Page 20 of Room Nine: Masters of Control

O’Dell frowns and walks past me to the kitchen island.

Dem walks in behind him, flashing me a sweet smile. “Angel.”

“Handsome,” I reply, wondering what nickname I should give him or any of them. I’ll have to think about that.

Kerr walks in, and his eye looks even worse than it did in the photo.

“Oh my God.” I slap my hand over my mouth. “Did they hit you a couple more times last night, because there is no way I did that to you?”

He smiles. “It looks worse than it feels.”

“God, I hope so.”

Kerr lowers his head, so his mouth is near my ear. “I’m sorry if I went too far on the phone, Kitten.”

I place my hand on his rock hard pec, temporarily stunned stupid by the physique this man is rocking underneath his button-down collared shirt. He flashed me his abs yesterday, but every inch of him must be carved out of stone.

“You didn’t go too far on the phone, Kerr. You just surprised me, that’s all.”

His blond hair falls forward over his blue eyes, his stubbled jaw and plump lips so close, I’m tempting to jump up on my toes and kiss him. “Look, we know you’ve been through some shit, so I’ll do my best to tone down my flirting. The last thing I want to do is push you away or make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable, and the last thing I want you to do is tone down your flirting.” I take a small step back and glance over my shoulder at Dem who is watching us from the kitchen island. O’Dell has his back to us and has taken residency at my window, looking down at the street below. “Did you guys look me up? Read the reports?”

Dem cast his eyes down to the small feast they brought me for lunch. “Yeah, we did.”

Exhaling a long breath, I roll my shoulders back. “So then, you guys know how fucked up I am.”

He shakes his head. “We don’t think you’re fucked up. We think you’re pretty awesome. You’re a survivor, Angel.”

“Better than a survivor. You’re a fucking warrior,” O’Dell growls, glancing at me from over his massive shoulder.

Warrior—damn, I like the sound of that. I also like the way he’s looking at me, like he would raze villages to protect me.

“Besides,” Kerr slides his hand onto the small of my back, “you’re talking to three guys who swim in fucked-up-ness. Anything vanilla and normal makes our skin crawl.”

“Horchata?” Dem breaks into our conversation by offering me a to-go cup with the straw already in it. Smart—the conversation’s getting a little heavy.

I look over at the food and smile. “Which burrito is mine?”

Dem smiles and hands me a paper-wrapped burrito on a plate. “We also picked up chips and salsa, in case you want them.”

“Wow. Dinner and conversation—this is the best date I’ve had in a long time.” I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, leaving the couch to them. “Are you going to eat?”

Dem and Kerr sit across from me on the couch while O’Dell continues to stand at the kitchen island. It’s only now I realize all three of them are wearing slacks and button-down shirts, and they look and smell—mmmm, men’s cologne—really nice.

“You know, you guys clean up pretty good. Do you always dress like this when you go into the office?”

“Our boss wants us dressed to impress, in case there are clients in the building. It’s this or full tactical gear, nothing in between.” O’Dell rolls up his sleeves before unwrapping his taquitos, his forearms heavily tattooed.

I wonder how much more of his body is inked?

I wonder what he would think about my ink?

“Did you get in trouble for my little explosion yesterday?”

Kerr and Dem look to O’Dell who shakes his head. “No. Honestly, the agency was done with the operation and ready to come home. This gave us the push we needed to let the Feds know it’s time to wrap it up.”

“You did us a favor, Kitten.”

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