Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance)

by Irons, Aubrey

  "Why?"

  She frowns; "Because its the C.I.-“

  “No,” I chuckle through my bite of mediocre turkey sandwich; "No, I mean why did you join. You don't strike me as the 'For God and Country' type."

  She shrugs; “Who says I'm not?"

  "Me, right now."

  A smirk teases her lips as she chews, before she take a sip of the beer; "My dad."

  I bark out a laugh; "I knew it."

  "And what's that supposed to mean?" She scowls.

  "Nada, princess, nada. I just knew it had to do with pleasing daddy."

  Her eyes narrow at me; “You don't know a fucking thing about my father.”

  “I know more about William Archer than you could possibly know, actually.” I put my sandwich down and catch her eyes; “I met him, you know.“

  She freezes, the beer bottle inches from her pouty lips; "Excuse me?"

  "In Africa, when he first met those boy-toys of yours." I can feel the familiar grip of malcontent inside just thinking about that particular past; "I was there, in the camp with them when he came in and- oh now what was it? He 'saw promise in them'? Isn't that the fuck-all rhetoric I used to hear Logan moaning about?"

  She chews slowly, her eyes locked on mine.

  "Yeah, well, apparently I didn't pass muster with the great William Archer; no 'promise' here."

  The briefest smirk passes over her face, as if to say yeah, no shit; ”So is that why you blackmailed Logan and kidnapped him and my sister?"

  I want to snort, and roll my eyes, and laugh and call her delusional. It was all a business transaction; that whole thing. Logan spilled his guts to me back in the jungles when we were mercenaries together, and when William stuck him in charge of his company and made him richer than God while I rotted in the jungle, I saw an opportunity, and I took it.

  Business; that’s all. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for years.

  “You’re so clever, mijo,” My mother used to say with a sad, drawn smile when I’d come home with a pocket full of change from selling stolen candy at school. That was before I graduated to stolen beer and cigarettes. Clever, right; because if I’m “clever”, I’m not a “criminal” like my father. “Clever” is the makings of a businessman instead of a narco-trafficker, in her mind at least.

  I frown suddenly, thinking about that train of logic, and an uncomfortable feeling washes over me. I've been telling myself that the terrible shit I've done is all "nothing personal" or "all business" for years. I'm just an entrepreneur. But bullshit aside, I’ve had to fight for and steal everything I've ever had to get in life, and the shit with Logan and her sister was no different.

  Business; that’s all. You gotta be clever in this world to survive, and I’m a survivor if nothing else.

  Except for some fucked up reason, sitting here in this room trying to explain that to her right now makes me feel like the biggest phony jerk-off in the world. Who the fuck do I think I am, Robin Hood? I’m pretty sure Robin Hood never put someone through the shit I put Logan Dempsey through just to make some cash. I'm also pretty sure señor Hood didn't keep the money he lifted.

  "It's complicated," I mumble with a frown on my face, looking away as I sip my beer; "Life is full of complications."

  Complications like the increasingly distracting blonde-haired one sitting across from me in this motel room.

  She chews her sandwich slowly, her eyes focused on something on the floor as the wheels inside that pretty little head of hers whirl. My eyes, meanwhile, are focused on the slow rise and fall of the swell of her breasts, the fact that it’s cool enough inside the room for me to see a teasing glimpse of an outline of nipple through her white suit, and the extremely distracting amount of bare skin of hers on display right across from me.

  I feel like running, because it’s all I ever feel like doing. Well, no, I feel like I want a taste to see if those perfect little pouty lips on Agent Archer are as sweet as they look from over here. I want to palm those pillowy tits of hers and see if the hard nubs of her nipples are as responsible to my touch as I think they’d be.

  And I want to bury every single inch of my cock into that uptight pussy of hers and see if she’s as sinfully tight as I bet she is.

  Jesus, get your shit together, Toro.

  “Come outside, princess.” I stand quickly and nod towards the balcony off the side of our room.

  “Why?”

  Because I can’t be cooped up in this room for another second with you and still be held responsible for my actions.

  “Because we’re in Aruba, and we’re not outside watching sunsets, and that’s fucking stupid.”

  She glares at me, but there’s just a hint of a smile in the corners of her lips; “Fine.”

  It’s warm outside, even as the sun dips over the edge of the ocean in front of us. Still, it’s a breath of fresh air I need after sitting in that damned room with this girl. First thing tomorrow, we need to get some new clothes, because as much fun as I’m having spending all day with a hot blonde in a bikini, it’s also fucking with my head. Chelsea Archer is the enemy here, not a piece of eye-candy I should let myself get distracted by.

  It being a pretty cheap motel, the balcony is bare of any furniture. But a great view is a great view, and if it can distract me from her, I’m fine with it. I slide down to the floor, resting the beer on my bent knee as I lean back against the wall and look out over the orange gold of the fading day.

  Chelsea slides down next to me, exhaling before takes another swig of her beer.

  So much for a distraction, I grumble, forcing myself not to think about how damn amazing her tits look in that bikini.

  “I’m sorry if I was a bitch earlier.”

  I feel myself grin, though I don’t say anything and try and cover it by taking a slug from my beer.

  “You were right,” She continues, nodding at the sunset; “This is my first field operation.”

  “Well of course I was right.” I grin wider as I practically hear her roll her eyes beside me; “Don’t worry, babe, you’re doing a great job; top notch.”

  “Gee, thanks,” She says dryly; “Dick.”

  “Cop.”

  “Criminal.”

  I snort out a laugh just as she cracks up at the same time, and I clink my bottle against hers, as if toasting to the break in tension; “You know, princess, in another life you and I might actually be friends.”

  “That’s a TV sitcom script just waiting to happen,” She says, laughing; “We’re like those two characters from The Breakfast Club.”

  I raise a brow at her; “The what?”

  “You know, the eighties movie about detention? You’re the guy with the jean jacket and the earring.”

  “Earring?”

  “Yeah! You know, the badass. And I’m Molly whatever-her-name-is.”

  I grin and shake my head; “You watch some weird fucking movies in the States, princess.”

  “Well, you’re missing out.”

  I chuckle and take another swig of my beer as the sun starts to dip into the ocean. “So how do I rank, as first assignments go?” I say, flashing her a grin.

  “Definitely could be worse.”

  I laugh.

  “Hey, just being honest,” She says arching her eyebrows.

  The sun grows dimmer and darker as it dips into the horizon, and I let my eyes sag as I lean into the wall behind me. A yawn creeps from her lips as she stretches her legs out; “We should head in.”

  I shrug; “I’m good out here.” I roll my eyes as she shoots me a quick look; “Oh, relax, hot-stuff; I’m too fucking tired to start jumping balconies and making a run for it.” She frowns, her cheeks growing pink as if embarrassed that I busted her doubting me again; “Merde, how many times does a guy have to save your life for you to try trusting him for a second?”

  “That’s not-” She stops and purses her lips and shakes her head; “Fair enough.”

  “Look, we’ll go inside. But let’s share one
more and just relax a little longer, alright?”

  “Just a little longer.” She says, stretching; her adorable face scrunching up as she yawns.

  “Cheers, princess,” I say, clinking her beer again; “Hell of a first day.”

  There's the smell of salt brine and ocean that first wakes me up, and for a moment, I'm back home again; back in both of them. For a moment, I'm a little boy again back at Mama's house in Valencia, before the memory changes and I’m in Venezuela with my abuela. In Spain, Mama is waking me up and making me get to school; in Venezuela, I’m waking up with the sun to go help my abuelo, my grandfather, up in the fields.

  I stir, wanting just one more minute; one more minute before the sun's brightness through my eyelids is too much to ignore. I just want one more moment with my arms around her shoulders and her head nestled in against my shoulder.

  Wait, what?

  I wake with a start, blinking in the morning light before I turn and look down to see what can only be described as an angel in my arms.

  Apparently, we've fallen asleep outside on the balcony, and for a moment, I'm really just floored by the bizarre feelings of peace and comfort I have at that very moment. She's sleeping quietly, her face still and her eyelids barely moving. The smallest hint of a smile plays across her face, burrowed against my chest and curled against me. Her breath comes evenly against my skin, and with my arms around her, I realize I've never felt more protective of something in all my entire life.

  Yikes, get it together, pal.

  I blink away sleep and let my arm trail down her back, stroking her hair while I study this angelic creature in my arms. The sun glows off her blonde hair, and I never want this singular moment to end, no matter how fucking bizarre that is for me.

  She stirs though, eventually, and I know that this one single moment - like all moments - is going to end. Her eyes open, blinking before she takes in her surroundings and looks up at me. She sits up with a start, her face looking guilty and as confused as mine just did as she jumps to awareness quicker than I'm sure she normally would. She shoots me an accusing and furtive glance out of the corner of her eyes as she quickly scoots a few inches away from me, distancing herself physically from me but also from that one perfect moment.

  "Good morning." I smirk at her, watching her blush as she quickly crosses her arms over her chest, clearing her throat and collecting herself as she looks around our little balcony.

  "Morning" She mumbles, still not meeting my eyes, which both amuses me considering how flustered she is, but also bugs me; like I'm some sort of leper she can't even be near.

  Whatever.

  "Ok, we need to collect ourselves," She glances at my bare torso and back at her own bikini-clad chest and blushes as her arms tighten across her body; "We need clothes."

  I snort; "What, tired of the beach look already?” I arch my brow, trying not to focus on the fact that her crossed arms have her tits pushed up against her bikini top, giving me a great fucking view of her cleavage. I'm seriously going to miss this view even if we do need be normal people and get clothes.

  Of course, she's right. We do need to stop looking like beach bums and probably even change our appearances if we're going to avoid getting shot on sight by a bunch of trigger-happy Blackwater assholes.

  "Alright," I finally say; "We should go get cleaned up."

  Chelsea makes a face; "We?" She shakes her head; "I don't think so. You're staying here.”

  I smirk; "You're the one they're after, princess."

  "You're the prisoner."

  I narrow my eyes at her, feeling my temper flare more than I thought it would at her words.

  "You know what I mean," She looks around the balcony everywhere but at me and shifts her weight uncomfortably.

  "So what, you're going to head into town and leave me here like a fucking puppy or something?" I get to my feet, glaring at her; “You gonna lock the door and crack a window? Leave me with some water and a treat?” She starts to open her mouth but I shake my head; "If I was going to leave, you think a fucking motel door would stop me? Sorry, spy-girl; I’m coming with you.”

  *****

  “OK, so we meet back here in an hour?" She's wearing these giant, tortoiseshell grandmother sunglasses that we picked up at a gift shop as we walked into town. I can't help but grin at the way she's trying to sound authoritative and in charge while looking like she’s about to go play a round of bingo with my abuela.

  "All by myself? Unsupervised?" I shrug dramatically; "I don't know, princess; you sure you don't want me coming along with you?"

  "I have to buy clothes." She frowns.

  "What, don’t want me helping you pick out some new panties?"

  She blushes, predictably; "I think I'll be just fine without your help, thank you."

  I grin wickedly and lean in closer; “I’m a great second opinion for that sort of thing, you know.”

  Her face grows even redder, if that was even possible, before she shakes her head; "Try not to get lost, Javier." She walks away, leaving me grinning at my own jokes, but still feeling like they're empty.

  *****

  Considering that I'm the only Spanish guy in town, with no shirt on and a chest and arms full of fairly identifiable Día de Muertos sugar-skull tattoos, I buy a new t-shirt first. After that, I'm looking at hats before I decide I don't want to look like a total dipshit and find myself ambling around the market instead. Fantastic. I've got fifty full minutes to kill before I'm supposed to meet Chelsea; now what do I do?

  Oh hey, look; a bar.

  Perfect. Killing time and a way to get my mind off Chelsea Archer? Sign me the fuck up.

  I straighten my new shirt as I walk up to the place. I swing the heavy wooden door open and blink at the utter darkness of the interior as my eyes try and adjust from the outside; "Hey, let me get a tequi-“

  I stop talking as soon as I feel the cold metal of a gun barrel press against the side of my head.

  "Que paso, Toro."

  Ah, fuck.

  I frown as my eyes begin to adjust to the dark bar and realize that the place is entirely empty but for the five guys in black t-shirts and tactical vests with the "BR" Blackriver insignia on the chest.

  Well, walked right into that one. Literally.

  "Figured a place like this was a good spot to bump into a little cockroach like you, Toro."

  The man standing in front of me with the mustache and the leering grin on his face is Benson, and I know him from way back even if he is one of those people you’d love to never see again. Mercenary outfits like Blackriver attract all sorts of types. You get ex-soldiers looking for the thrill of a gun or just the regular paycheck from something they already know how to do. You get the wayward lost souls like me who're just looking for something to escape with, and then you also get the utter psychopaths.

  Benson falls into this last category. These guys are the guys that you'd lock up in a normal society; the guys the Marines say no to, because at heart, they're just murderous, trigger-happy lunatics who want a license to kill.

  I really don’t miss any of those groups after leaving that life, but it’s the Benson type that I hate the most.