stretched out on the bed and listened to the silence. Her thighs were slick and sticky, and beside her, Chris Miles radiated heat from his own sweaty body.
"Fucking savage," he gasped. "Turn on the goddamn air conditioning."
In her bra and panties, Vega crossed her hands behind her head and looked over her battle-scarred body. Christ's mother, Mary, was a guest on her muscular abdomen, a tattoo Vega bought when her mother died. The gold crucifix she wore around her neck was cold against her chest.
Vega rolled to her side. "Turn it on yourself."
"Ruin the moment," Miles replied.
"What moment? You think there's a moment? I was bored an hour ago and I'm still bored."
"Damn adrenaline junkie." Miles sighed. Tiny curls of black hair forested his sweaty chest.
Vega didn't argue. More than anything, she hated extended breaks between missions. She was the best at what she did and what she was: a soldier. She wasn't afraid to admit she was a mercenary, a warrior without a cause or country. She often worked for different PMCs—Private Military Companies–without second-guessing the job, although she only agreed to long-term security jobs if she was desperate.
Right now, she would be more than happy to work for a security detail.
Chris Miles was a good man and a good teammate. He was ex-U.S. Special Forces, having spent the majority of his career in the Rangers. His relationship to his home country was terminated after he broke an officer's jaw with a left hook. Miles had a problem with authority, but he loved being a soldier. Like Vega, he spoke three languages; his black curly hair, and a state of perpetual stubble, made him seem more Lebanese than American. He had a good sense of humor and kept a cool head under fire.
Three years ago, in Afghanistan, he risked his ass to pull her out of a firefight, and she refused to thank him for it. It was a memory that always seemed to bring a smile to their faces.
"What's so funny?" Miles asked.
"The numbers were in my favor," Vega said, remembering, "ten to one, I think. Maybe twenty to one."
"Afghanistan? Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart."
"Plenty of ammo. Two grenades."
Miles laughed. "You want me to feel bad that I deprived you of your battle-high? I'll give you a pity fuck just because I care about you."
"They've all been pity fucks."
"Speaking of getting fucked, Bob sent me a text message and asked if we were together. He also wants you to answer your damn phone. His words."
Her mood brightened. "A mission?"
"We can assume. Bob doesn't hang out. He's not exactly our friend."
"Then maybe we should get someone else to get your contracts for you."
" You like getting shot at, but not me. I like the money." Miles had discreetly divided a pile of cocaine on the nightstand into four distinct, thick lines. This was his habit: they would screw and he would snort. She was willing to overlook his disgusting habit because he was a better alternative to her own dirty habit: coming back from missions and screwing anonymous, drunken nobodies, just to punish herself with sins enough to make Christ weep.
Vega sighed. "You really want to get wasted before he gets here?"
Miles grew agitated in the way that only a junkie could when denied his poison. "Who're you to criticize? You've got your vice, and I've got mine."
"What vice do I have? I'd love you to share your infinite wisdom."
"Do I really need to say it? Are we doing this right now?"
"Right now."
Miles didn't hesitate. "I've seen you smile after killing…"
"What makes you the expert? We're teammates, nothing more. You don't know shit about me."
Miles nodded cynically, "You're right. Teammates. And you know what? You can use someone else to make you feel sorry for yourself, because I'm done with this shit. You're addicted to guilt, and you'll get yourself killed over it."
"Nice to know you're a licensed therapist." She stood up and marched to the bathroom.
"You're not going to cry now, are you?" He called after her,
"Fucking savage," he gasped. "Turn on the goddamn air conditioning."
In her bra and panties, Vega crossed her hands behind her head and looked over her battle-scarred body. Christ's mother, Mary, was a guest on her muscular abdomen, a tattoo Vega bought when her mother died. The gold crucifix she wore around her neck was cold against her chest.
Vega rolled to her side. "Turn it on yourself."
"Ruin the moment," Miles replied.
"What moment? You think there's a moment? I was bored an hour ago and I'm still bored."
"Damn adrenaline junkie." Miles sighed. Tiny curls of black hair forested his sweaty chest.
Vega didn't argue. More than anything, she hated extended breaks between missions. She was the best at what she did and what she was: a soldier. She wasn't afraid to admit she was a mercenary, a warrior without a cause or country. She often worked for different PMCs—Private Military Companies–without second-guessing the job, although she only agreed to long-term security jobs if she was desperate.
Right now, she would be more than happy to work for a security detail.
Chris Miles was a good man and a good teammate. He was ex-U.S. Special Forces, having spent the majority of his career in the Rangers. His relationship to his home country was terminated after he broke an officer's jaw with a left hook. Miles had a problem with authority, but he loved being a soldier. Like Vega, he spoke three languages; his black curly hair, and a state of perpetual stubble, made him seem more Lebanese than American. He had a good sense of humor and kept a cool head under fire.
Three years ago, in Afghanistan, he risked his ass to pull her out of a firefight, and she refused to thank him for it. It was a memory that always seemed to bring a smile to their faces.
"What's so funny?" Miles asked.
"The numbers were in my favor," Vega said, remembering, "ten to one, I think. Maybe twenty to one."
"Afghanistan? Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart."
"Plenty of ammo. Two grenades."
Miles laughed. "You want me to feel bad that I deprived you of your battle-high? I'll give you a pity fuck just because I care about you."
"They've all been pity fucks."
"Speaking of getting fucked, Bob sent me a text message and asked if we were together. He also wants you to answer your damn phone. His words."
Her mood brightened. "A mission?"
"We can assume. Bob doesn't hang out. He's not exactly our friend."
"Then maybe we should get someone else to get your contracts for you."
" You like getting shot at, but not me. I like the money." Miles had discreetly divided a pile of cocaine on the nightstand into four distinct, thick lines. This was his habit: they would screw and he would snort. She was willing to overlook his disgusting habit because he was a better alternative to her own dirty habit: coming back from missions and screwing anonymous, drunken nobodies, just to punish herself with sins enough to make Christ weep.
Vega sighed. "You really want to get wasted before he gets here?"
Miles grew agitated in the way that only a junkie could when denied his poison. "Who're you to criticize? You've got your vice, and I've got mine."
"What vice do I have? I'd love you to share your infinite wisdom."
"Do I really need to say it? Are we doing this right now?"
"Right now."
Miles didn't hesitate. "I've seen you smile after killing…"
"What makes you the expert? We're teammates, nothing more. You don't know shit about me."
Miles nodded cynically, "You're right. Teammates. And you know what? You can use someone else to make you feel sorry for yourself, because I'm done with this shit. You're addicted to guilt, and you'll get yourself killed over it."
"Nice to know you're a licensed therapist." She stood up and marched to the bathroom.
"You're not going to cry now, are you?" He called after her,
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