Page 5 of Over the Edge

She leaned close enough to smell the expensive cologne he wore when off duty. His tanned neck was right there, all powerful muscles and tendons, ripe for the nibbling. His hair was short for a field operator at the moment, but still well out of military regulations. Dark waves of it lay soft on his neck, tempting her to run her fingers through it.

She murmured in his ear, “What are you scowling so hard at your scotch for? What did it ever do to you?”

He jumped like she’d hit him with a taser. “Uhh, nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m good.”

“Well, I know you’re good. But that doesn’t answer my question. What’s wrong?”

“Really. I’m fine.”

“Really. That’s bull,” she retorted.

He exhaled in annoyance. “Fine. It’s bull. I don’t want to talk about it here.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go somewhere else where we can talk.”

“Let’s not,” he replied sharply.

Dang it. She kept forgetting that the fantasy in her mind where he liked her back wasn’t real. What was it going to take for him to trust her enough to open up?

“Let me out, Axe,” he snapped.

Great. Now she’d scared him off. Who knew how many months it would be before he got over her practically licking his ear like that?

Axe slid out of the booth and she followed suit, mentally kicking herself every inch of the long slide. The second he had a clear escape route, Trevor bolted, practically running for the exit.

He hadn’t handed off his car keys to anyone at the table, and they had a responsibility to make sure he didn’t drive after drinking. Although none of the other guys moved to stop him. Should she?

Obviously, he wanted to get the hell away from her. Defeat crowded the back of her throat until she felt like she might choke. Or, perish the thought, cry.

Dismayed, she watched him go. To follow or not to follow?

CHAPTERTWO

Trevor didn’t make it to the front door of Mabel’s before a big, square-jawed marine stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. “Where you goin’ so fast-like, buddy?” The words were enunciated with the care of a man just drunk enough to be looking for a fight but not so drunk as to be a pushover in said fight.

Scowling at the moron, Trevor tried and failed to tamp down his irritation. “Step aside, please.”

“Not so fast. See, me and my buddies—” the jarhead gestured at a dozen fellow marines clustered around the end of the bar nearest the exit.

Great. A mob of morons.

“—are playing a little drinking game. The way it works is you have to produce a drinking coin or else you owe everyone playing the game a round of drinks.”

“I know how it’s played,” Trevor bit out, barely hanging on to his temper. He just wanted to get out of here. Breathe some fresh air. Clear his head. Get control of his raging hard-on after Anna all but stuck her tongue in his ear. He could still feel her soft, warm breath—

--and there went his woodie again, demanding relief.

“As you can see,” the marine explained, “we’ve all produced our coins. Let’s see your coin, or else you owe everyone a round.”

Trevor weighed his options. A fast jab to the solar plexus followed by a chop to the marine’s throat would drop him like a stone. But then Trevor would have all the drunk buddies to contend with. Of course, the Reapers would have his back if it came to a brawl and would make short work of this bunch.

Or, he could just buy the morons a round of drinks.

Except that idea rankled.

“Hah! He doesn’t have his coin!” the marine crowed. “Bartender, pour us all a round of your best whiskey. This guy’ll be pay—“

Trevor reached in his pants pocket and shoved through the crowd of marines until he reached the bar. His expression stony, he slapped his hand down flat on the bar with a metallic crack of sound that made the jarheads jump.

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