I wanted to be a fighter pilot from the first time I’d held onto the pant leg of my father’s flight suit and breathed in the pungent scent of jet fuel. But now, as I moved another step forward to achieving my dream, nothing about it felt right.
I was selected to be not only the first female, but also the youngest pilot to ever fly the Air Force’s prodigy, the F-35, Joint Strike Fighter. Not to mention doing it right out of pilot training. All that glory on top of the fact that my head was so screwed up over Colin scared the shit out of me.
Still, I plastered a smile on my face and told everyone that I was ‘fine.’ I had tits in a testosterone world and showing any sign of weakness was not an option. I. Was. Fine.
Only the best of the best would fly the Air Force’s awesome creation. It could fly from D.C. to L.A. without showing up on radar if it wanted. But what were the chances of my being selected to fly it? I wanted a Viper and avoided the F-35 because of our messed-up history. I made sure I graduated top in the class of Undergraduate Pilot Training to be able to choose any other jet. But as it always did, my plan came back and bit me in the ass. I gambled and lost. Vegas style.
It wasn’t fair.
“Why have you taken everything from me?” I screamed into the sky and kicked an incoming wave. “Leave me the hell alone.”
I stumbled as a another wave rolled in. A light pressure appeared behind my eyes skewing my vision just a little. I realized that I may have drunk a little too much, but I was beyond caring.
The ocean spray soaked my clothes and hair. I steadied myself against the current. A chuckle escaped my lips. It sounded dark and slightly crazed. A rage, like I had never felt before swirled inside me like tornado looking for its target. I swallowed the last sip of lager and shook the bottle toward the star-filled sky.
“Here’s to you, Karma,” I shouted. I closed my eyes and twirled in a circle.
I spun until I was so dizzy that I could barely stand. I roared and launched the bottle with enough force that I nearly fell face first into the water. I steadied myself.
“Bloody hell, Karma’s a bitch!”
My eyes opened to see a tall, shadowed man with broad shoulders towering over me. His arm was raised as he rubbed his forehead. I gulped as I spotted my bottle a few inches from his foot.
I stepped backwards and my heel dug into something sharp. A shooting pain launched up my leg and knocked me off balance. I swore, flailing backwards and fell into the ocean, landing with a big splash. Shock was quickly replaced by mortification. Heat traveled from cheeks to my ears.
Something, cold, smooth, and scaly swept over my legs. I shrieked and prayed a creepy crawly wouldn’t bite off one of my limbs.
With about as much grace as a pig on ice, I scrambled to the shore. Adrenaline pumped through me, but it only made me feel more woozy. Just as I swallowed a gasp of air, a blunt object smacked into my head. Rays of light blurred my vision and I shouted as a blistering pain radiated from my head.
I balled my fists with the thumbs on the outside, like Colin had taught me. Did this guy just attack me? Did he have any clue who he was dealing with? Sure, I was tipsy and not steady on my feet, but I wouldn’t go down without a fight. I was a frigging fighter pilot.
I pushed wet strands of hair from my eyes and squared my shoulders preparing to counter attack, but he waved me away as he held his nose. Blood speckled his shirt and dripped from the bottom of his hand. I softened my fists slightly still prepared to defend if needed.
“Blast it girl. You’re dangerous,” he said in a British accent that made my insides awaken. I pressed my lips together and prayed that I didn’t just kick off another Revolutionary War.
Holy shit, it was time to go. The last thing I needed was for him to call the cops or the county mental health department. And as badly as I felt, apologizing would only be an admission of guilt in a court of law or worse, land me standing at attention in front of my commanding officer for an ass-chewing.
I bolted, teetering like a penguin, to the house and hauled myself up the side stairs of the deck, dripping wet. Mom’s voice echoed inside my head to take off my sandals. The image of bloody, sandy footprints in my hall seemed almost as horrifying as the stranger’s ass I just accidentally kicked.
“Damn it,” I cursed under my breath.
I grabbed a towel on the deck chair and rushed for the outdoor shower stall on the side of the house. The water was ice cold, but it rinsed the blood from my foot and thinned a few lagers from my brain. Of course, it did nothing for the two pounds of sand in my underwear weighing me down like a sagging diaper.
I ditched the clothes and wrapped myself in the towel, shoving on the door to the inside of the house. Damn, it was stuck. I’d have to go back the way I came. I gripped my towel tighter and swung open the outside door.
Thud.
“Ouch. Bloody hell!”
I leapt backward, my hand slamming tighter into my chest. Oh my God! This could not be happening.
The guy from the beach collapsed back onto the ground, grasping at the newest wound on his head. The second I had caused in less than five minutes.
I didn’t stop to apologize, just wrapped the towel over my chest, and sprinted back into the house, locking the door behind me. There was a pair of shorts and a tank top crumpled in the corner. They were as good as anything to wear. It’s not like I wanted to dress up for my stalker, but if his knocking on the back door turned into kicking it down, it’d be nice to wear some clothes for the crime scene pictures.
Crap, where was my phone? My heart thudded in my ears. If I just ignored him, would he go away? If he didn’t take the hint, my father kept a baseball bat in the hall closet.
Three quick knocks rapped on the back door.
As I ran for my weapon, I caught a glimpse of the man standing on the deck. He peered through the glass of the French doors. I swung open the closet, pulled out the Louisville slugger, and limped toward him. I may have played soccer instead of Little League, but I still knew how to swing a bat.
“Go away. I called 911,” I shouted.
I flipped on the outside deck light so I could get a better look at the man. I’m guessing the detectives, FBI, and office of Homeland Security would need a description.
He was six foot, possibly two, with short, wavy blond hair and lightning blue eyes that were squinted from the porch light. He held a handkerchief to his nose and wore a light blue, bloodstained, linen shirt that was partially unbuttoned revealing his ripped abs. I hesitated until I remembered I was in danger.
He had on khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a tattoo on his ankle. I scanned back to the top of his body. Muscular, tan, tall, and wow, those electrifying eyes. Holy hell, this guy was freaking hot. He was going to have a really good mug shot. If only we had met under different circumstances, I might actually offer him a beer.
A soft smile tugged at his lip as he dangled my smartphone in his hand. My wet, sand-covered smartphone.
“Son of a bitch,” I moaned as I remembered that it was in my back pocket when I fell into the ocean. I had to get it into a bag of rice and fast. It had my music, my schedules, and all my passwords. I was lucky if I remembered my own number, let alone everyone else’s.
“Leave it on the deck. And go.”
I tightened my grip on the bat. Mr. Tall, blond, and handsome removed the handkerchief from his nose.
A tiny flutter tickled in my chest. My head tipped slightly to the side. He didn’t look threatening. Minus the blood, lumps and cuts, he looked like he just stepped off the front cover of GQ.
“Sorry, Miss Nutter, but do you think I could