Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (59 page)

W
hat’s
funny about growing up is watching yourself and those around you change and grow in ways you’d never have imagined. For instance, who would’ve known that my tom-boy of a middle sister who would have just as soon gotten her teeth pulled than wear a “stupid dress’ would’ve been the first one of us to have the romance novel of a happy ending; the one where everyone ends up barefoot and pregnant and getting married? And by the same stroke, if you’d have told a younger, nerdy, never-miss-a-curfew, never-step-outside-the-lines
me
that I’d end up with the swearing, tattooed, bareknuckle boxer of a bad-boy, I’d have thought you were nuts.

But hey, that’s love;
totally nuts
.

Logan and I aren’t getting married; not yet anyways. Reagan and Hudson, for all that passion and drama, had their history. Theirs is a story that they started writing five years before they found each other again. But Logan and I are just opening our book up;
ours
is a story we’re still learning to write, and one I might add that seems to get steamier by the page.

We’re also not pregnant; not
yet
anyways. For now, we’re too busy helping the frankly staggering amount of kids out there in the world already that don’t have anyone. There are the hospitals we’re finishing up with the Archer humanitarian program in Cuba, Liberia, and Guatemala, but also the schools in Ghana and Afghanistan that Logan and I are just doing on our own on the side. I mean, just the
traveling
is enough to keep me busy enough that getting knocked up really isn’t an option.

Of course, that’s not to say we aren’t “practicing”, as Logan puts it. And let me tell you, practice makes
perfect
; especially with
that
man.

The world is an imperfect place, and sometimes it’s painful, and full of hurt, shadow, and sorrow. But, it can also be full of light and joy; of peace, of healing, and of love. Sometimes you just have to fight for it, because some of those things are
worth
fighting for.

There are words inked across Logan’s chest that I love to trace my fingers across while I imagine a younger, more lost version of him may have gotten in another time, another life, and with a heart not yet whole.

“Never Back Down”

But I know they mean something new now; something even fiercer than the fighter ceaselessly swinging at the darkness. And they’ve also never been more true.

Because you
never
back down from love.

S
tandalone Stepbrother Romance
:

Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance

Secret: A Military Stepbrother Romance

Cockney: A British Stepbrother Romance

Crude: A Stepbrother Romance

S
oldiers of Fortune Series
:

Heat

Burn

Scorch

Roar

A
ubrey Irons enjoys writing
about bold, sassy, and intelligent women and the dominant, cocky, and quite typically forbidden alpha males who love and lust for them; gripping stories, happy endings, and enough heat to keep things extra steamy!

In the real world, Aubrey is kept plenty entertained by her own tattooed Marine husband, their precocious and adorable three year old, and one
very
ill-behaved puppy.

“
Y
ou’ve been a bad
, bad boy, Javier.”

The punch to the gut that immediately follows Warden Juan-Carlos Gustavo’s words knocks the wind from my lungs. But, it doesn’t do shit to knock the grin off my face. The real tragedy here is that the irony of Señor Gustavo’s
wife
saying the same thing to me not thirty minutes before - albeit in
slightly
different circumstances - is probably going to be lost on him and his men.

Not, of course, that it’s going to stop me from saying it anyways.

“You know, that’s the second- no, wait, the
third
time I’ve heard that today.”

The Warden’s eyes narrow at me, making him appear even more piggish if that was even possible from an already fat, sweaty, snout-nosed man. But truth be told, despite his appearance, Warden Gustavo is
not
a man you should fuck with; least of all when you’re a prisoner in his jail. I’ve learned a few things in my nine months here in Venezuela, but that one sticks out.

Yeah,
fucking
Venezuela. I learned something when that cargo plane those pricks back in the States put me on touched down in Madrid; if you’re a big enough problem,
no one
wants you. Spain wanted nothing to do with me, even with being a citizen, and even with the shit they probably had on me from my bullshit there years ago. So instead? They called around, found out about the smuggling charges I’d pulled in Venezuela when I was younger, and figured I was someone else’s problem now. See, not
many
people really want anything to do with me, which suits me just fine because most of the time, I don’t want a fuckin thing to do with them either.

Except let me tell you, South American jails aren’t
anything
like the jails they’ve got up north in
Los Estados Unidos
; not by a Goddamn mile. Sure, up north, prison might be cold, and boring, and possibly not the best place to take a shower if you’re in with the wrong people. But shit, they’ve got electricity, and three meals a day, and a roof that doesn’t leak when it rains. Down here in Venezuela? Yeah, down here things are a
little
different. Down here, we’ve got
El Muerto Viviente
; The Living Dead.

Yeah, we’ve also got a
touch
of flare for the dramatics.

But
El Muerto
is no fucking joke, I’ll say that. A crumbling, shattered shell of a castle from the colonial days, built up on a cliff and slowly melting into the ocean. It’s treacherous, smells like shit, and Warden Gustavo runs it like a Russian Gulag. So yeah, jail fucking
sucks
down here.

That is,
unless
you know where to look for the perks. And in this case, “perks” was fucking the cute prison nurse in terrible,
terrible
ways in the pharmacy supply closet twice a week for the last two months. Oh, and if that cute nurse happens to be
Mrs.
Warden Juan-Carlos Gustavo?

Merde
, now we’re cooking with fire, aren’t we.

The good Warden’s fist crashes into my face, jolting me back into the now as I shake my head, blinking at the stars flashing through my vision.

“You’ve fucked up for the last Goddamn time, Toro.” He says. He’s grinning; that’s not a good sign.
Angry
Gustavo acts like every other angry little fat man in the world;
that
I can read. But when he grins like that, you know something’s wrong. And something is
very
wrong.

He winks at his lieutenant, a thin man with a wispy mustache, before he turns back to me; “Listen you little
marico maricón
,
this time
, I’ve got a special place for you.”

“Oh I think I’ve already been to you
special place
, señor.” I barely finish laughing the words out of my mouth before he starts to hit me. They all start to hit me, in fact.

By the way, my hands are cuffed to a pipe above my head, and there are four of them. South American prison; comprende?

I can
take
a beating. Well, I
could
take a beating, a long time ago back when I was a fighter and before I sort of let myself go. But nine months of hard time in El Muerto have me back to lean muscle and hungry fire inside. Not that it does a bit of good when you’re cuffed and outnumbered.

I groan and sag against my handcuffs as the men in uniform step away, spitting on the ground around me as they wipe their hands of me. Gustavo is grinning at me again, slowly nodding his head; “Hope you packed your swim-suit,
hijo e puta
.” He says slowly; “Because you’re going for The Swim.”

Oh,
shit
.

I’ve heard stories of problem prisoners being taken out for The Swim and being made to disappear, but it’s always third or fourth hand talk from guys who’ve been here too long. The Swim is a one-way ticket three miles off shore. Full stop. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, and don’t bother trying to swim for it because if the sharks don’t get you, exhaustion will. It’s a bad dream; a scary story like the boogey man the guards tell us to keep us in line.

Except from the look on the Warden’s face, this is anything
but
a made-up story.

I want to tell him he “can’t do this”, or he “doesn’t have the right”, but in reality, we both know he can and he doesn’t fucking care. I’ve managed to go the last ten years or so of my life without, or at least squashing down any regrets, but something tells me that streak is about to change. Because for the first time maybe ever, I’m starting to wonder if
maybe
I’ve gone too far.

Shit
.

Gustavo leans in close, his breath hot on my face as he pats my cheek and grins wickedly at me; “Te veré en el infierno, motherfucker.”
See you in hell.

T
he silver
and glass hallway that leads towards The Vault is innocuous enough for what it needs to be. It looks like any other office hallway in the world I suppose, except you can’t help but feel a little shiver of excitement when you walk down this one, knowing what’s waiting at the end. It’s not the kind of excitement you might find in another job; not in a
normal
job.

Of course, I’m still fairly new at the Center, which might contribute to the excitement, but it’s also just the general feeling of the place. For instance, I doubt
normal
jobs have two armed personnel guarding the doorways to areas that require a retina scan in order to enter.

I take a deep breath as I approach the two men in black tactical gear holding machine guns. They’re parked next to a frosted glass screen with only the briefest shadow of a person standing behind it.

“Agent, please state your identifying code.”

The voice sounds metallic behind the glass, and I force myself into composure as I look evenly into the retina scanner and speak as clearly as I can; “Six oh wilco wilco charlie alpha eighty eight.”

The door hisses silently open with the small click of a lock, and I nod as authoritatively as I can despite my nerves at the two men standing guard before I step into the cool, darkened ambience of The Vault. It’s my first time in here, and the sudden reality of that has me pausing just for a fraction of a second to take it all in. The projector is already on, casting a bluish glow on the far wall, and I realize that the others are already there, sitting around the dark mahogany conference table with the lights low.

The Director looks up and nods curtly to me; “Ah, Agent Archer, we’re just getting started. Please, have a seat.” I nod quickly at a few familiar faces around the debrief room before I take an empty seat next to Agent Koufax, my supervisor. I can hear the door sealing shut behind me, and I’m aware from the debrief I received on The Vault last week that by now, my cell service is at
zero
, and that anything and everything I say in here is being recorded. What’s discussed here is for
here
only, and it’s only for matters where secrets need to stay in the dark. You bring nothing in here, and you take nothing out.

Yep, welcome to a typical Tuesday at the Central Intelligence Agency.

“Glad you could
make it
, Agent.” Koufax whispers harshly as he turns and glares at me, his eyebrows knitting and his silvered goatee mustache twitching.

“I just got the notice five minu-”

“Just try and keep up,
rook
.”

Rook
; as in, “rookie.” I narrow my eyes at his back as he turns, knowing it’s useless to even try and come back with anything, He’s
hardly
my superior, and I know even if I am one of the younger people here, most of his bullshit is because of my
gender
rather than my experience with the Agency.

And for the record, being a full time C.I.A. agent while also maintaining the presence of being a full time graduate student to
literally
everyone you know - including your family - isn’t exactly
a walk in the park.

The Director clears his throat, and the small chatter around the room instantly goes quiet as every eye in the room turns to him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve got a runner. Four days ago, a man of importance to our interests managed to break out of a remote prison named
El Meurto Viviente
on the coast of Venezuela. He managed to commandeer a boat, killing two guards in the process.” People around the room begin taking notes and nodding at the Director’s words; “We’ve tracked his movements, and though he hasn’t gotten far, he
has
managed to gain entry into Aruba.”

There’s a snort from the other side of the room, as one of the senior analysts shakes his head; “Well, he sure knows how to escape in style I suppose.”

The tittering laughter around the room is cut short by a curt nod from the Director. He leans down over the head of the table, glowering at everyone else in the low light of the room; “People, this man holds certain information pertaining to national security, including information on ongoing domestic intelligence assets. That he was ever allowed to
leave
U.S. soil is a Goddamn bewilderment to me, but that he got to where he is now is an
embarrassment
.”

The room is pin-drop silent as the Director stands and clears his throat; “Recovery operations need to be
covert
, as well as seamless. This administration is a bit more
sensitive
to holding an active operation on sovereign soil, and so we’re going to
keep this quiet
.” His eyes scan the room; “No teams, no heavy back-up. The plan is to send in a single asset who will intercept, apprehend, and signal for extraction.”

I wonder who they found crazy enough to want to pull a stunt like tha-

“Agent Archer.” The Director’s voice cuts through the silence of the room like a knife, and I feel my face go flush as every eye in The Vault turns to me.

Um, what
?

I drop the pen in my hand and look up sharply; “Sir?”

“Agent Koufax has assured me that you’re field ready, and he’s given me his full confidence in your ability to execute this mission.”

My eyes fly to my smarmy supervisor, who’s turned and smirking at me like he’s daring me to say something.

Field ready?
I’ve barely graduated from training, I’ve never been on an actual operation, and I’m by far and away the greenest person in the room.
Me
?

I shoot Koufax a questioning glance, wondering why on Earth he’d give me such a glowing recommendation for something like this considering he clearly hates me. But he only shrugs and gives me that same smirking look before I clear my throat and look up at the director; “Sir, I’m-”

“I’m giving you a crack at the big leagues here, Agent.” He crosses his arms over his chest; “That is, if you can handle it.”

My jaw tightens at his words; I
don’t
back down from challenges. And even if I’ve got half an idea that this was some elaborate scheme of Koufax’s to make me look like an idiot during a Vault meeting, I’m certainly not going to back down from this one; “Absolutely, sir,” I say without another moment of hesitation.

Koufax’s smirk instantly drops from his face as he frowns at me;
Checkmate, asshole.

“Excellent. You’ll be leaving tomorrow, and asset intel will help you with your cover story. Let’s go over your target.”

It’s my turn to smirk at my superior now as I hear the Director click to the next project screen. I’m still grinning and reveling in the moment when I look up, and it’s almost as if in slow motion as my eyes drag back to the main screen.

Every single cell in my body freezes.

It’s like a horrible dream as I focus on the dark, smokey eyes, the black hair, and the lips pulled back in a cocky grin at the camera.

Holy shit.

The man is staggeringly handsome, in that dark, brooding, almost scary way. There’s a wicked glint in his eyes that just screams a disdain for authority; clearly evident in the way he’s even smirking in his damn mug shot. Honestly, in any other circumstances, every woman and probably some of the men in this room would be fanning themselves at the Spaniard on screen oozing pure sex and the promise of mistakes you’d
love
to regret later.

But these are
not
other circumstances, and the arrogant grin on the screen belongs to the Devil himself.

A lump forms in my throat that I try to swallow, only to have it immediately replaced as I stare into the face of the last man on Earth I ever thought I’d see again. The face of the man who almost destroyed my family; who terrorized Logan, and the man who kidnapped him and my sister Quinn.

The man Quinn stabbed in the neck, and who should be dead or rotting in a Spanish prison right now.

‘For every light in this world, there’s a shadow somewhere else’
, my dad used to say. Every story has a bad guy, and this is ours.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Javier Gael Toro; our number one priority.” The Director says, looking sternly around the room.

He starts to go into details of the escape and last known whereabouts, but I’m barely listening as my eyes burn hot into the eyes on the screen in front of me. Nine months ago, this man almost destroyed everything I know.

I was powerless then, but I’ve just been given the keys to revenge.