Page 3 of Clay

They settled into comfortable club chairs and waited for her to set up the sideboard with the alcohol. At Dev’s nod, she left the room, closing the door behind her with an ominoussnick.

Predictably, it was Cali who broke the silence, almost the second after the door closed. “What the hell, Dev?”

She and Devin had a complicated relationship that didn’t appear to have changed since their therapy had concluded.

Dev stood without saying a word, dropping two cubes into a glass and cracking the seal on the bourbon before pouring a liberal two fingers.

“Please, grab a drink. Even if you’re not a bourbon fan, humor me for a toast, if nothing else.”

Grumbling, they all stood and doctored their drinks, most of them opting for ice. Except Cali. She poured hers straight, a single shot, staring Devin straight in the eye as she did.

Clay grabbed his tea and took his seat again, along with everyone else.

This time he was the one who spoke up, because his ankle freakin’ ached after being on it all day and he was tired of the cloak and dagger. “We’re all suitably impressed, Dev. Now cut to the chase.”

Dev nodded. “First, though, a toast to Benny.”

They all raised their glasses. It was Tate who spoke, his low, rumbling voice turning their hurt into words. “I miss you already,” he said, then swallowed hard. “I’m ashamed I didn’t look you up, even if it was just to give you shit.”

Clay felt the man’s words shaft straight to his heart. Suspected all of them felt the same way.

Tate cleared his throat. “To Benny,” he said, and waited until they repeated his words before draining his glass. He sat back in his chair, returning to his normal, stoic self, a mask falling over the sorrow, just like it had throughout therapy. Tate was a hard fucking nut to crack.

The silence following his words was thick with grief, but comfortable because they already knew the worst of each other. Knew the best as well.

Dev waited for a long moment before speaking. “I have a proposition for all of you,” he began. “I’ve spearheaded a venture I think you’ll be interested in. But before I start, understand I’m not being boastful, I’m just stating facts.” He looked around the room, apparently getting enough confirmation to continue. “I’m rich. My mother was an oil heiress, and my father owned a basketball franchise.”

Clay jolted a bit. He’d known Dev was loaded, but not that loaded. It had never come up in therapy.

“So how the hell did you end up as an analyst?” Cali asked, her tone incredulous.

Dev looked at her for a long moment. “I was never an analyst. I was recruited by the CIA about ten years ago for soft work. Mostly rubbing elbows with the people I already knew and using them to get me into rooms I didn’t have immediate access to. The information I brought home was gold.” His voice became quiet, bitter. “Until it wasn’t. The Air Force led you to believe I was a civilian intel analyst because it got me into the planning center without any questions or potential leaks. The informationI had was supposed to stop a war. Instead, it incited a tragedy that became a national security incident.”

Clay grimaced. He tried hard not to think about the news coverage that had hounded them when they’d returned. Their flight had crossed into territory the US and NATO had promised to stay out of, and Dev’s intel had led to them being shot down.

Cali had crossed her arms across her chest. “And none of this came out in therapy?” she asked, her disbelief obvious. “Not one of us knew you were CIA?”

Dev shrugged. “It’s in the job description. I was there to talk about what the crash did to me.” He paused. “To my confidence.” His mask slipped just enough for Clay to take a second look at him.

Dev was not okay. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And he was a damned good actor, because he’d made them all believe, therapist included, that he’d come to grips with his role in what had happened.

Cali had seen it too, and settled back in her chair, her attitude still prickly.

“I can’t make penance to Clay or Jordan for what they went through,” Dev said. “I can’t bring back our pilots Stephens or Connolly, or Clay’s friend Robertson. Or Benny.”

Clay felt a shaft of pain at Dev’s mention of Dylan. His best friend for over a decade. His literal wingman. His ride-or-die.

“But I can use my money and my influence to help people in the future.” His voice had taken on that hard edge, that bit of arrogance they’d become used to over the course of their time together. “And I’d like you to join me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of business cards. “I’d like you to help me make St. Michael’s Solutions a reality.”

Chapter Two

“How can St. Michael’s Solutions help you, Miss Foster?”

Ivy looked across the café table at the sexiest man she’d ever seen and managed to keep her sigh of appreciation internal. Barely.

Blue eyes with a faint Asian tilt assessed her from a face that looked carved from granite, all hard, chiseled lines that would have been better suited to a fashion runway than this off-Strip café three blocks from her home/studio.

She could see him in one of her paintings. Maybe in a Spartan warrior’s garb, ready for battle. But shirtless. Definitely shirtless.

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