Copyright © 2009
All rights reserved, The Wild Rose Press
Cochise wasn't going to play along. Hot Chick attempted to get into his head with his last given name. Wasn't it enough she already crawled under his skin like she owned him? He guzzled the lemon-lime soda and stared at the bookcases built around the doorway. “I asked you to call me Cochise.” That's who he was, just a reflection of pale-ass stupidity.
No one had the decency to bother to ask him who his people were. Who he was. Cochise, a name somebody recalled from old movies, was the first thing Private Brown called him when he joined the Army. What made it worse was the fact the government gave those pale-ass morons weapons. Luckily, the Delta Force went on a recruiting binge. He got to keep his braids.
“I don't like it when you hide inside yourself,” she whispered.
Famous last words of every pale dolt who wanted to befriend him. The only ones worth keeping around were those who could snap a man's neck effortlessly. He shot her a glare. “Who gave you clearance to dig through top-secret files?”
She touched his cheek with a searing fingertip, trailing her finger along his stubbled chin. His heart stopped cold.
“I thought you did,” she touched his taught lips with the lightest touch, “when you pressed your lips against mine.”