Page 99 of Covert Mission

I didn’t work so hard for all these years to have this all crumble around me.

I lean my forehead against the window casing as the curtain stirs on a gust of wind. The breeze takes some heat away from my tense face.

I need to get to the bottom of what’s going on. And do it fast.

ChapterThirty

I stalk out the door, slamming it behind me, and stride into the small courtyard between the bungalows.

How is this my life?

I don’t do complicated. It’s almost like I can hear the Universe laughing at me.

Joke’s on you, buddy. Here you are… all strong and focused… and BLAM! Here comes a cyclone with a pretty smile and a middle name that spells trouble.

Every damn thing about this situation with Camile is complicated.

If I thought flipping the heavens off would help, I’d do it.

I glare at the door of Truck’s place. She’s in there. With him.

For a beat, I have to fight back a weird pang of possessiveness. Truck is my teammate. A friend of over a decade. Besides, he’s about as averse to women as I am.

Am.

Was.

Fuck.

What have you done to me, Camile?

There has to be an antidote. Some voodoo potion. I’ll drink it. Rub it on… whatever, just so I can go back to being me.

Even thinking about her name makes my blood stir.

Right now, I’m not sure if there’s a whirlpool of disbelief, anger, or lust that’s sloshing around inside the hollowed-out shell of a human I walk around in.

I stalk to the shade of a palm tree and do what the old Beast would find unthinkable. I throw myself on the ground, my back on the grass.

That’s how jacked I am right now.

As I stare at the palm frond overhead, I go through all the details from the interrogation. If you can call it that. Personally, I don’t define anything as an interrogation that doesn’t involve removing body parts.

Which might have happened if Scout wasn’t the voice of reason.

I sit up and glare at thecabinawhere Camile and I got down last night.

Scout is still in there with him. And I’m guessing that the bastard that was manhandling Camile is still talking babble-bullshit.

I’m tempted to revert to old ways—taking off fingers, you know, shit like that. That works really well. A fuckton better than pansy-assing around the bush.

I’m muttering to no one, trying to figure out my next moves as I sit in the grass.

I’m sick of listening to an idiot talk in circles. Some bullshit about land and real estate deals. Working with FamFind in some capacity he never explained. Blah, fucking, blah.

Twenty minutes of nothing but nonsense spewing out of his pie hole.

I’m about ready to go back in there and break something—namely his nose, or maybe his arms.