Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance

by Leslie Johnson

  “She got expelled?”

  I snort. “Nope. She was right. I looked like a giraffe, although I never told her that, of course.”

  “After we get back from Hawaii, I’ll bitch slap Marilyn for you,” he says, trying to get my hair tied back in a bandana he found in his bag. “I have never seen so much hair on any one human being,” he mumbles when it keeps slipping out.

  “Look!” I yell. “They’re leaving.”

  He clamps a hand over my mouth. “Ssshhh.”

  I touch my tongue to his palm and he laughs before wiping it off on his shorts. “I think you are officially my favorite person in the world.”

  “Awww, thanks. You’re my new favorite too.”

  I watch him for a while as he pulls some Clorox wipes from his bag. Damn, he really does have everything in there. He begins to wipe down the steering wheel, the rear view mirror, and other places in the car.

  “What all did you touch?”

  I look down at my fingers, waving them in front of my face.

  He snorts. “Never mind, I’ll take care of it.”

  I burp and press my hand to my mouth. “I feel funny.”

  “You are funny.”

  “Like funny funny.”

  His head swings to me. “Are you going to throw up?”

  “Not throw up funny, just weird strange funny. Which of those pain pills did you give me?”

  “Tens. Percocet.”

  “Ah, that explains it. I fall on my ass with one Benadryl. I’m a total lightweight. A cheap date. So don’t be late.” Ha. That’s funny.

  “Okay, Miss Poet. I think we’ve given them enough time to check in. You wait here while I wire the car.”

  “You gonna change the taggy thingy on the back?”

  “No need to this time. They should be gone long enough for us to get a new one in a couple of days.”

  He opens the door and gets out, taking his Poppins bag with him. “Bonnie and Clyde,” I say to his retreating back. “I don’t think that worked out too well for them.”

  Chapter 3 – Duffy

  I heave out a breath as we cross the Nevada border, realizing I’m shocked as shit that we made it this far. I heave out another as we get closer to Vegas, the city I plan on getting us lost in tonight.

  I’ve been driving the stolen Tahoe for hours and still nothing makes sense. Why was I targeted? Does it have something to do with the failed mission? If so, why did they wait nearly six weeks to attack? What’s happened to the others? Is anyone still alive? And fucking why?

  Why?!

  I can’t wrap my mind around the ‘why’ of it all. Nothing fits.

  Beside me, Grace cries out in pain, shifts in her seat and cries out again. The pain medicine is wearing off and I need to look at her shoulder. She took a hell of a shot. From that distance, the round had to be at least a .308. I’ve seen soldiers screaming when shot with one of those. She took it like a champ.

  I grip the steering wheel, thinking of all that could have been worse. She was lucky, if that sniper had preferred .50 cals, I would have been picking up her pieces.

  What did that mean? Anything? A .308 versus .50?

  I rack my brain and come up with nothing. Ammunition is personal preference. No clue.

  And the helicopter? I’m certain it was civilian. The sound is distinctly different than military. And if it had been military, we wouldn’t have had that minute. They would have launched that missile from miles away, not dropped it on our heads.

  “Don’t wear a condom the next time we have sex, okay?”

  I about get whiplash I look over at her so quickly. Just a minute ago, she’d been asleep. “Were you dreaming about condoms?”

  She frowns at me. “That’s dumb. Who dreams about condoms?”

  I shrug. Who indeed?

  “Then why are we talking about condoms when you were asleep thirty seconds ago?”

  She sighs. The female equivalent to ‘he’s an idiot’. “I was dreaming about sex and we were skin on skin and it felt so good.”

  My cock twitches. “So having sex with me with a condom didn’t feel good?” I grin. I can’t resist having this discussion.

  She grins too, so big I can see it out of the corner of my eye. “Mighty fine, Mr. Duffy. So good I can’t wait to have it again.”

  “Without a condom?”

  “Yes. I want to feel you come inside of me.” She turns her head and looks out the window. “I mean, if you still want to have sex with me, of course.”

  I slap the steering wheel. Damn, she’s hilarious. When I realize she’s serious, I don’t even have my typical ‘why are women so complicated’ thoughts. I just reach for her hand and gently pull her toward me. “I’ll let my body answer that for you.”

  Her fingers trace the outline of my erection through my shorts and she sighs, crying out when she tries to turn in her seat. I cover her hand with mine and bring it to my lips, before linking our fingers together and setting them on my thigh.

  “I’ve never had sex without a condom before,” I admit to her and her fingers squeeze mine a little harder. It was drilled into me many years ago and I was nearly OCD about wearing them. No unplanned Little Duffys. No unplanned STDs. And I always only wore the condoms I personally purchased after a buddy of mine found out his girlfriend was poking a needle through the ones they were using.

  “It was just a thought. I can’t get pregnant and we’ve both had blood tests as part of our surgery panels.” I glance over at her and she grins. “Yes, I admit I looked at your STD panel in your chart. Sue me.”

  God, she’s adorable.

  And pale.

  And strained.

  And starting to sweat around her hairline again.

  I bring her fingers to my lips, holding them there for a while.

  “You look so pale, sweetheart. I know you have to be hurting and you’re thinking about sex?”

  She makes a little sound. “I’ve been thinking about making lo… sex … since the moment I first saw you.”

  Something squeezes in my chest. “Making love. I think it’s okay to call what we do with each other making love, don’t you think?”

  She stops breathing. The labored rhythm I’d been listening to simply stops. Then she inhales. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get you healed quickly so we can make love twenty times a day.”

  She moves and moans, arching in the seat. “I can’t believe how much this hurts.”

  I squeeze her fingers. “We’re stopping very shortly. We’ll get a room and I’ll get you fixed up. We’ll spend the night and head out early in the morning. Were you able to get all the first aid supplies?”

  She nods. “I think so. We’re low on betadine. I hadn’t stocked up on it since all your wounds healed completely. How’s your leg doing through all this?”

  “Really good. Glad I pulled the C-leg on this morning and good thing we got it re-fitted last week.”

  “I just wanted to make sure everything was set before I left…” She pauses. “Link, I’m supposed to leave in two days and fly home.” She gasps, then gasps again when she straightens in her seat.

  The moment I’ve been dreading has come sooner than I wanted. I’d hoped she would sleep the entire trip, then I’d get her into a hotel, clean her wound and pop another pill in her, letting her sleep until morning.

  “Home. My parents. I need to call them, Link. What if they hear about the explosion and think…?” Her fingers unlink with mine and she presses her hand to her lips. “Oh god. I wasn’t thinking.” She turns in her seat, crying out again and I pull over to the side of the road.

  “Stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

  Her eyes are bright green now, a sharp contrast to the red surrounding them. Desperate. “I’ve got to call them. Mom will be so worried. Everybody will.” She’s trying to reach into the backseat for her phone.

  “Grace, stop it. Your phone isn’t there.”

  She stops and looks at me. “What do you mean? Wh
y?”

  I unbuckle and turn in my seat, taking her face in both my hands. “I’m sorry you’re pulled into this with me. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that.” She wraps her left hand around my wrist, not trying to pull my hand away, just holding, just trying to understand. “Grace, until I know what is happening, the world needs to think we died back there.”

  Her eyes fill with tears and her face crumbles in on itself. “Just one call. Just to let them know I’m okay. They won’t tell. My family are good people. They would never tell.”

  “I’m sure they’re good people because you’re good people. That came from somewhere and I can’t wait to meet them. But Grace, if you contact them, you are putting them in danger, do you understand me?”

  She shakes her head. She doesn’t understand.

  “Let me get us to a hotel, get your wound clean. Get us some food. Then we’ll talk it through, okay? Can we do that? We need to get off this road.”

  She opens her mouth to protest. Instead, she simply nods and I release her to settle back in her seat. She looks so hurt. So despondent.

  Because of me.

  Las Vegas. The city of lights. The city to hide in or get lost.

  I look for a hotel with an outside door and I’ll need the bottom floor. I do a sweep off-strip and find one with a vacancy sign that doesn’t look like the local pimp drop.

  Grabbing my bag, I pull out a different wallet. A different set of credentials. Stuart Honeycutt. Good enough for tonight. I check my mustache in the mirror. Stuart the Pedo. I muffle a laugh.

  “Where are we?”

  Grace had fallen back to sleep, thankfully, but stirs again as I open the door to the Tahoe. “Vegas. I’m getting us a room. Stay here and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  True to my words, I’m back quickly with a keycard in my hand. I pull us around and back the big vehicle in the slot in front of the room. Opening the door, I’m relieved to see it looks clean and not overly horrible.

  At the passenger side, I help Grace out of the car and lead her to a chair in the room. I’m back a minute later with our bags. This is another thing I’ve been dreading.

  “Okay, beautiful. We need to clean and re-bandage your wound.”

  Her face crumbles, but she sits there and nods. She knows this is going to suck too.

  Taking off the sling and unbuttoning her shirt, I’m glad to see the towels I’d used as make-shift bandages hadn’t soaked all the way through. Unwrapping the tape I’d strapped around her so quickly takes a while as I’m careful not to pull on her skin too hard.

  We have enough betadine for now. Enough gauze and bandages too. I find an elastic bandage, then walk to the bathroom to wash my hands.

  Lifting another clean towel between her teeth. “I hate to ask this, but you have to be as quiet as possible.”

  She narrows her eyebrows at me, but bites hard on the towel and simply groans as I pull out the gauze I’d stuffed in the holes earlier, before cleaning the wound with the betadine. I also check for signs of infection and bandage it back up properly this time.

  When I finish, she says, “You did a good job.”

  “Thanks. Learned it in the field. I’m going to run out and get supplies. Do you want a shower now or when I get back?”

  Her eyes look a little glassy when she says, “I feel gross, but I better wait.”

  Pulling back the bedspread, I help her into one of the beds, pulling the sheet up to her neck. “What size do you wear? Pants. Shirts. Shoes.”

  “Tens in everything. Tall.” She grins the tiniest bit. “Big boned.”

  Why does she keep saying that?

  Digging through my ‘go’ bag, I pull out all the wallets for my various identifications. I should have a grand of cash in each. I mentally add up what I’ll need for supplies and take two thousand out. I need an iPad and some burner phones. Information. I need to know what is happening in the world.

  An hour later, I’m back after hitting a huge box store where I got everything we need. Clothes. Shoes. Food for the road tomorrow. A case of water. More medical supplies and a cane. Things to control her curls. Toothbrushes. Toothpaste. Soap. Shampoo and that goopy conditioner stuff she uses in her hair. Plus an iPad and four phones.

  I stop at a sub shop and get her a couple bowls of soup and a few sandwiches for me. I’m fucking starving.

  Looking at my watch, I see it’s nearly time for her to take more medicine. I’ll get her in the shower and fed, then drugged into oblivion. Maybe I can avoid that conversation a little longer after all.

  Slotting the keycard, I step into the room and stop. Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Grace is lying on the bed, the phone pulled to her. She’s cradling the receiver against her chest. Please. Dear God, please tell me she didn’t call her parents.

  Fuck.

  We’ve got to get out of here.

  “Grace,” I say, unable to keep the harshness from my voice. “Did you make a call?”

  She says nothing, just lays there and cries.

  “Answer me, Grace. Did you make a fucking call?”

  Nothing. The tears turn to sobs, her entire body wracked with them.

  Fuck. I start grabbing bags, stuffing everything in them. Heave them on my shoulder and head for the door.

  “No.”

  It’s a little sound. I stop and wait, making sure I heard it right.

  “No.” A little louder now and I turn to see her clutching the receiver even harder to her chest.

  Dropping the bags, I go sit on the other bed, dropping my face in my hands. I should let her go. Put her on a plane and send her back to Tennessee. Or Hawaii. Somewhere. Anywhere but with me. Let her get on with her life.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  I look up and she’s kicking off the blankets, trying to roll to a sitting position. I move to her bed and help her get up, closing my ears against her groans. “Think about what?”

  She puffs out a breath and pushes her hair back from her pale face, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Leaving me. Just because I had a girl moment and wanted to call my mommy doesn’t mean you can ditch me. You need me and you know it.”

  She’s right. I do need her for more reasons than I’m comfortable talking about right now.

  With her left hand on my thigh, she pushes up and stands. I hold her around her waist until she’s steady. She turns, steps between my legs and looks down at me, before taking the hat off my head and running her fingers through my hair. Gently, she peels the mustache off my upper lip. “There you are,” she says.

  Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against her stomach, curling my arms around her hips. “I want you to be safe. You aren’t safe with me.”

  “I want you to be safe too. We both need to be dead so you have some time to figure this out, right? If they find out I’m alive, it means you could be alive too. They’ll hunt you.” I pull back and look up at her. One side of her mouth curves up in a little smirk. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

  “So we’re stuck with each other, it seems.” I press my face into her stomach again.

  Her fingers are so damn gentle as they move through my hair. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Stuck.”

  Chapter 4 – Grace

  We stay that way for several minutes before he pulls away and stands. “I brought you some soup. You hungry?”

  The haunted look in his eyes has cleared, mostly. I nod. “Starving. And I’d love to take a shower. I really don’t care in which order.”

  “Let’s get some food in you. Give you some energy to be up that long.”

  He’s so sweet. This big, strong badass of a man, gently helping me to the table and helping me sit. He digs through a bag and pulls out several containers of chicken soup and some sandwiches, then surprises me with a can of Peace green tea, which I love.

  It’s too much work to eat with a spoon, so I sip from the cup, drinking two of the containers. He takes bites of his sandwiches as he hook
s up and charges an iPad and a couple phones while also going through all our supplies and organizing everything.

  He turns on the TV and sets it to mute, flipping through various news channels. There it is … Billionaire Playboy Dead in Home Explosion.

  He growls.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve served our country for ten years. Risked my life a million times. Lost my leg and my team and I’m still a fucking billionaire playboy. Drives me crazy.”

  I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh as he turns the volume up.

  “Early this morning, CNC learned that billionaire playboy Link Duffy was presumed killed when an explosion occurred in his home. While the cause of the explosion is still unknown, it is believed to have resulted from a gas leak. Additionally, Link Duffy’s nurse and physical therapist is believed to have also been inside the home when the explosion occurred. As CNC reported six weeks ago, Mr. Duffy was injured in a landmine explosion in Afghanistan, working on a government project.”

  The camera cuts to an aerial view of the Duffy estate. The house we lived in is still smoking, then a fire marshal looking person appears. He talks about how it’s too early to presume anything and that the investigation is ongoing. Then the screen changes again.

  “Damn it to hell.”

  It’s a video of Camille, pushing through doors of what looks to be LAX airport. She’s barraged by reporters shouting questions at her. She keeps her face down, huge dark glasses covering her eyes and plows through them until she reaches a car and is hustled inside.

  My heart breaks for her. For all his family and friends. For mine.

  There are pictures of Link at the beach, at parties, wearing snow gear. With groups of people and alone. With women. Many different women were on his arm, although he looked much younger in most of those shots.

  Through it all, Link says nothing. Just sits there staring at the screen.

  When it becomes clear there is no new news, I push myself up from the seat and dig around in the clothes Link bought for me. I smile as I pull the white robe out of the bag and hold it to my chest. There’s also a couple pairs of pajamas and an assortment of yoga pants, tank tops and shirts. I also find toiletries. It takes a couple trips to get everything to the bathroom one handed, but soon I’m turning on the shower.