Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(76)

Lily gulped and nodded. No arguing with that position.

“So, how about that chain?” McCloud was all business again.

“Down by the bridge,” Bruno said. “Tony always used to chain the road when he left.”

“String it. I’ll gather supplies.”

Bruno loped off down the road. Lily watched him go and aimed tnervous question at Sean McCloud’s back as he rummaged through the back of the Jeep for supplies. “How do you intend to, ah, take some of them prisoner without killing them?”

McCloud flashed a grin over his shoulder. He held up handfuls of small, dark cylindrical objects. “Watch and learn,” he said. “This is gonna be fun. Promise you won’t tell my wife. She’s funny that way.”

She studied them in trepidation. “What the hell are those?”

“Flashbangs. Stun grenades. Now be quiet and let me work.”



There was an art to feigning sleep. Aaro was good at it. His standard method of not dealing with whatever female he’d just had sex with. Breathing was key. Deep, slow, and steady. Mouth slack, open, face relaxed. And calm. No mental buzz, no static. Chicks picked up on that. Bright ones, anyhow, and this one was bright. He could tell in spite of their deliberate dearth of conversation.

He was justified in the sleep he was feigning, after the f*ck marathon she’d put him through. Not that he’d complained. He’d been fine with the hard, uncomplicated pounding that she’d wanted. Up, down, backward, forward, bring it on, he wasn’t fussy. She liked it rough; she came easily and often. But she kept wanting more.

After six bouts, he caught on. She was a sexual black hole. A guy could kill himself trying to satisfy her. But it had been a long time, so what the f*ck, he put out. She was gorgeous. High, bouncing tits. Ass taut and perfect. Snug, hot pink *, waxed and plucked and groomed. A walking wet dream. His dick stiffened thinking of it. So why was he feigning sleep instead of mounting back up, giving her more?

It was the clenched feeling in his belly. Like a tiny fist. After ejaculating that many times, he should be comatose, but her febrile desperation made him nervous. Even while she was climaxing, she was always clawing for something more. Something she just couldn’t have.

Maybe it had to do with the * husband screwing the slut sister. In any case, it was depressing, and he was depressed all on his own, thanks. He’d avoid the whole sticky mess of sex altogether, if he could. Steer clear of females, with their incomprehensible demands. Live the life of a monk, tranquil, solitary. But he had a functioning dick that wanted what it wanted, and it had to be periodically appeased, or he got testosterone backup. Toxic. Very bad scene.

So he was good at feigning sleep. Biofeedback training helped. He had control over his heartbeat, blood pressure. He projected the vibe sleeping, sleeping, while following her every move. The rustle of sheets, the roll and dip of the bed. Feet padding toward the bathroom. Water running. Click, a beam of light, a cloud of steam. He listened to her dressing, relief warring with caution. She was bailing for real. Yes.

She rummaged in her purse for a moment. A few beats of pure silence. His small hairs prickled. What was up? She was just standing there, staring? Wondering if she should wake him, say good-bye?

Please, don’t. Just go. Take your problems and vanish. Write a note if you have to. And then . . . just . . . go.

She was tiptoeing closer. The balls of her feet shushed against the carpet fibers. Next to the bed. He felt her body heat, smelled her shower gel, her shoe leather. But no breathing. She was holding her breath.

He almost twitched with the need to open his eyes, but then he’d have to talk to her. Even f*ck her again, may.

The silence was strange. It quivered in the air. Like indecision.

Or . . . anticipation.

His heart sped up. He’d have to drag in air soon. Something was off. Either she’d lean over, kiss him good-bye, God forbid . . . or else . . .

Or else she was holding a knife to his throat.

His body contracted. He jerked, knocked whatever she was holding away from his face. It went flying.

She landed a punch to his jaw. Her elbow stabbed his ribs. Fuck. He barely blocked the knee to his balls. Lunged for her as she scuttled back. She was fast, but he had the weight and reach. He blocked her punch, seized her arm, flipped her. Landed on top of her, all two hundred and forty pounds of him. Knocked out her air. Felt no remorse.

She bucked, choked for air. He pinned her wrists, looked around. He was naked, and a hotel room didn’t have much in the way of ligature lying around, so he groped under her top with one hand, unhooked her bra. He ripped the straps loose, yanked the lacy garment off her torso. Used it to bind her wrists. Twisting hard, knotting tight. No mercy.

He rolled her onto her back, on top of her bound hands, and leaned until her face paled and sweat popped out on her forehead.

“I’ve rethought this no-names rule,” he remarked. “Considering this development, I think you should tell me who you are.”

Her eyes glittered, her chest heaved. “Fuck you.”

He leaned harder, forcing a high-pitched wheeze out of her, and without taking his eyes off hers, snagged the object he’d batted out of her hand. A little spray bottle. Son of a bitch.

“What’s this? A knock-out drug?” he asked. “What’s it for?”

She shook her head.

He studied her. “I have a hundred and eighty bucks on me in cash,” he said. “Bet you spent five times that amount on those shoes alone. If you want money, you should be cruising the casinos on the Indian reservations. Not slumming in roadhouses with losers like me.”