Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2)

by Jodi Watters

  As lead operator, Grady and Nolan deferred to him as he filled Sam in. Ash already knew the details, as it was standard protocol to maintain communication with one or the other as the operation unfolded.

  “Nothing unusual,” Beck said, laying it out. “We met the small group at the airfield at eleven hundred, escorted them into the area without incident, stopping to sing Kumbaya at the courthouse and make a touching, professionally written speech before meeting with the mother and a few of the kid’s closest friends.” He grabbed another bottle of water from the center of the table. “She’s torn up, as you can imagine, but surrounded by her pastor and a team of lawyers foaming at the mouth. We had them back at the airfield, safely ensconced in first class with a tumbler of scotch, by thirteen hundred hours.”

  Sam nodded. “And the cop?”

  “Routine,” Beck said, chugging half the bottle, his mind distracted by thoughts of his sexy, early morning visitor. “He’s scared shitless he’s gonna be sent to the gray bar hotel before this is all said and done, but for now, he’s tucked inside a rural farmhouse near the bustling city of Green River, Wyoming.”

  “And the crowd?”

  He shook his head. “A non-issue.” Glancing at Nolan and Grady, they silently seconded his assessment. “On direct observation, it seems the media made the protesters out to be more bloodthirsty than they actually are. Structures were partially burned out and the streets are littered with trash, but no tear gas or bullets flew. Maybe they were on their best behavior for the AG’s visit. There were fucking camera’s everywhere, though.”

  Sensitivity to exposure was something Scorpio took seriously and the group did their best to fly under the radar, their former careers preceding them. Home grown terrorists were trending and members of the military, both current and former, were high level targets. They’d returned to San Diego late yesterday evening and due to the increased probability of recognition, Beck had reluctantly shaved his nearly month old beard last night, leaving only a layer of closely cropped stubble behind. He’d been enjoying his hiatus in facial hair grooming, the unruly, grizzly look suiting his mood since Sam’s wedding.

  “Get your billable’s in order and on Carrie’s desk by noon.” Ash said, speaking up for the first time. “I want that invoice out immediately.”

  “Already done.” He’d had plenty of extra time this morning, showing up to the office early after leaving Hope standing on his front porch.

  The pinched tightness around her china blue eyes and the cute worry line creasing her forehead had vanished at his offer of a room and it wasn’t a transformation he’d easily forget. For a girl who stood to inherit a fortune, she was carrying a hefty weight on her shoulders. And while he didn’t really know her for shit, he was damn sure she would gauge his eyes out if she knew he’d seen her relief so clearly.

  “Okay, then. What’s up next?” Ash said absently, swiping at the screen on his phone and switching gears. “Mike and Nolan, what’s the status on your prep for the protection detail in Bogota? Mike, you first.”

  “The three vehicle convoy is scheduled for next Friday, leaving El Dorado International at oh-eight hundred, as long as their flight from Miami arrives on time. The route’s a busy one, but quicker and safer than traveling the rugged rural roads. Rush hour traffic figured in, we’re estimating the ninety mile trip at two hours, thirty-one minutes, give or take. The meeting with facility managers and subsequent factory tour should take no more than five hours. Factor in a corporate lunch on the premises and we should be on the road again by sixteen hundred or so. Anything later than that and we’re working against darkness, and that wouldn’t be good.”

  Pindao, a major electronics manufacturer, had several factories throughout the world, but their largest was in Bogota, Columbia. Local labor and industrial real estate both came cheap, and the central location eased distribution to the demanding North American market. As long as the corrupt government’s pockets stayed lined, then it was a monetarily beneficial place for international corporations to assemble their goods. It was a good fit for all, until the suits in the high-rise corporate office wanted to visit their money making machine. Sometimes the farmer needed to check on the dogs guarding the hen house, and in this part of the world, that meant things could get a little dicey, safety wise. Kidnapping the CEO of a major international corporation, with millions at stake and investors to please, wasn’t really a big deal. There was always another suit waiting in the wings, just as smart and more than willing to take over the position should an unfortunate beheading occur when the ridiculous ransom went unpaid. But kidnapping the CEO, along with a handful of the company’s most important shareholders was like winning the Super Bowl of terrorism. People cared. People who were so flush in excess cash that paying a million dollar demand was almost a guarantee.

  Ash nodded at Mike’s timeline, rubbing his fingers across his eyes. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one. I’m adding you to the team, Beck. Grady, you can hang back here. I need a guy stateside if our friends in D.C. call, so the four of us will go. Plan to be wheels up on Wednesday night and we’ll recon Thursday.”

  Sam interrupted, making it clear that he would postpone his honeymoon so he could join them on the mission, and after a heated exchange where Ash made it even clearer that he was going to Italy, like it or not, the conversation moved to other business.

  Beck swore inwardly. He’d just invited a strange woman into his house—which was completely out of character considering he’d demanded his own bedroom for his sixth birthday, no longer willing to cohabitate with his twin brother—and now he was leaving town next week. Grant hadn’t been offended when he’d jumped ship for his own room. Apparently Beck was a bitch to live with, even as a child. But now that he had this woman, Hope fucking Coleson, sleeping in his guest room, the last thing he wanted to do was leave her alone in his house.

  But he’d never balked at a deployment no matter where Scorpio sent him, and he couldn’t start now. That would only draw more attention from Ash and Sam, who were eyeing him like a hawk already, looking for signs he’d gone back to the hard stuff. Beck had no choice but to make the trip and the guys needed him, anyway. This job could go sideways in a heartbeat and if any of them went down, he’d never forgive himself. That was the way of the Spec Ops world and the Scorpio world, too. When blood was shed by one, it was shed by all.

  And the spilled blood he already had on his conscience was plenty.

  There was another unwritten, but strictly enforced rule in the Spec Ops world that he was currently breaking, and it was that you never lied to your chief. Sure, Hope was technically only an omission on his part, but semantics didn’t mean shit. If the boss man got word that you’d done something stupid and he was caught unaware of it, you could bet your ass was getting handed to you that very day. And the day after that, too. And it was likely he wouldn’t let up for weeks.

  It was that rule, and a strong sense of loyalty, that had him standing in the doorway of Ash’s sterile office later that morning.

  “What’s going on, Beck? Come in and sit.” Ash nodded toward an empty chair, but didn’t look up, his focus divided between three large flat screen’s sitting on the otherwise bare desk in front of him.

  Beck stayed propped against the doorjamb, contemplating exactly how to tell him about Hope, without actually telling him. Without getting fired or taking an obligatory pummeling. Deserving or not, the receiving end of Ash’s meaty fist wasn’t somewhere he wanted to be.

  Glancing up briefly, Ash mumbled, “You need to get something off your chest?” Clicking buttons until the script on the monitors went black, he sat back and stretched his neck. “Your hovering is making me nervous.”

  “Christ, you Army boys are easy to intimidate,” Beck said, as he dropped down into the chair, deciding to yank the band-aid off quickly. “Hope is moving in with me.”

  And that just came out all kinds of fucking wrong.

  The big man blinked once. “You wanna say that
again?” Pausing, he added, “Because I think I just heard you say you’re shacking up with my sister.”

  He nearly rolled his eyes. “I don’t mean like that.”

  “Then what exactly do you mean?” Ash grabbed an ink pen off his desk and slowly clicked it open. Then closed. Then open again. Over and over, the wheezing click of a cheap metal spring contracting and expanding was the only sound in the room.

  “I mean, she just needs a place to stay for awhile. Until she finds a new apartment. It’s temporary. Very temporary.”

  Click. Click.

  Determined not to squirm, he added, “C’mon, man, stop looking at me like that.” Like I screwed your innocent sister with all the finesse of a rutting bull, then cleared out so fast, my dick was still hard. “Do I look like the type who wants a roommate?”

  “So, you’re sharing a room?”

  This time Beck did roll his eyes. “We’re not sharing jack shit. I’m doing her a favor.”

  “And you know Hope... how?” Click. Click.

  This is where it got tricky. “We met the night of Sam’s wedding.”

  The clicking stopped abruptly and the room cooled by ten degrees. “Is that right?”

  Eyes that had successfully stared down dozens of insurgents bored into him, but Beck’s only response was a shrug. He wasn’t intimidated and he refused to tell Ash any more, unwilling to outright lie.

  Tossing the pen down, Ash leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out. The falsely relaxed pose would have put a lesser man at ease. “I’ve never been an overprotective brother. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve ever been much of a brother, at all. Hardly ever see her. She’s a lot younger, different mothers, all that shit. Ever since she was little, she pretty much took care of herself. Honestly, I’ve always suspected she was an active sleeper agent in the Israeli Army, so I don’t think she needs my protection, anyway. When she was fifteen, I watched a boy try to cop a feel at one of our old man’s holiday parties. Right in front of me, too, that cocky shithead. She turned on him and threw a textbook one knuckle punch that sent his two front teeth straight into his windpipe. Somebody had to slap him on the back so he didn’t choke to death. Happened in the blink of a eye.” The corners of his mouth tilted up. “I just thought you should know who you’re dealing with.”

  “My front teeth are safe,” Beck said, sending a clear message. “And I have no plans to visit the dentist.”

  Ash stared at him and Beck held his gaze, the silence stretching until a ringing phone had Carrie piping through to the intercom on Ash’s desk phone, telling him to pick up line two. It was Beck’s timely cue to leave.

  “Hey. Hold up a second, Beck.” Beck stopped in the doorway, not surprised Ash had more to say. His attention was on the monitors as he tapped out a command, bringing the screens back to life before reaching for the phone. “If she comes crying to me, now or anytime in the future, it’s gonna be a real bad day for you.”

  Beck gripped the back of his neck and shook his head, silently questioning whether he could deny himself another taste of Hope Coleson, should the opportunity arise. And as long as she was within a hundred miles of him, it would. “I don’t know about that, Ash. I’ve had some pretty bad days in my life. One, in particular. Not sure anything you do could come all that close.”

  “She’s my sister.” There was resignation in Ash’s uncompromising voice. Regret, too, but the warning was crystal clear. “It’ll hurt me as much as it hurts you, so do us both a solid and don’t test me on this.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I need some pointers.” Hope glanced nervously around her, hoping none of the Club Kitten patrons loitering nearby could hear her. Leaning across the table carefully, so her boobs wouldn’t pop out of her corset, she went nose to nose with Val. “Of the blowjob kind.”

  Val copied her movements using only his eyeballs, looking side to side without moving his head. “You do realize you’re smack dab in the middle of a strip club, wearing skin tight black leather and three coats of mascara, right? And it’s not like you went to Catholic school, for crying out loud, although you could stand to hit the confessional booth. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that uniform positively screams kinky sex. Your customers are gonna go home tonight and beat off to fantasies of you duct-taping them to a folding chair and sticking a tennis ball up their ass. You have this whole,” he cracked one hand against the palm of his other, “don’t make me get my whip, vibe going on.”

  “Really? It looks that good?” Was she actually doing this sexy getup justice? “Because I’m sweating rivers in places that you don’t want to know about. I thought leather was supposed to be breathable.”

  “Yeah, yeah, poor Hope. Now back to the blowjobs,” he said, without sympathy. “Are you wanting to perfect your tongue technique or just spice things up a bit? Because nothing is more game-changing than blowing him while squeezing mango juice all over his balls and repeatedly telling him he’s been a dirty, dirty boy. To the best of your ability, anyway, since you’ll have his penis in your mouth.”

  Her embarrassed gaze darted around the club again as blue and purple strobe lights flashed furiously, bouncing off every surface in perfect time to a Rihanna song.

  “I’m thinking more along the lines of a blowjobs for beginners, kinda thing. I don’t want to look like a bumbling idiot. I want to really own it, you know?” She pumped her fist for emphasis. “Without looking like a porn star, of course.”

  As if that was a possibility.

  He leaned in, a twinkle in his devious eye. “You’ve never blown a guy, Ho-ho? Not even the classic cop-out kind, where you put it in your mouth, but don’t actually close your lips over it? You know, you just let it graze the sides of your cheeks and call it good?”

  Apparently her look of mortification was all the answer he needed.

  “Okay, let’s start with the basics. It’s just like eating a slowly melting Popsicle. Only you don’t get brain freeze and the juice isn’t grape flavored. You take your time with it, but you don’t dillydally, either, or you’ll chance him cramming it down your throat like he’s filling up the gas tank on an eighteen wheeler. There are two key things to remember. First? Spit. And the more you have of it, the better. Now, I know you like things clean, so your natural tendency will be to lap it all up, nice and tidy, but trust me on this. Just let it all flow down around him. You can clean him up like a good little sex goddess with OCD when he’s done.” He stopped talking to sip from his Cosmopolitan, the martini glass glowing a pretty pink in the black light.

  A pair of barely holstered double-D’s caught his attention as a smiling Bridget passed by and he made a face, looking at Hope like he’d just smelled cow manure. “Good Lord, those things could suffocate a man. What a horrible way to die.”

  Hope laughed as he shuddered, then downed what was left of the pink concoction in one swallow. Bridget lamented that she’d been ridiculed for those puppies when they’d sprung overnight while she was in the sixth grade and now she took perverse pleasure in making every male who’d ever teased a poor, pubescent young girl eat his words.

  “Hurry it up, okay?” She looked over shoulder at Bubba standing behind the bar, knowing her fifteen minute break was up. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  “Okay, okay.” He gestured, his palms up to slow her down. “The second key? Your fist. Now if you’re really good, you can handjob some of your way through it, either without him knowing the difference, or knowing it and loving you that much more for it. Follow the motion of your mouth with a clenched fist and plenty of spit, and before you know it, he’ll be begging you to marry him and divulging his mother’s secret pot roast recipe. I’ll wait for the lesson on throat opening until you know your gag reflex situation. And please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t neglect the balls. Oh, and never... I repeat, never... yank on his dick like it’s a penny slot machine with a rusty lever and you’re on a twenty-dollar winning streak.”

  He sat back with a satisfied grin, prou
d as a peacock. “And that’s all there is to it, grasshopper. May you now go forth and suck cock like a champion.”

  “Okay. Spit and fist. I’ll get right on it.” Standing, she subtly rearranged her cleavage to a more PG-13 version before leaning over to hug him, the contents of her corset shifting right back to R-rated. “You’re the best, best friend a girl could ever have.”

  Val nodded knowingly. “You can camp out on my couch tonight. You get off early, right? We could watch a marathon of Forensic Files and eat Pad Thai.”

  She’d come to work a few hours earlier than normal to cover for another waitress who’s kid had caught chicken pox, so her shift ended at nine.

  “I’m gonna stay at the Lark Street house.” She hadn’t told Val about her and Beck’s reunion this morning—or that Lark Street and Beckett were one and the same—and there wasn’t time to do so now. Marcia was looking pointedly at her watch and glaring at Hope over the top of her purple bi-focal’s.

  “Is this about last night? I told you, Hope, there was a whole drug scene happening. I know that’s not your thing.” He grabbed his vintage denim jacket off the back of the chair. “Besides, it’s not safe for you to sleep in your car. Women who do have a tendency to get raped and murdered. You’d know that if you’d come home with me and watch an episode of Forensic Files.”

  “I’m not gonna get murdered.” Besides, she was sleeping inside the Lark Street house.

  Where her sexy Mr. Man Candy happened to sleep, too. Stomach pitching at the thought, a nervous excitement buzzed through her body. Nine o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. Waving a hasty goodbye at Val, she headed toward the bar, her break officially over.