Mastered By The Mavericks (7 page)

“I can handle pressure.”

El tapped a finger on the air. “That girl can handle the pressure!”

Brynn lifted her chin.

Rebel didn’t make a secret of his frown.

“You won’t be coddled.”

She glared. Insulted? “I don’t do coddled.”

El lifted another finger. “She hates being coddled.”

Rhett huffed. Snarled. Pressed over her again, nearly hunching his shoulders, feeling
like a goddamn ape. The little fool only stared back with eyes full of Olympus’s own
lightning.
Fuck.
The only thing that seemed to faze her was the unspoken promise of spankings.
A lot
of spankings.

And now, every time his eyes closed, the only way he kept envisioning her.

And wouldn’t
that
be a dandy way to start a mission with her?

You’re not starting
anything
with her, you moron
!

The charge stabbed into him enough to drive him backward, gaining the necessary distance
from her for rational thought. Or so he assumed. Now standing next to Double-Oh again,
he grabbed his friend by the elbow then jerked a nod over the path he’d just come,
silently enlisting his friend to back him the hell up with their cute but crazy resident
redhead.

Wasn’t happening.

Rhett flung a stare like
he’d
chugged the bloody Kool-Aid, confusion twisting his all-too-pretty features. “Reb,
I’ve always got your back, man…but what’s this about?”

His jaw didn’t drop often. He saved that special reaction for times just like this.
“Are you fucking joking?”

“Are
you
?”

He forced his jaw back up, closing it on grinding teeth. Actually took his time about
it, just in case Rhett wanted to let him in on the psych-out. “She has no fucking
field experience!”

Rhett released an enduring sigh. “Not a stitch. But she
does
have a point. Neither did Zoe. But without her, Shay might still be the filet of
the day inside that D.C. ware—”

Too late, the idiot realized what kind of a red cape that’d throw in front of the
bull they were still barely calling Shay. Sure enough, Bommer swung fully around and
kicked out, flipping the couch all the way over onto its side, then left the room
by stomping up and over the destroyed furniture—

Not before burying one more fist in the wall.

Rebel expelled a hard breath. He admitted—very secretly—to a wash of confusion at
Shay’s torment. To have that kind of love for a woman…for
anyone
…what must it be like? He’d been alive for close to thirty years and was damn sure
he’d never felt anything close to it, or ever would. He’d never even missed it, either.
And wasn’t
that
just poetic? The hell of his childhood had simply replaced its curse in his adulthood.
Deeper scars were easier to cover. They were nothing like the pain he watched slithering
up every inch of I-Man’s back, sinking fangs deeper with every step Shay took through
the dining room, to finally escape outside. Nothing like the clawed, desperate hand
the man drove through his hair as dawn peeked over the crags of Red Rock Canyon, the
sky’s cheerful glow like a full-blown mockery.

No more confusion. The answer blared clear as the emerging light of the day. Loving
anyone like that wasn’t just an ability he didn’t have; it was a burden he didn’t
want. Ever.

That did him no good with the problem of Brynna Monet.

And her goddess’s magic.

And her wild-ass notions about what “helping” a friend entailed.

And the fact that she now walked over with an arm hooked beneath Rhett’s—apparently
enlisting
him
on her side, too.

“What the fuck?” He glowered at Double-Oh as they stepped over. “I’m distracted for
a second by I-Man hurling couches across the room, and you’re now on her side?”

Rhett flashed his best blasé smirk.
Asswipe.
It was the same look he used to charm women right out of their panties, everywhere
they went—but the idea of Brynn’s lacy bits in Double-Oh’s pocket made him want to
puke.

“Just so we’re all straight, I’ve always been on her side.”

Rhett let him have it eye-to-eye without a chaser of wimp, but if the guy thought
that got him off any easier, he was vastly mistaken.

“We’re
not
all straight,” Rebel snarled. “This mission—”

“Mission?” his friend rejoined. “I haven’t heard anything about a ‘mission’. Last
I knew, we were headed for some nice, no-stress down time out in Texas—especially
if we have some extra support along in the way of getting on with the locals.”

A few layers of his tooth enamel disappeared as he bit down. “You’re seriously going
with that, huh?”

Rhett didn’t even give that a shrug of reply. “Brynn’s come up with a good idea for
mitigating your concerns about the situation.”

He slid a wry look toward the sweet-smiling woman. “Is that 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 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 it.

The extra exhilaration in his blood didn’t take long to find its way between his thighs.
Happened almost instantly, in fact, as soon as he pivoted to take her in once more,
making him suddenly feel like it had been eight years since last seeing her, not hours.
Per his growled command after she’d turned him into human pizza for the third time,
she was dressed for purpose, not prettiness: a khaki work shirt tucked into skinny
jeans, leading down to sturdy hiking boots with green and pink striped socks bunched
around the tops. Her hair was styled just as practically, a single side braid roped
over one shoulder. An Angels baseball cap covered the top of her head.