“Civilians,” Gerard said, sounding annoyed in the way Patrick remembered from years in the field when his captain wasdone with this shitand ready to wreak havoc. The half-fae were rather good at that. “You had civilians backing you up. That’s just un-fucking-believable.”
“They held their own, and everything got handled.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of what you mean when you sayhandled.” Gerard pitched his voice into a mockery of Patrick’s when he said, “No, everything’s fine, Captain, I’m not bleeding out from a bullet hole in my side—”
“That wasone timeand I wasn’t bleeding out, so respectfully, fuck off, sir. I made it to the exfil on my own two feet.”
Gerard’s voice turned far too contemplative for Patrick’s liking. “You know what? We’re due back stateside after the next mission. Me and a few of the boys are going to take some R & R and come for a visit to check out this so-called team of yours. We’ll make sure you can still find your ass with both hands after three years of being a civilian.”
“I’m sorry, which one of us in this conversation is wearing railroad tracks?”
Keith erupted into laughter in the background of the call, his words coming through the line a little muffled. “He’s got you there, Smooth Dog.”
Gerard ignored him. “We’re visiting, and you’re paying the bar tab when we do.”
Patrick groaned, well aware of how much his old team could drink. “Fine.”
“Listen, we have to go. Keep your head up, Collins. Don’t get dead.”
“Right back at you.” The call cut out, and Patrick dropped his phone on the bar counter. He stared at Jono for a long moment before saying, “Hand me the bottle of whiskey. Another shot isn’t going to cut it.”
Jono picked up the bottle of whiskey but didn’t hand it over. “Was that your old captain?”
“I know you didn’t keep your ears to yourself, so I’m not even going to bother answering your question.”
Jono poured him another glass, despite his earlier protests about Patrick’s limit. “Sounds like a decent bloke. Wouldn’t mind meeting him.”
Patrick made an inarticulate sound of affronted rage in the back of his throat. Emma laughed at him and knocked her fist against his shoulder. “Let us know when they come out. They can drink here.”
Patrick curled his hand around the glass of whiskey like it might save him. “Hell no. I’d never survive that meeting.”
Judging by the unimpressed looks everyone shot him, they didn’t care.
“Traitors,” he muttered darkly, taking a sip of whiskey. “You’re taking Gerard’s side and you don’t even know him.”
“Someone needs to be on your side, and he sounds like he has been,” Jono retorted.
Patrick couldn’t really argue with that statement. “Yeah. I guess.”
Jono rolled his eyes and leaned across the bar counter, his fingers sliding beneath the collar of Patrick’s shirt to hook around the dog tags. He pulled on them firmly, drawing Patrick forward into a quick, hard kiss that didn’t go unnoticed by anyone in the bar, judging by the catcalls erupting around them.
“All right, all right, do your job, Jono. You can do Patrick later,” Marek called out over the noise of the bar.
Patrick sat back on his stool, then reached around a hunched-over and laughing Sage to smack Marek upside the head.
“Ow!” Marek exclaimed in a faux wounded voice. “What was that for?”
“Every time you wouldn’t stay put the other week and I couldn’t throttle you.”
“That’s it. I’m not getting your next round.”
“He’s not drinking another round,” Jono reminded everyone.
Patrick sighed and resolved to make his final glass of whiskey last the rest of the night. “At least the company is good for once.”
Jono smiled at him from the other side of the bar, and it warmed Patrick better than the whiskey on his tongue.
23
