“That I don't need you to protect me, that's what,” She spits out.
I roll my eyes and look away. I know this Peyton; the surly, take-no-shit, tough-as-nails girl from the other side of the tracks act. Thing is, it's not really an act at all, which is one of the reason I l- Well, why I like her. Or liked.
Or, whatever.
Peyton isn't like, well, any other girl out there. I mean, I love the Archer sisters like they were my own flesh and blood, but there's something different about Peyton Rivers that's just different than them. Those girls have had rough times in life, but Peyton's the kind of person who's seen the face of the devil and taken the time to spit in it.
Kinda like me, which sort of explains the attraction in the first place, I guess.
“You do, actually. Need my protection, that is.” Truth be told, in most situations, she wouldn't. Peyton's tough, but add four years of Logan teaching her how to fight, shoot, and know her perimeters and her enemy, has that girl in probably better fighting shape than I ever was even when I was in the Marines.
Peyton opens and then closes her mouth; “I'm not going back,” She finally says, setting her jaw and glaring at me.
“Yeah I didn't think you would.”
“I'm serious, Bry-”
“So am I.”
She keeps her glare at me another moment before the tension seems to diffuse half a degree in the room, and she exhales slowly; “So, now what?”
I grin; yeah, I was waiting for this part; “Now we act the part I've already set up.”
She looks at me quizzically; “Excuse me?”
The grin on my face grows wider; “How's the honeymoon so far, honey?”
The momentary lapse in glare on her face shatters as she narrows her eyes at me; “What?”
“Oh, yeah I set us up with a cover. But, oh, you had a plan for that didn't you?”
She sneers a fake smile at me; “The honeymoon is fine, honey.”
“Oh, lovely.” I grin right back at her before I reach down and pull the door off the floor and shove it back into the frame I knocked it out of. I should probably come up with something to say to room service about fixing that.
I'm sitting on the end of the bed and kicking my shoes off when Peyton loudly clears her throat behind me; “Um, what are you doing?”
“Settling into our room,” I say with a grin. I can practically feel her eyes burning laser-beam holes in my back, and I take a second to smirk to myself.
“Nope, no way,” She says. I can feel the weight shift on the bed as she gets up behind me, dragging the top sheet with her; “Nope, we’re not doing this. This is my room.”
I turn, flashing her my most saccharinely charming smile; “Our room, dear.”
“Stop calling me that.”
I shrug as I stand and start to pull my shirt off.
“Goddammit, Bryce! Get your own fucking room!” She's wrapping the sheet around her body and crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against the bathroom door.
“Not very inconspicuous, don't you think? Newlyweds with different rooms?”
“I am not sharing a be-”
“Oh, fucking relax, Peyton. And while you're at it, get over yourself. I'm sleeping on the floor.”
“Damn right you are.”
I roll my eyes as I snatch a pillow and the other sheet off the bed and toss it on the floor next to the bed. Her tough-girl bullshit is starting to grate on me.
“Get some sleep, darlin. Long day tomorrow.” I can hear her hesitate across the room as I drop down to the floor and wrap the sheet loosely over myself; “Peyton, sleep.”
“Fine.”
I feel my eyes close eventually, but fuck is it hard when I can hear her breathing right there. She's so close, and so untouchable, and this isn't about us at all, which is the hardest part. We're not here to play the re-hash game with our relationship or sling arrows at each other. We’re here for Logan, and that's what we need to concentrate on.
Except when I can hear her whimper softly in her sleep, and smell the lavender of her shampoo as the Mediterranean wind blows through the open window, it takes more than a deep breath to remind myself of that.
Fuck, this is going to be tough.
9
Bryce
The market district of Istanbul is thick with exotic smells, colors, and sounds as Peyton and I push our way through the crowds without talking, since she’s decided to play a ridiculous silent treatment game with me since last night.
I’ve been here before, on our way out of Afghanistan before we hooked up with Blackriver in Morocco. I shake my head at the memory of those hectic, wild days, when we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing; when we were looking over our shoulders every five seconds for the State Department, or worse. Two months of uncertainty, of lying in limbo. Me, high on hashish scrounging through back-markets looking for something stronger to numb it all away, Hudson almost getting us all killed when he went home with the wrong married woman, and Logan playing fucking damage control through the whole thing. Logan keeping us together, and alive, and moving forward; always moving forward.