Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(24)

“Take care of yourself. I mean, he’s a player, right? He’s a rentboy. I was kind of hoping you’d . . .”

“Settle down with a nice guy?”

“That’s it.” Mike leaned in. “The sex is great, but don’t get hurt, okay, big guy? You’re pretty amazing, and Geoff and I both think you deserve . . . something good. Especially now that you’re open to it again, because, bloody hell, we were worried.” Mike was always the guy more in touch with his emotions. He’d do fantastically well as a gay extra in a female romcom.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Frank patted Mike’s shoulder, hugged him for a moment. “Thanks. ’Ppreciate it.”

Those two always had him all emotional, but maybe that was okay. They’d pulled him from the worst place he’d ever been in his life, had been there throughout and always been supportive. Somebody else warning him to not get hurt? He’d laugh. Them warning him? He’d consider it. Sometimes, somebody on the outside had the better view of what was going on.

“No cuddling before you’ve captured him, arsehole.” Geoff came from the gear area and slapped them both on the shoulders.

“Careful. You’re the guy who bet my arse.”

“What? You’re saying I lost the money?” Geoff grinned at him. “He did, didn’t he? Fucking Yank. We should give him a call sign. Like Icebreaker.”

Frank lifted an eyebrow. “Icebreaker? Yeah. There you go.”

“Or Ref Fucker.” Mike eyed Stefan from across the ready area.

Frank laughed. “I’ll let you guys take that up with him.”

Geoff threw Frank a look. “You’re not going to bring it up over breakfast?”

“I’ll keep it in mind if the conversation lulls.”

Geoff’s eyes widened. “Dude, I was kidding about breakfast. You’re not really . . .”

Frank put a hand on Geoff’s shoulder. “Relax, okay? I can take care of myself.”

Geoff’s expression turned sceptical, and Mike’s echoed it.

Frank sighed, pulling back his hand. “I’ll be fine. Anyway, aren’t we going to start another game?”

The guys glanced at each other, mouths tightening, but neither pressed the subject. They’d corner him some other night over beer, olives, and cat sass, and they’d grill him, read him the riot act if he was being stupid and clap his shoulders if he wasn’t. But for now, they had a game to ref, so Geoff rounded everyone up, and it was back to the field.

Stefan didn’t have any more conquests that day. He whooped the other team’s arse, game after game, but it was all sniping and paintballs instead of sneak attacks and barrel taps. Every time he walked off the field without his arm around some limping player’s—or ref’s—waist, the guys all glanced at each other with wide eyes and puzzled shrugs. Wasn’t like the kid was tired. No way. He was playing too well for that. He even sprinted across the field to help a teammate who was pinned down by enemy fire.

During the fourth or fifth game, a firefight ended with the most triumphant shout Frank had heard out here in a long time, followed by cheers from other guys. Frank peered around a bunker, and quickly figured out what had sparked the shouting:

Stefan stepped out from behind a bunker, marker held over his head, with a bright yellow splat of paint on his side. Gloves smacked behind other bunkers as the guys high-fived, and Stefan playfully shook a fist at one of them as he took the Walk of Shame off the field.

Frank chuckled, and he would never have admitted to another soul that he was relieved to see the paint on Stefan’s camo blouse. So he’d been shot. “Killed.” Not captured. Because that absolutely wouldn’t have turned Frank on or anything. Or made him even a little bit jealous. Definitely not jealous. Not at all. Then again, he couldn’t help wondering if the kill in lieu of capture had been because Stefan had captured Frank earlier. But as far as he knew, no one here but Mike and Geoff knew about his status, so he was probably being paranoid.

When the game concluded, the guys were still high-fiving, congratulating Chris—of course it had been Chris—on being the first to finally take out that son of a bitch Yank. In the ready area, Stefan had peeled off his blouse and the T-shirt, revealing a welt underneath his ribcage.

“I want a picture of that!” Chris pointed a gloved finger at Stefan. “That shit’s going on my Facebook page.”

Stefan glared at him but smirked. “Yeah, well, how about you go calibrate your f*cking marking while someone gets a picture of this.”

Chris held up his marker and shrugged. “Perfectly calibrated before I went out.”

“Check again.” Stefan’s smirk faded.

Geoff gestured at Chris. “Couldn’t hurt to check it one more time. Come on.”

Chris rolled his eyes, but gave Stefan’s welt one more look before he grinned and followed Geoff.

“That shit is going to be one hell of a bruise tomorrow.” Mike bent forwards to inspect it more closely.

“It’ll be fine.” Stefan pressed a cold soda can against it, sucking in a hiss of breath. “His marker was running a bit hot, and he got me at close range.”

“Close range?” Mike straightened. “You let someone get close enough to you to shoot you like that?”