
“Are you studying on your lunch break?” She pointed to his Atlas of Human Anatomy and smiled so brightly, he thought she might actually start to glow. “Because if you’re studying, I’ll control myself from yapping. I swear, I can. I do have a habit of chatting up strangers. A born extrovert, I guess. I’ve never met a person who couldn’t be a friend. I tell my kids to believe in friendship, anyway. Well, camaraderie and stranger danger.”
Eli’s mouth fell open. The woman could really talk. And it was so fucking delightful. Maybe he could ask her to continue. She could yammer on and on. He’d sit and…listen.
First, he’d have to say something, too. Or she might stop. “I’m not studying.”
“Oh, good. So then you won’t mind if I bother you. Unless you do?” She looked at him with wide eyes, and despite the fact he didn’t know a damn thing about her, he would have promised to climb Mount Everest in a tutu if she wanted.
“I don’t. Please…talk.”
She grinned from ear to ear, showing a dimple in her left cheek. “Oh, wow, a dangerous request. I have a hard time shutting up. Although, I can listen too.”
“I guess both abilities are important since you have to talk to your kids and wait for their responses?” His remark seemed a good, benign question. She’d already brought them up, so they must be safe to discuss. “How many do you have?”
“Twenty-two.”
He’d taken a sip of his water, and he almost spit it out. “Are you kidding?”
“No.” She paused. “Why? Did I sound as if I was?”
“Twenty-two is a lot of kids. Are you, what, twenty?” How did she function? No, he had to have misunderstood. No way could she have twenty-two children.
Throwing her head back, she laughed. He immediately shut up. Elijah didn’t talk in long spurts very often, and when he did, it was to give instructions to other snipers or members of his team. These days, he spoke only when he needed to in school or study groups.
No one laughed at him. Ever.
“I’m sorry, you misunderstood me.” She giggled once more. “They’re not mine. Although, I appreciate you thinking I’m twenty. I’m actually twenty-six. When I talk about my kids, I mean the ones I teach.” She pointed at the Coleto school across the street, where The Boy went. “I’m a Kindergarten teacher. I have twenty-two kids I work with five days a week. Except for two hours on Mondays, which it is right this very second now. I go to a seminar at the West Side Park center to learn some techniques on using manipulatives for the exceptional child.” She shifted in her seat. “Anyway, I’m going back there, only they’re in recess. I give myself ten minutes here. I can see them, and the classroom aid, across the street. I sit and watch. It’s kind of Zen.”
“And you talk to strangers.”
She shrugged, and her red hair moved up and down on her shoulders. “I guess talking to grownups is Zen to me too.”
It dawned on him she might be The Boy’s teacher. He’d read the woman’s name when he’d paid the tuition bill. All the information had been laid out in the welcome letter.
Easy way to find out. He extended his hand. “I’m Elijah Jones. Eli.”
He’d given himself the nickname on principle. If the government named him, he’d make it his own somehow.
“Oh, hi.” She took his hand and shook. “I’m Rose Smith. Look at us, Smith and Jones. It’s British Television. Oh, Doctor Who.”
Rose looked at him expectantly, as if she wanted him to understand the reference. As it was, he’d gotten really into nighttime television, since he didn’t sleep
more than two hours a night. It was always on in the background while he learned how to heal the human body. It had taken him much less time to figure out how to end a life than to keep someone alive, which was probably, perversely, why he did it.
In the sunlight of the park, however, there was Rose to consider. Particularly because she was The Boy’s teacher. His very, very adorable borderline hot kindergarten teacher who sat out on these benches every Monday.
Falling into character was an old habit. “Were you a Doctor Who fan before the reboot, or did you start to watch with the Ninth Doctor and his Rose?”
She patted him on the knee. “You understood what I’m talking about. You referenced science fiction and don’t think I’m crazy.”
“I guess I do know my television.” He wouldn’t promise to always understand every reference.
She looked at her watch. “Well, I guess it’s time for me to make my way back to my day job. This was fun.” She twirled a piece of her hair on her finger. “Any chance you make a habit out of being here? I might see you on a park bench again?”
He picked up his book. Class needed his attention. “I think there is more than a small chance I’ll be out here.” Especially considering he developed his new habit to quasi stalk The Boy on Mondays during recess.
If he could have figured out how to take his binoculars and sonar to watch him in the building without anyone on the street noticing or having to break into someone’s apartment building, he would do so. Class scheduling made it impossible for him to follow the child home.
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