Sucker (ON HOLD/INCOMPLETE)

3: You Give Love a Bad Name

For a book inspired by a Jonas Brothers song, this really has a lot of hair metal influences.

Fun fact: my mother was in the audience for the video recording of "Lay Your Hands on Me," which is another song I'll probably end up using for this book or Troublemaker.

Song: "You Give Love a Bad Name" by Bon Jovi

_____

Sang

"Shit."

The word escaped my mouth before I could stop it. I glanced around the room in a frenzy, wondering if I could just walk out and pretend like nothing happened. My mind flashed to the knowing grin Mrs. Rose had given me when I told her about Kota, and I had no doubt she had put two and two together.

Sneaky old bird.

"Swearing doesn't look good on you, Trouble." My eyes found Gabriel's, and I was transported back to San Francisco, to dizzying nights and moving against him under the flashing lights of the clubs, some song neither of us knew blaring from the speakers.

"You... you know her, too?" The melodic baritone found my ears. Fire eyes flashed in my mind. The phantom feeling of his fingers gripping my waist, tapping out "Winter" by Vivaldi against my bare skin, caused my sides to ache.

The silver-eyed man from a few nights before – Mr. Owen Blackbourne, he had told me on the phone – replied. "Perhaps there is a quicker way to do this. How many of you have... encountered Miss Sorenson before?"

I stared at the ground, burning a hole in it as the four voices spoke, wincing at the hurt in them. The hurt I had caused.

A silence fell over the room. My finger found my lip, picking mindlessly at it.

"I don't know if I even can say I know her. I thought I did, once." I recalled daydreaming, selfishly mapping a future together which I knew we couldn't have. Chocolate sauce, dripping daringly down places we never spoke about. Staring at the clouds, searching for shapes only the two of us could see.

A soft voice, one with more hurt than the rest, spoke. "How could you do it?" He paused, taking a deep breath. I didn't dare look at him, too afraid of those eyes that seemed to see into my soul every time. "How could you leave like that? Like I was nothing to you."

My head snapped up, a sharp intake of breath rushing my lungs at the raw pain staring back at me. "No! It's not... I just..." I blew out a breath. "I'm no good at goodbyes. If I'd tried, I would've ended up staying."

"Would that have been a bad thing?"

I stuttered, fumbling aimlessly for the right words. What could I say that wouldn't make things worse?

Logically, I had known that it wasn't fair of me to leave notes of departure. I shouldn't even have entered relationships, knowing how my role as a ghost could have me leaving at the drop of a hat. In my six years in the Academy, I had only dated four men – four men, I thought bitterly, who had once been on the same team. I cursed my weakness now.

A redheaded man spoke. "Wait, let me just get this right. You've all dated this bird?" I cringed at his incredulous tone, at the way his inquisitive eyes swooped over my body. I was painfully reminded that I was standing there in skimpy lingerie and a cheap wig. Not exactly the look I wanted to be greeting my exes and their teammates with.

Kota spoke again, his voice harder now, sardonic. "Actually, we just broke up six days ago."

I grimaced, my breath quickening. A voice in the back of my head told me I needed to get control over the situation. We still had a job to do.

Luke stared detachedly at Kota. "She left you a note, too, didn't she?"

A man shrouded in black, one I (thankfully) didn't know, groaned. "Jesus fucking Christ! What, are you in the second grade? Only cowards leave notes."

I ground my teeth together, then met his eyes. "You don't know me or my relationships." He was right, of course, but I wouldn't say it. I straightened my back, faking confidence to hide the shake in my hands. "Anyway, we have fifteen minutes left before I have to go back out there and get grabbed by drunkenly confident men shoving dollar bills at me. While this conversation is... stimulating, I really can only handle so much torture in one night. Can we move on?"

Mr. Blackbourne challenged them with their eyes to continue. I questioned why a man in his mid-twenties would use prefixes and formalities, but I was grateful for the control he seemed to exert over the situation.

Victor pulled a device from his bag and began to set it up. I took the time to survey the room and the unfamiliar men, avoiding the eyes of the ones I once knew.

Owen Blackbourne was perfection, just as he had been before. His suit was immaculate, as if it had just been pressed. His brown hair was cut neatly, accentuating the sharp lines of his face. The only sign that he was anything less than perfect was the bags under his eyes, as though he hadn't gotten a good night's rest in quite some time. I had an inkling that his unrest had everything to do with our upcoming mission and the homecoming of his former team.

The man next to him was every bit his opposite. Where Mr. Blackbourne was severe, this man was soft, a playful grin seemingly taking permanent residence on his face. His eyes told a different story, though, all worries as he glanced back and forth between the men. His hair was curly – little sandy curls my fingers itched to tug to see if they would bounce back into place.

The red-haired man sat with his arms crossed, bulging as he surveyed the situation. His hair looked soft, like rabbit's fur. His body was built, muscles rippling underneath his shirt. I found myself enraptured by his eyes, a deep blue like a depth of the ocean I had yet to explore, serious.

If I thought the redheaded man was massive, he was nothing compared to the two men beside him.

The man in black scowled. I recalled a photograph I had once seen on Luke's phone and realized this must be his brother. I couldn't recall his name. He was dark, a furrowed brow and nearly black eyes glaring at the scene around him. A gold hoop perched in his ear, a cord with a symbol I couldn't make out at his neck. He looked like the kind of man I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley.

The last man was the largest of all. His tan was deep – Mediterranean, I thought. His eyes were a deep brown, pained as he worriedly glanced at the man in black. I realized they must be one of the duo teams, with the curly-haired man and Mr. Blackbourne as the other.

Victor gave the motion to speak, and I forced myself to focus.

"Alright. Let's begin."