Page 82 of Unmade

“What’re you gonna do, anyway?” I asked stubbornly. “Bring them in for questioning? Kill them? Chop off their fingers?”

He chuckled through his nose. “I reckon I’ve shared enough with you.”

Fuck that fucking answer.

Now I was sort of pissy for real. I couldn’t help it. It was nuts, considering spending so much time with Beckett today alone had changed things, but I was way more comfortable around him now, and maybe that contributed to feeling a little bolder. He would undoubtedly call me naïve and too cocky. So be it. I did believe I could be useful.

“You can forget about me asking for hugs now,” I told him. “I could be your driver or just…I don’t know, an extra pair of eyes. I’m not saying I should be there with an M4.”

His forehead wrinkled like it did when he was in that split second between amusement and confusion.

“Are you serious?” Of course that was what he asked me. The question was written across his face.

I shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

He furrowed his brow. “Why are you so gung ho about this? That’s not a good sign, Leighton. We don’t doanythinguntil we’re properly trained at this place, and you’ve been here less than two months.”

I dropped my gaze to the table, unable to explain it. I wasn’t impatient by nature, and I took my training seriously. It was something about him, though. It was Beckett. The thought of him going down there and risking…

Fuck.

It was him.

I rubbed my fingers over my eyes, realizing it was my wingman syndrome taking the wheel. Probably with a generous dose of abandonment issues. I wanted to be by his side. Ineededit.

That wasn’t good.

Take a risk.

Who dares wins.

“Don’t get hurt. I’ve gotten attached.”

“Please come back safe.”

“I’ll be a mess until you’re home again.”

I cleared my throat and felt how my stomach knotted up uncomfortably.

Beckett waited patiently, but he wasn’t gonna let this go. I had to say something.

I shrugged and kept my stare downcast. “Just come back in one piece. I’m not getting used to a new instructor.” I scratched my eyebrow. “It’s taken me long enough to get you and Coach housebroken.”

I caught his shoulders tremble with a silent chuckle, and he shifted closer and nudged his shoulder with mine.

“You’re cute sometimes, recruit. I’ll give you that.”

I looked up at him. “You might even say I’m a recute…? Your favorite recute?”

“Oh Jesus.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned a laugh.

I grinned. And it wasn’t so much my impeccable sense of humor as much as it was him. He was getting closer to me. He’d seemingly given up on the boundaries he’d found important before. Also, calling me cute? Even in jest, it felt…different.

Honestly, it made me wonder if he was 100% straight. Some of the things he did and said definitely had me scratching my head. Or, you know, hoping desperately. Because what if? What if he’d go for someone like me? I may be a chicken when it came to taking initiative and putting myself out there, but I wasn’t blind to my own appeal among tops. The problem was, not enough tops. Twinks and bottoms all over the fucking apps, way fewer tops. And then you had to weed out the creeps, the closet cases, the “alphas” who thought seduction was to ordering me to kneel and calling me a bitch boy…

Beckett leaned back in his seat, sighed contentedly, and looked up at the stars.

He was too hot to look at.

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