Jackson
Bash pulls upright suddenly. “How the hell are we supposed to do that?”
The whole room stares at Chelsea, cute in her lounge clothes and messy hair piled on her head. She sits on the sofa with her bare feet drawn up and tugs her shirt hem down, though nothing is exposed.
I get the idea she wasn’t expecting a crowd and is self-conscious about her appearance. Why, I don’t know. I could eat her up just like she is. Also off is that not a single wisecrack has passed her lips. Mine turn down, frowning at the realization. Something’s wrong with her.
“We, uh, set him up. Get him to say why he’s so against military contractors.”
Bash pushes out of his seat, dislodging Birdie’s hand from his thigh. Something’s wrong with him as well. He’s not generally like this. Could he and Chelsea have fought about something?
Bash glares at Chelsea, but his eyes show concern instead of ire. “I don’t understand why you think he’ll tell you shit.”
Chelsea isn’t bothered by his resistance. Maybe this is the norm when passing ideas back and forth with my former teammate. Chelsea rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Of course, he won’t if I introduce myself as Chelsea, the PMC.”
My friend begins pacing the floor in front of the fireplace. “Harding wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. Besides, how the hell would you even get close to him? You’re nobody to a US congressman. Even if you were a person of influence in his world, he’s only talking to people who can advance his agenda.”
I know Bash is being careful, but I’ve now seen how this woman’s mind works. Given half a chance, I’m convinced she’ll figure this out. And I’m going to help her. “So, we find someone who can advance his agenda. Or we become them.”
Bash’s expression is incredulous, but I ignore him, directing my question to the others. “What would draw this man in? Chelsea?”
The woman is even more surprised than Bash when I ask for her input. She rubs her arms and closes her eyes. “We need to get him away from Washington, so the draw would have to be big, a fundraiser or campaign event. Since his biggest talking point is PMCs… No, it’s how PMCs affect the armed forces…defense…”
Her eyes fly open. “Shit. A defense convention. With anti-private military speakers. Harding could be invited as some sort of dignitary. Maybe set up some bullshit after-party for deeper discussion.”
Fish’s nose wrinkles, and he raps his knuckles against his knee. “I get it that your boss is rich, but you’re talking about a multi-million-dollar setup when there’s no guarantee Harding will even show.”
“No,” Birdie spouts suddenly, yet softly and full of curiosity. “I’ll bet…”
The intel specialist doesn’t finish, instead opening a laptop on the coffee table and pounding the keyboard. “I’ll bet there’s already a convention scheduled with the private military as a keynote topic.”
At Birdie’s insistence, the rest of the room warms to the possibility. “God, there’s several on the calendar with panels about the efficacy of private military and militia in modern warfare. We could just about take our pick.”
Fish now leans forward, fully engaged. “Find one in Europe if there’s one to be had. That way, we can be involved legally.”
Birdie’s furious typing continues for a second or two before, “Bingo. Southern Spain. End of this month.”
Aaron speaks for the first time since arriving. “We still can’t guarantee Harding will show.”
“That’s the easy part,” I say. “Pompous and self-righteous as he is, I bet all it’ll take to get him is a private jet and an invitation touting him as an expert. Maybe make the after party a big fancy reception in his honor.”
Sadie pipes in with, “The jet is easy. We could rent some big-ass house to host a ball-style reception.”
“Your logistics are sound,” Devil says. “You still have one problem, though. You have to get this bastard to talk. Who are you getting to play host? Many of us would be out. Too recognizable because of recent press.”
“Chelsea and I volunteer,” I offer without hesitation.
“What?” she gasps.
“What do you mean, what? This was your idea,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but…” She stammers. “Do you know how many hoops a plan like this would have to jump through? First, we’ll have to buy our way into this convention. Second, we’ll have to scout mansions and convince some wrinkly old fart to let us use one. Not to mention, schedule a fake ball with fake guests. Oh, and provide adequate security so we’ll have a slim chance at an asshole congressman accepting our flowery invitation.”
“Thirty seconds ago, you were trying to sell us on the idea. Now you want to back out?” Bash asks.
Chelsea fails to come up with an intelligible answer. “I…um.”
I’m suddenly all about this plan. Clapping my hands, I stand to indicate we’re through brainstorming. “Everyone else good with the basic plan? Oh, and since some of you are well-known in political circles, I’d suggest making the party a masked affair.”
Sadie pushes off the sofa. “I’ll get O’Reilly and Knot on a call or in a room together to sell the idea. Be ready to jump on this ASAP. The convention Birdie found is in four weeks.”
The rest of the room follows suit, and Sadie leaves with Aaron, followed by Fish and Devil. Chelsea, moving woodenly, carries empty bottles to the kitchen. I follow because I can’t help it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
Chelsea places the bottles in the trash and turns. Blowing her cheeks out, she waits a second before answering, “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Did I do this? Did I_”
“Did you what? Break me? That’s some ego you must have, thinking you can alter my brain chemistry with a few words. What is it with you? I tell jokes. You think I’m flirting. I don’t tell jokes, and you think I’m pining. You. Don’t. Know. Me.” She slams the trash cabinet closed. “And trust me when I say you don’t want to.”
“Chelsea.” I place a hand on her cheek to stop this head of steam she’s building. “Stop pretending_”
The woman pulls away and rushes through the back door, slamming it behind her. Struck by her reaction, it takes me a second to give chase. I step forward, wrenching the door open, only to have a big hand clamp down on my shoulder.
Bastien yanks me back, slams the door shut, and spins me around, pinning me to the wall. “What did you do to her?”
Birdie shuffles into the kitchen, eyes wide at the pair of us.
Bastien’s eyes are feral as he repeats the question. “What did you do to Chelsea?”
“I didn’t do a damned thing.”
Bastien pulls me forward and slams me back again. “Bullshit. You must have done or said something for her to run out like that.”
“I swear, I didn’t do anything. I asked Chelsea to show me her true colors. That’s it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” my friend demands through clenched teeth.
“How about let go of me, and I’ll tell you.”
Bastien shoves off me and storms to the living room, Birdie hot on his tail. He flops onto the sofa and growls, “Start talking.”
I follow only because I know why Bash is pulling this asshat routine. He’s mentioned that Chelsea has no family besides a domineering mother who is no longer in the picture. Because of this, Bastien has taken on the role of overprotective brother since joining Knot’s outfit and being paired with her.
That’s the only reason I’m not kicking his ass right now. “I talked to Chelsea off and on during the Bulgaria mission. I asked why she’s always hiding behind jokes and sarcasm instead of showing people how brilliant she is.”
His mouth goes slack. “What are you talking about? Chelsea is a wiseass. What’s wrong with that? We both served with plenty of them. I don’t see you trying to change Wrench or Skin.”
“Yeah, well, Wrench and Skin don’t freeze up in social situations where strange men make surprise visits, or make fast exits when something other than work is being discussed. They certainly don’t pretend to like something to avoid being singled out.”
“Now, you’re just talking out of your ass,” Bash accuses.
“No, he isn’t.”
We both turn at Birdie’s statement. “I’ve seen it. Chelsea hates beer.”
Bash’s face contorts in either disgust or disbelief. “Then how come she always orders one when the team goes out?”
Birdie shrugs. “She’s always just ordered one, and I’ve never seen her finish. And now that I think about it, she always has other plans when we invite the team to do something more than have drinks after work. We don’t do it often, but she always has an excuse.”
Bastien is on his feet again, doubt beginning to cloud his eyes. “She went rafting with several PMCs before I came. It was an overnight trip. That’s how she got her damned nickname.”
“I remember the story about the snake in the raft,” Birdie confirms. “That was mostly a girl’s trip. Aaron was the only guy.”
Birdie’s explanation deflates Bastien completely. “You don’t think some guy could’ve… She’s never nervous around me.”
“That’s because she was never attracted to you,” the intel genius states. “To answer your question, yes, I think someone hurt Chelsea, but not in the way you fear.”
I nod, fully in agreement with Birdie’s assessment. “Because of whatever happened, Chelsea wears a mask. I saw through it.”
“How is that when you only just met her?” Bash presses.
“I was looking a hell of a lot closer because I want her.”
My friend looks ready to take my head off. Birdie lays a gentle hand on his arm. “Bastien. You, me, all of us took Chelsea at face value because that’s what she wanted. ’s attraction to Chelsea means he sees what she wants to keep hidden. That’s why she’s pushing back. You know as well as I do that if Chelsea had a problem with Pin, she would have made it painfully clear that he should back off.”
Bastien must see the truth in Birdie’s words as he’s stopped arguing. His shoulders sag, and in a hollow voice he asks, “What from her past could be so bad that she would…?”
His voice trails off, but I know what he’s asking. “Who knows? Any number of things can make a kid grow into an insecure adult.”
Bastien huffs. “You know what I don’t like about this conversation? You make it sound like there’s something wrong with Chelsea that needs to be fixed. Okay, she’s hiding inner demons or some shit. Which of us aren’t?”