Heat: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (13 page)

“He’s
missing
, Quinn, he’s not dead.” Well, missing for three months, last seen near the Syrian border; presumed dead.
 

My sister tenses her jaw and exhales through her teeth, either because she’s thinking it too, or more likely because she’s just not about to have this argument again with me,
here
of all places. “In any case, you’re not supposed to be drinking.”

“So?” I sneer at her; “I’m
mourning
.” It’s really only half true; maybe even less actually. Of course I’m upset about my Father’s death, but the anger is still so present that it’s clouding my ability to really grasp that he’s gone. I’m angry that it’s felt like he’s been gone for years anyways; always off doing something in some random part in the world that he won’t tell us about and that I don’t want to know about anyways. I remember asking him once when I was much younger if what the kids at school had said were true; “Do you sell guns, Daddy?”

“It’s complicated, honey.”

Right, “complicated”. It’s bullshit like that, mixed with his complete absence from our lives - certainly after Mom died, but almost completely in the last three years - that have me spiking soda with wine like some sort of total amateur. I storm away from my sister, just in time to see the staff ushering Hudson into the room full of mourners along with the two other guys; Bryce and Logan. I barely know them - honestly, I hardly know much about
Hudson
really - but in that moment of them walking into my Dad’s funeral, I kind of
hate
them. I hate them because they were closer to my father than any of us ever were; the military sons he always wanted and never got. And in that moment, there at his
funeral
, their presence makes me feel like
they
have more of a right to be there then
I
do.

Of course, his being there is also just another lingering question as to
what we’ve been doing
the past few weeks. Since our pre-dawn ride to Bear Mountain, there’ve been other late-night calls and other adrenaline-filled car rides. We talk all night somewhere, or just go for a drive, or he show’s me some wild rooftop in the city I never knew existed. It’s platonic, but only on the surface. We smile and do weird things like
shake hands
after he drops me off at my dorm. But it wouldn’t take any sort of particular genius to see that below all that stuff lies something
much
more adult. Something powerful and aching and sensual, and barely contained lies beneath that “friend” surface, and every time he calls or every time I look into his eyes as he says goodnight to me, I feel like it’s going to come rushing out of us like a burst damn.

And of course, his eyes spot me almost instantly across the crowd, and they linger, and I’m sure he can see the deep flush of red spreading across my cheeks before I hastily turn around.

“Ms. Archer,” The deep voice shakes me from where my mind is somewhere lingering on Hudson, and I turn to the older man with the thick mustache who I vaguely remember meeting before. He’s military, and even though I’ve never bothered to learn what any of those pins and symbols mean, I’m pretty sure the amount of medals on his chest the golden oak leaves on his lapel mean he’s important.

“Major Lawson, ma’am; United States Marine Corp.” He salutes me, and I’m sort of not really sure what I should be doing with someone so formal, so I end up awkwardly curtseying. The Major’s stern-looking mouth turns up slightly in the corners as he smiles in an almost grandfatherly way at me; “I was quite close with your father, Ms. Archer; in fact you and I have met before, though you were a little girl back then.” He breathes and turns away for a second before he looks me directly in the eye; “My deepest condolences for your loss, Reagan; William Archer was one of the finest men I ever knew.”

Great, someone else telling me how great of a guy my Dad was. It would’ve been nice to have seen that for myself when he was still around.

Instead though, I nod quietly; “Yes, he was.”

He reaches out and takes my hand, and as I look into his face, I
really
do
see the hurt and the pain of someone who
truly
knew my father; “I know he wasn’t always here for you girls, but you should know that your father was
so
proud of the women you all grew up to be, and I know he wished he could have told you that more often.”
 

I realize in that moment of sadness in his eyes that while I lost the ghost of someone I should have known better, this man lost a friend.

“Your father was a great man, Reagan, and if you don’t mind my saying, the apples have
not
fallen far from the tree.”

I thank him again before he moves back into the crowd, and now I
really do
need that drink.

P R E S E N T

A week later and I’m practically tearing my hair out over this fucking girl. It’s this fucked up mixture of frosty single-word banter with the girl I’m playing house with coupled with the fact that she’s been parading around the apartment in bra-less tank-tops and tiny little lounge shorts while she’s been practicing for her speeches or having conference calls with Donald and the rest of her team; it’s psychological torture is what it is.

Part of me doesn’t want to believe she’s doing any of it on purpose; that sweet little Reagan Archer isn’t actually
capable
of the sort of tormenting sexual manipulation I’m being forced to endure. But I’ve made a vow to myself that if I see one more fucking glimpse of an upper thigh, or one more top of her breast just
begging
to slip out of the tight little tank top that’s hugging her tits and pressing tight against her nipples, than I will
not
be able to help what happens next between her and I.

Thankfully she’s clothed here, at some teacher’s union meeting or wherever we are that she’s giving a speech to. Honestly, I hate crowds; hate the sounds and the noises and the way they make me nakedly aware of William Archer’s words:
Blend in
. Blending in is
not
something I do well with in crowds. And yet, here I am, standing here and enduring. Tell me again why the fuck I signed on for this?

Reagan pushes past me to get to the stage, her shampoo in my nostrils and her fingertips
just
lingering over my wrist as she slips past me.

Fuck
. Oh, right, yeah that;
that’s
why I signed on for this.

As grueling as it’s been when we’re alone and she’s driving me completely wild, we’ve also been going out to events and speeches and fundraisers, and that’s a
whole
new game. I’m seeing her more and more in the limelight like this, and I’m
getting
it; she’s amazing at this shit. As childish or as flustered as she gets when I tease her,
 
or when we’re in the middle of this frosty bullshit cold-war, she’s fucking incredible at this whole politician thing. She exudes the confidence in front of crowds that you’re really only born with, and she acts the part and suddenly becomes
older
than her twenty-three years, and I
get
why she’s such a sensation.
 

She even dresses older. I mean obviously there’s no place for yoga pants and bra-less t-shirts on a campaign trail or on a news blurb. But the problem is, even in those conservative long skirts or even those fucking pants suits, she’s still sexy as all hell. Jesus, when’s the last time I- hell, when’s the last time
anyone
has checked out a chick’s ass in a pants suit?

But even as stunning as she looks, I’m still mesmerized by what she’s saying, and by her poise and her grace. And the people she speaks to go fucking
nuts
for her, and seeing that, I realize that she might actually win this thing.

I’m grinning at her from off-stage, laughing right along with the rest of these teachers over some joke about PTA meetings that I don’t even get, when I feel a tap on my arm. Before I can even turn, the tap is turning into a hand which snakes it’s way through my arm, and then all of a sudden I realize I’ve been blind-sided with a hug.

“Hiya handsome.”

Rachel- No, Tiff- shit. I’ve met her before. She does something with events planning with a firm we worked with months ago, and it seems she’s about as forward now as she was then when she literally palmed me her hotel key; which, of course, I left on the bar. There’s persistence, and then there’s just plain skanky, and the latter is a total turn-off for me. I wonder briefly if the bartender I passed the key-card on to ever ended up having a great night back then.

Samantha; that’s her name

“So, how’re things, big guy?” She purrs out; oozing sex through the wildly inappropriate low-cut of her neck and hemline, and pressing her tits against my arm.
 

I glance back at the stage, at Reagan, before I turn back to her; “I’m sort of working right now, actually.”

“You?
Work?
” She giggles obnoxiously and runs a finger up my chest, and it’s annoying the shit out of me.

“Yes, Samantha, I work.” I say irritably.
 

“Well, you want to come work on me?” Jesus, subtlety is
not
in this girl’s vocabulary. For a half-second, part of me responds, if only because I’m still so on fucking on edge from the week of watching Reagan; seven days and nights of working out with her, watching her practice her speeches in fucking shorts and tank-tops and seeing just a
peak
of her panties one time when the skirt she was wearing around the apartment rode up to her ass as she bent over to pull her boots on. Yeah,
that part
of me responds, just for a half-second.

But no;
fuck
no.

“Maybe some other time, Sam,” I smile thinly at her and turn at the sound of applause just in time to see Reagan coming off the stage, and then I’m even more pissed that Samantha’s kept me from hearing the rest of her speech.
 

“But
boooo
, I thought you’d be more
fun
.” Samantha wines, tugging on my arm and pressing her tits up against me even more.

‘Boo’?
Is this girl fucking serious? I turn around again to yank my arm out of my grasp and give her a withering look, and when I turn back to the stage again, my eyes narrow and I growl.

Reagan is talking and laughing with some douche-y looking prep-school poster-boy, her hand on his arm as she laughs uproariously at something that’s just come out of his pompous-looking mouth. Erika, Reagan’s obnoxious “brand manager” is there too along with Donald, and the two of them are beaming like a couple of assholes at Reagan talking with this chump. The confusing surge of jealous only intensifies when they turn and nod at me before they
all
start to walk over to where I’m standing on the side of the stage with Samantha
still
hanging off of me.

“Hudson!” Donald says to me, as if we’re old pals. His face is all red and puffy from smooching this guy’s ass; “I wanted to introduce you to Congressman Kennedy.”

Oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

The douchebag chuckles and puts his hand on Reagan’s shoulder for whatever reason he’s deemed that to be appropriate as he laughs, as if Donald’s just made the joke of the fucking century.

I want to hit him.

“Oh, no, not
those
Kennedy’s; I wish!” He chuckles again and Reagan is laughing right along with him; loudly.

“Chet Kennedy,” He says, sticking his hand like he’s about to sell me a used car. Holy shit,
this
is Chet the ex boyfriend? If I wanted to hit him before, I want to knock him the fuck out now.

“Nice to meet you,” I say as formally as possible, my voice frosty and leaden as I stick my hand out.

“New York Legislature; Westchester County, of course.” He says, as if I should know what even means. His eyes drop to the ink peeking out from my cuff and I see this smirking, judging look pass across his face. I squeeze his hand extra hard, enjoying seeing him wince. Reagan’s eyes are boring in on me, with a look on her face that I can’t quite read.

“
Hiii!
I’m Sam!” Fuck; she’s still fucking here and she’s still hanging off my arm. I glance at Reagan and see her eyes narrowing at Samantha before she slips her arm through Chet’s. My blood pressure immediately spikes through the ceiling.
 

Donald and Erika are all over the two of them, gushing over every dip-shit comment that comes out of his mouth and making sure every damn photographer in the room gets a picture of him and Reagan with their arms linked. Samantha is still tied around my arm, and the whole thing is just like watching a slow-motion car-wreck in action as I stand there with my throat feeling tight and my rage bubbling just below the surface. I want a cigarette; hell, I kind of want a drink.