Page 2 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
But fuck if that drive within me isn’t gone, and I have no clue how to find it again. And for a long time, that was all I needed. All that motivated me.
“Don’t quit, Rez,” he says. He holds up his hand for me to wait, while he sits behind his massive desk that looks impressive but would probably fall apart with one solid slam of the drawers.
“Why? People get killed on my watch, Sarge.”
“You’ve had a bad string of crazies. They aren’t your fault.”
“No, but not saving lives is.”
“Are you doubting yourself?” His eyes bore into mine and make me want to look away, but hell if his words aren’t the truth right now.
Hell yes, I doubt myself. And why the fuck wouldn’t I?
“Just give me some time.”
Harry doesn’t relent, because he knows what’s going on. He knows the more time I take away, the more likely I won’t be able to find my way back.
He shuffles some papers, and when he finds the one he’s searching for, he takes a minute to read it through. He twists his lips as if he’s trying to figure something out for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet mine. “I have an offer for you.”
“I won’t take it.”
A raise won’t fix this.
“Just hear me out.” He holds up his hands in front of him, telling me to be patient. When I don’t move from the chair, he continues. “It’s a change of pace. A change in scenery. It’s all right here…”
Chapter One
Desi
Men are on women.
Women are on women.
Grunts and groans fill the air.
There is cheering from the sidelines as bystanders watch them writhe and buck and try to get the other off them.
“It’s like a big orgy in here,” I say to the woman standing beside me. I don’t know her, but she’s standing like we are, back against the gym wall, eyes glued to the men and women fighting for positioning—moving, bucking, defending—on the mats where they’re lying.
She emits a nervous laugh and looks to me. Prim and proper, she resembles a Stepford wife, and all I can think is that her ladies’ club decided to do this together and she’s the only one who decided to show up.
At least I’m not the only one nervous about being here. There could be worse things I guess…like actually needing to use the skills I’m supposed to learn here in Sunnyville Self Defense Class to protect myself.
A group at the far side of the gym erupts in applause, and I stand on my tiptoes to see a woman standing with her foot on the instructor’s throat while he’s lying on the mat. His red SSDC T-shirt matches everyone else standing around trying to look official with a whistle and gym pants on.
“Exactly,” a deep rumble of a voice on the other side of me says.
I glance over and whoa…all my attention shifts from the grunts and groans on the floor to how I wouldn’t mind grunting and groaning with the man on his cell beside me. Our gazes meet for the briefest of seconds—chocolate-brown eyes giving me a passing glance and a curt smile before turning back to whoever is on the phone while watching the action beyond.
Taking my time and trying not to pay attention to Hottie McTotty, I scan the gym. Basic blue gymnastic mats cover the majority of the hardwood floors, basketball hoops hang from the lofty ceiling but have been drawn up, and championship banners hang, partially hiding the painted mural of the Sunnyville High School mascot on the wall at the far end.
But no matter how hard I try to not look back at him, that is where my attention lands. He’s a good six inches taller than I am, has dark hair, and his body beneath his Under Armour workout shirt hints at how ridiculously fit he is. His bicep closest to me stretches the fabric and is covered in a dizzying tattooed array of colors and images I can’t openly look at to decipher. You can only do so much with a sideways stare.
But his voice. It’s like liquid sex with a rasp and a rumble and a whole earth-shattering orgasm in between.
Hello to you, Mister A-Little-Rugged-And-Whole-Lot-Sexy.
I listen to him talk. Not stalkerish-like…well, maybe stalkerish-like, but damn if the background of grunting and groaning only serves to enhance the things my mind is dreaming up.
