Three #2
I flicked him again.
“What was that for?”
“Jory, not Angel.”
“For fuck’s sake, will you just get up there already?”
He was irritated, and I was pleased. Once we all got on deck, I heard the thump of the dance music, even through the closed door.
Inside, it was like a club—the low lights, people smashed together, the cloud of cigarette smoke, waiters moving through the crowd with drinks on trays. Pushing through the throng, I came to the edge of one floor and looked down into another, the sunken room not for dancing, but for entertaining.
It was like a mini sports bar. There were multiple huge screens on the walls, a pinball machine, an air hockey table, foosball, and more than one pool table.
As my eyes took in everything at once, my attention was caught by one of the men at the pool table closest to me.
Defined muscles in his broad back flexed and bunched under a dress shirt that was straining across wide shoulders, bulging biceps, triceps, and was tucked above a firm, round, tight ass.
His movement was fluid for a big man, and I was reminded of the carved specimen who usually resided in my bed.
“Oh shit.” I caught my breath when the man turned because I was looking at Sam Kage … and not at the very same time.
The dark brown hair with highlights in it—copper, auburn, and deep bronze—was gone, replaced by black waves, even darker than Dane’s.
It looked so alien. The goatee was out of place, as was the stubbly mustache, since Sam was normally clean-shaven.
The shirt—open halfway down his chest, revealing his rippling torso—was a treat, but hardly in the man’s comfort zone.
I had never seen him wear jewelry with the exception of his wedding ring and his watch, so the diamond cross hanging from his neck was glaring, drawing my eye.
I also saw his wedding ring was very absent.
Taken all together, he looked weird, like him, but not like him, all at the same time.
I knew him on sight—he would have to be invisible for me not to notice him—but why he was dressed like an extra from Miami Vice back in the day, I could not imagine. I wished I’d brought my camera in so I could take a picture to show his sisters. They would laugh for weeks.
For the life of me, I couldn’t decide on a plan of action.
My first thought was that I should wave; second, I was going to rush across the room and launch myself at him; and door number three was me just yelling until all my frustration with his absence was vented.
It would drag on for several minutes, I was sure.
In the end, I did nothing because, wonder of wonders, my brain actually kicked in.
Standing there like a statue, staring at the man I loved, I realized we would both be in trouble if I said even a word to him.
Obviously, he was undercover—as what, I had no idea—but I knew I would blow it for him if I didn’t just walk away.
I had to walk away. And I was going to—I was ready to—up until the second he looked up and his eyes hit mine.
He did a quick double take, and I was swallowed in smoky blue.
He couldn’t change his eyes without contacts, and looking into the familiar heat made my knees weak.
The whimper in the back of my throat could not be stopped.
He moved fast, crossing the floor to me. I braced for the assault.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled at me under his breath the second he was close enough.
I noticed his lashes had not been dyed to match his hair and were still long, thick, and auburn.
The jet-black hair was colored so there were no highlights in it—flat black, not glossy, but still thick, making me want to run my fingers through it and mess it all up.
He would look phenomenal, all tousled in bed.
I wondered if they had dyed the hair between his navel and his groin black as well.
Did they mess with the treasure trail? The thought hit me like a fist, slamming through me so hard that I had to suck in a breath.
I ached to be under him.
“Jory.” My name was spoken deep and low.
“Oh,” I said, stalling, trying to remember what he’d asked me.
As I looked at him, being close to him, my mind went blank.
“J?”
Wait, where was I again?
“Focus,” he snapped at me, annoyance in his strained voice.
But he was right there in front of me, and it took everything I had not to reach out and put my hand on his face, another on his rock-hard abdomen. I wanted to touch him so badly that my stomach hurt.
“What the fuck are—”
“I came with Cristo Liron,” I managed to get out, coughing to find volume. “I saved his brother, Eddie, yesterday.”
His eyes filled with ice, went cold that fast, and I was going to say something when a woman was suddenly there, leaning on him, over his shoulder, pressing her breasts against his heaving chest.
“Here you are, Jace,” she drawled, her long red nails tracing across his bare skin before she slipped her palm inside his shirt. “Come back and sit down already, I’m sick of watching you play pool. I want to be in your lap.”
I felt my face get hot as I bit the inside of my left cheek. It hurt, and that was good.
“Angel?”
Turning to the sound of the voice, I found Cristo. His hand went instantly to my shoulder to steady me.
“Are you all right?” He sounded concerned, looking into my eyes, checking. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Angel.” He leaned in close, his other hand sliding under my chin to tilt my head back, raising my eyes to his. “Do you need some air?”
“I—”
“You’re white as a sheet.”
When a throat cleared, Cristo looked beyond me, and his face broke into a smile. “Oh, Avery, there you are. I was looking for you. Are you ready to do business?”
He turned me around, arm draped over my shoulders, and I was faced with Agent Zane Calhoun in drag.
The last time I had seen the FBI agent who hated me was a year ago in Dallas, when I was running from him.
And now, there he was, with Sam, looking ridiculous, looking like a parody of a drug dealer, like a bad Saturday Night Live skit.
He even had an earring. At least Sam didn’t have an earring.
I took a deep breath so I wouldn’t laugh or yell or rip the woman’s hands off the love of my life. I felt like I was slowly suffocating to death.
“I’ll be back,” I announced, pulling free of Cristo’s arm, walking from the room instead of bolting, proud of myself for not running and drawing any extra attention.
I had no idea where I was going. I just pushed and shoved, turning knobs, going from one room to another, passing by people talking, laughing, drinking, making out, doing lines of cocaine off tables, just being loud—it was a party after all—until I was in some room with a sink, maybe the kitchen or galley since I was on a boat.
I should have just retraced my steps and gone outside. I needed air. I needed to breathe.
I clutched the counter and concentrated on calming my racing pulse. A loud bang startled me, making me gasp in alarm. The door had been slammed open so hard that I was surprised it remained on the hinges.