“It doesn’t,” I retort. “So was this a test or some kind of initiation?” I ask, motioning around the mausoleum. “Because if you wanted to see if I was alert and doing my job, you could’ve just installed night vision cameras and spied on me like normal people,” I tell them. “You shouldn’t hire employees and then pull this shi—stuff,” I quickly amend.
They aren’t paying any attention to my words anymore though. Instead, they’ve huddled in a boss-only circle and have started murmuring to each other back and forth. I try to listen in, but I realize quickly that they’re actually speaking a different language. German? Russian? No, that’s not right. I strain to listen, trying to pick it up, but I swear it sounds like a mix of Klingon and Orc. Fucking weird.
While they’re doing that, I reach down and grip the walking stick, trying to yank it up where the blade has embedded itself into the floor. The fact that it managed to pierce through the stone is a bit alarming.
I feel like I’m King Arthur trying to pull the sword out of the stone, because even though I try to wrench it free, the thing barely budges. I look over my shoulder at the hot man huddle, making sure they’re not paying attention to me before I grip the blade-tipped, not-a-walking-stick scythe with both hands. I plant my feet and stick my ass out as I try to use all my lower and upper body strength to get the damn thing free.
Gritting my teeth, I pull with all my might until it finally pops out, sending me flying backward on my ass. I land with a jolt, only to realize that the blade has now disappeared again. I stare at the thing in complete awe and confusion. There is no way in science’s right mind that this stick is somehow hiding the big blades that existed on both ends of this thing just two seconds ago.
I rub my ass as I get back to my feet, looking over the dormant weapon. There’s gotta be a button or something. Maybe it’s like a giant-sized version of a Swiss Army knife, and it’s collapsible somehow. Yet, as much as I search, I can’t find any kind of release button, lever, or shifting metal ring that could act as the trigger for the weapon. I have no idea how I made the blades swing out. Maybe it was the Xena yell.
When the steady murmuring that was slowly leaking out from my hot freakshow bosses comes to a stop, I make a note to circle back to this whole Swiss Army scythe thing.
My bosses all turn to me as one. “So, Delta Gates...” the tattooed, white-haired guy says to me, his eyes dipping down to my name tag like he’s double checking he got it right. Either that, or he’s checking out my rack.
“That’s me, Mr.…” I trail off and lift my eyebrows in question. I wait for him to fill in the blank and supply his name.
“I’m Echo,” he smoothly offers, the corners of his lips tilting up in a self-assured smirk. Yeah, he definitely knows what he’s working with in the looks department.
“Pardon?” I ask demurely.
“Echo,” he repeats again, and I fight off the smile that wants to sneak across my face at making him echo his name.
He quickly catches on and gives me a look that says I’m not amused. Well, that makes one of us.
I turn my attention to the surfer dude. “And…”
“Crux,” the blond quickly supplies, and I try not to let judgment seep into my gaze.
These dudes have weird fucking names.
I look to lava hair, and I swear to fuck if he says his name is Shadow or Twilight Sparkle or some shit like that, I won’t be able to stop myself from laughing, and I’ll probably get fired for insulting him.
“I’m Jerif,” he informs me, his voice a deep rumble. Yep, that one also goes in the unusual column. Then again, my name is Delta, so I guess I can’t really be too judgy.
The Prodigy’s song, “Firestarter,” starts up in my head as I study him. This weird lava look works for him, but I can’t stop myself from gesturing to his hair and asking, “Pyromaniac?”
I endure about five seconds of sheer panic and a stop fucking talking moment while Jerif just stares at me. And stares. And stares some more. Out of the three of them, he’s probably the most intimidating.
Sweat beads on my brow. My eyes are too embarrassed to blink. I want to take the Swiss Army stick and smack myself over the head as I chuckle nervously like an idiot.
Slowly, the corner of his mouth turns up with amusement, and a relieved breath whooshes out of me. “Something like that,” he offers cryptically, and then proceeds to wag his black eyebrows.
That slightly douchey move does things to parts of me that it shouldn’t, and I suddenly get all fluttery low in my stomach. Who knew dudes who fancied an I am Magma look would do it for me? But I can’t deny he’s hot. Smooth, dark skin like cooled molten lava, and hair and eyes that seem to glow like they’re the embodiment of firelight. I wouldn’t mind him being inside me when he erupts.
“So, Delta,” Echo starts, pulling my heated attention back to him and his white hair and unusual tattoos. He has a glint in his stare that seems to consist of equal parts interest, suspicion, and jealousy. I bet he was a bad sharer as a kid. Probably an only child, and judging by the estate he seems to partially own, he’s milked a trust fund his whole life.
