Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(74)
“She’s worried about him,” he told Maddy Powers, who was leaning on the rail next to him. Worried and probably riddled with guilt too. And wasn’t that just peachy? There were too many goddamn recriminations floating around for his tastes, what with Olivia being beside herself because of the catastrophe that had become this pisser of a mission and Leo blaming himself for what the sinking of the Wayfarer meant to their futures. Shit. Bran really wanted a do-over. Where was good ol’ H. G. Wells’s time machine when he needed it?
“And she should be,” he spat, his bad mood evident in his tone. “A deep dive isn’t a walk in the park, you know?”
“I do know.” Maddy curled her lip, properly chastised.
It wasn’t fair for him to vent his spleen on her. After all, she was just an innocent bystander who’d found herself caught up in a bad situation. Considering that, she was holding up remarkably well. No tears or theatrics, no demands to be told what was happening or threats to get a high-priced lawyer involved—though he figured her walls would probably come crumbling down later, after everything she’d experienced finally had a chance to sink in. But fair or not, he was in a bad mood. And some of that was due to her nearness. It made him itchy. Twitchy. Like his skin was too tight.
He didn’t like it. Not a bit.
It didn’t help matters that she’d changed out of her robe and into a set of loose, gray yoga pants and a soft, pink V-necked T-shirt. The latter accentuated the bright glow of her platinum-blond hair, setting off her dewy cheeks and rosy lips. Dude, the woman was a real-life cherub. A sexy cherub. And standing next to her made him aware of himself like he’d never been before. Here he was, this big oaf, all hairy and hard and menacing. The polar opposite to her tiny delicacy. Like a grizzly bear next to a crystal vase or some such shit.
And it was that tiny delicacy that made him want to march up the stairs to the bridge and kill that * terrorist all over again. Because when he’d asked about the tender-looking bruise on her cheek and the bigger one on her neck, she’d admitted the rat bastard had hit her. Three times! And for that the man should’ve had to suffer. He should’ve had to—
“Waitin’ on them to come up with whatever it is y’all are lookin’ for sort of makes me feel like Brad Pitt in the movie Seven,” she mused.
He may not like her nearness, but he did like the sound of her voice. It was high and sweet, filled with elongated, twanging vowels. And it was a good thing he liked it, because in the nearly two hours he’d known her, she hadn’t shut up. In case she wasn’t aware, he felt it was his place to inform her of the fact.
“So, is your mouth just naturally attached to a motor? Or is talking nonstop the way you deal with stress?”
The look she gave him was the same one she might have given a hair stuck in her dessert. Ballsy. “The former,” she informed him. “My mama says I could talk the legs off a chair. But it’s been my experience that when it comes to motormouths, it takes one to appreciate one.”
His chin pulled back. The woman was so goddamned ballsy. For all she knew, he could be the kind of guy to chuck her overboard for saying something like that. Lucky for her, he wasn’t. Unlucky for him, she was right. He had been accused by his teammates, more than a time or two, of never knowing when to zip it.
“Touché,” he allowed. “And sure, I’ll play.” He figured there were worse ways to spend the time waiting for Leo and Wolf. “Why do you feel like Brad Pitt in the movie Seven?”
“You know…” She made a face, waving her hands. “What’s in the box? What’s in the boooxxx?”
Despite himself, he felt one corner of his mouth twitch. “Are you a Brad Pitt fan?”
Please say no. ’Cause I look nothing like the dude…Whoa! Where the shit did that come from?
“Nah.” She twisted her lips. Because the upper was fuller than the lower, it made her look like she was pouting. He’d always had a thing for upside-down mouths. “I’m more of a cinema-in-general fan. You name it,” she boasted, “I’ve seen it and can tell you the leads, the director, and usually the writer too.”
Now that was interesting. He considered himself a bit of a movie connoisseur. Or, more truthfully, a film geek. When he was a teenager, he would sneak into the theater just about every night of the week. Initially he’d done it because it was a warm place to sleep in the wintertime and a cool place to sleep in the summertime. But then he’d started to actually watch the movies, and he’d fallen in love with the idea of spending two hours getting whisked away on an adventure or running from a serial killer or watching two people fall head-over-ass in love. Yes, he liked romantic comedies, so there.
He turned to face her fully. “That sounds sort of like a challenge,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
She looked up, her steel-gray eyes sparkling in the sun rays glinting off the waves. He had to suppress the urge to kiss her cute, uptilted nose. Weird. He’d just gotten laid last night by a bodacious redheaded tourist he’d picked up in the Green Parrot Bar on Key West. She’d ridden him like a rodeo cowgirl for a good forty-five minutes before finishing him off with a sloppy, though intensely exuberant blow job. Which meant it was too soon for him to be suffering from too-much-backed-up-testosterone-itis. Then again, he’d always been a sucker for blonds. Especially ones with upside-down mouths and tight little bodies.