Free Galilee Rising by Jennifer Harlow Page A

continue working for a few minutes, and the rubs continue. After the tenth time, I throw my pen down. "You're driving me fucking nuts. Would an aspirin help?"
    "No. My body metabolizes them too rapidly. Multiple Vicodin or Oxycotin might."
    "Well, we're out." I came home from rehab and found all the pills and booze gone.
    "I'll be fine," he says as he turns his head toward me, followed by a quick intake of breath.
    I push the chair away from the desk. "Oh, for fuck's sake," I mutter as I stand.
    "What-What are you--" he asks as I walk over.
    "Turn around. I'm good at this." He hesitates but obeys. "Where does it hurt?"
    "Um, um, the bo-bottom of my neck and shoulders. Are you--" My hands slipping onto his shoulders makes the hero jolt. Yeah, it's been awhile since he's gotten laid. "You don't--"
    "Shut up," I say, kneading his shoulders. "I used to do this for Justin all the time, so don't read anything into it. It's either this or I smash my laptop over your head in frustration. So relax. You're as tense as a man facing execution." I dig my thumbs into the base of his neck, moving in a circular motion. I used to do this for Harry too. He'd take off his shirt, I'd pull out the baby oil, and work out his kinks. The massage usually only lasted a minute or two before he pounced. God I miss those nights. Lust ripples through me at the memory of our oily couplings. Nightingale's not the only one who needs to get laid. "Feel good?" Nightingale nods. I'm coming up on my old record, eleven months. It's unnatural. I mean, the program says I shouldn't start a relationship. A one night stand isn't a relationship . It's…stress relief. They advocate that . It'd be a mercy on both ends. Gazing down at Nightingale with his pink lips relaxed and smooth breathing, I have the strongest urge to spin this chair around, rip off the lower part of his costume, climb on top of him, and screw his brains out right in that chair. I'd leave the mask on. Be kind of thrilling to fuck a guy without knowing who he really is. My hands slowly move from his shoulders to his collarbone and the start of his pecs, rubbing up and down. "Bet this feels even better," I whisper duskily. His head tilts back to see my face. I smile seductively, but that smile falls when I meet his eyes behind the plastic coverings. I gasp a little in surprise. Fuck.
    "Well, well, well. Isn't this cozy?" Liberty says behind me.
    As if he were radioactive, I yank my arms away. Double fuck.
    Nightingale and I spin around to see both Liberty and Tempest standing by the beach door smirking. "Do you want us to some back later?" Tempest asks.
    "I-I-I had a crick in my neck," Nightingale says.
    "Of course you did," Liberty says in an insinuating tone.
    "Really, nothing is going on," I insist.
    Liberty's about to open her mouth again, but Tempest waves his hand and says, "We believe you. We just came for an update on the robberies."
    "Of-Of course," he sputters, moving as far from me as possible. All business, Nightingale reviews our progress.
    "Good job you two," says Tempest. "Liberty and I will begin interrogating the people on the lists. See what intel, if any, the scumbags can give us. We'll take it from here. Nightingale, go home and get some rest. You look like hell. I'll be in contact."
    Why do I get the sense I've been dismissed in my own house. If I didn't want to get the hell out of this fucking room I'd throw a hissy fit. Instead, I say, "Thank you," and start walking toward the ramp. "Good luck." Nightingale keeps his eyes on the floor as I walk out, but Liberty isn't as bashful. With a proud smile, she gives me a quick thumbs up. I cannot get out of here fast enough. I don't feel safe until I close my bedroom door, whacking my head against it in frustration.
    Brilliant.
    Wonderful.
    Perfect.
    I let out a long, deep sigh. Why can't anything ever just be fucking simple?
     
     

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    Roaring Twenties
     
    Ever since third-generation real estate mogul Danforth Mills