Crazy S** (E*)

(Prologue)

Finally, he had her cornered. He intended to tear down every last damn obstacle between him and her.

Right now.

For months, she'd succumbed to fears, buried her head in the sand, even lied. He'd tried to be understanding and patient. He'd made mistakes, but damn it, he'd put her first, given her space, been the good guy.

Fuck that. Now that he'd fought his way here, she would see the real him.

One-Mile slammed the door of his Jeep and turned all his focus on the modest white cottage with its vintage blue door. As he marched up the long concrete driveway, his heart pounded. He had a nasty idea how Brea's father would respond when he explained why he'd come. The man would slam the door in his face; no maybe about that. After all, he was the bad boy from a broken home who had defiled Reverend Bell's pretty, perfect daughter with unholy glee.

But One-Mile refused to let Brea go again. He'd make her father listen...somehow. Since punching the guy in the face was out of the question, he'd have to quell his brute-force instinct to fight dirty and instead employ polish, tact, and charm-all the qualities he possessed zero of.

Fuck. This was going to be a shit show.

Still, One-Mile refused to give up. He'd known uphill battles his whole life. What was one more?

Through the front window, he spotted the soft doe eyes that had haunted him since last summer. Though Brea was talking to an elderly couple, the moment she saw him approach her porch, her amber eyes went wide with shock.

Determination gripped One-Mile and squeezed his chest. By damned, she was going to listen, too.

He wasn't leaving without making her his.

As he mounted the first step toward her door, his cell phone rang. He would have ignored it if it hadn't been for two critical facts: His job often entailed saving the world as people knew it, and this particular chime he only heard when one of the men he respected most in this fucked-up world needed him during the grimmest of emergencies.

Of all the lousy timing...

He yanked the device from his pocket. "Walker here. Colonel?"

"Yeah."

Colonel Caleb Edgington was a retired, highly decorated military officer and a tough son of a bitch. One thing he wasn't prone to was drama, so that single foreboding syllable told One-Mile that whatever had prompted this call was dire.

He didn't bother with small talk, even though it had been months since they'd spoken, and he wondered how the man was enjoying both his fifties and his new wife, but they'd catch up later. Now, they had no time to waste.

"What can I do for you?" Since he owed Caleb a million times over, whatever the man needed One-Mile would make happen.

Caleb's sons might be his bosses these days...but as far as One-Mile was concerned, the jury was still out on that trio. Speaking of which, why wasn't Caleb calling those badasses?

One-Mile could only think of one answer. It was hardly comforting.

"Or should I just ask who I need to kill?"

A feminine gasp sent his gaze jerking to Brea, who now stood in the doorway, her rosy bow of a mouth gaping open in a perfect little O. She'd heard that. Goddamn it to hell. Yeah, she knew perfectly well what he was. But he'd managed to shock her repeatedly over the last six months.

"I'm not sure yet." Caleb sounded cautious in his ear. "I'm going to text you an address. Can you meet me there in fifteen minutes?"

For months, he'd been anticipating this exact moment with Brea. "Any chance it can wait an hour?"

"No. Every moment is critical."

Since Caleb would never say such things lightly, One-Mile didn't see that he had an option. "On my way."

He ended the call and pocketed the phone as he climbed onto the porch and gave Brea his full attention. He had so little time with her, but he'd damn sure get his point across before he went.

She stepped outside and shut the door behind her, swallowing nervously as she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, through the big picture window. Was she hoping her father didn't see them?

"Pierce." Her whisper sounded closer to a hiss. "What are you doing here?"

He hated when anyone else used his given name, but Brea could call him whatever the hell she wanted as long as she let him in her life.

He peered down at her, considering how to answer. He'd had grand plans to lay his cards out on the table and do whatever he had to-talk, coax, hustle, schmooze-until she and her father both came around to his way of thinking. Now he only had time to cut to the chase. "You know what I want, pretty girl. I'm here for you. And when I come back, I won't take no for an answer."

(The previous Year)

"You okay?" Cutter Bryant, her best friend and pseudo older brother, squeezed her hand as they stepped onto the back patio of his boss's home.

Brea Bell took in the chaotic summer party-the smoking barbecue, the loud music, the clinking beers, and male laughter booming from his fellow operatives at EM Security Management, none of whom seemed to have brought a date. She was the only woman in the yard, and suddenly every man seemed to turn and focus on her. "A little overwhelmed."

"I'm not surprised. It's hot as hellfire tonight, and there's a lot of testosterone here." He glanced at the handful of men clustered in conversation across the lawn.

"You tried to tell me."

"For your own good. But you're a stubborn thing. Always have been." He gave her an encouraging smile. "Try to have some fun, huh?"

She nodded. "Thanks for inviting me. Daddy has been encouraging me to get out of the house and spread my wings a little."

But he would never let her spend an evening out with a man he didn't know well and wholeheartedly approve of. Since Cutter had known her from birth, he was one of the few who fit into that category.

"You need to find your future, Bre-bee. It's time."

Cutter was right. She couldn't simply be the preacher's dutiful daughter, helping Daddy care for the residents of tiny Sunset, Louisiana, for the rest of her life. She and Cutter had talked about that more than once. Brea agreed...but she didn't know where to start. Since she enjoyed helping the folks in town look and feel their best, she'd gone to cosmetology school rather than college. Nothing she loved more than contributing, relieving, serving, and assisting others. Their happiness fed her own.

But lately, she'd been fighting a restlessness brewing inside her. A wildness, like the devil was whispering temptation in her ear. Brea didn't dare answer, no matter how alluring the siren call.

"It is." She tucked a strand of her long caramel hair behind her ear and peered Cutter's way. "So your teammates came alone tonight. Does that mean they're, um...single?"

"All of them, except the bosses." He slanted her a sideways glance. "You're not looking to get married right away, are you? There's more to life than that."

Sometimes his overprotective nature meant he treated her not just like the younger sister he'd never had, but a girl.

"Of course I know. But I'm almost twenty-two and I've been on exactly two dates in my life. I think I'm entitled to want male companionship."

"Yeah. I just don't know if this is the best place to look. These men are hardened warriors-special operators, spies, snipers... They have to leave unexpectedly at a moment's notice. They've seen things, done things..."

"You, too. But you're a defender. A protector. And you're perfectly wonderful. Some woman will be lucky to have you someday."

But it wouldn't be her. Her connection with Cutter was-and always had been-purely platonic. Neither of them wanted their relationship any other way.

"I'm not in any hurry to get married. But, contrary to what you say, I suspect you are. So..." He sighed. "I'll give you some background before I introduce you around. Remember, I told you that Caleb Edgington formed this team a few years back, then turned it over to his sons? Hunter, his older"-he pointed to the hard-jawed man grilling burgers-"is a former SEAL. He's married to Kata, who's probably in the kitchen with his brother's wife. Logan, his younger, is also a former SEAL. He's the guy at the cooler watching Tara, the redhead, through the window with that dirty leer."

Brea was relieved to learn she wasn't the only woman here. "And the others?"

"Hunter and Logan's stepbrother, Joaquin Muñoz, is former NSA. He's the tall one with his back to the fence in the circle of men across the yard. His wife, Bailey, is a ballerina, but she's on tour right now. Josiah Grant, the buff guy next to him, is former CIA. The other two, Zy and Trees, are tight. They served together in some government program I'm not privy to know about." Cutter rolled his eyes. "Trees' real name is Forest Scott but everyone calls him Trees because-"

"He's incredibly tall." Brea blinked. "Wow."

"Exactly. He's a cyber security specialist and he's exceptionally good at it. And his buddy Zy-"

"Looks a lot like Zac Efron. The grown-up version, not the Disney kid."

Cutter laughed. "Which is why he's nicknamed Zyron. His real name is Chase Garrett, but around here he doesn't answer to that. Besides being our class clown, he's our demolitions guy. He loves blowing stuff up."

"That's a little scary, but..." Brea let out a breath. She'd come here to get out of her sheltered bubble and meet people. "You should probably introduce me to everyone on your team."

Cutter hesitated. "Yeah. I'm just going to warn you... We're missing one, Pierce Walker. I don't know if the bastard will show tonight. He's a loner, and you're not missing much. But if he turns up, avoid him, you hear me? He's no good."

"All right." Cutter was a good judge of character, so she'd take his word on that.

"That's my girl." He smiled her way, then they stepped off the back patio together.

As they crossed the lawn, Brea clung to his hand. She'd always been shy around new people, men especially. Thankfully, every one of his teammates smiled as they approached. Josiah, whose voice told her he wasn't from around here, seemed nice. Zyron and Trees both had Southern gentlemen's manners, though charm rolled off Zy's tongue while Trees seemed content to let his pal do the talking.

No denying each of them was fit, sharp, interesting, and attractive. But none sparked her interest. Honestly, that was all right. Like Cutter had said, there was more to life than getting married. Still, she couldn't lie. She'd looked forward to being some man's wife since she was a little girl. Her friends had all left Sunset to pursue their ambitions of becoming doctors or actresses or teachers. And that was lovely-for them. Even if it sounded old-fashioned, Brea wanted a husband, kids, home, and happiness.

That wasn't too much to ask, right?

After some small talk, Cutter led her to Hunter and his brother, Logan, respectively. The elder brother flipped burgers with intent focus. Though he was perfectly polite, it was obvious Hunter was a doer, not a talker. Logan, on the other hand, oozed charm. He smiled, winked, and laughed, making up for all the conversation she hadn't had with his brother. But under his façade she sensed something relentless, something dark. In fact, she felt that undercurrent in all the men here, even Cutter. They'd seen atrocities, stockpiled secrets, even committed sins in the name of national security.

Undoubtedly, she'd be better off with someone simpler. She could smile and nod the rest of the night, happy to make the acquaintance of Cutter's co-workers, then figure out how to meet a nice accountant or a handsome professor with whom she might share her future.

She loitered for an hour with Kata and Tara in the kitchen, helping to prepare macaroni salad and bake cookies. They were lovely and witty and funny. Gritty and interesting, too. Stories of Kata's son and Tara's twin girls had her giggling.

Together, they brought the food outside and set everything on a big buffet table as Hunter yelled to all at the gathering, "Chow time. Come and get it!"

Before she and Cutter could grab a plate, Logan snagged his arm. "Bryant, can you give me a hand throwing more cold ones in the cooler?"

"Sure." He turned to her. "Why don't you get your plate? I'll join you in a few."

And sit with all these strangers by herself? "Actually, I need to use the ladies' room first. Meet you at the buffet table?"

With a nod, Cutter turned to help his boss, his smile a white flash in the setting sun. Why couldn't he have been more than a friend in her heart? He was perfect in so many ways, and falling for him would have made her life so much easier...

As the others filled their plates and settled at a giant picnic table on the back patio, Brea hustled inside and found the powder room. As she finished washing her hands, the doorbell rang. A glance out the big kitchen window proved no one else had heard a thing over the loud music and even louder conversation. Rather than disturb Hunter, Logan, or their wives, she headed to the front door.

When she pulled it open, Brea found a mountain of a man standing on the other side. He towered over her, his shoulders taking up most of the portal. Beefy, inked arms crossed over a midnight-blue shirt, stretched tightly across his imposing chest. He had shorn dark hair, an even closer cropped beard, black eyes that saw inside her soul in an instant, and a scowl that told her she'd better not mess with him. He looked like the devil. He smelled like sex and sin.

Her heart lurched, and she utterly lost her ability to think. "Hi."

"Hey."

His eyes didn't leave her face, but she had the distinct impression he'd already taken in every inch of her from head to toe. Brea couldn't repress her shudder.

He glanced beyond her shoulder, out the big window in the family room, which overlooked the backyard. "I'm here for the EM party. This Hunter Edgington's place?"

"Yes." She stepped back to let him in since she couldn't seem to find more words.

He shut the door behind him and stared down at her. "You got a name?"

She inched back...though some forbidden urge prompted her to scoot closer. "B-Brea."

"Yeah?" He stepped into her personal space, following her until she backed into a wall and blinked up at him. "That's a pretty name."

"Thank you," she said automatically. "I like your..." Everything. Each part of him was put together so perfectly, he made her heart beat like a mad, fluttery thing and her stomach tighten.

"My what?" A corner of his lips lifted into something she could almost call a grin.

"Shirt," she improvised.

Oh, could she sound any more ridiculous?

"Yeah?" Amusement laced his voice.

"It's, um...a nice shade of blue."

He smiled, blindsiding her with the transformation of his face from desolate to dazzling.

"Good to know. I like your..." He scanned her up and down, his fathomless eyes traversing her slowly. "Dress. The lace is pretty, like you. Except..."

When he reached for her, one finger of his massive hand outstretched, her thoughts raced wildly. Would he touch her? Kiss her? Undress her? The way his eyes darkened told her all that-and more-had already crossed his mind.

Her heart thudded madly. "Except?"

He didn't answer with words, simply settled his fingers on her collarbone. The instant he touched her, their connection reverberated through her entire body, jolting and shuddering clear down to her toes. He glided one rough fingertip across her skin. Goose bumps erupted. Tingles spread. She reeled as he slid his digit under the thin strip of white lace draped over her shoulder and gave it a gentle tug.

Brea's eyes slid shut. She didn't know what he was doing to her or why, but if he wanted anything from her-anything at all-her answer was yes.

Then suddenly, his touch was gone. "Your strap was twisted."

He wasn't making a pass? No. But some forbidden part of her desperately wanted him to.

Embarrassed as all get-out, she sent him what she hoped was a blankly polite smile. "Thank you."

She expected him to release her then. Instead, he curled his fingers behind her shoulder and cupped it, drawing her closer. She could happily lose herself in his eyes. She ached to. Everything about him made her aware that he was a man...and that she'd never known the touch of one.

"You're a little thing."

"You're huge," she blurted, then blushed.

"You think?" He sent her a smug grin. "Or have you looked?"

Another rush of heat climbed to her cheeks. Did he mean what she thought? "Um, dinner just started, if you're hungry..."

"I am. But food can wait." His big, rough knuckles skimmed her cheek before he tucked a curl behind her ear. She barely managed to resist closing her eyes in pleasure. "Are you a friend of Kata's or Tara's?"

"Neither."

He paused. "Are you dating one of the other guys?"

"I..." She wasn't sure how to explain her relationship with Cutter.

"Brea!" She turned to find her best friend at the back door, his snarl warning the other man away. "Come here. Now, honey."

She jumped at the demand in his voice. He would never be so insistent...unless something was wrong. "O-okay." She faced the big, dark stranger again. "Excuse me."

For a second, he looked as if he might object. Something in her wanted him to, but he merely stepped back, his jaw set in a hard line.

Brea edged away. As soon as she reached Cutter's side, her breathing eased. Her nerves bled away. And when he curled a protective arm around her, she felt safe and sheltered.

But he didn't make her feel alive-not like the other man.

"Are you all right?"

Why was Cutter acting as if the newcomer might unleash terrible savagery on her in the foyer? "Of course."

He acknowledged her with an impatient nod. "Time to eat. Why don't you head on outside? I'll meet you at the buffet table."

And leave so he could berate the man for doing nothing but staring a little more than was truly polite and straightening her strap?

She shook her head. "I'd rather not go alone."

While Cutter weighed her words, Brea felt the stranger's stare all over her. She risked a glance his way. Sure enough, he hadn't peeled his eyes off her. He seemed especially fixated on Cutter's arm around her middle.

"Please. I'm famished." She added a pleading note Cutter had never been able to resist.

"In a minute. Before I go, I'm going to say something you won't like, Bre-bee. If you'd rather not hear, I suggest you either leave or don't listen."

She considered chastising him, but she knew Cutter too well. He intended to have words with this stranger. He wouldn't budge an inch until he did.

She let loose an impatient sigh. "Go on, then."

He turned to the other man with a killing glare. "Keep the fuck away from her, Walker."

Pierce Walker, the teammate Cutter had claimed was no good?

"Why?" the stranger challenged.

"She's mine."

Brea's eyes widened. Cutter had not just made her sound like his girlfriend.

Oh, but he had...

Pierce's eyes narrowed but he said nothing.

"Are we clear?" Cutter demanded.

"You want me to fuck the fuck off?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Too bad, Boy Scout." Pierce glared with contempt. "I don't take direction from you."

"I mean it. Stay the fuck away. Or else."

Before Brea could object that their language was horrible and that she didn't belong to anyone, Cutter swept her out the back door to the waiting feast. She glanced back. The dark stranger was still staring, the spine-tingling awareness she felt reflecting back in his hot black eyes.

She didn't know Pierce Walker, but one thing she didn't doubt? He intended to come after her.

"What the devil was that caveman bit about earlier?" Brea turned to Cutter in his big truck with a piqued glare. "You let everyone think I'm your girlfriend."

He had the good grace to wince. "Mostly Walker. I was protecting you."

"He was merely talking to me."

"While he undressed you with his eyes. I told you, he's no good."

Brea didn't understand. Nor did she feel like being the agreeable good girl she'd been her whole life. "He was perfectly pleasant until you confronted him."

"Bre-bee, you don't know him. I hate to be crass with you, but the man is only after you for a piece of ass. Besides being a lousy teammate, he's a douchebag. And I'm using exceptionally nice language for your sake. He takes unnecessary chances on the job, he doesn't listen to anyone, and he refuses to compromise."

She slanted him a glance. "You're no social butterfly yourself, and you've always been as stubborn as the day is long."

"But I would never put myself-or others-in an unnecessarily risky situation because I was arrogant enough to presume I was right."

"And he did?"

"He does it all the time." Cutter gripped the wheel like the memories alone chapped his hide.

"Is he usually right?"

"That's not the point-"

"Isn't it? You've always said people should fight for what they believe in."

"And they should. But how am I supposed to trust him as a teammate-with my life-when he won't stick to the plan?" He sighed. "Brea, look...he's not the marrying kind."

They'd just met, and she wasn't expecting a waltz down the aisle...but they had shared something-a moment-and she wasn't ready to let go yet. "You know that for a fact?"

"Well, I doubt when I saw him at Crawfish and Corsets off Highway Ninety last weekend, coming out of the back room with one of the female bartenders while zipping up his jeans and wearing a smile, that they'd been swapping Bible stories."

Brea swallowed down absurd jealousy she had no right to feel. "Cutter Edward Bryant, maybe you shouldn't be casting stones. You haven't been chaste your whole life, either."

He squirmed in his seat. "But I have relationships. I usually date women for a while before we take that step. I don't just nail random females in the back of a bar at one in the morning."

"No?" She raised a brow. "What were you doing there, then?"

"The whole team had gathered to play pool. Zy beat the hell-I mean, the heck-out of almost everyone. Since Walker isn't a team player, he decided to use his 'stick' for other activities."

"Maybe he just hasn't met the right woman yet."

"Are you thinking that's you?"

Cutter's tone made her sound incredibly naive, and it pricked her temper. She crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly. "How do you know I'm not?"

He sighed, looking as if he mentally groped for his patience. "Bre-bee, I love you. No matter what our blood says, you're my sister and I will protect you with my dying breath. If you want me to die early or go to prison for murder, you go ahead and take up with that man. Do you know he's a killer?"

"What do you mean? You killed people in Afghanistan."

"Combatants who wanted to end me simply because I was American. I wish I hadn't been put in that position, and I didn't relish a single one of their deaths. I'll even admit I haven't been without sin or blame since I went to work for EM. The job can force you to make snap judgments about whether or not the enemy feet away from you will really pull the trigger so you should pull yours first. I never do it without due consideration. But Walker? His sole job responsibility is to kill."

That couldn't be right. "What do you mean?"

Cutter nodded. "He's a well-trained military assassin who wants everyone to call him One-Mile because that's his way of bragging about his longest kill shot."

The news hit her like a punch to the chest. Yes, Pierce Walker had reeked of danger, but Cutter made him sound like a cold-blooded murderer. "His actions are not for us to judge. That's between him and God."

"But you need to know the truth. When Walker is given a mark, he doesn't ask questions. He doesn't feel compunction or remorse. He doesn't care about the blood on his hands, and if he touched you with them"-Cutter gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white-"if he defiled you, I would have to kill him."

"I've never known you to dislike someone so intensely."

"That should tell you something." He stopped at a light and turned to pin her with a stare. "Promise me you won't ever tell him we're not a couple. That would be like waving a red cape in a bull's face. Promise me that when he comes sniffing around-and he will-that you'll have nothing to do with him."

Cutter's demand came from a place of caring. As far as he was concerned, her father wasn't worldly enough to protect her from men like Pierce Walker, so he would do it for Daddy. Brea wasn't worldly, either. She knew that. The instant, blinding attraction she'd experienced with Cutter's teammate had been unlike anything she'd ever felt. No wonder it had made her want him to be the right man for her.

But her feelings hardly meant he was.

"Brea, please," he pressed. "Promise me."

"All right." Cutter was probably right, and she tried not to be disappointed. But she already suspected she'd never feel as alive again as she had those handful of minutes with Pierce Walker. "I promise."

*******

One-Mile did what he had been trained to do whenever he locked his sights on a target. He watched, studied, and dissected. He learned a mark's habits, weaknesses, and quirks. He traveled their haunts and memorized their stomping grounds. Then he figured out how and when to strike.

Except this time, he wasn't here for a kill.

During the EM shindig at Hunter's house last night, One-Mile had watched pretty Brea Bell. He hadn't spoken to her again. Cutter, the uptight prick, would have felt compelled to cut him off at the balls and start something. A team getting-to-know-you wasn't the place for strife. But neither his stare nor his thoughts had once strayed from the beautiful brunette. In those few hours, he'd discerned three important things: She was every bit as warmhearted as he'd first imagined. She was attracted to him, too. And most interesting, she was probably as passionate about her sex life with Cutter as she was about taking her trash to the curb.

As he'd watched Bryant lead her out to his truck and drive away, he had debated the wisdom of pursuing Brea. Then he'd decided fuck it. She deserved the orgasms her boyfriend wasn't giving her.

One-Mile couldn't put his finger on the reasons he wanted Brea so fiercely. She wasn't his type. Usually, he gravitated to blondes who liked to show off their tits, but he'd never encountered her sweet sort of allure. He wanted to see where this inexplicable desire led-and not merely as a fuck you to Cutter. Bryant could pound sand-or his own cock-for all One-Mile cared.

Which explained why he sat in his Jeep now, parked on Napoleon Avenue just before noon the following day, watching parishioners meander out of the little white church across the street and hoping for a glimpse of Brea.

She was one of the last to file out. Immediately, she fell into conversation with two elderly women before a little boy tugged on her skirt. When she bent and wrapped her arms around him, her smile was genuine and contagious. Then she slipped the imp a piece of candy from her purse and ruffled his hair in a motherly gesture that made the boy grin.

Thank fuck Cutter was nowhere in sight.

One-Mile was tempted to cross the street and plant himself in her personal space just to see recognition transform Brea's face-and make sure he hadn't misinterpreted her excitement when their eyes met.

But he could be patient, so he leashed the urge. The right moment would come. First, he needed facts.

"How deep are your ties to Bryant, pretty girl?" he muttered.

He'd stayed up half the night trying to figure that out, using search engines far more in-depth than Google. Within a few minutes he'd tracked down her vitals. Brea Felicity Bell. Her twenty-second birthday was next Thursday. She'd grown up in Sunset. Her mother had died from complications of childbirth. She'd been raised alone by her father, a local Baptist minister. She'd gotten good grades and never been in trouble. Apparently, everyone loved her. She currently worked as a hairdresser at a family-owned salon-the only one in Sunset. She'd grown up next door to Bryant and his family, but Cutter had moved to an unpublished address some while back. Brea wasn't shacking up with him, thank fuck.

Those facts told One-Mile everything and nothing. What did she look like first thing in the morning? What would she taste like under his tongue? What would she smell like after he'd freshly fucked her? He was hungry to know. But she intrigued him far more than mere sex would satisfy-a first for him. What made her smile? What made her cry? What made her mad? What made her heart melt? He needed to figure Brea out, and he'd never manage that simply by staring. He had to talk to her without Cutter or that church crowd surrounding her.

For the next twenty minutes, she weathered the summer heat, shaking hands, exchanging hugs, and listening to the people of her father's congregation, all with a patient smile and kind eyes. Something about her goodness was so compelling, probably because he'd never seen anything like it. He damn sure wasn't drawn in by her sack of a dress, which covered everything between her neck and her shins in a pale pink fabric sprinkled with gray and lavender flowers. She wore the silky light brown hair he ached to wrap around his hands in a loose bun that emphasized her delicate features and her slight build. She'd finished it off with a pair of sensible wedge sandals and a sheer wrap, presumably to combat the blast of air conditioning inside the church.