Page 99 of Bared

Jagger, behind the wheel of the big vehicle, was going on about how the police would be hesitant to give chase with so many bystanders to worry about. Though he made valid points, Jayd also saw them for what they really were. A fact parade, delaying the details she was actually after.

When he paused to focus on navigating a busy roundabout, she readily jumped on the chance to change that parade’s course. “So who is going to put on their grown-up underwear and inform me what the plan is now?”

When her initial response consisted of a tight cough from Ozias and the distinct twist of Jag’s knuckles around the steering wheel, she did not know whether to cry or curse. As she brooded over the possibility of both, a cell phone rang. She ruled out her burner, still tucked in her back pocket and set to vibrate.

Oz was the one to reach over and yank the device from the breast pocket of Jagger’s uniform. During the move, the boyfriends swapped a quick but significant glance. Once more, tears and growls fought for a stake on her composure. She shoved them aside as Oz tapped the green button but held back from saying anything. What was that all about?

“Sorry, man. He’s driving. You’ve got Oz here.” After no more than two seconds, he stated, “Affirmative. We found her. Yep, she’s right here.” No confusion about who he was referencing with that, since he bounced his sights right to her during the update. “Yeah,” he went on. “Of course.”

Of course what?

She thanked herself for keeping that scream inside, since Oz swept the phone toward her and then jiggled it. She would have likely shattered the eardrum of whomever was on the other end of the line.

“Your turn with the top banana, Princess preesh.”

And now, she wished she had shrieked.

As soon as the Aussie wielded the Arcadian endearment, her curiosity about the caller was given a new coat of paint. Not a pretty one. It was probably a mixture of pale green and yellow, just like the acid churning again in her belly. She had room in there, considering she no longer wondered about why Oz and Jag were unconcerned with logistics and security for their upcoming flight. Those details snapped into place with alarming speed.

After accepting the phone from Oz—because refusing it was clearly not an option—she huffed into the device, “What?”

An answering grunt filled the line, and she cringed. Out of her three brothers, Samsyn would have been her last choice for this specific moment. While Evrest and Shiraz were as equally protective to the point of irritating, they could be softened in their own ways. But Syn had always been her growling hard-ass, a trait that had intensified since he placed a ring on Brooke’s finger. While Jayd was crazy about her badass sister-in-law, she was certain the woman probably fixed omelets of nails for their breakfast each morning.

Syn’s new snort snapped her back to reality—as thoroughly surreal as it was. “Fembla? You are with Jagger now, yes? What is going on?”

“So very pleasant to speak with you again too, rerda,” she rejoined.

There was a chance, a tiny one, that the oaf would pay attention to her subtext and abstain from his daunting dragon breath. His agitated huff told her otherwise.

“You get to have pleasant when you have sown some of the same yourself, Jayd Dawne. Do you have any idea of the hell we have all been through from your stunt?”

She gave back as good as he was dishing in the nasty-snarly department. “I did not disappear into thin air, imbezak. Surely Evrest told you that I texted several times.”

“And after each time, you tossed your fucking burner phone.”

“Like you fucking taught me, degan soldask.” She drew in a long breath, making it a point to avoid Brickham’s scrutiny. She did not have the energy to justify her language, which only reared its uglier side in certain situations. Cliffhanger plots. Abused animals. Her brother’s stubborn temper. Yes, even now, as he fumed his way through trying to tame it.

“You are all right, then?” he queried, now surprising her with his earnest tenderness.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Fine. I promise. A few bumps and bruises, but…” She stopped, praying to swallow away the sudden sting behind her eyes.

“But what?” Damn it, where was Syn’s inner Smaug when she needed it the most?

“Nothing,” she countered. “It has just been a long day and night.”

“No shit.”

She jerked up her head as Samsyn punctuated with another noisy sigh. “‘No shit’? And you are confident about that why, brother?”

“Fembla.” Remarkably, a patient chide from him this time. “Your not-so-little incident has made the international news feeds.”

“Fuck.” Apparently, asshole media moves could be added to her insta-profanity list—as well as her connect-the-dots-to-the-truth rubric. “Wait,” she stammered a second later. “My little incident? How does anyone even know—”

“The Paris Police scoured the phones of everyone from the bar,” Syn disclosed. “Before you even approached LaBarre, some American college girls recognized you. They sneaked in at least a dozen shots each. Moreover, a security camera from the street caught you and Max Brickham entering the pub together.”

Her breath hitched. It was tangled so painfully, she could not even form a token cuss. At least thirty seconds of the struggle went by before she stuttered out, “So what does that mean?”

“For the time being? Nothing,” Syn replied. “But fembla…”