It was the first time Neil had defended her honor, and though she hated to admit it, she got a kick out of how ticked off he became when another man looked at her. “That was last year.”
“What’s changed since then?”
Nothing! It didn’t matter how much she flirted with the man, or how obvious she was about her attraction. Neil didn’t bite.
“Everything.” Gwen stood, ready to put Neil in his place. “If you’ll both excuse me for a minute.”
She pushed her way through the crowd as if on a collision course with Neil. He kept his lips in a thin line as she approached and gripped the longneck bottle at his side.
Slipping between the woman on the stool next to him and Neil’s massive frame, Gwen slapped her hand on her hip and growled. “What are you doing here?”
He blinked, once, and picked up his beer. “Having a drink.”
She wanted to scream. “Having a drink,” she repeated.
He tilted the bottle back, took a swig.
“I know what you’re doing, Neil. And I don’t like it. I don’t want or need a bodyguard.”
“That’s debatable.”
If stomping her foot would knock some sense into him, she’d stomp better than a farm girl in a vineyard.
Poking a finger into his chest, she moved closer. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to have a love life with a two-hundred-thirty-pound bodybuilder standing in my way?”
A muscle in his jaw tightened. “Two hundred and fifty.”
“Ahhh!” She did scream now.
He lifted his beer again, but before he could take a swig, Gwen grabbed it from his fingers and tilted it back herself.
In a move that would make Eliza and Karen proud, she pushed the empty beer bottle back into his hand and slid between his thighs.
His jaw twitched again.
The strong musky scent that was pure Neil invaded her senses. She dropped one hand to his thigh and left it there. “This is how I see it, Neil. You have two choices. Either back off or step up.”
Gwen squeezed his thigh before vacating his personal space and marching back to the girls.
A satisfied smile stretched over her face.
Chapter Seven
What the f**k just happened?
Gwen’s shapely butt swayed back and forth as she worked her way back to her table.
He didn’t have time to process Gwen’s ultimatum before he heard someone calling him.
“Mac? Is that you?”
Neil froze. His name from the past caught in his throat, making him think twice before turning around.
He waved his empty beer to the bartender, hoping whoever called out wasn’t looking at him.
“MacBain?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Rick?” he said in shock. The last time he’d seen Rick…
Thick heat sealed in the scent of dirt, blood, and death. The Blackhawk carried what was left of his men to safety. Five of them made it out, and one of those would take his last breath before the chopper landed.
It was his fault.
Rick slammed his hand into Neil’s and pulled him into a man-hug. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”
“You look good,” Neil managed, thankful the bartender was quick with his drink.
“You look angry as ever.” Rick “Smiley” Evans, Smiley to those in their unit because of the never-ending lips that smiled regardless of the sky falling around them, ordered a whiskey, and sat in the now vacant stool at Neil’s side.
“How long has it been?”
Neil glanced over Rick’s shoulder, noticed Gwen laughing.
“A few years.” Five years, eight months, and a handful of days.
Rick shifted in his seat. “That’s a tableful of trouble if I ever saw one. Friends of yours?”
Neil averted his gaze, and focused on his old colleague. The last thing he wanted to do was explain Gwen to Rick. Hell, he didn’t know how to explain Gwen to himself. “What are you doing in LA? I thought you didn’t like the West Coast.”
Rick took his drink in his hand and the smile he always wore fell.
A chill ran down Neil’s spine.
“I hate this plastic scene.”
“So why are you here?” Something told Neil he wasn’t going to like the answer.
Rick emptied his glass with one swallow. “Looking for you.”
Ah, f**k!
Rick dropped a twenty on the bar and stood. “Let’s find a quieter place.”
Neil’s jaw ached. He had no desire to leave Gwen, but knew Rick wouldn’t suggest they talk if it wasn’t important. He glanced Gwen’s way one last time before following Rick out of the bar.
There were plenty of bars to fade quietly into throughout LA. They found one, ordered a couple of drinks, and faded.
“Billy’s dead.”
“What?” The hair on Neil’s arms went up and stayed there. Billy Thompson was a redneck from the woods of Tennessee, and one of Neil’s men. His grandfather was notorious throughout his hometown because of the moonshine he pumped out of a homemade still. A skill he passed on to Billy who shared his bounty in mason jars. Redneck he was, but Billy could track a king rat through a rain forest and take it out with a shot through the eyes from a mile away. His place on the team was invaluable.
Had been invaluable.
“How?”
“The official report said suicide. Post traumatic bullshit.”
“That’s crap.” Shit rolled off Billy better than most of them. Last Neil heard, he’d married his high school sweetheart and was trying to put his military days behind him.