“You didn’t need to take my phone to tell me that.” She held out her hand, palm up. For safety and security reasons, he ignored her demand, hit the off button, and put her phone in his pants pocket on the left. She punched him in the leg on the right. “Asshole, I need that.”
There wasn’t much behind the punch. Chase suspected the lack of effort wasn’t because of desire. Slumped in her seat, she appeared to be running out of steam, jumping off cliffs and driving into ravines perhaps starting to take their toll.
“Trust me. You’ll get it back. What’s your name?”
“Gray.”
“Gray is a color.”
“It’s also an army airfield in Tacoma. What’s your fucking point?”
“Didn’t your parents like you enough to give you a real name?” Chase pulled onto the road and reached for a tattered Boston Bruins ball cap on the dash. It was a perfect fit.
“Gray is a noun. Nouns, by definition, are names. You’re an asshole. Also, a noun, but since we’re sharing, mind telling me who the hell you are? Wait, no. Let me guess. It’s Maverick, right? Or is it Hawkeye? Gunner, maybe?” She held up a scraped palm, cutting off his reply. “No, wait. I’ll bet it’s Thor, isn’t it? Thor, the god of war.”
“Thor is a comic book hero, Gray. Ares is the Greek god of war.”
She shrugged. “Well, I suppose if you prefer, I can keep calling you asshole.”
“My name is Chase.”
“Well shit. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Chase is a verb. Didn’t your parents like you enough to give you a noun for a name?”
Gray’s tauntfailed to elicit a verbal response, but unless she mistook the upward twitch at the corner of his lip, Chase had to work overtime at keeping his poker face in place. Elbow propped on the frame of his door, he covered his mouth with his hand. “So, are you sporting a noun for a last name too?”
Visible through his fingers, his smirk ticked her off, and if she had the energy to move her arm, she would have punched him in the leg again for being a super annoying yet cheerful dickhead.
As she studied his profile, she rubbed the skin of her palm. The one he’d held as they climbed to the road. The one he’d refused to let go of after they made it to the top. His grip strong and sure, he’d taken control, leading her to his truck like he rescued kidnapped women daily.
Maybe he did? Who knew?
Used to fending for herself, Gray had no idea why she hadn’t pulled her hand free.
Her best guess—brain damage. Yeah, a malfunctioning cerebral cortex explained why she’d allowed his long fingers to stay wrapped around hers. Explained her relief at having him by her side too.
No doubt about it, even if her instincts were misfiring, the fact that Chase hadn’t killed anybody in the last hour made him the good guy in this scenario. She couldn’t say the same about Rusty Eyes.
Sure, the man he killed would have sexually assaulted her if he had the chance. But putting a bullet in his head? Probably not a requirement under the bad guys’ code of conduct. And it certainly didn’t mean he had her best interest at heart.
Nope, the smart move was to trust the soldier who left his bullets in his gun. At least until they were back across the border. After that? The second Chase turned his back, she planned to toss him like a live grenade, cover her head, and run in the opposite direction.
Fucking Jackson.If she survived the night, she was killing her partner. Or maiming him. Maybe more than a little. Seemed fair. As for jail time? Who cared? She could use a vacation. So what if he was on the cusp of another major headline? He was the reason she’d spent the day dodging bullets, being tackled by rapists, and holding hands with enlisted assholes.
Not the first time Jackson had put her in the line of fire to collect the evidence he needed. After an assignment went south in Jordan two years ago, she’d spent weeks in the hospital recovering from a bullet that had come close to severing her femoral artery.
Busy plugging the hole in her leg, she’d lost her favorite camera. Even worse, she’d lost her memory card. Every picture she took. Gone. The large crates loaded into unmarked trucks. Gone. The American soldiers coming and going. Gone. The handshakes between enemies. Gone.
The entire assignment—botched by a bullet. AnAmericanbullet. Fired by an M27 automatic rifle. The gun of choice for the United States Marines. Jesus. Her father had been pissed—at her.
Entirely unfair, in her opinion. It wasn’t like she went around looking for bullets to jump in front of. Or ravines to drive into, for that matter. God save her from self-righteous military men. The one sitting next to her in particular.
“Last name?” Chase asked again, flicking his gaze from the road to her, the briefest of glimpses sending a warning tingle down her spine.
Fuck, he was a bossy, arrogant, controlling bastard.
With capable hands.
When one of the hands in question reached between them to punch the heated seat button on her side of the truck, she realized the cold air coming in from the busted rear window had her shivering in her shoes.
