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I quickly exit the shower when my skin burns red. Reese has set her place in my mind and distracts my brain as I dry off. She was a target, a piece of a puzzle, a means to an end, yet my mind replays the moment she looked over her shoulder and her brown hair swung with every pace of her feet. How her green eyes pierced me, unknowingly begging me for protection.
I throw on some shorts and climb into bed. Typically, my body only lets me have a few hours of sleep a night, and if it’s over four consecutive hours, that’s a win for me.
As soon as I fall asleep, I hear the screams and cries of my fellow soldiers echoing in my ears so vividly that it brings me back to that deadly day. The voices don’t stop and play on repeat. The visions of the massacre always jolt my body toward free-falling down an empty hole. I don’t know what time it is when I wake up in a pool of sweat, fighting to catch my breath. A panic attack in my sleep fought against my mind, which was trained to stay calm in times of distress. The push and pull of what they retaught, and the traumatizing pictures remind me that I was the lone survivor of my platoon. I was their commander, the person their family and friends trusted with their most prized possession. I am a failure.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed and stand up. Stretching and allowing my joints to pop as if I am an old man sheds some relief on my stiff limbs. I take my sheets off my bed and throw them in the washer, grabbing a new set and making the bed back to normal. Clean, tight lines that look as if it is showroom-worthy and always ready for an inspection.
I take my sweaty ass to the bathroom and switch on the light, turn on the shower, and face the mirror while the hot water steams the small room. Staring at my reflection covered in raised scars and tattoos that disguise what I can’t escape. I welcome the inflicted pain that this world has caused me. It’s the only time I can feel anything at all.
I step into the scalding hot water and scrub my skin red. I can’t think of any good thoughts when the men haunt my sleep and taunt my peace.
A notification from my phone distracts my thoughts. Quickly turning the shower off, I grab my towel and wrap it around my waist, then walk to my side table. I take my phone and sit on the edge of my bed. I unlock the screen and a smirk plays on the edge of my lips.
So, bocce ball? Right? Reese texts.
Reese, this woman is challenging me in such a good way.
I swear to God, those lips speak to hurt my soul. I text back.
See you in a bit!
A few bubbles appear and disappear before she finally responds. Looking forward to the lesson.
I lick my lips at the thought of teaching her.
I sit for a few moments and collect my thoughts. Meditate my emotions back to normal and bring the mission to the front again. Reese Grafton…you may be the death of me, after all.
CHAPTER 3
GREG JOHNSON
Adam
The next morning, I sit in the coffee shop waiting for her. I lick my lips at just the very thought of her. Reese is perfect in the sense that innocence surrounds her. The more I research my targets, the more I see how that small group of people would dive off the ends of the earth to protect her skewed sense of reality. I assisted in this false sense of comfort. This poor, beautiful woman.
It's half past nine, and the bus shows up on time. The sun reflects off the freshly washed city bus. The glare causes me to cover my eyes while I wait for it to move along down the street. When it drives away, I see her standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross. She sees me in the window, and her smile takes my breath away. It’s a freeing smile, one that hasn’t seen hardship. One that makes you believe in heaven when all you’ve seen is hell.
Reese jogs across the crosswalk in her leather heels, her pencil skirt riding up over her knees as she darts across the pedestrian walkway toward the café. I marvel at the curve of her calves and wish for nothing more than to place a gentle touch along their curves.
The bell over the door rings, pulling me from that heavenly thought, letting me know she has entered and is heading my way. She plops down in a mix of exhaustion and gracefulness, looking down at the coffee that sits before her. She smooths a wayward piece of hair from her face that had fallen in her unsubtle collapse.
“Espresso, light cream.” I point to the cup.
“You knew my order?” She narrows her eyes at me and grins with appreciation.
“Small coffee shop.” One side of my lip curves. Her playful side is slowly coming out and I am ready for this banter. “Plus, you are loud when you talk.”
She gasps at the notion before nodding her head. “Kevin would agree.”
“How was work yesterday?”
“Long!” She adjusts to sit more comfortably in her seat. “They’re changing up offices and moving floors. When they want to move offices or walls, they think it’s no big deal! It’s annoying. We have to have the structural engineer walk through to let us know if we can move walls or if we need to place other supporting beams so they can move walls! Luckily, money is no object to the big boss, but it’s just annoying how much they keep changing things up.”
“I’m sure you will blow their minds. I mean, you manage the garbage routes well.” I wink at her.
“I guess you could say some people are trash,” she says, following along with me.
I nod and lick my lips again. I see her eyes fall to my mouth, and again I am patting myself on the back for reeling this girl in. Or is she the one that has hooked me?
