Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Um…
Say what?
“I have a guestroom,” I pointed out.
“I sleep on the couch.”
“Won’t one of Hawk’s other guys—?”
“Just me.”
Okay.
Wait.
What?
“You’re not gonna…trade off or something?” I asked.
He shook his head.
Once.
I still got the negative.
“Well, uh…I don’t want to be telling you your job, but…is that the way it’s normally done?”
“Absolutely.”
It was?
I clearly showed my surprise because after I did, the Quiet Man gave me more words.
“Military. You train with someone. You bunk with someone. You breathe their air all day every day, they mean something to you. You could hate their guts and you’d still form a bond. They’re in it with you. They’re family. There are men…and women…who might rush into danger just to save a life. But there’s a big difference between instinct and already being in danger. Knowing your time could be up at any moment. And watching that grenade fall at your feet. Which is also at the feet of your brothers. Then throwing yourself on it knowing every man standing with you has the same exact thought to do the same exact thing because one might have to go, but that bond is so strong, you’ll die not to make the other ones have to break it.”
“You’re gonna need to throw yourself on a grenade for me?” I whispered.
“I need you to trust that I’d throw myself on a grenade for you.”
That was easy. I did that already. I mean, he was wearing cargo pants. And a gun.
And I could do it and he could sleep in the guestroom or have an afternoon off.
“I trust you, Mo,” I promised.
“You have no idea the meaning of the word trust, Ms. McAlister.”
“Lottie.”
He tilted his chin up this time.
“So, you have to sleep in the same room with me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
“But you’ll be sleeping.”
“I require four hours of sleep a night, ma’am. And from REM to battle ready requires two point five four seconds. I don’t know what the time is to do that and get down the hall if you’re facing a threat. I just know it’s longer than two point five four seconds.”
Two point five four.
Exact.
“You’ve timed it?” I queried disbelievingly.
“Yes.”
Wow.
“When will you shower?”
“I don’t waste time when I shower. It takes less than five minutes. So I’ll shower with you in the bathroom with me and the door locked or I’ll shower while you’re dancing, when Smithie has his men on you. That is, if I feel the club is clear. If not, I shower with you in the room with me. Outside me taking away that choice, it’ll be your choice.”
He did not offer the choice of showering while I was showering in the same shower, which was a shame.
“Why don’t we, um…just play that by ear,” I suggested.
Back to dipping his chin.
“Do you need to go pack a bag or something?” I asked.
“It’s in my truck,” he answered.
“Okay,” I muttered.
His deep voice went low. “This will be done soon and I’ll be gone.”
Now who was a freak?
I was.
Because I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I knew it was bad, and I still didn’t want it to end because I knew exactly one solid thing about this guy, the fact he was called Mo, and I didn’t want “this” to be done soon so he’d be gone.
“What’s your full name?” I asked abruptly.
“Kim Seamus Morrison.”
I stared at him. “Your name is Kim?”
“My mother’s Norwegian.”
Since I wasn’t an expert in Norwegian names, that didn’t explain it, except apparently Kim was a Norwegian dude’s name.
“Your dad?” I pressed.
“Half Scottish. Half dick.”
Oh man.
He rattled that off by rote.
I opened my mouth.
He shook his head.
“This doesn’t get personal,” he stated.
To hell with that.
To hell with nerves too.
There might come a time he’d shower with me in the bathroom with him.
Or better, with me in the shower too.
So yeah.
To hell with that.
I motioned to the couch, “We’re bunking together. We’re breathing the same air. You wanna train together, I’ll show you the pole and you can spot me on the weight bench. You’d fall on a grenade for me. I’d say this was already personal.”
He said nothing.
“Mo,” I snapped. “Seriously. Who knows how long this is gonna take? You can’t just hulk around silently with your gun on your belt, waiting for something to happen to me.”
He again said not a word.
Which told me he could hulk around silently with his gun on his belt, waiting for something to happen to me.
Or more, waiting for it to happen so he could stop it.
“Okay, Rambo, how about I don’t want you hulking around silently, waiting for something to happen to me,” I amended.
More nothing from him.
I crossed my arms on my chest (and still, he didn’t look in that direction).
I got paid for men to look at my tits, it was my way of life.
But never did I want a man to notice my tits as much as I wanted Mo to notice them.