She removes her white helmet with a candy skull on it, pulls her hair free from a band, and long auburn locks fall to mid-back. A shapely arse and long legs are encased in a type of Kevlar riding jeans with cowboy boots. She unzips her leather jacket and turns as I continue to watch. She's in a white T-shirt, her breasts begging to fill my hands. Her expressive forest-green eyes are fringed by long bangs and dark eyelashes. She has pale skin with freckles across her nose and no makeup covering her beauty.
She nods as she walks by me, and I almost miss my chance.
"Excuse me, ma'am, can I talk to you about the shot you took tonight?" I ask, not thinking about how it sounds.
Her back stiffens and she steps back on her right foot. Her stance tells me she’s trained.
"I'm sorry. I work for a security company that was at the gala tonight. One of my men was in the convention center. I saw the shot you took. It was amazing. Can I buy you a drink?"
"Someone died and a man was hurt, so, no, it wasn't that amazing. Now, excuse me." She pushes past me with a huff and I grab her arm. The electric shock of touching her almost has me pulling back, but I want to feel more of her.
"Please. One drink?"
"Let her go. Now! She isn't interested and never will be," a deep voice says from behind me. I turn to see a cheeky bastard walking up. He is in all leather gear too, so he must have been riding. He is shorter than me and I know I could take him, but I drop her arm and step back. I look over to see another motorcycle parked next to hers.
"I was just asking the lass if she would like a drink."
"Take off. She doesn't drink with anyone." He pushes past her into me.
"Look, tosser, I didn't know she was spoken for." I step back and he closes the distance again. She reaches out and grabs his arm, pulling him back.
"I'm not spoken for. Now stop, both of you." Her voice rises slightly.
"I apologize. Have a good evening." I tilt my head to her and smell her jasmine and vanilla scent. Stepping back, I watch as his arm goes around her shoulder. I hail a cab and wish I met her first as she’s clearly taken.
As the cab pulls away, I watch her with the guy. They talk for a moment, then she jumps on her motorcycle and leaveswithout going into the bar. Her motorcycle sails past, weaving in and out of traffic. I want to follow her but know that would make matters worse. I don't want to be with just anyone. I want to finally find my one. I want to know that person is worth it. I want to settle down. Something about her sets my blood on fire. I discreetly adjust myself as I think of her under me, or us on that bike.
CHAPTER TWO
MAYA
Islide my bike in between traffic, passing the cab he got in. I want to turn and get a look into those eyes again. My body still feels like I touched a live wire. I can't do this. I speed off, slipping into my parking garage with a deep sigh.
Home. My sanctuary.
As I ride the elevator up to my penthouse condo, I lean back against the back wall, the evening rolling through my head.
Carl is no longer Sierra. I am now. That means I'm the primary sniper for the team. I will still be on Team Two, but by the end of summer, I will be Team One Sierra. This is a huge step for me. The smile on my face falls when I think of my encounter with Carl after I showered.
Carl had yelled at me for taking the shot, and his position. He said it was my fault he was suspended. I found out from Derek that he was actually suspended for leaving his originallocation for a spot with less visibility. The second spot didn't take into account if the hostage-taker stepped out of the building, just as he had.
Carl and I used to date back in college, and I never wanted to compete against him because I knew he wouldn't be able to handle me being a better shot than him. He’s a male chauvinist who believes women shouldn't be cops. My luck landed us in the same department and then on the same team. DC was my home before my life went to hell, and he knew that. Maybe he knew I would come back here and was hoping to get back together. So not happening.
My superiors knew how good I was. With all my extra training, they just wanted to keep me with Metro PD instead of jumping over to Secret Service like I was thinking. I do every extra training at Quantico that I can.
The elevator pings when I reach my floor, and I step out and walk to my door. Habit has me checking all the shadowy areas and confirming I'm alone before I put in my code to enter my space. I grab the remote for the blinds and open the shades. The view of DC at night are the only lights I need for my mood.
I'm restless tonight; my whole body is on fire. I grab the stereo remote from the counter as I pass and click on the sound system. Skillet’s “Monster” blares through the speakers. I quickly change and then jump onto my treadmill. I run while staring out the windows, looking down at the city that used to mean so much to me. When they were alive, this was home. Now it is where I work and just exist.
Out of nowhere I see turquoise blue eyes, dark hair, and a five o'clock shadow I want rubbed over my body. I hadn’t seen him when I pulled up to the bar tonight. But now? Wow! Mybody sparks again, my breathing increases and not from the running. The song switches to Nickelback’s “S.E.X” and I think about climbing that hunk of man like a fucking tree and holding on while I take a ride. Oh shit, I need to get laid soon. A complete stranger has me hot. I run harder, trying to ignore the release my body really wants.
I know I've been running for a while when another set of eyes flashes through my mind. My step falters and I almost eat it right there. I grit my teeth through the pain. The hostage’s dark Mediterranean look reminded me of him, but younger. He looked so much like my father, my Abba; I knew he was from the Israeli consulate.
My hands start to tremor, just like they did when I held my gun. I can't let this get to me. I jump off the treadmill and walk over to my punching bag. In place of dining room furniture, I’ve set up a workout room. I pull on my gloves and start beating the bag as the one song I need pulses through the speakers. I hit the bag harder, seeing the bomber I have imagined for years staring back at me right before he takes them from me. I swing my leg in a roundhouse and grab the bag as I throw my knee into it. I want to kill him even though he is already dead. The song plays on and I yell to it as I continue to take my pain out on the bag. Marilyn Manson’s “Beautiful People” has been my trigger for years. It is the song I let go to. It comes to an end and I drop my gloved hands to my knees, struggling to regain my breath.
My chest heaves, and now that I've reached my limit, maybe I can sleep. I head for the shower and let the water sluice off my body onto the floor. I try to think of anything but the man's face. My head drops and again I'm back there. My father hadbeen a demanding man. He wanted me to be different. Better. I could speak multiple languages before I was in junior high. I had studied Krav Maga and Israeli knife fighting. I might look like my mother with my paler complexion, auburn hair, and green eyes, but I was an Israeli killing machine because of him. I was Abba's little Jewish fighter. He wanted a boy, but he got me instead. If they had lived, would he be disappointed that I didn't become a lawyer?
I feel the burning in my throat and nose, and I pull my head up and shut off the water. I step out of the shower, quickly dry my body, and head for the nightstand in my bedroom. Jerking the drawer open, I throw things all over the floor and reach for the bottle of sleeping pills. I hate taking them, but there is no way I'm going to sleep tonight. I pop the pills and lie down.
