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On a long enough timeline, I swear we’ll survive to see the Triad brass decapitated and skull-fucked.
In the meantime, we drink.
“Hotel bar?” I offer Reese a hand up from the couch. “Top shelf’s on me.”
“Screw top shelf. I’d drink fucking liniment.” Reese lets me pull him up, then rubs his shoulder with a wince. “Which I have in my bag. Ugh.”
“Come on.” I pluck his shirt. “We’ll toast to Jericho’s suffering.”
Dutch jumps to Reese’s other side, skipping through the office suite on the way to our private elevator. “You get me drunk, you’re either fucking me or letting me fuck you.”
“I’m a pitcher, Dutch Baby.” Reese’s laugh would be sweeter if he didn’t chase it with paper bag vodka, but it’s an improvement from his defeated slump. “You’re gonna have to catch.”
“Don’t. That’s what he calls me.” Dutch scrunches his shoulders, hunching comically small.
They bicker and laugh. I keep my shit professional, nodding to the shift manager and the housekeepers.
Whether it’s the guys or the familiarity of our routine—drinks and wings after a game—the itch to sanitize and scrub my skin drops to manageable.
My boys. My family. My hotel.
I’ve got a fake watch, maxed-out credit, and a car lease pushing me ever closer to turning tricks, but no matter how fake I am, this.
This is real.
No matter who comes at us, no matter if Jericho, Kairo, or Senior himself tries to break our stride, they won’t so much as wrinkle my slacks.
I’ll protect our pack with every plastic fiber of my heart.
I’m hunkered in my cell, watching pasta-making videos under the faux privacy of my threadbare sheet when an emergency text blares.
URGENT MISSION
MUSTER AT 20:00
No way.
I’m on the subterranean level of the SAS phone tree, only summoned as a last resort, and I’ve been full-time grounded since the run-in that cost Elyse’s mate the ability to taste any flavor weaker than ghost pepper.
So why now?
Fishy as fuck, but it’s already 19:45, so I don’t have time to figure out why leadership is tossing me the rotten cod.
Commander Fissure will remote-fry my ass if I’m late.
I rapid-change into all-black gear, with a turtleneck to hide my scars. Door after door buzzes open like a chain of dominos, and the sound is sweet as a personal massager when it leads me straight to freedom and the fresh air I haven’t tasted in days.
Cutting across the fenced no-man’s-land around the lab, I let out the high-pressured pheromones I’ve been keeping down just as long.
My scent bleeds into open air.
Loosening my throat gives the relief of a loooooooong stretch. I slip a blissy moan before my ankle-scraping sprint takes me across the lawn where I have to bottle my truths.
No matter how ridiculous the mission, I won’t ask questions, flog alphas with my scent, or do anything but smile, bob my head, and drone, Yes, Sir.
I’m just an extra, killing time.
The real A-team waits at the loading dock.
