Coverage (MetroGen Heat #9)

Chapter 1

Ask any priest, rabbi, minister, or pastor, and they will probably say lying is a sin.

Consult Dante's Inferno, and liars got banished to the eighth ring of hell. Technically, even the ninth commandment mentioned not bearing false witness against one's neighbor. However, it was unlikely any of those characters had ever been in Roan’s predicament where their ex-Navy SEAL best friend almost walked in on him having sex with aforementioned best friend’s little sister.

Said very adult little sister was currently hiding (mostly naked) in Roan’s study because the sixth commandment explicitly forbade murder.

Tristan, aka Tank, Saint-Claire knew a hundred ways to kill someone with his bare hands and probably another thousand more using regular household items.

Dr. Roan Marin had been in tight situations before, but not many were closer than trying to throw Tank off the trail of why there was a pink mitten stuck on Roan's jacket.

Walking past the kitchen counter to the sliding glass backdoor, Tank picked up the offending pink mitten.

“Where is she?”

“Not here.” Roan excused the lie, as Clarissa wasn’t technically in the kitchen with them at that particular moment.

Though her shadow was looming plenty large, and he'd need to play it beyond cool.

Tank's chosen post-Navy retirement job was bounty hunting, and when he got the scent of his prey, he was relentless.

Fortunately, Roan was the MetroGen Hospital Chief of Anesthesia and made it a career of keeping his cool while surgeries went haywire.

“Then why is this mitten wet?” Tank clearly wasn't buying what Roan was selling. Which meant he'd better sell harder.

“She forgot it here, and I was going to return it to her next time I see her at the hospital.”

A great not lie. Thousands of people worked at MetroGen Hospital. Not just second-year pediatric residents who were related to Tank.

“Huh,” Tank said, peering out the door to the back yard. “Were you playing in the snow? Are those snow cocks?”

Clarissa had tried to build Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, only to end up giving off a phallic Stonehenge vibe.

“Yeah, she gave me shit about being from Florida and never touching snow. I was... building that to send her a photo with the mitten on it.” Roan invented rapidly, telling enough truth to cover the half-truths.

Clarissa had taught him to make snow angels and extolled the virtues of Frosty the Snowman.

He'd also learned she was into photography, so it would be conceivable he could snap a photo for her.

“Creative dick pics. Weird yet kinky.” Tank dropped the telltale mitten on the floor next to Roan's black winter coat. “Does this mean she's kinky as fuck? How's the pussy?”

Another question the authors of the 'lying is a sin' group had not considered. What reality did they live in if he was supposed to answer Tank truthfully about how his little sister was between the sheets?

There was no diplomatic or safe way to explain the Clarissa-Roan sexual dynamic.

They had a solid dirty daddy-innocent virgin dom-sub vibe in their regular games.

Clarissa was into being ordered to serve and service him.

She did it with such enthusiasm and inventiveness, Roan was near obsessed with keeping her under him.

Telling Tank that Roan'd unknowingly taken her virginity last June would not be comforting. Especially since he had de-virginized each and every one of her holes in that single night.

Yeah, bestie, I taught your sister anal after I pounded her sweet, sweet pussy. Never had one better in my life, and you have no idea how phenomenal it feels to take her bareback.

A road leading directly to homicide.

“It's solid.”

An understatement less likely to get him struck by a bolt of lightning.

“Bullshit. Our intelligence operation needs a definition of 'solid.' It's forgivably okay cause she's hotter than hell? Pretty good making it worthwhile, but you'll train her up? Or damn near perfect since she's just as good as that nasty kinky chick last summer who ghosted on you?”

Again, also Tank's sister.

When Roan had met her at a bar in June, he'd thought she was the woman he'd been talking to online.

After Clarissa had left in the morning, the messages on his phone told him she was not.

Roan had arranged to meet again in person a week later for coffee and brought Tank along to be a low-key wingman in case she was batshit crazy.

Clarissa had seen them through the door and.

.. it had taken them another six months to get their identities and shared hospital drama sorted out.

“Comparable.”

Not a lie.

“Damn, you fucking dirty dog. So, she's a perfect fit for your cock? Twice in one year? Making me proud.” Tank slapped him on the shoulder. “Not only did you dodge a bullet with your online hook-up you missed, you fell right into new quality snatch.”

Tank was exaggerating slightly about what Roan had told him about the night in June. Roan wasn't the sex chatty Tank was when it came to getting laid. He'd been much more vague while they’d waited at the coffee shop.

Today would not be the day that was changing, either.

“So, you stopped by because you collected a bounty and wanted beer for breakfast?” Roan picked up his cup of coffee for a casual sip.

“What does she do at the hospital?” Tank slurped his coffee between questions. “Picking up the janitorial staff? Invite a cafeteria lady to try your sausage?”

With a long-suffering sigh, Roan handed him a napkin. “She's a doctor. About the beer, I know a place that serves booze with breakfast.”

“No. No. No. No. No. I'm locked on this doctor lady of yours. She's been at your place, and you're planning on returning her mitten. And she's dynamite in bed.” Tank set his coffee mug down to spread his arms wide. “This has ‘whipped’ written all over it. Why haven't I heard about her?”

“Doctor means being on call, and some of us have jobs that don't involve chasing people down and naming their own hours.”

“Wrong, Roan. When the pussy's this good, I'll need serious intel. Set up a meeting, you, me, and her,” Tank finished the cup of coffee and set it down decisively.

“That won't be necessary,” Roan said in a clipped tone.

“Why not?”

So many answers to that one.

Because she's your sister.

“Because this is a new relationship, and you're a total asshole. I don't want to scare her off,” Roan said, secure in this measure of truth at least.

Certainly, nothing would scare Clarissa off more than watching her brother decapitate Roan with a dull butter knife in the kitchen. Tank wouldn't even need the knife. At six-three and two hundred pounds of muscle, he was scary strong when pissed off.

“I am a bad motherfucker. Bad enough that I collected my bounty for 40Gs, and I’m flying out to Oregon today for a hush-hush federal warrant.” Tank praised himself before continuing, “You aren't off the hook, though. We're gonna talk more about this lady. Need the details.”

Another Tank way of saying he had plans to do a background check on her for felonies, parking tickets, and other bad behaviors, along with social media profiles.

Unnecessary and inevitably awkward.

“Give me a minute to change out of sweatpants.” Roan walked sedately past the closed door of his study to his bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He needed to hide any evidence of his visitor STAT because Tank had spent ten years hunting insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan. Tossing Clarissa's belongings in the closet would be a dead giveaway.

First, he swiped their phones off the nightstands, muting hers before turning it off. He tossed it into her pink overnight bag and carried it into the attached master bath. With the water on to mask any noises, he placed the bag under the further side of the double sink.

After peeing and washing his hands, he swung the bedroom door partway open and rifled through his dresser for jeans and a sweater. A man could pee by his lonesome, but shutting his best friend out of his bedroom after they'd shared a tent together would have been suspicious.

It didn’t mean he was required to share everything. In fact, giving Tank mission parameters would be best, as otherwise the train would start driving off the tracks.

Roan sent two quick text messages, having a vague idea of the two recipients’ availability. And to his surprise, they texted back affirmatives immediately.

“You get zero intel until you’ve earned it by behaving your shitty self,” Roan informed him. “You’re the DD, and we’re meeting a few of my hospital friends at the Northstar Cafe.”

“Wait, this might be an even bigger surprise. You made friends?” Tank scoffed from the hallway.

“Yeah, even an antisocial incel like me.” Roan shoved his billfold into his pocket, heading to the door where his coat and boots were waiting. “If you stick to the stated objectives, I’ll answer two questions about her after brunch.”

“Three,” Tank tried to bargain.

“Depends on the questions. Nothing that will make me plead the fifth. Also, while we’re with my friends, you can’t mention her or my relationship in ANY way.

Not a word,” Roan gave him the warning now.

Outside of the administrative heads that had reviewed his and Clarissa’s disclosure of relationship forms, he had been relatively discreet thus far.

“Do I look like a chick?” Tank was grabbing his own coat. “Though, not a single word?”

“Not a syllable, a groan, a reference, or any type of communication, including Arabic, Kurdish, Farsi, Pashto, Spanish, Pig Latin, and even freaking ASL. Get your ass to the car.” Roan named the languages Tank had a working knowledge of, even if a rather significant amount of his vocabulary included ‘Open the damn door,’ and ‘shut the fuck up.’

“Really? Why?” Tank was obviously becoming more mystified with each minute.

“I’ll explain in the car.” Roan ushered him out the front door. “That’s your mission, should you choose to accept it.”

Tank shrugged. “Or this message self-destructs in five seconds? Fine. I’m in.”