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“Yo, Franz.”
He barely looked up from where he was parked in the sand, glaring at the world through one eye. “Yo, crap waffles.”
While Rebel Stafford chuckled, Rhett Lange glared. The two buddies, who’d been his best recon and intel team, were among the earlier arrivals of the week—obviously eager to make up for lost time since missing all the action in Vegas, Seattle, and Barking Sands. While their lives certainly hadn’t been boring since leaving the Big Green machine, the stress of missions replaced by the whirlwind of co-managing their woman’s dance career, “the mavericks” had arrived at the house looking like fanboys who’d missed the opening weekend of a Star Wars episode. Didn’t take them long to stow the self-pity, however. Not with a much more nuanced role to bite right into. Let’s take care of Franzen but pretend we’re doing something else.
Surprise, surprise. It was such a fun part, everyone else wanted a crack at it too. The whole fucking gang of them were here, as well as their women. Joking with him. Drinking with him. For Christ’s sake, even rallying for bullshit like poker games and movie nights.
Movie nights.
Who the hell flew all the way to the northernmost end of Hawaii, just to watch Indiana Jones for the twentieth time?
Idiots like them.
Friends like them.
He’d been nothing but an ass to them all, for nearly seven days straight, because of the one factor they couldn’t change.
The only person who hadn’t gone in on the let’s-pretend-we’re all-just-having-fun act was Tracy Rhodes.
Worst part about it?
All these bastards saw right through it. Especially the two who’d damn near invented this particular part of the game.
And, judging by the whip of a glance they exchanged, held back from the group microbrew stock-up trip into Port Allen for the purpose of calling him on his bullshit.
Fine by him. He was ready for the double whammy of a speech, ropes of tension down his shoulders as proof—but he was also ready as hell with the comeback to silence them.
“Well.” Rhett dove in first.
“Deep subject.” Franz rejoined.
Neither of them tossed out a groan let alone fake laughs. “In some cases,” Rebel huffed instead.
“Guess it depends on how far you want to bury the body,” Rhett added.
Rebel jumped on that one. “You mean like the choad bucket that was supposed to be buried under our asses right now?”
“Thank you very much, Mister Moonstormer.” Rhett’s return was as artificially sweet as his smile. “That’s exactly what I meant.”
As the guy added a sarcastic finish of rapid-fire flirty blinks, comprehension power-blasted in. “Shit,” he growled. “Kanapapkis.”
Oh, they laughed at that.
He didn’t.
They led with his lead. Popped the ammunition out of his goddamn gun, slammed it into theirs, then teamed up as the elite stealth team they were damn near famous for.
“So now that we’re all in agreement,”—Rhett’s drawl was edged with the lazy snark from the Bayou in which he’d been raised—“that playing the better-bitter-than-dead card is off the table now, let’s see what you’re really ready to ante up, Dragon Man.”
Franz didn’t say a word. Pretended to swat at a bug. “What the living fuck are you talking about?”
Rhett chuffed. Shoulder-butted Rebel. “Isn’t that adorable? He looks just like a constipated gorilla.”
“I was thinking more a bad cos play pirate.” Rebel’s eyes flared. “Merde, Franz. You going to ask to switch call-signs now? You’d be a good Moonstormer. The original wore a tricorn, though. You like tricorns?”
Franz shook his head then shot to his feet. “Eat shit.”
“Not a problem,” Rhett jumped in smoothly. “Just as soon as we hash a few things out.”
