Original Justice (Justice Brothers Book 4) Read online

  Rafe was frozen to the spot, his shirt a crumpled ball in his hand. She was still leaning to the side, and now he knew why. One side of her hip and ass looked like a tic-tac-toe diagram.

  She raised her eyes to him when he didn’t respond. Intrigued by what had his attention, she craned her neck to the side and tried to look at the damage.

  “Well, damn. That doesn’t look pretty.”

  A feeling he was going to cry seized Rafe. Of all the females on the planet, this one prickly, mysterious, and very reluctant woman was in his heart.

  Domineau Rivera was the definition of contradictions. In just two days, he’d seen so many different sides to her—all complete opposites of her usual self—that he didn’t know how to take it all in.

  He needed a minute to get his shit together, so with a grunt and a jerk of his head, he marched off to the bathroom, telling her as he walked that he was going to get his first-aid kit.

  In the bathroom, he stared at his reflection. Evidence of Domineau’s claws having a go at his chest came into view. Her fierceness in the bedroom didn’t surprise him. What did was the shuddering, moaning woman who came apart in his arms. She was a surprise.

  His eyes swept the sink counter, found the toiletry bag under a towel, and searched for the small kit he always carried. The travel tube of skin ointment should be just enough.

  When he straightened with the tube in his hand, a lightning bolt of understanding lit up his head. All of a sudden, he got it, and her odd, hurtful behavior made sense. He hadn’t been the only one surprised by what happened when they went from pound town to lovemaking.

  It was all starting to make sense. He understood why she ran and shut the door. He saw her shocking public transformation for what it was. An emotional dare. One she incorrectly assumed he wouldn’t accept.

  She’d directed the whole thing—the drinking, the performance for a group of people she felt comfortable around—at him. But he still didn’t know why.

  And then the insanity with Bishop. Jesus. He couldn’t believe how she behaved but didn’t know how or why to stop it. When she poked Roman and questioned his manhood, he’d run into the hallway to escape the sound of her taunts. They felt—personal.

  Her screams almost put Rafe on the floor.

  And now, when she had a chance to speak, she asked why he was here and if he was mad. My god. It was there the whole time, and he didn’t see it.

  He flipped off the light and went back to the room. He saw her sprawled on her stomach, clutching a pillow beneath her head. Hoping a deep breath would calm his nerves, he inhaled sharply and moved to her side.

  “Scoot over so I can sit.”

  She looked at him and frowned. “Can’t you just slap some cream on and be done with it?”

  A direct challenge. Down but not out.

  “No, and cut out the snarl. I’m not having it, Domineau. Move your damn ass and let me sit.”

  She glared at him and wiggled away, clutching the pillow. Her mutterings were mostly dark oaths about he much sucked.

  “Your bedside manner needs work,” she sneered.

  He gave it right back to her. “Look who’s talking. Now zip it, blondie, and hold still. I’m not playing your dumb game.”

  What part would she react to? Throwing her shitty bedside manner in her face? Calling her out for the stupid game she was playing?

  “I’m not blond,” she growled.

  “Bah!” he chortled. “Yes, you are. Maybe a shade on the dirty, but I like your dirty side.”

  She tried to kick him, but he expected it and was ready for the maneuver. Pressing his palm on the back of her knee, he forced her to stay still and squirted the ointment on the worst of the welts. Her body reacted with a vicious jerk. She turned her face into the pillow and moaned while waves of trembling agony wracked her body.

  Rafe kept his cool and concentrated on what he was doing. A couple of the welts were gnarly looking. He hissed at the knowledge that her foolishness would leave marks.

  He growled several times as his fingers gently spread the balm where it was most needed. When she trembled, he asked, “What were you trying to prove?”

  Her answer took their exchange in a shocking direction he didn’t see coming.

  “Why didn’t you ask about the scars on my chest?”

  Astonished by the question, he finished the first aid with a scowl and sat back. Screwing the top on the tube, he gave an off-handed shrug.

  “The scars aren’t recent. I’ve known you for a while and never once did you allude to whatever the hell that is. At that moment, I figured you were entitled to your privacy. Frankly, I was busy looking at your boobs. A question and answer pause never entered my mind.”

  She was lying on the clutched pillow, her head to the side, staring at him. Her expression was closed, but her eyes were bright.

  “But since you brought it up,” he drawled with a bite, “maybe you can explain why physical safety and dying isn’t much of a concern to you.”

  He knew he hit the bull’s-eye when she gasped and looked away.

  “Domineau,” he ground out with a humorless laugh, “I’ve seen you face gunfire without breathing heavy, and tonight, I watched you try very hard to prove that your skin and spine are covered in steel. This insanity was directed at me and don’t even bother trying to pretend otherwise. I made love to a woman last night. A passionate, sexy woman. Was this little performance supposed to reassert your badass credentials after you acted like a human being? A female human being.”

  “Fuck you,” she muttered.

  “Yeah,” he answered with a deep sigh. “That’s what I figured.”

  “We shouldn’t have done it. Sex always ruins things.”

  Oh, hell no. Nuh-uh. No freakin’ way was she getting away with that bullshit.

  “This isn’t about sex, so stop right there. We made love. There’s a world of difference, and the intimacy freaked you out. Admit it.”

  “This isn’t helping, Dallas.”

  “Boo-fucking-hoo, blondie. If you wanted mindless and easy, you shoulda taken on Sinjin or that pussy, Cameron.”

  “Ew.”

  He grinned like the idiot he was and puffed up his naked chest. “See?”

  “Help me sit up, you shithead, and wipe the silly smirk off your face.”

  He jumped up, and with two movements, he’d hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. She shrieked from surprise. “Hold still,” he demanded. Then he grabbed the shitty hotel comforter and stripped it from the bed followed by yanking back the blanket and top sheet. He wanted her abused butt to land on something halfway comforting and soft.

  Lowering her slowly and carefully, he gave her time to adjust before removing his hold. He handed her back his shirt and watched as she covered up.

  “You okay?”

  She shrugged with her face. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”

  He wasn’t so sure. She seemed a bit shaky. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. First of all, I need you to drop the sweetheart. You’re getting away with murder as it is. I’m not blond, so there.”

  Rafe laughed. “You’re just making it worse, ya know.”

  “How?”

  “Uh, well, gee. How to say this politely? Hmmm,” he growled while striking a theatrically pensive pose. “The carpet matched the drapes, blondie.”

  Her sharp gasp was all kinds of funny. “That is so fucking unfair.”

  “Okay, whatever. Stop flirting and start explaining.”

  She didn’t flinch at his tone or the obvious challenge in his choice of words. This woman was one-of-a-kind.

  And she was also good. Really, really good.

  “I don’t do true confession.” She shifted position and tucked two pillows—one under each arm—for comfort. “So you’ll have to be specific.”

  He tried to keep the triumph off his face, but she saw it anyway and glowered at him.

  “Two question limit.”
Her dry expression said she meant it.

  He jumped at the opportunity and asked a question he was certain she hadn’t expected.

  “Tell me something nobody else knows.”

  Sometimes unpredictability and asking the outrageous gets results. She didn’t disappoint with her knee-jerk reply.

  “I can’t be killed,” she told him matter-of-factly.

  Rafe almost asked what she meant but stopped in time. No way was he giving up his second question just to clarify her answer. He went with a command and waited to see what happened.

  “Explain.”

  Moving cautiously, she crossed her feet at the ankles and made an odd face. “You’ll have to be specific.”

  “Nope. Not giving up a second question.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. “Right. Well, I’ll allow follow-ups—to a point.”

  Cool. He’d run with that as long as she’d let him. “So you’re immortal?”

  She laughed. “No, you idiot. That’s not what I said.”

  He crossed his arms over his naked chest and smirked. “Okay Voldemort, so you can’t be killed. That means you’re immortal.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “Do your parents know what’s wrong with you, or is it a family mystery?”

  His head fell back as a bellow of laughter shot out of his mouth.

  “Why can’t you be killed?” He asked.

  “I said that wrong,” she explained. “Everyone can be killed. But I’m not meant to die by gunfire.”

  “How do you know?”

  She touched her chest.

  Holy shit. He had a hard time breathing for a couple of seconds. “You’ve been shot?”

  Her eyes lowered. She dropped her hands into her lap. After a long, tense moment, her head dipped just once. A nod of confirmation.

  His gut told him she’d go no further, so he didn’t pursue the revelation. The second of his allowed questions swirled in his mind.

  “What were you trying to prove, Domineau? What were you trying to tell me?”

  Would she be honest with him? He didn’t know.

  “I’m fucked up, Dallas. In my case, the damage is real. You don’t want a piece of this. Believe me.”

  “Is that what you were hoping would happen? That I’d get mad, blow up, and tell you to fuck off?”

  At least she had enough conscience to squirm at his accusing tone.

  “I didn’t think it through. I just wanted you to see that the pathetic, desperate woman from last night wasn’t the only part of me.”

  He listened to her words and thought about the pink panties. She was hiding for some reason.

  “So you dressed up, got drunk, took liberties that no sane person would attempt in a shithole like Bangkok, and let that dickhead Bishop play Wild West on your ass. All this to show me you’re not a woman? And by the way, oh my god with the pathetic and desperate footnote. You’re neither of those things, Domineau.”

  Rafe picked up the sound of approaching voices in the hallway and turned toward the noise. Three sharp raps sounded on the hotel door.

  Shit. He should have anticipated this.

  It was Parker and a version of Roman Bishop he’d never seen before.

  “Is she here?” Parker demanded.

  He nodded and then fixed Bishop with a withering scowl.

  “I need to talk to her,” Roman begged.

  “No,” he growled.

  Parker put a hand between him and Roman to keep them separate. “Rafe. He needs to see her. You don’t understand.”

  “I understand plenty,” he bellowed. “You tortured a friend, you sadistic bastard.”

  Roman turned three shades of white.

  “Rafe, fuck. No. That’s not what happened. We were playing, that’s all. The whiskey got in the way, and we played too hard. Please, you have to let me talk to her. This is my responsibility—not yours.”

  He grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “You motherfucker.”

  Parker shoved on his shoulders with both hands. The guy was big and powerful enough to get Rafe’s attention. He looked at him and snarled but let go of Roman.

  The door to the room flung open farther when Domineau appeared behind him and gave a second shove.

  “Hey, I have an idea,” she growled with real menace. “How about you cause a fucking scene?”

  She swept her arm with exasperation. “Get in here, all of you, and shut the damn door.”

  The three of them stumbled awkwardly in single file behind her as she gingerly made her way back to the bed. Roman pushed past and offered her a hand.

  “Goddammit, Domineau. I lost control. I’m so sorry. Let me help you, please. I should have taken care of you right away.”

  Rafe was hard-pressed not to throttle the guy. Parker put a hand on his arm as if he could read his mind.

  “Dude,” she grunted. “We both fucked up. I’m fine, Roman. Seriously.”

  Rafe silently gnashed his teeth and watched the two through narrowed eyes.

  “Look.” She smirked. “This’ll be a great story in ten years. One of those ‘how stupid could we be’ moments.” Her laugh was partially genuine.

  Parker spoke up. “Domineau.”

  She looked at the man.

  “The major wants a report. What should I tell him?”

  Without a second’s hesitation on her part, she said, “Tell him Sinjin and Cam owe Roman a disgustingly expensive bottle of whatever he wants for that pussy-boy stunt they pulled at the tattoo parlor.”

  Sullivan chuckled. “Did St. John cry?” he asked Roman. “Come on, man. Tell me. He did, didn’t he?”

  Domineau chuckled at the jest and looked Rafe straight in the eye. She gave a cockeyed shrug and winked. She defused the situation with her customary dry humor.

  Bishop gave them all a thousand-watt sneer. “The little girl puked in a trash can.”

  Parker howled with laughter. “Nuh-uh! No way!”

  “Way.” The interrogator smirked. “And that’s my story. The one I’ll be sticking to.”

  “Domineau.” Parker’s smooth verbal sidestep was lawyerly impressive. “I think it’s safe to say I’ve never had a date end with my escort leaving in another man’s arms.” He saluted her and gave a wave. “You appear to be in good hands.” He gestured to Roman. “Come away, Bishop. No need to push Rafe any further.”

  Parker shuffled them from the room with a final wave and pulled the door shut as they left. Alone with her again, Rafe weighed his options. This was their last full night in Bangkok. By late tomorrow night, their group would be making their way back to the real world—wherever that happened to be for each of them.

  “I want you to stay here tonight. With me.”

  She looked at him and blinked a few times. He wasn’t sure what she’d do, but after some lip biting and fidgeting, she finally gave in. “Okay.”

  He didn’t have a clue where any of this was leading, and he didn’t care.

  8

  They met in the bar at the Mandarin Oriental. After the shit show of the past few days, it seemed like a good idea to keep the setting as public and dignified as possible. They were getting out of Bangkok in one piece—no use in tempting fate.

  Alex looked at the assembled group and took it all in.

  Sawyer appeared to be engaged in a sales presentation that Parker was completely engrossed in.

  Last night after the brouhaha at the sex club, he’d closed out the evening in deep discussion with the inscrutable jack-of-many-trades. It turns out that Bentley Sawyer was one of those scary smart guys who had a detailed and impressive life plan.

  After a half-buzzed blood oath involving some serious stuff at the back of the bro-code bible, Alex swore on everything from the head of his firstborn to the guarantee of a 1973 Chevelle penalty that he’d never divulge the man’s given name.

  Then Sawyer laid out his master plan, and Alex had to admit the guy was a genius. By the end of the night, they shook hands on a couple of things including
Sawyer’s viability as a private pilot for anything the Justice Agency wanted to put in the air. Jets, single engines, helicopters. If it flew and needed a pilot, Sawyer was their man.

  Parker’s booming laughter rang out, and Alex smiled. They were damn lucky to have these weird wartime meetup moments. He relied on his oldest friend. With their two families essentially joined at the hip, he’d grown up in the guy’s shadow and looked up to him as a brother.

  His friend was giving off random indications that shit wasn’t exactly peachy keen back home. He’d tried to get him to open up but wasn’t successful, and Alex didn’t press. He knew what Parker was dealing with at the Justice Department. The fucking war tested them all.

  He’d tried changing the subject to Angie. The Marquez family was relieved to have Parker on duty as his baby sister’s guardian and chaperone while she went to college in DC. But he wasn’t exactly chatty about her, either.

  A waitress diverted Alex’s thought process by all but giving Draegyn a lap dance in a five-star hotel bar with a hundred people watching. It was no use getting mad at the official Team Justice ninja warrior. The guy gave off some hypnotic sexual pheromone that made women behave irrationally. He loved the guy—Drae was his North Star. He relied heavily on his judgment and found a depth inside him that few bothered to notice. But oh my god with the man whore thing.

  He snickered when Cam stepped in to rescue his girlfriend—and by girlfriend, he referred to Drae, not the waitress. A couple of bills got stuffed in the tip glass on her tray before the hulking dark cloud that was Jason Cameron pushed the woman away with his menacing presence. The guy had more issues than Alex has teeth. When they were back on base, and the opportunity arose, he planned to sit his protégé down for a serious talk about the fight club bullshit. It was time for Cam to unlearn the behavior. He wasn’t in foster care anymore or having to fight for every little thing. Being adept at kicking ass was all well and good, and it was a job requirement in a war zone. But doing it for sport and the endorphin rush? Nope. Time to throw the kill switch.

  At the end of the curved, lushly padded booth where they’d spread out sat Roman, Domineau, and Rafe. Alex was relieved the three weren’t throwing punches.