Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(14)
Because the Black Knights, his colleagues…or, okay, so despite the ignominious way in which he’d joined the group, he supposed he could now count them as his friends…had decided to throw an impromptu party. And if there was one night a year when the dead-last thing he wanted to do was pull a Will Smith and “get jiggy wit’ it,” this was it.
Tonight of all nights, he had absolutely nothing to celebrate and a whole hell of a lot to lament. Beginning and ending with the five lives that had been lost six years ago because of his colossal f*ckup…
And to tell the truth, though he was sorry as hell for Delilah and the pain and anguish she was going through—then there was his own anxiety surrounding the matter; he happened to like Theo Fairchild immensely—he wasn’t sorry to have something other than the anniversary of that clusterf*ck in Afghanistan to occupy his mind. Because, try as he might—and you can bet your ass he’d been trying with all his might—he hadn’t been able to wash away with good Scottish whiskey the memories of that hot desert afternoon and the gruesome images that flashed behind his lids anytime he closed his eyes.
And, yes, he fully realized that numbing his pain at the expense of his liver was anything but mature, and he usually made a concerted effort to be out on a mission when this particular date rolled around. But with one of the Knights’ wives about to pop out a mini Knight at any moment, Boss, the esteemed leader of their little group of covert operators, had done his best to make sure as many of the guys as possible were on hand to witness the blessed event.
And, wouldn’t you know, Dagan’s last mission had ended three days ago, and since then, nothing pressing had come over the wires necessitating him to head back out to parts unknown. Which meant that he was stuck. Here. Waiting on the arrival of a bouncing bundle of joy and unexpectedly finding himself in the middle of a party he wanted no part of…
Then again, that wasn’t totally true. Because he was happy for his fellow operator. Honestly, he was. Even now, as he looked at Ghost rubbing the lower back of his extremely pregnant wife, Ali, he couldn’t deny the tiny spark of satisfaction…and is that longing?…that flashed deep inside him.
The Knights’ transient lifestyles, while thrilling, tended to make them a bad bet for solid relationships. Being hell and gone all the time seemed to curtail serious attachments. But somehow this guy, this hard-driving, hard-fighting operator, had managed to make it work. He’d managed to find a measure of peace, a little bit of happiness, despite the oftentimes spectacular pile of shit that was their under-the-table and off-the-books work for Uncle Sam. And standing there, watching him grin at his wife like he’d just won the lottery gave Dagan hope that maybe someday he, too, might discover a love that could repair all the broken things inside him. A love that could bring him some small level of contentment, that would…he didn’t know…make it all, all the struggle and pain, all the regret and sacrifice, worth it.
On the other hand, Ghost was a grade-A, stand-up guy who didn’t have the blood of five innocent people on his hands, so—
“Three more barley pops for the new arrivals, Steady!” Ozzie, the Knights’ on-staff computer whiz, called cheerfully to the ex–Army Ranger medic who now served as BKI’s in-house sawbones. “And while you’re at it, pass me one, too.”
“I thought you said you were headed out to sow your wild oats,” Steady retorted as he popped the top on the big cooler positioned beside his bright red Adirondack chair.
“Sow his wild oats?” Becky, BKI’s wunderkind motorcycle designer/mechanic, scoffed from her position on Boss’s lap. She was simultaneously sucking down suds and lapping at one of her ever-present Dum Dum lollipops. And just imagining that particular taste combination made the scotch in Dagan’s stomach threaten a reappearance. “Is that what you call getting more ass than a sorority house toilet seat?” A wet, slightly fishy-smelling breeze blew in from the nearby Chicago River and teased the ends of her long blond ponytail. Then her smile quickly morphed into a frown as she pointed the end of her sucker in Ozzie’s direction. “And you can wipe that look off your face right this minute.”
“What look?” Ozzie asked innocently.
“The one that says you know what color panties I’m wearing.”
“Well, I can’t help that.” Ozzie grinned, reaching up to adjust an invisible tie around his neck. “Guessing the color of women’s drawers is just one of my many talents.”
“Ozzie…” Boss warned.
“Now back to this sorority house toilet seat comment,” Ozzie blazed ahead. “I thank you for the vote of confidence in my manly prowess, but if we’re talking manwhores, we need to turn the spotlight off me and shine it on this guy sitting beside me.”
“Me?” Steady hooked a thumb at his chest. The firelight flickered across his swarthy, Hispanic features and flashed in his laughing black eyes. “I’m not the one who goes through women like Kleenex, cabrón.”
“Pfft.” Ozzie waved him off. “I may technically,” he stressed the word, “have a few more notches on my bedpost than you do.” Dagan rolled his eyes. Surely they weren’t keeping a running tally. Surely. “But at least I’m not the high king of one-night stands. At least I’m gentlemanly enough to take them out to dinner a couple of times afterward, make some kind of connection. I think you’re known around town as Mr. One-and-Done!”