Mastered By The Mavericks

by Angel Payne

  Fucker.

  Still, he tried for the diplomatic route. He still felt too damn good from this afternoon to give it up now. “Can you trust that I am handling it?” He answered the accusation in Rhett’s gaze with a lift of his head. “When have I ever not brought my A game to an op, man?”

  Double-Oh jutted his jaw. Arched his brows. “You’ve never been on an op like this one.”

  “And you have?”

  “There’s a lot at stake here, Rebel.” He looked toward the store’s entrance again. His profile tightened as if expecting the sliding doors to part for a royal princess. “More than what we’re used to.”

  “Yeah.” He paused for a long second, seizing the chance to openly stare at the man’s bold forehead, noble nose, and high-cut cheeks. “Now we can agree. A hell of a lot.”

  With vision edged by a fog that thundered with his heart, he reached out. Farther.

  Curved his fingers around the hard meat of Rhett’s shoulder.

  Waited for the flinch. The profane, pissed off utterance. The spell shattered.

  Instead, he gazed in awe…as the man’s gold-tipped lashes slammed down. Listened as a harsh sigh spilled off those strong lips.

  “Fucking hell, Rebel.”

  There was the profanity, at least. The rest of this—the conflict gripping beautiful face, the tension conquering those broad shoulders—came so unexpectedly, especially after they’d damn near Ozzy Osbourne’d each other’s head, that Reb froze, dumbfounded. Him, dumbfounded.

  “Yeah.” The dull razor of his voice matched the moment so perfectly. He hated every rasp of it. “You’re probably right about that, too. Fucking hell.”

  Rhett’s head, following the lead of his lashes, dropped nearly all the way to his chest. But at the same time, his hand lifted. His fingers—just the trembling tips—meshed between Rebel’s. Twisted like a drowning man on a life ring. An equally tortured breath stuttered out of him.

  “I didn’t ask for this, damn it.”

  Rebel let a growl tear out. “Neither did I.”

  “I know, man. I know.”

  Shock still flooded his senses. His brain dog-paddled to keep up. At least that was the excuse he went with for what spilled out of him next. “I guess fate doesn’t need clearance orders.”

  Rhett clearly debated a laugh—but lost to the resignation sneaking over his eyes. He dropped his hand back down to his lap. “Fate or not…you know we can’t do this anymore.”

  Rebel slid away. Parked himself into the corner created by the seat and the car’s door. “You mean you won’t.”

  “Fuck.” It was little more than a grate—followed by a burst from the other side of the communication spectrum. “Okay, asshole, so tell me how you’d do this. If you were me, would you be banking on Rhett and Rebel Airlines to even clear the goddamn runway, let alone hit the mighty blue for fireworks and champagne?”

  Rebel let that fun little idea roll around in his head for a second—before pounding the steering wheel and letting his own profanities fly. In the filthiest French he could remember.

  The Prince Charming wannabe and the hopeless man-slut. Yeah, that was an idyllic vision.

  No wonder Rhett glowered through the windshield and only saw a rock and a hard place outside the car.

  No wonder Reb looked the same direction…and saw the same thing.

  He gripped the steering wheel as hard as he could…wishing the thing was his own neck. Why the hell not? His throat was so dry and tight, he truly should’ve gone for it.

  “Lange?” He didn’t look away from the parking lot.

  “Yeah?” Rhett didn’t, either.

  “For what it’s worth,”—and he knew, coming from him and his alley cat dick, it wasn’t much—“I’ve never felt this way before. About a woman or a man.”

  Rhett didn’t speak through a moment of burlap-thick silence. Another. Finally, he clared his throat. Shifted in his seat like a linebacker being stuffed into a bumper car. “Yeah, well…stop it.”

  Rebel didn’t respond. Weren’t a lot of options, since he pretty much deserved it. He’d demanded that Rhett pull up the rug and expose the dirt, and received exactly that. But he’d brought the wrong clean-up crew. The filth wasn’t what he’d expected. Rhett had freely clasped hands with him, totally unafraid of openly acknowledging their connection. He had no more issues about being publically affectionate than Rebel did.

  So the man’s steel box…didn’t exist.

  The filth…was him. His casual sex. His disposable submissives. His “Rebel’s Roadhouse” of an apartment—he had no idea what the word home even meant, much less how to create one—complete with a spare bedroom so his partners could “enjoy their space” after he was done with them. More accurately, so he could enjoy the space…

  He saw the whole truth with glaring clarity now. And let his head plummet back to the steering wheel from the disgusting sludge of it. He was dragged lower by an albatross so heavy, a dozen bricks must be attached it. Bricks wrapped in more of that sludge.

  Shame he’d never be able to escape or change.

  So this was what they meant, when they talked about the weight of loneliness.

  A breath pushed out of him. Another. He lost himself to their cadence, so consumed that he gained air off the seat when something suddenly pounded the window next to him.

  Not something.

  Someone.

  A beaming brown-eyed girl, still clad only in her Braneff Brothers T-shirt and those cute short-shorts, bouncing on her toes and beaming like a kid at a carnival.

  Brynn giggled, obviously realizing she’d pulled off the impossible and startled him, while her lingerie-less breasts bobbed to distraction beneath the tee. Reb didn’t even try to avoid the view, and the reflection off the window showed him Rhett had hopped that bandwagon, too.

  “Hey.” She yanked open the door and moved into the little crevice she’d just formed. “Are you two out here slacking?”

  If she meant learning that that there really wouldn’t ever be a chance for him with Rhett, then yes, he’d absolutely been slacking. He didn’t bother masking his bah, humbug scowl because of it, either. Yeah yeah, so it was the middle of May. Bah fucking humbug.

  Though the next moment, fate really set out to test him on that one—to the power of four.

  Brynna hopped up and down a little more, only now with a hand gesturing forward, over the hood of the SUV. “Look what I found!” she exclaimed. “Hot damn. Can I shop, or what?”

  “Hot Damn” wouldn’t have been Reb’s first expression when lifting his sights to the five familiar figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the car, each dressed in camo BDUs and carrying a sizable mission go-bag. Looked like El had been a busy little bird since their radio conversation—and earned herself a night of thank-you beers from Rhett and him in the doing. He’d never been happier to lay eyes on Garrett, Zeke, and Kellan again—the latter now accompanied by the man who was the usual surgical attachment to his side. Tait Bommer, clearly having finished his top-secret training, now stood between Kell and his little brother.

  Thank fuck someone had stepped up for the duty.

  Even clothed in head-to-toe black, Shay Bommer was an intimidating sight—especially with his face set in a glower that matched his fatigues. His older brother’s arrival hadn’t soothed the raging giant at all. Shay’s eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks skeletal, his dark gold beard unshaven. A couple of passersby eyed him as if wondering what crazy lunatic the military boys were being so kind to. Little did they know that before anyone blinked, Shay could overturn their cars with a few flips then take out all three of the mall’s security guards.

  The guy’s arrival dumped a thousand fire ants into Reb’s bloodstream. Once they actually found Zoe, Shay was going to be either their greatest asset or their hugest liability—especially if Adler knew his prize stallion was even in the same state. But no way in hell was Rebel going to order the man off the op. A week ago, he might’ve attempted it.
Today, he looked at the agony in Shay’s eyes, and realized he’d appear close to the same way if Adler had Brynna locked up somewhere.

  A look he might be trying on for real, if they didn’t take care of their girl every way they possibly could.

  While he dealt with that not-so-entertaining thought, Rhett let down the passenger side window with an efficient snock. “So where’d you find these bozos in the store, peach? The dollar bin or the platform heels section?”

  Kellan’s brows instantly jumped. “Peach?”

  The observance went unnoticed, thanks to Zeke puffing out his Dark Knight chest—while brandishing a new pair of five-inch heels covered in blood red rhinestones. “The heels aisle can be a fun place, man. Rayna’s going to thank me prettily when I strap them on her—right before tying her down to our new spanking bench.”

  Not shockingly, a dark growl tore out of Shay. “Can we move the fuck on with all this?”

  Rebel swung outward then up with a foot on the SUV’s running board. Spread his arms along the car’s roof to ensure everybody stayed where they were. “I sympathize with where you’re coming from, I-Man.” More than you know, brother. “But as you all have likely been informed, this op almost hit the skids once today. Let’s square everyone to the same plan before we throw down with these jackholes and their underlings.”

  “Agreed.” Zeke stowed the shoes, snapping back to mission mode.

  Garrett copied the move. “You guys have a place we can drill through a pow-wow?”

  Rhett nodded then asked, “Did you guys bring wheels?”

  “Wheels?” Garrett snorted, throwing back an expression he usually saved for his book snob moments. “Well, gerd dang, Mr. Cartwright, we didn’t know you wanted wheels. Our mules are hitched up around the corner, though…”

  Rhett rolled his eyes. “Ass munch.”

  Shay’s jaw locked. His gaze kaboomed like twin grenades hitting at once. Again, Rebel sympathized—more than he wanted to admit. While pre-mission banter was necessary to ensure everyone’s nerves, it did nothing for the guy on the team with the most at stake. As the one usually climbing into the blast suit, Rebel knew exactly how it felt to be dealing with a gut razed by nervous fire.

  “We’re burning daylight.” He punctuated the growl by jerking his chin at Garrett. As the young dad in the bunch, Hawkins was now the most alert driver on the team. “Follow us east. We have a motel room. Brynna can change into her…battle gear,”—fuck, how he hated saying it let alone imagining it—“while we discuss staging points and possible exfil.”

  Everyone bolted their head into the game now. As they all began moving out, Rebel hopped down to open the back seat door for Brynna. He’d just buckled her in and closed the door when Shay skirted the SUV’s hood and caught his arm.

  The fires in Bommer’s stare had settled to restless embers. His growl resonated with the same barely-banked violence. “Stafford. I haven’t said it yet…but thank you.”

  Reb ticked up one side of his mouth. “Not necessary, man.”

  Shay swung a look toward the back seat of the SUV, his face conveying how valuable the cargo there had come to be for Reb. “Very necessary,” he murmured. Then just before he turned away to join the others, “Kiss her goodbye like it’s the last time, man. You never know when it will be.”

  * * *

  A LITTLE OVER an hour later, Reb reflected once more on Bommer’s advice—and didn’t change his response to it by a single syllable.

  “Well, fuck.”

  It had been close to torture, tasting her so deeply that he sprung a boner worthy of the Longhorn State itself. Then inhaling her with all the force in his lungs, knowing all he’d breathe in for hours would be her wildflower scent. And then, oh fuck, watching her tuck a hand down her cleavage until he had to glance away for a long second.

  Hell. Did she have to linger about it, too?

  Well, yeah…since she was doing it to secure the delicate necklace he and Rhett had just given her, with its three golden charms dangling off the chain: a ballet shoe bracketed by two daggers. The gift shop next to the motel had nothing else representing Vikings and pirates, so the daggers had to do. Before tucking the jewelry in, she kissed the charms with tears shimmering on her own lashes—a moment that gutted even Rhett. He’d closed the door to the sporty rental coupe they’d gotten her exclusively for the op, just in case Adler had learned the plates for the two SUV rentals already, and ripped his stinging glare at Rhett, one adamant message searing out. Don’t you dare start, too.

  Now, there was no time to even think about slinging razzes at each other. Everything his life had been—the missions, the team, the “roadhouse”, and even stupid shit like bills and needing to get new tires for his truck—was all banished behind what his life was now: the demand of being in this moment. The necessity of focusing thoroughly on the video being fed through the palm-sized monitor in Rhett’s hands, as well as the tinny audio filling his right ear. Both were made possible by a camera El had rigged into a broach and scarf for Brynn’s outfit, designed to be worn so the broach hit just the right spot in her gorgeous cleavage. The placement ensured that they received clear feeds—and Adler’s unbridled attention. Sure as hell had been the case when Rhett installed the device on her—and Reb had found several convenient ways to “help out.”

  By the time they’d finished, there’d been more than enough one-liners from every soldier in the motel room to confirm one truth: Shay hadn’t kept close to the vest with his observation about the new energy between the three of them. So much the better, as far as Reb was concerned. Now every fucker in the group would be even more on their game about getting Zoe and Brynna out of that building alive.

  Nothing was more important than that.

  Nothing.

  Rebel’s throat tightened—again—from his devotion to the vow. It was the only thing keeping his breath steady and his body utterly still as he and Rhett waited in the shadows and tall grass beneath a huge oak tree, located about fifty yards from the fence he’d hurdled four nights ago. About the same distance to the left, he knew Garrett and Zeke had belly-crawled their way behind a small storage shed. To the right, somewhere behind a large copse of kidneywood and esperanza, was Kell, possibly saddled with the hardest task of them all: keeping Shay sane—and contained—until Brynna worked her guile on Homer Adler.

  The very reason he was hating the whole “sane and contained” thing right now.

  The red ants in his blood turned to cockroaches of disgust, burrowing deeper every time that vermin dropped his beady eyes to Brynn’s breasts. That meant the little fuckers were mighty busy—like right now, as Adler added a greasy smirk to his gawk.

  “So,” he drawled, “Miss Diamond…where, exactly, did you say you were from?”

  “Please.” Brynn’s sultry voice didn’t do anything to calm the roaches. “Call me Valentina.” Nor did her insistence on using a porn star name, telling them it would only entice Adler more. She’d been glaringly right, damn it. Men really were pigs. “And I’m originally from Iowa, sir. Just a little farm out in the middle of nowhere, where the corn’s as high as an elephant’s eye.”

  “And they grow gorgeous goddesses as well as they grow those fine crops.”

  Brynna’s giggle tinkled through Reb’s earpiece. The flirty sound was as fake as the double eyelashes she’d plastered on back at the motel. So far, her act seemed to be working. Thank fuck.

  But if it slipped, he was ready.

  Put together right, the contents of the pack at his side were enough to blow up the whole east side of Austin.

  “Oh, Mr. Adler. You have such a golden tongue.”

  On the little monitor, Adler scooted out from behind a broad desk. “You have no idea how golden, baby.”

  “Good girl.” Rhett muttered it into his comm link as the image rushed by, indicating she’d scooted free from the man’s advance. She was patched into him and everyone else on the team through a tiny audio bud adhered to the inside of her ear.
“You’re doing good, sweetheart. Keep reeling and releasing. That’s it.”

  “Mmmm.” Her tone was laced with double meaning: the concurrence with Rhett and her flirtation with Adler. “Naughty,” she went on, answered by a tight scowl from the scientist. “You know the rule, Mr. Adler. Business before pleasure.” A jerk of the image—she’d tugged her blouse back into place—before she dipped her tone back into seductive territory. “And you did promise me a tour. I’m not going to let you forget that. I’ll be the talk of the office at Peach Pharmaceuticals. A grand tour of Homer Adler’s prestigious labs.”

  Adler leaned on the desk, folding his arms in a smarmy preen. “I had no idea I was so notable.”

  “Very notable,” Brynn crooned.

  “Goodness.” He spread his bony legs a little—then a lot. “I’m sorry I don’t have a signed photo or something. A…souvenir of sorts.”

  Brynna cleared her throat, clearly in place of having to comment on the “souvenir” he referred to. “Maybe we’ll find something…interesting…on the tour.”

  Rebel couldn’t tamp a low growl. “A little too convincing, minette—which means it was fucking perfect. Now get him out of that damn office, before he decides the undersides of those shoes might be more interesting than the top.”

  “Christ,” Rhett grumbled. “Thanks for that mental.”

  “Left.” The interjection on the line told them both to shut up at once. Even in hushed tones, Zeke’s voice packed one hell of a commanding baritone. “You want to make him go left, Little B.” He used the honorary call-sign they’d all come up with for her. “Hawk just completed the close-quarter thermography on the building. There’s a room at the end of the hall, bottom floor, with a signature reading a lot like a petite pregnant woman.”

  Rebel traded an incredulous glare with Rhett, who barked, “How the fuck did you get that reading?”

  Garrett’s trademark snort burst on the line. “With the help of Mr. Tumbleweed.”

  “Well, shit.” Sure enough, no more than twenty feet from the storage hut, a tumbleweed the size of a baby rhino inched across the dusty ground. The two guards bracketing the loading dock, as well as the goon strolling the yard, actually looked at the thing three times each and never noticed that it slid instead of—well—tumbled. Thank God for the late afternoon breeze. And Mr. Tumbleweed. “Great job, Hawk. Little B, you copy that intel?”