by Norris, Kris
So, Kameron had pushed ahead. Used every feminine trick she knew to sway Six’s judgment. And it had worked. Though, she halfway suspected he wanted to put Martin back behind bars as much as she did. That the man’s actions sickened Six, too.
One of the marshals came over, pulled out a chair, turned it backwards, then sat. Armed folded across the back, head cocked to one side. “So, the bartender says you two took out all five guys on your own. That true?”
Kam sat completely still. After getting them into this mess, she wasn’t about to make matters worse by speaking from her heart. Or her ass. Six was, by far, the better diplomat.
Six nodded. “We were just trying to apprehend Martin. He missed his court date. But his buddies got out-of-line with my partner. Things went a bit…sideways after that.”
The marshal raised a brow. “Sideways? You pinned the man’s hand to the table with a knife. Effective, but definitely unexpected.”
“We were outnumbered. And leaving a viable threat behind is the fastest way to get yourself killed.”
“Let me guess. Ex-military?”
A hint of a grin. “Yes, sir.”
“What branch?”
“Army.”
“I’m sensing Special Forces…”
“Delta Force. Alpha squadron.”
He whistled. “That explains the knife. And the fight.” He looked at her. “You, too?”
She swallowed, focused on keeping herself calm. Her voice even. “I was Military Intelligence.”
He had a notepad out—was jotting down a few lines. “And I assume you’re recovery agents, now?”
“Yes, sir.” Six motioned to his jacket. “Inside right pocket. Wallet with all the necessary credentials. Carry permit. Papers outlining Martin’s bail recovery.”
The guy reached in, retrieved the billfold. He flipped through it, giving everything a long hard look, then stared at both of them. “You do realize you’re a couple of states south of where you started.”
A sigh. “Yes, sir.”
The guy simply nodded, looking at a few more items in Six’s wallet. He held up a card. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Jericho Nash. You know her?”
“She’s my boss’ wife.”
The guy snorted. “No, shit. You work for Cannon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The name’s Lance. Jeremy Lance, and you’re…” He looked at Six’s ID. “Casey O’Reilly?”
“Everyone just calls me Six. And my partner is Kameron Monroe.”
“All right, Six. Hang here for a moment. I’ll be back.”
He walked off, phone in hand.
Kameron groaned. “Well, shit. Wanna bet who he’s calling, right now?”
Six shifted his eyes to look at her. “And give you fifty bucks? I don’t think so. Besides, you’re gonna need it because I have a feeling we’ll be drowning our damn sorrows fairly soon. Numb our asses so it hurts less when Cannon tears a strip out of them once we’re back in Seattle.”
“We didn’t do anything illegal.”
“I doubt Cannon’s going to care about that particular technicality. This is exactly the kind of publicity he likes to avoid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not all bad, sweetheart. We’ve got Martin. And once Lance checks out our credentials—confirms we really do work for Cannon and aren’t mercenaries or wanted fugitives posing as recovery agents—we’ll be fine.”
“What about Cannon?”
“He’s not going to be the only one with a grievance.”
He smiled at her, damn near made her heart explode from the sudden jolt of it inside her chest, then went silent. No elaborating on what he’d meant. If he was the other person with a grievance. If it involved her. Maybe pairing up with her. Christ, she hoped not. Not that she could do anything if he did. She hadn’t been part of Cannon’s unit. Wasn’t one of the brotherhood, as they often put it. More a peripheral member. Ellis’ friend, so some connection via their friendship. But not like Six—who sat there. Breathing easy. Just like when he’d been on top of her. Gun aimed at two U.S. Marshals. As if he wasn’t at all worried.
She was. Was sweating beneath the denim jacket. Noticeably breathing harder. She just wasn’t sure if it was the situation—being cuffed to a chair while Deputy U.S. Marshal Lance figured everything out—or the effects of Six’s smile. Of the ghosted feel of him pressed against her, every inch touching. The hard ridge in his jeans digging into her hip. The fact she wanted to feel him over her, again. Only in a bed. Naked.
Minutes ticked past, some of the men starting to rouse. They were cursing and groaning, muttering about how they’d been attacked. Some crazy guy with a knife. Six didn’t react. Still reclining slightly in the chair, feet crossed at the ankles. Shoulders relaxed.
Took another twenty minutes before the marshal—Lance—returned. He moved in behind them, releasing their cuffs before taking his seat across from them, again. “So, I had a chat with your bail agent. Crosschecked everything with Deputy Marshal Nash. Everything seems to be in order.”
“But?” Six snorted. “There’s definitely a ‘but’ at the end of that statement.”
Lance sighed. “I realize you and your partner did all the heavy lifting. Spilled some blood for your efforts, but there’s a federal warrant out for Mr. Martin, now. Seems he assaulted a deputy marshal in Washington state prior to heading here. Probably just before you got on his trail.”
Six sighed as he shook his head. “Shit. We didn’t know, or I would have called you guys as soon as we caught sight of him.”
Lance raised his hand. “No apologies needed. I just feel bad, stealing your collar. But if I go back empty handed after he’d hurt one of our own…”
“Don’t worry about it. The asshole’s going back to jail. And on jacked-up charges, to boot. That’s a win in my books. Besides, I’d be pretty pissed if a fellow recovery agent ever gave Jericho a hard time. That kind of territorial crap gives us all a bad name.”
Lance nodded. “Appreciate it, Six.” He looked at her. “You okay with this, Ms. Monroe?”
“Yes, sir. Anything to help out our federal brothers.”
He chuckled. “And you even said that with a straight face. Okay, you’re both free to go. Might be wise to disappear before everyone’s conscious.”
Six looked around the bar. “If it’s all the same, we’ll wait until you’ve cleared out. Clean up the mess we made.”
Lance whistled. “Well, shit. Now, I feel even worse. Tell you what. Hang around after, and my partner and I will head back. Buy you each a couple of beers.”
“Sounds good.”
Lance shook their hands then took off. Rounding up the men. A couple looked as if they wanted to break loose—take a few punch shots at Six. Not that Six reacted to that, either. His expression completely fixed. By the time everyone had left, it was close to eight. They’d be lucky to get to a hotel by midnight after cleaning up and waiting for the marshals to return. If they could even get a room. Some aero-space convention had the entire Strip crawling with people.
Kam touched Six’s arm, giving him a small smile. “I’m really sorry. I’ll take the heat if Cannon’s pissed. Totally my screw up.”
He shook his head. “I could have said no. It’s not like you had a gun to my head.” He raked a hand through his hair, holding some of it back as he gazed around the bar. “Besides, we helped out a couple of marshals. That’ll score some points with Jericho. We’ll get the next one.” He released a low breath. “We should start cleaning up, before Lance gets back.”
She tightened her hold when he went to turn away. “Thanks. For having my back.”
“That’s what partners do.”
“I know. It’s just…” She sighed. This was bordering too close to her exposing that part of herself she kept under lock and key. The one that didn’t want to let go of his arm. That wanted to step closer—have him hold her. Let her guard down for just a few moments. “Broom or mop?”
“Broom. And y
ou’re buying the beer until those reinforcements arrive.”
“As long as you promise to help carry me out of here. Tuck me into bed because I plan on getting smashed.”
Something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before she could really suss it out. He smiled then leaned in. “Careful what you ask for, sweetheart. You might get more than you bargained for.”
Chapter Three
“You know, sweetheart. When you said you wanted to get smashed, I thought you’d still be able to walk to the hotel.”
Six grinned when Kam flipped him off, only to teeter to one side before he caught her—wrapped his arm around her waist. Pulled her snug against his side. It would have been easier just to carry her, but she’d stubbornly insisted she could make it on her own. That she didn’t need his help. That only her balance was questionable, not her intelligence. She seemed to forget the part where it wasn’t her intelligence stumbling her ass down the hallway, nearly tripping into the walls. But Six suspected it wasn’t just her pride talking. It was the ten-ton elephant wedged between them.
Namely, his dick.
Six prided himself in being in control. He didn’t lose his calm during a fight—bullets, knives or hand-to-hand. He didn’t rush in without taking a split second to scour the area—get a quick sense of what he’d face. Rash decisions often got good men killed, and that single moment—seeing that trip wire or the sniper’s head just peeking above a rooftop, the glint of a scope—could be the difference between life and death. For him. His teammates. His brothers. And he sure as hell didn’t get unwanted wood. Thirty-five years, and he hadn’t gotten a damn boner unless he’d wanted one for nearly twenty of those. Yet, just a few short hours ago, while lying on top of Kam—focused on the doorway. On eliminating the threat he knew was about to bust on through. That his sixth sense was warning him would be a game changer. Trouble in the highest degree, and he’d gotten an erection.
And not a small one. Full-on, hard-as-nails, could-have-pounded-her-into-the-bed-for-hours, blue-steeler.
There hadn’t been any way to hide it. To pretend it didn’t exist. He’d been plastered against her. Every inch from chests to shins touching. He’d felt her heart hammering against his ribs, the hard press of her nipples through her jacket. Every flex and twitch of her muscles beneath him. So, yeah, she’d definitely felt his dick. Hadn’t helped that he’d ground it against her crotch trying to roll off of her, either. But, moving with a pipe between his legs hadn’t been easy.
He could halfway convince himself that the unusual reaction was from the clusterfuck of a takedown. A natural by-product of the fight—all that adrenaline pumping through his veins. And he’d even contest that the damn boner he’d had while waiting for Deputy Marshal Lance to clear things up might have been a result of eliminating four men—knifing Martin. An action he rarely resorted to.
Six didn’t buy it. Not when he’d faced much worse and kept his pecker in check. Tucked safely away in his briefs. But, he could persuade himself if needed. Put it down as a one-off during his foray into the civilian world. Having to live by different rules.
But having his dick get even harder while he was lying on top of her—facing down the two marshals? All because he was exactly where he wanted to be? That he couldn’t reduce to a chemical reaction. To some weird wiring that had gone astray—a situation he’d resolve. Quickly. Efficiently, like he had with any issue that had cropped up in the Teams.
Except, he doubted there was a simple cure for his problem. Not when the root cause was five-foot-five inches of pure sex appeal. Trouble in denim that could bring the devil to his knees. The fact she didn’t see it?
That only amplified her appeal. Made Six desperate to see if he could melt that cool exterior. Crack through the layers of steel and iron until he reached the flesh beneath. If he could unhinge her the way she’d ruined him.
But, she hadn’t asked about why he’d tried to dig a groove into her hip, and he hadn’t offered any answers. Which was just as well, because the way she was tripping from one surface to the next just to reach their room…
Another clusterfuck. The only decent hotel within walking distance of the bar, and they’d been full except one room—one king-sized bed. Sure, he could sleep on a couch if there was one. In a chair. Hell, the floor would be better than half the places he’d parked his ass during deployment. When he’d spent days on end in the same rat-infested tent. Or sleeping in a tree. On a pile of dirt. Whatever it took to complete the mission. So, not sharing the bed wasn’t the issue.
It was just her. Being in the same room with her. Smelling that floral essence clinging to her skin. Hearing her breathe. Knowing she was so damn close, yet, still untouchable was definitely going to screw with his head. Give him a damn aneurysm.
Six lunged when Kam tipped forward, nearly pulled free of his hold. Christ, the girl was getting worse by the second. In the time it had taken to walk the few blocks over, get a room, then stumble along the hallway, she’d gone from being tipsy to completely smashed.
The skin on the back of his neck tingled as the image of her last drink flashed inside his mind. Some sour raspberry concoction a biker had bought her—fucker had actually winked at her from the pool table in the far corner. As if he hadn’t even noticed Six. How close he’d been sitting to her. The way he’d laid his arm along the back of her chair. Moved to block her from view. That the creep hadn’t acknowledged Six’s claim, even if he hadn’t actually vocalized it, yet.
Didn’t matter. Verbal or not. His feelings returned or not, Six was going to have her back. Keep her safe. He wasn’t sure how that was going to play out. If he’d finally make a move. If she’d accept. But, the fact he’d thought about making a move. Thought about how he wanted the foreseeable future to play out. Thought about them together—Kam wrapped in his arms, all that soft, smooth skin pressed against him. Nothing between them but moonlight and shadows…
It was a declaration of war. One where failure wasn’t a quick and easy death, but a long slow descent into hell—a world void of any chance with the woman slowly driving him mad.
And teetering way too much for his liking.
Six had finished off her drink before leaving. Fruity, though, distinctly bitter, not that it had surprised him. The bartender had said it would be—part of the charm, he’d claimed. Kam had drank just over half—raving about the sour fruity perfection of it—before excusing herself and heading to the restroom. By the time she’d returned, he’d been ready to go. Had downed what had been left in the glass before helping her into her jacket, thanking Lance for the drinks, then heading out.
Six frowned. Now that he thought back, she’d looked a bit paler than normal when she’d returned from the restroom. Had seemed slightly off. But he’d been too busy rushing them out—wanting to get her alone. Even if it was simply to watch her sleep. Listen to the snuffling sounds she made whenever she dozed in his truck—to pay enough attention.
Maybe he should have been nicknamed jackass because that’s how he’d behaved tonight. Ignoring the warning signs he’d been feeling—that she was more unsteady than she should be. That, in all the times they’d shared drinks together, she’d never reacted like this, even if she’d drank more.
That he was too preoccupied on how to make a freaking move—bust loose from the friend zone. Take that damn leap of faith, to see what was unfolding in front of him. The threat lurking just around the corner.
All those years in the service. Over ten in Delta Force. Missions to hell and back. Blood. Death. The kind of horrors that stayed with men for a lifetime, and Six had gotten through it in one piece. Considered himself intact. Whole. And here he was, losing it over one feisty blond with killer eyes.
Had his vision just blurred for a second?
He squinted, tripped a step then stopped, glancing at Kam. Had she stumbled? Pulled him off-balance, again? The woman blinked, groaned, then slumped against him, damn near taking him to the ground as one of his knees buckled. The hallway tilt
ed—slammed him against the wall, before righting itself. The lights glared overhead, each bulb surrounded by a fuzzy halo of pale yellow that washed into the gray of the corridor. The nondescript paint on the walls.
Nausea burned a line up his throat, that bitter taste leading the way. He’d only had a few gulps—the equivalent of two or three shots—which meant the damn drink must have been laced with something strong.
And he hadn’t even noticed. Hadn’t checked. Hadn’t so much as considered that biker asshole might have had ulterior motives. Kam was stunning. Breathtaking on a bad night. Fucking heavenly when she was in her element, like she’d been at the bar. Of course, men would want to buy her drinks. See if they could score. Except where the jerk hadn’t even approached her. Tried to make conversation. To gain her attention. Just that stupid wink.
It had been a blatant tipoff. And if Six had kept his damn head in the game—hadn’t been counting the minutes until he could get her alone. Maybe have her curl up on the bed with him. Lay back against the headboard and fall asleep in his arms, watching some corny movie, he’d have figured it out. Would have sensed something was off.
It was one of the few constants in his life. His sixth sense. He wouldn’t outright call himself psychic. Didn’t like to label his…ability. The one he’d had for as long as he could remember. Time leaks, his grandmother had called them. Flashes of the current future, usually cropping up with just enough warning to alter it—if he paid attention. Acknowledged the uneasy roil through his stomach. The hint of foreshadowing that things were about to get ugly.
It could be a disembodied voice. A not-to-subtle slap up the backside of his head. A full-on picture of the person he was with. The ones he’d gotten in the field. His brothers hurt. Dying. Or the ambush waiting for them just around the corner. Hiding in a building. Sometimes the smell of propellant signaling an IED.