Page 174 of Override

"Then you should've built a bigger door."

"You know I didn't build the fucking house."

"Sounds like poor planning."

My confusion is so complete that it temporarily overrides my fear. These are the men Keaton works with? One of them gives the other a hard shove. The other shoves back. I take an instinctive step closer to Keaton. His hand moves immediately, settling against the small of my back.

Not pushing me behind him. Not pulling me anywhere. Just there. Warm. Steady. My body relaxes before I can tell it not to.

A much smaller figure appears behind the two men still fighting for dominance over the doorway.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." The woman's voice cuts cleanly through the argument. Both men stop. "Move."

Neither does. She plants a hand between their shoulder blades and shoves. "Back the fuck up before I start kicking people."

The men separate immediately. I blink. She's tiny compared to them. Not actually tiny, I suppose, but standing between the two massive men, she looks almost delicate. Beautiful, too. Dark hair frames a face that would look perfectly at home on the cover of a magazine, and there is something warm about her despite the fact that she's currently glaring at two men twice her size.

She steps through the doorway. Her eyes sweep over the room once before landing on Keaton. Everything about her changes. The irritation disappears from her face, replaced by something so soft and relieved that an uncomfortable little sensation twists inside my chest.

I don't like it. The thought comes so quickly that I'm startled by it. I stare at her. Then at Keaton. Then back at her.

Why don't I like it?

She's clearly worried about him. They're friends. Teammates, apparently. Or maybe—I cut the thought off. No. Absolutely not.

I was locked inside a house this morning, kidnapped this evening, and have spent the last hour discovering that the mysterious stranger I've been talking to has an entire secret life filled with men named after weird things.

I am not adding whatever that feeling is to the list of things I need to process tonight.

The dark-haired man finally makes it through the doorway and spots Keaton.

His entire face lights up.

"Oh, shit, Skee." He points directly at him. "You are in so much trouble."

Keaton's hand remains against my back. "Wheels."

The man—Wheels, apparently—grins. "Daddy's mad."

Another man steps through the doorway behind him. He is quieter than the others. Bigger, somehow, though maybe it's the way he carries himself. He takes in the room with one sweep of his eyes, assessing every corner before his attention settles on us. He doesn't look amused.

"Wheels," he says, his voice carrying the kind of exhausted patience that tells me this isn't the first time he's had to say something like this, "if you don't quit it with the Daddy shit, I'm putting you on overwatch with Bullet for the entirety of the next mission."

Wheels gasps. Actually gasps. One hand flies to his chest. "You wound me, Badger."

I stare at him. Badger. My gaze moves to the man standing behind him.

Then to the one who had been yelling about the door.

Bullet.

Wheels.

Badger.

Skee.

I turn to find him, unable to look away. He is staring straight ahead.