4. Kai

FOUR

Kai

The adrenalin from the rescue coursed through my veins, and I was edgy with the intensity of it all. Fighting the LT had been another day at the office, but flying the Griffon in the storm, only sixty feet above the boiling sea was enough to give me a hard-on. God, I loved my job.We'd come out to celebrate, or more like commiserate, when we were back and in a ton of trouble for insubordination.

Or at least I was.

The three of us took a table at the back of the room. Good lines of sight on the SEAL team who'd all ended up at the same place—not that there were many bars in the locale, so I guess it was inevitable.

The SEALs were laughing and chatting at another table, their glasses clinking. I couldn't help but let my gaze wander over to them, drawn in by the easy camaraderie and sense of brotherhood radiating from their group.

But mostly I was staring at him .

The one who'd caught me when I'd fallen at his feet, the one who'd held my hand when I thought my time was up, the one who'd captured my attention.

The redhead with a rugged, handsome face and a body that could stop traffic, I'd heard one of the others call him Red, which wasn't that original. I'd already watched him head up to the bar, and I stole glances at his ass in sinfully tight jeans and a snug Henley that hugged his every curve, his muscles straining against the fabric in all the right places. He should be on the cover of a magazine, all brooding intensity and raw sex appeal.

Exactly my type for some hot and heavy fucking in a back room.

I wonder if he's into men. God, what if he is, and he's a toppy fucker, and I could go to my knees and ? —

"You're an idiot," Bowers repeated for the fifth time since we sat down.

"Leave it, Bowers," Crowley said—she was probably as fed up of hearing Bowers go on about today's idiocy as I was.

"You know what the LT is like. Jesus, all you had to do was yes sir, and then you could have done your own thing anyway?—"

"He wouldn't have learned shit if I?— "

"Leave it," Crowley shouted, and both Bowers and I subsided under her snapping. I would miss these two when I left 427, not because they were friends—I didn't do friends—but because they were efficient and made a good crew. Still, I didn't want them around me now, when I wanted a quiet night and not one where they added criticism to my already turbulent thoughts.

Anyway, all of their messing with my head was breaking into my obsession with the SEAL's ass.

As Bowers called me out on my refusal to toe the line, frustration rose within me and it hadn't diminished yet, and yeah, it was harshing my buzz. Tonight wasn't the first time someone criticized my methods, and it wouldn't be the last, but no one got me or how I worked. There was a reason I operated the way I did—an underlying moral code that went deeper than just a desire to rebel against authority. I wasn't a man who put up with shit and held his tongue. Raging against authority had been beaten into me by a father who believed corporal punishment was a good thing, a mother who vanished after letting him get on with it, plus the rest of Dad's comrades marking their rules on my skin.

Fight authority.

From a young age, my family in the compound instilled in me the idea of fighting the authorities and taking down the government. It was part of their whole survivalist ideology, a belief that the government was oppressive and that we needed to resist its control over our lives and find peace. Of course, the understanding of peace didn't extend to the internal wars my pop and his buddies dealt with while financing said rebellion by moving drugs and guns.

Joining the military contradicted all those beliefs, but I needed it.

I craved structure; I needed it, but the bits of me that were broken weren't healing fast enough, and I wasn't able to channel my desire to protect and serve into something constructive all the time I reported to bloated assholes who knew jackshit. I was a walking contradiction, stepping out of that compound and into the military, but enlisting wasn't only about following orders or blindly serving authority. It was about using my skills and training to make a difference, to protect the freedoms and values I believed in. It was about being part of something bigger than myself, but I wasn't laying all that on a team who didn't know the real me.

"So you wanted to die today? Is that what you're saying?" I shot back. "You can't negotiate with assholes like Tramell. Show them you're not afraid to push back and then bring people back alive."

Bowers sighed, his expression angry, and then falling into resentful. "You don't always have to resort to confrontation."

I clenched my jaw, the urge to argue rising within me. "Maybe that works for people who don't care about their team." I clenched my beer so tight I was surprised I didn't snap the bottle in half.

Bowers powered out of his seat, and I wondered if he would lash out. Part of me wanted him to launch himself at me, anything to get rid of the anger curling inside me. "Fuck you!" he shouted in my face, his hands in fists at his side. "This is our careers you're messing with." I sensed some SEALs watching this go down. Great.

I didn't move a muscle. "I get shit done, no matter what it takes."

There was a moment of tense silence as Bowers stared at me, frustration in his eyes, the disappointment at my unwillingness to play the game. If the only way to get a promotion was to follow orders without pushback, then I didn't want to move up. Me getting a discharge was one moment of insubordination away, even if I'd been right about today. Particularly when it had taken every effort for me not to lay the LT out on the floor with a well-timed punch.

Maybe I'll do that tomorrow. Sanctimonious Ivy League prick.

Bowers leaned in, his voice rough and dangerous, and I tensed, waiting for him to strike. I'd let him get one hit in, but then his ass was mine. "This could be it for you."

"Yep." I knew it was. "But I was right today."

"You're already on two strikes. You must fight this one, show some respect, stop dragging us down with you."

I offered a nonchalant shrug then reached up to brush the front of his jacket. "It's cute you think my 427 career isn't over already," I said.

He reared back. "You're the best help pilot I've ever served with, Kai, but you've fucked the two of us over," Bowers snapped. "Tainted our careers with your crap. Hell, do you even care this could come back on us?"

I tensed with a twinge of regret, but Bowers needed to back the fuck off.

"I saved this team and those fucking SEALs," I said as I gestured at the table, knowing full well the Frogs would hear all of this.

He clenched his fists. "I can't sit here and watch you not even give a shit." He slammed his beer down. "I'm getting a cab. Crowley, you coming?"

A flicker of doubt crept over Crowley's face, and she hesitated momentarily. She was always the one getting between us, calming Bowers down, trying to understand me.

Didn't she get it? No one would ever understand me.

"He'll calm down," she reassured me, but I didn't care about anything but this beer and maybe getting into a red-headed SEAL's pants.

"I don't give a shit about his tantrum," I snapped.

She shook her head. "See, Kai, I think you do give a shit. "

"You're wrong." I met her steady gaze. I'd do anything to keep Bowers and Crowley safe when we were out on missions. Lay down my life for them if needed, but giving a shit about them outside 427? That was a big no.

Friends die.

Friends get dead.

Friends are murdered right in front of me as punishment.

"You're fucked in the head and out of control." She sounded sad as she shrugged on her jacket, then left without a goodbye.

She wasn't wrong. Dear old dad and his bunch of asshole preppers had ensured I was fucked in more ways than one. I was a weapon no one understood. But she was wrong about the control bit—I was never out of control. I knew what I was doing every single moment, and why. So fuck her and Bowers and their holier-than-thou judgments.

I focused back on the half-drunk beer. My skin itched with all this residual anger, tension, and boiling need, and laughter from the table of testosterone-fueled hero types was grating on my last nerve.

I didn't want to look over.

I didn't want to look at him .

Only, I couldn't stop myself every time one of them laughed a little too loud, my heart racing with lust. I spent way too much time sitting there nursing my beer, imagining what it would be like to run my hands over his smooth skin, to feel the heat of his body.

I didn't care if my 427 career was done. I'd find something else, because there was always someone out there who needed a blunt instrument, and I could be a weapon for someone to do some good in this world.

Whatever came next might not compare to the adrenalin rush of flying the Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion, or the thrill of action. I'd miss it more than I wanted to admit, but it was too late for second guesses now. Tramell was an asshole, and the next time I saw him, he'd get my fist to his face, and I'd be done.

It was a relief.

I hated being forced to respect people who didn't give a shit about their teams. It hurt me inside, it made me so fucking angry and with that familiar temper curling in my gut, I finished my drink and pushed myself away from the table. The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear: whatever came next, 427 would be stupid to lose me, and they'd learn what it was like not to have me around and maybe they'd regret losing me.

Or maybe they wouldn't.

I don't give a shit.

I glanced over at the table of SEALs, empty, including my red-headed obsession, and cursed when someone touched my back.

"Going somewhere? "

Red crowded me against the table. Too much in my space for me to be completely comfortable, but easier to take down if he tried anything. His cocky demeanor and confident aura were impossible to ignore, and there was a reckless spark in his expression that fueled my craving for excitement and danger.

Was he the same as me? Did he crave danger? Was he wild and untamed?

"Maybe," I said.

"Damn fine flying out there today, pilot," he remarked and shifted a little so that he blocked me from anyone's view.

"I know," I replied.

He chuckled. "Zach," he said and offered a hand, which I shook.

"You don't look like a Zach," I said, just for something to say.

"You don't much look like a Henderson."

"Kai." I gave him that much.

He chuckled, and a surge of interest coursed through me. What was he doing? Was this flirting? Was he trying to be subtle? Hell, he wouldn't be this close if he didn't play for my team, right?

"You're dangerous, Kai," he said, and tilted his head as if I was a puzzle he needed to solve. "You were one second away from punching your LT."

I shrugged. "Fucker deserved it. "

He raised an eyebrow. "Beer?" he asked, and headed for the bar.

I could leave now, and that would be it. Insanity whirled in my thoughts, and I joined Zach at the bar, kicking a stool loose and sitting down. He called for two beers, and leaned in close, his breath warm across my ear, and I thought he would proposition me.

Only he whispered, "I give it a month before they kick you out of 427."

I snorted and made a show of checking my watch. "I give it less than ten hours. Meeting at oh-eight hundred. I'm done."

His teasing smile dropped, and he was serious. "You really don't know how to play the game of rank and respect, do you?"

"People have to earn my respect," I said, then couldn't help but push. "Do you play the game with your chief? Listen to his shit orders and never question a single one?"

Zach's eyes narrowed. "I'd walk through fire for McKenzie," he said without drama. "He's earned my respect."

"That's nice for you," I deadpanned. "So, you wanna fuck in the bathroom?"

He blinked at me. "Do you have any self-discipline at all?"

"Do. You. Wanna. Fuck?" I asked again .

He rolled his eyes. "No, I don't want to fuck in a bathroom."

We sat in silence for a while, and my cock had softened when I got used to the idea that sex wasn't happening here. Seemed like Mr. SEAL was intent on lecturing me, the same as my team had. Lectures weren't sexy.

"So if your 427 career is over, what's next?" He broke the silence, taking a swallow of his beer.

I leaned into him. "Assassin."

He shifted on his stool, rested his hand on his thigh, and he was so close, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Oh, this was on . My cock stiffened. I leaned a little further. He was so down with assassins. He wanted dangerous.

"Assassins are disciplined," he murmured. "You might be great at your job, but you're a square peg in a round hole."

"Mmm, hole," I said and licked my lower lip, seeing his pupils dilate as he shifted in his chair. I slipped off the stool. "Anyway, if we're not fucking, I'm leaving." I headed outside.

He could follow me or not, but it made me hot knowing he was right behind me, and I didn't fight when he grabbed me and pulled me into a dark corner of the parking lot, up to the wall. Our lips collided in a heated kiss as he caged me there. The air crackled with tension as we stood inches apart, our breaths mingling, ignoring the magnetic pull as I searched his expression for any hint of regret. There was none, and in that moment, all thoughts of fucking up, and the 427, faded away, replaced by the intoxicating rush of passion, and want.

He reached out, his fingers tangling in my hair, scraping my scalp, pinpricks of pain as he pulled me closer.

I gripped his shirt and tugged him back to me, my hands on his waist, hard, as I tilted my head to deepen the kiss. Our tongues tangled in a fierce kiss, and a firestorm of desire burned hot and bright inside me. The kiss was hungry and urgent, fueled by adrenalin and fight, leaving us both breathless and me wanting more.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. All that existed was the two of us, lost in each other's embrace, consumed by lust, and gasping for air. He unzipped my loose jeans and had his hand on my cock before I could even consider getting my hands on him.

"Get mine out," he ordered, and I bristled at being told what to do, then gave in just as quickly. We chased the end to this, and for me it might make my crappy career choices seem less worrying. "Fuck," he groaned into a kiss, and then I followed him over, our cum hot, then wet and cold.

We pulled ourselves together, adjusting our pants, him grimacing and me feeling as disgusted. I hadn't come in my pants so hard from a hand job since I was a horny teenager. Now what? I had a condom. There was a motel a few blocks from here. I could imagine sinking into him, and I reached for him, but he stepped back and wiped his hand on his Henley before sketching a fake salute.

"Later, Assassin," he said.

Fuck. Why was he leaving? I leaned against the wall, watched him stalk away to a beaten-up truck, and stared as the truck's taillights disappeared into the distance.

"Later," I said to no one at all.

The following day, I was in a debrief at eight a.m., Tramell pulled me up on insubordination, Bowers and Crowley refused to have my back, and at eight-oh-seven, I punched the LT square in the face.

With him on the floor nursing a broken nose, my hand burned where I'd split my knuckles, I thought maybe…

… just maybe everyone was right…

I couldn't fake respect, and hell, I was out of control.