Hey, y'all! Well, it's gonna be a helluva sexy spring, I can tell you that much. I've just finished the rough draft for STORM, JUSTICE comes on Monday *squee*, and after I bathe myself in wine tonight (kidding. What waste of good wine. The wine is going in my mouth ;-)), I'm going to start working on the 4th and final BAD BOYS OF X-OPS book--BANE--for June release!
And then plans. Oh, the plans I have. (If you're trying to picture me right now, I'm gleefully rubbing my hands together--without spilling a drop of wine. So talented).
Desire . . . Trust?
I’m headed back to the Blood Legion MC in New Orleans, my old stomping grounds. Guns. Thugs. Broads. Cocaine nightmares. A Mexican cartel, cracker coke runners, and now there’s a new international threat in town.
Blaize Carmichael is my only partner in this op. Blaize. As a biker babe. Jeeesus. I’ve had a bone for her from day one when she walked into headquarters—haughty, superior, and always in charge.
There’s a goddamn good chance we’ll get made, played, and put in the grave as government-issue traitors. But I can’t help it—I love to get rough, raw, dirty, and dominant with her.
No more yes ma’am, no ma’am. Blaize is about to find out I don’t always takes orders as issued.
I can’t stand the way Storm calls me woman or cher or sexy. As soon as we’re back in DC, I’m going to wipe that infuriating wicked smirk right off his dangerously handsome face.
I’m always prepared for every scenario. I’ve built my career on complete professionalism in and out of the field. But when Storm comes at me with wild animal lust—when he opens up to me--when he opens me up, I can’t say no.
I don’t want to.
We’re in danger every single day we stay in NOLA. There is no way we can make it out alive. Not together. Not this time.
PEDESTRIAN WALKING ALONGSIDE the inner streets of London was safe from Bane when he was behind the wheel of the fast, fancy car. Fuck, I wasn’t even safe, and I was sitting inside the vehicle right beside him.
“They drive on the left side of the road here, pahdnah.” I gritted my teeth, holding onto the fucking dainty oh shit bar in the Jaguar XKR-S GT.
“I know. I’m trying to throw them off our scent. And don’t call me pahdnah, you Cajun half-breed hillbilly.”
“Don’t know where you come off callin’ me hillbilly. You’re just another piece-of-trash street thug.” I snarled.
Bane shifted down, taking the hairpin turn with a squeal of tires and a wide grin I wanted to punch right off his face.
I glanced back, checking out the rear window to make sure we weren’t being tailed too closely.
I encountered Walker’s face as he sat in the backseat. He looked ready to puke all over his new shoes. His normally, naturally copper-colored skin as pale as thin smoke, and sweat popped out on his forehead.
When I straightened around, I tried pumping my foot on the brake pedal that wasn’t there. “Fuck’s sake, Bane. Is this a one-way street?”
“Looks like it,” he muttered, staring at the oncoming traffic in the tiny brick-paved lane.
Honking the horn with the heel of his palm, he swerved up onto the sidewalk. He narrowly avoided clipping an innocent civilian before taking a swift right that put us back onto a double-lane street.
“Jesus Christ.” I swiped my forehead. “Someone sure named you right. You definitely gotta be the biggest motherfuckin’ bane of my existence.”
“Them’s some mighty refined words for a no-count country boy.” Twisting the wheel into a hard right, Bane looked briefly back to make sure no one followed us.
“I worked my way into this job just like you did, thuggy, I just didn’t commit crimes along the way."
Bane laid more rubber tread on the road, punching down and making the engine scream through crowded streets. He swerved in and out of standstill traffic, raced over a bridge, and brought us to a slamming halt that spun the Jag one hundred and eighty degrees in its tracks.
“Missed a turn,” he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.
I reached for my holster. The holster that was missing. Walker bitched and moaned in the back, taking up where I’d left off.
We were all weaponless and not a single one of us was happy about being stripped of our sidearms, knives, or brass knuckles. Or, in Walker’s case, semtex and C-4.
Bane chewed his lower lip, his eyes darting between the windshield, rearview, and sideview mirrors.
With another gut-twisting turn like the aerobatic aeronautical tailslides I liked to maneuver in an airplane just for the sheer fucking fun of it, Bane’s eyes lit up.
“Jesus cunting Christ! Why don’t you just take the next corner on rails?” I braced myself against the dashboard to stop from sailing headfirst through the windshield.
Tailslides worked better when I was at the controls. In a plane. Without goddamn Bane. Jeeeesus.
And so he did.
Walker was heard gulping down his gorge, quietly trying not to retch all over the backseat.
“You still blame me for what went down?” Bane stomped on the gas, sending the transmission into sixth gear.
“Will to my dying day.”
“Let’s see if we can speed that up, then,” the bastard answered.
Bane blew through Piccadilly Circus like he was drag racing in a jacked-up ’71 Camaro.
We sped past red double-decker buses. Cruised by camera-toting tourists. We took the rounded three-lane juncture on skidding, probably balding tires.
Oh look! The famous neon billboards!
Sirens sounded in our wake. Loud and unmistakable. Possibly unshakeable.
“Hey, guys?” Walker’s voice sounded quaky.
Bane glanced back, inadvertently misdirecting the Jag into two lanes of oncoming traffic.
“Remember what I told you about being air sick, Storm?”
“Yeah.” I prepared for a ditch and roll move before Bane crashed us in a head-on collision.
Bane swung us out of harm’s way, bumping into a narrow alley where tall stone buildings nearly kissed above us and blocked out the fall sunlight.
“Make that motion sick.” Walker was getting ready to upchuck.
Jerking the car left, Bane blasted onto a road, his hard face showing the joy of the hunt.
“Bullshit. You’ll be fine.” He laid on the horn, swearing out the window at too-slow pedestrians.
They hustled to the curb, and he gunned the engine, nearly stripping the crosswalk of its white paint.
“You ride a motorcycle.” I pointed out to Walker, trying to take his mind off his--uuuh—imminent demise. “And a horse.”
“And Jade!” Bane pounded the horn just to scare a few extra people while I chuckled.
Then I remembered I hated him.
Then Walker’s long arms reached out, and he punched us both on the back of the head with punishing blows.
“You fucking mention anything about Jade again, and I’ll pack so much C-4 up your asses you’ll shit from colostomy bags for the rest of your lives.”
The car lurched with Bane’s stuttered reaction to Walker’s threat, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it, my asshole puckered. So did my face.