Unsurprisingly Complicated

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Ready,” I confirm stepping out of the car. I signal for everyone to get into their positions. I go around to the darkest side of the structure, where the stench of sewer assaults my senses.

  Kowalski joins me and snickers. “For all we know that singer is dead, and we’re entering a trap.”

  “There’s something going on inside this place.” I press my body against the cold metal fence. “Either way, we get to play for the night, and tomorrow we’ll reconvene about Kendrick.”

  Taking one last look around, I squat and snake inside the property through the incision Kowalski made earlier today. Even as I busy myself making my way toward the brick structure, I keep a watch for anything that moves. The setup doesn’t make me feel secure about the operation. The darkness and being inside enemy lines with little to no sense of direction wasn’t new, but the tightness in my chest is. Most of the time, I don’t give a fuck about the outcome. The cocky attitude masks the reality of not caring. Now I do give a shit about getting out alive and staying safe. Not a good combination.

  “In,” the echo of voices comes through my communicator. Everyone has made it through the fence; now to the next step.

  As everyone confirms their positions, I tap the code into my phone and the rental blows up in flames. I’m glad my alias had taken the insurance option while renting the car. The sound plus the quake draws some of the residents of our abandoned building out of their hiding spots.

  “Two up on the roof,” Harrison, who is at a safe distance on top of the tallest roof he could find, calls. “I’ll take care of them.”

  There’s no sound, but the atmosphere changes once the men on the roof are targeted by my sniper. Like falling angels, they hit the ground. There’s a third following them to the floor.

  Harrison calls out again, “All clear. Hurry up, the van should be driving back in five minutes.”

  Kowalski follows behind me as I walk around the building to the dark entrance. There’s no frame, only a hole in the wall that takes us to a dim, humid hallway. The stench of rusted-coopery metal and urine intensifies. A couple of bodies with flies around them lay on the ground.

  “Jesus,” Kowalski mutters. “At least they could bury the bodies and not leave them to decompose.”

  At the far end of the hallway, I detect some movement—a shadow. One. An easy situation as there’s two of us. A tall man with a baseball cap, a beard, and fully armed steps into the hallway and assesses the two of us.

  “Four minutes,” Harrison reminds us of the time restriction.

  The man grins, as Kowalski and myself aren’t carrying any visible weapon. He reaches for his gun, but I don’t give him a chance to get it. In one fluid move, my knife flies from my hand, hitting a bullseye—his forehead. Like a lifeless doll, his body slams against the concrete floor.

  “What have I told you about circus tricks?” Kowalski whispers as we jog toward the end of the hallway and take a left. It leads us to a set of uneven, unfinished staircases, and we rush through them. As I take the last step, the sound of gunfire makes me slam my body into the brick wall. Two more shots ring out and I clearly hear them coming from the left side of the second floor. I take my gun out of the holster and head to where I presume the shooter is. But I don’t have to worry as Kowalski takes the lead and shoots the two men down.

  “I can do tricks, too,” he smirks, and we continue our way through.

  There’s a bright light at the end of that big open space. Like the rest of the building, it has bare walls, unfinished floors, and a mix of the coppery and foul stench.

  “Why don’t you sing for me, pretty boy?” A rough voice followed by a slap takes my attention to the corner of the area.

  Two slugs stare at the man tied to a chair. Swollen eyes, bloody face, and marks all over his torso. His ripped pants stained with dried blood. The dark black hair is a hint that maybe it’s Porter. I have trouble identifying the face.

  Kowalski whistles. “That’s tough. They roughed him up pretty bad.”

  “You can stay at my house. It’s safe,” Porter sputters through clenched teeth.

  One of the men yells, then hits him on his arm with a metal cylinder. “Safe? I lost half of my people, weapons, cash, and merchandise. We’re in the middle of a cartel war, and you betrayed us.”

  I don’t wait for either one to realize we are there. I take my gun out of the holster, point it at the first and shoot. The bullet hits him in the head. The next man lifts his head, and I repeat; he drops on top of his partner.

  Kowalski rushes to untie Porter.

  As I hear the swishing sound behind me, something pounds into my back, a slam that immediately becomes a burning sensation. Someone shot me, but hit the bulletproof jacket. I turn around and my gaze connects with a short, younger dude who holds a 9 millimeter pointing to my head. Another quick move allows me to pull out a small knife and let it fly toward my aggressor’s hand.

  “Cabron!” he screams and drops his gun.

  I take a few steps and tackle him, tighten my arms, and squeeze the man’s neck until he goes limp. As he passes out, I release my hold, letting him fall to the ground.

  “You’re not killing him?” Kowalski questions as he carries Porter like a sack of potatoes.

  No, I won’t. He’s just a kid. I don’t say it out loud.

  Kowalski shakes his head, pulls his gun out of the sleeve and shoots him. “Not one witness left alive. They can trace back—to your girl.”

  I flinch. Damn, I forgot that.

  “We have one minute,” Harrison warns.

  That’s enough time for us to head downstairs and outside the building. My men had opened a bigger hole through the gate. While running to the exit where the white van waits for us, I see several bodies on the ground.

  After everyone steps inside the van, Wings drives off to where we have the plane.

  “Is he alive?” one of my men asks, paying attention to Kendrick’s limp body.

  “Is he okay?” I hear Nine’s voice outside the hospital room.

  As we landed in Seattle, I rushed Porter to the nearest emergency room. He has broken bones, several bruises, burns, and cuts throughout his entire body. He was in surgery for a few hours, something about internal bleeding and screws to put the bones back together. He’ll end up needing a series of surgeries to reconstruct part of his face. The doctor plans on keeping him for a long time. I stand in the corner, watching Porter and waiting for the Deckers to arrive. Nonetheless, Nine being here wasn’t what I expected.

  Ainse enters the room and her face drains looking at the body in front of her. Moisture fills her emerald eyes.

  Fuck, she still loves the dude. He was right, their connection was stronger than the one we’ll ever share.

  My hands transform into fists and I want to pound something, maybe someone—him. But as she walks closer to the bed, the noticeable knots in her back loosen. She looks around and finds me.

  “You idiot.” She walks toward me and stares at me for several breaths, then scans me from head to toe. She throws her arms around me holding me tight. “They told me you were inside, and I thought—I thought that was you. Are you hurt or anything?” She pushes herself away lightly and scans my face one more time, concern showing in those catlike eyes.

  “Maybe,” I whisper close to her ear as I nuzzle her neck. My arms go around her waist and she hugs me tighter. “You might want to take a look when we get home, and if so, you’ll have to take care of me while I recover. Sponge baths, feeding me in bed. They say sex is the best medicine.”

  “You need a nurse?” she asks with that flirty-raspy voice that gets me hard all the time. “I can arrange that, maybe even buy an outfit that’ll suit the occasion.”

  “Fuck, I missed you,” I murmur.

  “Same here, Mase. I couldn’t breathe until you texted that you were heading home.” Ainse turns to look at Porter. “How is he?”

  “Bruised, broken, but he’ll live,” I confess, harboring some fear of how she�
�ll react. “You guys planning on caring for him?”

  She slightly pushes herself back, holding my biceps and staring at me.

  “Not sure. I heard my parents talking about sending him to some hospital to help him with his rehabilitation.” Her gentle voice matches her soft eyes. “After everything he has put us through, we can’t do much for him. There’s no way for us to put all that shit aside and try to deal with who he has become.”

  “AJ?” Porter mutters.

  Nine tilts her head and stares at the mess in front of her. She rises on her tiptoes, kisses me, and heads to the side of his bed.

  “How are you, Porter?” That sweet voice remains. “I hope much better than you look.”

  “All hurts,” his rough voice forms the words. “This time I thought I wouldn’t make it.”

  “The doctors will make it better.” Nine pats him on his hand. “By the time you’re out, there won’t be any pain.”

  “There’s one that will remain right in my chest,” he mutters. “That excruciating ache that stays forever after you become aware that you not only lost the love of your life, but that the love of your life is now in love with someone else. Baby, I lost you.” His agonizing voice makes my own chest ache. “You were the only person in this world who ever loved me, AJ.”

  Nine’s eyes lower. She has no response to what he said only seconds ago. Something, or someone, has died in this room. The palpable melancholy tightens my throat. Will that be the way I feel if I ever fall for her and then lose her? The slow, heavy coldness seeps inside my heart. The impact of the future grows strong and hits me with a steel fist—fear.

  Run away before you become him, your father, or so many others who are now pieces of hollow clay.

  “Goodbye, Port.” Ainse breaks my trance. “I wish you the best.”

  “Bradley,” Porter calls. “Thank you for rescuing me. I guess the best man won. Be smart and don’t throw away the best thing that can ever happen in your life: being loved by Ainse.”

  “Ready to go home, superboy?” Nine drags me out of the room and continues chattering. “Our baby kitten misses you, but I miss you the most.”

  I coach myself one more time. Don’t let things go far, just enjoy the ride.

  September

  We are in deep concentration, going from one cave to the next as we search for the last published book, careful not to get killed while shooting the bad guys. Destiny, my favorite video game. Mason and I play it at least an hour every night before heading to bed. Between real history stuff and being the last humans alive, I love it.

  Right as the enemy ambushes us, Mason receives a text. His eyes harden and his face freezes while he reads it. My chest constricts; another crazy mission. After he rescued Porter, I’m not crazy about seeing him go and risk his life. Not that I’ll ever tell him about it.

  “What’s with the face?” I ask as he checks his phone one more time.

  “My mother, she texted me.”

  I should tell him that texting is a standard practice. What is it with his narrowed stare and worried stance?

  “Is everything alright with Mina?” There’s an increasing need to know inside of my inquisitive mind. I fidget with the tiny joystick as I wait for an answer.

  “No, she wants me to pick her up from Sea-Tac—now.”

  The airport is a good forty-minute drive from my house. Right now sounds too soon.

  “She hates hotels. I don’t know where to put her.”

  Of course, he doesn’t have a place. The plan three weeks ago had been to search for an apartment, but after rescuing Porter and the issues he’s having with one of the agencies he consults for, it’s been close to impossible to find time to search.

  “I have a couple of guest rooms,” I prompt.

  Mason shakes his head.

  “Mase, she’ll be comfortable here.”

  “Husband number… I lost count… is coming with her.”

  Number seven, I want to say, but I don’t want to wake the bear within him. Mason, like any other healthy child whose mother has married several times, hates her husbands.

  “Thank you for offering. I appreciate it but… no.”

  “Grab your car keys.” I save the game and turn off the console. “We’re going, you’re bringing them here and that’s the end of the story, Mase.”

  He doesn’t move. Mason can regress many years. As many as back to age five and throw a silent hissy fit. This is one of them. His arms cross his chest and his jaw tightens.

  “What is wrong?”

  “If she stays with you, I have to go back to my office and sleep on the couch,” he finally confesses. “No sex until she’s gone. We’re at that stage where I can’t think of anything other than being inside you.”

  I don’t get what the big deal is. If he’s that self-conscious, he can call my brothers and stay with them. Not his couch.

  “You’re always thinking of us having sex?”

  “Of course.” He rolls his eyes as if I can doubt the obvious. “You’re hot, and with those sexy panties you wear every day, my mind can only guess what’s the pick of the day. You never let me see what you choose before you leave for work.”

  “Panties? The ones you steal at night?”

  “I bring them back after work; they help me through the day.”

  “That’s why I decided not to wear any today.” I lift my plaid skirt a few inches to give him a glimpse.

  The man swings me to his side like a rag doll. This time there’s no mercy on my lips.

  “You’re wearing panties, liar.” He sneaks a finger in between the fabric, sliding inside me and making me moan. “Shit,” he growls. His cock already pushing against my thigh, his calloused fingers rubbing my clit as they push themselves inside me.

  “Now, Mase, I can’t wait.” I start unzipping his jeans.

  “You’re going to drain me,” he whispers as I lower myself and lose myself in the moment.

  “Are you sure this is okay with you?

  “Yes, Mason Bradley.” This is the tenth time he has asked me the question.

  “Did you use sex to distract me?”

  I clamp my lips together and refuse to answer the question. I wasn’t going to, but he gave me the perfect idea when I was desperate to make a point: that his mother had to stay with me. Of course, now I’m chewing my lip because Mrs. Reality knocked me down with full force. My boyfriend’s mother is staying with me. Not any woman. His mother. She’s going to judge me, hate me, and… What else do mothers do?

  “Does she know about me?”

  “No.” He takes his eyes off the road for mere seconds.

  My hands slam against my face.

  “Of course she knows about you, she’s known about you since you were little, Nine.”

  “I don’t mean that way.” I toss my head against the seat and roll my eyes. “Girlfriend. I am, right?”

  “Oh, that detail. You are?”

  I groan like a wounded bear.

  “It’s a joke, damn. You get feisty when you’re nervous. Take it easy. Yes, she knows you, and she’s aware that you and I are dating. You hold the girlfriend title, the girl who tamed me, my other half, the one who holds the key to my cell and that’s why I stick around.”

  I suck on my lip as I gift him a deep, hard glare. “You are so not funny.”

  “Oh, I am.” He laughs as I sear with panic, fear, and unamused anger.

  My entire body is shaking at the prospect of having the woman in my house for however long she’s staying.

  “How long is she staying?” I’m trying to figure out my schedule for the next few days.

  “She didn’t say.”

  A response that won’t help me with the jitters eating the insides of my stomach, or with planning. Ugh, I put myself into this situation. Great.

  “Stop,” he orders. “I’m the only one allowed to nibble those lips. They’re mine.”

  He takes my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist. Then his finger caresses my
skin, soothing the knotted nerves.

  “She’s going to like you.”

  Not love me? My world is in danger of crumbling as I learn that winning over his mom may be a bigger challenge than I already thought.

  “Oh, God!” I finally let the excruciating panic out. “What is she going to think about me?” The question spews from my subconscious. “That we’re going too fast. I mean, you’re practically living in my house, which I love. Each day a new pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and some other item finds a spot in my closet. Scott, your sports car, lives next to Eleanor. Tucker stays at my parents.”

  “Huh, you just noticed?” He kisses my hand again. “To clarify, I’m not living with you. There are a few items I have around to make things simpler when I stay overnight. That brings me to another issue: stop naming my stuff. It’s a car, not Scott; a truck, not Tucker.” He pats the dashboard.

  “Ready?” He taps my nose with his free hand. “Let me see that beautiful smile of yours. That, ‘I’m about to die’ look isn’t flattering. Here they are.”

  Mason parks the car in front of a couple. Mr. and Mrs. Daugherty wait for us outside the terminal with their luggage. Mason’s stepfather is only a couple of inches taller than his wife. He’s bald, but with handsome features.

  “Wait here,” Mason orders.

  Mason’s mom is an inch or two taller than me, maybe five-seven. Porcelain skin with dark, almond-shaped eyes and delicate, soft features. Dark hair and smooth complexion, just like I remembered her from childhood. Due to airport restrictions, within seconds Mason shoves their luggage in the trunk and helps his Mom into the car as his stepfather did not offer.

  “Mother, you remember Ainsley Colthurst-Decker, better known as, Nine, or the girl I casually date.” He uses his dorky jokester voice, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Sorry, my lovely girlfriend.”

  We exchanged pleasantries, and she introduces me to Mr. Daugherty.