Deadly Coincidence (Brantley Walker Off the Books #4) - Nicole Edwards Page 0,20
dueling, hearts pounding, Reese brought them both to climax.
The best Christmas present yet.
*
Brantley wouldn’t lie, he’d been eyeballing RT and Z the entire drive from Cindy’s house to the Sniper 1 Security building.
“I might just hafta get me one of those,” he told Reese when they pulled into the parking garage behind Z’s Yamaha YZF-R1 supersport bike and RT’s Kawasaki Ninja H2R.
“A motorcycle?” Reese snorted. “You’d kill yourself first chance you got.”
“I was a SEAL, you know.”
“Which translates to king of the adrenaline rush.”
“I can hold my own, thank you very much.”
Reese laughed. “I have no doubt, but it’s more about you pushin’ the limit that worries me.”
Oh, how he would push the limit if he had one of those. As far as he could. And then some.
“They’ve been ridin’ those things since they were kids,” Reese explained. “RT’s whole family’s got ’em.”
Considering how sleek and sexy they were—the bikes, not the men … although they weren’t half-bad, just not nearly as sexy as Reese—Brantley understood. Growing up in a small town, the middle child out of seven, there hadn’t been room for many vices. Brantley sometimes wondered if that was the reason he’d gone into the military. He’d already been familiar with the routine, and it gave him the freedom he wouldn’t get otherwise.
“Come on,” Reese said as he opened the truck door. “You’re the one who asked for a tour of the offices.”
Well, technically, Z had been the one to expand on their topic from dinner last night. Brantley had merely tossed the idea in there. He was curious, sure. Considering Sniper 1 Security was one of the largest and most successful private security firms in the country, he wanted to know what made it tick.
And yes, fine, he was curious about the infrastructure of a privately funded corporation of this nature. Considering he had no intention of letting the task force die, even if the governor opted to shut them down, Brantley figured the more knowledge he had, the better off they’d be.
But more accurately, he’d heard they had some super-secret spy stuff going on, and he was hoping for some firsthand access.
RT and Z were waiting at the elevators when they approached. He considered asking more questions about the motorcycles but decided to leave it alone. As much as he wanted to know, that wasn’t always a good thing. If he knew, he’d only want one, and Reese was right, pushing the envelope was his specialty. At this point in his life, Brantley probably didn’t need to take any more risks than he already did.
“You own the entire building?”
“We do,” RT answered. “Circumstance gave us a chance to redesign some of the space. We converted the ground floor to allow for customer-facing businesses like food services and retail, most on short-term leases. We have quite a few long-term leases with tenants on the lower floors. Sniper 1 now resides on the four highest floors.”
“Donuts and coffee every day,” Z joked.
“I’m bettin’ that’s a nice residual income,” Brantley mused. “The retail fronts, I mean. Not the donuts.”
“Don’t knock the donuts,” Z muttered with a chuckle.
After they all piled in, RT pressed the button for the seventh floor. “It helps, that’s for sure.”
“Do you get a lot of walk-in traffic?”
RT shook his head. “None, actually. One hundred percent of our business comes from word of mouth. Granted, it took us years to build a reputation, but now when we greet new clients, it’s because they heard about us from someone else.”
Brantley nodded, tossing around that information. He figured they would have to work toward that as well if the governor gave them the heave-ho.
For the next half hour, they went on a tour of the various floors that housed Sniper 1’s finance, operations, and marketing teams, their IT department, technology division, bullpens for field agents, client-facing meeting areas, as well as the main offices of their executives, including RT and Z.
While Brantley admired all they’d built, he could never see himself sitting at a desk in some fancy high-rise building. He wanted to be where the action was.
“So where’s the testing floor?” Brantley inquired when they’d stopped in one of the many oversized conference rooms.
“Testing?” RT asked, glancing over at Z, who in turn looked at Reese.
“That’s his polite way of sayin’ he wants to see your secret spy toys.”
Z’s eyes lit up with amusement.
“Don’t bother tellin’ me that’s a myth,” Brantley told RT. “Your husband’s notorious for sharin’ his toys with us.”