Chapter 8
Rooster
"It's pretty laid back," I say, shifting on my feet.
I wouldn't say I'm awkward in social situations, but I'm not as comfortable as I would be if I were having this conversation with Whiskey while sitting behind my computer desk.
Maybe I use my system as a shield, something I can always use to keep busy. I used it earlier today with Morgan.
As much as I wanted to play darts with her, I really suck at it. As she admitted she did too, I know she'd think I was a complete loser if my first dart struck the wall two feet away, which I knew it had the chance of doing. I'm already a computer nerd, and being so unathletic and sucking at darts would only make me look ten times worse.
"No presidential patch?" he asks as he lifts a glass of amber liquid to his lips.
"Not yet," I say, keeping it to myself that Bandera has been chomping at the bit to be handed the damn thing since before we left our training sessions in New Mexico.
He drains his glass, and I know, for a fact, it's the second one he's had, yet he seems just as steady on his feet as he was before he poured the first one.
I know from reading his dossier that they call him Whiskey because of the odd amber color of his eyes, not because he has a drinking problem.
Actually, I know so much about this man and all the others in the group that it doesn't feel like this is the first time he has actually been in the house.
Whiskey's been introduced to everyone, and although Heathen was cordial upon introductions, it hasn't kept the man from keeping Kaylee locked to his side and his eyes on the man. The way he's staring at Whiskey doesn't seem to bother the man at all.
Music plays from the sound system as Twisted and Bandera play yet another game of pool. I think they've been at it for hours. They may play well into the night since they keep trading wins with no real victor being named.
"I guess I figured there would be more women here," he mutters. "Not much of a party."
I tilt my head in confusion. "This isn't exactly a party, and we don't really bring strangers around. We've been instructed to keep house visitors to a minimum. As in no outsiders."
"Yet he has a wife living here, and her best friend has tagged along?" he questions, his empty whiskey glass angled in their direction, uncaring if they know he's speaking about them.
"There was an incident," I begin, wondering just how much I need to tell him.
I'm not keeping secrets. The man has every right to know what's going on with Cerberus and inside this house, but speaking about what Kaylee and Morgan went through is also a confession that it happened all because of me.
I've grown used to explaining what Henry does and why, but admitting those things to a teammate who just arrived feels like a weakness.
"Morgan was in danger, so she's here for a little while until things are sorted."
"I see," he says, frowning when he lifts his glass again, only to discover it's empty.
"So what exactly happened withVasilev and Tkachenko?" I ask, wanting to pull his attention from Morgan because he's starting to look like he's considering her an option for his plans later this evening. For some reason, that crawls all over me in the worst fucking way.
He sighs as he shakes his head back and forth. "I've been sitting on them for days, bored out of my fucking mind. Just when I didn't think they were going to do a damn thing, I followed them to a warehouse in Henderson. I snooped around a little and then took a break with every intention of coming back later that night to try and get access to the office. I wanted to see if I could get into their records and prove they were running some sort of forced labor outfit. When I returned six hours later, the entire warehouse was empty."
"Empty?" I mutter.
"They had massive machines printing flyers for different places around town. Like that shit forced into people's hands on the strip," he explains further. "They were just gone. It's like the place never existed."
"AndVasilev and Tkachenko?"
"I went immediately to the compound, feeling like a complete piece of shit," he mutters. "I should've stayed on them."
"You have to rest as well," I say, knowing from personal experience how it feels to lose track of someone during downtime.
"They were gone, too. The house was empty, furniture was gone, just like that fucking factory."
"He's in Indian Springs," I remind him. "We have trackers on all his vehicles."
"Doesn't matter," he says, growing increasingly frustrated when he looks down at his empty glass again. "I should've been there to follow him out of town, not showing up and having to call you to find out where he went."
I don't argue. There's nothing I can do about his regrets and what-ifs, so I remain silent.
I pull in a deep breath, already ready to leave this little gathering, and head back upstairs. I watch as Morgan breaks off from chatting with Heathen and Kaylee and begins looking around the room.
At first, it seems like she's purposely avoiding looking in this direction as if everything else in the room is of more interest despite there being little more than a handful of people here, but then her eyes lock on me.
I stand a little straighter, vowing that I'll make myself look like a fool if she asks about darts again just so I can spend a little time with her, but then Twisted approaches her.
"Oh, it's like that," Whiskey says. His ability to observe and fully understand what's going on is a real fucking nuisance right now.
"It's like what?" I ask, playing ignorant.
"You like her, but she's interested in Twisted."
"I don't know that she's interested in Twisted," I say, inwardly groaning that I didn't argue the first part of his assumption.
He chuckles. "Maybe this place isn't going to be so boring after all."
Before I can argue, he walks away, beelining straight for the minibar on the far side of the room.
I don't know if the guy has a drinking problem or if he's trying to drown the disappointment of having lost his mark for a few hours and having to ask for help. Maybe he'll get to the point that he'll start asking ahead of his plans rather than waiting to ask for help after he's already floundering. He really needs to know that I'm as much a part of the team as any of the others, and when we work together, we can accomplish a lot more things.
Now that I'm no longer obligated to stand and chat with the newest Cerberus member, I make my way toward Morgan, my lips curling up into a smile when she grins as I approach.
"Hey," she says, and I do my best not to let my mind hear the word as sultry as my ears insist it was.
"Hey," I say, feeling like a teen boy attempting to build enough courage to ask his crush to a school dance.
I barely fight and win against the urge to look at the floor and shift my weight from one foot to the other.
"You ready for that game of darts?"
I tilt my head to the side. "I don't think that's a good idea."
She frowns, and the disappointment on her face makes me want to attempt a backflip to make her happy even though I know it's not a skill I possess.
"Is it me you don't want to spend time with?"
"What? Fuck no. Sorry. My mouth," I say, my body tightening when she dips her eyes down to my lips. "No, it's not you. I'll embarrass myself."
Am I hearing myself correctly? Were those words just as breathy as her words were earlier?
She shrugs. "That's perfect. I could use a laugh."
She heads toward the dart board. I battle between darting away or following, but then she glances at me over her shoulder, and I realize there's not one situation I can fathom at this moment where I wouldn't follow this woman.
She pulls all six darts from the board. I wonder if the last person who played really was good enough to get the darts all so very close to the center of the bullseye or if they just stabbed them in there when the game was over.
I grin at her, but I can't get past the feeling of eyes boring into the back of my head. I look back, noticing Twisted across the room with a death grip on a beer bottle.
When I turn back, I find Morgan watching me watching him.
She glances quickly at Twisted before pulling her eyes back to me, and I watch as she pulls in a deep breath as if she's trying not to be frustrated.
"You want me to ask him to play?" I offer, needing to know where she stands.
Her lips form a flat line as she considers her answer, but it isn't to say what I expect when she speaks.
"I think he likes me," she says. "I don't like him. Not like that anyway. I'm sure he's a great guy, but I just don't feel chemistry. Plus, it's complicated as hell with me staying here, you know?"
"You haven't discussed it with him?"
She shakes her head.
"If you want him to back off—"
"What? No, I could be wrong. How damn conceited of me would it be if he doesn't even look at me that way and I asked him something like that?"
"Okay. The offer stands."
Morgan hands me a set of three darts before turning back to the board. Her face is very serious as she pulls her hand back and sends the first dart flying.
It hits the wall four or five inches to the left of the target.
When she turns back to face me, her cheeks are flaming red, and her lips are rolled between her teeth in embarrassment.
"That was awful," she finally mutters.
"Still going to be better than me," I say as I step up to the line.
When I throw my dart, it doesn't even bother to stick to anything.
There's a beat of silence as our eyes land on the damn thing on the floor under the board.
When she starts to laugh, I feel it all the way into my soul.
I can already tell this woman is going to be so much trouble for me.