Page 7 of How Much For a Life of Lies?

I offered a nonchalant shrug then reached up to brush the front of his jacket. “It’s cute you think my 427 career isn’t over already,” I said.

He reared back. “You’re the best help pilot I’ve ever served with, Kai, but you’ve fucked the two of us over,” Bowers snapped. “Tainted our careers with your crap. Hell, do you even care this could come back on us?”

I tensed with a twinge of regret, but Bowers needed to back the fuck off.

“I saved this team and those fucking SEALs,” I said as I gestured at the table, knowing full well the Frogs would hear all of this.

He clenched his fists. “I can’t sit here and watch you not even give a shit.” He slammed his beer down. “I’m getting a cab. Crowley, you coming?”

A flicker of doubt crept over Crowley’s face, and she hesitated momentarily. She was always the one getting between us, calming Bowers down, trying to understand me.

Didn’t she get it? No one would ever understand me.

“He’ll calm down,” she reassured me, but I didn’t care about anything but this beer and maybe getting into a red-headed SEAL’s pants.

“I don’t give a shit about his tantrum,” I snapped.

She shook her head. “See, Kai, I think you do give a shit.”

“You’re wrong.” I met her steady gaze. I’d do anything to keep Bowers and Crowley safe when we were out on missions. Lay down my life for them if needed, but giving a shit about them outside 427? That was a big no.

Friends die.

Friends get dead.

Friends are murdered right in front of me as punishment.

“You’re fucked in the head and out of control.” She sounded sad as she shrugged on her jacket, then left without a goodbye.

She wasn’t wrong. Dear old dad and his bunch of asshole preppers had ensured I was fucked in more ways than one. I was a weapon no one understood. But she was wrong about the control bit—I was never out of control. I knew what I was doing every single moment, and why. So fuck her and Bowers and their holier-than-thou judgments.

I focused back on the half-drunk beer. My skin itched with all this residual anger, tension, and boiling need, and laughter from the table of testosterone-fueled hero types was grating on my last nerve.

I didn’t want to look over.

I didn’t want to look at him.

Only, I couldn’t stop myself every time one of them laughed a little too loud, my heart racing with lust. I spent way too much time sitting there nursing my beer, imagining what it would be like to run my hands over his smooth skin, to feel the heat of his body.

I didn’t care if my 427 career was done. I’d find something else, because there was always someone out there who needed a blunt instrument, and I could be a weapon for someone to do some good in this world.

Whatever came next might not compare to the adrenalin rush of flying the Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion, or the thrill of action. I’d miss it more than I wanted to admit, but it was too late for second guesses now. Tramell was an asshole, and the next time I saw him, he’d get my fist to his face, and I’d be done.

It was a relief.

I hated being forced to respect people who didn’t give a shit about their teams. It hurt me inside, it made me so fucking angry and with that familiar temper curling in my gut, I finished my drink and pushed myself away from the table. The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear: whatever came next, 427 would be stupid to lose me, and they’d learn what it was like not to have me around and maybe they’d regret losing me.

Or maybe they wouldn’t.

I don’t give a shit.

I glanced over at the table of SEALs, empty, including my red-headed obsession, and cursed when someone touched my back.

“Going somewhere?”

Red crowded me against the table. Too much in my space for me to be completely comfortable, but easier to take down if he tried anything. His cocky demeanor and confident aura were impossible to ignore, and there was a reckless spark in his expression that fueled my craving for excitement and danger.

Was he the same as me? Did he crave danger? Was he wild and untamed?

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