by Sydney Croft
Ian had removed Justice’s boots and socks and had used his own knife to slice Justice’s pants and shirt off. “I checked him over,” Ian said. “He’s got a leg injury and probable concussion.” He put pressure on the calf wound, using one of Tag’s clean socks to stem the flow of blood.
Tag had never been affected by the sight of blood, but this was Justice, and as bad as things had gotten between them, he didn’t want to see his ex hurt.
He wondered, if the situation was reversed, if Justice would give a shit at all.
Justice was definitely going to be pissed about the clothes, though. Tag hoped he had a spare set in the backpack he’d brought.
Ian looked up at Tag. “I need you to keep pressure on the wound while I gather the supplies I need.”
Tag obeyed, not liking how fast the sock was getting soaked. “Why isn’t he waking up?”
“He did,” Ian said, as he dumped gauze, scissors, alcohol, a suture kit, and a bunch of other stuff on the bed. “While you were in the basement, he looked at me, said I was a dick, and passed out again. Probably a concussion.” He pulled one of the two chairs in the room to the end of the bed and gloved up before taking over from Tag.
As Tag let Ian replace the bloody sock with a sterile pad, he glanced through the doorway into the living room, where movement on one of the monitors caught his eye. “Be right back.”
Hoping Itor wasn’t lurking in the forest, he hurried to the bank of screens, but whatever he’d seen was gone. But wait . . . in another monitor, glowing eyes. He reached over to the remote that kept his lethal trap triggers handy, and waited. He wouldn’t activate one until he knew exactly what was out there. It was a principle his mom had drilled into him during target practice: never, ever fire a weapon until you’ve confirmed what you’re shooting at.
Holding his breath, he waited.
The eyes shifted, and so did their owner, revealing the outline of something definitely not human. Motherfucking bear. Better than Itor though, so he wasn’t about to complain. Besides, in his experience, humans were far more dangerous than any wild animal.
Setting down the remote, he turned away from the monitors and headed back to the bedroom, where Ian had cleaned up Justice’s wound and laid out the suture supplies.
“How do you know all this shit?”
Ian threaded the needle. “Went through a phase where I thought I’d make a good doctor. Went to a private combat medical school to see. Turned out that I hate the normal day job thing.”
The daily grind was what Tag liked. Maybe tending bar wasn’t his dream job, but seducing or killing people for a living wasn’t up his alley, either.
“So you decided to become a mercenary? Are you wanted by agencies and governments, like Justice said?”
Ian gestured to a package of sterile gauze. “Toss that to me. And yes, it’s true. Mostly. Funny thing, being a mercenary with special powers. Specials affiliated with agencies like ACRO and Itor don’t get fucked with by governments. Officials don’t want the general public to know too much, you know? Agencies handle shit internally and deal with each other the way mobsters deal with other mobsters. But us mercs? We make more money and have more freedom, but we don’t have pimps to watch our backs. So everyone fucks with us.”
Tag had a feeling the pimp reference was intentional, Ian playing offense before Tag could make the obvious Seducer/prostitute connection.
“So you don’t belong to Itor? You . . . hire out your . . .” Body? Services? Fuck, the idea that Ian sold himself like that left Tag both angry and sad.
“Yeah,” Ian said roughly. “I do specialty jobs for money. Itor wasn’t my first choice of employer, but once they have their claws in you, it’s hard to say no. Hell, it can be fatal to say no.”
Tag swallowed as a sickening thought popped into his head. “When we were together—”
“No.” Ian looked away from tending Justice’s wound to peg Tag with serious eyes. “From the first time I kissed you until the day . . .”
“The day Itor took me,” Tag finished, not sounding nearly as bitter as he thought he would.
Ian nodded. “I didn’t fuck anyone else while we were together, Tag. I was supposed to, a side job in Orlando, but I couldn’t.”
Tag wanted to say something that would make him a real bastard, something along the lines of, Gee, you didn’t have a problem selling me to Itor, but you had an issue cheating on me, but the man was helping Justice, something he didn’t have to do.
“What about after?” Tag asked, because there was still a little bastard in him. And a whole lot of petty. “How soon did you take another job after I was gone?”
“What, you want to know if the next day I was banging some senator for information?” Ian turned back to what he was doing. “Do you really want to torture yourself this way?”
“You can’t do anything Itor didn’t already do.”
Ian winced. “Oh, I doubt that,” he said quietly.
Yeah, Tag doubted it too. Maybe it was time to change the subject.
“Is Itor really after you, Ian?”
He exhaled a long, slow breath. “Once they learn that the chip is disabled and that I used their resources to find you instead of turn you in, yeah, they’ll be after me.”
Tag’s gut rolled. Ian had put himself in danger for Tag. Yes, it was Ian’s fault that Tag was in this position in the first place, but he’d just put his life on the line to get Tag out of it.
Shit like that went a long way toward making amends . . . as proven by the fact that Tag had nearly gotten down and dirty with Ian in the shed.
It would have been a mistake, just like what had happened between him and Justice earlier.
“Could you go to ACRO?” Tag asked, his brain desperately seeking a way to keep Ian out of Itor’s clutches.
Ian snorted. “Do you really think Captain America here is going to let me get anywhere near ACRO? He wants me in chains. And not the fun kind.”
“I’ll talk to him—”
“Why?”
“Because Itor isn’t going to stop coming after you. If you work for ACRO, you’ll be safe.”
He snorted again. “Are you planning to go to ACRO?”
Tag cursed. ACRO might have been an option four years ago, but it wasn’t now. He’d killed ACRO agents. They’d probably want him in chains right alongside Ian.
“We aren’t talking about me,” he said.
“No, we’re talking about me going to work at ACRO. Let’s say they want me. What do you think they want me for? I’m a Seducer, Tag. I have special skills and training, and I’m good at it. ACRO will want me to fuck people for them. At least as a free agent, I have some control.”
Tag’s heart broke wide open. “You’re an Excedosapien. You have cheetah speed. ACRO can use that. You don’t have to go in as a Seducer—”
“Drop it, Tag.”
“No,” Tag snapped, angry that Ian wasn’t making even a token attempt to save himself. And yes, he was fully aware of the irony of trying to get the guy to join an agency he himself had refused to join, but if it was the only way for Ian to survive, it had to happen. “Dammit, Ian, you aren’t even trying.”
Ian loosed a juicy curse. “I did try. Years ago. ACRO rejected me because of my family ties. It’s a done deal, so drop it, okay?”
Yeah, like that was going to happen. Tag opened his mouth to tell Ian exactly that, but suddenly, Justice roared in pain or rage or something, and before Tag could react, had kicked out, catching Ian in the temple with a modified roundhouse kick.
“Justice!” Tag tackled him as he sat up in bed, fists swinging and legs flailing.
“Shit!” Ian yelled. “Hold him down!”
As if Tag was just standing around.
As gently as he could, he plastered his body against Justice’s and pinned him with a forearm across the throat. It took several tries to gather Justice’s wrists in his other hand, especially because Justice was bucking like a rodeo bull, but finally, thank
fuck, Ian jabbed a needle in Justice’s arm, and within seconds, he settled down.
“That should do it,” Ian said. “Crazy bastard.”
Tag eased up, and sure enough, Justice just lay there, eyes closed, breathing slowing in a steady rhythm.
Pushing himself over to sit on the edge of the mattress, Tag looked between the two men, and it occurred to him that he was in the most fucked-up situation ever. Two ex-lovers in one room. Both enemies.
Nope, there was no way this could go wrong.
Justice had no idea how long he was out for, but he woke up, if he could even call it that, woozy and pissed. And pissed that he was woozy.
He blinked, tried to focus. “Where am I?”
“Inside Tag’s cabin.”
That was Ian’s voice. Must be dreaming because last he remembered, he hadn’t been inside. He stared up into Ian’s face. The guy was handsome, he’d give him that. Handsome . . . and a total prick for trying to fuck Tag when he hadn’t been looking.
“You’re talking out loud, Justice. Might not realize that.”
Ian’s voice. Again. Ian’s hands, pressing on his bare chest. “Am I naked?”
“Just about,” Ian confirmed, sounding way too happy. “Guess it’s time to check you for wires.” And then Ian’s hands slid up his side.
“The fuck?” He tried to push Ian’s hands off him—mainly because they felt good and he didn’t want to feel good from Ian, and he blurted out that sentiment before he could stop himself.
Ian was obviously trying to hold back a smile. “I’ll make sure it hurts more. Promise.”
“Fine,” he huffed, watched Ian scoot down the mattress to tend to his leg. “Motherfucking Tag’s trap. Only got caught because he distracted me.”
“Because a tree was getting ready to fall on your head,” Tag’s voice drifted from somewhere behind Ian.
“A whole tree fell on me?” Justice asked.
“Just a branch.”
“Why’s my head hurt so much, then?” he complained.
“Was a big branch,” Ian said.
“A tree fell on me. I expect more sympathy,” Justice told them both.
Ian nodded, his lips pressed together like he was trying not to laugh. “Plenty of sympathy.”
He felt a couple of pricks of pain along his ankle and then just some pressure. He drifted in and out of sleep, hearing Ian murmuring directions to Tag, and occasionally he’d hear things like, “mild concussion” and “needs antibiotics,” and “he’ll be okay, right?”
That last one was Tag’s voice, full of concern. Justice wanted to tell him not to worry, but nothing seemed to be working right. Maybe that was Ian’s grand plan—drug him and then sell him to . . . space pirates. Or whoever.
“Why’s he mumbling about space pirates?” he heard Tag ask.
“Grab me a bag of saline,” Ian answered. “Don’t want him dehydrating.”
Justice finally managed to open his eyes.
“Hey, Justice—you’re okay. Your leg’s stitched up and you’ve got a concussion. But you’ll be fine.”
“What about you?” His voice was so low that Ian had to move close to hear it. He was practically whispering in Ian’s ear.
“What about me?” Ian asked.
“You have no loyalty,” Justice murmured.
“Yeah, I do,” Ian told him. “’S’why I’m here.”
“Promise?” Justice held up his scarred hand.
Ian glanced at it. “Taggart has that scar too.”
“I know. I gave it to him.”
Ian wasted no time in holding Justice’s hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Promise.”
Tag stepped into the bedroom and tossed Ian the bag of IV fluid. Ian caught it one-handed, glanced down at it, and shook his head. “This is glucose solution. And it’s expired.”
Tag shrugged. “Like I know the difference. The saline solution is probably expired, too.” The guy who’d built this prepper box of a cabin had stocked the basement with enough food and medical supplies to run a hospital for months. Sure, Tag had picked up some meds and bandages before coming back here, but while Tag had basic first aid knowledge, thanks to his mom’s insistence on learning survival skills, he wasn’t up on the more advanced crap.
Ian shook his head. “Saline doesn’t degrade the way glucose does. We can probably still use it.”
“The IV supplies are in the basement,” Tag said. “Help yourself.”
He and Ian had faked some great cheeriness when Justice was awake, but now they were back to strained silence and dark looks, which was exactly what he got as Ian brushed past him on his way to the basement.
“Trouble in paradise?” Justice asked, watching him with drowsy eyes as he dragged the corner chair over to the bed and sat down.
“Didn’t know you considered Alaska paradise.”
Justice shuddered. “Fucking snow. Cold. Reminds me of Christmas.”
Taken aback by the anger in Justice’s voice, Tag frowned. “You love Christmas.” Even as he said it, he regretted it, realizing the stupidity of his statement.
Through the glaze that dulled Justice’s eyes, more anger sparked. “Itor.”
Yeah, Itor. The fuckers had killed their mothers on Christmas day. They’d been at Justice’s mom’s place for the holiday, and while their moms cooked Christmas dinner, Tag and Justice had gone to a movie. What they’d returned . . .
Tag shook his head to clear it, not willing to let himself fall down that pit of despair right now. There was plenty of time for that later.
Justice reached up, touched his head, and winced. “What did your lover drug me with?”
Tag chose to not take Justice’s bait. “No idea. You got all combative and shit, and he had to sedate you.”
“You let him?” Justice glared. At least, he attempted to. The drug was kicking his ass. “He could’ve killed me.”
Tag shook his head. “He’s not a bad guy, Justice.”
“He lied to you,” he slurred. “Got you kidnapped.”
Tag wasn’t sure when he would stop feeling like he’d been gut punched every time his kidnapping came up. “I know,” he said. “And I’m still not over that. But haven’t you done things at ACRO, for ACRO, that you aren’t proud of?”
“I’ve never deceived anyone like that.” Justice’s voice was a curious combination of angry and high as a kite. “Never hurt an inn . . . cent.”
Innocent. Ah, the drug-induced-speech-impediment stage was fun.
“Great. Glad your conscience is clear. Must be nice.”
“Fuck you, Tag.” Justice sighed. “You never und . . . er . . . stood why I needed to join ACRO.”
Tag thought about what Ian had said, about having the security of an agency to back you up, and he had to admit that while he’d had a good run as a bartender in Florida, he’d never felt like he belonged among people he couldn’t be himself with. People he had nothing in common with.
“No,” Tag said quietly. “I get it. But I can’t get excited about an agency like Itor.”
“ACRO’s nothing like Itor.”
And here we go again. Did Justice never tire of sounding like a broken record? “Justice—”
Justice’s hand snapped out with surprising speed to grab Tag’s. He was clearly fighting the drug, but then, he’d done the same thing at the age of fourteen when he’d broken his leg. The doctors had to give him enough painkillers to knock out a horse because Justice had refused to give up control. It was why he rarely drank in college, where Tag had been Mr. Party Animal. He could still kick ass at quarters.
“I know you were shepticle . . . skephical . . .”
“Skeptical?”
Justice frowned. “Yeah. That. You were . . . skeptical. But I’ve been with ACRO for four years. They’ve been good to me. They’re not in the game for power the way Itor is. They want to rid the world of scumbags.” He nodded drunkenly. “Scumbags are bad.”
“So, what, ACRO is a big band of superheroes who sav
e kittens, wear white capes, and shit rainbows?”
“Don’t be a dumbass.” He patted Tag’s hand like he was a child. “They counter the bad guys. And maybe save kittens. I’m not saying everyone at ACRO is a decent person, or that they’re even nice. Trust me, ACRO is full of shitheads.” He jammed his finger into his chest, except his coordination was off, and he nailed his nipple. “Am one of them. But . . . dare you to find a job where that isn’t the case.”
Justice had a point. Tag had worked with some dicks, some criminals even, on the crab boat and at the bar. Hell, he was pretty sure he put himself on Itor’s radar when he ended up in a police report for stopping a bar employee from assaulting a woman in an alley. The employee’s claim that Tag had “used his mind to smash a dumpster into him” had been met with a lot of rolled eyes, but his statement had, nevertheless, been recorded.
So, yep, Tag had worked with jerks everywhere.
But he still wasn’t ready to start waving ACRO flags and marching in parades.
Justice squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry Itor got you. If I’d known, I’d have found a way to help you. I wouldn’t have let you suffer.”
Ooh, now it was time for intoxicated lies and oaths no one kept when they were sober.
He shrugged like it was no big deal, but inside, the wounds Itor had inflicted still bled. “I got away. Thanks to ACRO,” he added grudgingly.
“How did you escape?”
By the skin of his teeth, that was how. “I was at the Madrid office when ACRO attacked. Nearly got killed.” Shifting, he turned and peeled up his shirt to reveal his lower back and the messy scar there. “There was a massive explosion. Got smashed by a burning beam. And I have a nice bullet hole in my thigh. Wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t made it to one of Itor’s clients, a quack who runs an illegal plastic surgery facility on Madrid’s outskirts.”
“Madrid?” Justice croaked.
Tag nodded, decided not to go into more detail. Justice was starting to look “shocky” again, as Ian had put it, going pale and starting to sweat, and now probably wasn’t the time to tell him that Tag had been forced to kill an ACRO agent during the battle.