Page 10 of Fiona and the Fixer

Instead of a caffeine infusion, I found her. She’d been eyeing the coffee the way I wanted her to eye me. Like she needed it to survive. Like it was her greatest joy in her life. Like shecravedit.

When I first saw her, I’d stopped in my tracks beside the powdered donuts as if hit with a stun gun. I couldn’t do anything but stare. And get hard. Blonde hair. Lush body. Curves for days. Months. Pert nose,strong chin. She seemed serious, as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Or a cup of coffee was the key to her survival. The way she closed her eyes for a moment made me wonder if she had a headache. Or she was praying at the coffee altar like I wanted to do.

When it came to women, I didn’t have a type. I was an equal opportunity lover. At least I never had one before. Now? She was my type.

She was fucking it.

In jeans and a t-shirt with a casual zipped hoodie over it, she fit into mountain life well enough. But her hair was fucking perfect, even pulled back in a ponytail. She had on makeup; I could see the pink gloss on her lips from here–which made me imagine what those lips would look like wrapped around my dick.

She wasn’t high maintenance–although I had noticed her pale pink painted nails when I eyed the coffee carafe in her hand–but feminine. As if she didn’t like to get her hands dirty. That was cool by me because my hands were dirty. No, fucking filthy. Covered in years of blood. I didn’t kill the two guys in my trunk, but the fact that thereweredead guys in my trunk proved it.

I fixed things. Took care of people. Did the hard stuff so a woman could look pretty, smile, and scream my name when I fucked her good and hard.

A few months ago, I’d laughed at Jack when he’d fallen hard for Hannah after sitting beside her on a flight from Vegas. He’d turned into an idiot over her. He started stalking.Mooning. Bouncing on fucking trampolines–although that was a hell of a lot more fun than expected.

Now I understood why he did what he did because it was happening to me. One look and I wanted this woman, and I didn’t even know her name.

I wanted to breathe in her scent. Tug on that ponytail and smudge that gloss. So I approached her at the coffee counter. Then got told to fucking get down.

I wanted to hear her voice say that again but in a completely different way. Instead of pushing my shoulder, she’d push my head toward her pussy.

Get down.

What. The. Fuck. I was the one who said that to people.

Hmm, I could say that to her and addon your knees.

While I was thinking of all the fun ways we could fuck, she was almost to the front. What was she going to do, stop a robbery in progress with a coffee pot in her hand?

Instead ofgetting down, I followed. Of course, I followed. I wasn’t going to let her get herself shot.

Was she suicidal? Crazy?

Reaching behind my back, I instinctively touched my gun tucked into my belt.

“Oh my gosh!” she said, in a ditzy blonde voice she hadn’t used on me. “That’s a gun.” With a gasp, she held up her hands. In one was the stupid coffee pot, the hot liquid sloshing close to the top. What thehellwas she doing? She totally had a death wish.

The older man behind the counter was nervously tackling the cash register–probably having been told to emptyit, only giving us a quick glance before getting back to his task.

The kid with the gun wasn’t more than twenty-two. He had a Rockies ball cap pulled low over his face. His t-shirt–with a huge pickle that looked like a green dick on the front–hung well past his hips and his jeans were at least five sizes too big.

He was scrawny and easily manageable. It was the gun he held that was the problem.

No. It was the gun now aimed at my girl that was the problem and kept me from tackling him to the ground. Because the kid had turned at her approach and the danger was redirected from the clerk to her. Yeah,my girl. Why did I think that? I had no fucking idea, but I was instantly protective of this reckless, insane woman.

She actually put her free hand into her ponytail and began to twirl the ends of her hair like a cheerleader in a horror movie about to be murdered. “I just wondered if there was any creamer but–”

“Don’t move, lady!”

Creamer? What the actual fuck?

The cashier stopped the cash collecting and stared at her.

I stared at her.

The kid with the gun stared.

If a horrendous Karen Carpenter song from the 70s wasn’t torturing us from hidden speakers, I’d say time stopped.

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