Page 18 of Boomer
GQ cried, “Amen.”
“We have Gospel here. That’s the God’s honest truth. He doesn’t need a Bible. He does his thumping with detcord and C4.”
The water washed over them all. Steam rose, and somewhere in the corner, GQ started whistling “Careless Whisper” like it was a funeral dirge for Boomer’s dignity.
Ten minutes later, Boomer lay flat on his back on the comfortable, roomy bed. What a fucking luxury. Break was finishing up in the shower, and Boomer was thankful for the quiet moment. Fuck. He had his own personal goatfuck in the shower.
He hadn’t been much of a church-goer, but being a demolitions expert was a calling, and he didn’t have a house. He knocked shit down, blew shit up, and made sure no one met their maker.
If anything, he was the patron saint of controlled chaos. Of structural precision and walking the line between too much and not enough.
But Gospel?
Gospelmeant they listened.
Gospelmeant they believed him.
God help him, that scared him more than any breach he’d ever cleared. It wasn’t a joke now. It wasn’t just Skull and Breakneck laughing in the steam. It was Preacher, calm and steady, looking him dead in the eye like Boomer had said somethingworth remembering.Like itmeant something.
For a man who’d built his entire identity around what he could do with his hands, his charge loads, his body,nothis words, that kind of belief was dangerous.
He didn’t know how to live up to that.
He made space where nothing should’ve survived, and maybe, just maybe, he was afraid that includedhimself.
He closed his eyes,wrecked. Bone-deep tired. The kind of exhaustion that usually knocked him out in minutes. But not tonight. She was still in his head.
Taylor.
Every damn breath she’d taken since he stepped off that plane was etched into his brain, the way she’d looked at him, the pause before she answered, the tremble in her jaw, like she was holding something back.
Then she spoke. Crisp, controlled, her voice still laced with that soft German edge that curled around her consonants like a secret.
Was she responding to him?Was that real? Those blown pupils, those unsteady exhales, the way her body had softened, surrendered, against his when she tripped?
Was that him? Or was it the moment? The fatigue? The pressure?
God,he was so hard it hurt. Justshiftingmade him want to groan. His body had already decided it knew what it wanted. He rubbed his hand down, gritting his teeth against the pressure pulsing low in his gut. He was fighting it, not because he didn’t want her, but becausehe did, and it scared the hell out of him.
She was younger. Smarter. So goddamn composed it made him feel like a boulder crashing into glass. She was out of his league. She always had been.
He’d felt it the first time they met. Now it was worse. If he wasn’t imagining it, if he was reading her right, she wasn’t angry anymore. She was hurt.Thatgutted him.
That meant he’d mattered. If he’d mattered enough to hurt her, then he’dfucked upin a way that went deeper than silence or missed texts.
He could still see her, the smear of mascara making her eyes darker, sharper. The way her hair had been up, but loose around her temples, like she’d been asleep, like she’d rushed to meet them. Half armor, half vulnerability.
Fuck, her body,her bodyagainst his. The soft press of her breasts crushed against his chest when he caught her. The way her breath had stuttered. Her hands on him. The heat of her skin through her blouse. Her lips just inches from his.
That look in her eyes…had it been real?
Or was he being a fool, projecting what hewantedto see?
He exhaled slowly, trying not to let the ache drown him.
He didn’t just want her body, though he wanted thatdesperately.
He wanted her forgiveness.
