Page 93 of The Devil's Daughter

My older brother grins. “You mean invite ourselves on Mason’s honeymoon?”

I peek around the corner and down the corridor of the Mad Dog Tattoo studio. From the garage in back come the loud bursts of Mason’s hydraulic torque wrench as he mounts the engine into the classic car he just finished rebuilding. He can’t hear us, so I turn back to Mad with a grin.

“We’d give ‘em a night, of course. Then come by moonlight from the shore, sneak on board, and start the party off right.”

“He’d fucking hate that,” Mad says, laughing. “But I bet he’d secretly love it.”

“As long as Callie wouldn’t hate us. What’s your read on her?” I ask. I’d only met my brother’s fiancée about a week ago, and we’ve spent some time together since, but not enough to really know her—other than seeing why Mason locked her down as fast as he did.

“Shit, if you bring her brother home after this, I think she’d let you move in. You’ll have earned so many points from her family.”

I nod. Having a senator on speed dial would be nice, but I’m hoping after this op I can shift gears to a less strenuous, lessdangerouslifestyle. At least that’s what the logical part of my brain keeps suggesting, despite the fact that I get a mild sense of panic if I sit still for too long.

Case in point: One week home, and I’m already itching to start the next mission, even though I know how dangerous our target is. This is the longest I’ve been without a mission in years. Visiting my older brother’s tattoo shop for some ink is the last step before Jake and I ship out tomorrow.

Jake appears from across the hall then, wiping his hands on a paper towel before tossing it into the small trashcan by the door. “So, are we doing this?”

“I’m ready for whoever wants to go first,” Mad says. He settles on his little rolling stool and pats the fancy tattoo chair in front of him. “You two are happy with the designs, right?”

He points at the digital tablet he has anchored in a gooseneck clamp. The screen displays two similar designs, each featuring a fierce, toothy little raccoon standing on its hind legs, holding a gun that’s as big as he is. He’s more or less the same in both, just in different poses.

“Those are fucking on point,” Jake says, settling in the chair when I gesture for him to go first.

I’ve never watched my brother work before, so it’s a treat to see him in his element as he gets started. He’s quiet for a few minutes while Jake and I banter about our recent change of scenery. We’re excited to be a part of a new team, but also a little sad to be leaving behind the team of men who’ve had our backs for the past four years. None of that is said out loud, though. We just talk around it…as we do.

Mad pauses for a beat after completing the outline of Jake’s version of Rocket Raccoon on his bicep. He glances at me, then at Jake.

“Okay, I hear what you twoaren’tsaying loud and clear, and I’ve gotta know—why the hell did youbothretire from the SEALs? I get why Marco did it, though I still think you were fucking nuts, brother. But Jake… Man, why are you following my brother’s idiotic ass? You have no stake in it.

“And secondly…” He looks at me, pointing at his tablet. “What the fuck is up with these tattoos? I usually don’t ask, but it’s killing me not to know. You’re my goddamn brother, so this is your chance to change your mind. You know I’d understand.”

Jake and I share a look, and Jake lets out a heavy sigh, putting on a mask of mock seriousness. “Truth be told, Mad Dog, the answer to both questions is the same—it’s about a girl.”

Mad narrows his eyes and nods. “I’m listening. Tell me about this girl.”

Jake smirks at me and tilts his chin. “I think Saint Marco can field this one. You were always closer to her than I was anyway. I’m still convinced she was a little in love with you.”

My stomach twists into a knot, and for a moment I wish I had a beer, but Mad doesn’t allow alcohol—or drunks—in his shop. I hate Jake a little for putting me on the spot like this, but he’s right. For whatever reason, the girl in question seemed to gravitate to me more than him, even if her attention was mostly to give me shit.

“She wasn’t in love with me. She was gay.”

My brother’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sure? Because looks can be deceiving when it comes to sexuality. Us bisexuals are part chameleon.”

“See?” Jake says. “You know I’m right.”

“I know no such thing. You’re forgetting the stripper in Destin. Hergirlfriend?”

“That proves nothing,” Jake says. My brother eyes me the way he does when I’m failing to get the point.

“Tell me more and I’ll tell you what I think. Maybe start with the story here,” Mad says, pointing at the second design—the one destined to be inked onto my arm next.

“Rocket was her nickname,” I say. “Mostly because she possessed every quality this little fucker has. She had a tenacity of spirit we both cherished and hope to channel on this op.”

Mad frowns as he stops tattooing again and spears me with a pointed look. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, but I sense he’s trying to read me.

“She’s not dead,” he finally concludes, and I realize how it must’ve sounded.

“Ah, no. At least I don’t think so,” I say.

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