Any Day Now (SWAT Generation 2.0 8)

He followed me, stopping in the dollar section near the front.

“Don’t be too long. Would hate to have to follow you in,” he murmured.

I rolled my eyes and went to the bathroom, and it was upon my exit of the stall that I felt the push to my sternum.

“Listen up, whore,” the woman who’d done the pushing said. “You need to get the fuck out of here.”

See, there was good Amelia that was a wholesome girl and tried to be all that her father wanted her to be.

Then there was Brawler Amelia. The one that had been taught how to defend herself.

The one that really, really didn’t like being touched without permission.

And definitely not by some two-faced skank that likely didn’t wash her fuckin’ hands.

“Listen,” I said, catching myself on the stall door in reaction to her push. “I need to wash my hands. I have toilet juices on it.”

The woman, a girl in her late twenties, early thirties, looked at me with disgust.

“What, you don’t know how to use the bathroom without peeing on yourself?” she said. “That’s just yet another thing that’s wrong with you.”

My lips twitched. “Actually, I do know how to use the shitter without peeing on myself. I touched the door latch, though. And I hover, thank you very much. Oh, and when I flush, I use my foot. But, just sayin’, you see that right there?”

She turned around and looked over her shoulder at the hand dryer.

The one that was supposed to dry your hands after you washed them, but only blew hot shit air on your hands instead.

The moment she was distracted, I pulled back my fist, tucked my thumb underneath my knuckles over my fingers like I’d been told, and launched it straight at her face.

My fist hit her jaw with a satisfying crack, and she crumpled to the ground in a heap.

I stepped over her prone form, washed my hands, and then walked out of the bathroom, drying my hands on Adam’s t-shirt that I still wore. As I did, I might add, I did not touch the handle.

“What’s up?” Adam asked, looking at my hands that were wadded in my shirt.

“They don’t have any towels, and I don’t use hand dryers,” I explained.

One brow quirked as he fell into step with me as we headed toward the cosmetics.

“Why not?” He paused. “I’m honestly kind of afraid to ask.”

I looked at him like the naïve man that he was.

“Those hand dryers in public bathrooms? They’re bacteria bombs,” I said as I nudged him. “All they do is blow air from the bathroom onto your hands to dry them. But, not only are there shit particles floating in the air—which is also why you should never blow your nose with the toilet paper in a public bathroom—but the insides of the dryers are covered in bacteria. It’s warm, moist, and dark. The absolute perfect conditions when it comes to growing bacteria.”

He shook his head. “Blowing shit on my hands. I… I’ve heard it all, I think. I can die today, and all will be right with my world.”

I punched him lightly in the shoulder. “If you die today, where would that leave me?”

He allowed his fingers to curl around my hair, then wrapped the long strands around his fist before tugging me to him lightly.

Then, right there in the middle of Target, he kissed the hell out of me.

I gasped, then moaned as I leaned into the kiss.

In fact, I was so lost in what he was doing to my mouth that the silence around us didn’t register until he’d pulled away and allowed me to breathe.

“I…” he started to say but was interrupted by a much more annoying voice.

One that didn’t sound anywhere near as sweet, sexy, and dark, either.

“You’re following me, aren’t you?”

I blinked in confusion, then looked up and met Rogan Germain’s eyes.

The bodyguards that’d accompanied him last week plus a new one were back, all of them surrounding him in a loose triangle.

I looked at my cart full of stuff, then at him where he was coming in through the front entrance.

“Yes,” I said. “I came all the way in here, grabbed some stuff, put it into a cart, then went and found where you were, waited for you to walk in, somehow slipped in without you noticing and grabbed my cart all the while so I could wait for you here.”

Rogan narrowed his eyes, and one of the bodyguards stepped forward.

Hilton Barnes. The one that I’d hurt.

The fucker deserved it, though.

“I’ll be seeing you,” I said, turning away and continuing on with Adam. “I need mascara, shampoo and conditioner, toothpaste…”

“Don’t walk away from me,” Rogan ordered.

I ignored him and tried to continue my discussion with Adam.

But Adam was pissed as hell, and I could see that he wouldn’t be allowing me to act like nothing was wrong or about to go wrong.