Page 3 of The Wrecked One

“Stop.” My shoulders broke forward from the weight of everything. There had to be a way I could convince her to find a new undercover angle. That, or I’d have to suck up my feelings and score a position with her at this media group.

“There’s a quote I remember from studying communications at Syracuse.” Her voice was wistful, washing over me from behind, nearly a whisper. “Journalism is the protection between the people and any sort of totalitarian rule.” She paused to let those words have the impact she knew they would. “Now, it’s very possible The Collective is, in effect, weaponizing the media to hurt and control people. We have to stop this and take them down.”

I whirled around, and her hands dropped to her sides. “And we will, but you’re not going without me. Under any circumstances.” Her gorgeous eyes roped me in, and I reached for her waist to tug her against me.

Unable to stop myself, I slanted my lips over hers, and she moaned against my mouth in response. I swallowed the delicious sound, seeking to elicit another with my tongue, and we both lost ourselves to the moment.

“Mmm . . . we shouldn’t.” Her words hummed against my lips, but needing more of her, my tongue caressed her mouth back open.

There was one thing we did much better than argue, and it was this. Well, and have sex. But the art of a good kiss was highly underrated. And when it came to Mya, kissing her was like being on drugs without the dangerous side effects. Cloud. Fucking. Nine.

“We really shouldn’t.” There it was again. Why was she saying that?

I supposed I had to pull away for answers even if I didn’t want to. “Why not?” I held the sides of her bare arms, then smoothed my hands up and down. She always held all of her tension there, and I’d learned the gentle strokes helped relax her.

Her eyes fell between us, pointed on my chest. Another heavy blow was coming if she couldn’t look at my face. “I have to be single on this op. I can’t be mentally or physically taken if I want to sell this role. I’m not the best actress. Research and questioning people are more my expertise.” Her strained voice, full of emotions I wasn’t used to hearing from her, had my hands going dead still.

I closed my eyes, visions of this billionaire douchebag going near her assaulting my mind. Rage I wasn’t accustomed to feeling boiled up inside me at the very idea.

“I don’t think it’s fair to put you in that kind of position, either. Having to see me do that and . . .”

I tried not to read too much between the lines there. It almost sounded like she was worried about my feelings. We never discussed feelings, unless you counted our fake hate for each other that wouldn’t exactly win us any Oscars.

“Well, fuck fair,” I finally forced out in reply, opening my eyes. “Screw everything if you’re not safe.” I shook my head. “Where you go, I go.” What movie was that line from? Right, that new action flick, The Wanted One. More my speed than Hallmark.

She linked her wrists behind my head and drew herself closer to me. “Oliver.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t give me those eyes.”

“They’re the only eyes I have.” Her lips tipped into a slight smile.

“No, give me your happy ones. Or your fuck-me ones. Not these.” I won’t bow down when it comes to your safety. “Listen, if I have to act like a priest to keep an eye on you, I will, got it?” I stepped away, and her hands slipped down my chest before falling to her sides.

It was now me clawing at my hair, which was only a slightly darker shade of brown than hers.

“This, uh, thing between us just started,” she whispered. “So, a little pause for the sake of the mission should be fine.”

My body tensed up all over again, worried she was secretly scared of this “thing” between us more than she was going undercover as Mya, aka Lois Lane, Vanzetti. “What if I go as CK?” I proposed. “You know, a writer, too? The Clark Kent to your Lois? I know you don’t need a Superman, but?—”

“You know how to write?” There wasn’t sarcasm there, I knew she meant journalistically, but she also had to know the answer would be a no.

My hands landed on my hips as my mind raced. Lifting my gaze to the messy wall, I zeroed in on a photo connected to a news article about a brand of electric vehicles spontaneously combusting. “I’ll be your Jimmy Olsen,” I said on a sigh. “If this company wants you badly enough, then make part of the negotiation with them that you only work with the team you want, and you have your own photographer you’ll travel with.”

“That could work,” she said once our eyes met. “How are your camera skills? I know your nickname in the Army was Kodak, but that was because of your nearly photographic memory, not your love of taking photos, right?”

“Yeah, but I have an idea.” The pieces were starting to come together. Even if I didn’t like any of this, it was better than her going alone. “Julia Maddox Finnegan.”

Mya’s lips parted in understanding.

My friend Julia had sought Mya out for help back when I’d been wrongly accused of committing murder, and I’d had my head on the chopping block. Between Julia’s fierce belief in my innocence, her Navy SEAL friends, and Mya’s research skills, they’d all saved my head from becoming permanently detached from the rest of my body.

“Julia gave up her love of photography when . . .”

Not an easy sentence to finish. “When my brother died, yeah.” On autopilot, I reached for the chain around my neck, pulled my brother’s dog tags out from beneath my black shirt, and clasped them.

Julia had dated my brother, Tucker, with plans to marry him. But after my brother left the military, he wound up taking comfort in the form of a bottle and a drunk driving accident stole his life. I’d only been in the military for two years at that point, as a paratrooper for the 82nd Airborne Division, and I was granted a short amount of time off to handle the funeral.

Julia and my mother had been a disaster, and helping them keep it together had somehow prevented me from spiraling. The war I had to go back to after had also proved distracting. Killing bad guys in combat probably wasn’t the best coping mechanism to handle his death, but . . .

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