Tough Luck (A-List Security 1)

Cash gestured at the outfit he’d presented me with that morning—faded, ripped baggy jeans, a flannel shirt, and an old T-shirt advertising spring break at some lake. I’d decided I was better off not knowing where the clothes had come from and put them on without argument, even if the idea of used clothes totally weirded me out. Cash handed me the same sunglasses I’d had the day before and plunked the ball cap he’d been wearing on my head. Today’s hat was gray with a truck logo.

“Thanks. Do you have a whole collection of hats?”

“Nah. Not that many. Didn’t want to wear the same one as yesterday, but I hate dealing with the sun’s glare without a hat.”

“Thanks for sharing.” I had the same warm feeling I’d had the day before, wearing something of Cash’s, still warm from his head and smelling like his shampoo. I’d puttered around the bathroom at Duncan’s place, trying to find the product that made Cash smell so good, but had only ended up with a sneezing fit.

I slumped in my seat as Cash pumped gas then darted into the small convenience store. He returned with two sodas, a bag of some sort of sweet popcorn, and chocolate-covered nuts.

“Here.” He deposited his bounty in my lap before reclaiming his hat. “It’s not a real road trip without junk food.”

“Oh wow.” I wasn’t sure when I’d last seen so many grams of sugar. Even as a kid, my access to junk had been strictly regulated and usually limited to what craft services had on set. “I was trying to do this whole macrobiotic thing, but those fries yesterday were so tempting. You’re hell on my good intentions.”

“Likewise,” he muttered before heading back to the highway.

“Oh?” Maybe we were about to discuss that kiss after all.

“Eat your snack.”

Or not. I opened the popcorn first. “Okay, okay. I can take a hint. Tell me how you got your nickname?”

Listening to him and Harley banter had been fun, all the nicknames and military jargon and good-natured insults. I hadn’t ever been around guys like them much, ones who said fuck you as an endearment and had a lengthy history of predicaments they’d been in together.

“Money? I guess it was inevitable given my name, but they started calling me that in basic training. Like I said, I’m not a bad shot. The instructor kept saying how my aim was money, and it stuck.”

“That sounds like you’re far better than not bad.”

He shrugged as we entered a more winding stretch of road, dark hills getting closer. “I’ve got a few ribbons.”

“I bet.” He’d had a couple of pics of him in fatigues on his phone, but none in a dress uniform. I bet he was spectacular in navy dress whites, chest full of ribbons…I resisted the urge to fan myself. He’d said a couple of times how he didn’t have much of an imagination, but my own was far too active where he was concerned. “Did you have a specialty? Like how some of the SEALs are medics or snipers or fixers like Harley?”

That got a laugh from him. “Fixer isn’t really a duty classification, but Harley would happily take the title. And I’m kind of a jack-of-all-trades. I do what needs to be done. I’m good with hard work. Got two hundred pounds to pack in? I’m your guy. Duncan’s the brains. Harley’s the wheeler-dealer. I’m the grunt.”

“I think you’re probably selling yourself short.” I didn’t like it when he downplayed his skills. Like he’d said he couldn’t cook much, then produced an amazing sandwich the night before. And the respect Harley and Duncan had for him showed Cash was an impressive guy. Harley, in particular, seemed like the type of hardass who didn’t easily hand out his respect. Heck, just making the SEALs meant Cash was one step removed from the superhero he’d wanted to be. “You have plenty of skills most people don’t. And being a good team member, that’s a skill too. Too many people are only out for themselves.”

“Truth.” He glanced over at me, an understanding of sorts passing between us. We might not have much else in common, but we’d both been screwed over more than once.

“Maybe that’s why you’re having a hard time.” I’d been thinking all morning about how Cash lacked a plan for his life post-military, trying to reconcile that with someone who was otherwise decisive and take charge.

“I’m not having a hard time.” His snappish tone put an end to whatever shared moment we’d been having.

“You are too.” I didn’t want to let this drop. Cash was doing so much for me. Maybe I could help him develop a new plan or at least some peace about being out of the navy. “You said yourself that you can’t seem to pick a direction for your post-military life. Maybe you’ve been on a team so long you don’t know how to put yourself first.”