“Cant say where you’re headed?”
I shook my head once again because it was part of the deal, absolute secrecy at all times to keep the rich, the powerful and the infamous, in their safe Egyptian cotton bubbles. “I only have a general idea, until 0400 hours tomorrow when we do the mission briefing.” The only real difference was that private security paid a hell of a lot better than Uncle Sam did, and the people I was paid to protect. Otherwise it was the same danger, same adrenaline and the same damn bad guys.
“Do you know who,” Xander asked and slid a shot and a beer my way.
I shrugged. “Some Fortune 500 type, I assume based on what intel I have.”
He nodded and we smacked our shot glasses together and emptied them at the same time. “How long will you be gone?”
“Three weeks, four tops.” It would be a long job, longer than any I’ve had in the past six months or so, and tonight I was looking for a little female company to take the edge off.
“Long job,” he said as he reached for his beer.
I flashed a smile and reached for my own beer as I scanned the bar in search of any new faces who might be up for some no-strings fun. “And it doesn’t start until 0400 hours.”
Another of Xander’s laughs sounded but this one was different. “Good thing you’re on the prowl man, because you’ve certainly got someone’s attention.”
At his tone I turned and followed his gaze, and promptly groaned. “Seriously?” Olive Jensen. The woman had a hate on for me, something good, and I didn’t know why, not exactly. I figured it was because a woman like her, so good to her core, must be able to sense I was no good and wisely kept her distance.
“Never knew a man to get under her skin so much,” he said with far too much amusement in his voice. “Rest easy Liam, today you’re probably number two on her list.”
I didn’t bother asking what that meant, just picked up my beer again and smiled. “I guess I better go see what that scowl is all about.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. You too. Redhead, five o’clock,” I told him and walked off, feeling lighter than when I walked in. Olive sat in a booth by herself, two discarded glasses near the wall and a fresh half-full glass right in front of her. “Care to tell me what I’ve done to earn your scowl this time, Olive?”
She froze at the sound of my voice, took a second to gather her thoughts and turned to me, scowl turned up to full power. It really was too bad that she hated my guts, because Olive was beautiful with thick black hair and light green eyes that were shaped like almonds, making her appear almost like a fairy or other type delicate creature, except she had the curves of a woman who knew what to do with a body like that. “I wasn’t scowling at you.”
“Really,” I asked and slid into the booth seat across from her. “Because it felt a hell of a lot like a scowl to me.”
She growled and the sound was sexy as hell, went straight to my cock. “Where the hell else am I supposed to look when you take up all the space in any damn room you’re in?” Her words were excited but not the good kind of excitement, the borderline annoyance kind. “Your stupid handsome face, that big muscular body and loud laugh, you make it impossible to ignore you!” Realizing what she said, Olive froze. “I’m not hitting on you Liam, just stating a fact. A super annoying fact,” she grumbled and took another sip of her girly cocktail.
I held back a smile at her tone because Drunk Olive was far less uptight and annoying than normal everyday Olive. “Thanks.”
She pointed a long, light pink painted nail in my direction. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
My smile widened. “Really? It felt like one and saying thanks is the polite thing to do.”
She snorted and even that was attractive, which told me I was harder up than I realized for female company. “Polite? Can you even spell polite?”
“Yep,” I said and leaned in until just a few inches separated our faces. “It’s spelled, thank you.”
“Real cute,” she practically growled and scanned the crowd, probably in search of that smarmy boyfriend of hers.
“Thank you, Olive. Again.”
“That was a…never mind.” Olive tried to stand and stumbled. Twice. “Damn stupid booths.”
“Need a hand?” She glared up at me and I raised my hands in defeat. “Taking the whole feminism thing a little far, aren’t you? It was just a question.”
The glare she sent me this time was worth it. More than worth it, when her sage green eyes darkened to almost black and she leaned forward, giving me a glimpse of the cleavage she usually kept hidden under prim tops and boxy office clothes. “I don’t need a hand Liam.”