A WILDer Kind of Love (3 page)

In the doing, he’d saved a nurse’s life and lived through the ordeal himself, a miracle that should’ve brought more comfort than it did. But that was the things about monkeys on a guy’s back, especially the species known as bitterness—
especially
if it lived in the eyes of the mangled man in the mirror.

These days, it was simply easier to match the inside to the outside.

“Fuck,” Tait groused. “I’ve been gone an hour and a half.”

“Boo hoo,” Dan volleyed. “I’m sure Lani and Kell kept your seat warm.” In more interesting ways than he wanted to imagine.

“You remember I’m the best man at this thing, right? The first toast guy? The keep-everything-moving guy?”

“And you would’ve been back to your duties much sooner than this, if—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. If I’d let you go hari-kari on fuckhead?”

“Technically, hari-kari is an act of suicide, but I’ll let it slide. You’ve been under some stress.”

Tait snorted. “Well, shit. You
are
Mr. Giver.”

“Not too late for me to take your place as Mr. Karma.” He glanced again at Stock, whose eyes widened in understanding of the intent. “Knife’s still in the perfect position, man. More or less.”

“No.”

“Well, you’re no fucking fun.”

“And
you’re
no fucking—” Tait gripped the wheel harder. “I really don’t know how to finish that.” The air in the car filled with the smoky edge of twilight before he murmured, “What the hell happened to you, Colton?”

Best to let that one descend into a long silence. Maybe another. “That was rhetorical, right?”

Another question that provided its own answer. As if Bommer were serious about a single damn word. As if Dan didn’t have the right rearview mirror to remind him of it. One glance that way, into the slab of mottled flesh from his temple to chin and cheekbone to ear, was proof enough of exactly what had “happened” to him.

“What’s rhetoric got to do with this?” Tait snapped. “And stop answering me by moping at yourself in the mirror. You think anyone notices that shit but you?”

“Says one of the guys who used to call me ‘CIA Ken’ because of ‘this shit’?”

“Yeah. So? We also called you Woofie the magical G-dog.”

“The fuck?”

“Own it, man. If Uncle Sam threw a Frisbee, you’d kill yourself to catch it.” A knowing smirk twisted Tait’s lips. “Now you just have the badge of honor to prove it. On the books or off, you were always the get-it-right guy.”

Dan’s fingers dug into the dust coating the vehicle’s roof. Beat the hell out of pulling his hand back inside, where it would’ve driven into the bastard’s face.
Badge of honor
? Was he kidding? “Not amusing, Bommer. Not in anyone’s fucking universe.
That
,”—he jabbed his chin at the burn scar on the inside of Tait’s right arm—“isn’t your permission slip to spout about
this
.” Flicking a finger at his face took care of that obviousness.

“Right. Because
you
don’t let it define every damn move you make, right?”

“Fuck off.”

Who the hell did Bommer think he was? Tait’s burn could be easily hidden by a long-sleeved shirt, but even without the cover, somebody would have to be looking to see his “badge.” Big fucking difference between that and walking around like something out of a circus side show. Bommer had no damn idea what this was like. None of them did.

“Fine,” Tait finally muttered. “I’ll give you the point. But do you really think any of us defined your work—which was damn good shit, by the way—based on your looking like a plastic doll minus the good parts?”

“Were you paying that much attention to my ‘good parts’?”

“Says the guy who just got his rocks off by digging a blade into Stock’s scrotum?”

“Says the guy who now shares a bed with his sniper partner?”

“
And
the hottest
wahine
in all the Hawaiian islands?”

Dammit. Fucker had a non-arguable point. Tait and Kellan’s unique relationship with their woman—yes,
their
woman, as in sharing the wealth in all ways imaginable—wasn’t one Dan easily understood, though it was far from his place to point judgmental fingers. The three of them were obviously past the point of happy about the arrangement—and for fuck’s sake, Tait deserved the joy after everything Stock and his partner, Ephraim Lor, took from the man.

And didn’t that bring everything full circle once again?

Tait Bommer, the one guy on the planet who’d been craving Stock’s head on a platter more than Dan, was now the guy who’d turned peace, love, and Ed Sheeran on him to all the sickest degrees—an anomaly so insane, it was strictly a see-it-to-believe-it thing. Okay, so it had been over a year since Luna died because of Stock and Lor’s terrorist plot. And, by all accounts, Lani Kail was even better for Tait than Luna was, a truth even Luna herself “agreed” with, Bommer had revealed with a cryptic smile.

Fuck.

He was actually using words like “cryptic” in the same sentence as Tait Bommer.

And maybe the earth was flat now, too. And aliens were lurking in the stratosphere, ready to probe everyone like extraterrestrial kinksters.

But the cosmic issues had to go on hold for now.
Shit storm ahead. Brace for impact.

The second Tait hooked the car off Highway 159 and onto the access road to the ranch, the glow from hundreds of white party lights nearly made it possible for Tait to cut the car’s headlights. The bulbs hung were suspended across one of the ranch’s rustic picnic groves, with smaller lights wound around the supporting tree trunks. Old-fashioned oil lanterns rested on the banquet tables, which surrounded a wooden dance floor accented by big barrels brimming with sunflowers and wedding-type foof. It was a Wild West-themed wedding with all the gussy extras, and even from here, laughter filtered out from it on the wind.

There was a day, not too long ago, when Dan would’ve found such a sight enchanting. Hell, he’d probably have even conjured wistful thoughts of what his own wedding reception would be like. Now, the extra light was just an aid for illuminating his phone screen.

“I’ve got cell reception again,” he told Tait. “But I really want to lie to you about that.”

Tait cocked a brow. “You only gotta dial three little numbers, dude. Nine, one, and one.”

“Fuck.”

“That’s not one of the numbers.” His jaw clenched as Dan snorted. “Okay, do you really want to go there, man? To know his blood is on your hands—for the rest of your life? Before you give me the ‘amen, brother’ on that, listen to the guy who lines up sniper shots for a living.” He exhaled through his nose and shook his head. “That crap sticks to your soul, Colton. It follows you—and not in the good ways.”

Dan gripped the roof harder before retorting, “Right. Because I wouldn’t know anything about ‘crap’ that follows a guy around.”
Like half a face full of burn scars.

“Just make the call, dickhead,” Bommer growled.

As he guided the Escalade toward a spot at the back of the parking lot, a voice crackled through in Dan’s ear.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

He peeked once more at Stock. The guy’s drooped in his pasty, sweaty face.
Now you know what it’s like to wish you were already in hell, motherfucker.

“Hello? Hello? Do you have an emergency?”

“How about a sack of shit who won’t die?”

Tait swore under his breath before demanding, “Give me that, goddammit.”

As he yanked the phone away to give the operator
real
instructions, a commotion erupted at the other end of the parking lot. Okay, maybe not a ‘commotion’—but enough of a stir to lift even Stock’s head for a second. That was the kind of effect Shay Bommer had on the air, anywhere he went. To be fair, he couldn’t help it. Shay was an actual force of nature, genetically altered as a child by one of Stock’s many “business partners” so his “animal side”
was
his animal side. As the guy stalked across the pavement, his massive body strained at the confines of his white shirt, ivory tuxedo vest, and tailored dress denims. His new bride was just a few steps behind, cobalt boots kicking from beneath her lacy wedding gown.

Dan exited the car then leaned against the hood. Might as well act relaxed, even if his bloodstream wasn’t in sync. “Congratulations, you two. Sorry I had to borrow your best man for a while—but I’ve returned him with a gift.”

Tait jerked up his head, shooting over a fresh glower. “
E kala mai ia u
,” he muttered into the phone. “Just one moment, my friend.” He looked fast to Shay. “It’s
not
a gift, brother. Stay back and for fuck sake, keep Zoe away. She’s in no condition to see this.”

Dan tossed his head back, barking a laugh. “Really, man? You don’t know your own sister-in-law better?”

“Keep me away from what?” Sure enough, Zoe Chestain-Bommer bolted forward like Tait had lassoed her. “And what do you mean, ‘no condition’? I’m pregnant, not schizo.”

“Don’t go near that one,” Dan warned Tait. “Not with a hundred-foot pole.”

Fortunately, it took three of Zoe’s steps to match one of Shay’s. “No way, dancer.” He caught her by the elbow in time, tucking her behind him. “Not until I’ve played the full shell game on this first.”

“
Que
?” The little Latina’s eyebrows arched. Technically, the word was a question. Not-so-technically, she’d told her new husband
oh no, you didn’t
.

Shay received backup in the form of his groomsmen, consisting of Rhett Lange and Rebel Stafford, both still serving with the First SFG and instrumental in saving Shay’s ass on that last off-books mission. They were joined by Ghid Preston, the walking rhino of a man who was passionately devoted to Shay and Tait’s mother, Melody Bommer. It actually surprised Dan that Melody wasn’t right behind—

Ding, ding, ding
. Two seconds later, Melody Bommer appeared, as elegant as Ghid was rough in a figure-flattering dress that matched Zoe’s blue boots. Behind her was Zoe’s sister, Ava, who’d gotten hitched last New Year’s to one of the finest SFG operators Dan knew, Ethan Archer. Too bad Archer wasn’t hanging with her now. Though the man’s temper took longer to flare than most of the guys Shay hung with, he’d also be the kind not to fling fault for running a basic off-the-books revenge fantasy, given the means and the money for it. Dan needed such an advocate about now.

Instead, Ava’s companion was one of Zoe’s best friends, El Browning, who’d switched out her long red hair for a blonde, wedding-appropriate updo. The look was really good for her, but that didn’t stop Dan’s gut from twisting at her arrival.

Where El went, Brynn usually followed.

Brynn. Who’d been there through so much of the last eleven months. Who’d tolerated his bitterness and anger and impatience. Who’d snuck him fast food in the hospital, sat with him through countless old war movies, and even taken him on his first trip in public after the scars had healed—as much as they would. And yes, she’d even been there when he needed to relieve his tension…in other ways.

Who deserved so much more than he’d given her in return—but had staunchly refused to acknowledge that fact.

Until now.

As the woman walked up behind her two friends, looking gorgeous as a princess in the cobalt satin fitted perfectly to her lithe figure, one distinct message was written across her face.

She’d finally seen the light.

Had realized just how fucked up he really was.

Ohhh, yeah. Her glare told him everything. Disbelief, disappointment, and hurt raced across her lips and tightened the corners of her eyes. Tension clamped her bare shoulders and made its way down to both clenched fists.

“Hey there, gorgeous.” It was his regular greeting. When he coupled it with what he could muster of a smile, the woman usually dissolved like butter in a sauce pan.

Not tonight.

“You’re here.”

Her tone conveyed what the words didn’t.
You’re here—but were supposed to be four hours ago. You’re here—dressed in field mission gear that’s splattered with blood instead of the tuxedo I bought for you on my dancer’s salary. You’re here—after letting all my calls and texts go unanswered for two days.

“I am.”
Lame. Ass.
But what the hell else made sense?

“Why?” Once more, tone that implied meaning.
Why did you even bother
?

“My question exactly.” As Zoe stomped her foot, all the asymmetrical angles of her foofy skirts swayed, hiding the slight baby bump beneath. “Dan the Man claims there’s a present involved but Tait the wuss says I’m too delicate to see it.”

Tait jutted his chin away from the phone. “The wuss who’s now your brother-in-law—which means you’re as delicate as I say, dammit.”

“Is that so?” Her dark blue nails stood out against the cream lace as she cocked both hands to hips. “News flash,
cabrón.
You’re not in the islands anymore. And
I’m
not—”

“Zoe,” Shay warned.

“Don’t you ‘Zoe’ me. We stood in front of that minister and agreed we wouldn’t hold any secrets from each other. That we would share everything. You need a refresher course on the definition of sharing now, Mr. Bommer? Because it sure as hell does
not
incl—”

“Holy fuck.” Shay’s utterance sliced her short. He peered again inside the Escalade then lurched back, a guy who’d just seen a ghost. And a zombie, too. “What the hell?
How
the hell?” He hammered a frown at Tait then Dan. “This had to be off-books. And
not
cheap.”

Everyone’s gaze reflected the same curiosity—except for Tait’s. He scowled, seeming to anticipate what Dan was about to say.

“Colton Steel’s been doing well this year.” Dan smirked and crossed his ankles. “And let’s just say this was a hell of a lot more fun than buying another Lambo.”

Shay shook his head. “I don’t know whether to shoot you or kiss you, spook man.”

Tait grimaced. “There’s a visual I never needed.”

“
You
never needed?” Dan rejoined.

The guy-bonding respite was enjoyed for two more seconds. His gut was shoved back into the meat grinder as Brynn stepped around, approaching him with tight lips and folded arms. Her raspy whisper was just as much a spleen-twister. “Where have you been, Dan?”