“THAT IS NOT at all what I said, and you know it. Now, stop interfering and get lost. Unlike you, I have work to do.”
Remington Bisset was one of those girls you wanted to either seduce or push under the wheels of a speeding train. One minute, she was so sweet his teeth ached just being near her, and the next, he was contemplating having her deported on account of being a giant bitch.
“Ooh, burn, Remy,” her sycophantic assistant mocked, some twisted fuck going by the name Jean Claude. Seriously? What kind of stupid name was that? Jon Clod, he thought with a double dose of ridicule.
“Shut the fuck up, Jonny,” he sneered. “Nobody was talking to you.”
A filthy rag wadded into a ball went sailing past his head, missing him by a hair because he was fast enough to duck.
“Finn O’Brien, for god’s sake. What do you want? I have a metric assload of work to do, and the last thing I need is you throwing your weight around for no discernable reason.”
Well, she had him there.
“Tell your flying monkey to hit the pike and I’ll tell you what I want.”
Remy looked at him with such exasperation that he chuckled aloud. Slapping her hands to her waist, she cocked a hip in that ‘Fuck you’ way she did so well and huffed out a long, deep sigh.
“Aw, come on. Really? Why’s it gotta be this way, O’Brien?” Kicking the ground with her booted heel, she swore under her breath and crossed her arms defensively. “Okay. The flying monkey I get, but hitting the pike, I do not.”
Jean Claude stuck his pointy snout into the conversation and very nearly got socked in the jaw for it. Finn hated the slimy shit with an unnatural intensity.
“Monsieur O’Brien would like me to go away,” he said in a thick French accent.
What a fucking dick. He wanted to take a wicked piss right down the guy’s throat every time he saw him. What this skinny pants wearing butt farmer was doing out in the middle of the desert was a mystery, that was for sure. He came off as someone better suited for facials and body waxing in New York City than sweating his balls off in a compound so choked with testosterone someone should post a warning label.
Turning her back on both of them, Remy headed for the cool interior of the small adobe building he’d found out was the new domain for the band of people managing the stable, garage, and grounds.
Looked to him like Alex left nothing undisturbed or changed in what people referred to as the Great Justice Shuffle. He’d never been here before, so what the hell did he know? All of his information was filtered through the adoring throng of groupies who worked for the Justice chain gang or were part of the Villa staff.
He didn’t quite understand how Remy Bisset fit into this surreal landscape. Word was that she was a veteran like most everyone else. Not that he should care. It was just that of the dozens of people he’d met since his banishment to the desert, she was one of the few he found interesting.
Falling in behind her as she stomped into the adobe, he admired the tight efficiency of her denim-clad ass. Every side-to-side swagger reminded him that Remy didn’t give a shit in any way, manner, or fashion. Probably why he was so drawn to her. He was the same way, yet all it did was earn him a one-way ticket to the Wild West.
Once inside the cooler interior of the unusual office building, she tore a bandana from around her neck, swiped it across her forehead, and tossed it onto the desk. She spared him half a glance—a dismissive half glance—but he wasn’t so easily dissuaded. He also rather enjoyed watching her. She was interesting and then some.
Going to the refrigerator anchoring the end of a galley kitchenette, she pulled out a sports bottle, flipped back the cap, and took a long pull. With a satisfied ‘Ahhh,’ she pushed the cap closed and smacked her hand on the top till it snapped shut.
Then she gave him her full attention. She regarded him as though he were a bug-splattered windshield.
“Do I have to tell Calder you’re stalking me?”
Pfft. Calder. Another privileged know-it-all.
“Stalking is kinda a strong word.”
She was really good at not taking the bait and never showing anything. The girl should try her hand at Texas Hold ‘Em.
“Sorry, Beantown. Strong words are all I know. If you need unicorn farts and princess language, I suggest you hang out with the debutants at Whiskey Pete’s.”
He was gonna let that one go. She already got too much mileage out of that sharp tongue, and he didn’t feel like playing. Snatching the sports bottle out of her hand, Finn ignored the irritated gasp and helped himself to her water.
With a half-assed shrug, he ignored the muscle twitching in his jaw—she got under his skin and not in a good way—and gave her a patronizing response.
“Nice try. A for effort. What was that? A Cosmo suggestion for a clever put-down?”
Her eyes narrowed. He’d hit a nerve. Interesting and a bit of a surprise. Remy didn’t react to much, so Finn plowed on.
“And what the fucking fuck is with that Ken doll you pretend is an assistant? You two got something going on?”
Oh, my fucking shit. Did he actually say that?
The color drained from her face followed by a vivid flush. He guessed, this time, the nerve he hit was especially sensitive. When she stiffened like a plank and straightened to every one of her five-foot-eight inches, he had the disheartening thought that he’d hurt her in some way.
Shit.
“My personal life is none of your concern, Mr. O’Brien. I want you to leave. Now. And stop bothering me. Quit with the bullying while you’re at it. I don’t give a shit who you are. Unless you show up with a notarized permission slip from one of the Justice principals, you are not authorized for any vehicle. Same for the horses. If it moves and I have control of it, you can piss off.”
At least she was direct and didn’t mince words. He’d been put on the naughty list after a wild fracas out in the desert at some spot called Three Points. Along with a guy who worked in the compound and some guys he’d met at Pete’s, they took a cache of guns, a shitload of ammunition, and a case of cold beer on an ATV jaunt that ended with a bang. Literally.
Half drunk and feeling no pain, he and a dude named Jeremy were gun slinging through what their beer-soaked brains imagined were some smooth Wild West moves when they opened fire on one of the Can-Am Renegades and blew it to smithereens. The explosion and bonfire ended up being mighty impressive until he had to explain what happened.
After that, he was labeled a dumb fuck and relegated to the perpetual detention squad. Cam, Drae, and Parker all rolled their eyes when he was around. And Calder? Jesus. That guy was just a dick. Plain and simple. Now that he’d more or less earned the derision he felt flowing his way, Finn felt more trapped than ever.
“Look, silver tongue,” he jeered snottily. “Nobody gives a shit about your private life, and you obviously know nothing about bullies if you see a simple request as hectoring.”
The glacial chill and unyielding body language intensified as he spoke.
“All I’m asking for is a tradeoff. I’m driving Alex’s Mercedes. Nice ride and all but really impractical. What’s the big deal about trading and getting access to one of the pickup trucks? Or my sister’s SUV.”
Seemed like a no-brainer to him. His brother-in-law’s fancy Benz was so not his style. Frankly, he’d been damned surprised Calder let him drive it at all.
But now he had shit going on, and a truck or an SUV would be much more practical. He’d already decided that if she wouldn’t go along with his plan, he was gonna pull a fuck it, drive into Sedona, and buy his own damn truck. He wasn’t a kid, and he had his own money. A couple of years working nonstop as a paramedic and living practically rent-free with his brother meant he was sitting on a nice little nest egg. Finn O’Brien might be invisible to most folks but to a banker? A banker was going to welcome him with a smile and a handshake once he got a look at his portfolio.
But he had other more important and worthwhile things to invest his hard-earned money in. Which was why he needed a truck.
Remy scooted behind her desk. Was she putting space between them or brushing him off? It was hard to tell. Girl was pricklier than a cactus and gave new meaning to the expression ‘running hot and cold.’
Pulling an elastic band out of her hair, she dropped it on the desk and pushed both hands into the long black mass, fluffing it out and away from her neck before dropping it down her back.
“I’ll speak to Mr. Dane,” she told him matter-of-factly. “If he gives the okay, I suppose you can take a crack at your sister’s Explorer. Bigger target,” she added with a snide tinge in her voice.
It wasn’t a victory, but she hadn’t threatened him with bodily harm, so there was that.
He had nothing else to say, and her body language was screaming at him to leave, so he lifted an eyebrow and gave her a barely there nod.
Dismissed, he turned for the door but stopped at the last second and looked back at her. “Hey,” he blurted out. “You going to Pete’s this weekend? The Chixie Dicks are playing. Should be a good time.”
She looked at him funny. Had he spoken in tongues or something? Why the hell did she seem to be struggling for words?
“I, uh … no.” She adamantly shook her head, which made the shower of her silky black curls swing back and forth. “No,” she asserted again, only this time with some oomph behind it. Who was she trying to convince? Him? Or herself?
Finn paused. A hint of a warning was in her voice. Or maybe it was regret. He wasn’t sure, so he pressed further.
“Why not? It’s dollar beer night and the whole Justice crew will be there.”
Reacting as if he’d just informed her all the other reindeer didn’t want to play, she got super snippy with her way-too-fast reply.
“I do not socialize, Mr. O’Brien.” She started to add something then thought better of it and snapped her mouth shut.
Well, fuck. Guess she told him. Shame for her, he knew what bullshit smelled like.
“Shit, lady, relax. I wasn’t asking you on a date. It was just a polite question. Everyone else is going. Even that limp fuck stick,” he said with a derogatory hand gesture out the door to where Jonny remained engaged in a vehicle repair. “Whatsamatter with showing some Justice solidarity and spending a pleasant evening with your co-workers?”
He managed to ask the reasonable question with a minimum of snark, so he didn’t expect her frigid reaction.
“Get out, Beantown. Go find someone else to bother.”
And with that, she sat down heavily in a big executive chair and started furiously rearranging the papers on her desk.
Knowing a dismissal when it came at him, Finn shrugged off her unreasonable behavior and got the fuck out of there before she lit him on fire.
An hour later, Remy’s head was thumping like a bass drum. Try as she might, getting that fucking idiot Finn O’Brien out of her thoughts was harder than it should be. Something about the guy rubbed her raw and drew her in at the same time. And if there was one thing she didn’t do, it was get drawn in.
She hadn’t been facetious about not socializing. Ever. Her personal hard limit was anything that happened away from work.
Though still the new guy on the block, she got along well with all of the Justice principals and had no problem establishing a respectful rapport with the people answering to her.
Justice. Hmph. These guys were the real deal. Coming here and taking this dream of a job was a stroke of luck she always assumed was out of her reach. Other people got lucky. But not her.
Headhunted and hired by the legendary Cameron Justice, Remy had been so overwhelmed by who he was that she’d been a mindless twit during their initial meeting.
Oh, she knew all about the Waldo magnet. High-powered people in interesting places whispered about the guy’s unnatural abilities. Even after he left the military, tales of his exploits still spread by word of mouth.
She knew this because Remy had flown Apache helicopters for the Army. Sometimes in war zones where the guys told bigger-than-life stories. That was when she first heard about the Justice brothers.
But just like the brothers, her service days were behind her. Only in Remy’s case, what she hoped would be a career in the military ended with bitterness, betrayal, and anger.
But whatever. Life goes on. Scenery changes. People come and go. She was a free agent in every way that mattered, and as thirty approached, she had finally come to a personal resting place where the past was the past, and she stopped questioning every little thing or what her place was in the world.
Picking up a business card from the holder on her desk, she ran her fingers over the raised lettering.
Remington Bisset
Director
Logistics and Transportation
Next to her name and title was the Justice Agency logo. She felt drawn to the simple graphic the first time she saw it. Three flames—obviously the brothers—atop two semi-circles. It had a phoenix quality to it—at least that was her interpretation.
Remy identified with the phoenix metaphor on a cellular level. She understood how it felt for fire to destroy only to rise from the flames and fly again. There was a time when she feared fire and its destructive nature. Now? Now, she was the inferno.
Pushing away from the desk, her chair rolled backward a few feet, and she spun around to peer out the window. Tossing the card onto a pile of papers, she reined in her thoughts and stopped them dead. Some things weren’t worth thinking about. Not if she wanted to stay one step ahead of the ghosts and skeletons from her closet of personal horrors.
She didn’t have time for extraneous shit. Not when this job was still hers to lose. Because the main guy, the one who’d been a Major. Him. He was away. Honeymoon.
Major Alexander Valleja-Marquez. Another legend. Someone she knew held her ultimate fate in his hands. The guy whose absence seemed to make everyone around here a basket case. Until he came back and personally vetted her, she didn’t exactly feel secure.
Taking over from a longtime associate of the Justice Agency who was forced from the job by family issues, Remy was very aware that her every move was being scrutinized.
In charge of anything that moved—for the occupants of the impressive Villa de Valleja-Marquez and the newly constructed agency compound—she had her hands full. And not just with a fleet of vehicles so diverse it boggled the mind. Nope. She was also charged with keeping a stable running and liaising with Alex’s personal pilot.
Jesus. Keeping it straight in her mind was no easy task. Multiple cars, trucks, a limousine, a dozen electric carts, a couple of Segways, and two dozen ATVs. Nine horses, a bunch of pogo sticks, a locker full of in-line skates, three elaborate buggies, and a constantly evolving configuration of dirt bikes, Harleys, and three-wheel motorcycles. And then there was an ever-changing array of bicycles, scooters, and even a few skateboards with the Justice logo.
Best part? She handled all of it. Hell. She even had a shot at Draegyn St. John’s Lamborghini. Now, that had been a shit-ton of fun. He’d asked her to tinker with something—Remy knew damn well the request was a test of some sort. But she went through the motions; even test-drove it before declaring the vehicle in tiptop shape. That was when she’d taken the red sports car on a rip-snorting tear outside the compound. The road was sparsely traveled, so she had a long stretch of highway to let loose on.
Yeah. That’d been all kinds of fun.
But the fake car issue was a reminder of the vetting. An even better reason than her personal ones for not socializing. Dancing on the bar with her boobs hanging out wasn’t what she wanted to be known for.
As if that’d ever happen, she thought with a quiet snort.
Nope. Her party girl days were well behind her—if she’d ever really had some to begin with. Not even being a shit-kicking Army pilot with mad warrior skills had been enough to keep her safe. Evil found a way through the staunchest of defenses.
Finn O’Brien and his cocky swagger and that ‘I’m too sexy for words’ smirk was barking up the wrong tree if he thought she was going to engage with his bullshit.
He wasn’t getting a thing out of her without unimpeachable permission.
Not a car.
Not a truck.
Not a scooter.
Not even a pair of roller skates.
And no way was she hanging out at Whiskey Pete’s, no matter what the occasion. She’d learned the hardest way a woman could that no one, she didn’t give a fuck who it was, could be trusted.