Fox absorbed his gripe with a small roll of his shoulders. “Well, the Cimarrons have authorized me to contract you for more lucrative…cake.”
“It’s not about the money,” Brick bit back. “Oz knows that already.”
“I certainly do.” Oz passed off the remark as a casual comment, adding a charming grin as a group of flirty college girls strolled by. “But I also know that you enjoy a nice thick slice of sweet stuff from time to time. This sugar will guarantee you enough flow to afford that place you’ve been eyeing up in Whistler.”
“Damn it.” He shook his head in time to Oz’s lazy chuckle. “I should have never told you about that.”
“Bah,” Oz blurted. “You were blotto that night. We both were.”
“Which is why you remember what I said?”
“Pffft. It was interesting.”
“Fuck you.” He dragged his hand forward, angrily scratching at his skull again. “For the record, empty compliments won’t soften me up.”
He didn’t say it to make Oz back down. But he didn’t expect the guy to jog his head back like Brick had simply let out a ten-second belch. “Mate, I think you’re already softened fine—and my words, empty or otherwise, had nothing to do with it. Only person who has yet to see that is the one in your skin.”
Brick ignored the telling tickles along the back of his neck. “Thanks, Yoda,” he groused. “I’m still not levitating the star speeder out of the bog for you.”
Fox cut into the air with an audible clutch of breath. “Did you just compare Princess Jayd to a mud-covered spaceship?”
Oz held him back with an iron hand across the shoulder. “I think our friend is battling deeper demons,” he stated before turning a similar regard on Brick. “Specters, I reckon, that could be banished with the right mission as a nudge?”
Goddammit.
Brick craved to spit it aloud at the Aussie, but his teeth were going at each other like grinders on sheet metal. How did Oz know? It hadn’t gotten spewed during a night of “blotto” ramblings, since Brick had stopped getting that drunk with anyone after Bamiyan. And all his sessions with Doc Sally were strictly confidential.
Maybe the bastard was gambling on a calculated guess. In which case, he’d struck a damn artery. Nothing Brick could do about it either. He was a blood spill of major tells even before the gnashed teeth. He’d sucked up too much air through his nose. Averted his gaze way above the quotient for normal. Oz didn’t miss a single speck of it.
Because he was right?
Fuuuck.
Probably because he was right.
But Brick wasn’t ready to admit that. Not to himself, and certainly not out loud. Not yet.
“I need a few hours,” he finally said. “Can you give me that, at least?”
“Of course.” But Oz dotted that by scooting his gaze out to Fox. “I mean, that’s all right, yeah, babe?” After the Arcadian nodded, he told Brick, “It’s all right, mate. Here’s the twenty of the safe house we’ve secured.”
Brick peered at his friend’s phone screen, committing the Montmartre address to memory while faking a hey-look-at-that-fun-vacation-picture laugh. Didn’t hurt to give the security cams a good lasting impression. “Got it,” he affirmed.
Past an equally feigned grin, Oz said, “So if we don’t see you by midnight, we’ll assume you’ve pussied out.”
“Or actually found some common sense?” he returned.
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too.”
It was their version of a mushy goodbye hug, and that was just fine by Brick. He was never one for mushy, even before Bamiyan. He’d always done better getting to work shit out for himself, which had been his biggest strength—and ultimately, downfall—in the black ops game.
Right now, he chose to look at it as the former.
But with every step he took around the city, wandering streets and alleys even as the afternoon grew into evening, he started feeling it as the latter.
Because he still didn’t know what to do about this damn offer.
About everything Ozias had said when bringing it to him.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Oz.
If that meeting had been with anyone else, he’d have already told them to go pound sand. Ironically, no one would’ve understood that answer more than Oz. Well, usually. The Aussie, normally as laid-back as a tequila sunrise and sunset, had been uniquely aggressive out on that plaza, all but demanding Brick’s answer on the spot. Relatable, considering his blatant adoration for Fox. And seeing the Arcadian’s clear concern about finding his princess before the Pura dickwads…
His princess.
No. Not really a princess anymore.
So what was she?
Just Jayd now. Jayd Cimarron, a missing Arcadian beauty.
A woman who’d had the guts to sneak away from her home, her family, her comfort—all in the name of seeking her truth. Perhaps, for the first time in her existence, living her truth.
Which meant she was proud, determined, and brave.
Which also meant she was intractable, impetuous, and not open to taking instruction. Possibly—probably—from the very team who’d come to rescue her.
So why hadn’t he already turned this gig down? Why was he still out here as the streetlamps turned on, instead of back at the Ritz and ordering a steak dinner on Reece Richards’s dime?
The questions pounded his brain as he stopped on a tree-shrouded corner in the heart of—surprise, dumbshit—Montmartre.
What the living fuck?
But no way was he adding that one to the mental quandary file. He wasn’t ready to tick it off as answered either.
He needed some clarity. Which was exactly what he thought was happening for the last few hours, only to realize his wandering had treated his brain like a gardener’s air blower. The clutter wasn’t gone, just pushed to different places.
Another magic pill wouldn’t help either. He was mired in confusion, not panic. Besides, one visit to the figurative pharmacy was enough for the day. For any day.
As he peered around, shops and landmarks started looking familiar. They, more than anything else, disclosed how close he was to the Très Particulier. The bar was aptly named considering their nearly secret location. He only knew about it because he’d been here just last week, with Colton and Foley, after the op that had gone horrifically sideways. They’d needed to drink themselves into oblivion, though not in the full public eye. Colton, with his semisuperstar connections, had suggested the Particulier.
Brick couldn’t think of a better place to hide out. Hopefully, from his own chaotic mind. Thank God for friends who knew about bars as secret as Xanadu but as lush as Honolulu.
After ringing at the Hôtel Particulier’s main gate and gaining entrance, he made his way directly to the bar. It was already fairly busy, though most places in Paris didn’t start really bumping until nine or ten p.m. Still, he was able to order a decent brand of whisky and then claim a red velvet chair at a small table near the wall, where he could park his head against the large painting of an exotic forest. Hopefully, the tropical bird residents in the picture would fly away with some of his mind’s heavy conflict.
Which continued to make no sense.
At all.