Yet, I have no intention of making that happen. I don’t want to stop him, and that either means he’s not all bad or I’m not as good as I like to claim.
The man I wanted to bend to my will, to play with while bored in El Salvador, while waiting to transition to the real job I’d set out to do, isn’t watching me right now.
His jaw flexes, drawing my attention to a faint scar there. I don’t remember it from before, but I don’t know if it’s because I felt sorry for the bastard after leaving that house and have tried—and failed—to forget him.
I haven’t spent long amounts of time wondering about him—death is final in that way—but he has crossed my mind. The man was shot trying to protect me. He bent to my will exactly as I had intended. He wasn’t the first man it happened to, and he hasn’t been the last since then. I know it’ll happen again. There are only so many shields you can put up in those types of situations.
The first goal of working undercover in some of the most dangerous places on earth is to stay alive. Everything else comes secondary to that.
A mercenary dying so an agent could live is seen as a good thing. A lot of training, time, and money has gone into creating who I am. The pain I get in return, that feeds my demons, is just an added benefit to me.
“I had to get away from Cerberus,” I say when he refuses to blink or back down.
I hate the confession. Playing meek and in need of help really isn’t my style while I’m not undercover.
“Bus station,” he says, throwing his thumb over his shoulder without breaking eye contact.
The words are harsh. He has no problem telling me exactly like it is, unlike Kincaid who seemed to want the exact same thing but wasn’t asshole enough to just come out and say it.
“I remember how your lips felt on mine,” I whisper, biting my lip in a way that makes me feel ridiculous.
His eyes don’t drop to my mouth the way they did years ago when I spoke. He doesn’t shift in his seat or seem uncomfortable with what I’m clearly offering him. He isn’t questioning whether he should take me up on it or not.
It delights me in ways I can’t explain, his indifference.
“We could pick up where we left off,” I tell him, snaking my hand up his thigh.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growls, his hand gripping my wrist to the point of pain.
I wince before I can stop myself, my body threatening to catch on fire at his rough touch.
He releases me just as quickly, throwing my arm back into my lap, but instead of insisting I get out again, he shifts the truck into drive and pulls out of the gas station parking lot.
Neither of us speak as he drives to the shittiest part of town, pulling up outside a motel that’s less than half a step above a hovel. He grabs a duffel from the backseat before stepping out.
I wait, watching the front office of the motel for him to exit to head to his room, but he never does, despite the row of rooms being outside entry.
Enticing men has never been hard for me. I learned early in my teens that men turn into idiots when propositioned. My body, my words, the slightest hint of cleavage turns them into desperate blobs with only one thing on their mind.
Most men grovel and beg, plead for a taste. It doesn’t matter if they have a wife at home or if I’m asking for more money than they have. They’re willing to give it all up for me.
It’s not even just me. Men will burn down their entire worlds, forgo their perfect fucking wives, turn their backs on their children with just the promise of hot sex. Maybe it’s innate, something they learned watching Eve sin in the garden and think they missed out on something delicious—just one bite of that apple she made look so fucking delicious. Now they’re unable to turn down any offer that comes their way. They’re desperate for a taste of the forbidden.
It’s not my fault I use that, manipulate them into getting what I want.
I shouldn’t single out men. Women can be just as easily tricked. They’re just more likely to give in to the sob story, themy kids are hungrybullshit, than sexual desire, but easy to manipulate, nonetheless.
I thought Angel was that man.
I’ve never been happier to have been wrong.
Chapter 7
Angel
Wasted time.
Wasted energy.