by Angel Payne
“Fine,” Rhett finally said. “Then how about I take you to get some Olympus-type nectar?” The guy curled a suave grin. “Or maybe just a truckload of cerveza?”
“No.”
He bit it out harder this time. He was so damn tired. All he wanted was a transport home, along with the engine drone and earbuds full of an Incubus album as his lullaby.
The second he allowed that hope to blossom a little more, his radio crackled. The line boomed with the voice of John Franzen, their CO. “Double-O, Runway, got the word from Colton that’s he’s bugged with the target. You two pretty boys packed up yet, over?”
Ethan punched the comm button at his ear, connected to the speaker line that was formed to his cheek. “Just about. Advise rendezvous point for the exfil, over?”
Franz’s answer carried a laugh. “That would be the Twisted Iguana cantina, over.”
Ethan frowned. “Repeat, please?”
“You heard me right, Sergeant. The Twisted Iguana. La Iguana Torsida. Double-O knows where it is.”
Rhett nodded acknowledgment. But before Ethan opened the line back up, he cocked his head in puzzlement, almost pulling a physical double take. “Er…Franz…”
“Is there a problem with that command, Archer?”
“Uh, well, no. But you called me—” A glance down at the pin on his collar, displaying the double corporal stripes, emphasized how ridiculous the rest of it sounded.
You called me Sergeant.
Big fucking deal. Okay, it sounded nice, but that didn’t make it true. Nor did pointing out the dick-up make any sense. Franz was likely—probably—just as tired as him and now compounded that with a very large beer on a half-empty stomach. Thinking fast, Ethan concluded with, “Never mind. We’re nearly wrapped and ready and will be Oscar-Mike in less than ten.”
“That’s outstanding news, Sergeant. Franzen out.”
Ethan didn’t hide his confusion this time. Only the decrepit walls were witness to his reaction since Double-O was already outside, halfway to the Hummer with a load of equipment. It was only those walls that heard his quiet quip. “Right, Captain. And I’ll just forget about that shit-eating grin you forgot to mask in your voice.”
* * *
When Rhett pulled off the main road and guided the Hummer down a road as twisted as a dusty Candy Land board, Ethan cocked a brow at his friend. “Love the scenic detour, man, but even if there are waterfalls and fairies at the end, I’m not sucking face with you.”
“Ha bloody ha.”
“Okay, then. If you’re thinking of doing the execution thing, I’ll let you know right now that Hawkins has dibs on my books and Hayes gets my guns. The engraved pilsner glasses are still up for grabs—”
“Archer.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut it.”
Both words were underlined in arrogance. The next moment, Ethan saw why. They rounded a steep rock corner into a clearing with a parking lot—kind of—filled with every kind of vehicle from their monster military stuff and gas-guzzling clunkers to some new Ducati motorcycles and even a pair of beautifully restored classic Mustangs. The owners of those rides were packed onto about thirty picnic tables tucked beneath a massive lean-to shelter that was wedged between a gutted stake-bed truck and an old VW van with one side shaved off. Atop the stake bed, a DJ adjusted levels on the Pearl Jam tune that throbbed through the air. The van had been converted into a bar. A redhead with a great rack in a tight Godzilla T-shirt popped beers and poured drinks with saucy cheer. Strings of carnival lights were draped between the overhang and the nearby cholla trees. The décor consisted of every groan-worthy pop culture trend from the last twenty years, including Homer Simpson bobbleheads, a pirate ship with humping Jack Sparrow dolls, Victoria’s Secret model posters, and a bunch of commemorative Super Bowl footballs that “flew” from the ceiling on fishing line.
Positioned in front of all this, with a grin that suggested he’d just screwed the poster models himself, was John Franzen. Flanking him were two of Ethan’s battalion mates, Zeke Hayes and Garrett Hawkins. Their smiles also widened as he and Rhett got out and approached. Despite that, Ethan threw up his guard, keeping his face neutral. When the CO greeted you, in addition to the two guys who called the shots on most of the team’s missions, it was either a really good thing or a really bad thing.
Franzen gave a fist bump to Rhett. “Nice work, Double-O. You got him here without rope or handcuffs.”
“Damn good thing.” Rhett chuckled and swung his gaze around. “The kinky shit is all yours, my friends. He even thought I was taking him to the wilderness to make out. I felt awful for busting his bubble, but—”
“Fuck you,” Ethan drawled as Zeke and Garrett snickered. Franz didn’t join them. With his newfound solemnity, he slammed a hand into Ethan’s shoulder.
“You look like shit, Runway. You okay?”
Ethan didn’t return Franz’s scrutiny. A string of illuminated GI Joe heads became a perfect diversion for his gaze. “Lid’s on fine, Captain. So, does Godzilla Girl have anything besides beer?” An inch or two of Scotch sounded really fucking good.
Franzen, damn him, didn’t move his hand an inch. “No,” he declared. “I don’t think you’re fine, Archer.”
He slid a glare at his CO. “I’ll be fine if everyone stops asking about it.”
Franzen contemplated that before shaking his head and stating, “Uh-uh. You’re still missing something.”
“What the hell are—”
“You’re missing this.”
The man yanked on Ethan’s collar, pulling the fabric taut so he could jam a pin into the triangle panel. Before Ethan could say a word, Franz finished off the business by detaching the pin that had originally been there, bearing the double stripes of his corporal rank.
Garrett cracked a bigger grin. “Now isn’t that prettier’n a fresh drop of dew on a morning glory?”
Zeke rolled his eyes. “Hawk, you’re a serious dork sometimes.”
“It’s okay,” Ethan interjected. He stared at the new pin on his collar. Counted the stripes there for the tenth time. One, two, three. Sure enough, they were all there. “This time he’s right.” The pin was pretty. Better than pretty. It was perfect. So was the identical one Franzen placed into his palm.
“I’ll let you get the other collar,” his CO said. “And sorry we’re not doing this on a stage in our Class As, Archer. Figured you’d appreciate getting the pay step that much faster.”
“You figured right.”
“Oh, yeah. That reminds me. You’re buying first round tonight.”
Ethan chuckled. “Sure thing. And thanks, Captain.”
Franz busted out a wide smile, gleaming in stark contrast to the jet-black hair of his skull cut, before murmuring, “You want to thank someone, look in the mirror. You worked hard for this. Congratulations, Sergeant.” He shook his head, his equally dark eyes glittering in amusement. “I can finally say that without worrying I’ll fry your gray matter.”
“I say we let Serenity take over that chore.” Rhett nodded toward the bar and Godzilla Girl. While Ethan repeated his laugh, this time because he seemed to be the only one noticing the irony of a girl named Serenity with a fire-spewing lizard across her chest, the redhead noticed Rhett and gave him a soft wave.
“All right, everyone,” Franzen announced, “pomp and circumstance is over. Shuck at least the tops so we can celebrate properly.”
Three minutes later, after stowing their jackets in the Hummers, they reconvened at a long ledge, really a faded surfboard affixed atop cement blocks that formed one side of Serenity’s workspace. Despite her preoccupation with Double-O, the woman had a line of five frosty bottles lined up by the time they got to the bar. After taking his first swig, Ethan jutted his lower lip in respect. Beer wasn’t usually his thing, but the microbrewed lager from a California-based outfit was strong and smooth.
“Well, well, well.” Franz tipped his bottle at the bar mistress. “Breaking out the good stu
ff for us now, Serenity? What happened between last night and now?” He flicked a glance between her and Rhett, clearly following the sparks zipping between the pair. “Or should I ask who happened?”
The woman snapped a towel at him. “Bugger off, Franzie Panzie. I’m tryin’ to be nice.”
“Franzie Panzie?” Zeke’s face, normally the texture of a granite cliff, crumpled in humor. “Damn, why didn’t I come up with that one first?”
Franzen eyed him. “Because you have to put up with me after tonight, and she doesn’t.”
Serenity jerked up her chin. “I noticed you wankers had some kind of special event goin’ down, so I broke out the good swill.”
“You figured right,” Garrett offered. “Mr. Dark-and-Chiseled over there is basking in his first hour as a full-fledged sergeant.”
The redhead’s face lit up. “Brilliant! Nice work!” She swatted the towel at Ethan too, though her intent was playful this time. In two seconds she was full of feisty fire again, arching brows back at Franz. “Though I’m happy to get the piss water back out for you, Panzie, if you fancy it?”
Franz held up a hand. “Nope, nope. This is just fine, sweetcakes.” He dropped that hand in order to scoop up Serenity’s, grazing her knuckles with a kiss. “Thank you for the thoughtfulness.”
It escaped nobody, especially Serenity, that Rhett looked ready to punch their CO for the move. The redhead giggled before turning to load up the tabs on more of the bar’s customers, which seemed to be a friendly mix of locals and American expats.
“Shit.” Garrett examined the label on his bottle. “Never thought I’d say this, but some of these California beers are good.”
Rhett huffed. Parts of the man would never acclimate to the rest of the world, and his booze preference was one of them. “Whatever.”
“Hmm.” Franz suddenly found the lip of his own bottle fascinating, though his tone was too contemplative for a place where an inflatable Batman in an evening gown was tied to the rafters over the bar. “I hear there’s a lot of good things about California.”
Without missing a beat, Zeke added, “I hear the same thing.”
“Beer’s damn tasty,” Garrett said.
Rhett shook his head. “Hell. I give up.”
“I do too.” Ethan frowned. “What the fuck with the cryptic California tourism commercial?”
Franz cocked up one side of his mouth. “Because maybe I talked to the high-levels about how my guys grinded their guts to gravel to uncover a new international drug shipment stream and then tracked it across the globe to break the assholes’ weakest links. And maybe after that, I also told them one of my boys was about to score his sergeant’s stripe. And maybe after that, I convinced them that because of all this, my guys deserve a few days of fucking around in the land of beaches, babes, bikinis, and”—he held up his bottle—“really good beers.”
Rhett shifted forward. “Are you bloody serious?”
Like they’d choreographed it, Franzen took a step back to let Zeke move up. “And maybe I talked my sexy bird of a girlfriend into meeting us in LA so she could arrange a friendly visit with her cousin…on the set of the TV show she works on.”
That got a fist pump out of Rhett. “Oh, yeah! Hollyweird, here we come!”
Zeke chuckled, accepting Rhett’s offer to knock bottle necks. Franzen and Garrett joined the toast. When the four of them swung expectant stares at Ethan, he somehow got his muscles to function at returning the chink. The action validated his new belief in miracles. How he functioned at all, considering how every blood cell in his body hit a red light at the same time, had to be divine intervention at work.
“Shit, Runway,” Garrett drawled. “Don’t let the excitement eat you up at once, okay?”
Zeke released a knowing snort. “Oh, he’s excited.”
Garrett seconded the laugh. “Figured your mention of a certain cousin might do it.”
Rhett grinned. “You mean the one he tackled before Hawk’s wedding, thinking she was Hezbollah in heels? Or the one who did a personal GPS trek in lipstick across his face? Oh, wait. That was the same cousin, wasn’t it?”
“Goddamnit,” Franz snapped. “I missed all the good shit.”
“Not all of it.” Garrett scowled. “We finally got the vows in, but Sage isn’t settling for the courthouse thing. Soon as the baby’s born, she swears she’s slimming down for the big dress and the Hollywood wedding production again. She wants to go Nouveau Renaissance this time.”
“Hell.” Zeke laughed his way around another swig. “Are goldenrod napkins involved again?”
“Not sure. But I told her if I’m wearing pants that button at my knee, I’d better damn well get a sword too.”
The banter was background buzz in Ethan’s mind. For the chance to see Ava again, he’d hop on a plane to goddamn Antarctica. Okay, Rhett was right; they’d first met because he’d let paranoia into the party and body-slammed her into a mound of wedding fabric—but even that had been perfect. No stupid pretenses. No feigned interest behind a social handshake. Just their gazes, meshed with honesty, awareness…connection. Every breath tangled. Every touch a tiny fire. Every second a new beginning. It was the core of what he craved from being a Dominant—hell, what he was searching for in life—yet seemed his personal Atlantis, a lost nirvana never to be realized.
Until Ava.
Fuck.
He took a long gulp of his beer, medicating his frustration. Summoning the memories back only reconfirmed that everything he’d felt seven months ago was so damn real. And damn it, those kinds of sensations weren’t possible without return ammo. Like the way she’d lingered near him even after he’d pulled her upright from his tackle. The way her eyes danced like the rarest, darkest sapphires when she’d invited him into the forest for those flowers. The way she’d followed him through the trees and then begged him to grip her harder when he pinned her against one of them…
None of it added up to the way her radio had gone dark on him since. After Garrett and Sage’s wedding had gone down in a blaze of disaster—including Zeke being zapped with a neurotoxin and Rayna getting carried off by a psychopath with a huge ax to grind—Ava stayed long enough to be sure that Ray was officially out of harm’s way. Then she headed straight for the airport, telling everyone she’d been summoned back to Hollywood by her whack-a-diva of a boss. He hadn’t bought the line for a second. Said diva had only been in the third week of recovery from an extensive nose and lip job. He doubted Bella Lanza was conscious enough to dial the phone, let alone capable of a text or email. Ava had fled Seattle for another reason. In the following weeks, the crickets that greeted his calls and texts were ample proof of that reason.
Would seeing her again explain anything? Prove anything?
At first, the hollow walls of his beer bottle were the only response he got. But suddenly, something replaced that fucking uselessness—something besides the anger, the exasperation, the loss. Resolve. It started in the core of his chest but spread out fast, making his extremities flex and his spine straighten. Once it got to his mind, it met up with a new friend: the Dom deep inside who now issued a surprising update. He hadn’t given up on the goddess in the forest. He hadn’t white-flagged it on a second of the desire in her eyes, the need in her kiss, the urgency in her voice when she’d begged him to pin her down harder. He hadn’t let go of the hope that she wanted more from him…had more to give him in return.
And he wasn’t giving up unless she told him to. With her own lips. Standing face-to-face with him.
He grinned. Somehow he found that harder to envision than their Hummer turning into a Lamborghini.
And once he had Ava in front of him again, he’d get to the truth—even the naked version, if she forced his hand—of why she’d decided to go AWOL on him after what they’d shared in that Washington forest.
“Serenity.” It was more a command than a call, bolstered by his first real hope in seven months. The bar mistress wheeled, cocking brows in a silent you-did-not
-just-summon-me-like-that, but softened when he twirled a finger toward the table and said, “Round two, please? The good shit again. On me.”
Franzen kicked up one side of his mouth. “You know, Runway, when your morose silences lead to stuff like this, I’m okay with it.”
“Copy me in on that.” Zeke held his fresh bottle high. “So what’re we toasting to, Archer?”
Ethan turned to his battalion mates and leader. His stare was as level as a sniper’s crosshairs. “What else, man? To California.”
“To California!” the other four men bellowed.
After they knocked bottles and took deep drags from their drinks, Franz’s smile grew into a wicked grin. “This should be an adventure. And I’m sure as hell not missing it this time.”
Ethan stepped away from their huddle and paced back out toward the cars. The lights and music of the bar faded a little. He looked up into the sky, where twilight lingered in a special strip between the horizon and the stars. It looked like the universe had scooped the color right out of Ava’s eyes and painted it there. The indigo hue, a perfect mix of deep blue and purple, held his stare long after he should’ve walked back.
He drilled his gaze hard into that sky and gave it a small smile of his own.
“Adventure,” he murmured. “That might be one way of putting it.”
Chapter Two
“Ava! Damn it!”
The outburst didn’t just pull Ava Chestain out of her mental cloud. It yanked her down, slapped her hard, and then hurled her around, making sure her self-esteem got slammed against all four walls of the costume-dressing trailer. That included the sides with the mini-movie theater and the built-in kitchen.