Page 83 of Fallen Hero

“You did, which is strange. You normally have this husky phone-sex operator voice—”

“I do not.”

“Girl, I’ve been on comms with you when you’re working a mark. You add this almost Southern honey to your voice when you’re trying to canoodle. I’m a chick who likes dick, but even I think it’s hot. But I’ve never heard your voice get high pitched.”

Canoodle.

I shook my head and stared at the floor. “It’s . . . personal.”

“You banged your fake bodyguard,” she whooped.

“I didn’t bang him.”

“Why the hell not?”

Because I’m a virgin!

No, that wasn’t the truth. I’d been ready to happily shed that designation.

“We were interrupted,” I admitted. “Not visually. No one walked in on us. But Pete knocked on the door, and I think he heard.” I rushed out the heard part.

“Oopsie.”

“Oopsie? That’s all you have for me? Mason’s downstairs with his team now. Gavin, Aiden, Jack, and Catarina just got to the penthouse, and I’m hiding in the bathroom.”

“Okay, now I get the squeak. You just did it again. But I don’t get what the big deal is. You and Mason are two unattached . . . wait, he’s single, right?”

“Of course he is.”

“Right. Good. Two single, consenting adults fooling around. You said Pete didn’t walk in on you, so what’s the big deal, he heard a little moaning and grunting. Wait, you weren’t getting all freaky-deaky asking to ride him like a camel, were you? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, fly your freak flag, sis, but—”

“Camel?” I choked out. “Ride him like a camel? What the hell, Atlanta. That’s not freaky, that’s weird.”

Why had I answered the phone?

“Sorry. I was reading a Brittney Sahin romance last night.” Wait, what? Atlanta reads romance books? “Actually, the book takes place in Dubai. The hero was after a terrorist, and the heroine was trying to free her best friend from jail before he was beheaded. There was a scene in the desert with a camel. The book’s really good. You should try it. Oh, and shit, the hero was pretending to be her bodyguard too! And so you know, there was some well-written tent nookie. Maybe you and Mason should go rent a tent.”

Unfortunately, my life wasn’t a Brittney Sahin novel. Though I should look her up and stock up on some of her books before I slipped away to my no-people-allowed oasis.

“I think you’ve lost the plot of my story,” I grumbled.

“No, I haven’t. My point is, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Sex is natural. Besides, it would seriously suck if Mason was giving you the business and he couldn’t bring it home.”

Mason had no problem bringing it home—quickly, as he pointed out. Something else to be embarrassed about. The man barely had to touch me and I was a sopping-wet mess primed to explode.

“Okay, well, thanks for the talk. I need to shower off the gallons of makeup before I get wrinkles.”

Leaving makeup on doesn’t cause wrinkles, dumbass.

“Right. Wrinkles,” she called my bluff. “Tanner will be in touch. I gave him this number to arrange delivery.”

Shit, he couldn’t deliver my kit here. I’d need to set up a place to meet him.

“Great. Thanks.”

“Before I let you go, Jason . . . did he recognize you? It’s been twenty years. You’re older now, and when you’re all glammed up, you don’t look like you.”

I thought about the way Jason was staring at me. The bar was dimly lit and he was across the room. I was hoping (probably for naught) the way he was looking at me was nothing more than him noticing a woman in a tight black dress. I, on the other hand, could pick that asshole out of a crowded room without issue. But that’s what happens when you look at a picture of the man you’re obsessed with nearly every day for two decades.