Page 22 of Badd Ass
He put a thumb over my lips, silencing me, and then kissed the corner of my mouth. “You feel like talking about it?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Then leave it. It’s fine.” He grinned. “Besides, I can think of a better use for your mouth than talking.”
I couldn’t help a stupid grin from forming, and then I bit his thumb like he had my finger. “I already did that.”
“I meant kiss me.” He palmed the back of my head, his lips whispering against mine. “Get your mind out of the gutter, woman.”
I laughed, and then felt his lips close on mine, his warmth seeping into me, the wet leather of his jacket strong in my nostrils. He kissed me like it was the last kiss we’d ever have, with heat and hunger, eagerness and hints of desperation, his hands wrapped around my waist to pull me closer, then sliding down to grasp my hips.
And just like that, I was all melty and whimpering again, leaning into him, lifting my face to deepen the kiss, my hands gliding up the back of his jacket to curl around the nape of his neck, clutching him to me.
By the time the kiss broke, I was breathless and my thighs were quivery and I was seconds from climbing back on the bike and telling him to take me somewhere private.
Instead, I backed away, somewhat reluctantly. “I should go. I’m meeting Claire in the morning.”
He released me, seeming as reluctant as I was. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
I just winked at him. “Call me in the afternoon.”
“I don’t have your number.”
I shot him a glare. “Yeah, it’s probably the only number in the city youdon’thave,” I said. “I’m sure your brother can get it for you.”
Zane lifted up and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a crumpled stack of scrap papers, each scribbled with phone numbers in feminine handwriting. “What…these numbers?” He asked, holding them up. “I don’t want ‘em. Never did.”
The rain had finally quit, leaving everything wet and glistening in the darkness. Zane dug in an inside pocket of his coat, producing a silver Zippo lighter embossed with the SEAL logo. He flicked open the lid and snapped the spark wheel across his thigh in a single fast move, a flame bursting into life. He held the stack of paper upside down and let the flame lick at the edges. I watched in amusement and secret satisfaction as the fire consumed the scraps of paper. When the fire had caught fully, Zane tossed the entire pile to the ground and we watched it burn until there was nothing left but flakes of ash skirling in the gentle breeze.
He put the Zippo back in his jacket pocket and turned his gaze to mine. “Only number I want is yours, sweetheart, and it only counts if you give it to me.” He chuckled. “Fact is, though, if he really wanted to look hard enough, Xavier could probably get hold of your university transcripts, your medical record, your driving record, your credit score—shit, if your info is held in an electronic system pretty much anywhere, he could access it. He wouldn’t, though. Just saying…hecould.”
“Is it really that easy?” I asked.
Zane shrugged. “Sure, if you know how and where to look.Icouldn’t do it, but for Xavier? Easier than programming a new remote control.”
I patted his hip pockets, his back pockets, and then inside his jacket, hunting for his phone. I found it in the jacket, pulled it out, and handed it to him to unlock. He held his thumb on the home button and gave it back to me. His home screen was a photo of him in full commando gear, an assault rifle held in one hand resting on his shoulder, a helmet on, wraparound sunglasses on his face. He was in the back of a cargo jet, it looked like, the cargo door open behind him showing the ground blue-green in the distance, with four similarly-geared other men in the photo with him, posing for the selfie with goofy grins.
I stared at the photo for a moment, and then turned the screen to him. “Who are these guys?” I asked.
He named them, starting on the left and tapping each one in turn. “Marco Campo, Oscar Moyer, Luis Valtierra, me, and Cody Kellogg.” He paused a moment, obviously remembering, a complicated expression on his face, equal parts nostalgic happiness, and sadness. “They were part of my SEAL team.”
“Did you guys have nicknames for each other?”
He chuckled, nodding. “Of course. Marco was Campy, Oscar was either Wiener or the Grouch, Luis was Pinche, which is only funny if you know anything about Spanish insults. Cody was Frosted Flakes, or Frosty, because somebody got ahold of his senior pictures and he had these really wicked cool frosted tips, and his name is Kellogg.”
“What was your nickname?”
He glanced at his boots, grinning. “Baddass.” He laughed as if embarrassed, and then continued. “You know, because of my last name, obviously. And then there was that time in San Diego, right after BUD/S. I got into a bar fight with a bunch of jarheads from Twentynine Palms. Well, there were, like, eight of them and one of me, so my boys showed up thinking they were gonna have to save my ass. I told ‘em I didn’t need any fuckin’ help, because I didn’t.”
I eyed him skeptically. “Eight of them? At once?”
He shrugged. “Sure. I mean, I got messed up, but I sure as fuck didn’t lose.” He lifted his upper lip out of the way with a thumb, pointing at a couple teeth that were a little whiter and straighter than the others. “Lost a few teeth, broken nose, bruised ribs, fucked up my knuckles pretty good, and got my ass chewed off by the X-O, but hell, it earned me a pretty killer nickname.”
I shook my head. “You boys and your fighting.” I found his contact list and added a new one:For a good time, Call—and I added my cell number, then called myself from his phone so I’d have his number, too. I locked the phone and handed it back to him. “There. You have my number and I have yours. See you tomorrow?”
He stuffed the phone back into his jacket and hauled me up against him. “Unless I can convince you to invite me in.”
I rolled my eyes and huffed at him, pushing away. “Is that all you ever think about?”