Angel: An SOBs Novel

by Irish Winters

  Suede’s lungs had cleared. She’d taken the last of Chance’s wonder drug and was up on her feet. She still moved a little slow, but if anything, she had cabin fever. The promised delivery drone had come and gone, gifting her with a feminine wardrobe that she promised she’d pay Sullivan back for. He’d even sent all the delicate necessities that went on under those clothes too, along with toiletries, several pairs of athletic shoes, and new hiking boots. Everything a woman could want, he’d sent on the taxpayers’ dime.

  The problem was the smile on her pretty face after she’d showered and climbed into those jeans that fit just right. That was all the payment Chance needed. Her new T-shirt could’ve been a size larger, not that he minded how it accentuated her lush curves in all the best ways. The woman had been blessed with a full figure and bounce, plump in all the best places.

  But the flowery scent drifting up from those messy tangles? The way his nose twitched to draw her into his soul? This woman was enough to drive a sex-starved man insane. All morning Chance had fought the urge to grab a handful of that gorgeous auburn hair, bend her over the set-up tables behind the gun stations, and go down on her. If she twitched that sweet ass one more time, her tell that she was ready to fire, it might happen.

  He forced his thoughts to the mission. By the time the storm had cleared out of Northern Montana, Pagan and Kruze were tucked in a room at the Mount Hood Motel and Lounge on Portland’s waterfront, a dive that catered to clientele who rented rooms by the hour, as well as a few transients. No one slept in that joint, unless a man was dog-tired or deaf to wall banging.

  Portland found itself hosting an assassins-from-out-of-town convention. Kruze hadn’t yet crossed paths with his buddy JJ since Kruze was on Vicky Hex’s tail day and night, keeping up and keeping on. The woman was an active runner, so that kept him plenty busy. He had yet to see her without earphones, running shoes, or her sleek and sexy athletic gear. But Chance knew better. Some snakes were beautiful, but they were crafty, and Miss Hex wasn’t in town to compete. She already knew she was the best assassin in the world. No doubt she packed a pistol even when she worked out.

  Pagan still dogged the Rio Brothers religiously, but Juan and Jorge had yet to take in any of Portland’s lavish sights. They ate in their room or the hotel restaurant, and no car service attended them because they didn’t go anywhere. Neither did maid service enter their suite to freshen sheets and towels. Odd, but most cold-blooded assassins were odd ducks to begin with. They worked in shadows and misdirection, which kept Pagan on his toes.

  The first time they’d eaten breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant, he’d B&Eed their room, planted two bugs, then ducked out before they’d returned. But video surveillance only confirmed what Pagan already knew. The lethal brothers weren’t doing anything but catching up on television. By all appearances, they seemed to be waiting for someone. Had to be Patrone.

  So yeah, nothing much going on in Portland. On the East Coast however, Senator Sullivan had cleaned house. He’d replaced most of his staff when it became apparent that several of them had accepted hard-to-resist job offers from an as yet unnamed benefactor whose slimy grasp seemed to be everywhere.

  Sullivan hadn’t been able to put a name to the actual person who’d made the deals with his employees. The guy was savvy enough to have enticed non-disclosure statements from them. None would share his identity with Sullivan, but they’d certainly shared what little they knew about the SOBs with the bastard, hadn’t they?

  Not that there was much to share. The only one with complete access to confidential information was Sullivan. Didn’t matter. After a long hard week of ‘goodbyes’ and ’good-riddances’, the beleaguered Senator’s much smaller staff had been thoroughly re-investigated and their names cleared. Most had worked with him on previous Senate jobs. His secretary of ten years cried when she’d passed muster. He felt confident in them once again.

  As far as the integrity of his other teams? Sullivan had played the same type of Russian roulette with them as he’d played with Chance, feigning that he had a job so urgent that SOB protocol no longer mattered. Funny thing. Every single one of those team leaders told him to go to hell, that they weren’t paid assassins and if he couldn’t play by the rules he’d set up, they wanted out of the SOBs. Enough said.

  Twitch, twitch went Miss Tennyson’s backside as she shifted her weight from her right to her left foot. Either she knew what she was doing to Chance, or holding a loaded weapon made her nervous. This time, her luscious, plump derriere brushed against his zipper just enough to incite the steel rod crammed beneath it. Weapons practice with Suede had taken on a whole new dimension. Chance had never been so turned on by a woman holding a gun, and why, oh why did that thing in his pants spring to life every time she touched him?

  God, help me now, he thought, his body stiffening from the wayward surge of red, hot American blood. She touched him in places he’d denied for so long they’d turned into fortresses with locked dungeon doors and battened hatches. Damned if she didn’t seem to be the one holding all the keys.

  “Practice is over after you make this shot,” he said, his throat as tight as his jeans.

  “Who says I’ll make it?” she asked out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes still on target like a good girl.

  “Oh, you’ll make it all right.” Because you’re already making me. This woman drove him stark raving crazy with that streak of innocence wrapped up in her sexy body. She knew damned well she was taunting him, yet to her it was play. To him? Deliciously unbearable.

  Suede Tennyson was a sight to behold, well endowed from the flare of her sexy hips to the T-shirt stretched over her plush breasts. He couldn’t take his eyes off the way they pushed together when she trapped them between her biceps while taking aim. His jaw cracked from the tension radiating up his spine from his tailbone. If the lust between them didn’t ease off, he’d soon be upstairs under another cold shower.

  She aimed. Twitch. Twitch.

  Chance crossed his arms over his chest and took a full step back from the danger zone. Just kill the damned zombie.

  Twitch. Twitch. Then—BLAM! Another paper zombie blown to smithereens. Even they couldn’t survive twenty closely ranked headshots.

  He wiped his brow before she pivoted with that sweet smile of accomplishment on her lips. “I did it!” she squealed, jiggling her girls. “Did you see that?”

  He forced his eyes off her bouncing cleavage to the joy on her pretty face. “I’m not telling you what you already know.”

  “Are you just saying that?” Her lack of confidence overwhelmed him. Why didn’t she believe him when he said she’d done good? Had no one praised her before? Not even a teacher or a close confidant?

  “We’re done here,” he said as firmly as he knew how. She didn’t need a fat head and he didn’t need to repeat himself. “You already know you’re good, now stop looking for ‘attaboys’. The only one you need to impress is yourself, Suede. Do better tomorrow. Beat your best time. Be so damned good with that weapon that it becomes an extension of your hand instead of a tool. It’s called muscle training. Learn it. Rely on it. You’re in this fight to win, not just to look good while you practice. Now” —he smacked that sweet ass to get her moving— “back upstairs for drills.”

  Her nose wrinkled, but she didn’t fuss as she holstered her piece. Drills meant push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and lunges followed by simple weightlifting and toning in his gym. He’d explained the need for her to get back in shape as quickly as possible. She started today. Her thigh wasn’t ready for the heavy weights, and she didn’t need to look like a muscular male. He liked her curves where they were, but she needed the workout.

  “You like me,” she purred, her head canted as she peeked out of the corners of her sparkling eyes. Damn, the girl had mischief written all over her face.

  Once coiled with enough hyper vigilance to power a freight train, now she’d relaxed enough to tease him. Being safe and protected will do that to a woman, but
she wasn’t out of danger yet. Chance wanted her prepared for any and all things.

  “You’re a fast learner, I’ll give you that,” he answered, dropping his eyes to the brass shell casings strewn at his feet. “Now sweep up. Let’s take a break, then we’ll reconvene in the exercise room upstairs.” After I take a cold shower.

  Her shoulders lifted and he couldn’t resist looking. Damned if the brat wasn’t smiling to herself, her eyes on the floor. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say it. I know you do.”

  Chance swallowed hard, but didn’t join in the playful banter. Suede was fast becoming the temptation he couldn’t resist, and that set-up table would work just fine. He tossed her the broom and ran for his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Stalking upstairs from what Chance called a basement, but which was more like an armory that trailed off to who knew where, Suede cocked her head at the sound of water running. Again? That man took more showers than anyone she’d ever known. Either he was locked up in his office or under the showerhead, yet he wouldn’t let her take over the cooking. What was up with that? She didn’t care about the whole politically correct thing or what everyone thought about gender specific roles. She liked to cook and he liked to eat. Get over it.

  Now’s my chance. Her lips cracked into a smile at that incredibly clever pun. My Chance. Get it? Not like he was hers, but they certainly seemed compatible. They even slept together, though not in the marital sense like most of her generation. What was up with that?

  At the refrigerator, she pulled out another slab of peppered bacon, his favorite, a dozen eggs, green onions, and the last of the tomatoes. He liked her salsa, so he was getting a Spanish omelet with four slices of artisan toast along with a hearty helping of salsa. How he’d arranged with a company to deliver fresh groceries by drone amazed her. What a novel way to live in the middle of nowhere.

  Suede whipped up her specialty, lit the front burner on the gas stove, and breakfast was on the table by the time Chance arrived with a towel around his neck. She froze at another mouth-watering sight. Him. With his hair wet. His eyes bigger and blacker than usual. That funny half-smile quirking at his lips like he knew something she didn’t.

  Just like every other time he’d caught her in the kitchen, and there had been many because Suede Tennyson was nothing if not persistent—he winked. The funny guy. Chance filled the doorway. He was a paradox of bottled-up angst glossed over with the charm of a playboy, what had become a lethal combination, and her fatal attraction.

  If she hadn’t promised herself to a higher standard this time around, she’d run at him and jump into his arms. He’d catch her and she’d wrap her aching legs around his belly and let his sexy mouth ravage her neck and breasts with those hot, steamy kisses he’d given her before. She’d give him the best breakfast of his life was what she’d do, only…

  I’m not that person anymore, she told herself even as her heart fluttered with a million butterflies that seemed to be calling her a liar. I’m not.

  His brows lifted. “You’re not what?”

  She rolled her eyes at her big mouth. Apparently she’d said that last bit out loud. “Umm, I’m going to be a better marksman by the time we’re through.” And I’m going to learn to keep my thoughts to myself and my big mouth shut.

  His mouth quirked as he offered her one of those manly ‘attaboy’ chin nods guys gave each other. “Tell me something I don’t know, but I’m sure you meant markswoman.”

  Her head bobbed because she didn’t dare speak. She didn’t want to be Mark’s woman, whoever Mark was. She wanted to be Chance’s woman, just… not… yet. She had to prove herself first. Snuggling under the covers with him at night was one thing, but commitment, that was what she wanted, out of herself first, then out of the man who could stand to live with her.

  Suede swallowed hard. She wanted more than just a guy tolerating her this time around. Was she destined to be the slut she’d portrayed herself to be, just a good time, party-girl, easily discarded and just as easily forgotten? Was that how life worked, you made one mistake and were branded with a big scarlet ‘S’ you couldn’t escape the rest of your life? Her father hadn’t wanted her. York certainly didn’t. How could Chance?

  Breakfast didn’t smell so tasty any more.

  “Aren’t you joining me?” Chance asked from where he already sat at the table.

  She nodded, no longer sure of herself. Her life felt like a yo-yo. One smile or a sexy wink from him sent her flying, but too soon, self-doubt wiggled into every happy moment and spoiled it. She couldn’t shake off the stranglehold that York wasn’t done with her yet, that he waited just around the corner. Or that Chance was too good for the likes of her. That she’d be smart to leave the protection of his cabin before this fairytale crashed and burned. Before she got him killed.

  Chance cocked his head. “I’d give anything to know what’s going on behind those big blue eyes of yours right now.”

  Suede sat stiff as a board at the lovely kitchen table she’d set for two, her throat gone as dry as the paper napkins she’d found in the cupboard. “Just, umm…” Wishing I was someone else. Someone better.

  His brows slammed down over his eyes, hooding them until he was looking at her through thick, ebony lashes. “Something’s bothering you. Come on, spill. You can tell me anything.”

  Do I dare? Suede took hold of the table edge at each side of her empty plate, wishing it were that easy. Maybe that was exactly what she should do. Spill her guts, then leave and go somewhere else to become that better woman. Separation was good for the soul, wasn’t it? Didn’t it make the heart grow fonder? Would time away from Chance give her what she needed to be good enough for him?

  His head moved slowly from side to side as if he’d read her mind and disagreed. The napkin in his fingers dropped to his plate. “No,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Damn it, Suede, no.” He jumped to his feet and came around that table like a bull in a china shop. Silverware tinkled to the floor and poor Gallo scrambled out of the way. “You’re not leaving me.”

  But I never said that. Thought it, yes, but I’m still here. Kind of. Worried now, she tilted into the back of her chair, fully expecting to be slapped for challenging him, even though she hadn’t. Not really. Thinking about leaving didn’t count.

  He dropped to one knee instead. “I can’t do this anymore,” he ground out, his shoulders bowed and his face pressed into her lap. “I can’t pretend I don’t care, that I...”

  Suede ran her fingers through his thick, wet hair, loving the way it curled around her fingertips, trembling at this sudden outburst but needing to comfort him. York would’ve knocked her flat by now. He would’ve screamed and cursed, belittled her until she would’ve wanted to crawl under a rock. But Chance seemed angry with himself, not—me.

  She drew in a deep breath and believed enough to trust that he wouldn’t hurt her.

  When his head lifted and his chin came up, she was drowning in pools of tormented amber. “Stay,” he commanded, his voice raw and deep. “I can’t teach you to protect yourself if you leave me now.”

  She nodded because compliance had always worked in the past. Agreement bought time. Every abused woman knew that. Stall. Say whatever he wants to hear. Then run and hide. Only Chance wasn’t threatening or hurting her. The thought of leaving him was.

  “You don’t believe me,” he ground out. “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “It’s not you…” She let her answer die in her throat. It’s me. I don’t know who I am yet. Not really, and if I’m not good enough for me, how can I be good enough for you?

  “How can I prove I’ll never hurt you? Tell me,” he begged, his eyes so deep and dark she felt as if she were falling into wells of melted maple syrup.

  Like the fool it had been from her birth, her mouth whispered, “Kiss me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chance dragged her off the chair and onto his lap. She landed with him on the floor, her
healing hip against his belly and his fingers caging her face in a gentle hold. Suede swallowed hard, wanting his kiss more than her next breath, but worried things were going too fast. That none of this was real. That this dream would shatter, and she wouldn’t be able to put this beautiful thing with Chance back together again once she lost it.

  “I will never hurt you,” he murmured, his voice as sad as she’d ever heard. “I’ve fallen for you, Suede Tennyson. Let me kiss you. Let me love you.”

  There was that word again—love. An impossible universe of wonder and safety lay within its four letters. Tears blurred her vision of the honorable man she wanted more than anything in her life. Was she brave enough to trust him? To believe him? He’d given her no reasons not to, and yet…

  “I want you,” she admitted, her voice a strangled whisper in her dry throat. “I shouldn’t, but I do. It’s too soon, but I’m weak, and I’m scared, and—I need you just to... to breathe.”

  Wasn’t that the acidly bitter, yet blindingly beautiful truth? If not for York’s sin, she would never have come to know Chance, and if not for the breath he’d feely given—to her, a total stranger—she wouldn’t be in his arms now. She wouldn’t feel as if she were falling off yet another dangerous precipice that could inflict infinitely more heartache. York and Chance, the two polar opposites in her life, were inexorably linked by her near death. Both were etched on her heart in very different ways. York offered the worst cruelty, yet Chance had only, always offered life. Was she brave enough to be all that he needed? Could she accept the love she wasn’t sure she deserved?