Page 17 of Triple Threat

“She’s tried to escape several times, and threatened me with my own knives,” Roan said.

“Regular knives, or those fancy ones on the magnetic strip?”

“The expensive ones, with the meteor…”

“The fancy ones, is this why you keep bringing this up?” I asked, grimacing.

“Just slightly miffed,” he said.

“So, she needs some more time to cool her heels,” I said. “I don’t want her to be angry when I do talk to her. I’ll grab something from the fridge, grab a shower, a few hours’ sleep and then I’ll be off to DC to schmooze the general’s pets.” I eyed Roan’s weird alcohol-free spirits and headed to the kitchen for some food and a real drink.

There was no normal food. Everything was in special containers, and it was nothing but all of his fancy-ass shit. He followed me into the kitchen and stopped at the central island. “Would it fucking kill you to keep something normal around here?” I asked.

“Normal?” He snorted a laugh.

“Not pretentious,” I said.

“You travel the world and complain that the food here is pretentious?” he asked sharply.

“There is nothing in here that I can just pick up and eat. Everything in this joint has to be opened, plated, sauced, and garnished with parsley,” I said. “I just want a fucking sandwich, so I’m gonna jet, and go grab something that comes in a paper wrapper and in a paper bag. Maybe even a cardboard box.” He protested, he wanted me to stay and talk more about Sadie, and the jobs, but there was no reason. Sadie wasn’t ready for me to talk to her; she certainly wouldn’t want me to see her like she was. She needed more time to get settled in, plumped out a little bit.

“Don’t wait up,” I said, and left him to his simmering fury.

Chapter Eight

Roan…

A decade ago, I would have dealt with Lach with an uppercut to the chin, then probably a few bottles of whiskey, or a few hundred rounds downrange with the rest of the lads. Lighting up the tactical course with live rounds was a hell of a way to blow off steam. Then there would be pints and trying to give cute girls the business at the bar. Old Conan had done that more than once – gotten into fights, blazed away boxes of ammo, drained cases of beer, and easy chavettes.

Old Conan left with two legs. New Conan was a recovering alcoholic, and the urge to go to the bar and drain a bottle was overwhelming. It would be so easy. It would be so goddamn easy. Instead of even walking to the Black-Eyed Susan room, the house bar, I went to the workout room. The new cure for anger was controlled breathing and pushing weight – the ritual of breath versus the movements of the machines, the clank and clang of the plates dropping, the whine of resistance through the gears and wires.

Breathe out, lift, pause and hold, breathe in, lower.

Repeat.

Ten reps, twenty reps.

Breathe out, lift, pause and hold, breathe in, lower.

Change machines.

I was looking for a certain zone where my mind was zeroed out. The only thing that mattered were the internal functions – the smooth movement of muscle, the control of my joints, the flow of air through my body. Old Conan could reach this endorphin Zen fairly easily. Running was the greatest act of homage, but that was so much more difficult now. The missing leg only part of the problem.

The replacement prosthetic wasn’t the issue. The highly flexible carbon fiber runner’s leg was an amazing piece of engineering, but that flavor of Zen was gone. I couldn’t get out of my own head. I couldn’t think of anything but how ridiculous it looked, running with a prosthetic that looked like an airplane propeller.

The only time I ran now was on a treadmill, alone.

I pushed myself, grinding out all my frustration with Lach, turning it into sweat and muscular burn.

The shower afterwards almost felt like being reborn. The cooling mint bodywash made my entire body tingle, and I felt myself stiffen. That was unexpected. My mind wandered back to Sadie, her small breasts and how she smelled after she came out of the bath. At the time, my attention had been so focused on the task at hand that I hadn’t considered her delicate features. How transformational that bath had been.

I was fully hard.

I stroked myself with a light touch and felt a shudder ripple up through my body, rising from the head of my cock, through my abdomen, and rising through my chest. My breath caught in my throat.

My imagination leaped into action, reminding me of how her cheeks flamed red with indignation, her nipples hard under the silk garments I had provided her. The flash of pubic hair through the sheer panties, the way I could almost make out the cleft down there. I stroked myself.

How long had it been since I’d been with a woman?

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