Got him.
I smirk, running a finger along his jawline. “Seriously, what kind of moisturizer routine do you have going on? Your skin…it glows.”
He finally shifts his head slightly in my direction, nailing me with those intense greenish-blue eyes. I’m no mind reader, but his face is giving me shut-the-fuck-up realness, with a side of die-in-a-fire for good measure. Dare I say…progress?
There’s a brief flash of smugness as he points to his ear, reminding me that comms are still live.
Yeah, I’m going to hear about that later.
Just as he’s about to push me down the stairs for real, the door behind us opens and an older gentleman stumbles into the space, his arms wrapped around one of the young men from the bar.
One of the very, very young men. With wide eyes and downturned lips.
It is not our job to stop what is going on with him tonight. Our mission is bigger than this young man, but… I shoot Omar a look, and immediately he shifts from annoyed to locked in. It briefly occurs to me that, despite my shenanigans, he’s been nothing but a solid partner in every op I’ve ever worked with him.
Putting on my biggest grin, I slur my voice a little. “Oh, heyyy…two more makes this a party,” I say, draping my arm around the young guy.
Omar, who I have to remind myself is younger than I am, puts on a smile I have never seen before. Again, calibrated to within a millimeter of itself, but stunning. I wonder what it’d be like to have his smile aimed at me. He runs his hands through the man’s graying beard.
“Oh, I do love a silver fox,” he says, purring as he leans into a slightly heavier, more sensual accent.
That’s…yeah. Wow. That’s effective.
The old man agrees, and Omar goes in for a kiss and a confident grab of the guy’s junk. Definitely not the first time his hands have touched a dick. As the kiss continues, Omar’s eyes lock with mine for the space of a second, maybe two.
There is no mistaking the message in that hypnotic gaze.
He winks right at me, then neutralizes the look whiplash-fast, making me doubt what I saw. If we’re playing games tonight, I’m losing. Badly.
Remembering I’m involved in an active op, I drag my focus back to the bigger priorities. While Omar continues to grope the older man, I lean in to whisper in the young guy’s ear. “Police are raiding this party. How old are you? Are you okay?”
He trembles in my embrace, looking down at the ground. “Seventeen. No.”
The Russian accent on this kid is a complicating factor and gives me a strong desire to premeditate this ancient dickhead’s murder. While this kid is technically of age to consent to having sex with him, I doubt very seriously the old bastard gives a flying fuck about consent. I fucking hate the people who treat these young people like commodities. I give my rusty Russian a try and hope Parker isn’t laughing herself to death over the comms.
“Go to the bottom of the staircase. An enormous guy is there waiting. Tell him Anders sent you.”
His dark eyes go even wider, unsure, and terrified of his options.
“I’m sorry, kid, but you have to trust me. My friend’s name is Thane. And he’s nicer than I am.Idti. Seychas.” Go. Now.
The kid gulps and then races down the stairs.
I turn around, and Omar, looking like a damn android, has the man’s arms pinned behind him, his pocket square stuffed in his mouth.
Okay, but like a beautiful, absolutely shredded android, like if Data had a hot brother with drool-inducing forearms and a fantastic ass.
“Stop looking at me like that. Do we push him over, or do we let him go?”
The man tries to scream through the pocket square and struggles against Omar, but it’s as ineffective as a fly trying to escape a spider’s web.
I drag my eyes away from Omar’s ass to his dangerous eyes, my reply distracted. “We don’t kill anyone unless we are in immediate danger or there’s a unanimous vote. We’ve got to let him go.”
Omar’s mostly expressionless face briefly flashes disgust, but he quickly frees the man from his bondage. The older guy wastes no time racing for the stairs. It’s a damn shame when he trips over my foot on the way down, sending him twisting through the air to land face-first at a most unfortunate angle.
Man, these stairs are really fucking dangerous.
Omar’s expression doesn’t change, and I whisper into the comms. “Incoming package of black boy shorts, Russian-made. Looks like he plays in traffic. And, uh…cleanup on aisle fourteen-point-five.”
