Sting (2 page)

I return upstairs, secure my paperwork and Glock in the safe, and then get changed into boardies, a T-shirt, and thongs.
My new uniform.
Grabbing a towel and my surfboard, I manage to get it out of the apartment without knocking a hole in the wall.

Beach time. I’ve got a fuckin’ good feeling that I’m gonna enjoy this assignment.

The mid-afternoon sun has a hell of a bite to it. Thankfully, the strong breeze and the waves quickly cool me down. I spend a good hour in the water, enjoying the calm and the soothing sounds of the crashing of the waves.

****

Day one of my assignment and the familiar niggling feeling in my gut returns like it does at the beginning of every job. The churning, coupled with need for my morning coffee, leaves me jumpier than an ice-addict. I mentally talk myself through my cover and stroll down some of the back streets, until I come across a busy café. There’s a row of small white tables out front with red, green and white funky chairs. The music is loud, but the general feeling of the place is laid-back. The pungent smell of coffee grinds is overwhelming. There’s a queue just inside the door, so I’m guessing this means the brew here is good. There certainly wasn’t a wait at the sterile-looking joint around the corner.

I line up and wait patiently as I creep closer to the counter with each order. The burst of steam from the machine and grinding of the beans fills my ears and comforts me, and I know my caffeine fix is only moments away.

The curvy redhead behind the counter warmly greets everyone like they’re old friends, winking and smiling, her iridescent hot-pink lipstick unmissable. Her black nametag bears the name ‘Gabby’ in white cursive writing.

“Well, it’s a good morning now,” the redhead says, her hazel eyes sizing me up when I move to the front of the line. She smirks, and readies her hand on the register. “What’ll it be, honey?”

“Large flat white, thanks.”

“That’s four dollars, please.”

As she hands me my change, her hot-pink fingernails graze my outstretched palm. The redhead then slides a square piece of paper across the counter and a small hand from behind the machine takes it. Apart from the noise you wouldn’t even know someone was there with the cups piled high on top.

A flash of messy blonde hair dashes out from behind the machine. “Is that take—,” she says. Her jaw goes slack as her pretty eyes scan from my chest up to my face. “Oh,” she whispers.

“Huh?” I say, leaning in closer to the counter, taking in an eyeful of her petite body and golden skin against the stark whiteness of her tank top. I don’t miss the growing blush that’s spreading across her freckled cheeks either.

She shakes her head and briefly closes her eyes as she huffs out a breath. “Sorry, take-away?”

“Nah, think I might stay?” I say and nod. Yep. Definitely staying.

“Um, sure. Take a seat,” she says and turns to her colleague. “Gabs, can you give him a number?”

“Oh, honey. I’ll give this one a number alright.”

I chuckle, and take the numbered metal-stand that she hands me. Blondie gives me a whisper of a smile and then returns behind the machine.

I lazily wander to the only vacant chair in the corner and wait impatiently for Blondie to deliver my coffee.

I’ve got a fuckin’ good feeling I’m gonna enjoy this assignment.

CHAPTER TWO

WILLOW

Gabs leans in close as I heat the milk. “Well fuck me breathless,” she says on an exhale. “Did you see those eyes?”

Tall and built like Captain America, he’s hard to miss. His sandy-brown hair looked as if he’d messily run his hand through it after a shower, and those dark brown eyes?
Sigh
. “Amongst everything else,” I mutter.

“Oooh, honey. Those eyes are pure dark chocolate, and you know how hot I get for chocolate.”

Talking about chocolate being better than sex is a daily thing for her. I’d tell her she’s wrong, but considering the fact neither of us have seen any action for a while, I keep my mouth shut.

“You taking these orders out, Gabs?” Thankfully it’s the last of the morning rush. We’ll have a short reprieve until the tradies come in at smoko time, at around ten-thirty.

Her silver bracelets jingle as she leans her forearms on the counter and looks in the direction of Mr Brown-Eyes. As if he suspected we were talking about him, his gaze shifts to us. My cheeks heat up once again. I wish I could wriggle my nose and the redness would disappear. So embarrassing.

“Mmm, I’d like to but I’m afraid the poor sod would drown in a puddle of my drool. Just finished my period, and well, you know, I’m as horny as a frickin’ toad. Besides, I wouldn’t mind a repeat visit from this one. Some new images for the flick bank. I bet he’d look good in leather and jeans, or a sharp suit, oh, or just in the buff. Mmm, yeah. I think that’d be my fave—”

“Gabs,” I say as a warning. She often gets carried away with her fantasies. I swear she’d be awesome at writing romance, even without having a sex life. What I don’t want to tell Gabs is that I’ve already seen him half-naked. I’m not having that conversation with her. It’d be question after question, and she wouldn’t back down until she’d gotten every nitty gritty detail. She’s persistent like that, and I don’t like questions.

“What?” she says with a shrug. I can’t help but laugh. Thank God I have this buxom ray of sunshine in my life.

“Cheers for the visual, anyway.”

“Just being honest,” she says and blows me a kiss.

“Fine, I’ll take them out.”

First, I take two orders out to my regulars. I head back and pour his coffee, making an intricate leaf pattern with the milk as I pour it into the mug. My nerves show through, and I have to really concentrate on not spilling the coffee into the saucer as I carry it across the crowded room.

Don’t drool over the new customer
, I repeat in my head. Don’t think about his eyes. Don’t think about his lickable abs. He looks up when I reach his table.

Now I’m staring into those mesmerising melted chocolate pools.
Sugar
.

Sex and chocolate. Sex and chocolate.

I silently curse Gabs for making me think of it, and clear my throat. It’s not so easy to clear the carnal images from my head, though.

“Here’s your coffee,” I state the bleeding obvious as I place it in front of him.

“Cheers,” he says, his voice low and husky. He lowers his eyes and checks out the pattern inside the cup.

“Need sugar?” I blurt out, noticing the absence of it from the table.

“No thanks, gorgeous.” He points to the wall of muscle across his firm chest, which his T-shirt is doing a stellar job of hugging. “Sweet enough.”

I swallow down. I’ll bet he is.

“Um, okay, well. Enjoy,” I say and slowly back away.

He winks, and my heart jolts. I want to hold my hand to my chest to make sure it’s still inside my ribcage, but I don’t, because that would send him a message. One I don’t want to send. He’s fine to look at, but that’s all. It’s all I can handle.

Arms crossed under her ample bust and a hip leant against the sandwich counter, Gabs purses her pinker-than-pink lips. “You know those eyes never left that perky little arse of yours on your way back here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that man is hungry,” she informs me.

I put my hands on my hips. “Yeah, well if he’s
hungry
, there’s a menu. Perhaps you can recommend the bruschetta,” I whisper loudly.

“So you didn’t even attempt a chat? Ask him where he’s blown in from? What his name is?”

As if.
“You know I didn’t.”

Gabs huffs out a long breath and flicks her long, bright-red ponytail off her shoulder. “Lady, one of these days you’ve gotta take a chance.”

I attempt a smile and resist the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes. She moves both hands to her hips and frowns. She’s not buying my grin as genuine. This woman, my daily dose of happy, just sees through me.

“Well, today isn’t one of those days.”

“I’ll keep praying for the day, then. I’m gonna head out back for a smoke, and then I’ve gotta fix my lips. You okay for five?”

“Sure. You know, I might leave a little early today. Get some sunshine again.” I shrug.

“You work too hard, lady. I’ll be fine to close up with young Sarah.” Gabs heads out back. The screen door screeches on its hinges as she exits into the laneway, reminding me yet again to go to the hardware store.

Some days I’m still trying to find my place, to find my home, and she’s right. I work too hard. But this little part of the world is mine. All mine. No one can take this away from me. At least I have the calm of the beach to retreat to when work gets too much.

I add some fresh beans to the bean hopper and wipe up the spilt milk on the counter. A firm knock on the timber surface startles me, bringing my eyes upward.

“Good brew. I’ll be back,” Mr Brown-Eyes promises, leaving me open-mouthed.

He smirks, and then turns. I watch him with interest as he takes long strides out of my café. “Great,” I say to myself, because I couldn’t spit out that measly syllable to his beautiful face.

I wonder if he’ll be at the beach again today.

****

Positioning my sand chair in the same spot as yesterday, I have a feeling that calm will elude me.

Am I being fair to myself? Am I only here again today because of the half-naked god I saw here yesterday, who happens to be one and the same as Mr Brown-Eyes?

It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. I really thought with each passing month this stuff would get easier, but I guess I’ve never been lucky. Time better hurry up and change that.

With a huff, I pull the latest edition of
Organic Gardener
from my beach bag and tilt my sun hat to shade the pages. I read all about what I
should
be planting, and silently apologise to my neglected garden. It could be so much more, if only I had the time. There are a few standout recipes, and I make a promise to myself to find some time to do some cooking and take it over to Gabs’ place. She’s my harshest critic, but she’s got an eye for business. Our busy little café wouldn’t be where it is without her.

I turn my attention to the waves crashing to shore, and take in a lung-full of salty air. Wriggling my toes in the warm sand, I shift focus to the occasional passer-by and the young schoolboys out on their boards. When I come across a couple with two young girls making sandcastles, I can’t look away from the mother.
Maybe one day that could be me.
With any luck, my one and only ovary will come to the baby-making party. When I find someone to have said party with, that is.

My trance is quickly broken as his blue and green board-shorts come into view, about fifty metres down the beach. As he jogs towards me, I’m captivated by the strong lines of his chest and torso as they move in harmony with each step.
Sweet cupcakes
.

Is it possible he looks better than yesterday?

I slouch in my beach chair, tip my hat and draw my magazine closer. Now, I’m all too aware that being in just a bikini, I probably look just like a pair of bare legs sticking out of the sand. That may draw more attention to me than I want.

Through what little gap is left in my line of vision, he dumps his towel, thankfully, about twenty metres away.

Phew
. I remind myself to breathe, and exhale until my lungs are empty.

Like yesterday, I watch him.
Stalker.
I’m magnetised to—as Gabs would put it—the hunkiest piece of man meat on my beach.

As he strides towards the water, two attractive women, scantily-clad in bikinis, approach him. They laugh and smile, as they no doubt introduce themselves. He shakes their hands, but doesn’t entertain them in conversation for long, stepping around them and into the water. The women continue their journey down the beach. I can’t say I’m not pleased
.

The Adonis dives under the first set of waves and swims out farther. He stands and twists his body to face the shore. Water laps at his narrow waist as he runs his hands through his unkempt sandy locks. Beads of water cascade from his broad shoulders and down over the toned ripples of his stomach. As I study the muscular curves on his hips, I swallow down. Then he’s gone, all too soon, swimming out deeper, giving me a perfect view of the lines of his back, and that firm rounded behind.

Sigh
.

Yes. He’s definitely improved since yesterday.

I fan myself with my magazine, too flustered now to read. I think it’s time to head home for a cold shower. If that doesn’t work, I hope I’ve got some extra batteries stashed somewhere.
 

CHAPTER THREE

RYAN

“Mick Gallagher. Good to meet you,” the scruffy guy with dark brown hair and a goatie says as we firmly shake hands. He looks to be around forty, probably works out, but he appears to be a bit of a bum; his faded blue T-shirt is frayed on the edges and his black-and-white footy shorts have seen better days. He’s wearing an old worn pair of thongs, and his skin is several shades more tanned than mine. With sunny days like these, it won’t be long before I catch up to him.

“Ryan Palmer. Good to be here, man. Come on through.”

Mick follows me through to the kitchen area, and we sit down at the dining table. Mick slaps a heavy orange envelope down on the timber top and sits a small black backpack on a vacant chair.

He opens the envelope and splays a series of photos across the table. He doesn’t waste any time getting down to business.

“Okay, here are a few recent shots of our POIs. These guys spend a lot of time down at the docks. This one here, Perez,” he says, pointing to a picture of an overweight man with olive skin and slicked back dark hair, “we’re still trying to get more intel on. Just hasn’t been easy, as we think he’s here illegally. We suspect he has ties with a branch of the Gulf Cartel. We don’t want Immigration to get involved until we find out more, but he could be the connection we’ve been waiting for.”