Bent (The Gifted Series) (5 page)

              She looked him up and down; the man was definitely alive but worse for the wear. 

              For the most part, Joss fought against thoughts of those she’d been forced to kill or maim. It was out of her control, but after returning from this particular assignment, guilt consumed her every thought.  Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the rage on Declan’s face.  Little did he know that her own rage tripled anything he could muster.

              She focused on the blonde guy again but spoke to Samuel, “Are ya cracked, man?  I lack the skills for such a task.”

              Samuel shot her a glare, but Joss knew he wouldn’t touch her for her outburst.  Patrice never allowed the men to leave physical marks on her assassins, and since she’d been officially bent, she was finally considered a valuable
asset
and no longer a glorified voodoo doll for Patrice’s torturing pleasure. 

              By the look on Samuel's face, though, he’d love to take a crack at her, but the unusual thing with Samuel was, he never had.  Admittedly, he was the most decent of all Patrice’s men.  Yes, he’d assisted in Patrice’s initial
conversion
procedures.   Such a polite way of saying torture sessions, but with him, it never felt personal.  He was very detached, just a man following orders.

              Rotating his shoulders, Samuel straightened while muttering, “The doc will check him daily. You’re the nursemaid.  Figure it out.”

              She scowled suspiciously.  “Why is he alive anyway?  I thought Patrice wanted agency members dead?”  Joss may not have accomplished this task, but she assumed Patrice would have gotten one look at how close to the grave the blonde man was and immediately offed him. 

              Why did she obviously work so hard to save his life?  What roll would he play in her subterfuge?  Would he be just another bent assassin?

              Samuel began to back out of the cell while shrugging. “Don’t know, don’t care.  Patrice left at sunrise and these were my orders.” Flatly he added, “However, she did mention something about training the surfer fella.  So I suggest you keep him alive.”

              With that, the plexiglass door slammed and Joss heard the locking mechanisms click in place.  Samuel didn’t give them another glance as he strolled across the empty basement to the stairs.  Wheeling around, she leaned against the wall, letting her gaze fall upon the man she’d tried to kill. 
Bet this bloke’s gonna be thrilled to be my suite mate
, she cracked to herself.

              A sheet covered him from the waste down.  His right arm was bandaged and his chest was wrapped.  A few scratches in various stages of healing were strewn about his face.  Joss assumed those were compliments of the shattered glass and swinging branches that she'd mentally wielded.

             
Guilt pang
.

              She stepped closer, studying her new patient.  Upon reaching the side of the gurney, she gently brushed away his matted strands of hair, exposing a rather handsome face—mangled and dirty, but undeniably handsome.

              “Yer in need of a good washing,” she muttered, then her eyes fell upon his facial structure.  He had pink full lips and a straight nose that fit his tan complexion perfectly.  Nicely lined eyebrows arched over questionable eyes. 

              What color were they?  She bet blue.  Samuel had called him the “surfer fella” and it fit.  Blonde, blue eyed, a surf board tucked under an arm—he defined the stereotype.

              A sly smile hinted Joss’ lip. “I bet the lasses swoon,” she criticized low. “I’ve known blokes like you, charmers with hidden horns.” She thought of one man in particular.  The only man to ever crush her heart. She thought theirs was a relationship of dreams but reality reared its beastly head when she walked in on him and some chippy barmaid, and in her bed no less.  She snorted at the memory.  Those days had long been covered in cobwebs—a life from eons ago.

              Joss glanced down the gurney, spotting a med bag, a water bottle, and a thermos.  She walked down and inspected the supplies in the med bag and checked the thermos. Steamy chicken noodle wafted about her nose, giving her stomach a grumble of longing.
 
Her mouth began to salivate, but she quickly tightened the lid.  It wasn’t hers to take, and he needed it worse than she. 

              Without thought, her hand began a slow trail back toward his head.  It had been years since she’d willingly touched a man. 
Willingly
being the key word.  Her assignments often warranted physical interactions with her hits—rubbing, snogging, and other things she wanted to burn from her memory—but this would be the first time in a long time that she’d touched a man’s skin because she desired the action. 

              Her eyes narrowed as she studied what her fingers ran across. Although covered, she noted his lean yet muscular thighs.  She gave one a soft squeeze before continuing her travels.  Her fingers halted and politely lifted upon reaching the top of his thigh and then they dropped back down a couple inches below his belly button.  He sported a light dusting of hair trailing from his belly button southbound.  She involuntarily licked her lips, fighting the urge to sneak a peek at what lay at the end of that happy trail.
 

Jaysus, where were these thoughts commin' from
?

              He was stereotypically fit, as were all gifted, and his taught abs were enough to cause a lass to drool.  Suddenly feeling uncomfortable from this heightened sense of desire, Joss yanked back her hand.  She needed to stop this nonsense.

              “Sweet thing, your fingers can play
alllllll
day long.”

              Joss’ eyes popped, jerking to the blonde man’s face.  His eyes barely flickered, but he was clearly aware that she’d been groping him like some … some
molester
.  “
Mary mother of the big man
,” she groaned, repelled.  She quickly stepped back; embarrassment consumed.  It was bad enough that she was the reason for his current state but now she’d been caught groping too.  Hail Marys were in store tonight.

    *     *     *     *

             
A hot little piece with her hands below the belly button
, Carter thought; his eyes flickered to the chic with the long blonde locks and delicate facial features. Man, he hoped this wasn’t the beginning of another wet dream. Wet dreams?  He inwardly winced.   His sex life had been the Mojave as of late.  It seemed that for the past year Mr. Dick didn’t want to play the way he used to.  The women and sex had become diluted carbon copies.  Yeah, yeah, different sizes, hair color, sexual positions and places, but in the end it was the same—he partied with them, slaked their mutual urges, and then found the door.  No cuddle crap, no connection, no “I’ll call you later,” and ultimately leaving him with
no
desire to continue this routine.

              His eyes further opened and he began to shift, annoyed by the blinding fluorescents directly above.  “Ever heard of a dimmer switch?” he muttered.  Instantly, a vile curse cut through as pain erupted from his chest, halting his movements.  

             What the hell is going on?  His gaze shifted back toward sweet thing, and clarity struck—she was the bitch-and-a-half with the gun.  His eyes shifted to his chest, noting the heavy bandages and another wrapped around his upper right arm.  Bitch obviously didn’t miss either.  Okay, so he had to give her mental props for that.  He
was
a gun-lovin’ mo-fo after all. 

              His suspicious gaze cut toward her, and she offered a wary glance.

              “Where am I,” he all but grumbled, “and what’s up with the saving?  Obviously your intent was to kill my ass.”

              Not meeting his eye, she flatly replied, “Not my intent—Patrice’s.”

              “And you do her bidding without question.  Guess I shouldn’t call you sweet thing. Puppet seems more appropriate.”

              The woman’s eyes narrowed and her thin tightly toned arms crossed over her medium sized chest.  Carter preferred them fuller.  His eyes dropped south before heading north again; he usually preferred meat on a woman’s bones too, and toss in a little color to the skin.  Jeez,
Puppet
could use a day at the beach sucking up a little vitamin D.  He felt a flicker of satisfaction that his turned-on state was quickly turning off. 

              He muttered, “Or should I call you skinny-thing.  Other than the blonde hair, Olive Oil ain’t got nothing on you.”

              Her eyes widened before she covered her apparent shock and what he hoped was hurt.  He also noted that she suddenly held herself a bit more tightly. A smirk flickered.
I’ll get my digs in however I can
.

              “Where am I?” he asked again.

              The blonde woman turned away.
Is she going to leave
?  “Hey,” he yelled louder and then winced at the stabbing pain. “Before you leave,
harbinger of pain
, at least tell me where the fuck I am.  You owe me that much.”

              She wheeled sharply, her white-blonde hair swinging like a cape behind her—a cape of silkiness that was remotely hot.  Scratch that.  No hotness goin’ on.

              Her eyes narrowed sharply. “I don’t know where the feck we are, nor can I bloody leave!  And ya better watch that blow hole of yers cuz yer gazin’ upon yer new nursemaid!”  She took a step closer. “With any luck, yer not a complete browl and you’ll play nice.  Ya wouldn’t want me shoving needles in foreign places, now would ya, boi?”

              A long drawn out curse slipped as his eyes clamped shut.  Olive Oil had a temper, that was for sure. Good to know.  Then something she said registered.  “What do you mean
you can’t leave
?  And slow your ass down.  I don’t speak the garbally gook you Irish call English.”

              With that, the lights went out, leaving them in darkness.

              Both Carter and the blonde cursed. 

              “Turn on the lights,” Carter growled low.

              The room instantly filled with the blonde’s lilting laughter.  He then heard springs from a mattress, insinuating that she planned to completely ignore him and get comfy.

              His blood boiled.  “Look,
lassie
, turn on the
fecking
lights and answer my question.”  But all he heard was the rustling of a sheet.  Damn! He wanted answers and wanted them now.

              Ten minutes passed and he growled again, “Turn. On. The. Lights.”

              “Can’t.”

              Mixed with his stabbing pain was a rage Carter had never truly experienced.  He wanted to reach out and strangle this stranger—wrap her head of wild blonde hair around her narrow throat and choke her out. 

              Silently he cursed again, knowing she’d only find amusement from his frustration. 

              Another ten minutes passed and he stared into the blackness while steadying his breathing.  He suspected his pain meds were wearing off as the burning in his chest and arm began to intensify.  “Great … just great,” he whispered.  He was in for a very long, painful, and silent night. 

    *     *     *     *

              The lights flickered, and even though Joss’ eyes were closed the fluorescent bulbs were a blinding intrusion.  She rolled to her side, attempting to block them and then jumped at the sound of a hushed gasp.  Shooting upright, she wielded around toward the source.  The evening’s events crashed into place.  There lay the foul-mouthed handsome agent that she’d shot.             

              She slowly rose, grabbing a rubber band from the end table and wrapped her messy locks in a sagging bun at the nape.

              His eyes barely flickered her way. “Can you … at least … move me … from the … light.”  This was whispered through clenched teeth. 

              She frowned, taking in the sight of him: tighter than a drum, sweating profusely, slightly trembling. 
Oh Jaysus, no
! He was in pain. For how many hours had the poor lad laid like this?

              She scurried to the end of the gurney and carefully pushed it against the wall, directly across from her bed.  It didn’t remove the blinding brightness entirely, but it was the best she could do.  She then grabbed the med bag and thermos that still laid in between his legs and dropped them on her bed.  Her eyes focused on the thermos.  She hadn’t fed him either. 

             Mother of God, she was repulsed by her behavior.  Yes, the bloke had been uncivil, but why should she expect chivalry from a man she’d nearly killed? 

              Inside the med bag she found two bottles of pills.  One she recognized as a medication for bacterial infections so the other must be the pain med.  She opened both and grabbed a pill from each.  Then, she retrieved a glass of water from the tiny sink.  As she approached, the man continued to clench his teeth, looking straight at the ceiling.

              “Here,” She muttered, quick to clear her throat.  She was a complete beast to leave someone in such a state. 

              She reached the side of the gurney and his blue eyes flickered her way, piercing her.  His beautiful blues froze her to stone, but it wasn’t their beauty that caused such a reaction, it was the evident loathing.  His despise was unmistakable, as well it should be.

              “Please,” she said more strongly, bringing the pain pill to his lips.

              Coldly, he replied, “How … thoughtful … of you.”

              Even though she anticipated his hatred, it struck a nerve.  A very lonely and vulnerable nerve that desperately missed human interaction and acceptance. 

              She placed the pill on his willing tongue then gripped the back of his head with one hand while assisting him with a sip.  With the pill swallowed, he eased his head back on the sweat-soaked pillow.  “Thanks,” he begrudgingly muttered.

              “One more,” she cautiously replied.  They repeated the same steps, and she quickly spun away.  Her hands trembled, but she didn’t know if it was from touching the man or just the situation as a whole.