Heat: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (8 page)

Quinn makes a face; “Oh, did
you
want to go to the sub-Saharan conflict zone, Reagan? Were you just
dying
to take in the scenery with a dash of extreme poverty and active war zone?”

“You know what I mean. I mean spending time with
them
all the time.”

My older sister frowns; “It’s
work
, Reagan. And besides, you know they’re all military or whatever; it’s like a brotherhood thing.”

I shrug; “Yeah but they just - I don’t know, they’re weird.”

Quinn grins; “You mean
hot
.”

“Um,
not
what I meant, but eh, I guess.”

“You
guess
?” Quinn is grinning at me; “Uh, news to Reagan, they’re hot. Chels? You with me here?”

Chelsea blushes and grins; “They’re super cute, Reagan.”

“They’re old!”

Quinn laughs; “Fuck you!
Old?
I think Hudson’s
my
age and Bryce is younger than
that
, bitch.”

“Fine, whatever.” I reach for the TV remote.

My older sister frowns again; “Did you finish your application essay for Columbia yet”

I groan dramatically; “
Yes
, MOM.”

She bristles, and I cringe; “Sorry.”

“Just finish that application, dummy.”
 

P R E S E N T

“What, no Charger?” I smirk at Hudson as his driver brings the Bentley limo around to the back-door of the gym.
 

He flashes that cocky grin at me as he opens the door for us; “Not today”.

“Hmm, yeah,
much
too flashy,” I nod with phony enthusiasm; “Good thing you’ve got the Bentley limousine as a far more
inconspicuous
backup.”
 

He shrugs; “What fun is money if you can’t spend it?”

“Oh
is
there money you haven’t spent? I wasn’t aware of that” I smile sweetly at him, nodding towards the sleek, ultra-luxury Bentley.

“Get in the car, Archer,” He smirks, his eyes glinting at me.

*****

Later as we’re finishing lunch on the rooftop terrace of the exclusive place he takes us, I frown as I watch him; half-listening to him as he doles out relationship advice to Chelsea. There’s a mystery to Hudson, almost as if there are two of him both sharing the same stupidly good-looking body. The one Hudson is arrogant and - wait, no, scratch that;
both
Hudson’s are arrogant. But while the one smug, cocky, overly-confident Hudson surrounds himself with luxury and and sarcasm and boorish behavior, there’s another one that I keep getting glimpses of, like the one sitting here talking to my sister.
That
Hudson is, well,
utterly
different. The second Hudson is fragile and partly broken; full of demons with fire in his eye. He’s the man with battle-scars and tattoos peeking out jut enough from underneath that Armani armor to make me crazy to want to know which Hudson is the
real
one.

Or are they both?

But then of course, I’m reminded of
who
he is. I’m reminded that however charming and sober and put-together this new Hudson is, this is still one of the family of men my father surrounded himself with off in some remote corner of the globe when he was avoiding
us
- his
real
family. I remind myself that however handsome his face is, and however sweet he’s being to Chelsea right now, this man has an agenda in helping finance my campaign. My father might be gone, but Hudson Banks is here, as if he’s helping my Dad exert his will over me from beyond the grave, which is a bizarre and uncomfortable thought.

Chelsea seems right as rain with him though, sitting there wrapped around Hudson’s finger. I shake my head at the sudden pang of, well, something that sure
feels
a whole lot like jealousy, even I know that’s impossible. But just the same, I find myself clenching my hand a little tighter around my water glass as Chelsea leans towards him, and puts her hand on his arm as she laughs at something he says. I mean it’s
harmless
; her mannerisms are far more sibling-like than anything
flirty
, but I still can’t seem to shake the
possessive
feeling, as if Hudson is
mine
somehow.
 

But of course, he’s
not
“mine”, I’m not “his”, and there’s nothing between us in that regard at all. He made that perfectly clear back before, during that summer and then at my father’s house. And then of course, I have to remember what he did - or more importantly what he
didn’t
do
that night back then. I have to close my eyes and
remember
just how shitty I felt when I came downstairs and saw him walking out the door with that girl-

“Uh, Reagan?”

“Hmm?” I look up, started from my thoughts to see them both looking at me, as if waiting for an answer to a question I never heard.
 

Chelsea rolls her eyes at Hudson; “I
told
you she wasn’t listening.”

Hudson grins at me as he twirls his empty espresso cup around the saucer; “I was telling Chelsea that you can’t get weighed down with what came before. You’ve just gotta keep your head up, because you never know when something new might come next.”

I smile thinly at him, still mulling over everything I was thinking about before, but now also wondering which of the three of us that particular advice was really meant for.

P A S T

“Jesus, Hudson,” Logan is shaking his head at me in that way that makes him seem like my older brother. I don’t actually
have
an older brother, but if I did, I know he’d be Logan giving me this exact look.

“What?” I toss the keys to the valet who’s salivating over the sleek white McLaren idling behind me.

“Not exactly the most subtle statement is it? What part of ‘blend in’ and ‘seamless’ doesn’t click with you?”

I shrug, annoyed at Logan's tone; “I needed a car, man.” Right, that’s why you buy a million-dollar vehicle; because you ‘need a car’. But I’m New Rich - capital N, capital R - we all are, and goddamn does it feel good to fucking live a little without worrying about where the next buck is going to come from, or what piece of my soul I’m going to have to cut out in order to get it. New Rich also means, by the way, that I’m half in the bag - a factor which I’m consciously attempting to downplay to Logan since I’m supposed to be going sober these days. Of course, I’m twenty one years old, I’ve taken a bullet for my country, I want to forget the last two or three years of my life, and I’m worth three-hundred million dollars; anyone who thinks I’m
not
going to be drinking is fucking delusional.
 

“You should get one, it’ll help you calm the fuck down a little.” I can see Logan tense up, his jaw tightening and his shoulders flexing beneath his suit.
 

“Baaaabbe?” Oh, right, my date. I dance over to the other side of the car, to the bejeweled, shiny-manicured hand dangling out of the passenger side, and pull her out. She’s makes a face at me that I know she thinks is sexy, which is in reality kind of just stupid looking, but I push it out of the way and grin at her as I haul her out.

I look up to see Logan shaking his head again;“Seriously?”
 

“Logan!
Manners!
” I say dramatically, feeling the booze I slugged down earlier course through me as I jerk my thumb at him. I roll my eyes at my date who’s name is escaping me and who’s probably either too fucked up or too clueless to actually get the look of disdain Logan is throwing her way anyways.

“It’s a birth- no, retirement?” I frown, realizing I’ve honestly forgotten why the fuck we’re here.

“It’s a graduation party,” Logan growls through tightly-clenched teeth as he eyes me; “For the Old Man’s
daughter
.” He shakes his head as he peers at me; “Jesus Christ, Hud, have you been fucking drinking?”

The valet pulls my car away and as I jaunt past Logan with the bimbo on my arm, I pat him on condescending on the shoulder; “Try and have a little fun, dude. We’re fuckin
rich
now.” I somehow walk away without him breaking one of my arms, and we stumble our way through the front doors of the Old Man’s castle-like estate.

A hand shoots out and grabs my arm hard, and I whirl around, fire in my eyes.

“Easy, Marine.” It’s William, and I’m instantly feeling like shit because I
know
I’m not supposed to be drinking, and I also
know
that he can see right through me and knows I have been. His eyes narrow at me, and I can see that he’s not mad per-say, he’s just disappointed.

Jesus, why is it always ten thousand times worse when he people you want to look good for are
disappointed
instead of just plain angry at you.

“Are you in control?”

No. Yes. Maybe? Grab me a beer and I’ll let you know? I of course don’t say any of those things and just nod like an asshole instead. I’m not trashed or anything, but this man has risked so much and given me a life straight out of a fucking movie script; all on the foundation that I clean up and keep my shit together, and I’m blowing that.

“I’m good, sir.”

He nods slowly; “Good, I know Reagan is excited to meet you.”

P R E S E N T

I awake from the memory momentarily confused by the ceiling that stares blankly back at me until I remember that I’m in the guest bedroom at Reagan’s apartment.

Technically, it was her mother’s place that she kept in the city to get away from it all, Reagan told me last night when we got in. But since she graduated, it’s apparently became Reagan’s de facto home. It might not be a mansion up in Greenwich, but it’s hardly slumming it either. It’s light in here, and airy, and even though we’re in Manhattan, the sounds of the city seem more of a background lull than the typical white noise grating on your ears. There’s a homey warmth to it that I realize quite starkly is something I’ve never known; not in the desert during our deployment, not in hiding after that, and certainly not in my shattered life before. Even with the money I have now, my penthouse is stark and modern and cold; the opposite of this place.

This place has love.

I wince as I roll out of bed, feeling the dull pain in my shoulder and partially regretting my workout last night. Reagan’s building has a pretty lame little gym in the basement, but when I realized there was a boxer’s bag there, I hit it hard last night when we got back. I wince again recalling that I fell asleep without showering last night; a problem that needs fixing
right now
.

I groan, thinking about how I’d
tried
to shower the night before, only to realize when I’d walked down the hallway that the door was shut and the water was on. The dawning realization that only a thin piece of wood and possibly a shower curtain stood between me and a naked Reagan had gotten me
so
fucking hard that I’d felt my pulse roar in my ears like a fucking jet engine. The mental image of her, the hot water cascading down her perfect body, the steam rising around her, her hands lathering her skin with soap had me gripping the doorframe with an iron grip, wanting nothing more than to break down that door, crush her body to mine and take her right there in the damn shower.

Obviously, my restraint is to be applauded, as I’d instead gone back to my guest room with a raging case of blue balls and a nonstop fantasy of Reagan wearing nothing but some soap bubbles dancing through my head as I’d fallen fitfully asleep.

I’m still thinking about it, and I’m rock hard with my cock straining at my boxer-briefs as I poke my head out of the door and look around. Reagan might be what most people call an early riser, but I’m a
Marine
; “early” is a subjective term.