A Loaded Question

by Danica Winters

  Running his thumb over the subtle curve of her spine, he felt only the silky smoothness of her flesh. She had come to his bed naked.

  Oh, for all that is good... I have to be dreaming.

  If he was, he never wanted to wake up. This could be the moment that he could be stripped from the earth and he would die a happy and complete man.

  She gently kissed him, loving him as he traced his fingers down her back, finding the thick round curves of her hips and her upper thigh. Nothing impeded his downward descent. He moved his fingers in small circles around the dimples of her ass, marking them in his mind as places his lips wished to travel.

  Though Kate wasn’t what media deemed perfect, she was better. She was imperfect, different in the way she viewed the world and people in it, and flawed in the sense that she was authentically herself.

  And, truth be told, perfect was boring. Perfect was merely a mundane conglomeration of traits. Yes, perfection was striven for in most social circles, but it was also the prison that kept people from speaking from their hearts and finding the passion that came with being free.

  Being with her was being free. Free to love. Free to explore. Free to experience everything he’d ever wanted to feel.

  He stopped, letting his hand rest on her hip. As he stopped, she touched his chest right over his heart. She didn’t say anything as their kisses paused and their lips brushed against each other.

  She sighed, the cool air an odd sensation against the warmth where their kisses had heated.

  He yearned to tell her that he loved her, but that was the one part of him that was still so scarred. That was one way he would never be free. That word only brought death and pain. He couldn’t do that to either one of them.

  But he could give her his body and receive hers—and love her in a way that she needed.

  He moved to his elbow, kissing her lips and then kissing every millimeter until he was between her thighs. Sensing the motions of her body, the sounds of her sighs and the tightening of her grip on his hair, he worked her.

  “Troy,” she cried out, calling his name like it was the elixir of life. She uttered guttural sounds as she pulsed beneath him, riding the pleasure he reveled in bringing her.

  Her body quaked as he brought her to the precipice. Smiling, he kissed the creamy skin of her inner thighs and rested his head on her leg.

  And just when he had thought he couldn’t be more turned on or more satisfied, she looked down at him. She looked sleepy, her eyes the hazy squint of the well sated. “I... You...”

  Her inability to form words made his smile widen. “Having a hard time speaking?” he teased.

  She nodded with a dazed smile. “You think you can handle more?”

  “I could be down here for hours, babe.”

  She laughed. “Again, that’s not quite what I was thinking.”

  “Then what exactly did you have in mind?”

  Kate reached down and pulled him up toward her, kissing the wetness from his lips. “This time, it’s going to be all about you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  There were a variety of kinds of sex. There was the first time, second time, the millionth time. Then there was the kind that came with partners who were only passing in the night—the kind full of passion and laughter, the type that both sought to please the other, but also themselves. Last night, it had been all of it, all wrapped into one.

  And Kate had never had better.

  She moved around the kitchen, humming as she put together a batch of pancakes and fried them up on the griddle. The bacon, the stuff from the package she’d found deep in the recesses of her freezer, was crackling in the microwave.

  It felt good to be cooking for a man again. It was odd to think that the last time she had actually cooked was before the breakup. But it wasn’t the same when a person lived alone.

  Troy came walking into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He smiled as he saw her. “Good morning, beautiful. Something smells awesome.”

  “There’s coffee in the pot,” she said, motioning toward the appliance.

  He grabbed a mug. “You want a refill?” he asked, grabbing the carafe.

  “I already had two. Thanks, though.” She hummed, smiling as she flipped the next pancake.

  He took a long drink of his coffee, then stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Babe, thank you for last night. You are effing fantastic.”

  “I don’t know why you would think you would need to thank me. You did most of the heavy lifting.” She giggled as she sent him a coy glance over her shoulder.

  He kissed her lips as she looked back.

  In this stolen moment, she was completely, blithely satisfied. For once, she was happy.

  She scooped a stack of pancakes onto his plate and motioned toward the microwave. “Grab a couple of strips.” She handed him his plate. “Here, you,” she said, giving him a kiss on his cheek.

  “Babe, you’re the best.”

  “I could say the same of you.” In that simple moment and exchange, she had a feeling that this—this could be their future.

  She wanted nothing more.

  Grabbing a plate from the cupboard, she heard a crack to the right of her ear. Fire erupted from the side of her head. Instinctively, she reached up and touched the place near her earlobe that burned. Bringing her fingers down, she saw they were covered in blood.

  In what seemed like slow motion, she turned and spotted Troy lunging toward her as the flour she had set on the counter beside the griddle exploded. White powder filled the air. Troy’s body connected with hers and his arms wrapped around her waist as they fell onto the floor together.

  “Stay down!” he yelled, pulling a gun she hadn’t realized he was carrying from the back of his pants as she lay there on the floor just watching.

  Someone was shooting...at her. Why? From where?

  What in the hell was going on?

  Troy moved behind the kitchen island in a squatting position facing the direction from where the bullet had come. Whoever was shooting must have been posted somewhere behind her house. There were several houses that were at the same or higher level than hers, so the shooter could have been anywhere.

  She was going to need to invest in blackout blinds, something that no one could see through.

  Be in the moment. She had to stay in the moment. She couldn’t dissociate now.

  She belly-crawled toward the living room, making sure that she stayed behind cover as she moved. Beside the doorway, by the pantry, was a Glock 43x she had bought and stashed for an occasion just like this one, one she’d never thought would actually happen.

  Pulling it out, she made sure it was loaded. One hollow point in the chamber. It was a single-stack magazine; she had nine more hollow points, if need dictated. Hopefully, if she got her sights on the shooter, it would take only one.

  But odds were good that whoever was shooting at her, they weren’t doing it from right outside the window. This person, whoever it was, was probably perched somewhere high, waiting for the right moment to take another shot. This shooter was probably the same sniper who had left them high and dry, with only a few leads to use in order to discover their identity.

  She had a sinking feeling that if they didn’t get him this time, she would be living the rest of her life constantly looking over her shoulder. That was, if she lived past today.

  There was another whiz and crack as the next round struck the pantry door, not six inches from her head.

  “They are shooting from up high.” She could hear the terror in her voice, but she tried to temper it as she called to Troy. “They’re probably coming at us from the old manor. It’s about a hundred yards out, at your one o’clock position. You see anybody?”

  Troy moved slightly to his left, peering up over the counter but then just as quickly ducking down
again. They didn’t need the sniper taking any more potshots, and they definitely didn’t need him getting lucky and actually hitting either one of them.

  “We need a distraction. Something that is going to pull our shooter’s attention while I can get closer. Or else we need to pull him out of hiding and get him into the open.”

  “This person, whoever is shooting at us, clearly isn’t the sharpest shooter, or they would have hit us by now.” Troy looked over at her. “They’re not a trained professional, but they obviously know enough about evasion to get away from a scene without getting caught.”

  “So? What are you trying to say?” She was utterly confused. “What do you want me to do? Stand up and flash the shooter?” she added, trying to make a joke in order to make the fear rising within her somewhat more manageable.

  “Sure. I mean, if you took your shirt off and stood up, I think I could get out of this kitchen without him noticing. Then I could flank him, get the drop... We could get our man,” he teased.

  “What if it’s a woman?”

  Troy laughed. “Well, maybe I should take off my shirt... Do a little dance. She would love this rock-hard body.”

  “If it is a woman and you go up there without a shirt, it won’t stop her from shooting—she’ll just aim lower.” Kate smirked. She reached into the drawer at the end of the counter and fished around until her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the flashlight. “Regardless, I think there are better options.” She grabbed the flashlight as she pretended to lift her shirt.

  “No. You keep covered,” Troy ordered, no softness or questions in his tone. “There is absolutely no goddamned way I’m going to allow you to stand up and be shot at. There are a million better options.”

  “Don’t worry. Not gonna get naked, but we gotta do something.” She lifted the flashlight for him to see. “If we call in help, they’ll just end up chasing him away. Like last time. You know we’re on our own here.” As much as she wanted to be wrong, she knew she was right.

  Troy was silent.

  “Cover my six, along with the rest of me. Get ready to run. I’m just going to do this one time.” As it was, this one time was probably more than enough for her to end up dead. She clicked on the flashlight. “Go!”

  She stood up and aimed the strobe in the direction of the shooter in hopes that the white flash would blind them. Looking to the left, up at the manor, she expected to see the muzzle flash, feel the pierce, then the burn of being struck with hot copper. The door outside clicked shut and she fell back down to the ground, clicking off the light and slipping it into her pocket.

  Checking her body, she was surprised to find that the only real damage was still only to her ear. Lucky. This time, she had been right to act just a little bit crazy.

  There was another crack and thump as the third round struck the microwave.

  The jerk could ping her ear, shoot her flour, but the bastard couldn’t screw with her bacon. Moving to the island, she leaned out just far enough to take aim at the building in the distance. She was a good shooter, but if she hit the window where she believed the shooter to be, it would be one hell of a shot.

  She fired three quick, successive rounds.

  Though it had to have been excruciatingly loud in the small space of the kitchen, she hadn’t even heard the sounds. The only reason she was entirely sure she had stopped at three rounds were the three spent casings on the ground to her right.

  She turned her back against the island, catching her breath as she waited for the next round of shots.

  Her breath came in short, fast bursts as she held her Glock to her chest, readying herself to roll and fire again. This jerk had to be stopped—and if something happened to Troy, she would stop at nothing when it came to finding this shooter and making them pay.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Troy turned the corner and ran to the front of the manor. It looked as though it had once been a bed-and-breakfast, but it now sat empty—except for, possibly, their shooter. The door’s windows were covered with decades-old newspaper, all except the window closest to the handle and locks. The glass had been broken out at some point, but there were no shards on the ground in front of the door; either the pieces had been pushed into the building or it had happened long ago.

  It wouldn’t have surprised him if the place had come to serve as a high school rave location or some homeless hangout. Though this didn’t seem the right kind of area for either, not with neighbors just a few hundred feet in every direction.

  There was the flutter of a curtain as the resident across the street peeked out at him. He was tempted to wave, but he just made a mental note as he opened the unlocked door. No doubt, it would be only a matter of time until the police showed up, thanks to both the neighbor seeing him and Kate’s shooting.

  In the meantime, he had to get his hands on the dude who was trying to take them out. Once he did, the only thing that would be up for debate would be whether or not he chose to kill him.

  The place smelled of stale air, mold and old cigarette smoke, all mixed with the carb-loaded aroma of cheap beer. He liked beer, but he’d always hated that odor.

  The place had once probably been a nice dwelling, with its floral wallpaper, now stained with orange spray paint declaring “Donny loves Becca” in sloppy, dripping script. The brass chandelier overhead was at a slant and hanging from wires where a kid must have, at one time or another, tried to swing. In the right hands, the place had potential. But when he was done here, the next owner would need to know how to remove bloodstains.

  He held his SIG, quickly clearing the entryway and living room before hurrying up the stairs, carefully avoiding the center of each step in order to mask the sounds of his advance. They couldn’t know he was coming; he needed every advantage, especially when he held the lower ground.

  Ascending the top of the staircase, he turned in the direction of the rooms that faced the back of Kate’s house and her kitchen window. There were two possibilities, but he chose the one with the clearest view. Pressing his back to the wall, he sidestepped toward the open door. Taking a deep breath, he readied himself as he pivoted partially around the corner, making sure to remain behind the thin protection of the wall.

  A man was sitting with his back to him at a small folding table, an assault rifle on a tripod and sandbags positioning the weapon toward Kate’s kitchen window. He was dressed all in black and had on a backward black baseball hat, and a black-and-gray shemagh was wrapped around his neck; the only bit of skin showing were his ears and a bit of his cheeks. The masked man must have been some sort of trained shooter based on his choice of rifle and gear, but Troy was glad he wasn’t better at his job. Or had he not been trying to kill Kate, but rather, had he just been trying to warn her off?

  If he’d been serious, and well trained, he could have easily killed them both without them even realizing what was happening until it was all too late.

  “Put your goddamned hands up, or you will get one straight to the brain stem.” Troy roll-stepped behind the man, stopping only inches behind the back of his head.

  The man didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch.

  The wind whipped through the open window, blowing toward him; with it, it carried the coppery scent of blood. With the scent came a strange sense of unexpected disappointment.

  “I said put your hands up,” Troy repeated.

  Still, the man didn’t move.

  He nudged the man’s shoulder with the tip of his gun. His limp body collapsed to the floor. As he fell, he rolled, exposing an entrance wound just at the base of his throat.

  Kate’s aim had been on point.

  She had killed the man.

  Just when he thought he couldn’t love her more, she had made what must have been at least a hundred-yard shot with a handgun, into a darkened room, and took down the bastard trying to kill her. It was a kill shot for the books.r />
  What a woman.

  He knelt down and checked the man’s pulse, even though the open, sightless eyes told him all he needed to know. There was no sign of life.

  Screw this fellow. He’d had it coming. The only thing that disappointed Troy was the fact that he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, but he liked that the woman he loved had done it instead. She was powerful, smart and courageous.

  They would make one hell of a team if they ever got married.

  He paused as he stood up. What kind of person was he that, while checking on a dead man, he was thinking about getting married? And not just that, but he’d never really considered getting married before. Nope, it wasn’t the kind of relationship he’d even contemplated, let alone hoped for...and yet here he was.

  He couldn’t help the smile that overtook his features as he moved out of the room, clearing the rest of the house. From what he could make out, there had been only this man. There was nothing to indicate he’d acted with anyone else.

  Outside, there were the careening wails of police cruisers as they descended on him and the place.

  Crap. Here we go again.

  He considered leaving, but he hadn’t done anything to conceal his fingerprints or his identity when the neighbor had spotted him. It was going to be easier just to face this head-on. But that didn’t mean his ass wasn’t going to be facing a little bit of jail time while he waited to be cleared.

  Hopefully the investigating officer would be friendly toward him, maybe even throw him a couple of bones and let him walk. But Troy would have to get damn lucky.

  He wished he’d had time to check the shooter’s ID, but he had an idea of who he was. He put down his gun and walked outside. He plopped down on the porch’s top step and waited until the first police car screeched and skidded to a stop in the street in front of him. The city officer stepped out of his car, using his door for coverage as he pulled his weapon and aimed it at him. “Get on the ground!”

  He rolled over, pressed his face against the wooden planks. The paint was chipping and peeling, and he stared at a bit that fluttered as he exhaled and put his hands above his head, his fingers interlaced.