Red suds soaked into the towel and pink water pooled at her feet as he clipped her clean hair on top of her head. When she picked up another jug and handed it to him, letting the drenched towel fall to the ground, Marc spun around and began mentally reciting the phonic alphabet. Alfa. Bravo. Charlie. Delta. Echo.
"Rinse, please," she instructed, tone emotionless - shock settling in, he thought, not looking at her. Foxtrot. Golf. Hotel. India. Juliet. Damn! He poured the cold water over her head, her gasp pulling at his male side, and he recited faster in his head. Kilo. Lima. Mike. November. Oscar. Papa. Quebec. Romeo.
Marc saw her sexy outline under the water from the corner of his eye, pert nipples and creamy, water-flecked skin, and then he was moving away from her, dropping the empty jug and the distraction attempt. He was ready, though not willing, and there wasn't a worse time for it. She was more off-limits now than she'd ever been before.
Angela smoked, drank, and watched the dark houses roll by, yet her tone wasn't right, and Marc knew her eyes wouldn't be either. Everyone dealt with death in their own way. It was harder for someone who'd sworn an oath to protect life, but she hadn't had a choice, and he hoped she would realize that and not let it eat her up inside. Killing wasn't easy, even for a trained Marine, and he'd help her if he could.
"Thank you for understanding, but I'll be all right. I just need some time."
Marc nodded, thinking even her voice in his head didn't sound right again. "I'm sorry, Angie. I never should have left you alone."
She didn't look at him, didn't want him to see what she'd become, that at the moment of decision, she had chosen to be a killer after all. "It wasn't your fault. You're always telling me to not let my gun get out of reach. I should have listened."
Marc said nothing, thinking that was something she wouldn't forget now.
Angela turned on a Pink Floyd CD and leaned back, exhausted and eager to escape into sleep, but there was only darkness for a brief half hour and none of it was comforting.
"Brady!"
Angela jerked up, eyes flying open and she looked around wildly, fingers dropping to the handle of the deadly gun on her hip.
"It's over, Honey. He's dead."
She frowned, the wild look slowly fading from her bloodshot, blue eyes, and she lit a smoke with shaky hands. "I need to talk it out."