Cindy Gerard - Killing Time

One of the best parts of writing any book is the research. I love delving into the history, geography, and political climates of my settings. And one of the best parts of the digging is the contacts I make with the many individuals who are so willing to provide valuable information that contributes so greatly to the texture and flavor of each book. On that note, Id like to give a very special thank-you to my Idaho connections, Larry Stone and Emma Scott, for ferreting out such incredible details on the Squaw Valley area of the Idaho panhandle and helping make the portion of the book set there so rich.

Lima, Peru

El Tocn Sangrientothe Bloody Stumpwas a back-alley, low-rent cantina that hadnt changed in clientele or dcor since Mike Brown first set foot in the dump eight years ago. The class of women, however, seemed to have catapulted to new levels.

The sun had been down less than an hour when he turned his back to the cracked, smoky mirror, a shot of pisco in one hand, a timeworn jack of hearts in the other. He slid his aviator shades to the top of his head and propped his elbows behind him on the edge of the scarred bar. Then he watched the dance floor with interest as one particular woman, who had caught his eye when hed walked in two hours ago, moved sensuously to the rhythm of a slow, Spanish guitar.

Absently flipping the playing card back and forth between his fingers, he squinted through the tobacco and marijuana haze at the dark-haired Latina beauty stirring up trouble and testosterone with the seductive sway of her hips. She was way too hot for this dive. And while he didnt have a clue why she flashed her flirty smile his way, he wasnt going to question his good luck. Just like he wasnt questioning the reason he was tying one on like there was no tomorrow.

He tossed back the shot and exchanged it for a full one from the neat row of soldiers lined up on the bar behind him. Screw the fact that hed been clean and sober for 364 consecutive days a record he never seemed to beat. Today, like every other July 15 since Operation Slam Dunk had gone south, he was getting flat-ass drunk.

The end of days. Thats how he thought of the debacle in Afghanistan eight years ago.

Sobrietus interruptus. Thats how he thought of his annual commune with alcohol and self-pity.

He was holding a postmortem. Throwing a pity party. Conducting a wake for the friends whod lost their lives eight years ago. For the life and career hed lost.

Hell, call it whatever you wanteda guilt trip, grief, suppressed rage, self-destructionhe didnt give a rip. It was happening. The only new wrinkle in his yearly bender was that it was starting to look like he might also get laid.

Talk about poetic justice. He was already fucked up in the head might as well make it a clean sweep.

Eyes on the prize, he slammed back one more shot, pocketed the bullet-ridden playing card, touched the unlit cigarette tucked above his right ear for luck, and pushed off the bar stool. Then he tried like hell not to stagger as he walked unsteadily across the room toward the spicy little enchilada who seemed to only have eyes for him. Big dark eyes. A little sleepy, a little slutty, a lot interested.

Damn, she was something. Centerfold something. A petite, hot mess of raw sexuality. Long, satiny black hair escaped in sleek, bed-mussed strands from the silver clip shed used to secure it in a loose knot on top of her head. Elegant neck. Smooth, bare shoulders. A lot of soft, caramel skin. And that red bustierits B cups not having a lot of luck harnessing a generous pair of Csworn with black spandex pants that stopped at her ankles where the straps of her four-inch stilettos took over and played hell with the fit of his pants.

Hey, gorgeous, he said. Because she was. And because he was too wasted to come up with anything original. He moved in closecrowded the hell out of her personal spaceand the way she slid up real close and cuddly told him that she was totally fine with the invasion.

Hola. She smelled sweet and musky and sexually charged as she tipped her head back with a bold, inviting smile and pressed those amazing breasts against his chest. Nice bling. A long-nailed fingertipslick, shiny, redtapped the diamond stud in his left ear, then lingered at the tip of his lobe.

Nice, umhe let his gaze slide down to that magnificent cleavage before easing back to her facesmile.

She laughed and tilted her head to the side in blatant invitation, giving him an even better view of all that dewy, soft flesh.

Wanna take this somewhere private? Might as well cut straight to the chase.

The lady knew what she wanted. Thought youd never ask, she said, her English laced with a sultry, lyrical Spanish accent.

Her hand was small and hotlike the rest of herwhen she took his and led him toward the back door. He followed like a love-struck puppy, mesmerized by the smell of her hair and the sway of her hips and the way her sparkly purse hung from a silver chain looped over her shoulder and rhythmically bumped her gorgeous ass with every step she took.

Outside, the alley was already shadowy and as dark as the desire that ripped recklessly through his groin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a warning bled through his lust-induced fog, telling him to slow the hell down, reminding him that if he hadnt been so drunk, he might have asked a few more questions. That maybe, if he added two and two together he might come up with something other than fournicate.

Just because he wanted her to be a working girl didnt mean she was one. And just because he was drunk didnt mean he should let his guard down. He started to rethink this entire proposition but then she leaned back against the wall, gripped his T-shirt with both hands, and pulled him flush against her.

Good-bye, presence of mind.

She was all hot, wet, open mouth and ripe breasts rubbing up against him, her left leg wedging super sweet between his thighs and moving up and down over his rapidly expanding package as he pressed her against the wall with his body.

He groaned and scrabbled for a hold on his sanity. Maybe we should get a room, wild thing.

She laughed, a husky, naughty purr, and bit his lower lip. That comes later, gringo but youre gonna come right now.

Holy mother.

When she reached into her purse, another spike of alarm jabbed him out of his stupor.

Condom. She flashed that dimpled smile and damn if he didnt almost weep with gratitude.

What the hell. It was still early, but it was dark. He was gone. And all this lush womans heat had him hypnotized by the prospect of her doing him right here, beneath the flashing neon QUILMES sign.