Complicate (Deliver 9)

It was after midnight when the door to her room opened. Mike stepped in, carrying a microwaved burrito on a paper plate.

She shoved the half-eaten bag of candy beneath her. Too late.

He pounced, snatching the Twizzlers and dropping the plate on the bed beside her.

“I’m not eating that.” She shoved away the food.

He pushed it back. “You need protein, not empty calories.” He tossed the candy on the table.

“There’s nothing more unhealthy than a frozen burrito.”

“Say that again.” He crawled onto the mattress, grinning.

Oh, man. She was a sucker for his crooked Bruce Willis smile. He looked like a younger version of the actor—all cocky and handsome with that indestructible, blue-collar edge that women loved. He also brought a level of warmth and humor that no one saw but her.

Mike was her rock, and every day at his side was a good day to die hard.

“Say what again?” She blinked, playing dumb.

“You know what.” He grabbed the burrito and shoved it against her mouth.

“Burrito,” she muttered around the dried-out shell.

“I love the way you say those Rs in that accent.” He tipped his head, biting down on his grin. “Like they’re stuck in your throat, and you have to hack them out.”

“Shut up.”

“Eat.” He pressed the burrito to her hand.

She pouted but didn’t have many options. The only food around here was either frozen or in a can.

While she gave in and ate, he stripped down to his briefs and stretched out on the mattress beside her. There were other rooms and other beds, but he never left her alone at night. As the only woman among a team of single, testosterone-fueled men, she was grateful he had her back.

Neither she nor Mike selected the men assigned with them. Before this job, they didn’t know any of these people. She could count on them to obey orders and earn their wages, but she didn’t trust them.

She didn’t trust anyone but Mike.

With her dinner eaten and the lights off, she collapsed against him, tucked under a muscled arm with her cheek on his chest. His hand found hers, twining their fingers together.

As much as she didn’t want to think about Cole, the instant she closed her eyes, all she saw were his. Huge brown eyes. Disarmingly intelligent.

“How did our prisoner react to his room?” she asked.

“As you would expect.”

“He didn’t react.”

“Nope. No last-ditch attempts to escape. No struggle. Not a twitch behind that beard.”

Her chest constricted. “He’s smart.”

“He’s trained. But we’ve gone up against harder men than him.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s not too late to cut our losses and get F out of H.”

“Are you serious?” She popped up, glaring at him in the dark. “What the hell, Mike?”

“Calm down. I was just tossing it out there.” He gripped a lock of her hair and pulled. “Come here.”

She went, returning her head to his chest. “We have to finish this.”

“I know.”

“No matter what.”

His silence rang through the room, his objections deafening. She wriggled closer, resting her brow against his whiskered cheek. His jaw felt like steel, his entire body rigid with tension.

They’d argued about her role in this job, and he wasn’t over it.

“I can do this.” She ran a hand over his neatly trimmed crew cut, trying to soothe him.

“What if you can’t? What if he’s as unflappable on the inside as he is on the surface?”

“Everyone has a breaking point. I’ll find his.”

How many days had Cole been in here? Had it been a week? Longer? He hugged his knees to his chest, his body naked and filthy, every inch covered in itchy dust.

No use trying to find a comfortable position on the hard floor. The cell was designed for misery.

Dirty.

Empty.

Pitch-black.

He only saw daylight twice a day when someone opened the door to toss in food and switch out the buckets. A bucket for drinking and a bucket for shitting. Christ, he hoped they didn’t mix up the two.

While lying on the cold concrete and living off a repulsive diet of frozen hot dogs, he was forced to listen to the same aggressive, head-pounding, thrash metal song over and over and over. It was a three-minute meth binge on repeat, delivered at a blistering velocity that tried to rip off his fucking face.

He used to love hardcore music, but after a few days of guttural vocals and distorted riffs, the genre was ruined for him. He didn’t recognize the song. Not at first. Now he knew every raging word and shredded guitar chord. He hated it. He wanted to stab his goddamn ears with an ice pick.

It was truly painful, digging under his skin and dry-humping at his last nerve.

But that was the point.

Psychological torture.

The only time they shut it off was when they opened the door. He tried not to anticipate those moments, but there was nothing else to do but wait.