Barefoot Bay: Wild on the Rocks (Kindle Worlds)

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

  Maverick had been loading the big guns for some time.

  He hung up on his friend and ten minutes later headed out to the Range. His entrance into the roadhouse garnished him more than a few looks, and more than a few ladies treated him to the once—and several the twice—over. Jasper ignored the target-rich environment and scanned the sawdusted floor for his best friend.

  “Queen!”

  At the shout, Jasper shot past the three-person deep bar and around its bend to the back area where Grant “Twisted” Sisti stood in the back door. “He’s in the back lot,” Twist said when Jasper got close. He led the way into a narrow alley. Distant shouts and catcalls grew louder as they got closer to the action.

  “How’s he doing?”

  Blinding white teeth flashed as Twist grinned. “Getting his ass kicked. How else?”

  “Who got that pleasure this time?”

  “Bikers, man. Went for a friendly old lady. Real friendly. Mav’s not about to pass that up. Her old man had other ideas.”

  “This shit feel like a pattern to you?”

  Twist snorted. “Pattern happened a month ago. This is a fuckin’ hobby.”

  Men who spent their lives preparing for combat, engaging in combat, or stopping combat before it could start often wound up with lots of unspent adrenaline. Picking a bar fight wasn’t an unusual way to burn it off.

  Lately, Maverick had been making an art form of it.

  “What’re we lookin’ at?”

  “Four bikers. Me, you, and Maverick. Beau was along for the ride, but he scored and split off before shit went down.”

  “The rest?”

  “Opted to crash,” Twist confirmed. “Beau and Maverick had adrenaline to burn.”

  “He sober?”

  “I shit you not, Queen, he had one beer all night.”

  Which meant they didn’t have booze to blame this time. “Fucking Maverick,” Jasper muttered. Twist shot him a look. Jasper didn’t usually talk smack about his team. Not out loud. “Gonna need your assessment.”

  Twist silently sized him up. “I’m thinkin’ you need a break, Roy. A beach, booze, and babes kinda break.”

  “Not the professional assessment I’m looking for, Doctor.”

  Blinding white teeth flashed in the night as Twist grinned. “All that jealousy for the letters after my name is unbecoming in an officer.”

  Jasper’s irritated frown bounced harmlessly off his friend. More often than not, Twist’s PhD in psychology was an asset to their team dynamic, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a pain in the ass about it. “Long as the letters in front of mine out-rank you, I’m good.”

  “How can I serve your royal highness this time?”

  “Cut that shit out and give me your take on Maverick.”

  “Should’ve let Ice Man flame out in his own backwash.”

  “You enjoying your trip back to 1986? When you were, what, nine months old?”

  “There’s no age restrictions on the highway to the danger zone, brother.”

  Jasper’s mouth quirked. “Need your take,” he repeated.

  “Well, to use the professional terms of my people, the boy’s fucked.”

  Jasper stopped abruptly and crossed his arms. “Twist.”

  Twist turned at the growled warning and in an instant, Jasper’s friend was gone, and Twist addressed his commanding officer. “Recent borderline insubordination and ongoing aggressive acts while off duty suggest patient has developed acute PTSD. Continued deployment without evaluation and a treatment program most likely will end with patient freaking the fuck out in a combat situation. My take is that we try really hard to avoid that.”

  For a second, Jasper glared through the dark at his friend. Then without a word, he struck back out for the lot.

  Shit.

  He had to send the kid down. He’d suspected it for a while, but hoped to find a way to get through to Maverick. He was a good SEAL. A weapons specialist with dead shot accuracy like nothing Jasper had seen in all his tenure. Maverick was the team’s closer to cover their asses until they cleared the hot zone of the day. Mav was the first in and, except for Jasper, the last out of every op, which meant Jasper was the only man who’d ever seen his back. The men who served with him held a special place for Maverick. Locking him down was going to leave a serious hole in their team matrix.

  But it would probably save all their lives.

  They hit the lot in time to see Maverick catch a swift upper cut to the jaw.

  “This one might know what he’s doing,” Twist decided.

  “Thanks, man. Caught that already.” It only made this shit storm worse. Like all of them, Maverick had received the best combat training Uncle Sam’s money could buy, including several types of hand-to-hand. But he usually kept these civilian scrapes to basic boxing slug fests. Mav claimed it evened the odds. Faced with a comparable opponent, though, Maverick’s killing instinct would break free, and then they’d be really fucked.

  Jasper reconned the small circle of bikers around the brawling men. Their cuts labeled them members of the Mayhem crew. Of the three, one remained relaxed but alert. Jasper tagged him as the leader and not only because his leather cut sported a Sergeant at Arms patch. The man carried an aura of authority Jasper recognized as easily as he tagged the gun barely concealed on the man’s hip. If he had a prayer of getting Maverick, not to mention himself and Twist, out of this without a hospital stay, this was the man to deal with.

  He could only hope the biker was as sick of this shit as Jasper.

  Twist settled himself in the circle with only the barest of reactions from the bikers. Jasper was used to this. Twist had an uncanny ability to un-ruffle feathers; his gift of easing the deadliest of tensions had become urban legend among the teams. Time and again, Jasper had seen Twist sort out on-the-edge potential combatants with a few jabs of his twisted sense of humor or be such an unmitigated smartass asshole that all parties united in aggravation against him.

  Jasper would take whatever worked.

  More visually intimidating than his friend, Jasper slipped around the group, trying to project an easy and non-threatening vibe even while knowing his bulky 6’4” frame frequently gave the opposite impression. It didn’t help the situation that he’d had no time for cleanup and looked rough from the op, beard shaggy and unkempt to mask his classic features, muscles tense from being too alert for too long, a state no amount of exhaustion could dissipate. He’d dragged on jeans, boots, and an olive green long-sleeved tee before leaving his house, none of which, he knew, softened his look.

  He noticed the biker leader mark his approach, but kept moving until they stood side-by-side, arms crossed, watching the brawl.

  “Nice night for a fight,” Jasper murmured under the shouts and smack talk.

  “You here for the next round?”

  “Hoping it doesn’t come to that. You?”

  The other man shrugged. “Prefer a beer and a blow job.”

  Jasper watched Maverick’s opponent execute a decent roundhouse. The gleeful look in Maverick’s eye made Jasper wince. Time’s up.

  “The beer is negotiable. Not gonna be able to sell my man on the blow job.”

  Jasper felt the biker assess him with a thread of humor. “Your man is an asshole,” he said without rancor.

  This was truer than the man could know. “Unfortunately, he’s my asshole. SEALs.”

  The biker’s recoil told Jasper this was new information. “Your man didn’t share.” It was almost an apology. Biker gangs claimed many former soldiers as members. Taking on a brother in uniform would give them a second’s pause. It wouldn’t stop them, but it’d give them pause.

  “What I hear, he shared too much with the woman of one of yours.”

  “He did that. And Wrench is not a man to let that go without blood.”

  Jasper glanced at the battling men. A stream of blood spurted from Maverick’s busted lip. “Think we’re past that.”

  “Gotta say, was surprised your
guy kept at it. Usually messed up motherfuckers like him come from the jarhead branch, not you SEALs.”

  “Secret weapon’s the white uniforms. Blinds civilians to the motherfucker gene.”

  The biker grunted. His hand shot out between them. “Caleb Titcher. Boys call me Putter.”

  “Jasper McQueen.” They shook on it and considered their respective fighters.

  “Watch his left, Wrench!” Putter called out.

  His shout brought them Twist’s attention, and Jasper easily tagged his friend’s silent accusation: The hell is taking you so long?

  He narrowed his eyes and held up his middle finger in nonverbal reply.

  Maverick and Wrench stumbled around the circle, catching their breaths. Unfortunately, both looked in it for the long haul. “First one to go down ends it,” Jasper offered.

  “Done.”

  The word released some of the tension coiling through Jasper’s chest. Until Wrench took a shot to the kidneys that bent him over and came up with a knife.

  “Ho!” Twist shouted at the sight of the blade.

  Quickly, Jasper checked Maverick. “Fuck,” he spat. Mav’s blood-splattered grin was on the far side of crazy. Only twice before had he seen that look. Both had been combat situations; neither ended clean.

  Wrench’s first thrust bulls-eyed on Maverick’s gut. Jasper took one step forward and yelled “Mav!” but he was too late. Mav slapped the knife aside like it was a gnat. He grabbed and twisted Wrench’s wrist until the joint popped loud enough for Jasper to hear. Wrench howled in pain; preternaturally calm, Maverick flipped the guy onto his back and took a knee next to him before Jasper could take a second step. Mav’s fist came up, elbow high, eyes blank with only the ghost image of that bloody grin, and Jasper knew his man was gone. One more second and Maverick would slam that fist into Wrench’s throat, cracking his windpipe so the biker would suffocate and drown in his own blood.

  Later, it’d be a toss-up whether he’d even remember doing it.

  “Hold!” Jasper shouted, lunging into the circle, Putter a step behind him in a race toward his man. Twist got there first and grabbed Maverick’s forearm with both hands. “That’s enough, Mav,” he grunted, straining to keep the stronger man from following through. Putter skidded to a stop and slipped hands under Wrench’s shoulders to drag the biker out of Maverick’s reach. Slowly, Maverick’s head rolled around toward Twist.

  Jasper had seen a cobra move like that once. Right before it struck. Fucking hell. He’d no idea Maverick was that far gone.

  He got in close to his man. “On your feet, Petty Officer,” he ordered with the whip of authority. It took a long minute for Maverick to respond, a minute during which Jasper wondered how the hell he was gonna shut his man down if this didn’t work.

  Finally, Maverick climbed to his feet. “Commander,” he acknowledged. At a look from Jasper, Twist released the man’s arm, but stuck close.

  “You’re done,” Jasper continued without quarter. “Apologize to the man.”

  Maverick blinked once. “Apologies,” he rapped out, obeying the order by rote. “Your old lady is hot. Didn’t know she was claimed.”

  “Fuck you,” Wrench managed.

  At his taunt, Jasper glanced at Putter. “You need more?”

  The biker assessed his injured man. Wrench hung between Putter and another biker, his arms around their shoulders the only thing keeping him upright.

  Putter’s rage soaked the space between them, but Jasper’s respect for the man increased when Putter visibly locked it down. “Not tonight,” he decided. “But we’ll be having words later.”

  Jasper nodded. Can’t wait for that. “You know where I live.”

  “That I do.”

  Great. Now he owed the man. That was gonna end well.

  “Go with Sisti,” he ordered Maverick. “Sleep it off in the barracks and report to my office at 0800.” Maverick didn’t respond, merely stared at the bikers with that cobra gaze. “Comply, sailor.”

  Maverick eyes slid to his teammate. “You’re absolutely right, Twist.” He turned an unfathomable look onto Jasper, reached out, and smoothly snagged the gun from Putter’s hip before Jasper even registered what he was doing. His hand was halfway up to tag it back when, without hesitation, Maverick shot Wrench in the center of his head.

  “Jesus Christ!” Twist shouted.

  Maverick shoved the gun under his own chin. Jasper grabbed his wrist. “No, Neal,” he pleaded, using his friend’s real name in a last, desperate effort to break through to him. Maverick’s empty gaze clashed with his. In it, Jasper saw nothing of the man he’d known and fought with for the last three years. “Please, brother.”

  Maverick didn’t blink. “That’s enough, Queen,” he said, calm and steady, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Darling, I’m not drinking to forget about you. I’m drinking to forget about myself.

  —Ais

  Florida

  1 week later

  Quinn couldn’t get used to all the light.

  She’d been driving for more than a week in a mad plunge down the eastern seaboard. Or close enough as she stuck to secondary roads and mountain passes to avoid the all-present traffic and toll cams, thankful not to be navigating the Blue Ridge Mountains in the winter. Fueled by fear and fed with panic, she pretty much only stopped when she absolutely couldn’t avoid sleep a moment longer without becoming a slab on the asphalt. One near miss with a loaded semi was one too many.

  If she could’ve managed a jar while driving, she wouldn’t have even stopped to pee.

  Given the whole world was living life on camera these days, Quinn had little hope she’d escaped every all-seeing digital eye. Good thing she’d sorted her tips from the penthouse party before her whole world went to shit. They were generous enough to keep her from needing to use her ATM card, a sure way of announcing to location to anyone looking.

  And she was pretty sure they would be looking.

  She’d dumped her Galaxy Note for a cheap emergency burner phone, stayed off the Internet, and abandoned her social media contacts. What gigs she had booked would end up a no-show. After a few of those, her hard-earned reputation would be in shatters.

  Her whole career tanked because she couldn’t resist going down a freakin’ hallway.

  Maybe she should’ve chased the sun west, bought a plane ticket and headed out to California or gotten clear outta the country.

  But she stuck to the road. The road never failed her. Miles churning away beneath her. Space before and behind her. New choices at every exit.

  So long as she kept moving, she’d make it.

  Somewhere.

  After a blaze of glory through Georgia, she’d hit Florida that morning and didn’t even think of slowing down till she was halfway down the Sunshine State’s Route 75 and more than halfway past the red line on her gas gauge.

  “Shit,” she muttered, eyeing the sliding arrow on her dash, and then “Hoorah” with relief as her caught glimpse of a Visitor’s Center sign that promised gasoline and a respite in two miles. The SUV coasted into the center on fumes, but made it. Tank full, bladder relieved, Quinn took a moment to take inventory and scan the wall of tourist flyers.

  “Looking for something specific?”

  Thinking she was alone, Quinn jumped at the sound of the volunteer clerk’s voice. “I could sleep,” she admitted.

  “Long ride from…” the clerk prompted.

  Quinn turned back to the wall. “Long enough.”

  The clerk took the brush off in stride. “There are some budget hotel flyers on the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sleep would be good, given she’d left the Motel 6 before sunbreak. Plus, a few hours downtime would give her a chance to make a decision, or at least come up with a plan. Or an idea. Honestly, she’d take an inkling at this point, anything to make her feel as though she wasn’t simply spinning her wheels until Thug One and Thug Two caught up with her.

&nbs
p; Or someone worse.

  She ran her hand over the budget motel flyers and picked one at random to satisfy the lingering clerk.

  Florida was about as far south as she could get without a passport. Even if she’d had one, she didn’t know anywhere or anyone who’d take her. Living a life always on the move left for few ties of any meaning. Quinn was hardly going to call her “family.” Or her ex-husband.

  Though having a Navy SEAL take her back when the Russian mob wanted her dead wouldn’t entirely be a bad thing.

  As she sighed away any lingering thoughts of her ex, her gaze tagged a pamphlet that featured a beautiful shot of a Moroccan-themed wonderland on a shimmering island. Holy crap, Edina and Patsy would have a field day at this place. And any place that spurred an Ab Fab flashback was worth a second look in Quinn’s book.

  Especially if it came with cabana boys.

  She snatched up the flyer and flipped through its small series of pictures. Okay, so it was more Bogey and Bacall than Edina and Patsy. Probably lacked any hot, goat-herding boy toys too.

  Bummer.

  Indulge in an exotic escape at the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa on beautiful Mimosa Key, the pamphlet taunted. Quinn wrinkled her nose. Exotic? She liked a bit of the unusual, especially if it was in liquor form and mixable, but really. It was Florida, not, well, Casablanca.

  Still. Mimosas. Mmm.

  She clicked her tongue and reached to return the flyer to its slot. Even if she could afford such a place—and she really, really couldn’t; in fact, it was a damn good thing the flyer was free—taking a spa day at this Casa Blanca place was the last thing she could do with a murder in her memory and Lord knew what nutcase on her ass.

  The volunteer called out, “Safe journey!” as Quinn pushed out the door and back into the shocking sunlight. She lifted her face to the sun. From the minute she’d crossed the state line, the light overwhelmed her, as if mere entrance into the Sunshine State made the sun brighter. Not that she’d grown up in Greenland or anything, but the purity of light in Florida made her feel as though she’d never felt the like on her skin before.