Original Justice (Justice Brothers Book 4) Page 3

  The subject changed. It was the only way to deal with the elephants in the room.

  “Guess what?” She chuckled and sat up. “I forgot to tell you. Sawyer found a Canadian woman who can throw together a turkey dinner, American style. He wants to know if we’re interested.”

  “Sawyer is a piece of work,” he murmured dryly. “Drae and I are certain he could procure a hot dog from the surface of the moon. How do you think he does it?”

  “Fuck if I know.” Domineau stood and cracked her back. The sound made him cringe. She needed a good adjustment—from a chiropractor. Not the attitude kind of adjustment although that might not be a bad idea either.

  “So you interested in turkey and stuffing or not? That kind of Norman Rockwell shit leaves me cold, so you’d be on your own.” She lifted her chin defiantly as she spoke.

  He rubbed his smooth head and gave a humorless laugh. Domineau held an oft-stated dislike of special occasions and birthdays. He wasn’t privy to why she felt that way. All he knew was that it had something to do with her family.

  “I’m good. But tell him if he wants to find me a gen-you-wine Philly steak sandwich, wiz wit, he can have my firstborn.”

  She frowned, drew in a long breath, and cocked her head. “What the hell is wiz wit?”

  Rafe chuckled and winked. “In Philly parlance, it’s the only way to order. Wiz refers to cheese, and the wit is for onions.”

  “So … a Philly steak sandwich with cheese and onions?”

  “There you go,” he told her with a grin. “What’s your secret craving?”

  Her head shook. “Me? I don’t have any.”

  “Sure, you do. I watched you with my own eyes actually eat a piece of Christmas fruitcake. Nobody in their right mind eats that stuff!”

  “I beg your pardon,” she replied with a lofty sniff. “Princess Diana served fruitcake at her wedding to Prince Charles.”

  He sniggered. “No wonder he divorced her.”

  She gasped, and a smile made the corners of her mouth quiver. “Sacrilege!”

  No way Rafe could resist the urge to playfully dig. “Why, Domineau! You shock me. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Princess Di romantic. Does that mean you’re a believer in happily ever after?”

  Her face fell, and he almost shivered from the sudden arctic plunge of the atmosphere in the room. He knew right away he’d made a mistake.

  “Romance is a fantasy, and I don’t do make-believe.”

  It was easy to imagine Domineau as Athena, Goddess of War, hurling the joyless pronouncement like a thunderbolt.

  She appeared uncertain and rocked back and forth for a minute. Then she did what she so often did—turned around and walked away. No comment. No shrug. No nothing.

  The doorway to their adjoining rooms was propped open on both sides. She walked away as if they weren’t in the middle of a conversation. He hated when she did this but was used to it. Domineau didn’t argue or defend. She said as much as she wanted and then shut down.

  It was a damn effective ploy whether she saw it that way or not.

  He didn’t chase after or follow because it wouldn’t get him anywhere. She didn’t shut either of the doors, and that was enough. Reaching her limit in a conversation didn’t equate to a total fuck off. Hopefully, the small victories would eventually pay off.

  Turned out that twelve hours of blissful, uninterrupted sleep in a king-size bed covered with real sheets in an air-conditioned room was just enough to help make Alex feel human. Somewhat.

  After three days in Tokyo with Parker enduring one mind-numbing security briefing after another, they flew into Thailand together, and by the time the plane landed, they were already drunk. Many alcohol-soaked hours later and after assurance of everyone else's safe arrival, they each went to their room. At that point, Alex face planted, and except for a few trips to the head, he slept like a baby.

  In the bathroom of his five-star hotel room, he stared at himself in the mirror. Time in a war zone did hard things to a man. He couldn't even remember the stupid idealistic college student he'd been when he joined the military and took a patriotic fuck-it detour from the future his family had planned for him.

  Now, fighting evil was his chief motivator. And he’d been at it for years. His reflection told the same story the others on his team did. There wasn’t a lot of spit and polish in a war zone. They all looked scruffy, beat up, and old before their time.

  Scraping his hand back and forth across a thick black beard, he contemplated shaving but quickly nixed the idea with a shrug. Yeah, he'd get around to it, but right now, his number one priority was finding some food.

  Dragging like a hundred-year-old man, he made it from the bathroom to the setup next to the room’s closet and studied the unexpectedly cheap coffeemaker. He was turning back to the bathroom with the pot in his hand, preparing to get some water, when he saw an envelope on the floor near the door.

  Probably slipped underneath, he thought as he walked to it and bent to pick it up. Returning the empty pot to its home, he plopped down in a chair next to a miniscule table and tore into the envelope. For a fancy hotel the rooms left a lot to be desired.

  Alex chuckled. It was a note from Sawyer, letting him know he had tomorrow night under control. Team Justice was in place, and anyone not already in jail or lying in an emergency room would turn up at the appointed time in some sleazy bar where pretty much anything goes.

  He was gonna owe Sawyer big time for this one. And the guy didn’t always wanna deal in currency. The man was smart and one of the snarkiest motherfuckers he’d ever encountered. It took a clever asshole to work his way through his service commitment by making his unusual procurement skills indispensible to generals and grunts alike.

  For shits and grins, when they were negotiating this Bangkok bacchanal, Alex indicated a bunch of authentic Hawaiian hula girls might be fun. For a few minutes, it looked like maybe Sawyer could pull it off, but then he let him off the hook. He’d just been fucking around.

  Digging through his bag, he found a pair of comfortable, worn jeans and pulled them on. He had to search for his watch and eventually found it beneath the covers of the bed.

  He rolled his eyes when he heard a pounding at the door of his room. He’d know that knock in his sleep. It was Parker Sullivan playing mindless head games for the hell of it. In tap code, he rapped out, B – J.

  Alex yanked the door open and found his oldest friend leaning casually against the jamb. He was waving a flyer and grinning like an idiot.

  “Dude! Take your pick, man. The cab driver gave me this. It’s a list of blowjob parlors. Best of Bangkok.” He sniggered.

  He gave him a bland stare. “Wasn’t that analyst from Langley—the one with the huge tits—enough for you?”

  Parker smirked, slapped him on the shoulder, and shoved past him. “I never touched her, and that was last week. It’s you, my friend, not me, who needs a ball drain.”

  “Oh, dear god,” Alex drawled. “Ball drain? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  His friend stopped and looked at him with an odd expression. “If I told you, you’d probably kill me.”

  “What the hell’s that mean?”

  Parker scowled. “Nothing, forget it. Come on. Get dressed. Enough with the beauty sleep. Let’s find a couple of insane steaks and some brandy. Then we’ll go check out the professional dick swallowers. Sounds like fun, right?”

  The steak and brandy sounded perfect. He wasn’t sure about the blowjob. Although …

  “Think about it, man. Some hot little chick oohing and ahhing over your Major meat.”

  Okay. That was funny. “Major meat?”

  “Yeah. That’s your rank now, right? Pay a few dollars extra for a special command salute.”

  Alex grabbed his balls and smirked.

  His friend made a face and sniggered. “Bet it wouldn’t take much to get that pussy St. John on his knees.”

  Parker and Drae’s rivalry didn’t seem so tongue-in-cheek at time
s—a fact that made Alex laugh. In some strange way, the two men really did see the other as some sort of competition. With him, Major Alex Marquez, as the spoils.

  “Jealous?” he asked with a mocking smirk.

  They cracked up laughing and high fived for the hell of it.

  Parker growled. “Get dressed. I need some food.”

  The Led Zeppelin T-shirt Alex took off and threw on the bed when he arrived was within easy reach, so he grabbed it and pulled it over his head. Shoving his feet into old Western boots, he made a circuit of the room, picked up his wallet, and shoved it into his pocket. He shook out a shirt left in a wadded ball and slipped it on.

  “There,” he grumbled. “Dressed.”

  Parker shook his head and made a face. “My aunt would have a hissy fit if she could see what a slob you’ve become.”

  Alex flipped him off and grinned while tucking in the buttoned shirt. He was ready to go after a few vigorous rubs of his head and shaggy hair.

  “No,” his friend griped. “Just fucking, no.”

  Alex looked at where Parker pointed and saw that the buttons on his shirt were fastened wrong. “Who the hell are you? The fashion police?”

  Parker didn’t budge. He simply arched a brow, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave him a droll look. “Fix it, or I’m telling your mom.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he angrily muttered. Unbuttoning his shirt, he complained the whole time about how fucked up it was that his best friend was also the only kid of his parents’ best friends. He and Parker were cousins in every way that mattered. Unrelated cousins raised as brothers.

  When he finished, he grabbed his leather jacket and marched toward the door. Parker stepped in front of him. First, he pushed the hair back from Alex’s forehead then wet his fucking thumb and went after a smudge or something on his cheek. Alex smacked his hand away.

  “Keep it up, butthead, and I’m telling Aunt Wendy you flew all the way from Washington DC to come here and be mean to me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he drawled. “Whatever. You know damn well that, as the oldest, they expect me to look after you.”

  “If you were really looking after me, bro, you’d have let Angie stowaway in your luggage. I miss the little shit. You’re keeping an eye on her, right?”

  The only reason his folks let the family’s baby go to college so far from home was because Parker lived in the same city and could handle Alex’s little sister better than anyone else.

  “Uh, sure. An eye. Yep. It’s all good.” Parker rubbed his hands together. When he looked at him, Alex felt the effort his friend put into shrugging the issue off.

  Dammit. Was Angie being a pain in the ass? Fuck. He hoped not although she did excel at making and finding trouble. But Alex let it slide. He didn’t want family matters to fuck up this rare opportunity—a break from the war—when he and his troop of rabble-rousing dorks could shake off the dark shit and have some fun.

  Having Parker along was the icing on the cake for Alex. What the guy was involved with at the DOJ required a high-level clearance and a hands-on approach that put him on the ground in some fucked-up places. Whenever he was anywhere nearby, they tried to connect.

  They left the hotel and headed to a steakhouse for the expensive meal Alex craved. Tonight, he’d play civilized tourist. Tomorrow, they’d meet up with everyone else so the wild and drunken revelry could begin.

  Bangkok.

  Team Justice.

  Oh. My. God.

  3

  Drae leaned against a sign, munching on a meat skewer he bought from a food stall, and watched as Sawyer haggled with a vendor over a bunch of bullshit. In no time at all, the guy had what he wanted and was handing over money as the shopkeeper laughed and packed up Sawyer’s haul of junk.

  “Do you need all that shit?” he asked as Sawyer stuffed crap into the bags and boxes the kid they hired to haul their stuff carried.

  “Me?” Sawyer’s delivery was both innocent and snide. “I don’t need any of it. But I know someone who does.”

  “Tell me again how you just happen to be in Bangkok when we’re all here? You stalking us?”

  “Suck it, St. John. You girls aren’t nearly as interesting as y’all imagine.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Drae quipped. “And you suck at being mysterious.”

  Sawyer motioned so their bag jockey would follow and led them away from the surging tourists moving through the colorful, busy marketplace. He pulled a paper from his back pocket, unfolded it, and started to read. A motor scooter zoomed by and nearly knocked Drae over.

  “No mystery, man.” Sawyer rolled a shoulder and refolded the paper before sliding it back into a pocket. “I was with a detail accompanying Senator Bracker. Security talks in Tokyo. Major happened to be there. He suggested when my detail ended that a trip to Bangkok might be, um … lucrative.”

  “Senator Bracker? Really? I’ll give you a hondo right now if you tell me what kind of sick shit that fucker had in his travel rider. Hookers? Golden showers? Smooth-skinned boys? Oh, I know. Opium den? Huh? Huh?”

  Sawyer threw his head back and laughed. Drae knew he wasn’t gonna give anything up. That was what made Bentley Sawyer’s unusual procurement skills so valuable. He didn’t kiss and tell. The fat cats up the brass ladder and the ones with power in the government and military loved the guy for that reason.

  By happenstance, Alex and Sawyer had developed an interesting relationship over time. When he made the rank of major, Alex reeled Sawyer in as much as he could and used his quirky talents in clever ways. A guy who knew how to fix a parking ticket in Los Angeles from the middle of a war zone had contacts piled on top of contacts. Contacts equaled information, and information was more important than money when guns were involved.

  “Sure, Drae.” Sawyer’s droll snicker got Drae smiling. “The senator likes his orange juice ice cold, and he prefers Pepsi to Coke. Low maintenance guy. Walk in the park.”

  Low maintenance, my ass, Drae thought. Bracker was an A-1 dick with way too much power. Everyone knew he fancied himself as commander-in-chief material. Guys like him expected obeisant submission from everyone in his path. Moron.

  “Look, I’ve got a few more things to get. Let’s throw this shit in a taxi, and you take it back to the hotel.” He nodded at the kid carrying the bags. “My friend here can stay with me—I’ll need him.”

  “Fine with me,” Drae answered. “Hey, did you find a clean tattoo parlor for us?”

  “Affirmative. And bonus! It’s an American dude. Fucked-up guy but talented as shit. Whatever you and that pansy-ass Cameron want, he can do.”

  He chuckled. “We thought matching hearts on our butts. Least I can do for the guy who fucking literally rescued my half-dead ass.”

  Sawyer agreed with a nod and a serious scowl. “If I’m ever kidnapped, man, I want him on the case. He’s a good guy, Jason. A little fucking crazy with that fight club bullshit but who am I to judge?”

  “You make bribes and corrupt people. He’s a walking, talking radar system who deals with his shit in a physical way.” Drae shrugged. “It’s all good.”

  They hailed a taxi and crammed everything into the back. Drae had bags between his legs and on his lap.

  “I’ll swing by for this stuff later. Any last requests?”

  Drae thought for a minute and yelled out the window as the car began to move. “American ice cream. Plain, old-fashioned vanilla.”

  Sawyer waved him off, and he sat back in the pile of crap. He glanced at his watch. He didn’t have to think about meeting up with the team for a while. Enough time to talk one the pretty cocktail waitresses in the hotel bar out of her panties.

  Cam dragged his learned habits from a hard youth with him like baggage and dealt with his demons in boxing rings and with street fights. He said it cleared the noise in his head.

  Drae saw it. Kinda. Take a punch, throw a punch. Sure, why not? But that kind of abuse didn’t appeal to him. His preferred demon chaser was
sex. Lots of it. Like Cam, it cleared the noise in his head.

  One thing he and his war brother had in common, though, was disdain for romance. Romance was pure bullshit. Guys who got sucked into the one-woman scenario were fucking morons. And not only that, there was the whole “was it the real thing” issue. Marriage in his social tribe tended to be acquisitions or mergers. Romance had nothing to do with it. He’d found out the hard way that appearances were as phony as the fake tits and smiles he grew up around. Just because you said the words didn’t mean it was real.

  So he didn’t do romance. Ever. It wasn’t that he decided one day not to open that particular door of supposed opportunity. It was more like he boarded up and built a brick wall around the idea. No use in being tempted.

  Some guys collected passport stamps or luggage stickers to document their adventures. Not him. He collected pussy and blowjobs. Worldwide. Old, young, and in between. Model thin size zero and extra, extra large. Short, tall. City, country. You name it. If a willing female was available, he was whipping his dick out.

  Yeah, he thought. Easy decision. He had a couple of condoms in his wallet, so a quick stop at the bar for a drink followed by a raunchy fuck was just what this getaway called for.

  He and Parker found each other in the second-floor hallway of Betty’s BJ Bungalow and immediately started laughing.

  “That didn’t take long.” Parker sniggered as he tucked in his shirt.

  Alex couldn’t believe what they’d just done, but goddammit this was what always happened when he and Parker spent any time together.

  He shook his head with wonder. “Okay, for real, man. She washed my dick first!”

  “I know! Oh, my god. I had to stop from laughing.”

  “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here. I need some air and a drink,” Alex suggested.

  Half a bottle of whiskey later, they were still laughing.

  “This might not be the time,” Alex muttered. He leaned on the table between them and turned his whiskey glass slowly.