by Lola StVil
I walk out of the restroom and into the waiting area. I want to get out of this place, but my body feels heavy and weighed down. So instead, I sink into the closest ugly plastic orange chair and try to compose myself.
I’ll just sit here for a few minutes and just take deep breaths. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.
But the second I close my eyes, memories whirl around in my head. They take me back to the alley.
The gunman yanking me by my arm, his sour breath on my face, and the cold gun barrel pressed against my temple.
It sends a shiver through me. I have never been so frightened in my life. I would have completely lost it had it not been for the DEA agent. Cash Hunter. He’s the only reason I didn’t die tonight. His presence was just as intimidating as the gun he was holding, if not more.
“Skylar,” someone calls out in low, deep voice. I open my eyes and follow the voice. Agent Hunter. He’s standing a few feet away. I’m surprised at how relieved I am to see him again. He’s even more formidable than I recall.
He’s easily over six feet tall and could snap me in two. His thick dark hair is just ripe for some woman to run her fingers through and play with, all night. There’s stubble on his face that’s maybe a few days old, making him that much more appealing. His facial features could have been taken from a Greek god statue. But given his dark, brooding expression, they would be taken from one of the more wrathful gods.
He’s wearing the same thing he had on in the alley—a dark fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his powerful forearms. Although the shirt is not skintight, there’s no hiding his well-defined, taut, eight-pack abs. And his dark jeans give a glimpse of his sculpted thighs. He’s looking at me with the same wild, espresso-colored eyes that stared down the gunman earlier. Everything about him is distinctly masculine, from his deep baritone voice to his large hands. I’m shivering again, but for a totally different reason.
“Agent Hunter, what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Cash. I wanted to check on you,” he says, never breaking eye contact.
“Oh, is that what usually happens in these things? Is that the procedure?” I wonder.
“There’s a department that does follow-up; it’s not my department but it was my Op. I should have never let the tweaker get away.”
“You saved my life. I think that makes up for everything,” I reply. He scans the room before coming back to me.
“I thought you’d be gone by now. Didn’t that Eric guy come for you?”
“Eric? Oh no. He’d never come out this late.”
“Your boyfriend sounds like a dick.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Husband?” he says as he looks at my hands. “I didn’t see a ring.”
“He’s my neighbor. He’s elderly, and I usually check on him. If I don’t come by, he worries.”
It could be just me but hearing that Eric is a neighbor allows Cash’s shoulders to relax more. He sits next to me. Now I am suddenly very aware of the fact that I look like hell. My eyes are puffy; my hair is a tangled “before” picture in a shampoo commercial. Oh, and I still have the gunman’s blood on my skirt.
“I called him earlier and explained everything. He was upset, but I calmed him down and assured him that I was fine,” I add.
“Are you?” he asks with genuine concern. I’m forced to pause and really consider the question. Cash is doing something that I am not used to guys doing—listening.
“Skylar, are you okay?”
I shake my head no.
“Alright, let’s get you out of here,” he says, extending his hand to me. I take it, and the moment we touch, a rush of heat floods my body. He walks me through the waiting room and out the door. He goes to hail a cab, and I stop him.
“The air feels kind of nice, and I live about ten blocks from here. Do you mind if we walk?”
I’m relieved when he agrees. I’m not really in a hurry to be home alone. And I am good with him hanging around, even if it’s only for ten blocks. We start down the street, and even though he could easily outpace me, he slows his stride so that we are in step.
“Do you know anything about him—the guy in the alley?” I ask.
He furrows his brows and says, “Try not to obsess about him. It won’t help.”
“I know, it’s just…”
“Just what?” he pushes gently.
“I feel…sad for him.”
“You feel sad for the guy who tried to kill you?” he replies incredulously.
“Well, I feel a lot of things. I’m angry about what he did to me and I want to kick him in the balls—repeatedly.”
“That I can follow, but where does the sad part come in?”
“Addiction isn’t easy. Who knows how many times he tried to get clean. And however messed up he was in the end, no one deserves to die in an alley.”
“I’m not sorry I shot him. He would have killed you,” he says bluntly. He must have seen me flinch because when he speaks again, his tone softens. “I know that’s not a sensitive thing to say and shit, but it’s true. I don’t believe in sugarcoating. He would have done whatever it took to get out of going to prison.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I just think it sucks all around. It was awful for me, and for his mom or whoever loved him…” I don’t finish my thought. I just say a silent prayer that his family will make it through this okay in the end, whoever they are.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it; so long as there are drugs, there will always be users. It’s just the way the world works.”
“You say that like you don’t think we’ll ever win the drug war.”
“All I know is that the more drugs we confiscate, the more they bring in. In the end, all we can do is try to keep it at bay.”
“Wow, I hope the DEA doesn’t let you write their brochures for them. You’d kind of suck at it,” I tease.
“Do I? Okay, I’ll work on that,” he says, nodding as if he were seriously considering a change in attitude. We walk in comfortable silence for a while. I’m reassured just knowing he’s next to me.
“I know you said you didn’t want to miss work, but given the night you had, maybe you should,” he suggests a block or so later.
“What I said was that the people I work with would have a tantrum—and they would. Literally. I’m a kindergarten teacher,” I explain.
“Really?” he says, taken aback.
“Yes, I teach at Dr. King Elementary. I have sixteen kids in my class, and it’s a very busy time for us. We’re putting on a play Friday.”
“And what’s the name of this production?” he asks.
“Oh, it’s not just a production, it’s an extravaganza! It’s called the Fantastic 4! It’s a tribute to the four food groups,” I reply proudly.
“I see...” he says with a small but genuine smile.
God, what a smile.
“Tell me more,” he says. I expect to hear sarcasm in his voice but there isn’t any. He’s serious. I turn to face him, and he’s really waiting for me to fill him in.
“Okay, well…every kindergarten class does the same play. But my kids have the best interpretation in the history of the school,” I inform him.
“Oh really?” he says doubtfully.
“Yes! And I’m not just saying that because I’m their teacher. The fact is we have a stellar cast. The kid who plays ‘Broccoli’ is superb, the little girl who plays ‘Apple’ has the best comedic timing, and when you watch Hazel Tannenbaum’s moving depiction of ‘Low Fat Milk’, you will weep.”
He stops walking abruptly and breaks the sky open with his laughter. I can’t help but join him. Without meaning to, I’ve reached out and held on to his muscular forearm. A warm sensation emerges from the spot where our skin touches. I feel a rush, unlike anything I’ve felt before. It floods my body and makes my heart pound against my ribs.
Wow.
The laughter fades as we gaze at each other. Looking into his eyes is like watching
a dark, turbulent, stormy ocean. Yes, it’s overwhelming and terrifying, but it’s also exhilarating. I don’t want to stay on the shore; I want to get closer.
I want to dive into the abyss.
He gently pulls his hand away and says, “We should pick up the pace. It’s late.”
Okay, so the ocean is pushing me out and back to the shore. Fantastic.
I know he didn’t say “Sky, fuck off.” But it hurts as if he said just that.
Sky Marshall, what the hell are you doing? He’s a cop who feels guilty that you were caught up in his operation. He doesn’t want you to freak out any more than you already are, so he offered to walk you home. That’s it. That just makes him a decent guy. Don’t do the thing where you make something out of nothing. It’s lame and desperate.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks, taking me out of my thoughts.
“What?”
“You’re practically running,” he points out. That’s when I notice that I’ve started walking so fast he’s now behind me.
“Oh. Well, I figure I’ve taken up enough of your time. In fact, I can walk the rest of the way home. I’ll be fine. I was being overdramatic before.”
“No, you weren’t. What happened in the alley was awful. It’s okay to freak out and want company. It’s normal.”
“Yay, normal,” I mutter. He’s about to say something but then thinks better of it. We’re now in step again, walking at a quicker pace but not speeding. We remain silent until we reach my apartment building. I turn to face him. While I’m pissed at myself for misreading our previous moment, I’m also a little sad. I will never see him again. But maybe that’s for the best.
Cash has this allure that is nearly impossible to ignore. Who knows how much of a fool I would have made out of myself if I ever saw him again. So, it’s good—no, it’s great—that we end things here.
I mean honestly, look at him. He’s a towering monument to manhood. His voice alone could get him laid, and then add the mass of muscles. Not to mention his engaging laugh and those damn eyes. The ones I could swim in and get lost in. The eyes some woman gets to look into every night.
What the hell am I saying? There’s probably more than one woman. There has to be.
“We’re here. This is my place,” I announce, wanting to get this over with. “Thanks for the company,” I add, determined to keep what’s left of my dignity.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asks.
“Don’t worry, Mr. DEA; I got it from here. You’re off duty,” I assure him. He frowns and crosses his arms over his chest.
Damn it! Why can’t he put those muscles away? I’m already a mess, why must we add to it? ARGH! I hate him. Okay, I don’t but … ARGH!
“You’re upset,” he reasons. “What is it? Are you worried about being home alone?”
“No, it’s time to put this behind me and get back to normal, as you said.” I nod, mostly talking to myself.
“That’s good. Here, take this…” he says, handing me a business card. “In case you need to reach me.”
“Okay,” I reply, taking the card from him.
“Do you need anything before I go?” he asks.
Yes. I need to feel the way I felt just now when we touched. I need to feel safe and protected, like I felt when you pulled me into you, back in the alley.
“Sky, is there anything else?”
“No. I’m all good here,” I reply, sounding far more official than I meant to. He nods but doesn’t say anything.
I take my keys out and let myself into the lobby of my building. I refuse to turn around and watch him walk away. Yeah I know; it’s stupid and overdramatic to be so attached to someone I’ve known for only like ten minutes. I got that part. But here we are. Or here we were. That moment is gone.
I’ve had to do some hard things in my life but watching Skylar walk up the steps and away from me might be the hardest. Everything in me wants to follow her up to her place, strip off her clothes, and rake my mouth all over her body. I want to hear the sound she makes when I pop her nipple into my mouth and suckle, hard. My pulse races and my cock grows at the thought of having her to myself all night.
Even though my desire for Sky is nearly all-consuming, I can find a way to contain myself—at least for now. The trouble is I don’t just want her body; I want her.
I want to hear her talk about her students and watch as her eyes sparkle with pride. I want to know where she goes in her head when she falls silent. And who taught her how to be so damn compassionate?
When she asked about the tweaker’s family, I thought she was crazy. But when she actually closed her eyes and had a moment of silence for her would-be killer’s family,
it got to me. And after all the years on the job, nothing gets to me.
As we were walking towards her house, I just kept cursing her for living so close to the hospital. I wanted to keep walking and keep talking for as long as we could. She’s kind, funny, smart, and beautiful.
Christ, I gotta stay away.
I tried that earlier tonight, but then I ended up going to see her at the hospital. But I gotta try again and walk away. Women like Sky don’t mesh well with guys like me. The fact is, while her sympathy for the tweaker is adorable, if I had to do it all over again, I would take that shot. That’s my job. And I’m not gonna pretend like I’m someone else only to have the truth spill out a few weeks down the line.
No. Sky is a good girl. In the truest sense of the term. And if I care about her—and I think I do—then the kindest thing I can do is leave her alone. Let her find a nice banker or tax accountant. She needs someone who would be scared at the sight of a gun, not someone who considers his gun an extension of himself. So, I walk away from her building and don’t give in to any of my urges.
Instead, I focus on a different urge—the one I have to shake the shit out of Doyle, the new guy. I head over to the annex, a small training center downtown. We normally hang out after an op when we’re too keyed up to go home. It’s either there or the Ace bar, down the street.
I walk into the annex, and it’s as I thought, most of the team hasn’t gone home. They are either getting in a workout or bullshitting in small groups. When the guys on my team see me, they go on high alert. Nikko, a buddy of mine, spots me from across the room.
“Where’s Doyle?” I ask the team.
“He’s not here. Look, it was a crazy situation—” someone on the team begins.
“Where is he?” I demand.
“Cash, man, go easy. He’s new to the team and—” another member starts.
“Where the hell is he?” I bark.
“He’s in the weight room,” Nikko says. I march towards the back room, and Nikko takes off after me. “You need to wait until morning, when we all have a clear head about this.”
“You know what he did, Nikko; that fucker wasn’t ready for this mission and he almost got a woman killed.”
“Yeah, I got that but—”
“Screw this, move,” I demand. Nikko places both hands in the air, in an attempt to stop me from charging into the weight room. I push past him and march over to that asshole, Doyle, over by the bench press.
“What the fuck did you find confusing about staying in position?” I shout. He puts down the weight and sits up.
“Look, I know I went and changed things, but hey, you have to be ready for anything. I may have jumped the gun and went to my second position too early, sorry about that.”
“Sorry is the shit you say to your girl when you come too soon, don’t play that bullshit with me. You weren’t ready. You let your nerves get the best of you, and you almost got someone killed.”
“I’ve heard about you in the field, Cash. You take chances, just like I do.”
“What I take are calculated risks. That’s not what you did.”
“C’mon, relax. In the end, we made the bust, and everything’s fine.”
“The hell it is. You knew you weren’t ready. Why the hell did you
want to go out with us if you couldn’t hold your shit together?”
“Sometimes things just happen. You don’t have to have a fit. C’mon, don’t be a pussy.”
I swear to God I don’t even remember charging towards him, but I must have because now he’s backed into a wall and I have him by his throat. Nikko comes over and curses me out for not having any self-control.
“Fuck off,” I reply as I glare at Doyle, more than ready to crush his windpipe.
“He’s not worth it. You know that, man. Let him go,” Nikko responds. My hand remains where it is, and with every passing second, I picture that tweaker asshole with a gun to Sky’s head.
“Cash, we can see about getting him transferred. But you do this, and you’re in for it, you know that. So stop being so damn hardheaded and let him go!” Nikko orders.
I reluctantly release my hold on Doyle and glare at him. He sneers and fixes himself. He shakes his head, clearly annoyed at the situation.
“You’re a real nut job, you know that?” he yells. I grit my teeth and decide to walk away before I really hurt this guy. But he’s not done talking.
“You should be thanking me. I saw the look the woman in the alley gave you. What’s her name—Skylar…something. She was so grateful to you for saving her, I bet she’ll do anything to show her gratitude. Hey, when you’re done with her, can she come over and play with the rest of the team?”
He doesn’t see my fist coming towards him, and by the time it registers, it’s too late—he’s out cold.
***
It’s taken three days for Kenzy to forgive me for not calling her immediately after the events in the alley. And the only way she fully forgave me was with the help of my trusty junk food drawer. I let her dive in and take what she wanted and I also swore a solemn vow that I would call her if I got so much as a hangnail. I also promised to give her a detailed description of Cash.
I tried to tell her the story without making him seem like anything more than an agent who was good with a gun. I didn’t want her to know that my stomach dipped every time he said my name or that I’ve been dreaming about him every night. But she knew anyway. She said it’s her best friend superpower. She also said it was the way I said his name. Apparently, I sounded breathy and wistful.
