so?” The big bad wolf
gig wasn’t gaining him traction. Maybe smooth panther was the way to go. Her continued
geniality was definitely encouraging.
“You object to my inexperience, my unpreparedness, and my…innocence.” From the last,
she visibly held back a giggle. “Is that all correct, Sergeant?”
Rebel thought fast, attempting to examine her answer from all angles. What was her
end game? Can’t con a con artist, cher . I learned at the skirts of the best.
“Yes.” He firmed his stance. “That’s correct. More or less.”
“So what if I put your fears to rest—with a personal test?”
“What do you mean?”
She stepped away from Rhett and tilted a look of open challenge. “Why don’t you step
outside and find out?”
He let his laugh spurt out. Gave her— and the smirking baboon next to her—a look that meant only one thing. Are you fucking kidding me ? “You’re asking me to ‘step outside’ with you, Miss Monet?”
She twitched her head a little. Flipped her hair back again, only to gather the thick,
waist-length glory into one hand and secure it into a ponytail. “Well, isn’t that
how you ‘boys’ like to settle things, Sergeant Stafford?”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. What the hell kind of response was good for
something like that ?
Rhett didn’t wait for him to decide. With a snort that became a smirk, he turned for
the slider that led out to the backyard, tossing over his shoulder in the process,
“This is going to be so good.”
* * *
Eight hours later, the shithead wasn’t any more tired of that annoying-as-fuck jam—demonstrated by the
bellows of laughter from the tall ginger soldier waiting on the tarmac outside the
private charter terminal at McCarran for him. RAF Commander Sam Mackenna was a hardworking
guy who got along with everyone he met, but in the years Reb had known the man, his
laughter could never be qualified as bellowing—until now.
Well, wasn’t that fucking special? Especially when a glance at his watch instantly
narrowed down the list of who could be calling Mackenna at exactly this moment.
Take rocks. Dump into gut. Grind into acid. Stir. Repeat.
“Fuck,” he muttered beneath his breath, though kept his approach to Sam at a definite
don’t-mess-with-me stride. Didn’t do him a short curly hair of good. As he got close
enough to make his glare blatantly clear, Sam covered his mouth and dedicated himself
to a very loud, very fake, cough.
“Desert air drying you out, Braw Boy?” He growled both syllables of Sam’s call-sign,
a reference to the Gaelic slang for the rugged face most women couldn’t resist. If
the emphasis didn’t get through to Mackenna, Rebel would be more than happy to illustrate
further by “prettying up” that square jaw with an upper left hook.
God, he damn near prayed for it.
After the events with Brynna in the backyard last night, he was looking for any reason for a good dust-up. He watched a roadrunner skitter across the runway, tempted
to call the damn bird out for a few rounds—especially as Sam pocketed his phone, barely
able to control the quirks of his “bonny” Scottish lips.
That did it for niceties.
He leaned over, “patting” Sam on the back so hard, a lesser man would’ve tumbled into
the brush. Sam stayed put but really did begin to choke. Reb clucked his tongue. “Damn.
That sounds bad. Maybe you should go see somebody about that, boyo.”
Sam added laughs between the chokes. “Not if I’m feckin’ dead, ya lice-ridden oaf.”
Rebel snickered despite his tension. “Haven’t lost a damn bit of your touch, Braw.”
“Better with age, Moonstormer. Like good Scotch and my very talented cock.”
He groaned. “Oh now, that’s a good one. You been saving that up the entire two years we haven’t seen each other?”
Sam snorted. “I really have had better things to do.”
“Like talking to Rhett on the
gig wasn’t gaining him traction. Maybe smooth panther was the way to go. Her continued
geniality was definitely encouraging.
“You object to my inexperience, my unpreparedness, and my…innocence.” From the last,
she visibly held back a giggle. “Is that all correct, Sergeant?”
Rebel thought fast, attempting to examine her answer from all angles. What was her
end game? Can’t con a con artist, cher . I learned at the skirts of the best.
“Yes.” He firmed his stance. “That’s correct. More or less.”
“So what if I put your fears to rest—with a personal test?”
“What do you mean?”
She stepped away from Rhett and tilted a look of open challenge. “Why don’t you step
outside and find out?”
He let his laugh spurt out. Gave her— and the smirking baboon next to her—a look that meant only one thing. Are you fucking kidding me ? “You’re asking me to ‘step outside’ with you, Miss Monet?”
She twitched her head a little. Flipped her hair back again, only to gather the thick,
waist-length glory into one hand and secure it into a ponytail. “Well, isn’t that
how you ‘boys’ like to settle things, Sergeant Stafford?”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. What the hell kind of response was good for
something like that ?
Rhett didn’t wait for him to decide. With a snort that became a smirk, he turned for
the slider that led out to the backyard, tossing over his shoulder in the process,
“This is going to be so good.”
* * *
Eight hours later, the shithead wasn’t any more tired of that annoying-as-fuck jam—demonstrated by the
bellows of laughter from the tall ginger soldier waiting on the tarmac outside the
private charter terminal at McCarran for him. RAF Commander Sam Mackenna was a hardworking
guy who got along with everyone he met, but in the years Reb had known the man, his
laughter could never be qualified as bellowing—until now.
Well, wasn’t that fucking special? Especially when a glance at his watch instantly
narrowed down the list of who could be calling Mackenna at exactly this moment.
Take rocks. Dump into gut. Grind into acid. Stir. Repeat.
“Fuck,” he muttered beneath his breath, though kept his approach to Sam at a definite
don’t-mess-with-me stride. Didn’t do him a short curly hair of good. As he got close
enough to make his glare blatantly clear, Sam covered his mouth and dedicated himself
to a very loud, very fake, cough.
“Desert air drying you out, Braw Boy?” He growled both syllables of Sam’s call-sign,
a reference to the Gaelic slang for the rugged face most women couldn’t resist. If
the emphasis didn’t get through to Mackenna, Rebel would be more than happy to illustrate
further by “prettying up” that square jaw with an upper left hook.
God, he damn near prayed for it.
After the events with Brynna in the backyard last night, he was looking for any reason for a good dust-up. He watched a roadrunner skitter across the runway, tempted
to call the damn bird out for a few rounds—especially as Sam pocketed his phone, barely
able to control the quirks of his “bonny” Scottish lips.
That did it for niceties.
He leaned over, “patting” Sam on the back so hard, a lesser man would’ve tumbled into
the brush. Sam stayed put but really did begin to choke. Reb clucked his tongue. “Damn.
That sounds bad. Maybe you should go see somebody about that, boyo.”
Sam added laughs between the chokes. “Not if I’m feckin’ dead, ya lice-ridden oaf.”
Rebel snickered despite his tension. “Haven’t lost a damn bit of your touch, Braw.”
“Better with age, Moonstormer. Like good Scotch and my very talented cock.”
He groaned. “Oh now, that’s a good one. You been saving that up the entire two years we haven’t seen each other?”
Sam snorted. “I really have had better things to do.”
“Like talking to Rhett on the
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