Page 39 of Boomer
She shivered again.
The physical with him? That would always be easy. But were they on the same page?
There was something unsettled in him, a current of unease or retreat. She wasn’t sure if that was her invitation or her warning.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, stepping back. “Interrogations. But what about lunch?”
“Can’t. Demo with the SBS.” He rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I’d rather be looking at you across a plate of food than listening to Bash call me Southern fried.”
She couldn’t help but smile.
“You know. He wouldn’t tease you if he didn’t like and respect you.”
“God, perish the thought.”
She stepped closer again. Dropped her voice. “You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now, you devastating bastard.”
Then she turned. Walked a few paces away. “Scheiße,” she muttered under her breath, not caring if he heard. She looked back once, sultry, bitten lip, the whole firestorm, and took in his wrecked face.
She took that with her into the cells. Took it like treasure. Took it likeproofthat she wasn’t the only one falling.
“I’ve gota bone to pick with you, yank,” Bash said as two of his friends came into the kitchen.
Boomer headed for the fridge, still reeling from what she’d said to him in the doorway. His dick was hard, and he was having a hard time trying to maintain that cool head thing he was espousing this morning. No one had ever called him a devastating bastard. Jesus. He was fucked, goatfucked, and screwed ten ways to Sunday. “Oh, yeah. What a surprise.”
“I heard Taylor almost died yesterday on your watch.”
Breakneck came into the room, and he stiffened, looking at Boomer. “What kind fucking hot air are you spewing now, fish and chips?”
Boomer barked out a laugh and met Breakneck’s eyes. “There was a pirate who had a bead on her. He’s dead.”
Bash stepped into Boomer’s personal space, his attempt at intimidation was pathetic. He got his British panties in a twist over the way Taylor had touched him, spoke to him. Yet, against his will, Mike filled up his head. The man had died for him and guilt clawed at him. What if he’d been wrong and Taylor had been shot…
“You know, for a man from a country wewhoopedseveral times, you got a lotta opinions.”
“Several?”
“History lesson, mate. We sent y’all packin’ once in redcoats, and again in 1812. Third time’s just showin’ off.”
“We fought the Nazis alone. You lot only joined when it got personal. We were already bleeding.”
“We were bleeding, too.”
“After Pearl. Took a surprise attack to wake you,” Bash scoffed.
Boomer’s drawl went low and flat, the kind that didn’t rise in anger but pressed down like weight on a loaded trigger. He stepped in close, voice steady as a sermon, dangerous as detcord. “Then we fought the rest of that damn war on three fronts, Europe, Africa, the Pacific, while protecting that little isle you live on. So maybe don’t bring history into it unless you’re ready to count every grave we dug so your flag could still fly.”
Bash didn’t smile this time. He didn’t say anything at all.
“Don’t stand in front of the breacher, Bash. Common sense and cover your ass are the watchwords,” Boomer said.
Breakneck chuckled.
Bash started out of the room. “CQC is basic shit, Colonel Sanders. You were sloppy and inattentive. What were you looking at? Taylor’s ass or tits?”
Boomer’s hand shot out, stopping Breakneck mid-lunge, flat palm to his chest.
“Don’t.”
