Aisha blinked. Laughter and squeals echoed as the children ran down the stairs.
Laine’s future hung in the balance. Her chest tightened as she held her breath, waiting.
“I might be able to help with that,” she whispered. “But who will you call?”
Laine bit her bottom lip. “I have someone.”
Someone she hadn’t called in years. Someone she’d all but forgotten and, at the same time, had longed for. Someone who would come no matter what.
Roarke.
“Oh my god,the food here is fuckin’ awesome.” Viper reached for Atlas “Striker” Wall’s naan bread.
Striker smacked his hand. “Get outta here. You just ate three of ’em, you pig.”
“You gonna eat that, Rogue?” Viper asked.
Roarke pushed his side plate, which held an untouched piece of naan bread, to Viper. “Go for it. But if you get any heavier, you’re going to weigh down our bird.”
Viper was the beefiest of their crew. At six foot five and damn near three hundred pounds of muscle, he was a beast.
He folded the thin, floppy bread and took a massive bite. He chewed and grinned. “Worth it.”
“No self-control,” Striker said, shaking his head. “It’s a good thing your job relies on your trigger finger.”
Viper flipped him the middle finger. “Eat a dick, Striker. You’re the one eating everything in sight.”
Roarke laughed and leaned back in his seat. For March, the weather was beautiful. Patio lanterns hung around the outdoor space, and if it were dinnertime and not lunchtime, they’d be lit. Music played from inside the restaurant.
“Well, boys,” Viper said, as he polished off the last of his carbs, “next job isn’t for another month. Where you guys heading?”
Viper and Striker discussed their plans to leave tomorrow. Viper wanted to see his parents back in the US and Striker was heading back to Pittsburgh, too.
“What about you, Rogue?” Striker asked.
Most Phantom Ops work took them overseas. Rogue had gone home only a couple of times over the last six years. His parents complained about it whenever he spoke to them. Now that Laine was no longer living in the US, though, it only fucking hurt to go there.
Still, since he had nothing else to do but wallow in a foreign country, he figured he might as well see his mom and dad. “Home, I guess,” he said with a shrug.
“Wraith and Havoc didn’t waste time leaving. Bet they’ll be the last to come back, too.” Striker smirked.
Keir “Wraith” Draven and Lucan “Havoc” Cross were probably already balls deep in the first women they saw after getting off the plane wherever the fuck they landed. Neither of them managed celibacy well, and for the sake of the missions, they all needed to avoid relationships on the job. Six months was a long-ass time for most, but torture for guys like Keir and Lucan.
“You got word on the next job, Rogue?” Viper asked.
As private contractors, they never knew what was coming next. But job scarcity wasn’t a worry they had.
“I don’t like that look on your face,” Striker said, taking a pull on his beer. “Better not be a hostage extraction.”
“This look is just good genes,” Rogue said, dragging his thumb along the rough beard at his jawline.
Viper guffawed.
“I’ll touch base when I’ve got more details. Just know we’ll be back in the Middle East this time next month.” Roarke stood and threw some bills on the table—enough to cover their tab and a tip.
“Let’s get dinner tomorrow,” Striker said. “On me.”
Roarke agreed and said goodbye. As he made his way back to his apartment, his mind wandered to Laine for the first time in weeks. He thought of her often but more so between jobs.
