Still Stuck...
"This sucks." Cruise tosses the remote control on the scuffed coffee table that's seen better days and pushes off the couch. The guys-weekend-from-hell is getting worse. They're about out of beer, the Cheetos dried up sometime yesterday morning and someone in the room ate too much chili on their chili dog last night because the SBDs are smokin' them all out. The lack of windows in The Basement only makes things worse.
Cruise pushes a hand through his hair and starts pacing. "It's Monday-frickin'-afternoon for Pete's sake!" He looks up to the ceiling and raises his voice just to make sure She can hear him. "Did you hear me??? Some of us have work to do!"
Tick glances at Rio. "I think he's losing it."
Rio regards Tick thoughtfully. "Wasn't there a Pete in here with us last time?"
Tick rubs a hand over his weekend's worth of stubble. "Now that you mention it, there was. Slick dude. Didn't like him."
Rio reaches for the remote Cruise dropped and sarts flipping channels. "Me neither. Too slick."
He and Tick look at each other and nod in unison. "Felon."
Brody chuckles from across the room where he's lying on his back, feet propped against the concrete slap wall, tossing his baseball against the wall while Cruise continues pacing and muttering to himself.
"What's so funny?" Stanton asks, looking up from the Women's Day he's found wedged into a basket full of old magazines and newspapers.
Brody grins. "The felon. He'll be back. Uber-agent's reading his book right now. Guarantee there'll be edits."
"Fabulous," Rio mutters, returning his attention to the TV. "That's all we need in here. The only thing that'd make it better is if good ol' Troy Lee was in here too."
Tick quickly looks away.
Stanton's eyes narrow. "What do you know that we don't?"
"Nothing," Tick says quickly. Too quickly. "I mean, just that She's got his torture all laid out. And knowing Troy Lee, it's going to get worse before it gets better."
"I do not want to be stuck in here with Troy Lee," Ash says adamantly from the recliner where he's been pretending to sleep.
Cruise finally stops pacing long enough to glance toward the SI Swimsuit special Rio's paused the TV on. But his attention is obviously elsewhere because he looks away from the TV and scans each of the men's faces. "How much longer can this go on? Seriously. We've all got things to do."
"Not all of us," Theron mutters from the corner of the room where he's been quietly plotting to escape most of the day.
Brody catches the ball and stills. "Now that sounds like animosity, to me. Did you boys here that?"
Cruise drops into the other recliner and rolls his eyes. "Here we go again. Don't you two have anything better to do than bicker about who's getting WIP time?"
"I do," Theron mumbles.
"Not me," Brody says, going back to his tossing. The ball hits the concrete wall with a thunk. "Season's over, spring training doesn't start until Feb. I got all the time in the world. 'Course you wouldn't understand that. You being a spook and all. Busy things to do. Like wire-tapping innocent citizens, making deals with terrorists, and then there's that ever-present hunting-down-Bin-Laden thing that you guys can't seem to get right. And on that subject, explain it to me. Why can't you guys seem to find one old man again?"
"That's it!" Cruise leaps off the couch. "I've had about enough of your mouth."
Tick and Rio both step in to intercept. Tick puts a hand on Cruise's chest to keep him back. "He's just trying to get you going."
Brody chuckles.
Tick looks Brody's way. "And you. Knock it off, meat. It's bad enough we're all stuck in here together without your smartass comments."
Brody pushes up from the floor and slouches against the wall, all flippant attitude and defiant charm. "I'm hurt. Did you just call me meat?"
"Yeah, deal with it. And cut the crap."
Brody lifts a brow. "Watch Bull Durham one too many times, insect man?"
"Let me hit him. Just once," Cruise pleads. "It'll make us all feel better."
"That's true," Theron says from across the room.
Tick looked at Rio. Rio shrugs in a why not? move. Stanton puts down the article on how to bake a bundt cake and grins. "This could get interesting."
Tick finally drops his hand. He lets out a long-suffering sigh. "I know pounding on each other sounds like a good idea at the moment, but I'll be the one in trouble if there's a brawl. Remember the card game?"
"What card game?" Ash asks. "You played cards without me?"
"That wasn't our fault," Rio cuts in. "There were extenuating circumstances."
"Still," Tick says, shaking his head. "I've been around here the longest, and it's not wise to tick Her off. Now if we just---"
The basement door opens with a soft click. Silence falls over the room as all the men turn to look toward the lean woman standing in the doorway wearing cargo pants, a fitted black tee and army boots.
Theron uncoils from his corner, but She doesn't seem to notice him. She's zeroed in on Brody across the room. A wicked smile curls Her mouth, and She lifts one finger, beckoning him toward Her.
Theron shoots forward. No one attempts to stop him. "No!"
She turns Her attention his way. Her smile fades. Her violet eyes narrow. Theron stops dead in the center of the room as something unsaid passes between them. His shoulders slump. Then suddenly She turns. She looks at Brody again over Her shoulder and heads for the door.
A lopsided grin curls Brody's mouth. He hikes up his Levi's. "Been nice knowin' ya, losers." He follows Her out of the room. The door snaps shut with an echoing click.
Theron slumps back to the floor.
Ash kicks the recliner footrest down. "Um. What just happened here?"
Theron's jaw clenches. "She's toying with me."
Silence.
"Um, no offense," Ash finally says, "but what does that mean for the rest of us?"
"It means the weekend's over," Tick says. "And The Other Two will be coming for us soon."
Rio tips his head and studies the closed door. "Well, some of us. Hopefully."
*****
"Yoo-hoo," another female voice calls from the top of the stairs.
All male ears in the basement perk.
"Are there any spooks, spies or CIA hanging out down there?" she asks.
Every man's gaze turns on Cruise. Stanton leans back and laces his fingers behind his head with a sour expression. "As a matter of fact--"
Cruise smacks Stan in the chest, cutting him off as he squints suspiciously at the darkened stairwell. "Who wants to know?"
She clears her throat, taps her foot. "Let me rephrase. Are there any spooks, spies or CIA hanging out down there who want steamy shower sex?"
Every man's feet hit the floor. Every spine straightens.
Stanton ducks and peers toward the top of the stairs. "Uh, nope, no spooks down here, just a lousy diplomat. But I've been in some pretty dicey situations in the past, know how to lie my ass right out of trouble--"
"No way Stan," Tick says. "I've been on three times as many undercover operations as you have. I'm far more qualified as a spy."
"Sorry, boys." Rio extends his arms and cracks his knuckles with a smug expression. "My UC ops have extended for years. I've lied to drug cartel, military leaders and psychopathic murderers. I'm way out of your league."
Theron stands, shoves his shoulders back until his full height looms over the other men. "None of you can deny I'm the most suspicious one here."
Ash taps his temple with one finger, comtemplative. "I don't suppose disposing of chicken corpses would count as espinage..."
Cruise is quiet, now standing aside the doorway peering past the jamb. The silouhette of a woman outlined in yellow light hovers on the top step. "Who wants to know?"
"Jesus," Rio frowns at Cruise and darts a disgusted look at Tick. "He's way below rookie status. He's just a fucking idiot."
"Hmmm," the woman ponders. "Too bad there's no spy down here, cause I've really amped up that shower scene, and I'm letting him stay afterward for more instead of cutting to the future. Big, comfortable bed, Egyptian cotton sheets. Slow this time, too. No wham-bam, which has it's place and all, but we've always got to remember if there's no meaning behind a sex scene, we may as well be writing porno."
"What's wrong with porno?" Stan mutters, pouting now, arms crossed again.
She sighs, long and loud. "I'm kinda thinking after the intensity of the shower, my h/h might indulge in some exploration of bodies, a little experimentation...might throw in some mouth action--"
Every man rises to his feet.
"I'm the spy!" Cruise bellows up the stairwell. He turns on the imposters, whips his Glock from the holster at his spine and trains it on the rest of men as he backs toward the darkened stairs. "Step away from my muse. Anyone even so much as looks at these stairs is going to loose an eyeball...or worse."
Cruise's feet pound up the stairs and the door closes with an exhuberant slam. All the men sink back into their seats...except Rio. He stalks to the opening to the stairs, braces his hands on either side of the jamb and yells, "Hey, what about me? Any word from the agents?"
"Sorry, handsome," Her voice floats back, fading. "Nothing yet."
Rio swears again, scraps a hand through his hair and stalks back to his recliner. "Damn spies have all the luck."
Cruise pushes a hand through his hair and starts pacing. "It's Monday-frickin'-afternoon for Pete's sake!" He looks up to the ceiling and raises his voice just to make sure She can hear him. "Did you hear me??? Some of us have work to do!"
Tick glances at Rio. "I think he's losing it."
Rio regards Tick thoughtfully. "Wasn't there a Pete in here with us last time?"
Tick rubs a hand over his weekend's worth of stubble. "Now that you mention it, there was. Slick dude. Didn't like him."
Rio reaches for the remote Cruise dropped and sarts flipping channels. "Me neither. Too slick."
He and Tick look at each other and nod in unison. "Felon."
Brody chuckles from across the room where he's lying on his back, feet propped against the concrete slap wall, tossing his baseball against the wall while Cruise continues pacing and muttering to himself.
"What's so funny?" Stanton asks, looking up from the Women's Day he's found wedged into a basket full of old magazines and newspapers.
Brody grins. "The felon. He'll be back. Uber-agent's reading his book right now. Guarantee there'll be edits."
"Fabulous," Rio mutters, returning his attention to the TV. "That's all we need in here. The only thing that'd make it better is if good ol' Troy Lee was in here too."
Tick quickly looks away.
Stanton's eyes narrow. "What do you know that we don't?"
"Nothing," Tick says quickly. Too quickly. "I mean, just that She's got his torture all laid out. And knowing Troy Lee, it's going to get worse before it gets better."
"I do not want to be stuck in here with Troy Lee," Ash says adamantly from the recliner where he's been pretending to sleep.
Cruise finally stops pacing long enough to glance toward the SI Swimsuit special Rio's paused the TV on. But his attention is obviously elsewhere because he looks away from the TV and scans each of the men's faces. "How much longer can this go on? Seriously. We've all got things to do."
"Not all of us," Theron mutters from the corner of the room where he's been quietly plotting to escape most of the day.
Brody catches the ball and stills. "Now that sounds like animosity, to me. Did you boys here that?"
Cruise drops into the other recliner and rolls his eyes. "Here we go again. Don't you two have anything better to do than bicker about who's getting WIP time?"
"I do," Theron mumbles.
"Not me," Brody says, going back to his tossing. The ball hits the concrete wall with a thunk. "Season's over, spring training doesn't start until Feb. I got all the time in the world. 'Course you wouldn't understand that. You being a spook and all. Busy things to do. Like wire-tapping innocent citizens, making deals with terrorists, and then there's that ever-present hunting-down-Bin-Laden thing that you guys can't seem to get right. And on that subject, explain it to me. Why can't you guys seem to find one old man again?"
"That's it!" Cruise leaps off the couch. "I've had about enough of your mouth."
Tick and Rio both step in to intercept. Tick puts a hand on Cruise's chest to keep him back. "He's just trying to get you going."
Brody chuckles.
Tick looks Brody's way. "And you. Knock it off, meat. It's bad enough we're all stuck in here together without your smartass comments."
Brody pushes up from the floor and slouches against the wall, all flippant attitude and defiant charm. "I'm hurt. Did you just call me meat?"
"Yeah, deal with it. And cut the crap."
Brody lifts a brow. "Watch Bull Durham one too many times, insect man?"
"Let me hit him. Just once," Cruise pleads. "It'll make us all feel better."
"That's true," Theron says from across the room.
Tick looked at Rio. Rio shrugs in a why not? move. Stanton puts down the article on how to bake a bundt cake and grins. "This could get interesting."
Tick finally drops his hand. He lets out a long-suffering sigh. "I know pounding on each other sounds like a good idea at the moment, but I'll be the one in trouble if there's a brawl. Remember the card game?"
"What card game?" Ash asks. "You played cards without me?"
"That wasn't our fault," Rio cuts in. "There were extenuating circumstances."
"Still," Tick says, shaking his head. "I've been around here the longest, and it's not wise to tick Her off. Now if we just---"
The basement door opens with a soft click. Silence falls over the room as all the men turn to look toward the lean woman standing in the doorway wearing cargo pants, a fitted black tee and army boots.
Theron uncoils from his corner, but She doesn't seem to notice him. She's zeroed in on Brody across the room. A wicked smile curls Her mouth, and She lifts one finger, beckoning him toward Her.
Theron shoots forward. No one attempts to stop him. "No!"
She turns Her attention his way. Her smile fades. Her violet eyes narrow. Theron stops dead in the center of the room as something unsaid passes between them. His shoulders slump. Then suddenly She turns. She looks at Brody again over Her shoulder and heads for the door.
A lopsided grin curls Brody's mouth. He hikes up his Levi's. "Been nice knowin' ya, losers." He follows Her out of the room. The door snaps shut with an echoing click.
Theron slumps back to the floor.
Ash kicks the recliner footrest down. "Um. What just happened here?"
Theron's jaw clenches. "She's toying with me."
Silence.
"Um, no offense," Ash finally says, "but what does that mean for the rest of us?"
"It means the weekend's over," Tick says. "And The Other Two will be coming for us soon."
Rio tips his head and studies the closed door. "Well, some of us. Hopefully."
*****
"Yoo-hoo," another female voice calls from the top of the stairs.
All male ears in the basement perk.
"Are there any spooks, spies or CIA hanging out down there?" she asks.
Every man's gaze turns on Cruise. Stanton leans back and laces his fingers behind his head with a sour expression. "As a matter of fact--"
Cruise smacks Stan in the chest, cutting him off as he squints suspiciously at the darkened stairwell. "Who wants to know?"
She clears her throat, taps her foot. "Let me rephrase. Are there any spooks, spies or CIA hanging out down there who want steamy shower sex?"
Every man's feet hit the floor. Every spine straightens.
Stanton ducks and peers toward the top of the stairs. "Uh, nope, no spooks down here, just a lousy diplomat. But I've been in some pretty dicey situations in the past, know how to lie my ass right out of trouble--"
"No way Stan," Tick says. "I've been on three times as many undercover operations as you have. I'm far more qualified as a spy."
"Sorry, boys." Rio extends his arms and cracks his knuckles with a smug expression. "My UC ops have extended for years. I've lied to drug cartel, military leaders and psychopathic murderers. I'm way out of your league."
Theron stands, shoves his shoulders back until his full height looms over the other men. "None of you can deny I'm the most suspicious one here."
Ash taps his temple with one finger, comtemplative. "I don't suppose disposing of chicken corpses would count as espinage..."
Cruise is quiet, now standing aside the doorway peering past the jamb. The silouhette of a woman outlined in yellow light hovers on the top step. "Who wants to know?"
"Jesus," Rio frowns at Cruise and darts a disgusted look at Tick. "He's way below rookie status. He's just a fucking idiot."
"Hmmm," the woman ponders. "Too bad there's no spy down here, cause I've really amped up that shower scene, and I'm letting him stay afterward for more instead of cutting to the future. Big, comfortable bed, Egyptian cotton sheets. Slow this time, too. No wham-bam, which has it's place and all, but we've always got to remember if there's no meaning behind a sex scene, we may as well be writing porno."
"What's wrong with porno?" Stan mutters, pouting now, arms crossed again.
She sighs, long and loud. "I'm kinda thinking after the intensity of the shower, my h/h might indulge in some exploration of bodies, a little experimentation...might throw in some mouth action--"
Every man rises to his feet.
"I'm the spy!" Cruise bellows up the stairwell. He turns on the imposters, whips his Glock from the holster at his spine and trains it on the rest of men as he backs toward the darkened stairs. "Step away from my muse. Anyone even so much as looks at these stairs is going to loose an eyeball...or worse."
Cruise's feet pound up the stairs and the door closes with an exhuberant slam. All the men sink back into their seats...except Rio. He stalks to the opening to the stairs, braces his hands on either side of the jamb and yells, "Hey, what about me? Any word from the agents?"
"Sorry, handsome," Her voice floats back, fading. "Nothing yet."
Rio swears again, scraps a hand through his hair and stalks back to his recliner. "Damn spies have all the luck."
Labels: The Basement
posted by Elisabeth Naughton at 3:45 PM
0 comments
:~: Friday, November 02, 2007 :~:
Return to the Basement
"This place is the pits." Ash sweeps a finger along the battered coffee table and grimaces at the traces of Cheetos dust. The Muse disappeared days ago but it seemed like she'd at least dust the place every once in a while. Disgusting. "Why do you hang out here?"
Tick shrugs. He's kicked back in the recliner, eyes closed. "You get used to it after a while."
Across the Basement, Stanton stops pacing and glares at him. "In your dreams."
"Relax, Stanny-boy." Tick opens one eye to look at him. "She hasn't started your revisions yet. She's thinking through them. You'll be here a while."
Stanton throws out his hands. "I shouldn't even be here. The damn revisions don't have anything to do with me. It's just layers."
Brows lowered in a slight frown, Ash is watching Tick. "You're in an awful good mood. That long dry spell finally break?"
Tick's wicked grin lights his face. "Your book. Chapter five."
Ash's bark of surprised laughter fills the confined space. "Wait a minute. It's my book and you got laid before me?"
"Benefits of marriage."
"He had to wait ten months for it," Stanton says.
Tick gives him the finger and straightens, slamming the recliner to an upright position. "Besides, She's in the middle of your scene now, although I think She stopped to write her paper for grad school."
Ash rolls his eyes heavenward. "Well, that's just great. And how long does that mean I'll be stuck standing in the middle of my bedroom, staring at Madeline without being able to touch her?"
"Well, that paper's due Sunday."
Ash groans.
Footsteps clatter on the stairs beyond the door and all three turn that way.
***
The door bangs open. Two men who couldn't be more different barge into the room. One's built as big as a tank, dressed all in black like a big, badass biker dude with a scowl to match. The other is slim, athletic and tan, holding a baseball bat and sporting a cheesy grin, looking like he's just caught ten off a gnarly wave.
The door snaps shut behind them.
Stanton groans and heads for the couch.
Tick frowns. "Holy Hell, She's done it again."
"What?" Ash asks.
Stanton lets out a long-suffering sigh from across the room. "Trapped us in with these yahoos. I'm guessing they're from the west coast."
The younger one lifts the bat onto his shoulder. "I am. Thor over there's from outer space. Name's Brody."
Tick and Ash return his handshake. Stanton flips on the TV and waves without looking at the newcomers.
The biker dude rolls his dark eyes. "I hate humans. And the name's not Thor."
"Theron, Theo, Thor, all sounds the same to me," Brody says as he makes himself at home, drops into a beat-to-hell recliner and lifts an open bag of Cheetos from the side table. "And I like how you conveniently forget you're half human." He glances up at the other three, as if finally remembering they're there. "Anyone got beer?"
Ash shoots a confused glance at Tick. "Uh, the guy's not human?"
Tick tosses back a how-the-hell-should-I-know? look.
Theron sinks onto the steps where he's been standing and rubs a hand over his face. "I didn't sign up for this. I'm going home."
"Sorry," Stanton calls from the frayed couch. "No way out."
Theron glances toward Brody.
Brody shrugs and pops a Cheeto into his mouth. "He's right. Your little poof powers won't work in here. Lead walls or something."
Theron's eyes narrow. "I'm not a fictional vampire, dumbass. Lead walls don't stop me."
Tick sighs and reaches for the remote control. "I think there's like a time-space continuum thing going on in here. None of us can get out. If we could we wouldn't be in here, we'd be shacked up with our heroine's. And why are you so grouchy anyway, space boy?"
"I'm not from space, you moron. I'm a hero."
"Uh," Ash lifts a finger. "Aren't we all heroes?"
Brody rolls his eyes. "He's speaking technically."
Theron glowers at Brody. "Literally and figuratively."
Brody laughs, long and loud, like he's in on some private joke that even Theron doesn't know. They all look his way, even Theron, who could be growling, none of them are completely sure and no one's willing to ask.
When his laughter dies down, Brody pulls a baseball from his pocket and starts tossing it up toward the ceiling, catching it again with one hand. "He's pouting because uber-agent finally gave Her the go ahead on his book and instead she's happy with me."
"She's not happy with you," Theron counters. "You're pushy. And you're in Maui."
"Hey, I can't help it if this body was built for the beach. And it's not my fault She stuck me somewhere more exotic than la-la land." Stanton and Tick exchange glances at their bickering, but Brody ignores it. "If you have a problem with how She's handling--"
His words are cut off by more pounding on the stairs outside. Brody and Theron both look toward the door. Tick drops into the other recliner and pauses the TV on the Georgia-Auburn game. Ash reached for another beer.
Stanton sinks lower on the couch with a heavy sigh. "I think it's about to get a little more crowded in here, boys."
***
Tick's frown eases as Rio jogs into the room, obviously high on somethin'. His grin turns on Tick and lifts his hand for a hi-five. "Hey, Tick." He gestures to the empty recliner beside him before sitting and stretching out. "This the winner's circle?"
Tick chuckles. "You betcha. Been saving your seat."
Brody stops tossing his ball, his look one of incensed irritation. "If there's a winner's circle around here, I should be in it."
"Your book finished?" Rio asks.
"Well, no, but--"
"Tick's book is finished," Rio said. "And mine is not only finished, it's been requested by four top-tier agents. This," he hooks both thumbs toward himself and Tick, "is the winner's circle, my friend."
"Goddamn," Stanton gripes. "How the hell do you get through the door with a head that big?"
"I'm just compensating for Her. Keeping her buoyed, you know?" Rio pushes up one shoulder in a confident shrug. "Least I can do after that HEA She gave me."
"I hate you already," Stanton says, "And I don't even know who the hell you are."
Another dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned man hovers at the doorway and draws everyone's attention.
"Come on in, Cruise," Rio gestures him in. "No terrorists are going to pop out from the crevices."
"I've got too much to do to shoot the shit with a bunch of heroes." He turns on the stairs and starts up. The door at the top slams, followed by the snick, snick of deadbolts. The sound of Cruise shaking the door handle echo's around an angry, "What the fuck?"
Rio shakes his head and gives Tick a sidelong glance. "Rookie."
Cruise steps into the room, clearly reluctant. His gaze inspects and categorizes each man in the room...until he hits Theron. That one he can't quite figure that guy out.
"What's your story?" Stanton asks Cruise, eyes narrowed.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. Can't you answer a simple question?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, hell." Stanton shoots Tick a look. "He's a spook."
"I'm..." Cruise crosses his arms, lifts his chin, "...a diplomat."
A beat of silence fills the room before all other six men bust up laughing.
"Yeah, right," Stan sputters. "That's good."
"Come on, sit down." Rio pats the arm of the sofa at his side. "I'll show you the ropes. Play your cards right and you'll have your HEA before you know it."
"What's your problem?" Ash asks.
"I don't have any problems." Cruise sinks to the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, hands clasped. "Except being locked in here with the rest of you."
"You need to get into the spirit, G-man," Brody says. "Got to be a team player."
"G-men are Feds. I'm not a Fed."
"Naw, he's a spook," Stanton pushes, trying his best to rile Cruise.
"Do all her other heroes look like you two?" Theron asks, studying them.
Cruise and Rio look at each other, then at Theron, and Rio asks, "Whad'ya mean?"
"Black hair, brown eyes, dark skinned, same height, build. Both, what...Mexican?"
"Hispanic," they say in unison.
"Hispanic, Mexican, whatever. You need to tell Her to mix things up a little. Two of you look a little like clones." Theron leans back and pops a handful of Cheetos in his mouth. "What the..." He spits them out, wipes his hand with the back of his hand. "You call that food? No wonder you humans are so inferior."
Ash lifts an eyebrow. "She have a thing about Mex...Hispanics?"
"She lives in California," Tick says as if that should explain it all, then turns to Rio with a considering look. "That other guy who was here...the other cop, Carl, Ken..."
"Cole," Rio says, nodding. "He wasn't Hispanic. Neither was his heroine." His grin is sharp and hot. "His loss."
The creak of the door opening at the top of the stairs brings Cruise to his feet.
***
A short, round woman carrying a large plastic box bustles down the stairs. Her red apron, worn over jeans and a black tank-top, doesn't quite cover a wide expanse of copper skin and ample cleavage. The rich, decadent smell of fried food wafts along with her.
"Meka." Tick brightens and moves to take the overflowing container. Towering over her, he grins down. "You're a godsend."
She rolls her eyes and hands him a blue ticket. He tugs his wallet free and starts to open it, when the television catches his eye.
"Yes! Go...run. Run!" His gaze is riveted on the screen.
Meka takes the ticket from his slack grasp and moves toward the stairs, muttering something about adding it to his tab. Cruise hastens after her but finds that somehow, she manages to slip out before he can catch the door. The locks snick closed.
"Yes!" Tick punches a fist in the air. "Hot damn!"
Brody is peering into the grease-stained white sacks. "Hot dogs, fries, burgers...what the hell is this?"
He pulls out a white box and grimaces at the grayish pieces of indeterminate fried meat. Ash glances over his shoulder and back up, his face paling a little. "Chicken gizzards and livers."
Brody looks at him, aghast. "What?"
Ash waves a finger at Stanton. "He eats them."
Shaking his head, Brody puts the box aside. "That's some crazy shit, man."
Cruise edges closer. The smell of fresh french fries is drawing him in. "Where'd the food come from?"
"Big Dawg." Tick doesn't look up from attempting to send a text message. He growls in frustration. "Can't get a damn signal down here."
Rio nudges him. "You and Cait betting on football games again?"
Tick flashes him a grin. "Yeah. That touchdown just covered the point spread, too."
They share a very male laugh. Theron drops onto the couch. It creaks dangerously under his muscular frame. Favoring his bandaged left hand, Ash passes him a chili dog with onioins. Theron studies it a moment before digging in. Surprise and pleasure light his face as he chews.
Ash frowns. "Theron is Greek. It means hunter."
Theron nods and reaches for another chili dog. He pauses a second and takes two from the pile on the battered coffee table. Ash nods and steps back, still watching him.
Cruise stands at the foot of the stairs, munching on a bag of fries, looking anything but happy. "Someone want to tell me how this works? What do I have to do to get the fuck out of here?"
Stanton pops a gizzard in his mouth, mumbling something about spies who can't find their way out of a paper bag.
Eyes narrowed, Cruise lets his gaze rest on him. "Hey, smart ass, you're still down here, too."
"Temporary," Stanton says. "Edits and I'm outta here."
Rio is kicked back in the recliner again. He slants a devious look in Tick's direction. "What exactly do you have riding on this game anyway?"
Tick snorts. "Like I'm telling you with them"--he waves a hand at the other heroes -- "around. Although, actually, come to think of it ... I win even if I lose, you know?"
Rio chuckles.
Face set in annoyed lines, Cruise eyes Theron's out-of-this-world physique. "Hey, you. Think you can take out that door?"
***
"Lord." Tick shakes his head and shifts his gaze from Cruise to Rio. "He reminds me so much of you when you got here."
"Yeah," Rio shrugs, grinning. "Don't worry, he'll evolve eventually. She's slow, but thorough. Look what She's done with me."
Rio's phone vibrates and he tugs it from the back pocket of his jeans. Tick sits a little straighter, forgetting the game on T.V. "Hey, you got a signal?"
"We talked about this last time we were in here, remember. I told you to change your goddamn provider."
Tick opens his phone and frowns at the display.
Rio's chuckle brings Tick's attention back. "What?"
"Getting the inside scoop from my heroine. And it looks like you, spook-boy, will be in here a while."
Cruise's hand pauses with a fry halfway to his mouth. "What the hell? Why?"
"Because She's doing research."
"See..." Cruise tosses the almost-empty bag of fries on a nearby table. "This is what happens when She talks to your" -- he waves a hand toward Brody and Theron -- "She...muse...whatever. She gets this idea that she can just start writing without working it out before hand and where do I end up?" His hands are gesturing wildly now. "Here! With all you losers."
"Hey!" Ash frowns and stabs a finger at Cruise from across the room. "I resemble that remark. Watch it, spook."
"Don't blame us," Theron growls. "I sure as hell don't want to be here with all you friggin' messed up humans!"
"Would you stop bashing humans, already?" Brody says. "In case you haven't noticed, you're a little outnumbered here."
Theron scoffs. "I could take on ten times your numbers without breaking a sweat."
Brody's face darkens. He slaps his bat to the palm of his hand. "Think so, huh?"
"Don't go knocking heads," Rio says. "You'll miss the rest of the good stuff. Like..." He laughs and lifts his chin toward Theron and Brody. "You two better get comfortable. She left for a birthday weekend with girlfriends. You're both SOL."
"She what?" Theron bellows, pushing to his feet.
"Go for the door," Cruise encourages the biker-dude. "If anyone can take it, you can."
"And you, spy-boy, are on the back burner. Your muse is researching the FBI Counterintel site, printing articles on terrorist activities, searching Amazon for spy books." Rio offers Cruise a pitiful look and shakes his head. "Sorry, buddy. When She starts ordering books off Amazon...you're really screwed."
Tick shrugs. He's kicked back in the recliner, eyes closed. "You get used to it after a while."
Across the Basement, Stanton stops pacing and glares at him. "In your dreams."
"Relax, Stanny-boy." Tick opens one eye to look at him. "She hasn't started your revisions yet. She's thinking through them. You'll be here a while."
Stanton throws out his hands. "I shouldn't even be here. The damn revisions don't have anything to do with me. It's just layers."
Brows lowered in a slight frown, Ash is watching Tick. "You're in an awful good mood. That long dry spell finally break?"
Tick's wicked grin lights his face. "Your book. Chapter five."
Ash's bark of surprised laughter fills the confined space. "Wait a minute. It's my book and you got laid before me?"
"Benefits of marriage."
"He had to wait ten months for it," Stanton says.
Tick gives him the finger and straightens, slamming the recliner to an upright position. "Besides, She's in the middle of your scene now, although I think She stopped to write her paper for grad school."
Ash rolls his eyes heavenward. "Well, that's just great. And how long does that mean I'll be stuck standing in the middle of my bedroom, staring at Madeline without being able to touch her?"
"Well, that paper's due Sunday."
Ash groans.
Footsteps clatter on the stairs beyond the door and all three turn that way.
***
The door bangs open. Two men who couldn't be more different barge into the room. One's built as big as a tank, dressed all in black like a big, badass biker dude with a scowl to match. The other is slim, athletic and tan, holding a baseball bat and sporting a cheesy grin, looking like he's just caught ten off a gnarly wave.
The door snaps shut behind them.
Stanton groans and heads for the couch.
Tick frowns. "Holy Hell, She's done it again."
"What?" Ash asks.
Stanton lets out a long-suffering sigh from across the room. "Trapped us in with these yahoos. I'm guessing they're from the west coast."
The younger one lifts the bat onto his shoulder. "I am. Thor over there's from outer space. Name's Brody."
Tick and Ash return his handshake. Stanton flips on the TV and waves without looking at the newcomers.
The biker dude rolls his dark eyes. "I hate humans. And the name's not Thor."
"Theron, Theo, Thor, all sounds the same to me," Brody says as he makes himself at home, drops into a beat-to-hell recliner and lifts an open bag of Cheetos from the side table. "And I like how you conveniently forget you're half human." He glances up at the other three, as if finally remembering they're there. "Anyone got beer?"
Ash shoots a confused glance at Tick. "Uh, the guy's not human?"
Tick tosses back a how-the-hell-should-I-know? look.
Theron sinks onto the steps where he's been standing and rubs a hand over his face. "I didn't sign up for this. I'm going home."
"Sorry," Stanton calls from the frayed couch. "No way out."
Theron glances toward Brody.
Brody shrugs and pops a Cheeto into his mouth. "He's right. Your little poof powers won't work in here. Lead walls or something."
Theron's eyes narrow. "I'm not a fictional vampire, dumbass. Lead walls don't stop me."
Tick sighs and reaches for the remote control. "I think there's like a time-space continuum thing going on in here. None of us can get out. If we could we wouldn't be in here, we'd be shacked up with our heroine's. And why are you so grouchy anyway, space boy?"
"I'm not from space, you moron. I'm a hero."
"Uh," Ash lifts a finger. "Aren't we all heroes?"
Brody rolls his eyes. "He's speaking technically."
Theron glowers at Brody. "Literally and figuratively."
Brody laughs, long and loud, like he's in on some private joke that even Theron doesn't know. They all look his way, even Theron, who could be growling, none of them are completely sure and no one's willing to ask.
When his laughter dies down, Brody pulls a baseball from his pocket and starts tossing it up toward the ceiling, catching it again with one hand. "He's pouting because uber-agent finally gave Her the go ahead on his book and instead she's happy with me."
"She's not happy with you," Theron counters. "You're pushy. And you're in Maui."
"Hey, I can't help it if this body was built for the beach. And it's not my fault She stuck me somewhere more exotic than la-la land." Stanton and Tick exchange glances at their bickering, but Brody ignores it. "If you have a problem with how She's handling--"
His words are cut off by more pounding on the stairs outside. Brody and Theron both look toward the door. Tick drops into the other recliner and pauses the TV on the Georgia-Auburn game. Ash reached for another beer.
Stanton sinks lower on the couch with a heavy sigh. "I think it's about to get a little more crowded in here, boys."
***
Tick's frown eases as Rio jogs into the room, obviously high on somethin'. His grin turns on Tick and lifts his hand for a hi-five. "Hey, Tick." He gestures to the empty recliner beside him before sitting and stretching out. "This the winner's circle?"
Tick chuckles. "You betcha. Been saving your seat."
Brody stops tossing his ball, his look one of incensed irritation. "If there's a winner's circle around here, I should be in it."
"Your book finished?" Rio asks.
"Well, no, but--"
"Tick's book is finished," Rio said. "And mine is not only finished, it's been requested by four top-tier agents. This," he hooks both thumbs toward himself and Tick, "is the winner's circle, my friend."
"Goddamn," Stanton gripes. "How the hell do you get through the door with a head that big?"
"I'm just compensating for Her. Keeping her buoyed, you know?" Rio pushes up one shoulder in a confident shrug. "Least I can do after that HEA She gave me."
"I hate you already," Stanton says, "And I don't even know who the hell you are."
Another dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned man hovers at the doorway and draws everyone's attention.
"Come on in, Cruise," Rio gestures him in. "No terrorists are going to pop out from the crevices."
"I've got too much to do to shoot the shit with a bunch of heroes." He turns on the stairs and starts up. The door at the top slams, followed by the snick, snick of deadbolts. The sound of Cruise shaking the door handle echo's around an angry, "What the fuck?"
Rio shakes his head and gives Tick a sidelong glance. "Rookie."
Cruise steps into the room, clearly reluctant. His gaze inspects and categorizes each man in the room...until he hits Theron. That one he can't quite figure that guy out.
"What's your story?" Stanton asks Cruise, eyes narrowed.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. Can't you answer a simple question?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, hell." Stanton shoots Tick a look. "He's a spook."
"I'm..." Cruise crosses his arms, lifts his chin, "...a diplomat."
A beat of silence fills the room before all other six men bust up laughing.
"Yeah, right," Stan sputters. "That's good."
"Come on, sit down." Rio pats the arm of the sofa at his side. "I'll show you the ropes. Play your cards right and you'll have your HEA before you know it."
"What's your problem?" Ash asks.
"I don't have any problems." Cruise sinks to the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, hands clasped. "Except being locked in here with the rest of you."
"You need to get into the spirit, G-man," Brody says. "Got to be a team player."
"G-men are Feds. I'm not a Fed."
"Naw, he's a spook," Stanton pushes, trying his best to rile Cruise.
"Do all her other heroes look like you two?" Theron asks, studying them.
Cruise and Rio look at each other, then at Theron, and Rio asks, "Whad'ya mean?"
"Black hair, brown eyes, dark skinned, same height, build. Both, what...Mexican?"
"Hispanic," they say in unison.
"Hispanic, Mexican, whatever. You need to tell Her to mix things up a little. Two of you look a little like clones." Theron leans back and pops a handful of Cheetos in his mouth. "What the..." He spits them out, wipes his hand with the back of his hand. "You call that food? No wonder you humans are so inferior."
Ash lifts an eyebrow. "She have a thing about Mex...Hispanics?"
"She lives in California," Tick says as if that should explain it all, then turns to Rio with a considering look. "That other guy who was here...the other cop, Carl, Ken..."
"Cole," Rio says, nodding. "He wasn't Hispanic. Neither was his heroine." His grin is sharp and hot. "His loss."
The creak of the door opening at the top of the stairs brings Cruise to his feet.
***
A short, round woman carrying a large plastic box bustles down the stairs. Her red apron, worn over jeans and a black tank-top, doesn't quite cover a wide expanse of copper skin and ample cleavage. The rich, decadent smell of fried food wafts along with her.
"Meka." Tick brightens and moves to take the overflowing container. Towering over her, he grins down. "You're a godsend."
She rolls her eyes and hands him a blue ticket. He tugs his wallet free and starts to open it, when the television catches his eye.
"Yes! Go...run. Run!" His gaze is riveted on the screen.
Meka takes the ticket from his slack grasp and moves toward the stairs, muttering something about adding it to his tab. Cruise hastens after her but finds that somehow, she manages to slip out before he can catch the door. The locks snick closed.
"Yes!" Tick punches a fist in the air. "Hot damn!"
Brody is peering into the grease-stained white sacks. "Hot dogs, fries, burgers...what the hell is this?"
He pulls out a white box and grimaces at the grayish pieces of indeterminate fried meat. Ash glances over his shoulder and back up, his face paling a little. "Chicken gizzards and livers."
Brody looks at him, aghast. "What?"
Ash waves a finger at Stanton. "He eats them."
Shaking his head, Brody puts the box aside. "That's some crazy shit, man."
Cruise edges closer. The smell of fresh french fries is drawing him in. "Where'd the food come from?"
"Big Dawg." Tick doesn't look up from attempting to send a text message. He growls in frustration. "Can't get a damn signal down here."
Rio nudges him. "You and Cait betting on football games again?"
Tick flashes him a grin. "Yeah. That touchdown just covered the point spread, too."
They share a very male laugh. Theron drops onto the couch. It creaks dangerously under his muscular frame. Favoring his bandaged left hand, Ash passes him a chili dog with onioins. Theron studies it a moment before digging in. Surprise and pleasure light his face as he chews.
Ash frowns. "Theron is Greek. It means hunter."
Theron nods and reaches for another chili dog. He pauses a second and takes two from the pile on the battered coffee table. Ash nods and steps back, still watching him.
Cruise stands at the foot of the stairs, munching on a bag of fries, looking anything but happy. "Someone want to tell me how this works? What do I have to do to get the fuck out of here?"
Stanton pops a gizzard in his mouth, mumbling something about spies who can't find their way out of a paper bag.
Eyes narrowed, Cruise lets his gaze rest on him. "Hey, smart ass, you're still down here, too."
"Temporary," Stanton says. "Edits and I'm outta here."
Rio is kicked back in the recliner again. He slants a devious look in Tick's direction. "What exactly do you have riding on this game anyway?"
Tick snorts. "Like I'm telling you with them"--he waves a hand at the other heroes -- "around. Although, actually, come to think of it ... I win even if I lose, you know?"
Rio chuckles.
Face set in annoyed lines, Cruise eyes Theron's out-of-this-world physique. "Hey, you. Think you can take out that door?"
***
"Lord." Tick shakes his head and shifts his gaze from Cruise to Rio. "He reminds me so much of you when you got here."
"Yeah," Rio shrugs, grinning. "Don't worry, he'll evolve eventually. She's slow, but thorough. Look what She's done with me."
Rio's phone vibrates and he tugs it from the back pocket of his jeans. Tick sits a little straighter, forgetting the game on T.V. "Hey, you got a signal?"
"We talked about this last time we were in here, remember. I told you to change your goddamn provider."
Tick opens his phone and frowns at the display.
Rio's chuckle brings Tick's attention back. "What?"
"Getting the inside scoop from my heroine. And it looks like you, spook-boy, will be in here a while."
Cruise's hand pauses with a fry halfway to his mouth. "What the hell? Why?"
"Because She's doing research."
"See..." Cruise tosses the almost-empty bag of fries on a nearby table. "This is what happens when She talks to your" -- he waves a hand toward Brody and Theron -- "She...muse...whatever. She gets this idea that she can just start writing without working it out before hand and where do I end up?" His hands are gesturing wildly now. "Here! With all you losers."
"Hey!" Ash frowns and stabs a finger at Cruise from across the room. "I resemble that remark. Watch it, spook."
"Don't blame us," Theron growls. "I sure as hell don't want to be here with all you friggin' messed up humans!"
"Would you stop bashing humans, already?" Brody says. "In case you haven't noticed, you're a little outnumbered here."
Theron scoffs. "I could take on ten times your numbers without breaking a sweat."
Brody's face darkens. He slaps his bat to the palm of his hand. "Think so, huh?"
"Don't go knocking heads," Rio says. "You'll miss the rest of the good stuff. Like..." He laughs and lifts his chin toward Theron and Brody. "You two better get comfortable. She left for a birthday weekend with girlfriends. You're both SOL."
"She what?" Theron bellows, pushing to his feet.
"Go for the door," Cruise encourages the biker-dude. "If anyone can take it, you can."
"And you, spy-boy, are on the back burner. Your muse is researching the FBI Counterintel site, printing articles on terrorist activities, searching Amazon for spy books." Rio offers Cruise a pitiful look and shakes his head. "Sorry, buddy. When She starts ordering books off Amazon...you're really screwed."
Labels: The Basement
posted by Linda Winfree at 6:25 AM
0 comments
:~: Saturday, June 02, 2007 :~:
The Basement - Part Two
Three guns. Three sets of squinty eyes. A whole helluva lot of male posturing Pete seriously didn't need.
This went beyond revision hell. This ranked right up there with buckin' hay in 120 degree temps and bathing in a pool of baby vomit.
"You guys got the wrong idea here," Pete says, careful not to move too quickly so he doesn't end up with a chest full of lead. That'd seriously put a dent in his HEA. "I'm not the bad guy in this little scenario."
"Villain," The Alex Rodriguez look-alike says with a nod, business end of a Glock still aimed dead center at Pete's chest. "We call you MF's villain's."
Shock ripples through Pete. "Villain?" he sputters. "Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind? I've just spent the last twenty-four hours being drugged, kidnapped, shot at, nearly incinerated and knocked on my ass by the best damn sex in the world until She," he nods up to the ceiling, "put a halt to it, then tossed in here with you yahoos, and now you're accusing me of being a villain? Do I look like a friggin' villain to you?"
"Some villains come wrapped in neat little packages," Hollywood mutters.
Fish sits up on the couch and darts a look at the trio over his shoulder, all still unmoving with guns aimed at each other like it's the shoot-out at the OK Corral. "Hey, villain-boy. I like your style. Tell ya what, you pop choir-boy over there for me and I'll give ya a month's salary."
Hollywood's jaw tightens. "Fish, you sorry piece of--"
Fish chuckles.
Rodriguez rolls his eyes. "Look, are we gonna do this or not. Because my arm's getting tired and I'm seriously losing my patience with all of you. Villain or not, I need to shoot someone."
Weird-guy steps out of the shadows again. "I sense trouble."
"Oh, for the love of God." Hollywood drops his weapon and throws his arms out. "Can't ya tell we're having a moment here?"
Just then, three pagers go off. Pete, Rodriguez and Hollywood all look down at the cell phones clipped to their waistbands.
"Crap, that's Cassie," Rodriguez says in a suddenly concerned voice.
"And Cait," Hollywood mumbles, glancing down at his belt.
They both look toward Pete.
Pete nods, confusion drawing his brows together. "Kat, too." He hesitates, figures that's gotta be some kind of sign and slowly lowers his weapon. Hollywood and Rodriguez exchange a look, then Rodriguez does the same.
Pete turns toward Weird-guy. "How in the hell do you do that?"
Fish chuckles, flops back on the couch and turns the volume up. On the screen, Gene Simmons is extolling the virtues of his tongue.
"Who the hell cares," Rodriguez grumbles. "All three of them paging us at the same time can't be good, can it?"
***
Tick flips his phone open. "What the hell?"
Rio peers over his shoulder and reads aloud. "T -- revised through p. 70. Complete timeline worked out. No worries -- we get to keep the cuffs." He grins and quirks an eyebrow at Tick. "The cuffs?"
A deep flush colors Tick's cheekbones. "Yeah." He frowns over the screen. "The sunrises here are great. Hopefully u won't be there long. Love, C. Sunrises? Oh, crap."
Pete is scowling at his phone. "Kat's talking about sunrises, too. What does that mean?"
Rio pulls his phone from his belt. "So is Cassie."
"They're taunting us. A sunrise is some girly drink with vodka, orange juice and cranberry juice." Tick's expression darkens. "They're having a damn luncheon, probably sitting on the porch, talking it up, while my ass is stuck down here, having to start over again. And I don't have any freakin' cigarettes."
His phone chimes again. He glares at the screen. "Tick, this is a good time to quit. C."
Fish chuckles again. "You're whipped."
"At least my HEA is talking to me. I've seen that last scene She wrote. You just got kicked to the curb, Army-boy."
Fish gives him the finger again.
Rio and Pete exchange a look. "You really think they're all together."
Christian appears from the shadows. "Paige as well?"
"I'm sure of it." Tick clips his phone on his belt, returns his 10mm to its holster. "And it looks like we're going to be here a while. Who's up for a little game of five-card stud?"
***
Rio watches as the bars on his cell phone fluctuate. Seems there are spots in this cellar where his Altel does work.
He types out a message to Carlos first. Where the hell are you? When the screen flashes message sent successfully, he punches Cassie's speed dial and texts, What's happening with her?
"Though you didn't get service, ICEman," Tick says from his seat at the poker table. He collects the cards and shuffles.
Creature-man shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and hunches his shoulders. "There are...pockets...of good air in here. The demons can't block his signal if he's standing in a pocket of good air."
Tick stops shuffling. "Pockets?"
Rio looks up from his phone. "Good air?"
Pete edges a little closer toward the door. "Demons?"
The three men exchange a look then Rio's phone vibrates. He punches the buttons to read a text from Cassie.
She's caught up in some "brilliant" blogging idea Her CP's had. Hasn't written a word of revision all weekend. From what I can tell, She hasn't even thought about straightening out that CIA plot issue that's bugging Her. She spent all morning at a rowing class of all things, and Her DH is finally home after being gone for weeks. Might as well get comfortable, handsome. I'll enjoy a sunset for you.
Rio growls. "For the love of God. Hey, demolition-boy, got any supplies on you? I could make an explosive out of a few key ingredients."
"Don't be an idiot," Fish says without taking his eyes off the television where Gene Simmons' bandages are about to come off after plastic surgery. He pops another stale cheese puff in his mouth and crunches. "After that...episode...my first time here, She confiscates all my toys before She locks the door behind me."
This is bullshit. This might even be worth declining hero status for.
Okay. Maybe not.
Rio snaps his phone closed and glares at The Darkone. "Any magical pockets in here with a transporter capability like on Star Trek?"
As Christian mulls the question over seriously, those crazy eyes of his scan the concrete like a metal detector.
Tick scoffs and shakes his head. "Let me share a piece of advice, boys. The harder you try to get out of here, the longer her revisions will take. You're just draining her creative energy." He gestures to the table where he's dealt five hands. "What shall we wager?"
***
Pete eyes Hollywood. Glances at the Army dude, over to the Rodriguez look-alike, then pauses on Weird-guy. What a group of rag-tag misfits. How in the love of all things holy had he ended up locked in here with these guys?
"Well?" Hollwood asks again. "Any of you manning up?"
Rodriguez shrugs, pulls out a chair at the table. "What the hell else do we have to do in here? If I can't shoot anyone, count me in."
Fish rockets off the couch. "Yeah, man. I'm in. Prepare to lose some green, choir boy." He plops down next to Rodriguez.
Hollwood looks toward Weird-guy. "What about you?"
Weird-guy's eyes narrow with suspicion, but he slowly moves out of the shadows and takes an empty chair on the other side of Rodriguez.
"What's up with the freaky eyes, dude?" Fish asks, tipping back a cold bottle of beer as Weird-guy sits. "Are those contacts or what?" Without waiting for an answer, he leans over Rodriguez to get a better look. "Where the hell did you get them? And can you you get me a pair for Halloween? Man, I bet my CO would drop a load if I had those puppies in."
Weird-guy only shakes his head and mutters under his breath, "I am surrounded by the waste remnants from the evolutionary superhighway."
Pete chuckles and decides he might just like Weird-guy after all.
"What about you, meat?" Hollwood nods at Pete. "You in or out?"
"You're a regular ol' Jay Leno-wanna be, aren't you? Your heroine laugh at those stupid jokes? Oh wait, I bet she gets enough laughs just looking at that dumb-ass mug of yours." Smiling, Pete pulls out a chair and sits.
"Laugh it up, hotshot," Hollywood says. "You won't be laughing in a few minutes when I take all your money."
Pete eyes him. "You're a cop, right?
Hollywood pops his elbow on the green felt tabletop, twirls a chip between his fingers. "Yeah, you could say that. What of it?"
Pete grins.
"What's so funny?"
Pete shakes his head. "My Porsche costs more than you make in a year. I'm gonna truly enjoy taking your money, cop."
Hollywood studies him, narrows his eyes and smiles himself as he picks up his cards. "Well alrighty then." He glances around the table with a twinkle in his eye. "Hotshot here's feelin' pretty cocky. What do you guys say we up the stakes?"
"What do you have in mind?" Rodriguez asks.
Hollywood winks, stands up, goes to a cupboard across the room and returns with a bottle of Wild Turkey. He sets the bottle in the middle of the table. "Oh, just a friendly little game of Truth or Drink?"
"Yeah, baby," Fish says with a huge shit-eating grin. "I'm in."
Hollywood rolls his eyes, ignores Fish's comments. "Here's how it works. Loser gets to choose. Do a shot or answer a question. Simple as that, boys. So what'ya say. Game?"
***
A dozen hands later, no one still wants to fold. The men lay their cards on the table.
"I sense trouble." Christian's voice is soft, a little slurred.
"Dude, you've gotta get a new tagline." Fish studies the hands displayed and crows with laughter. The three shots he'd taken to avoid any questions have him good and loose. He slaps a hand on the table, and it rocks dangerously sideways.
Pete steadies it and shakes his head. He's managed to avoid losing yet and he's stone-sober. He eyes Tick and Rio, tension snaking into his gut. The only thing worse than a room full of cops has to be a room full of tipsy cops.
Well, two tipsy cops, one half-wasted Army guy, and . . . he wasn't sure what Weird-guy was yet.
He looks down at the table, realizes why Fish is so amused and a grin quirks at his lips. Tick's lost again, with yet another pair of twos.
He nudges the bottle toward him. "Go ahead. Wimp out again."
Tick's eyes narrow, bad humor darkening his face. "Go for it, thief-boy. Ask me something."
Rio brightens, stacking his chips with fingers that are slightly unsteady. "Ask him about the cuffs."
"Some back-up you are." Tick muffles a hiccup with his fist. "We're supposed to stick together, that whole Fed brick wall. Wait . . . I forgot. You're in immigration."
Offense flares in Rio's dark eyes. "You-"
"I really sense trouble." Christian scoots his chair back a couple of inches. His eyes flicker.
"Ignore 'im." Fish waves a hand in Tick's direction. "He's not even a real Fed anymore. Goddamn county mounty with a one-pony department. His HEA makes three times what he does."
Tick smirks, lifts his beer. "Advantages to being a kept man."
Pete narrows his eyes, drums his fingers on the table. "Quit stalling. What's the answer?"
A frown pulls Tick's eyebrows downward. "What was the question again?"
"The cuffs, genius." Fish rolls his gaze toward the ceiling. "Jeezus H. What about the cuffs?"
"Oh. Those." A wide grin splits Tick's face and he spins his beer in a slow circle. Caitlin would kill him for telling this story, but what the hell? She wasn't here and what she didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Besides, she'd spilled it to that damn psychologist, psychiatrist, whatever, from Oregon. "Holy hell, that's a story."
"Out with it, farmboy." Fish folds his arms over his chest and leans back dangerously far in his chair. Christian eyes him warily and shakes his head.
A smile plays around Tick's mouth. "Cait likes . . . control. It's a big part of her makeup."
Rio chuckles. Intrigued, Pete leans forward.
"We were working together, one of those twenty-four-seven investigations, and being around her like that . . . I was about to come out of my skin."
"That's understandable. She is hot. A little on the bitchy side, but hot." Fish lifts his bottle, squints at the level of beer in it, tilts it back for a swallow. Tick glares at him and considers swiping at his chairlegs.
"Focus." Christian gives him a stern look.
Tick runs a hand over his already disheveled hair. "Anyway, we get hot and heavy in my living room floor, and I end up with my ass handcuffed to the coffee table."
Rio laughs again. "This the same one you said would kick your ass?"
Tick shrugs. "Ever heard the term 'kick-ass heroine'? It don't always mean physically, buddy."
He reaches for the cards, swipes them into a pile and begins shuffling. "Another hand?"
***
A round of grunts signal tacit agreement, although Rio is seriously ready to go AWOL.
He hopes he loses the next ten hands because he wants to get drunk off his ass. This halfway point only made him miss Cassie. And alcohol always made him horny as hell.
His cell vibrates. "This had better be Carlos saying he's comin' to bust me out or I'm going to rip his head off and shit in his neck."
Fish hoots. Tick chuckles. Pete scoffs. The Darkone looked scandalized. "I sense--"
Rio waves him off as he flips his phone open. "Yeah, yeah. We know--trouble."
The screen bursts to life with color--a pix message. Of Cassie. Lounging by a crystal aqua pool. In a string--make that dental floss--bikini. Skin slicked up with suntan oil, face tilted up to the sky. The caption reads, Wish you were here.
Rio's already sensitized groin fills with heat. "Oh, good God."
The words came out in a low groan that has every man's head turning toward him. Tick pauses in his deal, alert for trouble.
Throat dry, blood draining from his head to his dick, Rio snaps the phone closed. "Nothing."
Fish's hand snakes out to snatch the phone from Rio's hand. "Lemme see that."
He fumbles to get it back, but his reflexes aren't working quite right--half a dozen shots of tequila will do that--and Fish twists away. He opens the phone and punches buttons.
"Hey, asshole," Rio pushes from his chair and rounds Fish. "Give that back."
Army-man maneuvers the phone out of his reach, but Rio can see Cassie in all her gorgeous glory filling the screen. Fish lets out a wolf whistle that bounces off the cinderblock walls. "Wowza. That's some... Those are seriously fine..." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "What the fuck did you ever do to earn a HEA like that?"
While Fish is distracted, Rio lunges, grips his wrist and twists.
Fish howls and swears, but drops the phone. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
With blurred vision and fingers not following instructions from his brain, Rio taps a text to Carlos. Get your ass over here and get me OUT!
Within seconds both Tick's and Pete's phones ring.
***
As the only remaining sober guy in the place, Pete watches the brawl on the floor with minimal interest and a whole lotta disgust. Army-boy'd been shootin' his mouth off for the last hour, so Pete figures it's about time someone rips him a new one. But considering the flare in Rodriguez's eyes and the fact the SOB still has that loaded Glock on him, Pete's rooting for the Army brat to take him out.
When his phone beeps, he glances down at his belt and eyes the message.
Oh, crap. Not good.
He looks at Hollywood, drunk off his ass and struggling to decipher his own message. Eyeing the cop's phone over his shoulder, Pete confirms what he'd thought upon reading his own cell's screen.
Aw, shit. This was bad.
With a frown, Pete pushes back from the table. "Yo, creature-man. Now would be the time for that famous tag line of yours."
Weird-guy tears his wobbly gaze away from the action, brow lifting in confusion. "I sense . . . trouble?"
With a capital T.
"Alex Rodriguez look-alike. You're gonna have to choke the Army brat some other time. We got problems."
Rodriguez hesitates, looks Pete's way with his hands still clamped over Army-dude's neck, but can't seem to zero in on anything. His dark eyes aren't tracking.
Pete holds up a hand. "Woohoo? Over here, Rodriguez."
Rodriguez's brow lowers, his brain in serious slow-mo and trying to catch up. "Name's not Rodriguez. It's . . ." He hesitates. Looks down at the floor. Back up again. Still can't focus. "Sanchez. No. Wait. Santana. Yeah. That's it. Santana." He lets go of Fish and drops hard onto his butt. "Man. I'm shit-faced."
Pete rolls his eyes heaven-ward. Rafe had better be figuring out a way to get him outta here. Knowing the POS though, he's probably kicked back laughing his ass off at what's happening down in this hell hole.
Shaking off the thought, Pete looks back at a confused Santana. "Like the guitarist? Oh, that's even better. You're just given me fuel to work with."
Santana stares at him like he's grown a second head.
Pete shakes his head and decides to take pity on the plowed sap. As long as the guy doesn't have his gun out, they're cool. Sort of.
"Look, guys," Pete says. "We got a problem. She just messaged me. And him too." He points at Hollywood, still sitting at the poker table, brow creased as he tries to read his own message. Okay, Rhode scholar he isn't. Maybe Fish wasn't far off on the county mounty bit.
"You're HEA's texting choir-boy?" Fish asks as he sits up and wipes the grime from the cement floor off his face.
"No, you dumbass. She. The Supreme Being. The Ruler. The Alpha and Omego and everything in between." When Fish only stares at him like he's speaking in tongues, Pete adds, "The Muse? Ring a bell, Einstein?"
Fish's brow lowers. "I know I'm wasted, but She's different for all of us, isn't She?"
Weird-guy stands, wobbles a bit, grips the table and takes a step forward. "Her texting you can't be good. What did She say?"
"That She's watching. They're all friggin' watching us make asses out of ourselves down here. That little .jpg Santana got? We're each gonna get one if we don't shape up. And our women aren't up there in thongs all alone. She - They've - got hunky secondary characters up there serving drinks to our girls."
The all stare at him, still too drunk to make connections.
"Oh for the love of God." Pete thwacks Fish on the forehead.
Fish jumps and yelps.
"Our women are getting wasted and most likely propositioned by the Chippendale dancers!," Pete says emphatically. "How many of you idiots left your HEA's sexually frustrated and horny as hell?"
Silence decends as reality sinks in. Four sets of wide eyes slowly jump from face to face.
Hollywood is the first to speak. "Holy Hell. We got serious trouble."
***
Tick pushes his chair back and it topples over. He paces, dragging one hand through his hair. Pete watches him, a little surprised at how quick the guy snapped to, even with all the alcohol.
"This is not good." Tick pinches the bridge of his nose.
Rio eyes him, still a little blurry. "What?"
Tick narrows his eyes, staring at the basement door. "Technically, none of us have a HEA."
"Like hell." Rio bursts into laughter. "Do you know how many times I've been through revisions. Believe me, I have a HEA."
"That's just it, buddy. Revisions." Tick glares at Pete and Fish. "Or drafting. Meaning, not finished."
"Oh, shit," Pete mumbles.
Still sitting on the floor, Fish puts his back against the couch and dangles his hands between his knees. "Oh, well. All I'm used to is Angie kicking my teeth in. Not like she was gonna text me with a photo."
Tick shoots him a look. "What is the IQ requirement for entrance into the Army, anyway?"
"Probably about what it is for the FBI," Pete deadpans. Rio chuckles.
"You don't get it, do you?" Tick throws his hands up.
"There is no end or beginning," Christian intones, although the words slur together a tad.
Tick points at him. "Exactly."
"Oh, ceee-rist." Pete shoots a glance at the door, then the ceiling. The realization is sinking in.
"This means . . ." Rio struggles to his feet. "Our girls are all single."
"Oh, yeah." Tick glares at Pete. "Got that one, hotshot? No ending, no commitment, no HEA."
"I sense . . ."
"Don't say it!" The other four men roar at Christian. He blinks and scowls.
Tick does the hand through his hair again, dark strands sticking out at all angles. "I'd bet my next pack of smokes that I know exactly whose up there. And when I finally get out of here, I'm going to kick his sorry ass."
This went beyond revision hell. This ranked right up there with buckin' hay in 120 degree temps and bathing in a pool of baby vomit.
"You guys got the wrong idea here," Pete says, careful not to move too quickly so he doesn't end up with a chest full of lead. That'd seriously put a dent in his HEA. "I'm not the bad guy in this little scenario."
"Villain," The Alex Rodriguez look-alike says with a nod, business end of a Glock still aimed dead center at Pete's chest. "We call you MF's villain's."
Shock ripples through Pete. "Villain?" he sputters. "Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind? I've just spent the last twenty-four hours being drugged, kidnapped, shot at, nearly incinerated and knocked on my ass by the best damn sex in the world until She," he nods up to the ceiling, "put a halt to it, then tossed in here with you yahoos, and now you're accusing me of being a villain? Do I look like a friggin' villain to you?"
"Some villains come wrapped in neat little packages," Hollywood mutters.
Fish sits up on the couch and darts a look at the trio over his shoulder, all still unmoving with guns aimed at each other like it's the shoot-out at the OK Corral. "Hey, villain-boy. I like your style. Tell ya what, you pop choir-boy over there for me and I'll give ya a month's salary."
Hollywood's jaw tightens. "Fish, you sorry piece of--"
Fish chuckles.
Rodriguez rolls his eyes. "Look, are we gonna do this or not. Because my arm's getting tired and I'm seriously losing my patience with all of you. Villain or not, I need to shoot someone."
Weird-guy steps out of the shadows again. "I sense trouble."
"Oh, for the love of God." Hollywood drops his weapon and throws his arms out. "Can't ya tell we're having a moment here?"
Just then, three pagers go off. Pete, Rodriguez and Hollywood all look down at the cell phones clipped to their waistbands.
"Crap, that's Cassie," Rodriguez says in a suddenly concerned voice.
"And Cait," Hollywood mumbles, glancing down at his belt.
They both look toward Pete.
Pete nods, confusion drawing his brows together. "Kat, too." He hesitates, figures that's gotta be some kind of sign and slowly lowers his weapon. Hollywood and Rodriguez exchange a look, then Rodriguez does the same.
Pete turns toward Weird-guy. "How in the hell do you do that?"
Fish chuckles, flops back on the couch and turns the volume up. On the screen, Gene Simmons is extolling the virtues of his tongue.
"Who the hell cares," Rodriguez grumbles. "All three of them paging us at the same time can't be good, can it?"
***
Tick flips his phone open. "What the hell?"
Rio peers over his shoulder and reads aloud. "T -- revised through p. 70. Complete timeline worked out. No worries -- we get to keep the cuffs." He grins and quirks an eyebrow at Tick. "The cuffs?"
A deep flush colors Tick's cheekbones. "Yeah." He frowns over the screen. "The sunrises here are great. Hopefully u won't be there long. Love, C. Sunrises? Oh, crap."
Pete is scowling at his phone. "Kat's talking about sunrises, too. What does that mean?"
Rio pulls his phone from his belt. "So is Cassie."
"They're taunting us. A sunrise is some girly drink with vodka, orange juice and cranberry juice." Tick's expression darkens. "They're having a damn luncheon, probably sitting on the porch, talking it up, while my ass is stuck down here, having to start over again. And I don't have any freakin' cigarettes."
His phone chimes again. He glares at the screen. "Tick, this is a good time to quit. C."
Fish chuckles again. "You're whipped."
"At least my HEA is talking to me. I've seen that last scene She wrote. You just got kicked to the curb, Army-boy."
Fish gives him the finger again.
Rio and Pete exchange a look. "You really think they're all together."
Christian appears from the shadows. "Paige as well?"
"I'm sure of it." Tick clips his phone on his belt, returns his 10mm to its holster. "And it looks like we're going to be here a while. Who's up for a little game of five-card stud?"
***
Rio watches as the bars on his cell phone fluctuate. Seems there are spots in this cellar where his Altel does work.
He types out a message to Carlos first. Where the hell are you? When the screen flashes message sent successfully, he punches Cassie's speed dial and texts, What's happening with her?
"Though you didn't get service, ICEman," Tick says from his seat at the poker table. He collects the cards and shuffles.
Creature-man shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and hunches his shoulders. "There are...pockets...of good air in here. The demons can't block his signal if he's standing in a pocket of good air."
Tick stops shuffling. "Pockets?"
Rio looks up from his phone. "Good air?"
Pete edges a little closer toward the door. "Demons?"
The three men exchange a look then Rio's phone vibrates. He punches the buttons to read a text from Cassie.
She's caught up in some "brilliant" blogging idea Her CP's had. Hasn't written a word of revision all weekend. From what I can tell, She hasn't even thought about straightening out that CIA plot issue that's bugging Her. She spent all morning at a rowing class of all things, and Her DH is finally home after being gone for weeks. Might as well get comfortable, handsome. I'll enjoy a sunset for you.
Rio growls. "For the love of God. Hey, demolition-boy, got any supplies on you? I could make an explosive out of a few key ingredients."
"Don't be an idiot," Fish says without taking his eyes off the television where Gene Simmons' bandages are about to come off after plastic surgery. He pops another stale cheese puff in his mouth and crunches. "After that...episode...my first time here, She confiscates all my toys before She locks the door behind me."
This is bullshit. This might even be worth declining hero status for.
Okay. Maybe not.
Rio snaps his phone closed and glares at The Darkone. "Any magical pockets in here with a transporter capability like on Star Trek?"
As Christian mulls the question over seriously, those crazy eyes of his scan the concrete like a metal detector.
Tick scoffs and shakes his head. "Let me share a piece of advice, boys. The harder you try to get out of here, the longer her revisions will take. You're just draining her creative energy." He gestures to the table where he's dealt five hands. "What shall we wager?"
***
Pete eyes Hollywood. Glances at the Army dude, over to the Rodriguez look-alike, then pauses on Weird-guy. What a group of rag-tag misfits. How in the love of all things holy had he ended up locked in here with these guys?
"Well?" Hollwood asks again. "Any of you manning up?"
Rodriguez shrugs, pulls out a chair at the table. "What the hell else do we have to do in here? If I can't shoot anyone, count me in."
Fish rockets off the couch. "Yeah, man. I'm in. Prepare to lose some green, choir boy." He plops down next to Rodriguez.
Hollwood looks toward Weird-guy. "What about you?"
Weird-guy's eyes narrow with suspicion, but he slowly moves out of the shadows and takes an empty chair on the other side of Rodriguez.
"What's up with the freaky eyes, dude?" Fish asks, tipping back a cold bottle of beer as Weird-guy sits. "Are those contacts or what?" Without waiting for an answer, he leans over Rodriguez to get a better look. "Where the hell did you get them? And can you you get me a pair for Halloween? Man, I bet my CO would drop a load if I had those puppies in."
Weird-guy only shakes his head and mutters under his breath, "I am surrounded by the waste remnants from the evolutionary superhighway."
Pete chuckles and decides he might just like Weird-guy after all.
"What about you, meat?" Hollwood nods at Pete. "You in or out?"
"You're a regular ol' Jay Leno-wanna be, aren't you? Your heroine laugh at those stupid jokes? Oh wait, I bet she gets enough laughs just looking at that dumb-ass mug of yours." Smiling, Pete pulls out a chair and sits.
"Laugh it up, hotshot," Hollywood says. "You won't be laughing in a few minutes when I take all your money."
Pete eyes him. "You're a cop, right?
Hollywood pops his elbow on the green felt tabletop, twirls a chip between his fingers. "Yeah, you could say that. What of it?"
Pete grins.
"What's so funny?"
Pete shakes his head. "My Porsche costs more than you make in a year. I'm gonna truly enjoy taking your money, cop."
Hollywood studies him, narrows his eyes and smiles himself as he picks up his cards. "Well alrighty then." He glances around the table with a twinkle in his eye. "Hotshot here's feelin' pretty cocky. What do you guys say we up the stakes?"
"What do you have in mind?" Rodriguez asks.
Hollywood winks, stands up, goes to a cupboard across the room and returns with a bottle of Wild Turkey. He sets the bottle in the middle of the table. "Oh, just a friendly little game of Truth or Drink?"
"Yeah, baby," Fish says with a huge shit-eating grin. "I'm in."
Hollywood rolls his eyes, ignores Fish's comments. "Here's how it works. Loser gets to choose. Do a shot or answer a question. Simple as that, boys. So what'ya say. Game?"
***
A dozen hands later, no one still wants to fold. The men lay their cards on the table.
"I sense trouble." Christian's voice is soft, a little slurred.
"Dude, you've gotta get a new tagline." Fish studies the hands displayed and crows with laughter. The three shots he'd taken to avoid any questions have him good and loose. He slaps a hand on the table, and it rocks dangerously sideways.
Pete steadies it and shakes his head. He's managed to avoid losing yet and he's stone-sober. He eyes Tick and Rio, tension snaking into his gut. The only thing worse than a room full of cops has to be a room full of tipsy cops.
Well, two tipsy cops, one half-wasted Army guy, and . . . he wasn't sure what Weird-guy was yet.
He looks down at the table, realizes why Fish is so amused and a grin quirks at his lips. Tick's lost again, with yet another pair of twos.
He nudges the bottle toward him. "Go ahead. Wimp out again."
Tick's eyes narrow, bad humor darkening his face. "Go for it, thief-boy. Ask me something."
Rio brightens, stacking his chips with fingers that are slightly unsteady. "Ask him about the cuffs."
"Some back-up you are." Tick muffles a hiccup with his fist. "We're supposed to stick together, that whole Fed brick wall. Wait . . . I forgot. You're in immigration."
Offense flares in Rio's dark eyes. "You-"
"I really sense trouble." Christian scoots his chair back a couple of inches. His eyes flicker.
"Ignore 'im." Fish waves a hand in Tick's direction. "He's not even a real Fed anymore. Goddamn county mounty with a one-pony department. His HEA makes three times what he does."
Tick smirks, lifts his beer. "Advantages to being a kept man."
Pete narrows his eyes, drums his fingers on the table. "Quit stalling. What's the answer?"
A frown pulls Tick's eyebrows downward. "What was the question again?"
"The cuffs, genius." Fish rolls his gaze toward the ceiling. "Jeezus H. What about the cuffs?"
"Oh. Those." A wide grin splits Tick's face and he spins his beer in a slow circle. Caitlin would kill him for telling this story, but what the hell? She wasn't here and what she didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Besides, she'd spilled it to that damn psychologist, psychiatrist, whatever, from Oregon. "Holy hell, that's a story."
"Out with it, farmboy." Fish folds his arms over his chest and leans back dangerously far in his chair. Christian eyes him warily and shakes his head.
A smile plays around Tick's mouth. "Cait likes . . . control. It's a big part of her makeup."
Rio chuckles. Intrigued, Pete leans forward.
"We were working together, one of those twenty-four-seven investigations, and being around her like that . . . I was about to come out of my skin."
"That's understandable. She is hot. A little on the bitchy side, but hot." Fish lifts his bottle, squints at the level of beer in it, tilts it back for a swallow. Tick glares at him and considers swiping at his chairlegs.
"Focus." Christian gives him a stern look.
Tick runs a hand over his already disheveled hair. "Anyway, we get hot and heavy in my living room floor, and I end up with my ass handcuffed to the coffee table."
Rio laughs again. "This the same one you said would kick your ass?"
Tick shrugs. "Ever heard the term 'kick-ass heroine'? It don't always mean physically, buddy."
He reaches for the cards, swipes them into a pile and begins shuffling. "Another hand?"
***
A round of grunts signal tacit agreement, although Rio is seriously ready to go AWOL.
He hopes he loses the next ten hands because he wants to get drunk off his ass. This halfway point only made him miss Cassie. And alcohol always made him horny as hell.
His cell vibrates. "This had better be Carlos saying he's comin' to bust me out or I'm going to rip his head off and shit in his neck."
Fish hoots. Tick chuckles. Pete scoffs. The Darkone looked scandalized. "I sense--"
Rio waves him off as he flips his phone open. "Yeah, yeah. We know--trouble."
The screen bursts to life with color--a pix message. Of Cassie. Lounging by a crystal aqua pool. In a string--make that dental floss--bikini. Skin slicked up with suntan oil, face tilted up to the sky. The caption reads, Wish you were here.
Rio's already sensitized groin fills with heat. "Oh, good God."
The words came out in a low groan that has every man's head turning toward him. Tick pauses in his deal, alert for trouble.
Throat dry, blood draining from his head to his dick, Rio snaps the phone closed. "Nothing."
Fish's hand snakes out to snatch the phone from Rio's hand. "Lemme see that."
He fumbles to get it back, but his reflexes aren't working quite right--half a dozen shots of tequila will do that--and Fish twists away. He opens the phone and punches buttons.
"Hey, asshole," Rio pushes from his chair and rounds Fish. "Give that back."
Army-man maneuvers the phone out of his reach, but Rio can see Cassie in all her gorgeous glory filling the screen. Fish lets out a wolf whistle that bounces off the cinderblock walls. "Wowza. That's some... Those are seriously fine..." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "What the fuck did you ever do to earn a HEA like that?"
While Fish is distracted, Rio lunges, grips his wrist and twists.
Fish howls and swears, but drops the phone. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
With blurred vision and fingers not following instructions from his brain, Rio taps a text to Carlos. Get your ass over here and get me OUT!
Within seconds both Tick's and Pete's phones ring.
***
As the only remaining sober guy in the place, Pete watches the brawl on the floor with minimal interest and a whole lotta disgust. Army-boy'd been shootin' his mouth off for the last hour, so Pete figures it's about time someone rips him a new one. But considering the flare in Rodriguez's eyes and the fact the SOB still has that loaded Glock on him, Pete's rooting for the Army brat to take him out.
When his phone beeps, he glances down at his belt and eyes the message.
Oh, crap. Not good.
He looks at Hollywood, drunk off his ass and struggling to decipher his own message. Eyeing the cop's phone over his shoulder, Pete confirms what he'd thought upon reading his own cell's screen.
Aw, shit. This was bad.
With a frown, Pete pushes back from the table. "Yo, creature-man. Now would be the time for that famous tag line of yours."
Weird-guy tears his wobbly gaze away from the action, brow lifting in confusion. "I sense . . . trouble?"
With a capital T.
"Alex Rodriguez look-alike. You're gonna have to choke the Army brat some other time. We got problems."
Rodriguez hesitates, looks Pete's way with his hands still clamped over Army-dude's neck, but can't seem to zero in on anything. His dark eyes aren't tracking.
Pete holds up a hand. "Woohoo? Over here, Rodriguez."
Rodriguez's brow lowers, his brain in serious slow-mo and trying to catch up. "Name's not Rodriguez. It's . . ." He hesitates. Looks down at the floor. Back up again. Still can't focus. "Sanchez. No. Wait. Santana. Yeah. That's it. Santana." He lets go of Fish and drops hard onto his butt. "Man. I'm shit-faced."
Pete rolls his eyes heaven-ward. Rafe had better be figuring out a way to get him outta here. Knowing the POS though, he's probably kicked back laughing his ass off at what's happening down in this hell hole.
Shaking off the thought, Pete looks back at a confused Santana. "Like the guitarist? Oh, that's even better. You're just given me fuel to work with."
Santana stares at him like he's grown a second head.
Pete shakes his head and decides to take pity on the plowed sap. As long as the guy doesn't have his gun out, they're cool. Sort of.
"Look, guys," Pete says. "We got a problem. She just messaged me. And him too." He points at Hollywood, still sitting at the poker table, brow creased as he tries to read his own message. Okay, Rhode scholar he isn't. Maybe Fish wasn't far off on the county mounty bit.
"You're HEA's texting choir-boy?" Fish asks as he sits up and wipes the grime from the cement floor off his face.
"No, you dumbass. She. The Supreme Being. The Ruler. The Alpha and Omego and everything in between." When Fish only stares at him like he's speaking in tongues, Pete adds, "The Muse? Ring a bell, Einstein?"
Fish's brow lowers. "I know I'm wasted, but She's different for all of us, isn't She?"
Weird-guy stands, wobbles a bit, grips the table and takes a step forward. "Her texting you can't be good. What did She say?"
"That She's watching. They're all friggin' watching us make asses out of ourselves down here. That little .jpg Santana got? We're each gonna get one if we don't shape up. And our women aren't up there in thongs all alone. She - They've - got hunky secondary characters up there serving drinks to our girls."
The all stare at him, still too drunk to make connections.
"Oh for the love of God." Pete thwacks Fish on the forehead.
Fish jumps and yelps.
"Our women are getting wasted and most likely propositioned by the Chippendale dancers!," Pete says emphatically. "How many of you idiots left your HEA's sexually frustrated and horny as hell?"
Silence decends as reality sinks in. Four sets of wide eyes slowly jump from face to face.
Hollywood is the first to speak. "Holy Hell. We got serious trouble."
***
Tick pushes his chair back and it topples over. He paces, dragging one hand through his hair. Pete watches him, a little surprised at how quick the guy snapped to, even with all the alcohol.
"This is not good." Tick pinches the bridge of his nose.
Rio eyes him, still a little blurry. "What?"
Tick narrows his eyes, staring at the basement door. "Technically, none of us have a HEA."
"Like hell." Rio bursts into laughter. "Do you know how many times I've been through revisions. Believe me, I have a HEA."
"That's just it, buddy. Revisions." Tick glares at Pete and Fish. "Or drafting. Meaning, not finished."
"Oh, shit," Pete mumbles.
Still sitting on the floor, Fish puts his back against the couch and dangles his hands between his knees. "Oh, well. All I'm used to is Angie kicking my teeth in. Not like she was gonna text me with a photo."
Tick shoots him a look. "What is the IQ requirement for entrance into the Army, anyway?"
"Probably about what it is for the FBI," Pete deadpans. Rio chuckles.
"You don't get it, do you?" Tick throws his hands up.
"There is no end or beginning," Christian intones, although the words slur together a tad.
Tick points at him. "Exactly."
"Oh, ceee-rist." Pete shoots a glance at the door, then the ceiling. The realization is sinking in.
"This means . . ." Rio struggles to his feet. "Our girls are all single."
"Oh, yeah." Tick glares at Pete. "Got that one, hotshot? No ending, no commitment, no HEA."
"I sense . . ."
"Don't say it!" The other four men roar at Christian. He blinks and scowls.
Tick does the hand through his hair again, dark strands sticking out at all angles. "I'd bet my next pack of smokes that I know exactly whose up there. And when I finally get out of here, I'm going to kick his sorry ass."
Labels: The Basement
posted by Elisabeth Naughton at 9:58 PM
1 comments
:~: Friday, June 01, 2007 :~:
The Basement, Part One
The heroes from our WIPs have all been banished to the basement. Read along and try to figure out which hero belongs to which writer. (Hint: none of them are happy with us at the moment.)
***
"Just for the record, I am not a happy camper." Tick slumps into the battered recliner and glares at the Muse.
She smiles at him over her shoulder and twirls a sheer scarf in his direction.
"That's it?" He throws a hand up in the air. "You're ruining my life and that's all I get?"
She shrugs and fluffs a pillow on the threadbare couch.
"And I'm out of freakin' cigarettes." He rubs a hand over his eyes. "Not that anyone cares."
After a long silence, he blows out a breath and straightens. "You know, you could at least clue me in on the Big Secret."
The Muse gives him a naughty smile, shakes her head and holds one finger to her lips. He nods. "So it's like that, is it?"
She pats his cheek and sashays up the stairs, gauzy robes swirling.
"Great." Tick pushes up from the chair and paces a circle around the large table in the middle of the room. The remnants of a poker game lay scattered across the green top. "She . . ." He points toward the ceiling. " . . . changes everything, and I get left in the dark. Guess that's the new trend. Keep everything from Tick."
He looks around the basement, picks up a poker chip, tosses it against the wall. "And I'm the only one here."
***
"Hey, watch where you're flinging that thing." Rio pounds down the last two concrete steps and into the cinder block room where a yellow poker chip twirls by his right boot tip. Rio scoops up the plastic disk, sets it on his thumb and flicks it back at the man across the room. "Could put an eye out."
He catches it against his chest, and his eyes narrow on Rio, clearly as perturbed to be there as he is. "You're not much of a surprise. Am I supposed to know you?"
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. And I'd remember that pretty boy face of yours if I'd seen it before, so, no, we don't know each other." Rio peers around the room, takes in the worn furniture, the empty beer bottles clustered on the poker table. "This place is a dump." He picks up a half-smoked cigarette off the table and slams it into an already overflowing ashtray. "And that is a filthy habit."
The other man's lips compress as he sweeps one long-fingered hand toward the stairs. "There's the door, piss-ant. Use it any time you like."
"The name's Rio. And I'm not using it for the same reason you're not, smart ass." Rio wanders around the poker table, his boots crunching on discarded peanut shells. He reaches down and turns over an abandoned hand of cards. "Pair of twos. I hope the loser folded."
"Those are my twos, and I won thirty bucks with them." Pretty boy crosses his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels.
"Proud of yourself, are you? Got a real poker face?" Rio scoffs. "I'll just bet you're top dog here, aren't you?" Rio looks around at the cinder block walls. "Now that's something to be proud of, pretty boy."
"The name's Tick."
A snicker scraps Rio's throat, and his brows shoot up. "Tick? What the hell kind of name is Tick? Why didn't your mama just come right out and name you leech or parasite or bloodsucker?"
Tick's whole body goes rigid, and he takes one lunging step forward.
***
"Oh, no, no, you don't." Pete skids to a halt, tripping down the slippery concrete steps as he's pushed into the room. The two men about to come to blows mere feet below both stop and look his direction.
"Who the hell is that?" the dark one who oddly resembles Alex Rodriguez asks.
"Like I'm supposed to know?" The other dark one with the Hollywood looks points his finger at the Rodriguez look-alike. "I don't even have a flippin' clue who you are." He lifts his hand, swirls it in the air. "Y'all are in the wrong place if you haven't noticed. This is my basement."
"I don't friggin' believe this," Pete mutters as he whips a u-ie and heads back for the door. He wraps his hand around the metal knob only to find it locked. "Hey! Hold on. You can't leave me in here with these two!"
Silence.
He shakes the knob. Throws his shoulder into the solid wood.
Nothing.
Un-friggin-believable. She actually left.
He turns back and scans the room. Poker chips, cigarettes, a bag of Cheetos. Ceee-rist. This was worse than the hell-hole in Afghanistan she dropped him into. With a frown he realizes it could be worse though. At least there's beer.
He takes his time easing down the steps, eyeing the other two men. The Rodriguez look-alike's all attitude. Hollywood appears ready to pound something.
Oh yeah, right. If these two weren't both cops Pete'd eat his own shoes.
Pete shakes his head and looks toward the ceiling. "I preferred the strip club. Hell, I'd even voluntarily go back to the snow in Pennsylvania over this. Do you hear me? You can't leave me down here with these two!"
The Rodriguez look-alike's eyes widen, and he glances toward Hollywood while drawing a circle in the air with his finger. "Loco."
A slow and easy smile breaks out across Hollywood's face. He chuckles. The SOB actually chuckles. "You just got your ass booted, didn't ya? She kicked your sorry behind down here with us. What'd ya do, try to change her mind about a scene?"
"It's my scene. I should have a say in it," Pete says emphatically.
Hollywood breaks out into a full, belly-rolling laugh.
Rodriguez shoots him a confused expression.
"Don't you know you don't tell her how to do her job?" Hollywood asks when he can finally talk again.
Pete frowns, flops down onto the ratty couch and picks up the bag of Cheetos. "That's not the way our agreement works." He sniffs the bag, figures what the hell, and eats a chip.
Stale. He rolls his eyes. Like he expected anything else?
Hollywood grabs two beers from the cooler and hands him one, sinking down onto the other end of the couch. "Well, boy, I hate to tell you this, but your deal just went null and void."
"Said she was going hiking," Pete mutters. "In a black tank-top, camo pants and hiking boots." He looks over at Hollywood. "She doesn't even own camo pants!"
Hollywood just chuckles again.
From across the room, Rodriguez throws his arms out. "Hey. Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?"
Hollywood reaches for the Cheetos. "Now that's not a happy camper. Wait'll he finds out what his muse is up to."
***
Tick tosses the bag of cardboard-like cheese snacks aside and eyes the room's newest occupant. The guy had something shady about him. If this were a traffic stop, he'd toss the car for sure. He casts a glance at Rio, who's watching the other man just as closely.
Oh, yeah. Definitely a cop, probably a Fed.
He pops the top off his beer, trying to keep a certain other Fed out of his thoughts. He slugs down a couple of swallows. Like that had been successful the last few months.
The new guy looks nervous, scanning the room, looking for a way out. Probably a runner. If this were a traffic stop, he'd already have taken off and Tick would be running his ass down. He shakes his head. Never could understand why they didn't figure out running didn't get them anything but tired.
"I asked a question." Rio stands in the middle of the room, smoldering with bad temper. "What the hell is this?"
Tick shrugs. "Purgatory. Limbo. Whatever you want to call it. She likes the term 'revision hell.'"
New guy spins from the wall where he's been studying the casement windows, sealed tight. "Then I shouldn't be here. You've got the wrong guy."
Rio chuckles. Tick snickers. They exchange a glance.
"Like I haven't heard that one before," Tick drawls. He rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, wonders what's going on outside.
What's waiting for him after page twenty-nine. Something tells him it's not going to be pretty.
"She kicked you in the balls, didn't she?" Rio asks.
***
Without waiting for an answer to the rhetorical question, Rio drops his head back and closes his eyes. "Shit, it all makes sense now. Revisions hell. She's been pissing and moaning about it for weeks."
He opens his eyes and shoots the other two men a look, stabs a finger at Tick. "Yeah. I know who you are--that hotshot sheriff from Georgia." He spins to take another look at the new guy. "You're...you're..." A few snaps of his fingers didn't bring up a name. "I don't remember your name, but you're a damn thief."
"I'm no thief. That's Rafe. I'm Pete. And I still don't know what the hell is going on. What is this place?"
"The basement," Tick and Rio say in sync then grin at each other.
Rio's smile fades as he focused in on Tick. "Hey, how does this work? I'm the only person standing between my girl and about a dozen guys who'd like to get their hands on her in a dozen different ways. Is she in trouble? Or does everything stop while we're here?"
***
Christian stands in a dark corner, watching unseen as the conversation plays out around him. The place is damp, stinking of stale cigarette smoke. And humans.
Anger and frustration drape the basement like a cloak. He clenches his hands into fists. Normally he would feed off such emotions, but the small, dank space has him feeling a little claustrophobic.
Okay, a lot claustrophobic. In truth, the idea of being stuck down here with a bunch of humans he doesn't know is starting to freak him out. He steps out of the shadows.
All heads turn toward him. "Who the hell are you?" one man asks.
He ignores the question, thinking it's inconsequential at the moment. "It had better stop while we're in here. If I'm not out there with her, there's no way Paige can protect herself. The last thing I need on my hands is the blood of another dead woman."
***
"Wait a minute." Tick holds his hands aloft. "Let me get this straight." "You," He points at Rio. "are afraid something's going to happen to your girl if you're not there to protect her."
Rio nods, frowning.
"And you," He points at the new guy, the one who gives him seriously bad vibes. This one he'd have serious second thoughts about chasing into a dark alley. "You think this Paige woman is dead if you're not around to protect her."
"Exactly." Christian nods as well.
Tick laughs. Pete looks at him askance. "What's so funny?"
"I can't wait to hear what you have to say." He shakes his head, pushes his hair off his forehead. "Cait would kick my ass if I said something like that about her."
***
Rio crosses his arms over his chest to keep from pounding Tick, but even as miffed as he is with the deprecating comeback, the new guy draws his attention. He's an intense, uneasy...man? Why did Rio want to call him a creature?
"You don't understand." The new guy starts toward the casing windows, his mind clearly already two miles out of here. "You don't understand anything."
Rio decides he can't argue with that comment--at least not at the moment, and refocuses on Tick. "What kind of cop would let his girl kick his ass? That's pathetic."
Creature-man swings back toward them, eyes flashing in a way Rio had never seen--not on even the highest crack addict. "Cops? You're all cops?"
"If I'm a cop, kill me now." This smart ass comment from Pete who takes the concrete steps two at a time and tries the door knob. "The only thing worse than being a cop is being in a room full of them." He pounds on the wood panel with his fist. "Hey, lady. Get me outta here. Lock me in a closet or something--alone."
"Don't be an idiot." Tick swivels and falls into what seems to be his favorite recliner. "She won't come back until...they're..." he jerks a hand toward the ceiling "...damn good and ready."
***
Pete braces his hands on the door, drops his forehead against the unforgiving wood. "I'm screwed. I'm totally screwed."
"Cheer up, thief-man," Hollywood says in a sing-songy southern drawl that makes Pete's skin crawl. The man kicks back in the recliner to prop his feet up. "Have another beer. Take a load off. Gonna be in here for a while. Ten bucks says our girls are all upstairs figuring out ways to make our lives hell."
Like his life wasn't hell enough already?
Pete glances at the lock on the door. Flimsy. Rusted. If he had Rafe's pick kit he could be out of here in thirty seconds flat. He suddenly remembers the Beretta stuffed in the right back side of his waistband. One good shot would do the trick.
Course, then he'd have a whole new set of problems to deal with. Like the two juiced up cops behind him and the freaky guy with the weird eyes. No telling what that guy would do.
Oh, hell. Not a good idea to let any of these yahoos know he's packing.
He turns slowly, looks back into the room. Hollywood's chugging yet another beer. Man, the guy's got serious issues. Rodriguez's eyeing the newcomer in the corner like he's afraid the guy might vanish or something. And wait . . . is the new guy . . . growling?
Okay, this is too freaky for colored TV.
Pete clenches his jaw. "So how long does this normally take? And for the record. I'm not even supposed to be here. If this is revision hell I'm not scheduled to be here for a few more weeks. Somebody screwed up."
"Sing it to the choir," Hollywood mumbles. He sits up quickly, the footrest of the recliner dropping with a smack. "Anyone wanna take bets on who'll be the first one out of here?"
***
Tick's cell phone vibrates to life before he can start figuring odds, the strains of Gary Allan's "Songs About Rain" filling the stale air. Eyeing the tall blond guy, he tugs it from his waist. Somehow, this one makes his instincts prickle worse than the one with the weird eyes and brooding air. He flips the phone open. "Calvert."
He listens a moment, a slow grin spreading over his face. "Really. A missing persons report? You might want to run him for wants and warrants, too."
Rio pulls his attention from the guy in the corner and turns to listen. Pete, still on the steps, stiffens visibly.
Tick rolls his gaze heavenward. "Well, I would, Cookie, but I'm kinda indisposed right now. Because I'm locked in the freakin' basement. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I'll put you on midnights for a year." He pushes to his feet, rubs a hand across his nape. "You know what I don't get? Why Army-boy isn't down here. Yeah, I know he's a pain in the ass, but he's an explosives expert and maybe he could find a way to blow us out of here."
"Assure Mr. Sullivan we know the whereabouts of his friend." He narrows his eyes as he looks at Pete. "Trouble? Nah, I don't anticipate any trouble from this one."
***
***
"Just for the record, I am not a happy camper." Tick slumps into the battered recliner and glares at the Muse.
She smiles at him over her shoulder and twirls a sheer scarf in his direction.
"That's it?" He throws a hand up in the air. "You're ruining my life and that's all I get?"
She shrugs and fluffs a pillow on the threadbare couch.
"And I'm out of freakin' cigarettes." He rubs a hand over his eyes. "Not that anyone cares."
After a long silence, he blows out a breath and straightens. "You know, you could at least clue me in on the Big Secret."
The Muse gives him a naughty smile, shakes her head and holds one finger to her lips. He nods. "So it's like that, is it?"
She pats his cheek and sashays up the stairs, gauzy robes swirling.
"Great." Tick pushes up from the chair and paces a circle around the large table in the middle of the room. The remnants of a poker game lay scattered across the green top. "She . . ." He points toward the ceiling. " . . . changes everything, and I get left in the dark. Guess that's the new trend. Keep everything from Tick."
He looks around the basement, picks up a poker chip, tosses it against the wall. "And I'm the only one here."
***
"Hey, watch where you're flinging that thing." Rio pounds down the last two concrete steps and into the cinder block room where a yellow poker chip twirls by his right boot tip. Rio scoops up the plastic disk, sets it on his thumb and flicks it back at the man across the room. "Could put an eye out."
He catches it against his chest, and his eyes narrow on Rio, clearly as perturbed to be there as he is. "You're not much of a surprise. Am I supposed to know you?"
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. And I'd remember that pretty boy face of yours if I'd seen it before, so, no, we don't know each other." Rio peers around the room, takes in the worn furniture, the empty beer bottles clustered on the poker table. "This place is a dump." He picks up a half-smoked cigarette off the table and slams it into an already overflowing ashtray. "And that is a filthy habit."
The other man's lips compress as he sweeps one long-fingered hand toward the stairs. "There's the door, piss-ant. Use it any time you like."
"The name's Rio. And I'm not using it for the same reason you're not, smart ass." Rio wanders around the poker table, his boots crunching on discarded peanut shells. He reaches down and turns over an abandoned hand of cards. "Pair of twos. I hope the loser folded."
"Those are my twos, and I won thirty bucks with them." Pretty boy crosses his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels.
"Proud of yourself, are you? Got a real poker face?" Rio scoffs. "I'll just bet you're top dog here, aren't you?" Rio looks around at the cinder block walls. "Now that's something to be proud of, pretty boy."
"The name's Tick."
A snicker scraps Rio's throat, and his brows shoot up. "Tick? What the hell kind of name is Tick? Why didn't your mama just come right out and name you leech or parasite or bloodsucker?"
Tick's whole body goes rigid, and he takes one lunging step forward.
***
"Oh, no, no, you don't." Pete skids to a halt, tripping down the slippery concrete steps as he's pushed into the room. The two men about to come to blows mere feet below both stop and look his direction.
"Who the hell is that?" the dark one who oddly resembles Alex Rodriguez asks.
"Like I'm supposed to know?" The other dark one with the Hollywood looks points his finger at the Rodriguez look-alike. "I don't even have a flippin' clue who you are." He lifts his hand, swirls it in the air. "Y'all are in the wrong place if you haven't noticed. This is my basement."
"I don't friggin' believe this," Pete mutters as he whips a u-ie and heads back for the door. He wraps his hand around the metal knob only to find it locked. "Hey! Hold on. You can't leave me in here with these two!"
Silence.
He shakes the knob. Throws his shoulder into the solid wood.
Nothing.
Un-friggin-believable. She actually left.
He turns back and scans the room. Poker chips, cigarettes, a bag of Cheetos. Ceee-rist. This was worse than the hell-hole in Afghanistan she dropped him into. With a frown he realizes it could be worse though. At least there's beer.
He takes his time easing down the steps, eyeing the other two men. The Rodriguez look-alike's all attitude. Hollywood appears ready to pound something.
Oh yeah, right. If these two weren't both cops Pete'd eat his own shoes.
Pete shakes his head and looks toward the ceiling. "I preferred the strip club. Hell, I'd even voluntarily go back to the snow in Pennsylvania over this. Do you hear me? You can't leave me down here with these two!"
The Rodriguez look-alike's eyes widen, and he glances toward Hollywood while drawing a circle in the air with his finger. "Loco."
A slow and easy smile breaks out across Hollywood's face. He chuckles. The SOB actually chuckles. "You just got your ass booted, didn't ya? She kicked your sorry behind down here with us. What'd ya do, try to change her mind about a scene?"
"It's my scene. I should have a say in it," Pete says emphatically.
Hollywood breaks out into a full, belly-rolling laugh.
Rodriguez shoots him a confused expression.
"Don't you know you don't tell her how to do her job?" Hollywood asks when he can finally talk again.
Pete frowns, flops down onto the ratty couch and picks up the bag of Cheetos. "That's not the way our agreement works." He sniffs the bag, figures what the hell, and eats a chip.
Stale. He rolls his eyes. Like he expected anything else?
Hollywood grabs two beers from the cooler and hands him one, sinking down onto the other end of the couch. "Well, boy, I hate to tell you this, but your deal just went null and void."
"Said she was going hiking," Pete mutters. "In a black tank-top, camo pants and hiking boots." He looks over at Hollywood. "She doesn't even own camo pants!"
Hollywood just chuckles again.
From across the room, Rodriguez throws his arms out. "Hey. Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?"
Hollywood reaches for the Cheetos. "Now that's not a happy camper. Wait'll he finds out what his muse is up to."
***
Tick tosses the bag of cardboard-like cheese snacks aside and eyes the room's newest occupant. The guy had something shady about him. If this were a traffic stop, he'd toss the car for sure. He casts a glance at Rio, who's watching the other man just as closely.
Oh, yeah. Definitely a cop, probably a Fed.
He pops the top off his beer, trying to keep a certain other Fed out of his thoughts. He slugs down a couple of swallows. Like that had been successful the last few months.
The new guy looks nervous, scanning the room, looking for a way out. Probably a runner. If this were a traffic stop, he'd already have taken off and Tick would be running his ass down. He shakes his head. Never could understand why they didn't figure out running didn't get them anything but tired.
"I asked a question." Rio stands in the middle of the room, smoldering with bad temper. "What the hell is this?"
Tick shrugs. "Purgatory. Limbo. Whatever you want to call it. She likes the term 'revision hell.'"
New guy spins from the wall where he's been studying the casement windows, sealed tight. "Then I shouldn't be here. You've got the wrong guy."
Rio chuckles. Tick snickers. They exchange a glance.
"Like I haven't heard that one before," Tick drawls. He rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, wonders what's going on outside.
What's waiting for him after page twenty-nine. Something tells him it's not going to be pretty.
"She kicked you in the balls, didn't she?" Rio asks.
***
Without waiting for an answer to the rhetorical question, Rio drops his head back and closes his eyes. "Shit, it all makes sense now. Revisions hell. She's been pissing and moaning about it for weeks."
He opens his eyes and shoots the other two men a look, stabs a finger at Tick. "Yeah. I know who you are--that hotshot sheriff from Georgia." He spins to take another look at the new guy. "You're...you're..." A few snaps of his fingers didn't bring up a name. "I don't remember your name, but you're a damn thief."
"I'm no thief. That's Rafe. I'm Pete. And I still don't know what the hell is going on. What is this place?"
"The basement," Tick and Rio say in sync then grin at each other.
Rio's smile fades as he focused in on Tick. "Hey, how does this work? I'm the only person standing between my girl and about a dozen guys who'd like to get their hands on her in a dozen different ways. Is she in trouble? Or does everything stop while we're here?"
***
Christian stands in a dark corner, watching unseen as the conversation plays out around him. The place is damp, stinking of stale cigarette smoke. And humans.
Anger and frustration drape the basement like a cloak. He clenches his hands into fists. Normally he would feed off such emotions, but the small, dank space has him feeling a little claustrophobic.
Okay, a lot claustrophobic. In truth, the idea of being stuck down here with a bunch of humans he doesn't know is starting to freak him out. He steps out of the shadows.
All heads turn toward him. "Who the hell are you?" one man asks.
He ignores the question, thinking it's inconsequential at the moment. "It had better stop while we're in here. If I'm not out there with her, there's no way Paige can protect herself. The last thing I need on my hands is the blood of another dead woman."
***
"Wait a minute." Tick holds his hands aloft. "Let me get this straight." "You," He points at Rio. "are afraid something's going to happen to your girl if you're not there to protect her."
Rio nods, frowning.
"And you," He points at the new guy, the one who gives him seriously bad vibes. This one he'd have serious second thoughts about chasing into a dark alley. "You think this Paige woman is dead if you're not around to protect her."
"Exactly." Christian nods as well.
Tick laughs. Pete looks at him askance. "What's so funny?"
"I can't wait to hear what you have to say." He shakes his head, pushes his hair off his forehead. "Cait would kick my ass if I said something like that about her."
***
Rio crosses his arms over his chest to keep from pounding Tick, but even as miffed as he is with the deprecating comeback, the new guy draws his attention. He's an intense, uneasy...man? Why did Rio want to call him a creature?
"You don't understand." The new guy starts toward the casing windows, his mind clearly already two miles out of here. "You don't understand anything."
Rio decides he can't argue with that comment--at least not at the moment, and refocuses on Tick. "What kind of cop would let his girl kick his ass? That's pathetic."
Creature-man swings back toward them, eyes flashing in a way Rio had never seen--not on even the highest crack addict. "Cops? You're all cops?"
"If I'm a cop, kill me now." This smart ass comment from Pete who takes the concrete steps two at a time and tries the door knob. "The only thing worse than being a cop is being in a room full of them." He pounds on the wood panel with his fist. "Hey, lady. Get me outta here. Lock me in a closet or something--alone."
"Don't be an idiot." Tick swivels and falls into what seems to be his favorite recliner. "She won't come back until...they're..." he jerks a hand toward the ceiling "...damn good and ready."
***
Pete braces his hands on the door, drops his forehead against the unforgiving wood. "I'm screwed. I'm totally screwed."
"Cheer up, thief-man," Hollywood says in a sing-songy southern drawl that makes Pete's skin crawl. The man kicks back in the recliner to prop his feet up. "Have another beer. Take a load off. Gonna be in here for a while. Ten bucks says our girls are all upstairs figuring out ways to make our lives hell."
Like his life wasn't hell enough already?
Pete glances at the lock on the door. Flimsy. Rusted. If he had Rafe's pick kit he could be out of here in thirty seconds flat. He suddenly remembers the Beretta stuffed in the right back side of his waistband. One good shot would do the trick.
Course, then he'd have a whole new set of problems to deal with. Like the two juiced up cops behind him and the freaky guy with the weird eyes. No telling what that guy would do.
Oh, hell. Not a good idea to let any of these yahoos know he's packing.
He turns slowly, looks back into the room. Hollywood's chugging yet another beer. Man, the guy's got serious issues. Rodriguez's eyeing the newcomer in the corner like he's afraid the guy might vanish or something. And wait . . . is the new guy . . . growling?
Okay, this is too freaky for colored TV.
Pete clenches his jaw. "So how long does this normally take? And for the record. I'm not even supposed to be here. If this is revision hell I'm not scheduled to be here for a few more weeks. Somebody screwed up."
"Sing it to the choir," Hollywood mumbles. He sits up quickly, the footrest of the recliner dropping with a smack. "Anyone wanna take bets on who'll be the first one out of here?"
***
Tick's cell phone vibrates to life before he can start figuring odds, the strains of Gary Allan's "Songs About Rain" filling the stale air. Eyeing the tall blond guy, he tugs it from his waist. Somehow, this one makes his instincts prickle worse than the one with the weird eyes and brooding air. He flips the phone open. "Calvert."
He listens a moment, a slow grin spreading over his face. "Really. A missing persons report? You might want to run him for wants and warrants, too."
Rio pulls his attention from the guy in the corner and turns to listen. Pete, still on the steps, stiffens visibly.
Tick rolls his gaze heavenward. "Well, I would, Cookie, but I'm kinda indisposed right now. Because I'm locked in the freakin' basement. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I'll put you on midnights for a year." He pushes to his feet, rubs a hand across his nape. "You know what I don't get? Why Army-boy isn't down here. Yeah, I know he's a pain in the ass, but he's an explosives expert and maybe he could find a way to blow us out of here."
"Assure Mr. Sullivan we know the whereabouts of his friend." He narrows his eyes as he looks at Pete. "Trouble? Nah, I don't anticipate any trouble from this one."
***
"Sullivan?" Pete says, incredulous. His hands dig into his hips and something beneath the fabric of his shirt swells just to the right of his spine. Rio's eyes narrow. "What the hell is he doing filing a missing person's report? You have got to be kidding me. That jackass knows exactly where I am." He stabs a finger at the ground. "Man, when I get out of here, that guy's gonna be toast."
Pretty boy might be a cop, Rio thought, but he is very wrong about trouble from the copophobe. Blondy is packing. And who carries a concealed weapon? Undercover, like him? Or a villain who made his way to the basement?
This may be revision hell, but it is only a hero's revision hell. They work damn hard to be heros--deny gratuitous sex and violence, withhold unnecessary swearing. For God's sake, he doesn't take a piss once in a four hundred page novel. And if he is stuck here, he will be surrounded by his own kind. No villain's allowed.
Rio stares at Tick, and just like a cop, Tick feels the look and turns to Rio. With a tap on the right side of his lower back, Rio tips his head toward Blondy. Tick's eyes sharpen and spark. He runs a hand through his thick, black hair, rests his hand behind his head where he signals a plan of action to Rio.
From the corner of his eye, Rio sees Christian slink into the same shadowed corner he came out of. The guy lifts the hairs on Rio's arm to a ninety-degree angle, but Rio senses no danger from him, only desperation.
"Seriously." Copophobe continues his rant and paces. "That guy calls himself my friend? He's probably home right now curled up on the sofa with his HEA. They're laughing at me! Both of
This may be revision hell, but it is only a hero's revision hell. They work damn hard to be heros--deny gratuitous sex and violence, withhold unnecessary swearing. For God's sake, he doesn't take a piss once in a four hundred page novel. And if he is stuck here, he will be surrounded by his own kind. No villain's allowed.
Rio stares at Tick, and just like a cop, Tick feels the look and turns to Rio. With a tap on the right side of his lower back, Rio tips his head toward Blondy. Tick's eyes sharpen and spark. He runs a hand through his thick, black hair, rests his hand behind his head where he signals a plan of action to Rio.
From the corner of his eye, Rio sees Christian slink into the same shadowed corner he came out of. The guy lifts the hairs on Rio's arm to a ninety-degree angle, but Rio senses no danger from him, only desperation.
"Seriously." Copophobe continues his rant and paces. "That guy calls himself my friend? He's probably home right now curled up on the sofa with his HEA. They're laughing at me! Both of
them. I can feel it."
***
***
The hair on the back of Pete's neck suddenly stands straight. His feet pause. Instinct tells him to watch his ass. And then like clockwork, he hears the familiar whoosh, slap and click of weapons being drawn.
His adrenaline spikes. He grabs the 9mm from his waistband, whips around and stares down the barrell of not one, but two mean-ass looking Glocks.
"Oh for criminy sake," he mutters. "You've gotta be friggin' kidding me."
"Lower the weapon, hot shot." Hollywood takes one step to the right.
Pete keeps his Beretta aimed chest-high at Rodriguez. Something tells Pete he's the one with the vendetta here today. Hollywood's ticked he's in here, but Rodriguez is looking for any and every excuse to make a ruckus and get the hell out. Something about his girl being surrounded by a dozen gringos wanting a piece of her.
Long seconds pass. No one stands down. Weird-guy's still as stone in the corner like he vanished or something.
"I think we're at an impass here, boys," Pete says, darting looks between the two. "I'd think twice if I were you. I'm a spot-on shot. You take me down, I guarantee one of you's going with me."
Weird-guy suddenly drifts out of the corner. That's the only way to describe the movement. Like he's floating. Pete grips the gun tighter. No way that just happened.
"I sense trouble," Weird-guy says.
"Well, no sh--" Hollywood starts.
The door to the basement suddenly flies open.
***
The wooden slab bounces off the concrete wall. Tick gets one good look at the latest entrant and relaxes for half a second before training his gun on Pete again. "About time you showed up."
"Shut up, Calvert." The newcomer flips him off. An Army T-shirt stretches across a wide chest.
The single bulb hanging from the ceiling glints off sun-lightened blond hair. "Remember, I don't like you."
"One lousy blind date, Fish." Tick shakes his head. "I wasn't even interested in her. Your buddy Harding set us up."
"Yeah, yeah." Fish kicks the door shut behind him. "I know you Southern church-going, choir-singing boys. You were probably looking for an effing threesome."
"Wrong author."
Fish frowns at the tableau in front of him. "What the hell is going on down here, anyway?"
None of the guns move. Christian eyes Fish suspiciously. Tick glares. "The question is, what's going on up there?"
Fish bounds down the steps with a shrug. He picks up the remote, flips on the television. The plasma screen is the nicest piece of furniture in the room. A rerun of Gene Simmons Family Jewels flickers to life.
"Dunno. I'm stuck somewhere halfway through chapter three because She's so focused on your sorry ass." Fish frowns and gestures among the trio still holding one another at gunpoint. "These guys don't belong to Her, do they."
"No." Tick slants a glare at Pete. "Thank the Lord for small favors."
Pete cocks an eyebrow. "Like you're a real prize." He glances once toward the stairs and edges that way.
Labels: The Basement
posted by Linda Winfree at 8:29 PM
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