Page 43 of Brass
“Your turn to rest,” she says, offering me one of the coffees. “I can keep watch.”
I accept the cup but ignore the suggestion. “I don’t need it.”
“You’ve been driving for over six hours. Everyone needs rest.”
“Not me.” I pull back onto the highway, merging smoothly into sparse midday traffic. “Not now.”
“Let me guess—special forces training? Some classified technique for transcending human limitations?” There’s an edge in her voice, the journalist probing for weaknesses in my armor.
“Something like that.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” I keep my tone even and professional. Detached.
She shifts in her seat, angling toward me. “Do you ever answer questions directly? Or is cryptic evasion part of your superhero persona?”
The deliberate provocation grates against my already raw nerves. She’s doing it again—pushing, testing, looking for cracks. What she doesn’t understand is that finding them would endanger us both.
“I answer questions when they’re relevant to your safety.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“The rest of the time, I focus on keeping you alive.” I meet her gaze briefly, letting her see the steel behind the words. “Which would be easier if you’d stop deliberately attempting to distract me.”
Something flashes in her eyes—a mixture of defiance and something that looks too much like satisfaction. As if getting a rise out of me is exactly what she wanted.
Christ, she’s maddening.
And God help me, it only makes me want her more.
The next night is worse than the first.
Another roadside motel, this time in Rapid City, another security sweep, another single king bed that I relinquish without comment. My body moves through the familiar routines while my mind catalogs the increasing difficulties of our situation.
Too many hours on the road have left my eyes gritty with fatigue and my neck stiff from maintaining tactical awareness. The floor of the previous motel did my back no favors.
And Celeste …
Celeste continues to be the most immediate threat to my control.
SIXTEEN
Ryan
She emergesfrom the bathroom in the loose T-shirt and shorts I purchased days ago. Her hair is damp from the shower, her skin flushed from the heat. The bruise at her temple has faded to a yellowish shadow. She smells of that citrus shampoo that’s becoming a persistent trigger for my increasingly problematic responses.
“Your turn,” she says, gesturing toward the bathroom.
I nod, keeping my expression neutral despite my body being anything but. The bathroom holds the humid evidence of her presence, the mirror fogged, the air heavy with her scent.
Cold shower. Again. A temporary measure that’s becoming less effective with each passing day.
Under the spray, I close my eyes and count backward from one thousand in prime numbers. A mental exercise designed to redirect blood flow from the more insistent parts of my anatomy to my brain. It’s only partially successful, and then fails completely, when my mind betrays me with an image of Celeste on her knees, looking up with those defiant eyes, waiting for my command.
“Fuck.” The curse escapes through gritted teeth as I brace one forearm against the tiled wall.
This has become a nightly ritual. Another form of insufficient release. My hand wraps around my shaft, movements mechanical and efficient. Just physical maintenance. Just taking the edge off. Nothing like what I really want.
