Puck by Wilder Jasinda

  I frowned at him. "How the hell should I know?"

  He shrugged. "Thought maybe you'd seen a sign or something that might point us toward a gas station or liquor store."

  "Yeah, I was a little too preoccupied to read any of the signs," I said drolly.

  "You've got a point, I guess." Puck ejected the clip from the butt of his pistol, checked the contents, and stuffed it into his waistband behind his back--the whole series of movements was swift and practiced. He set off, glancing at me with a confident grin. "Well, I guess we just do our best lost tourist impression and hope for the best."

  I laughed. "Really, really, really lost tourists."

  "Don't see many other choices," Puck said.

  He had a point there.

  3: Danger Hackles

  This chick was boss. For real. Fluent in three languages, knew the currency conversion rates off the top of her head, stayed cool as a cucumber when shit got gnarly, sassy and snappy and didn't take any shit, and was fucking breathtakingly gorgeous.

  I had to have her.

  Worse, I wanted to know more about her.

  Worst of all . . . I wanted her to like me.

  I was pro level at not giving a shit what anybody thought about me--which was the main reason I got fired from the FBI, and why I never made it past E-4 in the Army. Yet something about this Colbie Danvers chick had me trippin', had me wondering what I could do to impress her, and I didn't just mean with my godlike powers of cunnilingus. This wasn't like me. Not like me at fucking all. Fumbling attempts at impressing a hot chick? Yeah, until I met Colbie, I thought that was something I'd left behind in goddamn grade school.

  I might not have the ability to crook my finger and have every bitch in the bar begging for a turn on her knees--like Duke and Thresh--but I could score a honey for the night without much effort. Confidence bordering on--and sometimes crossing over into--arrogance, charisma, boldness, and twenty-inch biceps would get you pretty far, even if you weren't a goddamn pretty boy like Duke, or a titan like Thresh. Not that I was ugly, I just wasn't on the same level as those boys. Regardless, I haven't had to work for it in years, was what I was saying.

  Colbie, however . . . she gave off the impression that I was gonna have to fight hard for every last inch I got with her. Which was fine--I loved a good fight, never backed down from a challenge, and never refused a bet.

  And you better believe I didn't miss the gleam in her eye when I dangled a wager in front of her.

  For the moment, though, I needed to keep my focus more on the job at hand and less on how fucking phenomenal Colbie's ass looked. That skirt, man. All business, no frills, nothing sexy at all, but goddamn, it showcased that ass: tight, round, firm, yet still had a nice little jiggle when she walked. And those legs? Mmm-mmm-mmm. Long, long, long legs, legs for days, lithe legs, firm, toned, smooth legs. The kinda legs a guy pictured wrapped around his waist when he was rubbing one out in the shower . . . only better.

  The job, Puck, the job. Focus on the job.

  I shook my head like a dog shaking water off its coat, trying to dislodge Colbie's ass from the center of my thoughts. In fact--I lengthened my stride so I was beside her, so I couldn't stare at her ass. Of course, now the challenge was to keep myself from stealing glances down her shirt to see if she really was wearing a blue bra, and if so, what kind--full coverage, push-up, demi . . . shelf? Yeah, you bet I knew bras, brah--I loved everything to do with tits. Whether they were naked, shown off in lingerie, pushed up by Victoria's Secret, or just hanging loose behind a thin T-shirt, I just plain old loved tits. So yeah, I knew about bras.

  And judging by the glimpses I was getting of Colbie's rack, I guessed she had a C cup, maybe 32 or 34 around. And she was probably wearing full coverage, because the all-business skirt and button-down shirt combo felt like she dressed to be taken seriously for her skills in the office rather than her body stats. Of course, sometimes those girls in the business attire surprised you--take that pencil skirt and button-down off and suddenly she was rocking a few scraps of lace and a come-hither grin.

  Not sure about Colbie, whether she'd wear sensible, comfortable underwear to work, or something sexy to make herself feel good even if no one saw it.

  For that matter, what if she was attached? Didn't seem like it, judging by her reactions to me: interested, but wary. Attracted, but didn't want to be.

  Goddamn it. Distracted again.

  I growled in irritation, tore my eyes off her cleavage, and walked even faster so she was behind me.

  I tried to focus on my surroundings. I had the .45 I'd taken off the driver and the two spare mags, and Layla had the Makarov and the mags for that. Sadly, I'd left the AK in the bus because I was relatively certain I couldn't walk around with an assault rifle in plain view, even in Russia or wherever the fuck we were.

  We were in a pretty run-down area, not a whole lot of much to be found except for trees and billboards and the occasional warehouse or whatever. We started walking away from the sound of the sirens and hoped we'd eventually find something useful, because what else were we going to do? We had no idea where we were, and none of us had a cell phone, so it wasn't like we could pull up Google Maps or some shit. We hadn't seen another soul, either, except for the occasional car or semitruck.

  We'd left Layla in charge of the rest of the group, safely hidden in the alley where we'd parked the bloody, shot-up van. Colbie and I found the nearest main road and followed it, hoping to find a liquor store or gas station. It was midmorning, a bright, sunny day with only the occasional passing cloud to occlude the sunlight.

  I scraped at my scalp with my hand and winced and shook my hand when I accidentally bumped my finger-stump. "Shit. I really need to get this motherfucker cauterized better." I dug in my pockets for the lighter and the knife. "You squeamish, Colbie?"

  She snorted. "You blew a guy's head off right in front of me, and then I got behind the wheel with the blood still running down the inside of the windshield."

  I bobbled my head side to side. "You have a point."

  I held the knife in my uninjured hand and the lighter in the other, flicked the wheel to get the flame spurting, and held the flat of the knife blade in the flame.

  Colbie touched my wrist. "Can I suggest you wait a second?" She pointed ahead at what appeared to be the local version of a convenience store. "If you're going to do that, I'd suggest a bottle of vodka and something to bite down on."

  I eyed her, folding the blade away. "And you say this why?"

  She lifted one shoulder in an elegant movement. "Call it common sense."

  "What I call is bullshit on that answer."

  She sighed. "Because I've seen it done, if you must know. I don't give a shit how tough you are, it hurts like a bitch. Also, you need vodka or something to clean it." She gestured at my finger. "What you have going on there is an infection just waiting to happen. What did you do, try to burn it closed?"

  "Yeah, sort of."

  She made a disgusted face. "That was pretty dumb."

  I frowned at her. "Why?"

  "Do you know nothing about basic emergency wound care?" She indicated my finger again. "The ash is going infect you. Like, if you don't get an infection I'll be shocked."

  "Yes, I do know a little about basic triage," I said as we stood outside the front of the store. "I did a tour in Iraq and eight years in the FBI. I was just short on other options."

  But I decided she had a point as I pulled open the glass door, which sent a string of bells jangling. The glass was reinforced by iron bars, and the interior of the store was identical to any liquor store in any shabby end of town anywhere I'd ever been-- everything packed in so tight there was barely room to move, lots of shelves stacked two deep with bottles of cheap liquor, and a counter at the end of the store with two-inch-thick bulletproof glass on the other side, all the high-end liquor and cigarettes behind the counter along with the bored-looking cashier.

  "Give me some of those rubles," Colbie said.

&
nbsp; After I handed her a stack of notes, she grabbed a pint of vodka from the top shelf nearest us and took it to the counter, where she struck up a conversation in Russian with the cashier--a middle-aged man with silver-streaked brown hair and weathered, craggy features, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. After a brief flurry of exchanges, Colbie turned to me with a frustrated expression on her face.

  "Good news and bad news. Bad news, it turns out we're in Kiev, Ukraine." She lifted the rubles. "Which means none of this currency does us any good unless we can get it exchanged somewhere, which is unlikely seeing as we have no passports."

  "And the good news?"

  "Pretty much everyone in Ukraine speaks Russian, so I can still communicate easily."

  "But he won't accept any of the money?" I asked.

  Colbie eyed me, the oozing stump of my finger, and then turned to the cashier. She jabbered something in Russian, gesturing at me, and then grabbed my injured hand to show the cashier. The cashier shook his head, and Colbie responded with what seemed to be to be a plea.

  "I need more money," she murmured to me. "I think he'll accept the cash we have, but it's gonna cost extra."

  "Did you tell him it was a sex injury?" I quipped, peeling off more rubles, and a couple twenty-euro notes for good measure.

  She snorted. "No, I didn't say what happened, and he hasn't asked." She tilted her head at the window. "Don't know if you've noticed this or not, but the neighborhood we're in isn't exactly the nicest. Don't think folks around here ask too many questions."

  "Yeah, I noticed . . . that was actually a joke."

  She and the cashier went back and forth a few more times, and then the cashier finally nodded. Colbie slid the rubles and the euro notes under the glass, and then the cashier tossed a cell phone onto the counter, a cheap-looking model of a brand I'd never heard of before, encased in thick plastic packaging.

  "Hey." I poked Colbie in the ribs. "Ask him if he's got any cigars."

  Colbie eyed me. "For real?"

  I shrugged. "I never joke about cigars, guns, or sex."

  She rolled her eyes at me. "You just asked if I'd told the cashier your missing finger was a sex injury."

  "Oh yeah. So I don't joke about cigars or guns, and I only joke about sex with a woman I'm really, really interested in having sex with."

  "Oddly specific," Colbie said. "And I'm not sure being only really, really interested is going to cut it, if you're talking about me. I'm pretty picky."

  I laughed. "Ah, I see. Well then, I'm really, really, really, really interested in having sex with you." I gestured at the cashier, who was ignoring us to watch a small TV on the counter. "Ask about the cigars, babe. Please."

  She shook her head but asked anyway; the cashier passed a packet of three cheap but serviceable cigars through the slot, and Colbie passed a ruble note through, but the man just grunted in dismissal and waved us off. Taking back the cash and handing me the cigars, she took the vodka and the cell phone and we left the liquor store, headed back the way we'd came, making for the alley where the rest of the group waited for us.

  Once again, I found myself walking beside Colbie and having the devil's own time trying to keep my eyes off her cleavage, which was distracting and irritating, because I was not typically easily distracted.

  I increased my pace so I was a step ahead of Colbie.

  "What's the matter, Puck? Don't like walking next to me?" Colbie asked, opening her stride to match mine.

  "No." I forced myself to keep my gaze scanning around me, watching for signs of Cain's assholes coming for us. "You're distracting."

  "Distracting? What am I doing to distract you?"

  I couldn't help glancing at her and noticing the way she wrinkled her nose in confusion. It was cute. Normally, if something was cute, I avoided it like the plague. Cute was anathema. Kids, kittens, girls young and innocent enough to be considered cute . . . I stayed the hell away--far, far away. I liked Harleys, dive bars, tattoo parlors, and the kind of chicks who liked to get down for a couple hours and then found the door their own damn selves . . . the kind of woman who wrinkled her nose and made me go awwwww . . .? No. NOPE. Nooooo way, Jose.

  Yet there was Colbie, sixteen different kinds of sexy, alluring, hot, and gorgeous, yet also cute as a fucking button with that nose wrinkle and tilted head.

  Motherfucker--this was bad.

  "You're existing, that's what you're doing to distract me." I decided to play it like I always played it--shoot from the hip, blunt as a hammer, no filter. "I keep wondering if you're really wearing a blue bra, and if so, what kind, and how can I get you to show it to me--and then how can I get you out of it? And I wonder whether you're the type of chick who wears plain and comfortable underwear to work, or the kind who wears fancy lingerie because you like feeling sexy. And I also can't handle walking behind you because I'll stare at your ass the whole time, and if I walk beside you, I'll stare at your tits, and I shouldn't be staring at you at all, because if the events of the last seventy-two hours are anything to go by, this shit is just getting started, and I have to be on my A-game or we're all dead. Or, more likely, I'm dead and you're all being sold into Cain's network."

  She was quiet for several paces, obviously chewing on what I'd said. "First, it's not my fault I distract you--lack of focus is on you, not me. Second, my bra really is blue." She pulled the edges of her shirt open a bit to show a sliver of sapphire blue satin. "And it's nothing fancy, just a regular bra. Third, I'm the first type, for the most part--I pick underwear based on fit and comfort more than style, although I do have a few sets of fancy stuff, but I don't wear them very much, and for sure not to work. What are we on, number four? Fourth, it's also not my fault if you can't stop staring at me--see also item number one. Fifth, what happened in the last seventy-two hours to make you feel like this is just getting started? Addendum to item number five: if three trucks full of dead guys is this shit just getting started, then maybe I should be a little more afraid than I currently feel. Sixth, who the hell is Cain? And seventh, how would one lose a finger during sex?"

  I laughed. "Um . . . that last one is a good question--S&M gone wrong?"

  We'd arrived at the alley by that point, just in time for Layla to overhear that last exchange. "Do I want to know?"

  I shook my head. "No, probably not."

  She eyed the vodka. "Not really the time to start pounding vodka, Puck."

  I moved away from the rest of the women, sat down in a corner where the brick wall of the liquor store met a tall, leaning sheet-metal fence. There was a stick on the ground, a couple inches long and the same thickness as my finger, missing all its bark; I set that in my teeth and clamped down on it as I heated up the knife blade.

  "Shit, Puck." Layla crouched near me. "Want me to do that?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  "You sure?"

  I nodded. "I'm sure." My words were muffled by the stick.

  I really wasn't looking forward to this, but I had no idea when I'd be able to get medical attention, and if this thing kept bleeding like it was, I'd start to get light-headed; I already was a little and feeling kind of nauseous. Probably an infection, like Colbie had predicted. But fuck it, right? Gotta do what I gotta do. I twisted open the vodka and took a shot, then poured some onto my finger--which stung like a bitch as the alcohol hit the mess.

  I heated the knife blade until it was glowing red, and then folded my fingers in so I was flipping the bird with my sad, messy little stump. Setting the lighter down, I hesitated a second, two, three . . . sucked in a few deep breaths and held the last one as I lowered the flat of the red-hot blade to the wound.

  There was the hissing sound of searing meat, and the sickly sweet smell of cooking flesh, and I bit down on the stick between my teeth so hard I felt and heard the wood crunch and give, and I screamed out loud. I was a tough motherfucker, okay? I'd been shot, I'd been stabbed, I'd been beaten and left for dead, all sorts of shit. Cauterizing that finger? Fucking hurt like a
motherfucking bitch. I held the knife on for a few seconds, then pulled it away, gasping, groaning, sweating, stomach heaving--checked it, saw it was still oozing a bit, and held the hot blade against my finger again. I repeated this three more times, checking for fresh blood each time, until the wound was totally cauterized.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," I snarled, spitting out the stick and tossing the still-hot knife onto the ground beside me.

  I examined the finger; the wound was gnarly, all red and seared brownish, but it wasn't bleeding anymore, so I called it done. Well . . . almost. I dumped some more vodka onto the closed wound, biting down on the stick and growling through the burn. Finally, fucking finally, I was as done as I could get.

  This time, I took two long swallows of vodka.

  "Fuck." I capped the vodka and levered myself to my feet, woozy from the pain. "That was exciting. Let's do it again!"

  Colbie eyed me as I blinked through the dizziness and the lingering waves of pain. "You gonna make it, tough guy?"

  "I dunno. I might need a little mouth to mouth," I drawled. "I'm feeling a bit faint."

  "Nice try, but no." She picked up the knife from the ground, opened it, and sliced open the package containing the cell phone. "How did you lose the finger, for real?"

  I gestured at the crowd of women, most of whom were crowded around us, sitting, standing, some chatting to others who shared a language, most just staring blankly and trying to keep their shit together. "Long story. Short version is, I was with Lola and Temple, taking them to my cabin to hide out--"

  "Hide out from what?"

  "From Cain--I'll explain him in a minute. The bad guys, the same group who snatched you, found us at my cabin, I'm still not sure how. There was a fun little shootout, during which I lost the upper half of my favorite finger, and then they snatched Lola and Temple, and I took off in pursuit. Fortunately for me, they used a small local airfield, which meant while they were looking the other way, I managed to sneak into the baggage compartment of the jet y'all were on." I wiggled my stump, and then hissed because moving it hurt.

  "While I waited for them to load the bags and get ready for takeoff and whatever, I realized my finger was still bleeding pretty heavily. I was on my own, alone, with women I've sworn on my life to protect no matter what. They were held captive on the plane, and it was about to take off. I didn't have any supplies I could use as a tourniquet, there was no chance of medical attention, and I had to be ready to run as soon as the opportunity showed itself. Couldn't let those assholes get away with my buddies' girls, right? So I lit my cigar, got it glowing as hot as I could and did my best to sear that fucker closed so I'd at least stop it from bleeding quite as much.