Solomon (Club Sin #6)

13. Masks Practice What You Preach

masks; practice what you preach

Solomon

L orenzo's phone rings a few hours after the checkpoint excitement. He listens, gives a few grunts of affirmation, thanks the person on the other end, and then hangs up.

"I don't have confirmation yet," he says, "But my sources have received several reports of a strange-looking jet landing at an airport in the Bahamas."

"The Bahamas?" Inez asks, toying with her braid. “Odd." She flips the braid behind her back and shakes her head. "That jet left Las Vegas with only the pilot, copilot, and Lash on board. I watched it take off myself. It never deviated from its course until it disappeared, so it never took on another passenger, ruling out a hijacking. So then, why did it alter its course? Why did it stop transponding? Why did it go to the Bahamas?"

Lorenzo shrugs. "Excellent questions. Unfortunately, there are no answers from here."

Inez huffs. "I don't like it. Accompanying us to the airport to pick up Saxon and Terra was the first time he’d left Club Sin since taking the brand, and it was a last-minute decision on his part. No one knew we were leaving. There was no registered flight plan. I do not see how anyone could have known Lash would be on the plane—it belongs to Jean-Paul, and I simply must believe Jean-Paul would have vetted his personal pilot quite extensively."

"That's an understatement," I say. "When I looked into the Syndicate after discovering my brothers were part of it, I learned a few interesting tidbits, such as the fact that all support staff, such as drivers, pilots, personal attendants, and assistants, are hired from within. They do not outsource anything—everything is internal. So when they recruit, they are actually quite selective. And in fact, they even have their own version of an ASVAB that is pirated from the actual armed forces test and adapted to their uses. So, when someone in the upper echelons, like Jean-Paul, needs a chef or a driver or a pilot, they simply request one from within The Syndicate, ensuring that they will receive a loyal and thoroughly vetted individual.”

Inez nods. "I heard something similar."

Scarlett shakes her head. "So you can technically work for and be a part of an international crime organization and be a fucking personal chef?"

I laugh. "Right? Here's the kicker—it's a good career path if you can get around the moral and ethical issues of working for a criminal organization specializing in trafficking drugs and humans. They pay damned well, offer great benefits, and a lot of room for advancement."

Scarlett stares at me in disbelief. "Benefits?"

I nod. "Not just perks like access to drugs, booze, and women, but actual employment benefits, like retirement funds, healthcare, even fractional ownership stakes, sort of like a stock option. It's wild."

"Sounds great, except for the whole human suffering component," Scarlett mutters. She glances at me. "And we just allow them to proliferate?"

I shrug. "I mean, yeah. They're not headquartered in the States, they just do a lot of their business there. I'm not sure they even have a central headquarters. Part of why we haven't taken them down—they're fuckin' smart."

"As interesting as The Syndicate is," Inez says, "we have more pressing issues to discuss. Namely, the double-headed dragon of Mercado and Lash's disappearance."

"How worried are we about Lash?" I ask.

She rolls a shoulder. "Like all of you, he is more than capable of handling most anything. But also like all of you, his enemies are not to be trifled with."

"Are you at liberty to share any information?" I ask.

She muses. "I should not like to divulge information that is not mine to share. Lash is, more than perhaps any of you, an intensely private man. Even our employer and I only know some of his story. What I do know that I feel comfortable sharing is that his primary enemy, the one who sent him into hiding along with the rest of you, is an individual placed quite high in a governmental role. Not the US government, but a European one. This enemy is even more dangerous because of their position, which allows them access to resources even an organization like The Syndicate cannot bring to bear."

"So, do we go after him?" I ask. "Lash, I mean. Find him and support him, somehow?"

She spends a few minutes considering. "We must, I believe. But in order to do so, we have to escape from Mercado's sphere of influence."

"Okay, "I say. "So, what's the plan?"

"Same plan," Inez answers. "Get to Quito, and then to Costa Rica."

"But you think somewhere between here and San Jose, Mercado is going to make some sort of big move?"

"Most certainly," she answers. "We've eluded him thus far, which will displease him. He suffers from a god complex. His ego is enormous, while at the same time being quite fragile."

"Like most oversized male egos,” Scarlett says, snickering. "The bigger the ego, the more delicate it is."

"Big ego, little peepee," Lorenzo says. "Such is my experience."

Inez arches an eyebrow at him, an amused look. "Oh? You have a lot of experience with penises, do you?"

"I've known a lot of men who overcompensate for their tic-tac dick with an overinflated sense of self. But really, he knows he has a teenie weenie, which is why his puffed-up ego is so fragile." Lorenzo grins at her. "It's like truth wealth. A newly rich man will flash his money with status symbols. A truly wealthy man will not—he doesn't need to. He knows his worth and feels no need to prove it to anyone."

Inez sniffs. “Rafael has much to compensate for. A small penis, which he rarely cleans. His wealth and position were obtained through deceit and murder and require a life of extreme isolation to preserve. At the end of the day, when he is alone with himself, he is a small, smelly, pathetic little boy with a tiny dick whom no one loves or even likes. His only respect is garnered through fear and bribery. He is an insect." She lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "But, he is a well-protected and very important insect."

"So there's nothing we can do for Lash right now," I say, feeling uneasy with the idea that he's just out there somewhere, circumstances unknown.

"At this moment, no," Inez says. "But I have a feeling that at some point, we are going to have to split up. I'm going to have to deal with Rafael myself."

"Not by yourself," Lorenzo says. "Never again."

Inez sighs. "Ren—"

"No." He says this gently but firmly—implacable, immovable. "You knew damn well what I would want when you called me. You cannot renege now, Sophia."

" Inez ," she hisses. "I am not Sophia anymore."

"You are always my Sophia."

"And I promised you nothing."

"Yes, you did. By contacting me, by pulling me into your orbit again, you knew damned well that I would not and will not simply vanish again." Driving, Lorenzo glances at her, his gaze hard and angry. "I let you go twice , Sophia. Twice . For love, I let you go. For love, I went against everything within me. I would have run away with you, but you told me to join the army. So I did. I would have taken care of you, protected you and your son, even if it meant betraying my oath to my country and my men. But instead, I helped you place your son in a safe, loving home, and I watched you walk away from me a second time."

Inez's shoulders lift around her ears more with every word from his mouth. "Lorenzo, enough. This is not the time for this."

“It is. I could not care less what Solomon and Scarlett do or do not know about you. Nor should you. Let them know." He grabs her hand and kisses the back of it. "I will not let you go again, Sophia. I have lived too long without. I have spent too many lonely nights dreaming of you. No more. You are here, and I am with you. And so it will be. If Rafael is going to be dealt with, we will do it together."

Inez doesn't answer, nor does she withdraw her hand from his.

God, the guys aren't going to believe a word of this.

Quito is one of the most fascinating places I've ever been. It's old . And like many very old cities, it's been built up layer by layer over the centuries; but unlike many other old cities, in Quito, you can see those layers due to the mountainous nature of the geography. In the oldest sections, you can see where the oldest builders began and watch the stonework age in reverse. Modern homes and businesses are built on foundations centuries and possibly even millennia old. Other areas away from the colonial center are much like any other city in South and Central America.

Lorenzo seems to know where he's going, moving us through the city at an easy, unhurried pace, as if we didn't have a care in the world.

All of us are scanning in three hundred and sixty degrees, fingers itchy along the trigger guard, ready for Mercado's forces to descend upon us at any moment.

Yet, nothing happens, even when Lorenzo pulls under the portico of a hotel—not a luxurious place, but not a roach-infested no-tell motel, either.

"Inez," he says, putting the manual gear shift in neutral, "get us two adjoining rooms and leave a key at the front desk for me under the name Luiz."

She nods, tucking her handgun into her waistband. "And you?"

"We need a new vehicle, and I need to make contact with my sources and see if I can find out anything about Mercado's plans." He grabs her hand before she can get out. "Leave the rifles and everything else. Just yourselves and your pistols."

Inez yanks her hand away. "It's not my first day, Ren. I know what I'm doing. See to yourself and do not worry about me." She's out of the truck and stalking toward the hotel entrance without a backward look.

Lorenzo watches her go. "She is much changed since I last saw her."

"I wouldn't know," I say. "But you do bring out a side of her I've never seen before."

He nods. "She was always a very deep and very complicated woman. Now, however, she keeps everything that makes her the woman I once knew buried very deep."

"So deep I didn't even know it existed till you showed up," I answer. "Good luck with that one."

Lorenzo chuckles. "Luck has very little to do with it."

"Oh?" I say, laughing. "Then what is it?"

"Patience." He glances at me over his shoulder. "Have you ever broken a wild horse?"

I snort. "Hardly."

"Well, a wild horse is very difficult to break, naturally. A young horse, one you have known since it was a foal, you must merely show consistency and patience. A wild horse is a whole other thing. They are smart, wary, and stubborn. Sophia, or Inez, as she insists upon these days, is a horse that was once domesticated and has now found the joy of freedom. She will not easily take a bridle again."

I laugh. "I would not make that comparison to her, Lorenzo."

“God, no. She would shoot me."

"I think shooting would be the kindest reaction to being compared to a stubborn animal," Scarlett says. "And on that note, c'mon, Sol. There's a shower and a real goddamned bed waiting."

Twenty minutes later, we have a room paid for with cash under a fake name. Out of long habit, we don't just barge in and lounge on the bed like normal people—we clear the room first, sweeping corners, checking behind the shower curtain and under the bed. Inez went into her room without a word to either of us, and we heard the door connecting the rooms lock.

"I guess she needs to be alone," I mutter quietly to Scarlett.

Scarlett laughs. "I'd say so. She was forced to call on someone I doubt she intended to see again. She's probably going through some serious shit right now."

"I suppose if anyone understands how that feels, it's us." I toss my pistol on the single-king bed and then sit and gratefully peel my boots off. God, I would kill someone for my fucking Danners. These boots are like having my feet encased in soggy bread on the sides, with wood planks for insoles. Total shit. Better than being barefoot, but only marginally. And don't even get me started on the goddamn socks.

Scarlett is sitting beside me, doing the same. For a while, then, we just sit side by side, wiggling our bare toes and enjoying a moment of quiet.

"I almost forgot how grueling this shit can be," I say after a while. "On the road, covert, seeing people who want to kill you behind every shadow."

Scarlett just nods. Glances at me. "Sol?"

I meet her eyes. "Yeah, babe."

Her voice is quiet, pitched so I can hear without it carrying to the other room. "Am I like her?" she asks. "Inez."

I let out a breath, thinking about it. "Honestly, yeah, now that you mention it. In some ways, at least. But just to be clear, the Inez you're meeting is not the Inez I've known. She's way more open and personable."

"She's cold, prickly, and standoffish," Scarlett says.

I look at her. "I mean, yeah, and that's the personable, improved version. The Inez I've known is an isolationist ice queen. She shows up, gives orders, and that's it. She never talks about herself, gives away nothing about who she is, and doesn't spend any more time than necessary around any of us."

"And that's how I am?"

I take her hand and twine my fingers with hers. "It's how you used to be, yes."

She nods again, staring at our joined hands. "Watching her feels like looking in a mirror, sometimes. Especially when she interacts with Lorenzo. She clearly has deep feelings for him but refuses to acknowledge them at all."

"Scar, you've grown in that respect a tremendous amount in the last few days."

She looks at me, then. “It's hard to find the balance. I..." pink touches her cheeks. "When it's just you and me, I like being..." she trails off, shrugging uncomfortably.

"Being what, babe?" I ask. "Don't get shy now."

"I dunno the word," she says. "Soft? Girly? Feminine? I like...I like feeling..." she laughs, shaking her head. "I really don't know how to put it."

"I know what you're getting at," I say. "And I like seeing that side of you."

"I just...I can't be that person when it's go-time." She looks away, lifting a hand palm up. “But that feels…fake, or something.”

I shrug. "Hell, I'm not the same Sol when it's go-time as I am when it’s just you and me. We've all got...masks, I guess." I consider it for a second. "Not masks—that's not the right word. Facets. Who we are in different situations—the face we show. Right now, this is the part of me that's your man, your lover, your partner. When we gear up and go do violent shit, that's another part of me. When I'm hangin' out with the guys, that's another part of me, too. It's not fake, and it's not being two-faced or not genuine. It's just adapting to the circumstances. It would be weird if we were in a gunfight and I was all like, ‘Hey baby, come sit on my lap, let's kiss.’”

Scarlett bursts out in laughter. “Yeah, Sol, that would be a little fucking odd." She tugs her hair out of the ponytail and shakes it loose. "Mainly because I don't know that I’ve ever sat on your lap."

"Then we should fix that." I grab her and haul her onto my lap.

Predictably, she's stiff at first. She sits bolt upright, hands on her thighs, shoulders square, not leaning against me at all. "This is...it feels weird."

I chuckle. “Because you're stiff as a board, babe. Relax. Get comfy."

“It just feels unnatural. I kill people for a living. I don't sit on laps." She clenches her fists and unclenches them in synch with her intentionally slow breathing.

"Right, but you're not Scar the operator right now, are you? You're Scarlett, my...girlfriend? My woman? I don't fuckin’ know what word to use, but this is just us right now."

She blinks at me. “ You're not relaxed. We're on the edge of the bed. If I put my weight on you, you'll have to brace to support me. Which means you're not relaxed, and I’ll feel it, and then I won’t be able to relax."

I frown. "Hmmm. Can't argue with that logic." I stand up, taking her with me—she flat-out yelps in protest, her arms going around my neck.

"Jesus, Sol, warn a bitch, next time," she snaps.

I just laugh. “More fun this way."

"Where are you taking me?" she demands.

"God, relax, Scar, shit." I circle to the far side of the bed and sit, stuffing the pillow behind my back and stretching my legs out. "There. I'm comfy as fuck. Your turn."

She sighs, still sitting stiff as a fence post on my thighs, knees half-bent, shoulders back, head high, almost in a sort of seated version of parade rest. "Can't I just relax, you know, next to you?"

"Nope. Cuddle time."

" Cuddle ?" She says the word as if it's been dipped in lemon juice.

I can't help but laugh, snickering as I try to contain it, only to lose it entirely, pressing my face against the back of her neck. "Yes, Scarlett. Cuddle .”

"That's not in my skillset, Solomon."

I laugh all the harder. "It's not a skill, you silly goose."

She twists in place. "Silly goose?"

“Yes. You're being a silly goose." I wrap my arms around her, pull her flush against my chest, and then sit back, taking her with me. "It's the easiest thing in the world. All you do is...nothing."

"Exactly. I'm not good at doing nothing." She's laying against me, but still stiffly. "Can't we just fuck?"

Instead of answering, I wrap one arm around her shoulders above her breasts, the other low across her hips, and just...hold her.

"Solomon, why are we doing this?"

I put my hand over her mouth. "Hush, baby. Just relax."

"I don't...know… how .”

"This is you learning."

“I’m not a baby."

"You called me baby the other day."

"Heat of the moment. I was out of my mind."

"Still counts." I nuzzle my nose behind her ear. Whisper against the tender shell. "I've got you, Scar. Close your eyes, breathe, and just be . Just be here with me. You're safe for now. You can turn it off, just for a bit."

Her head shakes, but I feel her pull in a deep breath and hold it. When she lets it out, her body softens a little bit.

"There you go," I murmur. "Good. Do it again."

Another long, slow, deep inhalation. She holds it. And...lets it out in a pursed-lip ten count. And now softer yet, starting to melt against my chest.

"Can I move?" she whispers.

I chuckle. "You can do whatever you want, as long it's not getting up. This isn't a training technique, babe, it's just fuckin' cuddling."

“I’d rather fuck than cuddle."

"Believe me, I know the feeling."

She twists to lay on her stomach—I scootch down so I'm nearly laying, and she rests her head on my chest, hands on my shoulders. For a long time, she just breathes and lays on me.

"I like this," she murmurs, eventually.

“Me too. See?"

"She teach you to cuddle? Violet?"

"Jealous?" I ask.

She nods. "Yes."

"Good."

She lifts her chin to look at me. "Wait...really?" A perplexed blink. "Why's that good?"

"Because it means you want me all to yourself."

"I do." She settles back down. "I'm mad she got to experience parts of you first."

I roam her body with my hands over her clothes, sensually but not sexually. "When we were together the first time, neither of us knew what the fuck we were doing. We didn't know what we wanted. We didn't know...anything. The only way either of us knew how to express anything was through sex."

"I still don't."

"And what I had with Violet was....transactional. She wanted more, but I couldn't give her something that didn't belong to her—it belongs to you. Always has, always will."

Scarlett heaves a deep breath. "Sol..."

“Yeah, babe?”

"I just..." her voice drops till I can barely hear her. "I do want to learn. I'm trying."

"This is it, honey. We're cuddling."

“Are there...like, other positions?"

I laugh. "It's not martial arts, Scar, Jesus. It's anything we want it to be. You don't have to figure it out. It's non-sexual physical intimacy, if you want a definition of some sort. When you fall asleep on my chest, that's cuddling. Let's say we're on the couch at home in the Club, watching a movie. Instead of sitting next to me, you get close. Whatever's comfortable. It's just closeness, honey. Being close to each other because it feels good. It's comforting. Makes you feel..." I trail off, looking for the right word.

"Safe," she whispers. “I’ve never been safe. Never felt safe. Alone or with someone, in the middle of a fucking army base on US soil, anywhere—I’ve never felt safe. In my own home—not that I’ve ever really had an actual home . I have never felt safe at any point in my life.” A long pause. "Except here and now, with you. Like this."

This admission makes my chest ache and my eyes burn. A hot lump forms in my throat. "Fuck, honey."

She lifts up to look at me, frowning. "Jesus, Sol, are you..." She runs a fingertip from the tear duct beneath my lower eyelid to the outer corner. "Are you... crying ?"

"No," I lie.

Her brow furrows deeper, blinking hard. "What? What did I say?”

I swallow hard. "That you feel safe with me like this."

She rolls a shoulder. "Nothing to cry about." She looks away but then right back at me, searching me, dabbing at my leaky tear ducts, and examining the moisture on her fingertip as if it were a mysterious substance.

"Is to me,” I whisper. "You're the strongest, toughest person I know, Scar. After everything you've been through, everything you've done...for you to feel safe with me, in my arms...it's..." I swallow hard. "Fuck, I dunno. Chokes me up. Means a fucking lot, Scar. Best gift I could ever get."

She shakes her head and rests on my chest again. "Shut up." Her breathing comes shallow and fast, now. "Dammit, Sol."

“Got you going, too, did I?”

"No."

"Then look at me."

A petulant shake of her head. "No. Fuck off. Asshole."

I roll to put her beneath me, pinning her with all my weight, cupping the side of her face. Wetness pools in the corners of her eyes. "Share it with me, sweetheart. Lemme have it."

"I don't even...I don't know. I don't fucking know." She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to wiggle a hand free to cover her face.

I grab her wrist and prevent her from covering her face. "No hiding. Not from me. Not this."

She closes her eyes and shakes her head again. "No. Shut up. Go away."

“Talk to me, honey."

"Stop calling me stupid names."

"I know what you're doing, Scar."

"What am I doing?"

"Acting like a hardass because you're embarrassed. Pushing me away because the emotional vulnerability is terrifying the shit out of you."

She parts her eyelids, teardrops glinting on her thick black eyelashes. "What the fuck do you want from me, Sol?"

I brush my thumb oh-so-gently over one and then the other. "You're giving it to me right now."

"I don't even know why I'm crying."

"Yeah, you do."

"I don't."

"Want me to guess?"

"Sure?"

I kiss one eyelid. "You're finally getting in touch with all the soft emotional shit you've been stuffing down your whole life. It's coming out."

"Scares the fuck outta me," she whispers.

"I know," I whisper back. "But you're doing it. Because you trust me. You know I've fuckin' got you, Scar. Your secrets are safe with me. This part of you, the soft, emotional, vulnerable side? It's mine . Only for me. And I swear to fucking Christ, Scar, I will guard it with every fucking thing I’ve got. You can give it all to me. All that soft sappy shit. You can be that with me. I want it. I need it. And you can also trust that when the shit hits the fan, I will never, ever treat you as anything less than the hardcore, badass queen of the fucking night that you are."

"Sol—" she whispers, the words wet with unshed tears.

"I fucking love you, Scarlett."

She chokes. "Solomon—"

"You know who else I love?"

She frowns. "No?"

"Maria Consuela Rodriguez."

Her shoulders shake, and her eyes squeeze shut as tears finally burst free and run down her cheeks. "Shut up—shut up—shutthefuck up , Sol."

"Nope." I kiss the sharp angle of her cheekbone and taste tears. The other side. "I love you."

"Fucking shut up!"

“Nope.” I cradle her face. "I love every part of you. I love Scarlett Luisa Gutierrez, the whole person you've become. I love Scar. I love Scarla. I love Scarlett. I love the badass. I love the lover you're becoming. I love the woman. I love the killer. I love the cold prickly bitch you can be."

She's shaking all over with silent sobs. "Sol, please. Stop."

"No." I kiss her other cheekbone. Each closed, wet eyelid. I kiss her cheeks. Her chin. Her lips. "I love Maria Consuela Rodriguez."

"She's fucking dead. I'm not her anymore."

"You buried her, but she's not dead. I see her coming out. And it's beautiful, Scar. You’re beautiful."

"I'm not beautiful. I'm a lot of things. Beautiful ain't one of 'em."

"Wrong. You're beautiful. Inside and out. And I love you." I cup her face. "Look at me, beautiful."

She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. "No."

"Come on, honey. Look at me."

Her eyes crack open. "What, goddammit?"

I laugh, kissing her lips now. "I love you."

"I heard you, Sol. You only said it, like a billion times." She wipes at her eyes.

"Scar, honey. You don't have to say it. Not till you're ready, whenever that is."

"What if that's never?”

"Nah, you'll get there."

Her hands steal beneath my shirt to find skin. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely. If you can give me this ,” I wipe at her tears, "then someday, you'll be able to tell me you love me. I know you do."

She nods, a tiny, fractional dip of her chin. “Yeah.”

"Then that's all I need, honey—to know that you do."

"I'm trying so goddamned hard, Solomon," she whispers. “This shit is so far away from...from everything I’ve ever been that…I don't even know how to...." she trails off with a frustrated sigh. "It's so hard and so scary. Walking around Kandahar naked would be less terrifying."

"Why is being with me so scary?" I ask. "You trust me with your life, why not your heart?"

"Because..." she pauses for a moment. “Because I don't know who I am on the inside."

"Why'd you join the CIA?" I ask.

She frowns at the abrupt change in topic. "Um? Honestly, because it was the only option other than being homeless and starving. When I accidentally happened across that meeting, I hadn't eaten in days, hadn't slept properly in who knows how long. My shoes were coming apart. I was walking around considering either killing myself or voluntarily going back to selling myself...and suicide was the more appealing option. So when that agent suggested I join the CIA and explained that it would mean I'd get paid, and that I'd have somewhere to sleep at night and something to eat, and I wouldn't have to let some greasy, smelly, fat old white man fuck me, yeah, it seemed like an easy choice."

"What kept you doing it?"

"Why are you asking me this now?" she demands. "Why does it matter?"

"Humor me."

A roll of her eyes. "Fine, whatever. Because I swore an oath, I was given citizenship despite having entered illegally. I was given a new identity. I was given training—a skillset. I was given a purpose...a country to serve. I've never identified as Panamanian. Hispanic, sure. Latina, sure. But the country I was born in? No. Nothing wrong with it, I suppose, it was just...not home—I was so young when I left, you know? Inasmuch as I have a home, it's the US. I'm American. America gave me a life and a reason to live, and so I chose to spend that life protecting her against all enemies, foreign and domestic."

"So when you say you don't know who you are on the inside, what you really mean is you don't know who you are without a mission? Without the action."

A sigh. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"What you're really saying, then, is that you're not afraid of letting yourself fall in love with me—that happened a long time ago. You already love me, and you know it. So do I. What you're afraid of is the idea that committing to loving me and living with me—doing life with me—means you have to give up being an operator, and you don't know who you are without that."

"Yes," she whispers. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of. I’m scared loving you isn't enough."

I smile. "I'll give you a little shortcut, Scarlett: It's not. Loving me isn't enough. If the only reason you're willing to give up everything you know and be a part of the Broken Arrows with me is because you love me, it's doomed to fail. You can't take the brand for me."

"Sol..."

"I love the shit outta you, Scarlett. But I won't let you take the brand if you're only doing it to be with me. You have to do it for you."

"I don't know what that looks like." She covers her face with her hand. “That's what I mean when I say I don't know who I am on the inside. I've lived my whole adult life with the one singular purpose of completing my assignments. Finish the mission. Survive. Get the bad guys. Do the job. That's it. Being at home, on base, alone, with no mission to prep for or debrief from, no training exercises...just free time? I have no fucking clue what to do."

"Scar—"

She cuts over me. "Ask me things about myself."

I frown. "Like what?"

"Pretend I'm some chick you just met at a bar, and you're trying to get to know her."

"Okay....last movie you watched?"

She shrugs. "No clue. Haven't watched a movie in years. I don't even have a TV."

"Favorite movie?"

Another shrug. "Princess Bride, I guess. That's the last movie I remember seeing, actually. You and me on that flight from...shit, where was it? Germany to...Kuwait?"

I smile at the memory. "I think so, yeah. We watched it on my phone in the back of a C130, each of us with one earbud."

She shakes her head, smiling. "You quoted just about every single line throughout the whole movie. Drove me fucking nuts, but it was funny as hell. Especially the 'wuv...twoo wuv' part."

"I don't think you’ve ever laughed as hard."

"I haven't. That's why it's my favorite movie. And honestly, one of my best memories."

I flop to my back and pull her onto my chest. "Favorite color."

"Black."

"Favorite color that's not black, white, or gray.

She pauses. "I...um. Blue, I guess. I dunno."

"Favorite genre of music?"

"I don't listen to music."

I frown at her. "Wait, what?"

She shrugs. "I don't."

"How is that possible?"

"I mean, guys on my squad will put on rap or metal when we're lifting or sparring or whatever, but I don't think I have ever, once, just put music on simply to listen to music. I'm either training, traveling, or working. Music simply doesn't have a place in my life."

I shake my head. "No wonder you're so cranky all the time, Jesus, woman."

She glares at me. "Well fuck you very much."

I dissolve into laughter. "Scar, honey, that says everything . Music is one of life's great joys."

She stares at me. "Okay, hotshot, then what's your favorite genre of music?"

"That's impossible to answer," I say. "I like metal when I’m working out. If we're all just hanging out in the common room, it's usually nineties rap—you know, the good stuff: Nas, Tupac, Biggie, DMX, Jay-Z, shit like that. If I'm just chillin' alone in my room, like reading or whatever, I might turn on coffeehouse kinda shit."

"I don't know what ‘coffee-house kinda shit’ even is," she says.

I laugh. "Hell, woman. Singer-songwriter. One person with a guitar and a microphone, mainly. It's quiet, soft, soothing, and thoughtful. The lyrics are usually poetry and not just nonsense and bullshit. It's chill music."

She props her chin on my chest. "Hold up, though. Question."

"Okay."

"You really just sit down and...do nothing?"

I laugh. "No. I don't just sit in a chair in the dark and stare at nothing, Jesus. I read a book. Watch a movie. So sometimes I will turn off the lights and put in my earbuds and listen to an album. I do that with piano music, usually. It's kinda like meditation."

“You meditate?"

I nod. "Abso-fucking-lutely. Meditation and breathing are a huge part of how I learned to transition away from being an operator. Because Scar, honey, I know exactly how you feel."

"You do?" She whispers.

"Fuck yes. When I woke up in that hospital room, I questioned everything. How totally fucking wrong that mission went, and how ready they were to just let us fucking die. They burned us the second the mission went sideways. Hung us out to dry. After all we fucking did. Mission after mission, shedding blood—others’ and our own. Facing death time and again. Suffering from PTSD that we don't have the time or wherewithal to cope with, so we pretend we're fucking fine and go do another fucking mission. One op goes wrong, and they just fucking abandon us?"

She swallows. "I still struggle with that."

"I fucking hope so. I couldn't do it anymore. I knew that if I showed up at Langley, they'd put me back out in the field. There would be no apology, no culpability. Just 'thanks for your service, go kill this terrorist, thanks-bye.'" I shake my head. "And that would be after I faced months of rehab. I'd have to go to Walter Reed and answer questions and...yeah, no. They fucking abandoned me. You. Everyone. Our whole fucking team got killed, and it was fucking preventable. If just one goddamn person had taken a second look at the intel and gone, 'y'know, something about this don't smell right,’ it'd have been scrapped, as it should have been. But we were expendable. Without value. So yeah, I was bitter. Angry. Jaded. And the choice Inez gave me was a no-brainer. I wanted out. But once I got out, like you, I had no clue who I was. Without a mission, who was I? What kind of a man was I? What did I like? What did I want? I'm still figuring it out, but the first, biggest step was admitting to myself that I had no clue who I was and then committing to figuring that out."

"And who are you?” she asks.

"I'm Solomon Cabot. I love all kinds of music. I like watching action flicks with the guys and picking apart all the shit that makes no sense. I like working out. I hate country music. I hate the color orange." I sigh, shrug. "I'm not sure I have the same sense of purpose anymore, and that's taken some adjustment. But there's a certain peace and enjoyment in every day being the same after so many years of never knowing where I'd be or what I'd be doing from one day to the next. I miss the rush, the adrenaline, the danger. But one thing I've learned since those assholes snatched me is that I don't miss it that much—as weirdly almost nostalgic as all this is, it also kinda sucks. When all this is over, I will happily go back to bouncing at Club Sin. It's not exciting. It's kinda boring and repetitive. One day is pretty much like the next and the last. It's not some great purpose, like serving my country or whatever. But that's okay. My purpose is not in my work. It's in the guys and girls I live with. My brothers, Sax and Si. My other brothers—Rev, Kane, Chance, and Lash. Inez. Myka, Annika, and Angalee. They’re…my family, I guess, and that’s my purpose.”

She rolls off me and flops to her back. "You just...live? Hang out with people, eat, sleep, lift, work, and that's it?"

I nod. "That's it. That's life."

"And it fulfills you?"

I shrug. "It's enough, for now."

"For now?"

"I think maybe someday I'd...." I find it hard to admit this. "I, um. I'd like a family."

She goes to her side, facing me, eyes wide. "Like...a wife and kids sort of thing?”

I nod. "Yeah."

She blinks, tears in her eyes. "Sol."

"I'm not putting anything on you. I'm not asking you to say anything or commit or decide—nothing. I'm just practicing what I preach—giving you honesty even though it's scary. And it's scary because I know damn well you may not ever be in a place where you can give me that. I know that, and I’m okay with it. And I still choose you."

"Sol."

“Yeah, babe?"

“You talk a lot."

I grin at her. "Yeah?"

She nods. "A fucking lot."

"So?"

She gives me a long, scorching look that communicates everything she wants. "We have a bed. We have privacy. I want to take advantage of it while we have it. You can psychoanalyze me later."

"So what you're saying is—" I start.

She throws a leg over my hips and straddles me, sits upright, and peels off her shirt and bra. “I’m saying, Solomon Cabot, that I want you to shut the fuck up and make love to me."

I slide my hands up the long, sensuous expanse of her bare back. "Well, when you put it that way..."