The Sunset Job (The Rainbow's Seven 1)

“That’s a story for another day,” Roman answered, nodding toward the exit. Wyatt made a mental bookmark to be sure to circle back. He realized that there were years and years of stories left untold between them. Where had Roman been? What had this wild life done to him? Who had he met? Worked with? Loved?

So many questions, and knowing Roman, Wyatt wasn’t getting any of those answers soon.

“Let’s head back. I feel like that moray eel’s been watching us this entire time.”

Wyatt looked to a small cove created in the coral, where a huge moray hung with its head out and a weird smile on its prehistoric-looking green face. “Yeah, he’s giving me creepy pervert vibes. Are we sure there aren’t cameras here? I think he might have set some up.”

Roman laughed, an arm around Wyatt’s lower back as they walked out of the underwater tunnel. “I’m glad I’ve got my saltshaker here. This all feels right. Like it was meant to happen this way.”

Wyatt secretly glowed at hearing his old nickname again, the warmth spreading through him like the roots of an ancient tree, burrowing deep. He didn’t show how happy hearing that made him, not yet, but he did allow the smile to grow, pushing at his cheeks and forming two dimples that were rarely ever on display.

He went to sleep with that same grin—and woke up with it, too.

Chapter 11

Roman Ashford

The plane touched down in Madrid sometime after four o’clock local time, a private jet that had been hired to take a “film crew” to the location of their next shoot. They deplaned and hopped right into the waiting van. Roman enjoyed spoiling his gang, especially now that they had an official name to tie them together.

Too bad this was meant to be their last job. He thought the Rainbow’s Seven had a nice ring to it.

He also appreciated how well everyone gelled together. Even Wyatt, being the newest and most reluctant member, found a friend in Bang Bang, who played blackjack with him to help keep Wyatt’s mind off his fear of flying. Roman also offered his assistance by shooting him a text to meet him in the bathroom, where he could help distract him some more, but Wyatt sent an eye-roll emoji and said “too obvious.”

Roman didn’t really care if it was obvious or not. Their hookup at the aquarium unlocked a feral side to him, keeping his dick in a constantly chubbed state, not helped by the fact that erections seemed to spontaneously appear for men flying thirty-six thousand feet up in the air.

But Roman also respected Wyatt enough to not push. He shot back a crying face and left it at that, getting lost in a conversation with Doc and Phantom over the benefits of going gluten-free, not exactly the most riveting conversation but one that Roman ran with nonetheless. The mundane topic helped keep his thoughts from circling back to Wyatt coming down his throat.

“We’re here,” Mimic said from the passenger seat as Mustang pulled up to the five-star hotel they were staying at, only minutes from where the party was being held. Wyatt let out a low (but still audible) “holy fucking shit” as he stepped out of the car, Roman holding the door open for him.

“Not bad, huh? Wait until you see the rooms.” Roman put a hand between Wyatt’s shoulders and walked with him toward the golden doors, a series of different flags waving above them. There was a golden tiger just behind the valet station, which was crowded with men and women wearing designer suits and dresses, all of them likely headed to the same party. The towering columns on either side of the entrance appeared to have been brought in from the coliseum itself, spiraling up toward the clear blue sky.

Roman and Wyatt walked through the sliding glass doors, Mimic coming up on Roman’s side. Her usual raven black hair was now luscious auburn brown waves that fell down to her back, a pair of expensive Gucci sunglasses sitting on a perfectly sculpted nose, her high cheekbones sparkling from a dash of crystal-like highlight. She looped an arm through Roman’s and smiled at the front desk, checking them in using fluent Spanish. Roman knew just enough to get by, but his accent would likely give away his non-native speaking tongue, which wouldn’t be ideal considering they were supposed to be close relatives to the birthday girl.

The smiling concierge gave them all a bubbling glass of champagne with their room keys and walked them to their own private elevator. They were staying in the two presidential suites, connected at the very top floor of the hotel, making it a surprisingly long ride in the red velvet elevator.

The doors dinged open and dropped them off in a small lobby, decked out in an eclectic collection of furniture. There was an antique table painted purple in front of a sitting area that was framed by a palm-tree-covered wallpaper, and a small love seat that appeared to be a red high-heel shoe, sitting underneath an opulent chandelier. It bordered on the tacky but leaned closer to the artsy, and Roman fucking loved it. He was reminded of the wild shit his neighbors at the trailer park would bring home, decorating their front lawns with upcycled Christmas decorations and items from abandoned storage containers. He imagined this would be what their places would look if they had the money backing this bougie-ass hotel.