Page 10 of Puck

“Blue,” I blurted. Now why the hell did I tell him that? He didn’t need to know. “Let’s get moving.”

Puck’s eyes shot to my chest, as if he could see through my shirt, but then he quickly shifted his gaze up to my eyes, his expression serious. “So. Which way, you think?”

I frowned at him. “How the hell should I know?”

He shrugged. “Thought maybe you’d seen a sign or something that might point us toward a gas station or liquor store.”

“Yeah, I was a little too preoccupied to read any of the signs,” I said drolly.

“You’ve got a point, I guess.” Puck ejected the clip from the butt of his pistol, checked the contents, and stuffed it into his waistband behind his back—the whole series of movements was swift and practiced. He set off, glancing at me with a confident grin. “Well, I guess we just do our best lost tourist impression and hope for the best.”

I laughed. “Really, really, really lost tourists.”

“Don’t see many other choices,” Puck said.

He had a point there.

3: Danger Hackles

This chick was boss. For real. Fluent in three languages, knew the currency conversion rates off the top of her head, stayed cool as a cucumber when shit got gnarly, sassy and snappy and didn’t take any shit, and was fucking breathtakingly gorgeous.

I had to have her.

Worse, I wanted to know more about her.

Worst of all . . . I wanted her tolikeme.

I was pro level at not giving a shit what anybody thought about me—which was the main reason I got fired from the FBI, and why I never made it past E-4 in the Army. Yet something about this Colbie Danvers chick had me trippin’, had me wondering what I could do to impress her, and I didn’t just mean with my godlike powers of cunnilingus. This wasn’t like me. Not like me at fucking all. Fumbling attempts at impressing a hot chick? Yeah, until I met Colbie, I thought that was something I’d left behind in goddamn grade school.

I might not have the ability to crook my finger and have every bitch in the bar begging for a turn on her knees—like Duke and Thresh—but I could score a honey for the night without much effort. Confidence bordering on—and sometimes crossing over into—arrogance, charisma, boldness, and twenty-inch biceps would get you pretty far, even if you weren’t a goddamn pretty boy like Duke, or a titan like Thresh. Not that I was ugly, I just wasn’t on the same level as those boys. Regardless, I haven’t had to work for it in years, was what I was saying.

Colbie, however . . . she gave off the impression that I was gonna have to fight hard for every last inch I got with her. Which was fine—I loved a good fight, never backed down from a challenge, and never refused a bet.

And you better believe I didn’t miss the gleam in her eye when I dangled a wager in front of her.

For the moment, though, I needed to keep my focus more on the job at hand and less on how fucking phenomenal Colbie’s ass looked. That skirt, man. All business, no frills, nothing sexy at all, but goddamn, it showcased that ass: tight, round, firm, yet still had a nice little jiggle when she walked. And those legs? Mmm-mmm-mmm. Long, long, long legs, legs for days, lithe legs, firm, toned, smooth legs. The kinda legs a guy pictured wrapped around his waist when he was rubbing one out in the shower . . . only better.

The job, Puck, the job. Focus on the job.

I shook my head like a dog shaking water off its coat, trying to dislodge Colbie’s ass from the center of my thoughts. In fact—I lengthened my stride so I was beside her, so I couldn’t stare at her ass. Of course, now the challenge was to keep myself from stealing glances down her shirt to see if she really was wearing a blue bra, and if so, what kind—full coverage, push-up, demi . . . shelf? Yeah, you bet I knew bras, brah—I loved everything to do with tits. Whether they were naked, shown off in lingerie, pushed up by Victoria’s Secret, or just hanging loose behind a thin T-shirt, I just plain old loved tits. So yeah, I knew about bras.

And judging by the glimpses I was getting of Colbie’s rack, I guessed she had a C cup, maybe 32 or 34 around. And she was probably wearing full coverage, because the all-business skirt and button-down shirt combo felt like she dressed to be taken seriously for her skills in the office rather than her body stats. Of course, sometimes those girls in the business attire surprised you—take that pencil skirt and button-down off and suddenly she was rocking a few scraps of lace and a come-hither grin.

Not sure about Colbie, whether she’d wear sensible, comfortable underwear to work, or something sexy to make herself feel good even if no one saw it.

For that matter, what if she was attached? Didn’t seem like it, judging by her reactions to me: interested, but wary. Attracted, but didn’t want to be.

Goddamn it. Distracted again.

I growled in irritation, tore my eyes off her cleavage, and walked even faster so she was behind me.

I tried to focus on my surroundings. I had the .45 I’d taken off the driver and the two spare mags, and Layla had the Makarov and the mags for that. Sadly, I’d left the AK in the bus because I was relatively certain I couldn’t walk around with an assault rifle in plain view, even in Russia or wherever the fuck we were.

We were in a pretty run-down area, not a whole lot of much to be found except for trees and billboards and the occasional warehouse or whatever. We started walking away from the sound of the sirens and hoped we’d eventually find something useful, because what else were we going to do? We had no idea where we were, and none of us had a cell phone, so it wasn’t like we could pull up Google Maps or some shit. We hadn’t seen another soul, either, except for the occasional car or semitruck.

We’d left Layla in charge of the rest of the group, safely hidden in the alley where we’d parked the bloody, shot-up van. Colbie and I found the nearest main road and followed it, hoping to find a liquor store or gas station. It was midmorning, a bright, sunny day with only the occasional passing cloud to occlude the sunlight.

I scraped at my scalp with my hand and winced and shook my hand when I accidentally bumped my finger-stump. “Shit. I really need to get this motherfucker cauterized better.” I dug in my pockets for the lighter and the knife. “You squeamish, Colbie?”