Chapter 9 C9

Through the open door of his boss's office, One-Mile heard Cutter's crooning tone. He risked a glance at Logan Edgington. How quickly could he wrap up this pointless chat with his boss and eavesdrop on the douche who didn't deserve his girlfriend? Because One-Mile hadn't stopped thinking about Brea Bell in the last six days. He didn't care if he had to fight dirty. He wasn't giving up on her.

"Uh-oh. I don't like your expression..." Logan grumbled.

One-Mile didn't give a shit.

"Tell me what you're thinking," his boss pressed.

"Gotta pee," he lied.

"Wait-"

One-Mile didn't. He dashed out the door to plaster himself against the wall, around the corner from where Bryant was having his low-voiced telephone conversation with Brea. Thank fuck that, despite a life spent around firearms, he still had superb hearing.

"You know your dad," Cutter murmured. "He's a perfectionist and he cares about the people of his congregation. Since he's recovering from surgery and can't handle his responsibilities without help, it makes him cranky. Besides, the doctors told you he might be irritable until they stabilized his meds."

"I know. I don't blame Daddy, just saying he's being difficult," Brea said on speakerphone. "I've been telling him for the past few years that he needs to rely on Tom more. He's the associate pastor, after all. And I think the stress of trying to do everything himself is one of the reasons Daddy had a heart attack. But when I pointed all that out, along with the fact that Tom wouldn't appreciate me taking over his duties, Daddy nearly blew a gasket."

Cutter sighed, sounding slightly impatient. "He's just not himself right now. It's not fair of him to put you in such an awkward position or force you to juggle your own job and his, but he's not being difficult on purpose. If it helps, I'll make a few phone calls, see if I can get the church van fixed before you need to pick everyone up for Sunday services. Will that free you up to run over to the Rutherfords' house this evening and pray with them? Shame about their son's overdose."

"Just awful. Aidan was only sixteen." Compassion filled her voice, along with real tears. "If you could find someone to fix the van, that would definitely give me more time to spend with those poor people. But I'm not stepping on Tom's toes. He's coming with me."

"I think he should. Stephanie Rutherford must be devastated."

Brea sniffled. "She loved Aidan so much. I want to give her and her husband all the comfort and fellowship I can."

Despite how frazzled and stretched thin Brea was, she was still worried about everyone else. She had such a big, beautiful heart. One-Mile ached for a chunk of it.

"Where's the van now?" Cutter asked.

"At the church, 'round back. Keys are in the glovebox. If you find a mechanic, can you leave me the bill in Daddy's office? I'll pick it up tonight after I drop Tom off."

"Sure thing. Just take a deep breath, Bre-bee. This will pass."

"Thanks. I know you're right. Hey, my three-thirty client just walked in. It's a cut and color, so I won't be able to answer for a bit if you have an update."

"Got it."

Cutter hung up. The SOB ended the call without a single romantic word. Hell, without even saying goodbye. No wonder Brea wasn't excited about their sex life. Hard to be thrilled about a cheating, dismissive asshat...

When he heard Cutter sigh and start across the tile floor, One-Mile peeled away from the wall and turned to head down the hall-only to find Logan right behind him.

His eavesdropping boss hustled them into his office and speared him with a vivid blue stare. "So it really is like that, huh? Damn it. Shut the door."

One-Mile hesitated, then complied. "Like what?"

"Dude, everyone saw how you looked at Brea during the party. You get that she's Cutter's, right?"

One-Mile shrugged. "He's wrong for her. And if he can't treat her well enough to hold on to her, that's his problem."

"You've got some giant balls. How serious are you about her?"

His feelings didn't much matter until he could figure out how invested she was in Cutter.

When Brea had delivered the cookies to his house last week, she hadn't withheld her consent because she wasn't feeling him. One-Mile knew that. Hell, her amber eyes had darkened with desire every time he even came close. His guess? She'd hesitated because of the Boy Scout. Did she think she was in love with Cutter?

"Serious enough to fight for her."

Logan sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that. Your shit can't affect the team."

"I won't bring it to work if Bryant doesn't. But there's already no love lost between us."

"Yeah, you really pissed him off during that first mission in Mexico."

"He wasn't listening, and I didn't have the patience to stand around while he dithered and flapped his jaws. The fact that I was right and he hasn't gotten over it isn't my problem."

Logan sat back at his desk, arms crossed over his chest. "Jesus, you remind me of my brother."

Which was probably why he and Hunter butted heads. "Yeah?"

"He married Kata the night he met her, did you know that? He took one look at her, and he knew."

No shit? A few weeks ago, One-Mile wouldn't have understood. Today, he got it. "They happy?"

"Fucking as in love as I've ever seen. I knew with my wife right away, too. But we met in high school, and things got fucked up. I lost her for a few years. When we met up again, she was engaged to another guy."

Until now, Logan had never shared anything personal, but One-Mile wasn't too thick to grasp that the man was delivering some message.

"How long did that last after you found her again?"

"Not long." Logan tapped his thumb on his desk, clearly pondering his next words. "Especially after the asshole watched me go down on Tara...and I made sure he knew she enjoyed the hell out of it."

One-Mile grinned. "Damn, you shit-stirrer."

Logan shrugged. "We all gotta be good at something..."

"So...you get where I'm coming from with Brea?"

"That you don't give a shit about her relationship with Cutter? Yeah, but think hard. Is it really worth starting a shit storm if she's just a fuck? Or a way for you to provoke Cutter?"

"She's not." Even the intimation irritated One-Mile. "And I wouldn't put the time or effort into scheming something to piss off the Boy Scout when a simple fuck you would do."

"Fair enough." Logan stood. "That's not why I called you in here. I need the rest of your reports on the latest Mexico trip. We all hate paperwork, but we have to keep our documentation squeaky clean so Uncle Sam doesn't shut us down."

"It's done. I'll email the shit now."

"Good. Then get your ass out of my office and send Cutter in so I can have a nice, long chat with him about being prompt and thorough with his."

What was Edgington saying? "How long?"

"Probably long enough for you to go to Brea's rescue."

He'd never seen any of his bosses as potential bros. He worked for them. They gave orders, and he completed the dirtiest of the dirty missions on their behalf. End of story. But Logan was proving that he was all right. "Thanks, man."

As he turned and reached for the door, his boss called after him, "You're welcome. But if you make work ugly, I'll make your life hell."

That didn't scare One-Mile. He twisted around long enough to salute Logan, then hauled ass out of the office and headed to Sunset.

Mid-August was still hotter than fuck, and he wished he had some idea what was wrong with Brea's van, but he had a few hours to figure it out. Since he and machinery usually got along just fine, he hoped it wouldn't be too tough.

When he arrived at the church, a fiftyish woman who identified herself as Mrs. Collins poked her head out...but didn't shake his hand. No surprise. He probably looked big and violent to her sheltered suburban eyes. He didn't give her his name, just said he'd come to fix the van for Brea. The woman nodded and disappeared inside.

About thirty minutes later, he figured out the vehicle was overheating and the likely culprit was a faulty water pump. He managed to run one down and get it installed way before the sun set. Then he knocked and let himself in the church's back door.

"Yes?" Mrs. Collins eyed him and his tattoos like he was the devil and if she let him too close, his sin might rub off on her.

But she was probably someone Brea knew and respected, so One-Mile made nice. "The van is fixed. Do you have a piece of paper so I can leave Brea a note?"

He'd rather text her, but she'd never given him her number. Sure, he had it. Finding her digits hadn't been hard. But he wanted her to choose to tell him.

"This way."

Mrs. Collins led him down a blessedly air-conditioned hallway that ended in a small office with white walls bare of everything except a cross. In the middle of the room sat a painfully neat desk. A plaque squatted front and center that read Reverend Jasper P. Bell.

She retrieved a sheet of paper from the nearby printer and a pen from the top drawer. "There you go."

Mrs. Collins hovered awkwardly, watching him like she worried he might steal something. He tried not to roll his eyes. The truth was, he'd saved pretty much every penny Uncle Sam had ever paid him. Between that, his lucrative post-Marine contracts, and the money his granddad had left him, he'd managed to sock away a couple million dollars. He had zero interest in swiping the preacher's stapler.

"Thanks. How's the reverend doing since his surgery?"