Pachico raised his voice even louder, as though his life depended on it, which was damn ironic considering ghosts didn’t have lives. Neither did Rawls. At least not since the bastard stalking him had usurped his life.
As the apparition’s voice rose again, drowning out the soothing babble of the water below, Rawls bent to pick up a rock. Too bad he couldn’t knock the transparent miscreant on his ass, but the stone would just sail through his clear form.
Things could be worse, he supposed, a whole lot worse. Currently only one of the newly departed had taken to stalking him. Hell, one was bad enough, but a whole passel of the damn things would have proved even more aggravating.
“You ready to make that call yet?” Pachico interrupted his rendition of the most annoying song ever to ask the question he’d been asking every hour, on the hour.
Gritting his teeth harder, Rawls drew back his arm and sent the rock skipping down the stream. He tried like hell to ignore the jaunty tune as it started up again. Still, it quickly bore into his brain, drawing fresh blood.
If he could believe Pachico, the call would be harmless. A quick recounting of the man’s death to bring closure to his family, followed by instructions so his parents could retrieve the sizable fortune he’d stashed away.
Except the demand held two big complications. One—he sure couldn’t trust the man . . . or ghost . . . or whatever the hell he was. What if the number was tapped and ringing-in exposed their current location? And two—hell . . . what if Pachico didn’t actually exist? It was the most likely scenario and the one directly responsible for the constant burn in Rawls’s gut.
The only working phone in the compound was an Iridium Extreme satellite model located in the command center. Accessing it meant wading through his teammates and the civilians accompanying them. If Pachico wasn’t real, and the number didn’t exist, the imaginary asshole’s ultimatum would expose the ugly truth to the entire camp—when Kait’s magical hands had healed those two chest wounds five days ago, there’d been a price. A big price. His sanity.
Although, considering how Zane and Cos had walked in on him while he’d been ranting at the corner of the cabin for no apparent reason, there’d probably been plenty of conversations concerning his sanity already.
Pachico had been immensely amused by the incident and determined to engineer a repeat performance. Conversely, abject humiliation was something Rawls had no intention of participating in twice, so he’d locked down his reactions and took to fiercely pretending that the asshole tormenting him didn’t exist.
If the bastard would just shut the fuck up and let him get a couple hours of shut-eye . . .
Suddenly the singing stopped. Surprised, Rawls straightened and turned to face his see-through nemesis. Had his frustrated mental demand affected the ghost? Could dealing with Pachico really be that easy?
A wolf whistle pierced the clearing, followed by the exaggerated lip-smacking sounds of kissing. “Look who’s headed our way. Normally big tits crank my cock, but under the circumstances, that package of skin and bone will have to do.”
What . . . ?
Rawls turned, following Pachico’s stare, and heat instantly unfurled in his stomach and wound through his chest. The hot, itchy prickle marched straight up his neck and into his face as well. It was a familiar, and annoying, reaction. One that struck anytime Faith Ansell, the dark-haired, blue-eyed walking freckle they’d rescued during the lab recon, was in his general proximity.
The woman had some insanely strong mojo. Not that he’d noticed this mojo all those months ago when he’d first spotted her at the airport terminal while waiting for his flight to Hawaii to board. No, this damnable reaction hadn’t infected him until he’d touched her back at her lab. Somehow the simple act of putting his hands on her had supercharged his physical awareness.
Of course she’d coldcocked him at the time with a piece of pipe. The incident still made him grin. Even though it had hurt like hell, he admired that kind of spunk.
As he’d been doing for days now, he ignored his body’s awkward reaction. She was close enough he should have heard her approach. Would have heard her if a repetitive, annoying ditty hadn’t decimated his eardrums.
“Tell you what, Doc. You do her here, and I’ll give you the night off. How’s that for a compromise?”
The hope that he’d stumbled on a means of dealing with the bastard fizzled. Obviously mental demands failed to flip the switch on the ghost’s voice box.
“Lieutenant Rawlings?” The lilt in Faith’s voice turned his name into a question and drove that scratchy, uncomfortable prickle straight down his spine, where it played hell with his heartbeat. She slowed as she approached, watching him with furrowed brows and tentative eyes. “Do you have a moment?”