The departure from protocol was explained as necessary due to the media frenzy that had developed stateside for the girls’ story. Every major news station wanted their shot of the “‘miracle girls’ return to the living,” and the army, knowing a prize PR op when they had one, had jumped on supplying it. The circus began even at Suvarnabhumi, with CNN, Fox News, BBC, and a few of the other major networks on hand, cameras and microphones recording every step they took to the plane. Garrett, Zeke, and six other guys from the squad were there, dutifully surrounding Sage and Rayna in a sea of US Army dress blue, as they’d been instructed.
Orders or not, Garrett didn’t leave Sage’s side, not even when she stopped to buy flowers from local children or when she veered off their path to take up CNN’s offer for a wave to her mom on their live feed. When she paused again and said she needed to use the bathroom, he didn’t break stride, forcing her along by the crook of her elbow.
“We’re twenty yards from the plane,” he gritted into her ear. “You’ll get your chance there.”
With a deft wrench and eyes flashing like a pissed cat’s, she broke free. Her saucy head tilt did nothing for his tension. He knew that look. It always made him yearn to slam her into a wall and fuck the breath out of her.
“I have to pee now, Sergeant Hawkins. If you’re worried about ‘protecting’ me in the ladies’ toilet, you’re welcome to join me.”
For a second, he thought of calling her bluff—but then he glanced at the news crews. The last thing he needed was some cameraman revved on a dozen energy drinks catching a secret shot of him in a pissing match with their darling of the moment.
He bit out the F-word beneath his breath, let her go, and leaned against the wall. She smiled and sashayed into the bathroom.
She had him by the balls. They both knew it.
Three hours later, the scheming little minx didn’t seem inclined to loosen that grip anytime soon. Shockingly, Garrett hadn’t punched any holes into the 747 yet—though that outcome was still subject to change.
The temptation pressed harder as her husky laugh broke the air again, a response to another joke cracked by Ethan Archer. He’d always liked Ethan—one of their hardest-working squad members despite being male-model pretty—until about an hour ago. The young corporal was pulling out all the stops on his I’m-so-modest-and-you’re-so-cute act, and Sage was doing very little to slow him down. It had worsened over the last ten minutes, when a pocket of turbulence caused some of Sage’s bottled water to dump on Archer’s thigh. The sight of her wiping off the spill in a fretful frenzy had Garrett clutching for his seat belt release.
That was it. Her stranglehold on his family jewels stopped now. She’d spend the rest of the flight next to him, where he could keep an eye on her conniving little backside until Mount Rainier circled into view.
As he rose, Archer did too. When the corporal turned, looking for the nearest head, at least three women lifted their heads in open appreciation. Garrett chuffed. Come to papa, Dolce and Gabbana.
Archer easily observed that the nearest toilet was two rows behind Garrett’s location. The corporal scowled. He knew a showdown with Garrett was inevitable in this direction, but if he beelined for the head at the front of the plane, it was a blatant pussy move.
Archer turned toward the rear toilet. Garrett made his way to the little service galley past its door.
“Hawk.” Archer gave him a tight smile. The guy was pretty but not stupid. He had to know what was coming.
“Hey, Runway.” Garrett deliberately used the guy’s call sign, bestowed by the squad due to Ethan’s centerfold-ready looks. Though Ethan earned it in a more legitimate sense by taking down a drug lord’s helo with a ground rocket six months ago, it was clear at which context Garrett aimed with the label right now. Archer’s wince confirmed he knew it too.
“Is something up?” the corporal asked.
Garrett leaned against the bathroom door, deliberately ignoring the question. “You and Captain Weston seem to be having fun.”
To his credit, Archer planted his stance and squared his shoulders. “Seems like she’s needing a little fun.”
“Yeah, well…playtime’s over.”
“She told me you two are taking a break. She also told me it was your choice.”
Garrett grunted. Two days ago, he’d been gasping against a hundred daggers of grief in his chest. Archer’s words dumped acid onto the leftover scabs. The shit overflowed and stung his retort. “Yeah, that’s probably what she said. That doesn’t mean she’s ready for a goddamn romp on the mattress, man.”
Archer ticked a brow. “Who says I want to ‘romp’?”
Acid, say hello to Mr. Matchstick. “I know what you want to do, asshole.” Garrett grabbed the corporal by the V of his shirt. “I know you’re deeper into that kinky shit than Zeke, and you’re already thinking of strapping her down in some deviant dungeon and—”
“The proper term is BDSM, Sergeant.” For some reason, the guy’s composed comeback was more censuring than a cussing rant. “And, when power is properly exchanged by a willing submissive and a loving Dominant, the results can transform people. It even heals them from things, such as being on the run and fearing for their life for a year.”
“Thanks for the gung-ho on that, Corporal.” He didn’t relent on his hold. “Now keep it the hell away from Sage.”
Archer returned a careful nod. “Respectfully speaking, it seems Sage is capable of making that decision for herself.”
“As you brilliantly mentioned two seconds ago, she just spent a year running in the wilds of Africa and then the jungles of Thailand, not sure who to trust or where to go. I don’t think the woman knows what she wants for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“Ah, but you do. And now that you’re ‘taking a break’ from each other, you know that even better.” The guy tilted his head with that unnerving Zen-like concentration. “Respectfully speaking, of course.”
It was official. Garrett now wanted to put his fist into Archer’s perfect face more than the plane’s wall. He could practically feel Shrink Sally popping up on his shoulder, pen tapping her chin, ready to “process” crap like misplaced aggression and sideways control issues.
He gave the doc a mental shove. And firmly refocused on Runway. “You want to bring respect into this?” he snarled. “Good. Go ahead. Respect her—from as far the fuck away from her as you can get.” He unfurled his hand from the guy’s shirt. With less decorum, he jerked open the bathroom’s door. “After you’re done fixing your makeup, plant your ass in my old seat. I’ll watch over Captain Weston from here on in.”
“Yes, sir.”
He ignored the little lip twitch Archer added, knowing it would take his ire to places it shouldn’t be. Not that it wasn’t there already. Not that, deep inside, he didn’t admit that every note of the guy’s subtext hit the nail on its damn head. Not that he didn’t know he was using protectiveness as an excuse for every emotion he had and every asshole move he made—a pair of lists that seemed to be swelling by the hour.
Sage’s perturbed sigh broadcasted that fact as he claimed the seat next to her. But when he twined his hand into hers, she didn’t resist. He waited a minute. Tightened his hold. She shifted a little but didn’t pull away.
He turned and narrowed his gaze, not hiding his curiosity. She kept her eyes fixed on the in-flight movie, her brows quirking at the action on the screen. “I had no idea Stallone could still run that fast.”
He snorted. “Some things haven’t changed.”
She leaned her head back. “I guess not.”
He looked down. “Hands,” he murmured. “Not elbows.”
The corners of her mouth quirked. He was talking about their hold on each other. Usually they twisted themselves together all the way to their elbows. It was a tiny detail she probably thought he’d forgotten.
“I remember,” he whispered into her ear. “I remember everything, Sage.” He drew back a little before going on, “I also remember this usually meant I was deep in the doghouse.”
Her lips lifted a little higher. “You have a good memory, mister.”
Garrett glowered. “Fine. I was an ass to Archer. I’ll apologize.”