Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,45

of a question. Allowed herself to imagine.

Envisioned throwing down the sweater and crossing the room in a few hurried strides. She would have to go up on her toes to get to him, and if she was off-balance from that, and from hurrying, then his arms were more than sturdy enough to grab on to her and grip tight. Her eyes would already be closing as she tipped her head back, and she would get to see the fast flare of surprise in his gaze before he threw caution to the wind and pressed his mouth to hers. She wondered how he would kiss: if he’d be gentle and careful at first, or if he’d plunge right in and fuck her mouth with his tongue.

The pulse of hot want that flared in her belly shocked her. Left her shivering, a little.

“Find anything?” he asked.

She tugged the turtleneck on. “Yes,” she said. “I think it’ll work.” She turned her head, so he wouldn’t see the heat in her face, and picked up her holsters.

He breathed a quiet laugh as she shrugged into it. “Plenty of knife room?”

“Yes. The jacket should cover everything.” She slid knives and guns into their appropriate slots, and finally looked up to meet his gaze again when she felt like she had her expression under control. “What about you?”

He stepped into the room, into the puddle of lantern light, and she saw that he wore his black pants and shirt, but that he’d traded his boots for a pair of too-small looking Oxfords, and that he’d pulled an ill-fitting gray suit jacket over it. “His dad was taller than him, apparently.” The jacket was at least twenty years out of style, same with the shoes. The effect was – less than stellar.

“You still look like a military guy,” she said, after tilting her head to the side and giving his slow twirl serious consideration.

“Really? With this?” He plucked at the jacket and made a face.

“It’s not the clothes,” she said. “It’s just – you. The hair, and your face, and your arm situation.”

His brows went up. “Arm situation?”

“They’re – large.” His biceps strained the jacket’s sleeves. Bixby’s father hadn’t been half as fit, judging by the pinched lines across the jacket’s shoulders. One wrong move would have burst a seam.

Lance’s brows climbed a notch higher. “And my face?”

“It’s–” She felt her own heating again, damn it. “Angular,” she said. “Square.”

“Squares have angles, yes,” he said, and sounded like he was choking down a laugh.

“You look like you beat people up for a living,” she corrected. “Not like a doughy lawyer or ambassador or…whatever.”

Her tone – forcefully stern, accompanied by a scowl – didn’t deter him. “Uh-huh.” He smiled. “We leave in five.” He turned around with one last lingering look, and she wished she had something to throw at his back.

~*~

A lack of appropriate clothes decided it, but it was a good idea, anyway: Lance, Rose, and Gallo were set to approach John, while Gavin and Tris stayed dressed-out and fully armed. They would hang back, circle the perimeter, and stay on the radio, ready to intervene when the time came. Tris had a frankly stupid amount of Wraith Grenades, and both of them had obsidian-tipped rounds in their sidearms.

The rain had picked up, by the time they walked the last stretch up a low rise to the gaping black mouth of the mine shaft. Bixby had offered umbrellas, and Rose didn’t like the way the rain drumming against them drowned out all other sound. She could hear the squish of their boots in the mud, and the occasional low, moaning call of the wind in the pines, her own heartbeat, but nothing else. A series of gas lanterns hung from the support joists at the head of the shaft, bobbing in the wind like fireflies. Beyond lay shadow; the deep of the earth.

She wasn’t afraid, often; had never truly felt fearful on an op. But fear bit at her now, sharp and unwanted, its teeth sunk deep behind her ribs.

She didn’t realize she’d come to a halt until Lance touched her arm, and then she startled hard.

“Are you okay?” he asked, frowning.

She forced herself to take a slow breath. “Fine.”

Except the earth wanted to swallow her whole; drag her down to the pit. Where at least she would be with Beck, again…

Lance stepped in closer – had to walk to her, because she’d halted and fallen behind them. He lifted his umbrella up over hers and