Swap Out(2)

But we don’t think about that because we can’t afford to. You don’t know fear. You can’t. You go into the worst of the worst, find the person who drew the short straw and put their life before yours. You have to be stronger, faster, endless endurance and no hesitation. The toughest of the tough and the bravest of the brave. You jump, climb, hike, even dive, perpetually flipping a coin with your existence just to save someone else’s.

That others may live.

That’s the motto. That’s the way of life.

It was my life. Maroon beret and all.

Until it wasn’t.

In some ways, I will always be in the Special Operations Forces. I still need the rush, adrenaline junkie and all. It’s one of the reasons why I joined when I was eighteen. It’s why when I finished my final salute, I moved to Moab. Because I still jump out of planes, but now I don’t have to worry about bullets puncturing my chute. And I still climb, 5.11 and sometimes 5.12 if I feel like taunting the Grim Reaper and the cracks of Indian Creek come a calling. But the only life I have to worry about getting back home in one piece is mine. And that’s how I like to keep it.

That’s how my boss likes me to keep it. Not that she knows what I do in my spare time because she’d kick my ass. And Zoe may only be a slender little 5’7”, but it’s not the threat of a right hook keeping my mouth shut when I want to put her in her place. It’s the burn in her irises, the tight pucker of her lips that scares the shit out of me. All complete with brown hair and eyes that look like the color of dirt when it mixes with blood, and I know that color. She can cut men down with a lash of her tongue and she could vanquish an army with her smile. If you can get her to show one.

Those are usually reserved for clients, the ones who stare at her divine little ass in those stark white knee-length pencil skirts that hug every curve like they were sewn on. Doesn’t help that she lives in stilettos in every design and color, but they all inexplicably have a red sole on the bottom and when she kicks up her foot, it makes you feel like you got a peek at her panties.

And little Miss Professional Barracuda is currently doing just that, leaning over the kitchen counter of a house we’re supposed to be providing a quote on as she scratches at the grout in the tile wall. She huffs and straightens, her heel clicking on the tile floor as she turns towards me.

“Luca,” she says in the voice she’s perfected: the one meaning she’s about to make me do something dumb and humiliating. “Can you clean this?”

I check to make sure the realtor is nowhere nearby, probably in the other room and jabbering away on her cellphone, before I step towards Zoe and check the tile, then glance at her with a smirk.

“Not for fifteen bucks an hour.”

She immediately smacks my shoulder, the corner of her lips pulling up. “Give a man black hair and blue eyes and he thinks he can talk to a woman any way he pleases. Didn’t I already fire you once today?”

“Actually, no.”

She scoffs and crosses her arms, an act made all the more impressive in the hoity-toity little black blazer she’s got on. I am totally confused about how she moves around in clothes that fit her so tight.

“Well, we can fix that,” she says, and I roll my eyes.

“Zoe, no one is going to care about the grout in the kitchen when they realize there are maple hardwood floors in the living room.”

Her brow furrows. “The maple was only in the entryway…”

I wink at her, then stroll casually towards the living room with her heels clicking behind me. I pop out my go-to knife, then crouch down once I reach the carpet.

“Step on the floor,” I tell her, and she lightly presses the toe of her navy blue stiletto onto the carpet. The one perfectly matching my ’68 Corvette Stingray. Like that doesn’t get my blood pumping. “Feel it?”

“Feel what? Because all I feel is cheap Berber…”

I chuckle and then draw the edge of my knife down the sliver between the wall and where the carpet bucks up against it, then pull up the corner. Smug as a pill popper blowing in a Breathalyzer when she gasps.

“No way…” She crouches down, then checks like her eyes are deceiving her as she draws a fingertip over the hidden hardwood.

“Eighteen an hour, and you’ll get yourself a brand new floor.” I grin and she narrows her eyes at me.

“Not on your life. You’re lucky I don’t pay you minimum wage and call it square for all the crap I have to put up with from you.” She stands and smoothes out her skirt, huffing out a breath when she catches me stealing a long look at her legs. “Do that again and you really are fired,” she hisses, then turns away. “Rachel?”