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I refuse to let on just how badly he turns me on. Turning to leave, I push my wavy brown hair from my eyes, stopping only to say, "A photo lasts longer."
His eyes meet mine. "I think I’ve memorized you well enough."
His words are flirty, but I don't flirt with my brother's friends. Ever. They are the same guys who hang around our tattoo shop, and I swore them off about the same time I swore off sailors. I may live in a Navy town, but that doesn't mean I have to sleep with the ship when it comes to port.
"Classy," I say, rolling my eyes, all the while fighting to keep my composure. Truth is, he is the kind of man I want to give myself to. A man who is so sure of himself that he makes my heart all woozy with just a few words. A man with dark hair and darker eyes.
As I leave the kitchen, I try to figure out what this guy is doing here. He doesn't look like the rest of my brothers’ friends. They are rough and rude and rarely appreciative of the fact, that without me behind the front desk, they would never get their artwork done. My brothers aren't exactly the brains behind the business; they drink way too much, make crass jokes and put way too many demands on me.
This man, though? He looks different. And it isn't just the fact that he doesn't have any facial piercings or neck tattoos.
He's darker, more intense as if his mind is somewhere else.
I've never seen him before. But we live in a small Navy town in the Puget Sound of Washington State and there are a lot of people who come and go. Refusing to give this stranger any more of my attention, I adjust my tortoiseshell eyeglasses, turn from the kitchen and head down the hall. I want to sink into my bed and disappear in the pages of a romance novel.
As I pass Smith on the way to my room, he scowls. "Put some damn clothes on, Sweetie."
"I'm going to bed," I hiss, not slowing down. I was so clear about no more parties. The neighbors keep complaining about the noise and I don't want cops here again.
As I head down the hallway, I see a large group of people flood in through the front door. I recognize some of them and a shiver runs over my body. These guys are dangerous. I know they've caused problems for other people in town, vandalizing shops and causing fights. And now they are in my home.
Infuriated that my brothers don't seem to understand the situation, I head to my bedroom and slam the door. I don't care if it's loud-- it's not like anyone will hear over the noise of the party.
An unsettled feeling washes over me as I think about why those guys just showed up here. Trying to ignore the niggling doubt, I set my tea and chocolate on the nightstand, turn on my lamp and turn off the overhead light. I pull off my terrycloth bathrobe and put it on the hook on my door, then look in the mirror, smiling at the splurge I made earlier this week when Victoria’s Secret was having a sale. I never shop there, preferring Target-variety panties and bras. But the nightie in the shop window made me wistful and I couldn't help but stop and make the purchase .
It's soft pink and silky, and something women probably reserve for their lovers. But considering I've never had a lover, and that my brothers have threatened to beat up any man who so much as tries to talk to me, I don't exactly see a long-lasting relationship in my near future. Or any relationship.
Still, that doesn't mean I shouldn't wear something pretty when I slip into bed, reading my Kindle, my fingers sliding between my thighs.
It's flattering, the nightie. It hugs my curves, accentuating my wide hips and big breasts--something I never flaunt in real life, preferring oversized sweaters to anything low-cut.
As I step out of my slippers and pull back the covers on the bed, I smile, refusing to let the chaos outside my bedroom determine how my night will go.
But that's before the gunshot.
Terror runs its way up my spine and my heart begins to race.
As I rush from the bedroom, I see a raised gun, the crowd divided, and then I feel a man's hands on me, dragging me away.SampsonThis woman has no business being here at this party. She's screaming, scared, but I point, showing her that the bullet clearly went through a window, not someone's skin, but still her knees give out. The room is clearing, fast. People are running from the front and back door, and I don't hesitate.
