Then again, I wasn't exactly surprised either.
What was surprising, though, was who I came face-to-face with.
And that was the goddamn prettiest woman I'd ever seen. Which was saying something. I'd grown up in fucking Miami. Beautiful women were everywhere, and often wearing very little.
This woman, though?
She was gorgeous enough to wipe the memory of all those others right out of my head.
She was tall and on the thin side, wearing a simple tank top and shorts that put a fair amount of her golden skin on display. She had her medium-brown, curly hair kept just barely brushing her shoulders, framing her softly rounded face with full lips, high cheekbones, and a slight smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, almost as if someone gently flicked a small paintbrush over her skin, giving her a sweet, soft look.
The eyes, though.
Fuck, the eyes.
She had the kind of eyes that looked sleepy. Bedroom eyes, if you will. And in an unusual light hazel color with black circles around them, making them pop all the more.
After the initial shock of her beauty wore off, I could see how it was frayed a bit at the edges. Her eyes were bloodshot with dark smudges underneath like she hadn't slept in days. She was sweaty and trembling at the same time. And she looked, well, seconds away from throwing up, to be honest.
It was enough that I was sure she'd been dosed by someone. Girls didn't act like that randomly for no reason.
If she had been dosed, it explained the doe-eyed look she had on her face.
Or, at least, that was what I thought.
Until her arm moved out from behind her back. And there was a gun in her hand.
I'd faced down a gun more than a handful of times in my life. I'd taken bullets, even.
But no amount of experience took away that initial shock at seeing a gun pointed at you. Especially from someone you least expected to pull one on you.
I figured for a short second that maybe she was tripping, or just so fucked up off of whatever someone dosed her with that she was confused and scared that she was being trapped by a guy she didn't know.
Then, well, then she pulled the trigger, and the bullet lodged right in my arm, bringing with it the somewhat familiar burning, tearing pain that came from bullet wounds.
At least it was just the arm.
That was the first rational thought I had cross my mind after a string of colorful curses at the pain.
Then she squeezed off another bullet, though, and my instincts finally kicked in.
See, on the street, it was unlikely that someone—especially an untrained someone—could actually hit you. It was even less likely that they could hit you more than once. But up close and personal in a small space? I didn't really like my chances there.
She hit the wall a second time, but there were several bullets left in that gun. Eventually, another one would tear into me. And I likely wouldn't be lucky enough to have it be something as innocuous as my arm.
I had to move.
Now, maybe it would seem strange—or outright fucking stupid—to charge someone holding up a loaded weapon. But I liked my chances of taking the gun from her better than turning my back and trying to get away.
So rush her was exactly what I did, reaching out with my bad arm to grab both her hand and the gun, slamming them both back against the wall hard enough that her fingers loosened, allowing me to take control of the gun.
"No!" she shrieked, shoving at my chest. "No no no no," she cried, tears welling in her eyes even as I finally heard footsteps tearing up the steps, making their way through the rooms, trying to find the source of the gunshots.
"The fuck?" Seeley asked, rushing in behind me.
"Gun. Take the gun," I demanded, finding it hard to keep control over that and the flailing woman with only one good arm.
Seeley moved forward, taking the gun.
"You're hit," he said.
"Just the arm," I explained as more footsteps moved into my bedroom behind us.
"He's hit in the arm," Seeley explained.
"By who?" Huck's voice boomed.
Huck had always been a good leader with an appropriate level of protectiveness. But since becoming a husband and father, all of that protectiveness ratcheted up.
"Some chick," Seeley said, voice moving backward.
"Please," the woman pleaded as her fists pounded uselessly against my chest.
"Is she fucked up?" Huck asked from behind my shoulder, looking over at the beautiful, but hysterical, woman I was still half pinning to the wall as she cried.
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"Okay," Huck said. "Clear out anyone who is still here," he called toward the others. "Che, Donovan, take a look to see if anyone suspicious is here or hanging around the street. Maybe she's with someone."