Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance) (11 page)

I shrug; “I’m good out here.” I roll my eyes as she shoots me a quick look; “Oh,
relax
, hot-stuff; I’m too fucking tired to start jumping balconies and making a run for it.” She frowns, her cheeks growing pink as if embarrassed that I busted her doubting me again; “
Merde
, how many times does a guy have to save your life for you to try trusting him for a second?”

“That’s not-” She stops and purses her lips and shakes her head; “Fair enough.”

“Look, we’ll go inside. But let’s share one more and just relax a little longer, alright?”

“Just a little longer.” She says, stretching; her adorable face scrunching up as she yawns.

“Cheers, princess,” I say, clinking her beer again; “Hell of a first day.”

There's the smell of salt brine and ocean that first wakes me up, and for a moment, I'm back home again; back in both of them. For a moment, I'm a little boy again back at Mama's house in Valencia, before the memory changes and I’m in Venezuela with my
abuela
. In Spain, Mama is waking me up and making me get to school; in Venezuela, I’m waking up with the sun to go help my abuelo, my grandfather, up in the fields.

I stir, wanting just one more minute; one more minute before the sun's brightness through my eyelids is too much to ignore. I just want one more moment with my arms around her shoulders and her head nestled in against my shoulder.

Wait,
what?

I wake with a start, blinking in the morning light before I turn and look down to see what can only be described as an angel in my arms.
 

Apparently, we've fallen asleep outside on the balcony, and for a moment, I'm really just floored by the bizarre feelings of
peace
and
comfort
I have at that very moment. She's sleeping quietly, her face still and her eyelids barely moving. The smallest hint of a smile plays across her face, burrowed against my chest and curled against me. Her breath comes evenly against my skin, and with my arms around her, I realize I've never felt more
protective
of something in all my entire life.

Yikes, get it together, pal.

I blink away sleep and let my arm trail down her back, stroking her hair while I study this angelic creature in my arms. The sun glows off her blonde hair, and I never want this singular moment to end, no matter how fucking bizarre that is for me.

She stirs though, eventually, and I know that this one single moment - like all moments - is going to end. Her eyes open, blinking before she takes in her surroundings and looks up at me. She sits up with a start, her face looking guilty and as confused as mine just did as she jumps to awareness quicker than I'm sure she normally would. She shoots me an accusing and furtive glance out of the corner of her eyes as she quickly scoots a few inches away from me, distancing herself physically from me but also from that one perfect moment.

"Good morning." I smirk at her, watching her blush as she quickly crosses her arms over her chest, clearing her throat and collecting herself as she looks around our little balcony.

"Morning" She mumbles, still not meeting my eyes, which both amuses me considering how flustered she is, but also bugs me; like I'm some sort of leper she can't even
be
near.

Whatever.

"Ok, we need to collect ourselves," She glances at my bare torso and back at her own bikini-clad chest and blushes as her arms tighten across her body; "We need clothes."

I snort; "What, tired of the beach look already?” I arch my brow, trying not to focus on the fact that her crossed arms have her tits pushed up against her bikini top, giving me a
great
fucking view of her cleavage. I'm seriously going to miss this view even if we do need be normal people and get clothes.

Of course, she's right. We
do
need to stop looking like beach bums and probably even change our appearances if we're going to avoid getting shot on sight by a bunch of trigger-happy Blackwater assholes.

"Alright," I finally say; "We should go get cleaned up."

Chelsea makes a face; "
We?
" She shakes her head; "I don't think so. You're staying here.”

I smirk; "
You're
the one they're after, princess."

"You're the prisoner."

I narrow my eyes at her, feeling my temper flare more than I thought it would at her words.

"You know what I mean," She looks around the balcony everywhere but at me and shifts her weight uncomfortably.

"So what, you're going to head into town and leave me here like a fucking puppy or something?" I get to my feet, glaring at her; “You gonna lock the door and crack a window? Leave me with some water and a treat?” She starts to open her mouth but I shake my head; "If I was going to leave, you think a fucking motel door would stop me? Sorry, spy-girl; I’m coming with you.”

*****

“OK, so we meet back here in an hour?" She's wearing these giant, tortoiseshell grandmother sunglasses that we picked up at a gift shop as we walked into town. I can't help but grin at the way she's trying to sound authoritative and in charge while looking like she’s about to go play a round of bingo with my abuela.

"All by myself?
Unsupervised
?" I shrug dramatically; "I don't know, princess; you sure you don't want me coming along with you?"

"I have to buy clothes." She frowns.

"What, don’t want me helping you pick out some new panties?"
 

She blushes, predictably; "I think I'll be just fine without your help, thank you."

I grin wickedly and lean in closer; “I’m a
great
second opinion for that sort of thing, you know.”

Her face grows even redder, if that was even possible, before she shakes her head; "Try not to get lost, Javier." She walks away, leaving me grinning at my own jokes, but still feeling like they're empty.

*****

Considering that I'm the only Spanish guy in town, with no shirt on and a chest and arms full of fairly identifiable Día de Muertos sugar-skull tattoos, I buy a new t-shirt first. After that, I'm looking at hats before I decide I don't want to look like a total dipshit and find myself ambling around the market instead. Fantastic. I've got fifty full minutes to kill before I'm supposed to meet Chelsea; now what do I do?

Oh hey, look; a bar.

Perfect. Killing time
and
a way to get my mind off Chelsea Archer? Sign me the fuck up.

I straighten my new shirt as I walk up to the place. I swing the heavy wooden door open and blink at the utter darkness of the interior as my eyes try and adjust from the outside; "Hey, let me get a tequi-“

I stop talking as soon as I feel the cold metal of a gun barrel press against the side of my head.

"Que paso, Toro."

Ah, fuck.

I frown as my eyes begin to adjust to the dark bar and realize that the place is entirely empty but for the five guys in black t-shirts and tactical vests with the "BR" Blackriver insignia on the chest.
 

Well, walked right into that one. Literally.

"Figured a place like this was a good spot to bump into a little cockroach like you, Toro."

The man standing in front of me with the mustache and the leering grin on his face is Benson, and I know him from way back even if he is one of those people you’d love to never see again. Mercenary outfits like Blackriver attract all sorts of types. You get ex-soldiers looking for the thrill of a gun or just the regular paycheck from something they already know how to do. You get the wayward lost souls like me who're just looking for something to escape with, and then you also get the utter psychopaths.
 

Benson falls into this last category. These guys are the guys that you'd lock up in a normal society; the guys the Marines say
no
to, because at heart, they're just murderous, trigger-happy lunatics who want a license to kill.

I really don’t miss
any
of those groups after leaving that life, but it’s the Benson type that I hate the most.

"Have a seat,
amigo
." His accent is thickly American and southern, amplified even more by the ridiculously out-of-place cowboy hat he's wearing; as if
anyone
has any doubts that the man with the trucker mustache, the stars and stripes tattoo on his arm, and the Oakley sunglasses can
possibly
be anything else
but
American.

I glare at him, hating the idea of doing what he tells me to do, but tightening my fists at the fact that defying him is probably a bad idea when I'm surrounded by five psychopaths with guns. I like stacked odds, but I'm not stupid.

I sit.

"Good boy."

Keep it up, fuckhead.

"So, having fun? Enjoying being a man free of
El Muerto
?”

Benson gives me a cold look, but I just lean back and shrug as I grin at him; "Figured I needed a vacation."

His lips curl into a chilling smile; the kind I used to use all the time when I was trying to intimidate people. Actually, there's a strong chance I lifted that look from him back in my Blackriver days.

"You got yourself a pretty little travel partner." His look says everything his mouth isn't, and that look says that he doesn't actually give two shits about me; he's here for Chelsea.

"Her?" I shrug again.

Casual, keep casual.

"Nah, I ditched that chick. She got boring."

Benson smirks at me; yeah, he bought that like pigs fly.

"Oh, I'm sure you did." He sighs heavily; "Tell me, Toro, what is it with ex-employees of mine fucking William Archer's daughters, hmm?"

I can't do a thing to stop the flash of pure anger that roars inside of me, and before I know it I'm lurching across the table and knocking my chair back.

But Benson just laughs as guns train on me and hands drag me back into my seat.

"Sit your ass down, Toro. I didn't mean to offend you about your little girlfriend."

"I'm not
fucking
her."

"And I don’t honestly give a shit if you are,” Benson says, his eyes narrowing at me; "You know, you and I still have a contract."

That I do have to laugh at; "The fuck we do."

“Desertion doesn't negate that, Toro.”

"What about kicking me out?" My departure from Blackriver wasn't exactly my finest moment, and not one that I like to reminisce on. Let's just say there wasn't exactly a cake and a gold watch on my last day.

Benson smiles; "Nope. I considered that a
time out
more than
firing
you."

This is getting stupid, and my patience is rapidly fraying away; "What the fuck do you want, Benson?"

"Now, that's not hard is it? Normal conversation? You haven’t been in prison
that
long.” Benson chuckles as he takes his cowboy hat off to run a hand through his thinning hair; "I want your help, Toro. I want you to do what you do best."

"Yeah? And what might that be?"

Benson shrugs; "Lie, cheat, steal, act like the general low-life piece of shit we both know you are."

I snarl at him but his look hardens as he leans across the table right into me; "I want you to get me Chelsea Archer."

I can feel my pulse jump, ice slipping through my veins; “What do you want with her.”