Janie Crouch - Battle Tested

“The lady doesn’t want to dance,” Steve said again.

The local guy and his buddy released the woman, murmuring apologies. Steve stepped back relieved he wasn’t going to have to make some show of strength. He could’ve. Could’ve had both men unconscious on the ground before they were even aware what sort of trouble they were facing. But the guys hadn’t meant any harm.

Steve nodded at the woman as the locals walked away. He didn’t step any closer or try to talk to her. His flirting skills were rusty at best and this lady obviously wasn’t here to scope out men. Steve turned to make his way back to his seat only to find someone had already taken his place.

Looked like it was time to go.

That was fine. It wasn’t like Steve had any grand plans for his evening here in the tiki bar. He began walking toward the door.

“Thank you.”

He heard her soft voice as the black-haired beauty’s hand touched his arm. Steve stopped and turned toward her.

He smiled. It felt a little unpracticed. “I don’t think they meant any harm, but it was no problem.”

“There was a time I would’ve let them both have it, but I just don’t seem to have it in me lately.” She looked a little surprised that she was even talking to him.

She was skittish, scared. She’d been that way since the moment she’d walked in. It made him want to wrap an arm around her, pull her close and tell her to take a breath. He’d protect her from whatever demons she was trying to fight.

It surprised him a little that he felt that way. His entire life had been spent helping people, first as an FBI agent, then as he was recruited into Omega Sector. But usually he was more at a distance, less personal.

He already felt personal with this woman and he didn’t even know her name.

“I’m sure you could’ve handled them. I just was doing my fatherly duty.”

She snorted and humor lit her blue eyes. “Father, my ass. You’re what? Thirty-nine? Forty?”

“Forty-one.”

“Oh. Well, he should’ve said grandfather, then.”

Her smile was breathtaking. Steve couldn’t stop himself from taking a step toward her. “I’m Steve Drackett.”

She shook his outstretched hand. He knew the thought that a flash of heat hit them both as their skin touched was both melodramatic and sentimental. Steve was neither of those things.

But he still felt the heat.

“I’m Rosalyn.”

No last name. He didn’t press. It was just another sign she was trouble, but Steve somehow couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Can an old man buy you a drink or something?”

She studied him hard as they finally released hands. They were halfway between the bar and the door. He honestly wasn’t sure which way she’d choose. To stay with him or to leave.

She ended up choosing both.

“May I ask you something?” She slid her tote more fully onto her shoulder. She had to step a little closer so they could hear each other over the noise in the bar. He found himself thankful for the chaos around them.

“Sure.”

“Are you some sort of psycho? A killer or deranged stalker or both?”

She asked the question so seriously Steve couldn’t help but laugh. “Nope. Scout’s honor.” He held up his hand in what he was sure was an incorrect Scout salute. “I’m an upstanding member of society. Although you know if I was a crazy killer, I probably wouldn’t answer that question honestly.”

She shrugged, her eyes back to being haunted. “I know. I guess I just wanted you to tell me so I could see if I would believe you.”

“Do you?”

She smiled so sadly it damn near broke his heart. “I think so. Or maybe I just don’t care anymore. And to answer your question, yes, you can buy me a drink. But let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Three

Rosalyn knew her actions bordered on reckless. Even if she hadn’t known she had a deranged stalker following her every move, leaving a bar with a man she’d just met would still have been pretty stupid.

He’d laughed—in a kind way, but still obviously thinking she was joking—when she’d asked if he was a killer or crazy. But like he’d said, no true villain would give her an honest answer about that.

Actually, she believed the Watcher would. If she ever met him face-to-face and asked him outright if he was her stalker, she believed he might actually tell her.

Steve Drackett wasn’t the Watcher. He might be an ordinary garden-variety psycho, but he wasn’t the psycho she was desperately attempting to escape right now.

And in that case, she was willing to take her chances with him.

She looked up at him as he led her to the door. He had joked about being a grandpa but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. His brown hair might be graying just the slightest bit at the temples, but that was the only sign whatsoever that he wasn’t a man fifteen years younger. His green eyes seemed kind, at least to her, but the rest of his face was hard and unforgiving. Stark cheekbones, strong chin. Definitely not a pretty face but very much a handsome one.

His body was well honed—the black T-shirt Steve wore left no doubt he was in excellent physical shape. His khaki shorts were quite appropriate for a bar in Florida on a May evening, but she doubted it was what he normally wore. She was positive the flip-flops weren’t.

“If you’re not a psychopath, what do you do, Steve?” she asked as they walked out the door. Humid air from the coast blasted them. The storm had moved out to sea, but dampness still hovered everywhere, a sure sign another storm would be coming.

“Present occupation is beach bum. I’m here on vacation from Colorado.”

They walked down the steps. “Mountains. Nice. I’ve never been there. Are you a bum there, too?”

He hesitated slightly before he smiled. “Worse. Management.”

He didn’t want to tell her what he did for a living. Okay, fair enough. She hadn’t told him her last name.

Of course, she was doing it for his own safety.

“Are you from around here?” Steve asked. “Do you have a bar you’d suggest?”

She didn’t want to go to a bar. Not somewhere the Watcher could hear them, see them.

“How about a six-pack and walk on the beach?”

He smiled down at her. “That might break some open-beverage-container laws, but I’m willing to risk it.”

Rosalyn didn’t know exactly what she’d been expecting when she’d left the bar with Steve, but the next few hours were not it.

They bought their beers and sat alone, where no one—not even the Watcher—could possibly hear them.

And they talked. About everything and nothing.

He told her about his wife—his high school sweetheart—who had died in a car accident twelve years ago. About places he’d traveled. Even a little bit about his job, that he was a manager in some sort of division office and how he sometimes felt more like he was babysitting than anything else.

Rosalyn was vague without being dishonest. She told him she had a mother and sister but wasn’t close to either—an understatement. She told him a little about her college years and her job as an accountant. When he made a joke about the size of her bag, she told him she never went anywhere without it. Told him she was taking some time off, traveling around a little bit, trying to “find herself.”

She somehow managed not to laugh hysterically as she said it.

Steve was a good listener, a friendly talker. He never made a move on her or made her feel uncomfortable. He seemed to be both completely at ease but at the same time completely surprised at their continued, comfortable conversation.

He obviously didn’t spend a lot of time picking up strangers at a bar.

At some point deep in the night—it had to have been nearly four o’clock but Rosalyn wasn’t sure—it began to rain again, gently, but enough that they couldn’t stay here on the beach any longer.