Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Shit. Sex, we can’t just sit on our hands.”
“That’s exactly what you’re gonna do, Triton,” he growls. “Orders are orders. You know we can’t just go throwing punches into Mexico without some major red tape on both sides of the border. Strauss says he wants everybody on our team to lay low—and since they tried to whack Gering where he sleeps, that means you’re sure as shit not going home.”
I want to protest.
Scream obscenities.
Tell Sex he’s off his rocker, and so is anybody else who thinks I’d ever let some fuckwit two-bit thug get the jump on me.
Too bad orders are orders.
That never changes when you’re in this line of work, even when you’re not answering to Uncle Sam under military contract anymore.
“Another hotel then? Whatever, I guess if I have to pay out of pocket—”
“Nope.” He cuts me off. “You’ve said plenty about that fancy new place in the family now, and I hope you found it comfortable when you dropped by yesterday.”
Inwardly, I’m groaning.
“The house has a gate, security, and damn near belongs to its own zip code. You’ll be safer there than you will be at any hotel or Airbnb. And you’ll be the first to know when Mr. Strauss decides the coast is clear. Understood?”
I grit my teeth and force a nod.
I’m still slumped against the wall when Sex nods smartly, pivots, and walks away.
This is what I get for asking for a little goddamned karma, one little peck from Lady Luck.
Instead, I get house arrests—death by blue balls that would make Papa Smurf jealous.
Looks like I get to stay cooped up with Miss Unfuckable in the world’s saddest remake of The Brady Bunch.
* * *
A few hours later, I’m running along the docks, watching lazy yachts and sailboats casting long shadows in the slowly setting sun.
I lingered for a couple hours after taking in the news, pretending to clean my gear and guns until Sex found me again. He chased me off with a double scolding from James Nobel, an ice-cold robot of a senior officer heading up the company’s intelligence side.
My boots pound cement, faster and harder than usual after a full-blown workout. Like I’m still trying to outrun the vicious fate ahead of me.
Fuck, I’m not playing games.
If I have my way—and I will—Miss Delia won’t be riling me up again.
Even if I’m supposed to head home, orders were made to be bent, but not broken.
That’s why I stop off for a burger and hit the bar next door first.
It’s nothing fancy, just the perfect grease pit to find a girl to sneak in later. A stranger to take the edge off the obsession in my temporary home.
Obviously, it’s not the first time I’ve used sex as brain bleach. It’s a lot more fun than whiskey hangovers.
Just this once, I’ll let the night swallow everything.
Damascus.
St. John.
The girls I barely saved.
The cartel hit men who want me dead.
Ma and her drugs and her shiny new billionaire boy toy.
My tease of a princess with the peach-perfect ass.
Sooner or later, we’ll bust through the red tape and win ourselves some action. I’ll be jetting off with my team to be the world’s most vulnerable, highly paid garbage man.
Tonight, after busting as much ass as I do, I’ll play the only way I like.
Hard.
* * *
The loud, half-smashed blond chick keeps falling off my lap in a corner booth, giggling every time I pull away from her with poorly concealed disgust.
What is my malfunction tonight?
I’m not sure why I don’t have my hand up her skirt yet.
I’m even more baffled why I can’t get hard.
She’s a beach girl—Laura or Layna or something—young and bubbly and entirely forgettable, but that’s never stopped me before. She likes her martinis double strength and her men rock hard.
The average red-blooded man would call her dressed to kill.
Too short, glaringly bright sundress, bleached highlights in her hair, fake tits, and a laugh that sounds like a strangled hyena.
She’s supposed to be the perfect hookup.
But with every passing second, my interest wanes. There’s another woman glued to my brain.
Delia, goddammit it.
The contrast between them is brutal.
Having this bubbly skank coiled around my neck reminds me how rare it is to find a girl in this town who’s not just trolling for tonight’s dick or her trophy husband.
“Baby, what’sa matter?” she slurs, stopping to push a desperate kiss into my throat. “You act like you got a major case of jet lag! I thought you said you’ve been here for a while? Talk to me!”
I force a thin, fake smile, running my fingers up her arm.
They feel numb, even when I sense her goosebumps, moving up to her neck and grabbing a fistful of her hair with a firm tug.
“You’re not my shrink. You want another drink or what?”
I’m trying so fucking hard to make this work.