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He relented, stopping as well. Dropped a shoulder but lifted a stare, the listen-because-I’m-only-saying-this once kind he usually saved for the thick of missions. “What’s ‘up’?” he fired back. “Not a damn thing, except that I’m running on fifteen seconds of sleep after nearly having my balls blown into my brain by a mystery terrorist yesterday afternoon.” He tilted a sunshiny smirk. “What’s up with you, guys? Long as we’re standing here shooting the shit.”
Ethan gave back nothing but a gruff grunt. “You live on sleeplessness the way the rest of us live on oxygen.”
Translation: he wasn’t buying the bullshit. Zeke, with ass parked on the counter and hands spread atop his thighs, clearly concurred. “Sleep is for sheep, not dragons,” he pronounced. “It’s one of my favorite Franz-isms.”
Archer chuffed. “Because it’s the only one not borrowed from Sondheim?”
“There is that.” As Z pushed all the way to his feet again, his stare remained intent—to the point of unnerving. “But this isn’t just about the dumb creeds, is it?” He stepped over too, though his movements weren’t as fired-up as Archer’s. He was full of stealth—of more unnerving attention. “What is this about, Franzen?”
John almost laughed. Did the bastard think the Batman shuffle and the ominous gaze would vet him a full gut spill? “I just told you, dammit. I’m on an empty tank.”
“Okay…yeah. An empty tank.” Z’s face tightened. “And a cracked engine block.”
Franz gave in to the laugh. “You’re just getting that now?”
“No,” Z stated. “But you are.”
“Pardon the hell out of me?”
“You are.” The guy emphasized it with such a determined nod, his head led the way into his next pair of steps. Slightly ahead of Archer now, Z stopped, letting the direct alignment of his gaze do a little work too. His eyes favored their copper tint more than the green—his ready-to-rumble color. “You’re not just acknowledging those cracks, buddy. You’re putting them to good use. They’re your goddamn fox holes. Your hiding places.”
Breath rushed up from his lungs. Exploded from his nostrils in incensed snorts. “And you hate it when I go off with the metaphors?”
Zeke might as well have not heard him. “But hiding…from what?”
“Christ.” He backed away. “Do you hear yourself right now? Is your wife juicing her pregnancy hormones for you to chug too?”
“Welllll, then.” Archer took a hard swig of his stout. “Is that Smash Bros I hear coming on line in the den?”
“It’s not the mission ops.” Zeke’s intent didn’t falter. “You’ve got Sol Wrightman on secret speed dial, and we’ve all performed these duties a thousand times.”
“Zsycho.” John gritted it from thinned lips. “Back. Off.”
“So if it’s not the mission—”
“Goddammit.”
“Fuck me.” Z blurted it with an oddly blank stare. He didn’t need to worry, since Archer’s gape conveyed enough shock for them both. “It’s the package.”
Franzen widened his stance. Dipped his head. If it made him look like a bull about to charge, all the better. “She has a name.”
“No shit.” Archer found his voice again. And, weirdly, another laugh. It stuttered out of him, bracketing his follow-up. “Tracy Rhodes. This is so epic. Our Dragon Man has a crush on Tracy Rhodes.”
Half a beat passed, nobody’s gazes wavering, before Zeke uttered, “Hey, Runway?”
“Yeah?” Archer’s voice was still edged with mirth.
“If you still want to make a living off that flawless nose of yours, now would be a good time to join that Smash game.”
The air went quiet for half a beat more.
“Don’t start without me!” Archer disappeared into the den, calling dibs on playing Lucario. Shitty choice. Charizard would’ve been the better way to go, but Franz believed in letting his guys make stupid mistakes if it didn’t maim or kill anyone, Nintendo characters excluded.
Besides…he still had Zeke to contend with.
The guy who stood there, watching him with nearly surreal calm.
Okay, it was a façade—but a fucking troubling one nonetheless. In many ways, John knew Z as well as he knew himself. Composure could be a good thing and a bad thing. Good when it was there to prevent beasts from getting out; bad when it kept them in for too long. And yeah, Z had beasts—different from John’s, because they’d been born and bred during a childhood on the streets of Seattle—but they were sure as hell there. They were what made him a good soldier, as well as a sought-after Dom. Zeke Hayes had entered the Army and his first BDSM dungeon as means of escape…to become a better person than when he’d walked into the joint.
