Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(5)
And speak of the devil.
“Funny. I don’t remember opening this conversation up to comments from the peanut gallery.” Zoelner scowled. He always scowled when talking to Chelsea…or about Chelsea. The two had been coworkers back in the day. And Dan supposed they were sort of coworkers again, given that Chelsea had officially been named the CIA’s liaison to Black Knights Inc.
“And for the record,” Chelsea continued, as if Zoelner hadn’t spoken, “rabbits were part of the scientific order Rodentia until sometime around the turn of the twentieth century. They’ve since been reclassified to something called Lagomorpha, which means they aren’t technically rodents anymore, but—”
“I don’t give a fiddler’s f*ck what they’re classified as,” Zoelner interrupted. “My point is, I haven’t eaten one. And in case you were both unaware”—he slid Dan’s half-consumed snack a wary glance—“there’s always chicken available. Always. Or beans! Dear God, what’s so wrong with getting your daily dose of protein from an innocuous little legume?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Chelsea admitted. A subtle smacking noise sounded over the airwaves. “It’s just that beans are bland, not nearly as tasty as other, say, meatier choices.”
Zoelner blanched just as a bus made to look like a trolley car trundled by on the brick street in front of them, belching exhaust fumes into the crisp mountain air. “Are you eating something, Chels?” he inquired hesitantly.
“I skipped lunch,” came Chelsea’s reply. “And when I heard Dan chewing, I realized my belly button was rubbing a sore spot on my backbone. So I asked the baker’s son to go out to get me a snack.”
“What kind of snack?” Zoelner ventured to ask.
“Cuy.”
Zoelner made a retching sound and Chelsea’s low, husky laugh resonated in their ears.
Dan shook his head. He, for one, was glad she’d joined them. She added some much-needed comic relief to two guys who, due to their natures and a few karmic punches in the gut from life, were typically sullen and withdrawn.
“I was thinking about our sleeping arrangements, Chels,” Dan blurted. Number one, because it was sure to freak Zoelner out. And number two, because he was bored as shit. From the very beginning, this assignment had been nothing but schlepping ass from one South American city to the next, following leads that either turned out to be a whole lot of hooey, or else didn’t pan out because the CIA kept f*cking things up by being all bull-in-the-china-shoppy. The overeager sonsofbitches. And for the record, this current lead was looking to wind up at the same deader-than-dead end, so what was the harm in stirring the pot that held Dagan Zoelner and Chelsea Duvall and livening up his day?
Sure enough, Zoelner turned to him, eyes wide, expression plastered with What the hell are you doing? Dan let his eyelids hang at half-mast and paired them with a shit-eating grin.
“What do you mean?” Chelsea’s tone was cautious.
Dan’s grin widened. “I was just thinking it’s sorta unfair for Zoelner and me to get the soft feather bed and leave you on that rickety ol’ cot.” The room they’d rented above the bakery a quarter mile from their current position had approximately the same square footage as a Triscuit, smelled strongly of powdered sugar and yeast, and came equipped with one full-sized bed and one pint-sized cot. Masquerading as a group of money-tight backpackers in order to keep a low profile came with certain disadvantages.
“Besides,” he continued, “Zoelner doesn’t like it when I’m the big spoon. And I refuse to be the little spoon. So I was thinking maybe if this lead doesn’t pan out, you and I could switch places tonight, and—”
“No!” Chelsea and Zoelner barked in unison. Dan had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Zoelner flipped him the bird by way of pretending to scratch his eyebrow with his middle finger.
“I’m perfectly fine with the cot,” Chelsea insisted.
“And I don’t let you be the big spoon because I’m afraid of what you’ll do to me in your sleep,” Zoelner added. “Every damn night you dream about that chick you worked with in Kuala Lumpur. And then you moan and whisper, ‘Penni, oh, Penni!’ It skeeves me out.”
If Dan was the blushing type, he would have been red from the tops of his ears to the tips of his toes. As it was, he simply swallowed and hoped Zoelner couldn’t see how just the mere mention of Penni’s name made his blood run hot.
“Penni?” Chelsea asked, the timbre of her voice that of a woman who smelled gossip in the air. “Ooooh, do tell, Dan. And don’t leave anything out. I could use a good romantic story. The tediousness of this assignment is getting to me.”
The smirk Zoelner sent him was evil enough to scare the devil himself, and Dan could do nothing but tip his head, giving the guy points for summarily turning the tables. “You won that round, you big penis-wrinkle,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth. Louder, he tried to sidestep the issue. “And tedious, Chels? Really? You’ve only been doing this two days. Try three months!”
“Yes, yes,” she agreed. “You poor, abused clandestine government operators. I’m sure there’s moss growing on your weapons as we speak. Now stop stalling and spill.”
So much for sidestepping…