Wicked Little Game

by Ivy Porter

Captain Rockwell

Price, is that you? 👀

I sincerely don’t know what about me screams approachable or looking for a flirt. Must be the slightly crooked nose that had been broken more times than I could count or the bags under my eyes. Because it sure as fuck wasn’t my warm smile.

I frown as I look through the outfits Rockwell organized for this mission. I’ll look like a fucking choir boy on steroids. Polo shirts and slacks aren’t my usual attire, and they aren’t dirt-caked and blood-smeared enough for my liking. Not to mention that those pants have way too few pockets. Where the hell am I supposed to put all my stuff?

It’s not expected to smile at hostages or cartel members during raids, and unlike Logan, I don’t run around grinning while emptying my AK-47 into the air. I already miss him. He’s a good guy.

“My daughter can be a bit complicated.” The worn-out expression on his face tells me that it’s probably a bit more than just complicated. “It’s fine,” I reassure him. “I have experience dealing with rather complex clients. They usually behave under my watch.” Of course, they behave when you hold a gun against their head, but I keep that part to myself.

I can’t believe that she’s supposed to be around the same age as Max. Not that Max is what I would call an adult, but at least he doesn’t slam doors shut and hides in his bedroom.

So far I haven’t met her, but the image I have of her in my mind gets worse with every new thing that I learn about her. I should thank her for rebelling against the cameras, though. That’ll make my mission much easier.

“There are two other bedrooms on the first floor if you want a different room, but this one is better for keeping track of her,” he says as he opens the door for me. Calling this a bedroom is an understatement. Not even Rockwell’s quarters on base are as spacious and he’s a goddamn captain. The room is equipped with everything I could need. A king size bed, a small desk by the window, and a huge personal bathroom.

I pull my black balaclava over my head, going through the brief speech I prepared for her.

When Logan and Max drink enough to become courageous, they make fun of my mask. But at least our enemies don’t recognize my face. If one of them ever gets killed because of this, I’ll say, “Told you so,” at the funeral.

Professionalism isn’t the only reason for the mask, at least not now. Ruby isn’t that dangerous, but something still tells me that it...

Usually, people are at least a bit intimidated when they see a faceless black mass standing in their doorway. The effect would be be...

I’m greeted by a black shirt and I have to take a step back to see the face of who I assume is my new bodyguard. All this hassle, only to see a black balaclava where his face should be.

“Don’t even try to start with this attitude. Behave, don’t get on my nerves, and we won’t have a problem.”

But a huge hand on the back of my neck ruins my mood in a matter of seconds. Whoever it is, is squeezing slightly, not enough to hurt me, but hard enough to clarify that bolting off isn’t an option.

“Your rights end where my orders begin and your father explicitly stated that you are not permitted to leave the house, so you will stay the fuck in there.”

She called me a fucking Navy SEAL.

“Shit,” I mutter as I see that the barrel of a rifle points directly at my crotch. I get a tissue from the main bathroom before I touch it, not wanting to get my fingerprints on it. Upon closer inspection, I recognize the weapon as an A-545, a rifle used by Russian Spetsnaz units. I take a picture of the serial number to send to Rockwell later. Maybe they can find out a bit more about the way it took until it ended up in Mr. Barrons’ closet.

God, the things I’d give to drop her off at one of the rookie training sessions. They’d have her running through the woods with a fucking backpack that’s almost her weight while a choleric drill instructor lets his anger about his failed marriage out on her and the others. I would pay good money to witness this.

While he is a humongous asshole and the biggest killjoy I have ever met, he’s still fucking hot. Muscular thighs that would make a wonderful seat, a slim waist and broad shoulders. Tall, and with arms so big that I’m pretty sure that both of my hands wouldn’t be able to wrap around them.

His balaclava is shoved up, exposing the lower half of his face as he drinks his wine, and I almost choke on mine. Maybe I was wrong, and he doesn’t wear the mask because he’s hideous underneath.

“A bit self-absorbed to act like everyone would fall for your doe eyes and your pretty face, don’t you think?” Oh my God, he called me pretty.

Grumbling to myself, I take Ruby’s stuff with me and pick up her bikini top from the living room floor, because my mom raised me right. Unfortunately, my manners bring me nothing but trouble. Now that I have a hold of her things,

The glass of her shower cabin is frosted, and I can only make out her silhouette as she washes herself. She tilts her head back to rinse out her hair, and I wonder if her neck is sensitive. If she’d cry out if I left my mark on her.

There’s not enough booze in my room, so I walk down to the bar in the living room and grab a bottle of whiskey.

“Now you’re able to use your fucking phone?” I’m not far away enough from Ruby to yell at Max the way I want to. “Calm down, Sammy, I missed you too,” he chuckles. “Cut the bullshit, Max. You know I’m still your superior, right?” “The captain said we’re all equally important.”

Max truly does scream Soap 😂

“Well, at first we were out drinking and Rockwell told us to shut off our phones. Said something about you being pissed. Then we were on a short mission, nothing big. And after that, I had to get Logan's hand out of some guy's ribcage and all of my stuff was bloodied and I didn’t want to get my phone dirty and…” “Max,” I stop him before he’s talking for another five minutes. “Did you just call me to talk my ear off?” “Kinda.” “Idiot.”

“The mask…” “What about it?” “Do you have to wear it? People are going to think you want to rob the mall.” He takes a deep breath before he stomps back upstairs to his room. Only a minute later, he comes back down; the balaclava switched for a black surgical mask, and I can’t hide my surprise.

she reminds me of a boa constrictor with the way she wraps herself around me. She’s suffocating me with her unbearable personality and I’m the stupid prey that runs into her waiting mouth. Over and over, like a masochistic rabbit.

I don’t even like her and she’s a dipshit, but she’s my dipshit, at least for now, and I wouldn’t advise anyone to mess with that.

I’m going to die in the back of this store. Someone will have to carry me out on a stretcher and Rockwell will feel so goddamn bad for sending me on this mission while he has to give an eulogy at my funeral.

After my mom died and I joined the military, I earned more money, but I still didn’t use it to go on shopping sprees. You don’t need fancy clothes when you crawl around in a desert or hide in the sewer system of shoot-me-in-the-head valley.

Instead, I look after James, who sneaks out there like a goddamn special forces agent, albeit in sinfully hot gray sweatpants and without a shirt. Makes it even better.

He always seems so stiff, like none of his actions come naturally. A carefully crafted facade, and I wonder if it’s because he has a military background.

James should be more careful with his dog tags. Or at least wear them underneath his preppy polo shirts. Okay, in his defense, he only forgot to tug them away one time, but sometimes, once is enough.

Watching him proves to be interesting. Because James is on high alert, monitoring my father as if he’s guarding Fort Knox. I also don’t miss it as he subtly gets a hold of my father’s phones. One after the other, fidgeting around with them until he places them back where he found them.

I’m not allowed to pick out movies for movie night back on base anymore. Logan also isn’t, but that’s because he brought tapes that left all of us traumatized more than once. The decision is usually between Max’s stuff, which is more suitable for children and Rockwells picks, which are either horribly complicated foreign movies, or documentaries.

We had to take care of a puppy for a while on base, and every time the little thing started to bark while we ate our food, Rockwell told us to ignore him until he stopped. I had hoped that this would also work on Ruby. It doesn’t.

She’s kneeling next to me, her hand resting on my thigh. Slender fingers dance over the fabric of my pants, too high to call it cordial. Not to mention that we’re anything but friends. It seems like she’s playing “trace the outline of Sam’s cock without touching Sam’s fucking cock”.

“Good boy,” she whispers in my ear, even though I cut her words off as I grab her neck. She isn’t startled the slightest bit and I don’t know what I need to do for her to understand a few things about me. “I could kill you in a matter of seconds,” I hiss, my grip on her tightening. “Could snap your neck like a fuckin’ twig.” And, of course, Ruby moans in response. No sense of self-preservation at all.

“You like me too much to kill me,” she whispers, pulling softly on the chain of my dog tags. That should concern me, but I’m busy with coming so hard that I lose my focus for a few seconds.

I also need to fill up my glass and it’s a good thing that it’s empty because I surely would have spilled wine all over me as I run into James. His broad figure looms in the kitchen, like a goddamn burglar, and I don’t get how a man with his size can move so silently. But I also have horrible spatial awareness and notice next to nothing when I’m focused, so maybe I am the problem.

He’s standing in front of the stove, his balaclava shoved up, a spoon in his hand. Looking at me like a kid who got caught with the hand in the cookie jar before he gets himself back under control. He stands up straight and lets the spoon fall into the sink with a clatter.

“Just wanted to check if it has potential or if I need to order pizza.” “How dare you,” I say with my best offended expression on my face. “What’re you gonna do, punish me?” he asks in a low tone and before I can think of a clever comeback, he steps closer, trapping me between his body and the countertop behind me.

Suddenly, James grabs me by my waist and lifts me up to sit on the counter as if I weigh nothing. With the way he’s leaning down, his face is way too close to mine. One wrong move from one of us and our lips will clash together and all hell will probably break loose.

Samuel Ryves, watching trash TV. I should tell Max, just so that he mocks me for it. Maybe it would help me get back to my senses. I should probably ask someone else than Max, because I have a feeling that he would be delighted, asking me to watch stuff like that together with him while he texts me his “commentary”.

This is so Soap coded 😂

I’m here for barely more than a week and I already miss him. Not only him, but also Rockwell and even Logan. Just a few more days until the captain hopefully decides on what we are going to do with Mr. Barron. Assumed that I gathered enough solid evidence to back up his plans.

In one swift motion, I grab her wrist and turn her arm on her back. Somehow, it’s always the ones with the big mouths that don’t see it coming. I shove her down on the kitchen counter, her chest pressed flush against the cold stone while I’m standing behind her. With less distance than I should, I realize as I feel her ass on my crotch.

“Someone should teach you some manners,” I whisper in her ear as I lean down. The dumbfounded expression on her face is priceless, even more so because I can see how she’s biting down on her lower lip. This is probably one of the first times someone showed the little princess a hint of a boundary.

“Probably graduated from brat school.” “With honors,” she says with a grin before she takes the lasagna out of the oven. My eyes widen as I see she made not one, but two.