Page 18 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
RAND
Hendrix practically shovesme into my own helicopter and throws a headset at me while Portelli runs to the other side, hopping into the copilot seat. Hendrix hands Portelli a checklist and a headset, instructing him to call out the next steps. To Portelli’s credit, he quickly picks up what Hendrix needs, and they get into a rhythm.
I have about a million questions, but clearly, now is not the time. Only a couple of minutes later, with the expensively quiet rotors whirring overhead, the helicopter begins to lift, the takeoff rougher than I’ve ever experienced. As I consider a complaint to the pilot company, it occurs to me that this is probably an emergency takeoff. Passenger experience is not the top priority here. Right.
Hendrix’s gaze is set on the horizon, but Portelli’s eyes are glued to the ground.
“Wolfe, keep your ass down,” he says, his jaw tightening.
“What’s happening?” I ask, wondering when exactly I signed up to be part of some sort of action-adventure plotline.
“It’s my brother and Mikey.” He swings around, glaring at me. “I said, keep your fucking ass down. Lie flat.” Not missing a beat, he turns to Hendrix. “Hey, Be All You Can Be, can they reach us with those guns?”
Guns?I decide that Portelli might have a point and stretch out on the bench, feeling like a kid riding in the back of a station wagon. Not that I’ve ever been in the back of a station wagon, but I’ve seen them in movies.
“No, sir. But I’m not exactly hanging around for them to dig out some bigger—”
A distinct pop-pop-pop sound cuts off Hendrix’s words, and the helicopter lurches upward as he pulls on a lever of some kind. My stomach is ready to revolt, but I keep that to myself.
“Were they shooting at us?” I’m incredulous, but the facts seem irrefutable. I’ve been shot at. By the mob.
Well, the helicopter was shot at, but still.
Joe nods, his mouth grim as he looks back at me. “How did you get that cut on your chin?”
My hand goes to my chin, and I pull away to find blood. Not too bad, considering it’s a facial wound, but it does lend to the absolute surrealness of the day.
Joe unzips his coveralls, shimmying out of the top and letting it pool around his waist.
Oh.
His arms are shocking.
I mean, I know the man has arms, but I didn’t realize they’d be quite so…well-formed under all of that. And his tanned olive skin is…inviting.
Reaching back, he grabs a bandanna from his pocket and hands it over to me.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask, looking at the crumpled material.
“You’re getting blood down your shirt. Use it to stop the flow.”
Ripping my attention away from the prominent veins running up his arms, I blink at him. None of that, Wolfe. Reassert your dominance.
Sitting up, I straighten my shoulders and lift my nose at him, giving him my most imperious look. “You just pulled that thing from your ass. I’m not putting it on an open wound.”
I’m wearing the expression I use to intimidate people, and it’s usually effective. Joe snorts and rolls his eyes at me.
“I didn’t pull it from my ass. I pulled it from my pocket, and it’s clean. I’ve been in coveralls all day long. I didn’t get any of the docks on it. There are barely even any poor-people cooties on it, promise.”
An uncomfortably warm splash of blood dribbles down past my collar, and I decide this isn’t a hill I’m willing to die—or bleed out—on. I pluck the bandanna from his fingers and ignore the amused tilt of his lips. They’re unexpectedly plush, which I find mildly annoying.
I pull the fabric up to my nose, sniffing it, anticipating the stench of dirt and oil. I am, however, mistaken. The scent nearly overwhelms me, and it’s all rather embarrassing. I’m hoping my cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. It’s Azzaro, of all things, something my first furtive boyfriend wore in high school, something I could have sworn I’d outgrown.
It’s combined with an undertone of laundry detergent, and the nostalgia of this smell makes me want to find this man’s bed and bury myself in his pillows.
Maintain the upper hand, Wolfe.
He’s still looking at me, his eyes assessing. I give him a small nod and gently press the soft, worn material to my chin. I suppose I gained the cut from getting thrown into the back of my own helicopter. Another reminder that this day has gone completely pear-shaped.
