Midnight Alias Excerpt:

My Eyes Hurt When Subjected to Small Things

“This is boring as fuck,” Luke Dubois declared as he flopped down on the couch. His weight caused the cushions to bounce, which in turn woke up Trevor Callaghan, who was sprawled on the other end of the brown leather sofa.

Looking alert despite having just been jarred from slumber, Trevor tossed a crooked grin in Luke’s direction. “Not every mission means hanging off a helicopter and shooting shit up, squid.”

Luke bristled at the patronizing nickname—Trevor never failed to dis the navy, Mr. Army man that he was—but a part of him was actually happy to be insulted. It’d been far too long since he’d seen Trevor so lighthearted. When Trev had rejoined the team six months ago, he’d looked like a zombie. Scruffy, moody, dead inside. It had taken the man a year and a half to get over the loss of his fiancée, but he was finally on the right track. He’d cut his hair, burned the beach bum outfits, taught his facial muscles how to smile again. It was good to have him back, even if Trevor’s leadership skills annoyed the hell out of Luke sometimes. If Morgan had made Luke team leader on this gig, they’d be storming Vince Angelo’s club. But Trevor had always preferred the cautious approach. Also known as the boring one.

“This isn’t even a mission,” Luke countered. “All we do is watch.”

A third voice joined the mix, this one boasting an Australian accent and a whole lot of scorn.

“Don’t you even think of complaining, mate,” Sullivan Port said as he strode into the living room in nothing but a towel. The white terry cloth, hanging low on the guy’s hips, was way too small for that huge body of his. Sullivan was six-three, with broad shoulders and a heavy chest, and he constantly seemed to be strolling around half-naked. Maybe it was an Australian thing.

“You get to watch naked girls every night,” Sullivan added. “We watch the building. Naked girls is my job. Tell me, how is that fair?”

Luke couldn’t argue. Of all the men on Jim Morgan’s mercenary team, Sullivan probably did have the greatest appreciation for the female form, and no matter where the guy was, he always managed to find a hot, eager girl ready for a lay. Not that Luke was hurting for female company himself, but Sullivan was a whole different league of player. Luke once watched a prostitute in Amsterdam offer to pay Sullivan to go upstairs with her. If Sully weren’t such a cocky rub-it-in-your-face type, Luke might even call him his hero.

“Morgan is punishing me,” Sullivan went on, crossing the parquet floor toward the kitchen. He disappeared behind the enormous refrigerator door, then reappeared with a beer bottle, towel flapping against his thighs as he returned to the living area. When he plopped down on the armchair across from the sofa, both Luke and Trevor shielded their eyes.

“Whoa, fix that towel, man,” Luke ordered.

“Fix it?” Trevor echoed. “No, go put clothes on instead. For the love of God, this isn’t a frat house.”

Sullivan shrugged. “I like having a cold beer after a shower.” He grinned. “If my cock makes you feel inferior, that’s not my fault.”

There, it was official. This was not a mission. When grown men started talking about each other’s cocks, it meant things were bad.

Stifling a yawn, Luke focused on the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the loft with sunlight. He couldn’t wait for the sun to set. Once that happened, the three of them could relieve Holden and D and get the hell out of this apartment, which was ironic because as safe houses went, this Tribeca loft might actually be the sweetest digs the team had ever used.

Three thousand square feet, the place boasted fourteen-foot cathedral ceilings, oversize windows, and an open-concept layout using wood beams and exposed brick. The kitchen was top-notch, spilling onto a formal dining room, and the luxurious living room offered L-shaped leather couches, overstuffed armchairs, and a massive stone fireplace. Not to mention the three enormous bedrooms, private terrace, amazing sound system . . . Morgan must have shelled out some big bucks to secure this place for the month.

Unfortunately, the novelty of this sweet loft was beginning to wear off. Luke was tired of sleeping all day. Pretty tired of doing shit-all at night too, but at least it beat being cooped up indoors. He wasn’t made for indoors. He needed action. Excitement.

Battling another burst of impatience, he swiped a pack of Marlboros from the coffee table and headed for the glass sliding door that opened onto the terrace. He lit up, opened the door and blew a cloud of smoke into the cool evening air.

“I’m serious,” Sullivan insisted after taking a long swallow of his beer. “Morgan’s pissed at me. There’s no other explanation for why he wouldn’t have placed me inside the club. Me and strippers go together like dingoes and babies. Dubois over here wouldn’t even know what to do with a stripper.”

“I watch,” Luke replied. “That’s all you can do with strippers.” He took another drag, but the nicotine did nothing to eradicate his sense of restless boredom. “And you don’t get to complain either, mate. You’re the one who went off grid for six months. You asked for Morgan’s wrath.”

“You know I lose track of time when I’m sailing Evangeline.” Sullivan’s light gray eyes glazed over at the mention of his yacht. The guy was obsessed with his boat, had her name tattooed on his back and everything. Then he snapped out of it and frowned. “He didn’t even let me stop at the compound first. I wanted to meet Kane’s new lady. I bet she’s real sweet.”

Luke and Trevor nearly keeled over with laughter.

Sullivan shot them a blank look. “What?”

Wheezing, Luke bent over and gripped his side. Trevor wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

“What?” Sullivan said again.

“Abby Sinclair is neither sweet nor a lady,” Trevor said, still chuckling.

“But, please, can I be there when you call her that to her face?” Luke pleaded.

He pictured Sullivan trying that Aussie charm on Abby, and nearly broke out in laughter again. Abby would eat the other man alive. Sure, she cracked a lot more smiles these days, even laughed now and then, but she was still tough as nails. And truth be told, she still scared him just a little.

Downing the rest of his beer, Sullivan slammed the bottle on the table and got to his feet. He strode over to the sliding door, plucked Luke’s cigarette out of his hand and hijacked the thing.

Ignoring the scowl aimed his way, he took a few quick drags before handing the butt back. “Time to throw on some clothes.” Sully tossed a look over his shoulder on his way to the corridor. “Unless you ladies want to see my dick again?”

“My eyes hurt when subjected to small things,” Trevor called back.
The ring of a cell phone cut off Luke’s resounding laughter. Trevor headed for the sleek dining table across the room and grabbed his phone. “It’s Morgan,” he said briskly.

About time the boss checked in. Morgan had decided this assignment was too boring for his taste, so he was back at the team’s compound, “coordinating,” as he liked to call it.

Luke hoped this call meant that things were finally starting to move. The team had been in Manhattan for four days now, and had absolutely nothing to show for it. They’d been hired by the DEA, of all agencies, to track down the whereabouts of Carter Dane, an undercover agent who’d gone off the radar. Dane’s supervisors suspected a mole connected to the investigation had blown his cover, a likely scenario considering that Dane’s last cryptic text to his handler had implied that someone had ratted him out.

At this point, the DEA had no clue as to whether the dude was dead or missing or who knew what. If there was a mole, any agents sent in subsequently could face the same fate as their missing colleague, so it was up to Luke and the others to find out what had happened to the guy. It wasn’t the kind of job Morgan’s operatives usually took on, but the boss had admitted during the briefing that someone had called in a favor.

Luke wished Morgan had just told favor-dude to shove it, but Jim Morgan was the kind of man who always paid you back. He was all about honor, which was one of the reasons Luke had signed on to work for the guy. The legendary former Ranger had recruited him six years ago, luring him away from the military to join Morgan’s team of soldiers. Most of the others had already been on board, including Derek “D” Pratt, who’d apparently recruited himself by simply showing up on Morgan’s doorstep one day and reporting for work. Sullivan was hired around the same time as Luke, but Ethan Hayes, the rookie, had joined them only three years ago. As a team, they worked like a well-oiled machine, and their reputation for getting the job done had spread over the years.

Luke would take a bullet for any of the men he worked with, and as far as the job went, he frickin’ loved it. He reveled in the risk, the jolt of adrenaline he received from a particularly dangerous op. And the saving lives part. Sometimes the knowledge that he’d saved a life brought an even greater adrenaline rush than blowing things up.

Across the room, Trevor was muttering a whole bunch of “yes, sirs” into the phone. When he hung up, his brown eyes looked grim.

Luke ducked out to the terrace to extinguish his smoke in the ashtray on the glass table, then returned to the couch and plopped down. “What’d he say?”

“Tonight you focus on a specific dancer. Livy Lovelace.”

Sullivan reentered the main room in time to overhear Trevor’s last words. “Livy Lovelace?” he echoed, laughing. “Say that five times. Total tongue twister.”

Luke turned away so the others wouldn’t see him gulp. Fuck, out of all the girls in that club, he had to focus on her? Livy Lovelace, or whatever her real name, was a goddess. The sexiest woman he’d ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.

Lord, all that wavy chestnut brown hair spilling down her regal back . . . high, firm breasts tipped by dusky nipples . . . endless legs . . . bottomless moss green eyes. Just the memory of her got him semi-hard, and now he was crossing his legs so his buddies didn’t catch that response.

Before this job, he’d firmly subscribed to the strip clubs are sleazy philosophy, but the first time he’d seen the goddess dance . . . He’d sprung a boner. No other way around it. Watching her up on the stage, so vulnerable and so sexy at the same time, had been pure torture.

“Did Morgan say why to focus on her?” he asked, finally finding his voice.

“Whoever he’s got on the inside thinks Lovelace might know something,” Trevor answered, already heading for the hallway. “I’m gathering up my gear. We leave in five.”

Sullivan, who’d changed into a pair of black trousers and a snug long-sleeve, bent down to unzip a duffel bag on the floor. He strapped on a shoulder holster, shoved a nine-millimeter Beretta into it, then reached for a black trench coat and shrugged it on.

Noticing that Luke was still on the couch, Sully shot him a puzzled look. “You coming or what?”

He smothered a sigh. “Give me a second.”

Breathing through his nose, he willed away the annoying erection straining against his zipper. Fuck. He couldn’t even use lack of sex as an excuse for this juvenile reaction. He’d hooked up with a waitress at his favorite bar in Tijuana less than a week ago, and the sex had been damn good, so he definitely wasn’t hard up.

But something about that dark-haired dancer totally got his blood going.

“Get off your ass,” Trevor ordered as he strode back into the room in a getup similar to Sullivan’s.

Releasing the sigh, Luke stood up. And hoped that neither of his teammates spared a glance at his crotch. When Sully hooted, it was clear his current state of discomfort hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Giving his buddy the finger, he awkwardly marched out of the living room to get his gear.