Iris (Mike Bravo Ops 1)
“Do a good job today and he’ll probably drop the overprotective daddy act.”
“You’re right. I need to pay my dues.”
When we get downstairs, I have to laugh at Ghost and Angel. Angel’s in a black bikini that makes her tits and ass look amazing, and Ghost looks like a frat boy on steroids wearing board shorts, a tight tank top, and bright pink-framed sunglasses.
“Do you think we’ll be able to go swimming while we’re there?” I ask. “We could take advantage of this situation. Five-star hotel in Santa Monica. Pool bar. How fast do we need to get this done?”
“Technically Trav has booked our hotel room for the night,” Ghost says.
Angel shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. No way. I am not spending the night with you guys. Especially not with what feels like dental floss separating my ass cheeks.”
“Hey, these two might not appreciate your attire”—I point to Saint and Ghost—“but trust me when I say, I do.”
“Look all you want.” She turns to show me her ass. “You know that’s as far as you’re ever going to get.”
“We need more bi and pan people up in this place,” I say.
Angel cocks her head. “Why? That would be like filling the place with candy and saying you can’t eat any.”
“Mm, true.” It’s hard enough being around Saint without wanting to … eat him.
“No partying,” Trav says from the top of the stairs. “You have a job to do, and you know I’ll be listening in.” He joins us and hands out our earpieces. They’re top-of-the-range spy shit he gets from God knows where, but they’re discreet and small enough to fit in our ear that they’re not visible to anyone who’s not looking for them.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” I say.
Saint and I change into a similar getup as Ghost, except Saint dons a long-sleeve T-shirt. Angel throws on a beachy kaftan over her bikini. We pack proper suitcases with surveillance equipment and cover them with beach towels before getting on the road, taking one of Trav’s Range Rovers. Ghost drives, Angel takes the passenger seat, so that means Saint and I are relegated to the back seat.
“What exactly is our cover story going to be?” Saint asks.
“Polyamorous foursome looking for some extra fun?” I suggest.
“No,” everyone in the car says at the same time.
“Fine. No one pretend to be in love with me. I’ll just be alllll by myyyself,” I sing.
“Is he always like this?” Saint asks.
“Always,” Angel says. “I would say we could play the brothers and sister angle, but the only one I look close enough to be related to is Iris with his dark hair and brown eyes.”
True, both Ghost and Saint have lighter coloring than Angel and me.
“College friends?” I throw out there.
“You wish you could pass for twenty-one,” Saint says.
“I could totally pass for twenty-one. My skin is fucking flawless, thank you very much.”
“Iris and Ghost could pull off frat boys.” Angel purses her lips. “Sorry, Saint, but I don’t think you have the attitude for it.”
“I want to be offended, but I think that’s actually a compliment.”
“Please,” I scoff. “You wish you could be like me.”
“I can be you. Just watch. I’m going to be the biggest douchecanoe there ever was.”
This might actually be fun. “Wait … you think I look like a douchecanoe?”
“Is that really up for debate?” Angel asks, and I flip her off.
It takes forever to get to Santa Monica because of typical LA traffic, but we all slip into character as soon as Ghost pulls up to the hotel valet.
Only Ghost has contact with Trav through his earpiece, but we’ll get fitted with our comms when we get to our room.
Trav already hacked the hotel res system to find out what room Danyal is staying in and then made our reservation for a room on the same floor.
While Ghost and Angel check in, Saint and I hang back and scope out the lobby. Without warning, Saint jumps me and gets me in a playful headlock.
“Douchecanoe protocol activated?” I grunt.
“Yep. And I wanted to see what the guys in suits hanging by the elevators would do.”
The answer is nothing other than stare at us with derision.
“Good to know.” Saint pushes me away.
“Who are they, do you think? Hotel security?”
“Nah. I’d bet hired security for Danyal.”
“Well, then …” I raise my voice. “Where the party at?”
The people behind the desk look less than impressed, but this is the type of hotel who deal with Hollywood starlets and famous parties all the time. It comes with the price tag of a room. It’s a hotel for the rich and famous, not stuffy and old kind of rich people.
We get our keys and head for the room, Saint and I play fighting the whole way past the security guards and onto the elevator. I’m thankful when we’re finally in private again and Saint steps away from me because having his hands on me reminds me too much of that night in my tent.