You, Barney, are struck dumb by the quintessential American clothes the raspy-voiced woman at the biker store picked for me. I decide that I like them for that, and because I can trick myself into feeling pretty wearing them. Pretty enough for you to want me? I am not entirely sure I should be trying, or that I want to attract your male eye. Should I? Should I not?

Yet, when Christmas is done inviting us out with the team and I'm hugging you from behind, racing down the road, it hits me. I realize that I'm reveling in the feel of your chest muscles under my interlaced hands, your ribs against the insides of my arms, your strapping back against my cheek and body, your hips nestled against my inner thighs.

I feel a surge of desire that I did not know I could conjure anymore, and it surprises me. It is the first time I have felt stirrings since the horrors of Nepal.

I am thrown off by the realization that I want you. Flying down the asphalt, my mind tries to imagine what your body would feel like, skin to skin, against mine.

I am not beyond trying to guess the future: what if we were to fall in love? What if we were to be sexual? Would I be able to handle it, a man inside of me, touching me, claiming me again? Would those awful memories, so carefully packed away, rattle loose and ruin any chance we had?

I hope not. Because if I am honest, I sense our path will take us down those roads sooner than I ever thought possible.

You pick a senseless fight that allows us both to blow off some steam. I am frustrated that I cannot look at you without feeling tense, the lingering effects of the day before's motorcycle ride, and take the opportunity to throw a few volleys of my own.

I don't know what's irking you, and I cannot summon care. You, quite frankly, piss me off beyond words when you insinuate that I am attracted to Christmas.

Then I realize in a moment of stunning clarity you are simply jealous, and I start to laugh. You join in, and the fight passes.

As we set up the range for my first lesson in shooting, you feel the urge to confirm that I want to stay with you.

I scoff at the absurdity of the doubt you exhibit. So I tell you with brutal honesty how I feel. You take it so well, I expect that you were thinking exactly the same as me.

I like guns. I like guns a lot.

You are a patient teacher, and when you correct my stance and your body heat teases my skin, I find it hard to keep my focus. Somehow, despite my mind's wanderings, I manage to drill the stances, holds, postitions and transitions to your satisfaction. That, I consider a minor miracle. If you knew how distracted I was throughout the entire lesson, you would never have let me hold a gun in the first place.

The next day, I nearly blow your foot off with my first time handling live ammunition.

You explode, and I'm too embarassed to let you ream me without defending myself.

When you tersely ask, I leave you alone, and stalk off to find someplace small, quiet, and as gloomy as my thoughts.

I settle on the cockpit of the Santa plane, because it is the last place you will look, and finally hang my head to cry. I know I messed up. I feel awful I could have hurt you. But did you have to get so angry? Hot tears spill down my cheeks as disappointment wells up inside me.

I thought I had found something I could excell at. Something that would connect us more deeply than the tragedy you are helping me recover from. I wanted there to be something to bind us together other than my hurt.

You find me, and apologize for being so harsh. I can tell you mean it, but I am still sad I lost an opportunity to be your equal at something, to earn your resoect on another level.

When you gather me in your arms for the first time in many days, I am rocked by it. As my bitter emotions subside, I begin to understand: my pain does not tie us together, though it might have at first. Our growing love does.

We eventually let go of each other physically, but somehow, I feel more connected with you than before.

I am excited to make your friends my friends, and that motivates my boldness. I approach the trio of them at the bar. It is something I would be hard-pressed to belive myself capable of. But then, knowing I am capable of being desirous of a man's body, even after questioning the aftermath my rape left on my body and mind, I feel empowered to test the other things have been holding me back. Maybe I am healing in more ways than what is obvious.

Gunnar is very smart, if slightly unbalanced. You have told me about his previous addictions, but if you were willing to let hiim back onto the team, much less let me be around him, I know I can trust him. I find myself making conversation about topics I cannot carry with you, and it is pleasant to find him knowledgeable. He offers to lend me his previous semesters' text books, and laughs at the unabashed glee I show at the prospect.

Yin Yang still carries the vestiges of cultural differences. I identify easily with him, because we're both judged by our skin, accents, and mannerisms. He is enthused by the topic of martial arts, and we even touch on The Art of War. Completely on his own, he solidly offers to teach me how to fight, but stipulates he needs to get your blessing before he does. We both seem to understand that your protectiveness of me makes it easier to have you involved than not.

Toll Road makes me laugh. His cynical attitude and jokingly victimized manner make him easy to tease, and he teases me back. When he tells me the story of his cauliflower ear, Gunnar and Yang roll their eyes and tune out. That makes me more determined to give Toll Road a fully sympathetic ear. Men simply do not see what I do. If a man is telling the same story over and over, he is trying to garner a certain response that will make him feel better about it. By the time Toll is done telling me, my attentive posture and open expression have gained me a new friend.

Tool is kind, but I sense an empty, painful abcess in him that makes me want to hug him. He strikes me as the type of man who does not let anyone hug him, because he does not believe himself worthy of affection, care, or love. It would make sense, then, why you tell me he goes through so many women so quickly. So I give him the only embrace he will accept: I pursue my interest in his art form, the ink he tattoos into skin. He responds well to the language of love he secretly yearns to hear.

Hale Ceasar is hilarious and a steady sort of soul. Even as the tattoo gun stabs him over and over, he does not flinch. When he explains to me how he stands it, that it lets out the nasty darkness in him like acupuncture, it makes such stunning sense to me that I decide to get my own tattoo, someday. He is even bigger than I remember him being when he lifted me into that boat during my rescue. His muscles are huge! I find myself amazed by them, and the testament to the will of the man who wears them, but they do not hold a candle to the way yours make me feel.

Even with Ceasar bare-chested in front of my eyes, my mind wanders back to you, your body covered in water from the shower, or beaded with sweat from exercise, traceable veins and lumps and ropes that draw my eye, and beg for my fingers.

As an experiment, I look at each of the men in turn: Christmas, with his beautiful voice; Gunnar, with his incredible smarts; Yin Yang, with his exotic flair; Toll Road, with his wit; Hale Ceasar, with his impressive physique; Tool, with his raspy woundedness. All of them fit, wonderful specimens of manliness, skill, and experience.

None of them elicit a response from my loins. Not the slightest stirring. And I know in my heart, it is because they are not like you, Barney.

They are not you, at all, so strong and such a powerful leader, so gifted with weapons and experience, so lonely, so aching.

You go outside with Christmas, and I know it is to sort out some of the problems inside of you. I smile faintly, and try an American beer. I hope that Christmas steers you right.

As we are all leaving for home, I make a rash decision that I decide not to regret. I motion Tool down, so that I can whisper in his ear.

"Tool, I need a favor from you."

He nods, both of us feeling your eyes on us like darts.

"When the time comes, and Barney and I find each other, I want to get a tattoo."

"You think so?" he says, leaning back.

I nod. "Not yet, though. Later."

"Later," he agrees. "When the time's right." He is grinning when I walk away, partially because he has been suspicious of Barney and I, and partially because he is excited by the prospect of creating. He really is an artist.

Barney, present:

Trench's visit slowly ebbs away, and our day continues to roll.

Sitting on the couch, I call the single number on the phone Trench gave me, and a man with a Russian accent picks up. "Hoo is zis?"

"Barney Ross," I reply in a business-like tone. "Trench Mauser, our mutual acquiantance, asked me to contact you about the job he can't finish."

"My name iz Dimitri Kresh," says the man, equally professional. "Yes, Mauser was quite a deesappointment. I am eh man of high standing and good money. I expect exceptionality from ze people I employ, and Mauser fayled to provide that. So I cut heem loose." Kresh strikes me as the type who deals with my kind regularly, and he seems to know the rules. How refreshing.

"I see. What's the nature of the job, Mr. Kresh?"

"My only daughter iz a journalist on assignment in ze Himilayas. She iz in contact with several rebel groups from ze surrounding countries that use ze mountains as hiding places and staging areas for raids for zeir myriad causes. She iz intent on telling their story." I sense the disapproval in his tone, even though he is pro enough not to unload it on me. "I need her protected at all costs, including ze high costs of hiring the best mercenary team on ze planet to accompany her. Zat was Mauser. Or, so I t'ought."

"I see," I repeat. It gives me a certain youthful glow to know that my team will succeed where Trench failed. "Can you send me more detailed information?"

"Of course."

"I will text you my email address. It's completely secure, as is the number it comes from. Now, I am under the impression you already paid Mauser, and that he's the one paying me and my team, if we accept this job, right?" If Mr. Kresh can intimidate Mauser, I know he's powerful. If my team and I can pull this off, we can usurp Mauser permanently for top dog.

"Correct," replies the Russian with an edge of displeasure. "What met'ods I use to encourage him to pay are mine alone to know, but trust me, he will give you your money. Are you going to ach-cept, or not?" he asks factually.

"It depends on what my men say," I reply, tapping out the text on my personal number. I prefer to have all my information coming and going from one device, which I know to be safe. It's easier to keep track of, as well.

The Russian scoffs a bit. "You Americans and your democracy." It almost sounds like he's joking with me.

I surprise myself by being culturally sensitive to the obviously born and raised socialist, even though I want to tell him that America's not the socio-economically depressed country in this equation. "Yeah, we're an odd bunch. You should be getting the number now."

"And you can expect a dossier to take to your team wizeen three hours, Mr. Ross. It was a pleasure talking business with you."

I hang up, and look over the top of the couch at you when I hear your rhythmic huffing. The sight of you, sweaty and intense, brings me out of the concentrated state I get into when dealing with clients. You're incredibly sexy when you're punching things, and it soothes my mind even while it enflames my heart to watch you. You don't pause your half-speed practice rendition of Yang's teachings to look my way. Your stamina has improved: you've been at it for close to two hours, slowly erasing the tense encounter with Trench with the burn of muscles and blood.

I smile, and stare at you unnoticed for probably ten minutes, drinking in your smooth muscles wired with a few prominent veins, staccatto breath, damp hair on your neck, and the lovely way you move. God, the way you move: given an opportunity to watch without worrying about you catching me, I can feel my desire for you growing. Despite all the angst I have about confessing my feelings for you, I need to surrender to them sometimes and just let the emotions run free.

You finish the session with a cleansing breath just like Yang explained to you: reaching up as high as you can, then lowering your palms to hip-level like you're pushing the energy generated back into the energy sea in your stomach. "Who was that?" you ask, brushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear.

I snap out of my trance. "The guy Trench pawned off on us, name of Kresh."

"How is this Kresh taking it?"

"As well as can be expected. He's pissed at Trench, and probably looking for an opportunity to bust a couple of elbows for a job suckily done. That means that Trench is going to pay us without complaining, althoug he's taking a cut off the top to pay for his expenses."

"Won't that make Kresh more angry with Mauser?" you ask, grabbing a water from the fridge. "Beer?"

"Sure."

You grab the drink and plop down next to me on the couch.

"Doubtful that Kresh'll be angry," I reply, the smell of your sweat making me zone out for a moment. God, even your sweat smells like heaven. The bite of the beer cap into my palm helps distract me. "Kresh is a businessman who expects Mauser to cover his costs like plane fuel, guns, time, effort and stuff." I explain the nuts and bolts of the job as I understand them, and you listen intently. Your water is nearly empty by the time I'm done.

"Let me see if I can boil it down," you say, scratching your head. "Mauser takes Kresh's money for a job, and fails. Mauser tells him to find someone who can pick up where he left off, and makes him pay for it using the money Kresh gave him because Mauser did not use all of it in his attempt. This leaves Mauser room to cover his expenses, Kresh with a viable alternative for his needs, and Mauser with a suitable hit to his pride that Kresh feels no need to punish him for failure."

"Pretty much," I say, finishing my beer.

"Is failure at jobs common for mercenaries, Barney?"

"No. Very rare."

"Then why did Mauser, your biggest rival, run into problems so severe he had to quit?"

There's something I haven't considered yet: what was so hard about protecting one woman that Trench threw in the towel? "I don't know," I admit. "But we're the better team, you can bet your ass. We'll do it, and do it right."

You grin at my boasting. "No doubt." You sip the water and frown, propping your elbow on the back of the couch and cradling your head in your palm. "It is so complicated," you marvel. "How do you do it, Barney?"

I shrug, trying not to focus on the sound of my name on your lips. "It's how I make my money, honey."

The sentiment makes you smile. We're quiet long enough for some worry to seep in. "How long do you think you'll be gone?" you ask quietly.

"I'll have the answer to that by tonight, when I meet with the team and discuss it. I want you there to hear everything, so you know what's going on."

You look at me gratefully. "I would like that."

I call the guys and arrange for them all to meet at the hangar after dark to discuss Trench's offer. There are grumbles from Gunnar, who is trying to study for midterms, and Christmas, who sounds pleasantly occupied with Lacy if his tone is any indicator, but they all agree.

Only a little later, I get an unexpected phone call on my cell.

I pick up the phone, but the number is all X's across the screen. Indicator number one that this isn't one of my usual callers. Frowning, I answer. "Barney Ross."

"Hello, Ross," says a voice like Satan's doorman. "It's Church. You remember me?"

My fingers tighten on the phone. Church is the CIA scum-in-a-suit that forced us into a job in Albania not too long ago. That job deteriorated into a shitstorm that cost Billy the Kid his life. "Yeah, I remember you," I growl, stepping outside. "Why are you calling me? Wouldn't getting another one of my men killed and pinning a note to his chest do the job?"

He laughs like he's just broken somebody's fingers and liked it. "Sometimes. But you respond well to other methods. Shame I can't make it there to talk in person, Barney, but extenuating circumstances keep us apart."

There's those words again: extenuating circumstances. The connection is small between Church and Trench, but I smell something there..."For the best, really,' I reply, matching his falsely light tone. "I'm still itching to turn you into a cheese grater."

"Temper, Barney," he says, smooth as poison. "Is that any way to talk to an old friend with a propostion?"

"You are not my friend," I reply coldly. "What sort of proposition?" I continue cautiously. "Must be good, if you're calling me and not shooting an arrow scroll into my ass."

"You always were a creative sado-masochist, Barney, I'll hand you that," he chuckles. "It's what makes you one of the best."

"You didn't call me to complement my skills," I remind him testily.

"No. I called to offer you a job."

"Like you offered the last one?" I sneer. That bowie knife disappearing into Billy's chest flashes through my mind.

"If it were up to me, yes. However, that's not the case."

So even Church answers to someone? Nice to know...

"I know Trench Mauser has offered you a job he can't complete," continues Church.

Shit, he's smart. And way too well-informed for my liking. "That he has," I confirm. "I plan on accepting it, if my crew does."

"I want you to take my job, instead."

I'm getting confused now. "Why do you want me to take your job instead of Trench's?"

"I'm sending you an email now. Open it," says the CIA operative.

I have no choice but to walk back into the living space and grab my laptop. You're still in the shower, faintly humming some Bon Jovi song. I open the computer, warm boot it, and open the email.

"Reading yet? Or do you need me to sound out the words?"

"Bite me, Church," I reply absently. As I read through the details of the job, I can't give him a proper insult. I scroll and read, scroll and read. "Church, this is the exact opposite of what Trench has recruited me for. You want me to kill Miss Kresh."

"Yes. So, you see my predicament."

I'm seriously stumped. "I see it. Tell me why I should care?"

"I'll pay you whatever Trench is offering, and a hundred-thousand per Chip 'n' Dale besides."

I'm silent, mulling it over, trying to find a way out of this that will be best for me and my team.

"Ross? I'm waiting."

"You can keep waiting," I snap. "A hundred-thousand more isn't going to make me terminate a job that's practically closed. You're too late to the party."

"Barney," Church says patronizingly. "Need I remind you, you're a mercenary. You are in it for money. I'm offering you more than Trench, with basically the same job parameters, and less effort."

"It doesn't matter," I respond angrily, leaning forward on the couch. "I will not work for you, forced or otherwise, ever again."

"Is that so?" he asks silkily.

"Yeah, you sack of murdering shit. No more. I'm done."

Suddenly, you appear at the head of the hall, wrapped in a towel, dripping on the cement floor. "Barney, is there any more soap in storage?" Then, you notice me on the phone. Your eyes widen at the sudden look of horror I show, and you clap your hands over your mouth.

My face has gone pale. My ears are waiting for Church's response, because he obviously heard you.

"Now," he starts, soft as falling snow. "Who might that be, Barney?"

"None of your business," I snarl. Oh, fuck, this is bad.

"You take care now, Barney. You and your girlfriend." The line goes dead.

I drop the phone onto my lap, eyes fixed and body slack.

"Barney," you ask quietly, terrified because I've never been so affected in your presence. "Who was that?"

"That was a man named Church," I reply hoarsely. "I just burned a bridge with him. And now he knows I have a weakness."