CHAPTER ONE
The previous night
Rafe Murano’s boot slipped from the bottom of the barstool, landing with a thump on the grimy concrete floor of the dive bar he’d been frequenting the last few weeks more often than he was proud to admit. His body swayed unsteadily at the unintentional shift in his weight.
“Easy, killer,” Trish said from behind the bar, where she was wiping the slick remnants of beer and liquor clean with a rag.
Rafe lifted his head from where he sat studying the slow burn of paper from the cherry of his Marlboro. He watched as Trish shook her head at him, attempting the illusion of disappointment when he lifted his lips and flashed his teeth.
“You know that shit doesn’t work on me. A pretty smile from a sexy man does nothing for a woman when she’s repulsed by penises. Now put that smile on a blonde with a nice pair of tits, and I’m putty.”
“I get a blonde with a nice pair of tits tonight, and I’ll share her with ya. How does that sound?”
Trish smiled, then squatted down to the floor, out of Rafe’s line of vision. He could hear her fumbling around, then the distinct sound of glasses clinking together. When she rose, she had two glasses in one hand and a bottle of Angel’s Envy in the other. Trish not only shared Rafe’s love for women, but also his love for whiskey. And Angel’s Envy was like drinking nectar from the gods.
Silently watching her, Rafe sealed his lips around the filter of his cigarette and pulled the smoke into his lungs.
“Rafe, baby, I love you. But I don’t share my women. And you—you don’t strike me as a man who likes to share either,” she probed. She poured the golden liquid into the glasses and slid one over to Rafe.
He wrapped his hand around the glass and pulled it in front of him.
“I take it by your silence that I hit the nail on the head?” Trish pried, cocking one of her thick brows, then lifted her glass to her mouth and took a leisurely sip.
Putting his cigarette back to his lips, he took another long drag, then stubbed it out in the ashtray next to him, releasing a cloud of smoke from his lungs. Picking up his glass, he met Trish’s eyes and held them stolidly. “I don’t share what’s mine.”
Her other eyebrow darted up as well. “And if it’s not yours?” she asked cautiously.
“Then it’s not mine to share in the first place so it doesn’t really fucking matter then, does it?” he barked.
“Watch it,” Trish admonished. “I see that I struck a chord, but I don’t put up with drunk, asshat soldiers. I’m warning you now.”
Rafe could feel the tension in his body as if it were a visible limb attached from the inside out. He emptied the contents of his glass into his mouth and swallowed, then slid it back to Trish. She absentmindedly refilled it with more whiskey, never taking her eyes off him, waiting for a verbal strike, then slid it back across the worn wooden counter.
“I’m good, Trish,” Rafe assured, running his thumb over the rim of his glass. He propped his black boot back up on the bottom leg of the barstool next to him. This had seemed to be his nightly routine as of late. What the fuck else was there to do now that he was back? After being deployed for the last twelve months—living every minute of every day on mission, serving his country—the normalcy of civilian life wasn’t so normal anymore. He went through this every time he came off deployment, though: attempting to adapt back to life without carrying his M-16 over his shoulder or transporting in armored vehicles or sweating his balls off in hundred-degree heat in full battle rattle. It made most men appreciate the ease of civilian life, and it sure as hell made Rafe appreciate it too. But there was always a part of him that missed it. Missed the constant missions, the uncertainty of every second. The way it took him over. He was fully focused and committed to his squad, and he didn’t have time to dwell on anything other than his job and the safety of his men.
“You better be. I wouldn’t want to have to kick my favorite customer out of my bar. Plus, our big-boobed blonde is heading this way. I may be calling dibs on this one, big guy. She looks sweet enough to savor.”
Rafe smiled, grateful for the mood-lifting ability that Trish possessed. He looked over his shoulder to the short blonde who was meekly approaching the bar. Then, almost as quickly, he turned back around.
Innocence.
It basically encased her in an invisible protection shield. Rafe didn’t fuck with those ones—in every sense of the word. The sweet ones had a tendency to slip under the radar and find a way to screw with his mind. These days he kept his dick on the straight and narrow as long as that straight and narrow led to the pussy of some chick who neither wanted nor expected anything other than a good time—and one time only. No repeat offenders for him.