Packing Heat(73)

I looked across the sheets and, sure enough, some blond stranger was wrapped up in the comforter.

I groaned, rolling out of bed. What a fucking shit storm. I walked into the bathroom, rinsed my mouth out, and drank a cup of water.

“Baby?”

I looked back into the main room. The blond thing was sitting up, her thick hair spilling down around her shoulders, her bare tits standing firm and ripe.

“Not your baby,” I grunted at her.

“Whatever.” She smiled, crawling across the bed. “That was fun last night.”

“Sure,” I said. “I bet it was.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Eventually.” I looked at the time. “Got a fucking flight in a few hours.”

She stopped at the edge of the bed and motioned for me. I sighed, walking over to her.

She reached out and grabbed my cock through my thin boxers. “You have a few extra minutes, right?”

Another pussy, another city, another night. I stared at the girl and tried to remember her name, but I was drawing up a blank. Frankly, I couldn’t even remember what city I was in, let alone what club slut I had brought home the night before.

What the fuck was happening to my life? One day I was at the top of my game, killing fucking scumbag terrorists in one of the most dangerous places in the world, and the next I was rolling around the country getting my cock sucked by horny fans.

“Maybe another time,” I grunted to her, turning away.

“What?” she pouted. “Come on.”

I looked back at her. “Get your shit and get out.”

She stared at me, not sure if I was joking. “Come back here,” she said. “I’ll suck your cock, make you feel better.”

“Guess I wasn’t clear,” I said. “I’m taking a shower. Get the fuck out.”

I turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it.

I heard something thump against it. “Asshole!” she yelled.

Just another normal morning in my fucked up whirlwind of a life.



“You’re late.”

I frowned at my watch. “Two minutes.”

“Still late.”

“What’d you sleep on, a fucking rock?”

“You know I like to be punctual, Nash.”

I grinned at her. “Yeah, I know that, Livy.”

She sighed and looked down at her phone’s calendar. Livy Green was my publicist and handler, and basically the bane of my fucking existence. If something was fun and felt good, Livy wanted to destroy it with fucking fire. The woman was a professional at keeping me on schedule and keeping me bored out of my fucking mind.

“Look,” she said, “we need to talk.”

“Can we talk on the way?”

She nodded and stalked off. I followed her, my skull pounding. I wasn’t looking forward to another lecture about my “conduct” and my “professionalism,” but it would be over soon enough.

Thing was, I didn’t exactly disagree with her. Yeah, I was partying too much, drinking too much, fucking too much. Yeah, I was enjoying the fucking fruits of my labor. Could anyone blame me? I had a thousand female fans that all wanted a piece of my cock and a thousand dollars in the bank begging to get blown on the next bullshit attraction.

I had just spent the better part of my life in the fucking desert, my balls owned by Uncle Sam. Didn’t the world owe me a tiny bit of fun?

This damn book. Truth was, I didn’t even write the thing. The stories were all more or less accurate, though some of them were fucked up a bit because of security reasons. I’d had a ghostwriter who actually did all the hard work, though. I told him what happened to me, the shit I did out there, and he made me look like some kind of fucking hero.

Which I wasn’t. I was just some asshole with a lot of particular skills that did his job. I wasn’t a hero, never asked to be one.

Didn’t matter anymore, though. Wasn’t like I could somehow go back in time and change things. The book was out, the world was fucking crazy for me, and I was stuck dealing with all the shit. Orders were fucking orders, even if they were some weird fucking orders.

I followed Livy outside. The guy working for the hotel out front wanted to take my bags, but I shrugged him off. I hated being treated like a celebrity. I could carry my own fucking luggage.

Soon we were in the back of a private car and speeding out toward Midway, one of Chicago’s airports.

“I spoke with Chuck this morning,” Livy said.

“Who?” I grunted.

“Chuck Davis. Your publisher.”

“Oh. Okay.” I stared out the window, barely listening.

“He’s the man that owns you now, Nash.”

That got my attention. I looked back at her. “What did you say?”