phone?” He peered out toward all the mirrored buildings
on the horizon. Sin City was oddly pretty in the late afternoon sun. He wished he
was in a better frame of mind to enjoy it. “That was him, wasn’t it?”
Sam’s back was turned as he inspected the five-seat Piper Lance they were taking to
Texas, in lieu of anything available at the base. But if this “off duty escape” was
truly going to fly below the radar, so were they.
They…meaning Sam, Brynn, and him.
He still couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this.
“Well, we didn’t talk long.” Sam’s tone was suddenly matter-of-fact, lending the hope
that not long was the honest-to-fuck truth and Rhett hadn’t relayed anything about the startling
events in the Bommers’ backyard last night. But he didn’t trust the Scot’s nonchalance.
Not for a second. “He, errrmm, just wanted you to know he’s already unloaded at the
landing strip in Austin, and is getting ready to drive out to the complex you secured— after he stops at Hopdoddy for a triple patty special. Wasn’t sure if he meant that last
part, or if he said it just to taunt me.”
“Both,” Rebel supplied, though allowed himself a whoosh of relief past his small smirk.
“Okay, then. That all sounds good. Real good.”
“Hrrmm.”
Something about the guy’s hum told him the relief had been premature.
“Yeah, well…he also wanted to know if you’d gotten all the air back in your lungs,
seeing as how a sweet little lass named Brynna managed to—how’d he say it?—‘flatten
you like a pizza’ three times in a row last night?”
Yeah. Really premature.
Rebel shot over a glare—only to have it smack the Scot’s massive shoulders, which
shook with distinct intent. Those muscles couldn’t hide much, especially if Sam was
laughing his ass off at someone.
“Damn it. She took me by surprise.”
“Right.” Sam sniffed against his mirth. “Because after four years in the Special Forces,
you’re not used to that or anything.”
He spun, more than happy to show the guy what his shoulders were up to—a demeanor he was more than happy to bear out, in every coiled
inch of his stance. “You want to tell me the shifty little heathen wouldn’t have duped you ?”
Sam shrugged. “Way I heard it, there wasn’t a lot of shifty. She proposed her conditions,
fair and clear. Three solid chances to prove she wasn’t the little wilting little
violet you assumed.” Sam swung out from beneath the wing, tugging at rivet points
as he went. Whether the man was flying a jet, a helo, or something in between, he
was famous for his personal aircraft cross-check. “And you know what happens when
you ‘assume,’ my dearie.”
“I’m not your goddamn dearie.”
“No. She’s meeting me in a room at Catacomb tonight.” His ginger brows waggled. “And I guarantee
she’ll be calling me a lot more than ‘dearie’ by the time we’re done.”
Reb chuckled. Couldn’t help it. Forget trying to stay immune to Mackenna’s charm,
even as a guy. The man was like a fucking TV weatherman. One had to smile even if
he brought news of raining cats and snow flurries. Worst part was trying to visualize
the guy as a Dom. He’d heard tales about the guy’s legions of dripping subbies back
home. Nope. The gray matter wasn’t going to cooperate with that image right now—especially as Sam’s face brightened in an even more affable smile,
as he looked somewhere over Reb’s shoulder.
“Ah. This must be the ‘shifty little heathen’ now.”
The Scot was right. Their new visitor was Brynna, a fact conveyed before Reb even turned his head. More important senses drove
it into him with startling surety. The energy on the air, tautening every hair at
the back of his neck. The uptick of his heartbeat, prepping everything else in his
body for the joyous conflict of being near her again. Yes, even after last night—maybe
more so because of
on the horizon. Sin City was oddly pretty in the late afternoon sun. He wished he
was in a better frame of mind to enjoy it. “That was him, wasn’t it?”
Sam’s back was turned as he inspected the five-seat Piper Lance they were taking to
Texas, in lieu of anything available at the base. But if this “off duty escape” was
truly going to fly below the radar, so were they.
They…meaning Sam, Brynn, and him.
He still couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this.
“Well, we didn’t talk long.” Sam’s tone was suddenly matter-of-fact, lending the hope
that not long was the honest-to-fuck truth and Rhett hadn’t relayed anything about the startling
events in the Bommers’ backyard last night. But he didn’t trust the Scot’s nonchalance.
Not for a second. “He, errrmm, just wanted you to know he’s already unloaded at the
landing strip in Austin, and is getting ready to drive out to the complex you secured— after he stops at Hopdoddy for a triple patty special. Wasn’t sure if he meant that last
part, or if he said it just to taunt me.”
“Both,” Rebel supplied, though allowed himself a whoosh of relief past his small smirk.
“Okay, then. That all sounds good. Real good.”
“Hrrmm.”
Something about the guy’s hum told him the relief had been premature.
“Yeah, well…he also wanted to know if you’d gotten all the air back in your lungs,
seeing as how a sweet little lass named Brynna managed to—how’d he say it?—‘flatten
you like a pizza’ three times in a row last night?”
Yeah. Really premature.
Rebel shot over a glare—only to have it smack the Scot’s massive shoulders, which
shook with distinct intent. Those muscles couldn’t hide much, especially if Sam was
laughing his ass off at someone.
“Damn it. She took me by surprise.”
“Right.” Sam sniffed against his mirth. “Because after four years in the Special Forces,
you’re not used to that or anything.”
He spun, more than happy to show the guy what his shoulders were up to—a demeanor he was more than happy to bear out, in every coiled
inch of his stance. “You want to tell me the shifty little heathen wouldn’t have duped you ?”
Sam shrugged. “Way I heard it, there wasn’t a lot of shifty. She proposed her conditions,
fair and clear. Three solid chances to prove she wasn’t the little wilting little
violet you assumed.” Sam swung out from beneath the wing, tugging at rivet points
as he went. Whether the man was flying a jet, a helo, or something in between, he
was famous for his personal aircraft cross-check. “And you know what happens when
you ‘assume,’ my dearie.”
“I’m not your goddamn dearie.”
“No. She’s meeting me in a room at Catacomb tonight.” His ginger brows waggled. “And I guarantee
she’ll be calling me a lot more than ‘dearie’ by the time we’re done.”
Reb chuckled. Couldn’t help it. Forget trying to stay immune to Mackenna’s charm,
even as a guy. The man was like a fucking TV weatherman. One had to smile even if
he brought news of raining cats and snow flurries. Worst part was trying to visualize
the guy as a Dom. He’d heard tales about the guy’s legions of dripping subbies back
home. Nope. The gray matter wasn’t going to cooperate with that image right now—especially as Sam’s face brightened in an even more affable smile,
as he looked somewhere over Reb’s shoulder.
“Ah. This must be the ‘shifty little heathen’ now.”
The Scot was right. Their new visitor was Brynna, a fact conveyed before Reb even turned his head. More important senses drove
it into him with startling surety. The energy on the air, tautening every hair at
the back of his neck. The uptick of his heartbeat, prepping everything else in his
body for the joyous conflict of being near her again. Yes, even after last night—maybe
more so because of
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