Page 45 of Avenging Kelly

He took the bag to the little table in the corner and laid out burgers and fries, then went to the fridge in the room and grabbed the energy drink I’d bought earlier in the day and two plastic glasses from the little tray on top.

“Get your sexy ass up and come eat while it’s hot,” London ordered. My heart actually skipped a beat at his words. I didn’t have to wonder if he cared about me. It was in every word he said.

I pulled on my boxer briefs and undershirt before I walked over and sat down to the feast. “Smells good,” I said before I dug in. The burger melted in my mouth.

“So, what time is it?” I asked. It was dark outside, but that meant nothing. The sun went down early at the beginning of March.

“It’s a little after nine. There’s a diner across the parking lot that was getting ready to close. I winked at the woman behind the register, and she talked the cook into making one last order,” London explained around his mouthful of food.

I opened a little cup of ketchup and dipped some of the crinkle cut fries into it, glad he’d made the walk. “So, you were an asshole in high school? We didn’t really talk much after you said that.”

London laughed as he filled our glasses with the green drink. “I played baseball—first base. I thought I was the shit. I used to smack talk a lot when someone missed a catch. We were a good team, but I rubbed a lot of my teammates the wrong way. When we lost the conference championship because I missed a catch on a forced steal at home, they beat the crap out of me. That was when I learned to fight back and keep my mouth shut sometimes so I didn’t have to fight. That lesson came with a broken nose and an apology to my team for being a dick all the time.”

I chuckled. “Soccer guy, myself. I’m glad to see the game’s finally taking off in the States. I used to dream about going to Europe and becoming a football star,” I said, chuckling at the daydreams of a child. I’d been to Europe, but definitely not to play soccer.

“Can you talk about it?”

“Soccer? All day.”

“No,” London said, taking a napkin and wiping his stubbled chin. “What you did. Any of it come back to you yet?”

“Nope. Just flashes, really. A rainy street somewhere. Snow-covered mountains. A sunny beach. Could be memories or could just be places I made up to take my mind off of being in the brig,” I answered honestly.

So much of the last four years was a blur. I remembered snippets of places, but never people. It was almost like my mind manufactured some wonderful places to visit, but in my mind, I knew I’d been there, but had no idea why.

“What did the debriefing process involve?”

“I recorded the outcome of the mission on a burner phone and was immediately brought back to The Pit—that was what the lab was called. I surrendered the phone and was given a sedative. When I woke up, I didn’t remember anything.”

“Any idea what was in the sedative?” London asked.

“Exactly the opposite of Poker Chips, I can tell ya. Poker Chips gives me an instant high, almost like an electrical shock, but after a minute or two, things level off, and I’m filled with energy. That sedative, I count backward from ten, and I never reach eight.”

I checked his face to see he was paying very close attention, but he smiled at me and winked, so I continued. “If I’m on a long-term assignment, I shoot up every twelve hours. If I’m at Sin City, only once a day. It’s weird, because when I shoot up twice a day, I never sleep. It’s like I have to burn off the energy, ya know? I’m more alert and my mind is sharp… clear. Sometimes, lately, though, I’ve started seeing shit I’m not sure is there. Not all the time, just when The Gambler adjusts the meds,” I told him.

“Does Frances Ritchfield do it often? Adjust your meds, I mean?”

I glanced down to see London had put his phone on the table between us, and there was an odd line moving across the screen. “Who’s Frances Ritchfield?” I glanced down to see the line jumping around in time with my words.

“Are you recording me?” I yelled, my adrenaline spiking and my voice echoing off the walls of the shitty room. I almost couldn’t believe the words were coming out of my mouth as I heard them.

“Yes, but just to send to my friend so he understands the effect Poker Chips has on you. If he knows how they make you feel, he’ll better be able to analyze the drug,” London answered, his voice soothing.

It made sense, but… “Next time, ask first. Who’s this Ritchfield person?” My voice was harsher than I intended it to be.

My sudden mood swings, which were steadily getting worse, were a huge concern for me, because I wasn’t usually a moody person. Hell, I trusted London, and The Gambler recorded our sessions and it never bothered me. Why am I so pissed off about this? I’m bein’ a real prick…

London exhaled. “I believe Frances Ritchfield is The Gambler. She’s a well-known research scientist in her field. I don’t know anything else about her except maybe she has the hots for my boyfriend,” London said.

I glanced at him to see a sexy smirk on his face, and I laughed. “Yeah, she definitely wants some of this,” I admitted as I skimmed my hand down my body and then cracked up. London did, too, and the tension between us evaporated. I hadn’t wanted it there in the first place. I loved him.

We went back to bed, and the next morning—I’d slept like the dead—London woke me up when he came out of the bathroom, his hair wet from the shower.

I studied him as he moved around the room, dressing in clean underclothes, his gorgeous ass making my cock spring to life at the mere sight of it.

“Thanks for last night,” I greeted.

London turned around and grinned, walking over to the bed to sit down, shaking his wet hair on me like a dog. I laughed and grabbed his head. “You’re getting the sheets wet,” I teased.

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