In a Fix (Torus Intercession 2)

“We’ll see about that,” Brig warned Dallas, and I was certain, without looking, that he had pulled out his phone to call his lawyer.

“Hey,” Dallas murmured, and when I glanced at him, I saw how heavy-lidded his eyes were. “Why’d you get up?”

“You got up first,” I said, sounding more defensive than I meant to.

His grin, utterly filthy, dangerous, made my mouth go dry. “Well, I had to move because I liked sitting next to you a little bit more than I should’ve.”

That was certainly good to hear. I was having the same effect on him he was having on me.

“I fell asleep on you last night.”

“You did,” I agreed, shifting on my feet, angling my body so I could more easily stare into his gorgeous slate blue eyes.

“I never fall asleep without a fight,” he informed me, looking down at his feet for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “Sometimes I drink,” he said under his breath.

“Sometimes?” I asked him, squinting. I’d known a lot of cops, and an FBI agent was in the same ballpark. The brain needed to be forcibly shut down; otherwise the days played on continual loops. And while the good ones were great, the bad ones tended to stick around longer. “You drink only now and then?”

“More now,” he conceded with a shrug.

“Okay.”

“Sometimes”—he stressed the word so I’d know that whatever he was about to add was not about the alcohol—“there’s people I use for the same reason.”

“As diversions,” I said, and it was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah.”

“Men? Women? The occasional alien?”

He smirked. “Yep. All of the above.”

“Okay.” I appreciated his candor. “Do you get names?”

“Not of the tourists,” he revealed, looking over his shoulder, checking on Brig and Eric for a moment before his eyes were back on me. “But I have a few friends too, the occasional acquaintance. It’s not all hit and run.”

I took a breath, prepared to give him space. “Well, while I appreciate being your confessor, I think––”

He grabbed hold of my wrist, tight, and when I turned to look into his face, I saw his jaw tighten and the muscle working in his cheek.

“Tell me why you feel the need to share,” I ordered, clenching my fist even as he continued to hold my wrist, his fingertips digging into the underside, sliding over my pulse point.

“It’s… I have all kinds of pills to help me try and just close my eyes, but it doesn’t work. Nothing works.”

“Then you must have been dead on your feet last night,” I surmised, opening my hand, allowing him to keep hold of me even as I imagined the process of getting free and slamming him face-first up against the glass. The man craved submission and direction; I could almost smell it on him. My pulse jumped just thinking about holding him down, but I needed to give him his out. “What did you tell me—you hadn’t slept in four days? That could kill you.”

“So could a lot of things I do that are nothing more than part of the job.”

I had no doubt that was true. “If there’s a point to this”—I clipped the words, ready to hear him speak plainly—“please make it.”

“I already did. I told you,” he muttered, exhaling sharply before levering off the window, turning to mirror my pose, both of us staring out at the Vegas skyline. “I’m always fuckin’ tired, and I never fuckin’ sleep. My brain won’t turn off.”

“Maybe you need to rethink your career path.”

“Nope,” he replied, shaking his head. “Because last night, sitting with you—I was out like a light.”

I grunted.

“Why do you think that is? Are you so laid-back and chill that your mere presence is that soothing? Does everyone just relax around you?”

My scoff was loud, and his head swiveled to me, his face a study in uncertainty.

“Everyone I know thinks I’m high strung,” I informed him.

His brows furrowed as his eyes narrowed.

“Really,” I assured him. “Think about it. Last night you said I was annoying.”

“That was before,” he mumbled, his voice bottoming out as his fingers brushed the back of my hand, slipping between mine briefly, barely there, the entire action started and finished in mere heartbeats. “Now I just—” He took a breath. “Wanna show you my place.”

I smiled at him. “Do I need to take a number? You said there were others.”

“No,” he croaked softly, eyes flicking back to the Strip. “Not until you go.”

Our pull, attraction, whatever it was, made little sense. We hadn’t really talked; it was more of a hookup, with all the interest and none of the fast, sloppy, sweaty bathroom sex. We were forced to talk around each other because we were in the middle of something bigger.

And yet…

He wanted me to see where he lived.

“And I don’t bring anyone home,” he said, gaze back on mine. “My house doesn’t have a revolving door.”