Page 118 of Secret Mission

“What’s this about?” Truck asks as he buckles his seatbelt, then buckles mine, cinching the belt until I groan from the pressure.

Truthfully, I’m surprised the beast didn’t make me wear it the whole time we were on the plane. Even though I know as well as the next person, turbulence can happen at any second, but maybe I was feeling a little rebellious.

Or maybe Truck short-circuited some of my wiring.

“Babe?” he prompts.

“Oh, sorry, I got distracted wondering if you were going to pull out a four-point harness for me too.”

“Funny girl. But you see I'm not laughing. What DNA?”

“My father’s. I’m going to steal some hair from his hairbrush or dig something out of his trash.”

The air crackles as Truck gives me a disbelieving look.

“I’ll be right there in the house already. It will be easy.”

“She’s right,” Justice says. “Oh, and I thought of a call sign for you, Allison. What about Gator?”

I’m sure my brows form two question marks.

Justice smirks. “Crocodile…Croc—you know, since you walked away from that shit with all your limbs—but it just doesn’t have the same ring. I think Gator is much better.”

With a slow head shake, Truck rakes his hand down his face, leaving his mouth hanging open.

“Justice,” he grunts. “You’re not helping me here.”

“At least I didn’t tell Gator you’re thinking about handcuffing her to the plane.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Justice gets lucky, a hard jolt of the plane makes my knuckle punch glance off his shoulder, instead of the back of his skull.

Beside me, I hear an angry hiss.

“Youwouldn’t.”

Shit, Allison’s arms are crossed, her bottom lip protruding.

“Honey, if it means you're safe, I would.”

“But not now.” Justice settles into his seat. “Not with Sierra and Cole taking the plane. He wants you close, so you’re in luck this time, Gator.”

“For fuck’s sake, knock off the Gator shit.”

Allison tilts her adorable, stubborn chin. “I kind of like it.”

This conversation is going nowhere fast. That doesn’t stop me from arguing for a different call sign. “How about a pretty nickname? You’re a girl, I think you should have a soft, feminine one. Like…”

While I think of a lot of nicknames that aren’t meant for the public, she scowls at me until a little smile teases the corner of her mouth. “What? Can’t think of one?”

“Butterfly.”

“No! Do I look like a butterfly? I dig in the dirt for a living. I’m not some kind of pampered princess.”

Capturing her hand, I bring her wrist to my mouth. “You will be if you’ll let me take care of you.”

“Truck…” Her use of my name is more of a growl. “I’m a working woman.”