CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hours after the archangels left, Kyrian considered the laws of physics. What was the formula for work? Force times distance? Mass times distance? He eyed Zander’s mountainous form lying prone on the Persian rug. The guy weighed two-seventy-five and the distance from the living room floor to the guy’s bed was . . . a million miles.
Fuck, with rubber legs and the room spinning like a fun house, he wasn’t sure he could muscle the big guy to the hall let alone all that way. His head lolled to the side and he eyed the couch. Now the couch he could probably manage—
“I’m polluted,” Zander mumbled into the fibers of the rug.
“You and me both. I’m proud I’m still vertical.”
Zander mustered some strength and rolled onto his back. He stared bleary-eyed up at the pot-lights and rubbed his chest with sloppy hands. “Shit, this hurts Greek. Some motherfucker cracked me open and ripped my heart from my chest.”
Kyrian sucked back a long swig of Goose. “I swear you’re not bleeding out. It just feels that way.”
Zander grunted and found his mouth with the last of their third bottle of Herradura. Another one bites the dust. They’d started throwing back the Scotch the moment Austin was wiped and escorted downstairs. When they exhausted that supply, they’d taken a few trips back to the bar in the dining room and were now a fucking dance remix: Blame it on the Goose, got you feeling loose. Blame it on Patron, got you in the zone. Blame it on the a a a a a alcohol.
Zander barked a laugh. “Don’t quit the garrison, you’ll starve as a singer.”
Had he sung out loud? Sang? Sung? Fuck his ass was numb.
“Kyrian?”
He tried to lift his head, but the thing felt like a bowling ball.
“You think she’s sleeping?” The pain oozing from Zander’s body chilled the air around them. “You think she’s all right?”
“The twin’s set her up in the safe house on Shuter. They’re watching over her. She thinks the cop put protection on her because she got mugged. Don’t worry about a thing. We got your girl covered.”
“Good. That’s good.” He fisted his hand and held it up in the air for a symbolic bump.
Kyrian crawled across the floor on all fours and worked a sofa pillow under Zander’s head. Grabbing a blanket off the couch, he covered the guy. When Z rolled onto his side, he cuddled that empty tequila bottle against his chest and his breathing grew heavy.
“Get some sleep, buddy. I’ve got you.”
With his ass planted on the floor, Kyrian sank back against the sofa and set a few bottles upright. When their liquor graveyard was in order he let his head fall back. An important part of being second in command was being a wingman the commander could count on.
Tonight, however, he was being the guy’s brother.
He must have blacked out because woke up staring at a pair of size sixteen shitkickers, his head under the coffee table.
“Afternoon, sunshine.” Heavy hands grabbed hold of him and the world spun like he was thrown into a blender. When his head stopped sloshing, Seth’s baby blues were in his face and the muscle-bound meathead was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You look like shit, Greek.”
Kyrian scrubbed a hand over his face and wondered if it was anatomically possible for the top of his head to explode. He looked around the room but froze as his gray matter tumbled inside his skull again. He swallowed, getting nowhere with the cotton-mouth. “Where’s Zander?”
Phoenix shifted and he saw Z lying like a corpse on one of the other sofas. The guy looked like road kill, but thankfully still sleeping it off.
“Victim of a train wreck comes to mind,” Seth mumbled.
“He loves her.”
“That’s dangerously powerful shit. Hope I never catch it.”
The room remained quiet for a long time.
“Who’s watching her now?”
“Hark relieved us outside her physio clinic an hour ago. Gotta hand it to her. She strode into that building head high, ponytail swaying and ready to take prisoners. I hope she rips that Dick guy’s balls off.”
Through a self-induced Scotch haze, Kyrian watched Zander sleep. He would be blown to shreds when the hangover fog cleared—he truly would.
The ring of Seth’s phone screamed in his ear and echoed in his head. Seth hustled to answer the thing and the audio assault ended. “Sorry, man, I got this. You just lie there wasted.”
Done. He could manage wasted. In the bliss of the returning silence, his eyes drifted closed. Without a visual anchor, his head got tangled and he had to pop them open again.
Phoenix lifted his chin and his hands started moving. Do you need anything?
“A lobotomy would be nice.”
Phoenix gave a thumbs-up and headed to the kitchen.
After another minute, Seth’s muffled voice cut off and he strode back like a prize peacock with his tail fanned out.
“What?” Kyrian snapped.
He held out a piece of paper.
Kyrian squinted at the hen scratches but couldn’t focus enough to read. He slid his lighter out from his pants pocket and lit a much-needed hit of tobacco. “What does it say?”
Seth pulled back the scrap and grinned. “It’s an IP address.”
After clicking the weighted lid closed, he exhaled. An IP address. Well, wasn’t the Egyptian a ray of merry-fucking sunshine this morning . . . and him without his decoder ring.
Austin helped her patient get his shirt sleeve over his injured shoulder and waited while he did up the buttons. “So, keep on with the ice and the exercises and come back Wednesday and then again on Friday. Tell Kimi I asked her to squeeze you in.”
The guy, a forty-four-year-old kid, insisted on playing rugby like he had two decades ago in his glory days. His body knew the difference, he just didn’t want to listen.
Getting old sucked.
As her patient managed his way out the door she yanked off the soiled sheet and freshened the massage bed for her next patient. At her computer, she put in her earpiece, updated rugby boy’s file and scrolled down her schedule. The program read off the next patient: volleyball hopeful, torn ACL.
Stretching her neck from side to side she wondered when the ache would ease. She wasn’t one for headaches, but since she’d gone to bed last night, an annoying throb had been pulsing behind her eyes and her chest ached something fierce.
Her muscles were stiff too, inner thighs, arms, lower back. Like the aftermath of an Olympic sex session. She rolled her eyes. Right. Rick didn’t do wild. At least, he hadn’t with her.
She cursed and tried a few stretches to loosen up her shoulder. Officer Creed said she’d taken quite a hit when she’d been mugged. The whole weekend was a blank, but she’d been told short-term memory loss wasn’t uncommon with head injuries and the trauma of a mugging. Her last clear recollection ended with her taking Stetson for his walk Friday night.
After that—
Pain exploded in her head and she staggered to the floor.
“Christ, Austin.” Rick caught her under the elbows and sat her on the edge of the massage table. “Are you all right?”
She shook off his hold and closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? Bracing her hands on her legs, she fought a crazy urge to curl into a ball and start crying. PTSD maybe. “I’m fine. It’s a headache. The result of the concussion I got from the mugging. You don’t need to pretend to care.”
“I do care.” Pen clicking was Rick’s stress tell. Whenever the guy was uncomfortable, his thumb started plunging and clicking. She’d thought she had his mannerisms down to a science, but if so, why hadn’t she realized they fizzled out. “I’m sorry. I could have handled things better.”
“Like tellin’ me in person that you’ve been bumping boots with one of our staff instead of movin’ out and sendin’ me an email? It is one of our staff, isn’t it?”
He stepped back. “If you’re not feeling well, why don’t you take off? I’ve got things covered here.”
She looked at the dark, blank space where he stood, surprised at how little she felt. “No. Despite the awkward mess you and Sarah made of our lives, until I relocate my half of the office, y’all are stuck with me.”
“What do you mean your half of the office?”
She snorted. “You didn’t think I’d walk away and leave it all to you, did you?”
“What is there? The lease is in my name and the clinic is just starting to break even. What do you think your half amounts to beyond your clients?”
She got back to her feet, thankful that even though she seemed to be suffocating in a well-ventilated room, all motor functions seemed to be back online and working. “When I figure out my next step, I’ll be sure to send you an email.”
Zander woke with his head doing double time in a centrifuge, neurons misfiring as often as not. He heard the muffled male voices of Kyrian and a few others in the dining room. His brother didn’t sound any better than he felt. With everything they’d drank the past three nights, the two of them might be drunk for another week. He swung his legs off the side of the pool table and the world tumbled. Maybe more like the month.
He knew he should check in with the boys and find out where they stood on the rise of evil. He should pull up his big-boy pants and bury himself in his work and be the garrison commander needed.
He should do so many things.
Instead, he stood there, gripping the corner pocket to hold himself up. Numbed out and angry, he rubbed the ache in his chest that hadn’t ease in three days. Three long, horrible days.
Fuck it. Kyrian could field the discussions. Lurching like an uncoordinated zombie he made it down the hall and to his quarters. His mouth felt like something died in it. Beyond the effort his heart made to pump blood, he wasn’t up for anything more. He left the lights off. He had no interest in bearing witness to the kind of messed-up he was sporting. If he looked like he felt, well, that would be ugly.
Crossing the threshold into the pitch-dark bathroom, Zander banged his shoulder off the doorway, tripped across the mosaic floor and collided into the granite countertop. Pain exploded through his hip and he focused on the sensation. He deserved to hurt. The systemic agony overtaking his body seemed proper punishment for him giving up the one thing he’d ever had that was his own. And for what? For him to be a soldier? A savior no one appreciated? A hated member of a society that scorned them?
Flicking on the shower, he stepped under the spray while it ran Arctic fresh. Why couldn’t he have kept her for the length of her too short human lifespan? He could have tapped out for a few decades and come back on the job with cherished memories after her passing.
With rough hands, he worked himself over with the bar of soap. Quick in. Quick out. That was the plan. No lather, rinse, repeat action today. Not like—
Fuck. He willed on a dim light and eyed the upper shower nozzles. The thought of Austin working him out in here, her lips parting over the glossy head of his cock, her tongue circling, the erotic purr she made when she sucked him into her mouth. His hips jerked forward as his cock thickened and his balls tightened up hard and fast.
He needed her. Needed something of her.
His hand hit his belly and he grabbed his shaft. Oh fuck. He arched as he stroked himself. Cursed himself. Trainwreck or not, jacking off in the shower? It was all wrong in the wake of what he and Austin shared. His erection didn’t seem to care. It kicked in his hand, his release tingling at the ready. This wouldn’t bring Austin back.
He cursed and tugged harder. Planting his free palm on the granite wall, he braced his weight and let his head drop forward. He needed this. Needed to dull his beast’s rage. Needed to feel something not based on anger or violence. If he didn’t release some tension in his body, it wouldn’t be long before he went on a killing spree of his own.
At a blurring speed, he worked himself. The air filled with the slap of flesh and his breath came short and fast. Critical mass hit when he remembered Austin in his office, pictured himself spreading her thighs on his desk. He could still taste her on the back of his throat, feel his tongue being gripped by her glistening softness while her hips rocked—
The roar that ripped from him was inhuman. As his head spun, his abs flexed and he came, hot jets streaming over his hand. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Propping his shoulders against the wall of the shower he fixed images of Austin in his head.
The orgasm rose in waves, again and again. As he rode the erotic replay of their private moments he sank down the wall to the shower floor.
A long while later Z got his hamster running in his wheel and snapped back to life. Shit. He’d made a mess and remained as thick and hard as a Louisville Slugger. Forget it. Once was skeevy, a doubleheader was out of the question.
Austin deserved better than to be an erotic prop.
With the adrenaline rush over he cursed and wrapped a towel around his hips. He didn’t bother toweling off. He dripped all the way to his closet and shivered while the air-conditioning chilled his skin as cold as his insides.
Welcome to the new world order Sumerian.