Puck: Alpha One Security Book 4 Page 12

  Puck was just . . . different. I didn’t know.

  And the more I talked to him, the more I found out about him, the more interested I was. He talked a good game, that was for damn sure. Dirty talk had never really been a thing for me. One guy tried, and I just laughed, because it sounded so stupid and corny, like he tried to sound like a porno. When Puck talked dirty . . . it was fucking hot. Why, I wasn’t sure, but it was. The timbre of his voice, the way it rumbled in my ear . . . the heat of him, the way my skin tingled when he touched me . . . I don’t know. And that beard, god. The whole time we were on the park bench talking, I wanted to bury my fingers in that beard and pull him closer, jerk him in for a kiss. And he would’ve liked that, I could tell. When I touched his beard, when I tugged on it, his nostrils flared and he sucked in a breath, and I could just tell he’d like it if I used his beard to make him do what I wanted.

  The other thing about Puck that had me hot and bothered was the forcefulness of his personality, how intense and dominant he was. He’d let me have my way when it suited him, but he’d be in control. And . . . I liked that. Most of the guys I’d dated or slept with weren’t like that. I was always in control. I was a pushy, in-control sort of girl. I was in charge of myself. I didn’t allow anyone to push me around or manipulate me. But deep down, I wanted to give in, a little. It’d have to be the right circumstances, which was why I’d never let anyone see that part of me. But with Puck, I saw it.

  He’d take care of me. I’d be safe letting him push me around a little, letting him have control.

  What that would look like, where it would go, I didn’t know—and that was what scared me.

  He sat in the front passenger seat, talking to Ivar. I tuned into the conversation, but it was mostly about guns, which I’m not super interested in. I was behind Ivar, and Layla was beside me with Temple on the other side of her; Lola and Kyrie were stretched out in the trunk.

  Layla nudged me, keeping her voice low. “So, you and Puck?”

  “So me and Puck, what?”

  “You like him?”

  I snorted a laugh. “A little soon to tell.”

  “Oh, bullshit. You like him.” She teased my kneecap with her fingertips. “He had his fingers under your skirt.”

  I blushed. “He’s . . . different.”

  “That’s one word for him.” She indicated the road behind us with a nod of her head. “All this, what are you thinking?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “It’s scary. But Puck seems to be able to handle whatever comes at us.”

  “I don’t trust many people, but I trust him.”

  I eyed her, hesitating. “You trust him in terms of all the shooting, and I get why, watching him do what he does. But on a personal level?”

  Layla gave my question thought, which I appreciated. “Honestly, I don’t know. If you can handle his personality, I think there’s a lot more to Puck than most people would give him credit for. I don’t think he’s ever been serious about anyone, but I don’t know for sure. We don’t get into a lot of deep, personal discussions. Either we’re working, or it’s poker night with the guys at the compound, and we’re drinking and bullshitting. Not exactly share-circle moments, you know?”

  As close as Puck and Layla seemed to be, it didn’t sound like he’d told her anything about his past, which made everything he’d told me seem pretty important. I had the feeling he didn’t talk about his past any more than I did. Which meant our conversations . . . meant something. But what?

  Hell if I knew.

  I wasn’t sure what to say to Layla, though, because it was obvious he hadn’t told her what he’d told me.

  Layla’s expression brightened, and she poked me in the ribs. “He shared with you, didn’t he?”

  I shrugged uncomfortably. “We talked.”

  “He did!” She muffled a squeal. “He totally shared with you.”

  I eyed her. “Why are you getting so worked up about this?”

  She grabbed my arm and shook it. “Because Puck doesn’t share. I’ve killed people with the man, and he hasn’t told me dick about himself. All of the guys are like that—they only share with someone they feel is different, someone that means something. We’re all family, but we tend to keep our own counsel when it comes to heavy personal shit.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  She let go of me and folded her hands on her lap. “Nothing.”

  “Layla.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just pointing out a pattern. Make of it what you will.” She was suddenly subdued.

  I noticed Puck was watching us in the rearview mirror.

  “Stop interrogating the woman, Layla,” Puck growled.

  “I’m not interrogating,” Layla said. “We’re just talking.”

  Puck just snorted. “You were pumping her for information.”

  “Girl talk.”

  “Gossip.”

  “Idle backseat chitchat.”

  “Puck, it’s fine.” I met his eyes in the mirror. “For real.”

  Ivar cut in from the driver’s seat. “There is trouble.”

  “Company?” Puck asked, leaning forward to check the side-view mirror.

  “Ja. We are still some ways from the airfield yet, and I would like to dispose of them before we get there.”

  Puck checked the magazine of his pistol, then set another one in the cup holder, handle facing up. “Let ’em get closer. I can handle them.”

  “Better yet,” Layla said, “if Temple switches places with me, we can both handle them.”

  “How many people does this Cain guy have on call to send after us?” I asked.

  “A lot,” Layla, Puck, and Ivar all answered in unison.

  “Oh.”

  “He has a lot of resources,” Puck said, clarifying. “He can put the word out that he needs someone killed or captured, and anyone from the criminal element in the area will respond in droves, because Cain can and will pay out big. Plus, he has operational cells all over the world.”

  “He sounds like a problem,” I said.

  Puck snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

  Layla had traded places with Temple and ejected the magazine of her pistol, then replaced it. “Only got a few rounds left in here, and no spare.”

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Ivar reached out with his right hand and opened the glove box, withdrew another pistol, and handed it back to Layla.

  Puck eyed Ivar. “Yo, you got any heavy iron in this ride?”

  Ivar smirked. “Reach under your seat.”

  Puck bent over, reached under his seat, and straightened up, holding a compact black machine gun. “Hell yeah, now this is what I’m talking about!”

  “And what you do call that?” I asked.

  My time in a gang had only exposed me to handguns, and even then, it never really mattered what type or brand, since they all shot the same to me, and I hated touching them regardless of what they were.

  Puck checked the magazine, pulled back a slide, and extended a shoulder butt thing. “This, hot stuff, is a Heckler & Koch MP5K. A fully automatic ultra-compact submachine gun.”

  I just blinked. “Oh.”

  Puck laughed, opening the window, Layla following suit. “Just means little boomstick shoot many bullets very fast.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Jackass.”

  Ivar cut in. “Traffic around us is minimal. Time to make the move. Ladies, the shooting will be very loud in the auto. You should all lie down on the floor, for maximum safety, and cover your ears as well.” He glanced over his shoulder, then at Puck and then Layla. “Ready? Eins . . . zwei . . . drei.”

  On drei, Ivar swerved to the left and jammed the brakes hard, and we were thrown forward, tires skidding. A black four-door sedan shot forward on our right side, and Ivar floored the gas pedal, pinning us back against the seats as we rocketed forward once more. We were parallel with the sedan, and Puck had the ultra-auto-submachine gun aimed out the window. He s
queezed the trigger, and three loud concussions blasted the air, making my ears ring from the deafening reports, and then Layla’s gun barked. Temple was on the floor between the seats, and Lola and Kyrie were flat on the floor of the trunk. There wasn’t anywhere for me to go, so I leaned forward a little, at least I felt like I took some kind of precaution rather than just sitting there all nonchalant while bullets flew. The other car had their windows opened too, and a figure leaned out the window, with a gun similar to the one Puck had.

  As seemed normal, Puck’s shots hit first, shattering the driver’s window and painting the interior red, and then a split second later, one of Layla’s shots hit the guy with the gun, and he vanished in a spray of crimson. The sedan continued forward for a few seconds, and then the dead driver slumped to one side, and the steering wheel twisted, and the sedan veered away, turned sharply at speed, and then bucked over into a roll.

  “Left side,” Layla said. “Another one.”

  “Colbie, roll down your window and get out of the way,” Puck ordered. “Layla, get ’em.”

  I depressed the button to lower the window and then pressed myself as far back against the seat as I could. Layla, rather than trying to switch spots, a laborious and time-consuming process, just draped herself across both Temple and me, bracing one hand on the bottom of the window opening, extending her pistol with the other hand. I heard a deafening concussion, and then another, and then another, making my ears ring. A slightly more distant BANGBANGBANG, and I felt the door panel jerk as bullets hit, and then again, and again, and then I felt something hot sting my calf. I scrunched down as far as I could, and kept my eyes shut, waiting for something horrible to happen. Layla was pressed against me, her frizzy, curly, crazy black hair tickling my nose, her shoulder against my chest, and I felt her body jerk every time she shot her pistol.

  I heard a window shatter, and Puck cursed. “SHOOT THE FUCKING DRIVER, GODDAMMIT!” Puck shouted.

  “I’M FUCKING TRYING!” Layla bellowed back, her voice muffled in my ears.

  “TRY HARDER!”

  Layla actually stopped what she was doing to level an icy fuck-you glare at Puck. “Think you can do a better job of shooting at a moving vehicle from a moving vehicle while lying across two people?”

  Bullets plinked into the side of our car, and smashed another window.

  “Shiesse ihn—JETZT!” Ivar barked.

  That didn’t need any translating. Layla turned back to the window, hesitated, took aim . . . and fired once. The silence from the absence of gunfire was deafening. I opened my eyes just in time to see the sedan go into a flat spin and then into a bouncing, glass-shattering roll.

  Layla shifted awkwardly off Temple and me, returning to her seat behind Puck. “Well that was fun,” she said, without a trace of irony.

  “You two bicker like children,” Ivar pointed out.

  “That’s because she’s basically like a really ugly, really annoying little sister,” Puck said.

  “I’m sexy and you know it, bitch,” Layla snarked back.

  Puck twisted and stuck his tongue out at her. “I’m not a bitch; you’re a bitch.”

  “Pussy.”

  “Dick.”

  “Twat.”

  “Ass-face.”

  Ivar sighed. “Enough, enough. You are making my head ache.”

  I watched the whole exchange with bemusement. If any man ever called me any of those names, even in jest, I’d probably have—as my gang friends used to say—popped a cap in his ass. Of course, as a white girl from the suburbs, they never let me talk like that; it was kind of a joke among us. Puck and Layla seemed to have that kind of a relationship, though, where the vilest of insults were used as a way of expressing friendship. I thought for Puck, at least, it served as a reminder that she was one of the guys, so to speak.

  The rest of the hour’s drive to the airfield was uneventful, if noisy, since several windows had been shot out. The airfield was . . . well, more of a field than anything I’d recognize as a place designated for airplanes to take off and land. There was a pair of those long half-barrel shaped hangars side by side, and then another pair facing them, on the opposite side of what I supposed was the runway—essentially just a wide, neatly mown swath of grass. A twin-engine prop plane waited, and the moment the Range Rover appeared, the airplane’s propellers spun into life, flashing in the sun.

  I half expected a helicopter to appear, or a fighter jet, or more cars, guns blazing . . . but we loaded onto the waiting aircraft and took off without incident, Ivar waiting until everyone was loaded before following us into the airplane and closing the door after us, taking the co-pilot seat.

  I took a seat in the last row of chairs, and Puck settled into the seat beside me. I don’t know if he saw or felt me tense as the props roared to full speed and the aircraft bumped into motion, but he seemed to know without having to be told that I was nervous.

  He threaded his fingers into mine. “Not a fan of flying, huh?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.” I let out a frightened breath and squeezed his hand as we picked up speed. “Especially on a plane this small. It’s always the little planes you hear about crashing.”

  “It’s gonna be fine, babe.”

  “Is that it?” I asked, once we were airborne.

  “Is what it?”

  “Cain, the bad guys, the shooting.”

  Puck winced. “Probably not, if you want the truth. We’re not going directly back to the States from here, certainly not in a puddle-jumper like this.”

  “Then where are we going?”

  “Prague, in the Czech Republic.”

  “I think they’re calling it Czechia, now, actually. And I am familiar with European geography, thanks.”

  “Oooh, gettin’ snippy, are we?” he asked, but the smirk and the twinkle told me he was teasing.

  “If you haven’t already picked up on the fact that I’m just a tad sarcastic,” I drawled, “then you really haven’t been paying attention.”

  He grinned at me. “Oh, I’ve noticed, believe you me.”

  “You have, huh?” I couldn’t help how flirty that came out, and at this point, it seemed kind of silly to keep resisting . . . except that it was so much fun to fuck with him.

  He gave a sassy little smirk and bobble of his head. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m kind of smart. I’m trained to notice these things.”

  I laughed. “Things like the fact that I’m a serious bitch with a serious attitude?”

  “Tiny, minor little details like that, yeah.”

  “So you don’t deny that I’m a bitch?”

  He shrugged. “Why should I? Serious bitches with serious attitude make my cock hard. I’m weird that way.”

  I shook my head, snorting in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

  He touched my chin and turned my face to his. “I’m teasing, Colbie.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Mostly. I do like your attitude. But you’re not a bitch; you just don’t take any shit. And that really does make me horny.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “We’ve covered this already, remember? Nuns, centipedes, and the IRS.” He let go of my hand so he could explore closer to the hem of my skirt. We were alone in the row; everyone else sitting in front of us, so there wasn’t anyone to see where his hand went this time. “Some things make me hornier than others, though.” His voice was pitched low enough that only I could hear him.

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  His hand snuck under the hem of my skirt, and I held stock still, barely breathing. “Like the fact that you’re totally cool under pressure. No hysterics, no howling, no freezing, you just do what’s gotta be done and don’t whine or bitch or argue.”

  “That makes you horny?”

  “What it says about you does. The fact that you’re tough.”

  I laughed. “Oh I’m tough, all right. Most guys find it intimidating. I don’t take bullshit, I take charge, and I get shit done. I started as a PA at the firm where I work, an
d now I’m in charge of several of the biggest accounts we have in China and Russia. I got there by being tough, by never taking anything sitting down. And the guys I work with make no secret of the fact that they think I’m an ice queen bitch.”

  “Then they’re pussies.”

  “I agree. The hypocrisy is astounding, though. They call me ice queen and bitch and butch and all sorts of names because I refuse to put up with misogynistic horseshit, and because I’m focused and determined and all business at work. Yet if I show so much as a hint of cleavage or wear a skirt that’s anything less than business length, they’ll go out of their way to hit on me and act like I must obviously be hankering to ride all of their dicks.”

  “On the basis of a little cleavage and leg?”

  I nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Sounds like you work with a bunch of pieces of shit.”

  I shrugged. “Not gonna hear too much argument out of me about that. Some of them are okay, like the four or five guys I play poker with. But they’ve accepted me sort of like you have Layla, as one of the guys. If I show up for poker night, it’s in jeans and a T-shirt, with a baseball cap on.”

  “I’d think you’d dress to kill, just for distraction value,” Puck noted.

  I laughed. “I’ve done that, actually. Wore a killer push-up bra and a low-cut dress, teased my hair out to look all just-fucked, did a lot of leaning over.”

  “Bet you cleaned up that night.”

  “Hell yeah, I did. Didn’t even have to count cards, and it was still a slaughter. They were so busy staring at my tits and daydreaming that most of the guys in the game forgot how to hold a poker face.” I grinned, remembering. “I made twenty grand that night.”

  “Damn, babe.” He eyed me. “If I got to see you like that, I wouldn’t mind losing all my money to you.”

  “Something tells me you’d stare the whole night yet still win.”

  He chuckled. “Got that right. Although I did lose two grand in one hand to a chick once, because of something like that.”

  “And all she did was show some cleavage?” I teased.

  “Takes more than cleavage to distract me, sweetheart. No, she went full-on intentional nip slip. I watched her do it. She kept wiggling her shoulder all weird, and the strap of her dress kept drooping lower and lower, and I knew exactly what she was up to, but it still worked. Eventually the strap fell completely, and her tit fell out right as I was about to win on a ballsy fucking bluff. She called my shit, swept the table, and pulled her strap back up. Walked away with eight grand, and my eternal irritation. I don’t like being played, especially when I can see the play coming and yet still fall for it.”