Page 13 of Out of Control

“That little shit’s gonna call the cops,” Drago announced in disgust. “We’ve got about five minutes to sanitize the scene.”

Spencer blinked. “Meaning what?”

Drago said casually, “Well, we could kill them all and hide the bodies.” He glanced up and must have caught Spencer’s look of horror, because he sighed. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, White Hat Boy. I’m not gonna kill anyone who’s not already dead. I think the one you clobbered over the head might be, though. You fractured his skull at a minimum.”

Spencer turned and started to kneel to check out the kid. Behind him Drago said, “Let’s just wipe down anything we touched for prints and make sure we don’t leave behind blood evidence. Did you get cut anywhere?”

Spencer did a quick health check. He’d been hit in a couple of places that were going to be tender as hell for a while, but that was it. Using the hem of his shirt, he wiped the blood from Gutted Guy off his face. “No cuts,” he reported.

“Me neither.” Drago was already squatting on the ground, using his jacket to wipe off the club he’d appropriated from someone.

Following his lead, Spencer wiped down the pipe he’d picked up. They kicked dirt over all their shoe prints and tiptoed out of the alley on the balls of their feet, sticking only to patches of gravel or big rocks where they wouldn’t leave usable prints. They paused at the entrance to the alley to don their jackets, which were wrinkled and a bit worse for wear but covered the blood stains on their shirts. Spencer noted that there was significantly more blood on Drago’s shirt than his.

“How many guys did you cut?” Spencer asked, low.

“All of mine. I want them to remember tonight and never try a stunt like this again.”

“Bloodthirsty much?”

“Unlike you, I’m out of the closet. This isn’t my first fuck-up-the-gay-guy adventure. Let’s see how bloodthirsty you are in a few years.”

That was the problem. He couldn’t afford to come out. He’d just finished Phase Three of BUD/S, for crying out loud. He’d wanted to be a SEAL for as long as he could remember. Now that he’d achieved his dream, he wasn’t about to rock that boat.

They hit the main street and turned left, walking casually, blending in with the evening crowd. They were three or four blocks beyond the alley when they heard the first sirens.

Drago laughed under his breath. “Welcome to the gay jungle, Spence.”

Chapter Five

DRAGO RESTEDhis forehead against the cool steel post, which made his raging headache feel a tiny bit better. He could use another bottle of water. A week in the desert had dehydrated the hell out of him, no matter how much water he’d sucked down out there.

He looked up quickly as Spencer came back into the front room, and bit back a groan as his head pounded from the abrupt movement. Still, he noted Spencer’s hips were as lean as ever. His gaze measured the sharp V of the lats bulging under Spencer’s arms and tapering to that hard, flat waist. All the guy lacked was a spandex suit and a cape to look like a cartoon comic hero.

“Did you get that American flag tattooed across your chest like I told you to?” he asked.

“Nah. I opted for an apple pie with the wordMomon it.”

“Lord save us from all-American boys like you,” he muttered.

“Since when did you get religion?” Spencer retorted.

“I’d swear my eternal loyalty to the Flying Spaghetti Monster if he’d take away this headache right now.”

A slow nod. “I could see you as a Pastafarian.”

He groaned as his entire skull clenched in a vise of pain.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, sounding reluctant. Poor guy was so good-boy-polite, he would probably hold the door for a bank robber. How he’d survived a decade in the violent world of the SEALs, Drago had no idea.

“Actually,” he sighed, “no, I’m not okay. I have a massive migraine, and I’m chained to a post in a city that’s probably about to be attacked.”

Spencer rummaged in one of the bags of gear stacked in the corner and emerged with another two-liter bottle of water and a small foil packet, which he ripped open. “Prescription-strength acetaminophen for the pain, and water for the dehydration that’s probably magnifying your headache.”

He watched Spencer cautiously approach within striking range, but he had no desire to fight the guy right now. Spence was perhaps the only person he’d ever worked with who could match him in a straight-up fight.

He remembered all too well how strong Spencer was. When they’d wrestled, in bed and out, it had been about fifty-fifty who won. It usually boiled down to who wanted to lose.

Nope. Spencer was definitely not a man to tangle with, especially when you were handcuffed and hampered by blinding pain.

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