Justice (Bad Boys of X-Ops Book 2) (8 page)

Bitchin’ Betty

SO THE BREAKFAST/LUNCH THING was a total fucking bust. I cleaned myself up, changed into regulation gear then returned to the empty kitchen. I wiped down the wall where Tilly’s biscuit dough had splatted a nice big wet floury patch. Bracing my hands on the edge of the sink, I rolled my shoulders forward then back, trying to release the tension.

I considered searching her out and apologizing to her, but
hell no
, that wouldn’t do. I couldn’t invite more of her attention no matter how much I wanted to.

I used to be a marine, and it was always mission first.

Oo-rah!

In that respect my job hadn’t changed.

During the intervening hours, I half expected, half hoped, half dreaded she’d come hounding me. Except it wouldn’t exactly be hounding because the attraction between us was as obvious as the dick between my legs.

I grinned. Damn, that woman might have soft red hair, but her unleashed temper was fiery as fuck.

“What the hell you smirking about,
brah
?” Storm kicked my booted foot, and I sobered immediately, getting back to task.

The four of us—Walker, Storm, Bane, and me—convened in the new war room—the bunker—for a powwow.

The only threat hounding us were the terrorists outside, who might possibly be making inroads on the collapsed tunnel right beside us as we talked strategy.

“How the fuck are we gonna mop up this bitchin’ betty?” Walker caressed the oiled barrel of one of his Smith & Wessons.

We sat in a loose circle on the floor, various firearms ranged around us, cleaning our weapons and inspecting the layout of the building.

Just one big happy family.

Except for Bane and Storm. The scary pair glared at each other with undisguised hostility. The type of aggression reserved for feuding friends when one dude stole the other guy’s girl—for normal men. For dark operatives like us, their rift hinted at something deeper and much more threatening. We weren’t the kind of guys to commit open warfare against one another over a chick when we fought danger, hoping only to survive, on a daily basis.

Except, of course, I’d definitely do a bro some serious damage if any one of them so much as gave Tilly more than a second, professional glance.

Aaaand
I brushed that thought off.

Whatever.

Something was seriously brewing between Storm and Bane as they cleaned and reloaded their respective weapons in the most menacing manner possible, like they were one more loaded bullet away from sending the other to a preselected grave.

Walker kept his eyes on his gun. “You two about ready to kiss and make up yet? You’re more passive aggressive than an old married couple squabbling about leaving the toilet seat up.”

“
Couple of
maladjusted dickheads,” I helpfully supplied, because
I
was oh-so adjusted myself of course.

“I’ll bury the hatchet”—Storm coolly appraised his nemesis—“when I can bury it in him.”

Aaaaand
Bane rose to the bait.

Resting a badass, belt-fed machine gun across his knees, he bent forward, a snake coiled to strike. “You still got an ax to grind with me, Storm? And, by the way, just because your name is Storm doesn’t mean you have to be such a broody bastard.”

“Better broody than a loose gun.” Storm sneered.

Rising to his haunches, Walker reached out and whacked both men upside the head.

Their words died within their gaping mouths.

“There’s more where that came from. Learned it from your mamas.” Walker sat back, cross-legged. “Now shut it. We need to come up with some kind of plan.”

Lawless had had the forethought to snatch the blueprints as soon as he’d figured out what kind of situation he and Tilly were about to get caught in. Proving two things: the man had a commanding presence, and he was made of more mettle than a puppet dignitary or groomed politician.

While we huddled up, he walked the rooms, on guard.

I bet my next danger pay we’d be hearing from Blaize about letting the ambassador do a little walkabout with his own weapon—and not in a pat-on-the-back kind of way.

Storm, Bane, Walker, and I studied the layout of the residence and the surrounding grounds with no way of knowing how far away the US military had set up their barricade, or if they’d just given up in light of the thirty-six hour bombardment from the rebels.

I placed my Heck beside me, meeting each of their eyes. “There’s too much heat outside. Safer to stay put for the moment and keep pooling our resources as we’ve been doing.”

“The resources gonna run dry soon enough, Sarge in Charge,” Storm said. “In fact, I heard there was an incident in the kitchen earlier. Some folks
makin’ the
misere
.”

Walker snorted. “An incident.”

A little warmth splashed across my cheeks, and I couldn’t believe I was sitting there, fucking blushing. “My fault.”

“Yeah.” Storm rubbed his neck. “That’s what I heard too. Something about flour and biscuits?”

“Like I said, Matilda had nothing to do with it.” I refused to look at any of the guys.

They did not need more ammo to razz me.

“
Awww
. Look. He’s taking responsibility.” Walker snickered.

“Growing up.” Bane heckled.

“Pretty soon he’ll be ready to fly from the nest,” Storm added.

“Shut it, dickwads,” I snarled. “Let’s get back to the situation at hand.”

“Well, we can’t just keep sitting around here like fish in a barrel.” Bane agreed with Storm.

I almost fell over.

“What if they just decide to bomb the whole place? Raze it to the ground?”

Bane was downright talkative today. I preferred it when he kept his mouth clamped shut.

“We already know they’re trying to mole their way in through that fucking tunnel they destroyed,” Walker said.

This was my proving ground, but more than that, people’s lives were at stake. My team. The ambassador.

Tilly.

“But if we can find a way to get Matilda out—” I started.

“Matilda,” Bane rumbled. “Why do you keep calling her that?”

Because I need a barrier, just one thing to hold onto to make her less here, less real, less wanted so much my palms itch to touch her and my eyes dry up watching her.

“Tilly is not the package.” Storm remained predictably, annoyingly on point. “Lawless is.”

“I know, but . . .” Chewing on the inside of my lip, I inspected my hands that had wrought so much death. “She’s a woman. We don’t let women die.”

“And we can’t let Lawless bite it either.” Walker nodded.

“So I guess we rehash all the impossible shit about this mission and make it goddamn work.”

Walker slapped me on the back. “That’s how you earn your stripes.”

“I already had my stripes. Three of them with two rockers.” I held their attention. “And we don’t leave anyone behind.”

Four more times we went over every square inch of the residence on paper whether it was blocked off, destroyed, still-standing or not. The tunnel was a no-go—there’d be no backtracking. The rooftop was out—no escape through it, just as there’d been no entry. And of course we couldn’t just walk out the front door like we owned the place. There was no front door left.

That left one and only one option. In the end, after two hours of planning, we came up with a strategy. It was monumentally stupid, would be damn near impossible to pull off, and required every single one of our skills.

The success of this mission involved split-second timing, no more surprises, probably a case of Walker’s favorite plaything, and one hell of a Hail Mary.

I sent a little prayer upward before I left the bunker room.

****

I needed some sort of release and hopefully a refuge from Tilly.

That’s right. The big bad scary ex-military dude . . . hiding out from a woman.

Jesus.

I stripped off the combat gear I’d put on earlier and lugged on a pair of shorts, socks, and crosstrainers bundled at the bottom of my kit.

I stormed into the gym then skidded to a goddamn stop.

Release?

Refuge?

Fuuuuck.

Not likely. Not with Tilly already shredding rubber on one of the treadmills, which she’d set at a steep incline.

Goddammit.

I just wanted to work out the fever she raised in me. Burn off some steam.

I stared at her, my hands balling at my sides.

She didn’t look directly at me, her eyes on the mirror in front of her, but her jaw set with a hard edge to the soft contours, and her fists punched forward with each faster stride she took.

Blasting out of the room again, I pressed my forehead against the wall. My fists curled against the plaster. The muscles in my back and arms tightened to corded ropes.

Screw this.

Whipping off my muscle shirt, I strode back in. I flung my shirt in a corner and hit the mats.

Tilly and I didn’t exchange one single word of greeting.

Reps of sit-ups, one-armed push-ups, single-handed pull-ups didn’t even wind me. That was just an easy warm-up.

Flicking off the treadmill, Tilly hopped to the floor and mopped her face with a towel. She moved to the opposite side of the room while I started cardio, practicing fast-paced Krav Maga moves to get my blood pumping.

’Course, with Tilly in the same room stretching out her body, a whole lot of blood was already pumping. Pumping south at a rapid rate where hot tingles speared into my groin and spread to my balls.

Miraculously, the mirrored surrounds of the gym had withstood the blasts that had crumbled half the residence, and the place was well equipped. But my gaze wasn’t on the bench presses or elliptical machines or the fucking
hit it until you burn
punching bag.

My eyes were drawn to Tilly time and again.

There was no escaping her.

Drops of sweat trickling down my chest and into the dangerously low-hanging waist of my shorts, I grabbed a pair of fuck-yeah-heavy dumbbells, and pumped up and down in weighted squats. The handheld free weights gripped tight, I lowered my stance. Rising from the squats, I punched the dumbbells up above my head only to repeat the process over and over.

My glutes stung, my quads stood out in sharp sweaty relief, my biceps hilled into unyielding mountains of sinew.

Tilly ignored me, working up her own sweat. She still wore the top I’d noticed earlier in the kitchen—aqua and moist with perspiration between her breasts. Shorts in clinging gray Lycra accentuated the sweetheart swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, and a peach-shaped ass I wanted to get my hands on.

In between the shorts and the sports bra was a bare stretch of her belly, and below, her long, lean legs with just enough muscle and meat to make me think of biting and licking the insides of her thighs until she whimpered for me to taste her, fuck her, make her come.

My cock was just about as hard as the hand weights when I lowered them to their resting place.

Tilly ignored me, but the smell of hot woman was an aphrodisiac. Fuck perfumes or body washes or gels.

Tilly—wearing no makeup, dressed in gym gear, her ponytail swishing back and forth—was the sexiest woman I’d ever seen.

And then she started jumping rope.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I watched, mind-boggled.

She kept up the fast slap-slap-slap of the rope. With no more than a half beat between each soft footfall she performed double jumps, criss-cross, backward . . . she never fucked up her fast rhythm.

Impressive
.

I tried to ignore
her
, crossing to get my kill on with the leather punching bag.

Impossible.

Her tits bounced some more, damn hypnotic.

“You work out much?” I asked.

I gave up on the swinging bag and stood with my thumbs hooked into my shorts at the vertical grooves of muscle cut into my pelvis.

“Enough.” She didn’t even pause to look at me. “Sometimes I just want to
hit
something, you know? Or
someone
.”

So that would be me.

My scowl turned the planes of my face to concrete.

Guess I didn’t like being given the old
fuck you, too
treatment.

Probably because I’d never been on the receiving end of it before.

And I could damn well tell she worked out
enough.
Just enough, and not too much. She wasn’t skinny or stringy or hard. She was toned and creamy and possessed the right amount of curves to make my mouth water.