Page 10 of Tactically Acquired

IRIS backed away from him, then turned and ran, nearly tripping over the stool as he bolted for the door. As soon as the door slammed, I quirked an eyebrow at Thumper.

“That was odd.”

“Not really,” he chuckled. “I slipped some magic mushrooms in his muffin this morning.”

“You did what?”

He shrugged, taking a mug from my cabinet and helping himself to my coffee. “He kept coming over and stealing my muffins in the morning. The very muffins that Bree made for me.For me. I was tired of dealing with it, so I asked her to whip up a special batch.”

“So, you drugged him.”

“Yep.”

“Because he took your muffins.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And then you came over here and stole my omelet that I very carefully made with love and tenderness.”

He frowned, taking a sip of his coffee. “What’s your point?”

I glanced at the mug in his hand and shook my head. “Nothing. There’s no fucking point.”

“Hey, we’ve got training this morning. Though, that’s probably out with IRIS running around thinking everyone’s trying to kill him.”

I grabbed the eggs out of the fridge and got to work making another omelet, but I was out of peppers and cheese. Fuck, this was not going to work. “I’m not gonna make it.”

“To training?”

“Nope.”

“But…it’s sort of required. If you don’t show, Fox is gonna sing to us. I can’t handle another show tune.”

I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. I could hear Thumper running behind me, his panic in every step.

“Slider, man. Think about this?—”

“You already drugged IRIS. Does it really matter?”

“He can still train!”

“I need food,” I called over my shoulder. “And since you ate the last of mine, I need to go shopping.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now!” I snapped, yanking open the door to my truck. I was pissed as hell. “All that work on my beautiful omelet and you destroyed my morning. I don’t have a girlfriend or even regularsex now that Vira kicked me out of her bed, but I had that fucking omelet, and you destroyed it for me!”

He got in, staring at me with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, man. I had no fucking idea.”

“That I was hungry?”

“That you loved your omelet so much,” he said, looking at me like I was weird.

“Of course, I loved my omelet. I wanted to be a fucking chef. Am I chef?” I asked as I pulled out of my driveway.

“No.”

“No, I’m not,” I snapped. “I shoot guns for a living. I blow people up and work with crazy fuckers who would rather kill people than enjoy a nice, quiet meal. But do I complain?”

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