Feeling Hot
Page 62
“Waiter at the Chinese restaurant came out to have a smoke just as the action went down,” Carson explained.
They left the station and still Becker didn’t say a word. From the daggers in those brown eyes, the CO was clearly on the verge of exploding. Cash had two inches and about twenty pounds on the commander, but he felt five feet tall in the man’s presence. Beck was a man of few words, but when he spoke, you paid attention, and with those waves of intensity rolling off him, he could scare the shit out of you with one look.
They stood on the front steps, nobody making a move. Becker kept staring at them as if he wanted to kill them, and even though he’d expected it, Cash was still startled when the explosion came.
“What the hell is that matter with you?” Becker roared. “A bar fight? Really?”
“Well, it was more like an alley fight,” Seth said.
Becker ignored him. “Here I am, enjoying a lovely evening with my wife and daughter, and then the phone rings, and who’s on the other end of the line? The police. Telling me four of my men decided to rough up some businessman in frickin’ public. Were you idiots born stupid or is this something you’ve worked on your whole life? Brawling in public! Jesus f**king Christ!”
Cash’s jaw went slack. He’d never seen Becker so pissed off, or heard him utter so many words at one time.
“This is the last time I bail you out, understand?” Becker barked.
“Technically, you didn’t bail us out,” Seth murmured. “No charges were pressed.”
Becker yet again ignored the resident smartass. “If you ever pull another stunt like this, I’m filing a disciplinary report. No brawling, hear me? I don’t give a shit if you were provoked—you find yourself in this position again, you walk away. Understood?”
“Understood,” they answered in unison.
Becker crossed his arms over that massive chest and glared at them, one at a time. “And to solve your who-gets-raped puzzle? Based on looks alone—Pretty Boy over here.” He jammed a finger in Dylan’s direction. “Based on personality?” He signaled to Jackson “Texas, because he’s too damn nice. Based on attitude? This guy,” pointing at Seth, “because he’d probably piss off an inmate named Bubba with his smart mouth and Bubba’ll have to punish him.” Beck cocked his head at Cash. “And McCoy would quietly serve his time and probably avoid any ass shenanigans.”
A silence fell.
“Well,” Dylan spoke up. “Thanks for settling that, Commander.”
Becker’s brown eyes flashed. “Now, Carson and I will drive you dumbasses back to your cars, and I’m going home to read a bedtime story to my daughter and pretend this bullshit never happened. Pretty Boy, Smartass, you ride with me.”
He marched off without waiting to see if Dylan and Seth were following. Which they were. Running after him, more like it.
Cash let out a relieved breath that he didn’t have to sit in the same car as Becker, then glanced at Carson, who’d stayed silent during Becker’s entire tirade. “You don’t have anything to add?”
“Nope.” Carson’s blue eyes twinkled as he gestured toward the Range Rover parked at the curb. “Come on, dumbasses, let’s get your car. Texas, you’re riding in the back.”
They headed to the SUV, Jackson sliding into the backseat as ordered. Cash reached for the passenger door handle, but Carson came up beside him before he could open the door.
“Did the creep get the message?” Carson asked, steel in his eyes.
He nodded. “I think he did, LT.”
“Good.” The other man’s lips twitched. “Don’t think I’m condoning brawling in public, but I appreciate what you did, McCoy. Looking out for my sister like that.”
“We’ve become friends,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t like it when people harass my friends.”
Carson slanted his head, suspicion entering his expression. “Friends,” he echoed.
“Yup.” Cash was tempted to avert his gaze, but he knew that would only raise a red flag. So he met the lieutenant’s gaze head on, daring him to challenge that.
Hell, he kind of wished Carson would. Cash didn’t like lying to the guy, especially now that his feelings for Jen were…changing. This didn’t feel like a fling anymore, not by a long shot.
But Carson didn’t push the subject. Instead, he changed it, studying Cash’s face. “Bastard got you good, huh?”
He brought a hand to his mouth and touched the swollen bump, and when he scrubbed a hand over it, he felt the dried blood caked there. “Yeah, but I got him better.”
Carson grinned. “Good. But if you tell Becker I said that, I’ll deny it. My official stance on what you did tonight is the same as Becker’s—foolish as hell.”
“And your unofficial stance?”
“My unofficial stance is…hoo-yah.”
Jen was climbing the walls by the time Cash walked through the door. She was at his side in two seconds flat, gasping when she noticed the red bump at the corner of his mouth. And was that blood on his lip?
“Are you okay?” she demanded, her hand flying up to his face.
He winced as her fingertips skimmed his mouth. “I’m fine.” His fingers circled her wrist and he slowly moved her hand away. “Just a little bruise.”
She studied him, trying to decide if he was downplaying his injury in an attempt to act macho, but the lack of pain and discomfort in his eyes told her he was telling the truth. Still, she couldn’t help but sharply sweep her gaze over him to make sure he hadn’t been hurt anywhere else. He seemed fine, though. Pretty damn fine, in fact. His black T-shirt hugged every delicious muscle of his chest, the camo pants and scuffed-up shitkickers added to his tough-guy look, and the swelling at the side of his mouth lent him a dangerous vibe.
They left the station and still Becker didn’t say a word. From the daggers in those brown eyes, the CO was clearly on the verge of exploding. Cash had two inches and about twenty pounds on the commander, but he felt five feet tall in the man’s presence. Beck was a man of few words, but when he spoke, you paid attention, and with those waves of intensity rolling off him, he could scare the shit out of you with one look.
They stood on the front steps, nobody making a move. Becker kept staring at them as if he wanted to kill them, and even though he’d expected it, Cash was still startled when the explosion came.
“What the hell is that matter with you?” Becker roared. “A bar fight? Really?”
“Well, it was more like an alley fight,” Seth said.
Becker ignored him. “Here I am, enjoying a lovely evening with my wife and daughter, and then the phone rings, and who’s on the other end of the line? The police. Telling me four of my men decided to rough up some businessman in frickin’ public. Were you idiots born stupid or is this something you’ve worked on your whole life? Brawling in public! Jesus f**king Christ!”
Cash’s jaw went slack. He’d never seen Becker so pissed off, or heard him utter so many words at one time.
“This is the last time I bail you out, understand?” Becker barked.
“Technically, you didn’t bail us out,” Seth murmured. “No charges were pressed.”
Becker yet again ignored the resident smartass. “If you ever pull another stunt like this, I’m filing a disciplinary report. No brawling, hear me? I don’t give a shit if you were provoked—you find yourself in this position again, you walk away. Understood?”
“Understood,” they answered in unison.
Becker crossed his arms over that massive chest and glared at them, one at a time. “And to solve your who-gets-raped puzzle? Based on looks alone—Pretty Boy over here.” He jammed a finger in Dylan’s direction. “Based on personality?” He signaled to Jackson “Texas, because he’s too damn nice. Based on attitude? This guy,” pointing at Seth, “because he’d probably piss off an inmate named Bubba with his smart mouth and Bubba’ll have to punish him.” Beck cocked his head at Cash. “And McCoy would quietly serve his time and probably avoid any ass shenanigans.”
A silence fell.
“Well,” Dylan spoke up. “Thanks for settling that, Commander.”
Becker’s brown eyes flashed. “Now, Carson and I will drive you dumbasses back to your cars, and I’m going home to read a bedtime story to my daughter and pretend this bullshit never happened. Pretty Boy, Smartass, you ride with me.”
He marched off without waiting to see if Dylan and Seth were following. Which they were. Running after him, more like it.
Cash let out a relieved breath that he didn’t have to sit in the same car as Becker, then glanced at Carson, who’d stayed silent during Becker’s entire tirade. “You don’t have anything to add?”
“Nope.” Carson’s blue eyes twinkled as he gestured toward the Range Rover parked at the curb. “Come on, dumbasses, let’s get your car. Texas, you’re riding in the back.”
They headed to the SUV, Jackson sliding into the backseat as ordered. Cash reached for the passenger door handle, but Carson came up beside him before he could open the door.
“Did the creep get the message?” Carson asked, steel in his eyes.
He nodded. “I think he did, LT.”
“Good.” The other man’s lips twitched. “Don’t think I’m condoning brawling in public, but I appreciate what you did, McCoy. Looking out for my sister like that.”
“We’ve become friends,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t like it when people harass my friends.”
Carson slanted his head, suspicion entering his expression. “Friends,” he echoed.
“Yup.” Cash was tempted to avert his gaze, but he knew that would only raise a red flag. So he met the lieutenant’s gaze head on, daring him to challenge that.
Hell, he kind of wished Carson would. Cash didn’t like lying to the guy, especially now that his feelings for Jen were…changing. This didn’t feel like a fling anymore, not by a long shot.
But Carson didn’t push the subject. Instead, he changed it, studying Cash’s face. “Bastard got you good, huh?”
He brought a hand to his mouth and touched the swollen bump, and when he scrubbed a hand over it, he felt the dried blood caked there. “Yeah, but I got him better.”
Carson grinned. “Good. But if you tell Becker I said that, I’ll deny it. My official stance on what you did tonight is the same as Becker’s—foolish as hell.”
“And your unofficial stance?”
“My unofficial stance is…hoo-yah.”
Jen was climbing the walls by the time Cash walked through the door. She was at his side in two seconds flat, gasping when she noticed the red bump at the corner of his mouth. And was that blood on his lip?
“Are you okay?” she demanded, her hand flying up to his face.
He winced as her fingertips skimmed his mouth. “I’m fine.” His fingers circled her wrist and he slowly moved her hand away. “Just a little bruise.”
She studied him, trying to decide if he was downplaying his injury in an attempt to act macho, but the lack of pain and discomfort in his eyes told her he was telling the truth. Still, she couldn’t help but sharply sweep her gaze over him to make sure he hadn’t been hurt anywhere else. He seemed fine, though. Pretty damn fine, in fact. His black T-shirt hugged every delicious muscle of his chest, the camo pants and scuffed-up shitkickers added to his tough-guy look, and the swelling at the side of his mouth lent him a dangerous vibe.
