Page 38 of Zeus

"Right," I mutter and turn my attention back to the shadow at the front door just as another round of bangs hits the wood. "I got it."

A hand hotter than the one that covered mine on the tailgate of the truck presses to my chest as he takes a step in front of me.

"Really?" he growls, looking down. "And just how in the hell are you going to explain that to our new friends?"

I don't have to look south to know exactly what he's talking about. My cock had been threatening to go full nuclear for hours as I stared at the ceiling in my room, knowing he was only feet away in his.

The sight of his sleepy face and disheveled hair, and well, all missions are a go right this second.

"I've got it," he says, winking and patting my chest again. "Go grab some jeans and get that monster under control."

Instead of obeying, I hover just inside my bedroom door, encased in the shadows, my gun ready for action if shit goes sideways, as Zayne answers the door.

It's not the same guy from the night before, but I can tell by the way Zayne shifts on his feet that the man in front of him is from the same organization.

Unlike the man the night before, this guy doesn't feel the need to talk as loudly, so I can't hear every word spoken. Zayne doesn't look too happy when he closes the door and turns in my direction.

As if he can sense me even though I know I'm barely visible, he looks in my direction. "Get dressed. Work starts tonight."

I dress as quickly as I can, and from the bumps and curses from Zayne's room, he's doing the same.

Nothing deflates a man's cock like knowing we're going out to do God knows what with people we can't trust. By the time I step out of my room, tucking my gun into the back waistband of my jeans like a deviant, my mind is out of Zayne's gutter and right back on the task.

It doesn't hurt that he steps out of his room in dirty-looking jeans and a fucking flannel, making him look so redneck that I almost expect him to say he struck oil in the backyard like Jed Clampett.

"You look like you have body odor," I tease as he walks by.

The man pauses and wordlessly leans in another inch. Damn him for it because the scent coming off his skin is spicy and heavenly, cock-twitchingly so.

"Asshole," I mutter as I follow him to the front door.

His chuckle makes me smile, but our faces are schooled back to business before the door swings open.

I blow out a puff of air as Zayne locks the door, realizing what is about to happen.

Zayne looks all business, and for him and his character, that means he has an easy-going smile on his face as he pulls open the passenger door of a fucking cop car.

I feel a little easier when I open the back door and see that it's a decommissioned car that just hasn't had the stickers removed yet. The standard equipment that would come with a car like this has already been removed. It's a lot better than it being stolen, which was my first consideration when I saw it.

"I'm Bobby," the guy says as I settle into the back seat.

"Lyle," I mutter, growing even more concerned about tonight's adventure when I see the seatbelts back here have literally been cut out.

Instead of making a big deal about it, something I don't guess Lyle would have an issue with, I simply press my back against the seat and pray that whatever may be the plan for tonight, it doesn't include me getting ejected from this damn car in a wreck.

As Bobby pulls the car onto the road, the talking starts, and it doesn't stop. Despite it being after three in the morning, the man is wired, or very likely on something. The chatter doesn't amount to much. He isn't spilling state secrets or anything, and I'm half tempted to tell him to shut the fuck up or say something with even a hint of substance.

My annoyance isn't reflected in my partner, however.

Zayne is smiling and chatting right back, the conversation flowing with the stranger as if they'd known each other for years.

It makes me wonder whether many of the people in these types of groups are similar, making it much easier for Zayne to carry on a conversation with them.

After twenty minutes of riding, twenty minutes of Bobby taking the mountainous curves much too quickly, I find my limit of tolerance.

"What are we doing exactly?" I ask, my eyes locked on the side of Bobby's head, knowing I'm mere minutes from choking him out from the backseat.

Bobby's eyes meet mine in the rearview, and I see the slight twitch of agitation in the corner of his eyes, as if the man expected us to just hop in the car with him, no questions asked.