Apache Nights

Her biological clock wouldn’t quit ticking.

“We’re in trouble,” he said.

Joyce didn’t argue. She looked into his eyes, knowing he was going to kiss her.

As softly as they both could endure.

Three

Kyle studied Joyce’s expression. She was waiting for his lips to touch hers, for the confusing tenderness they both craved.

He smoothed a strand of her hair. She looked delicate, vulnerable, so unlike the tough-girl cop he knew her to be.

His willpower sucked, he thought, as he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Their mouths met, and the flavor swirled in his mind. He tasted lipstick and spearmint, a combination that made his head spin.

She ran her hands along his spine. A touch so light, so tentative, he barely knew it was happening. Wanting more, he used his tongue, taking the kiss to the next level.

She reciprocated, making pleasured sounds. Then she lifted the hem of his tank top and rolled it up a little, just enough to create a shiver.

Fingertips and bare flesh.

He wanted to lift her shirt, too.

Anxious, he positioned himself between her legs, then cursed the metal cup he was wearing, the barrier that kept him from straddling her, from rubbing his body against hers.

He pulled back and opened his eyes.

Silent, she gazed at him, as well.

There she was, all soft and blonde, with her bra still undone and her top slightly skewed. Earlier, he’d tried to fix her clothes and now he wanted to peel them right off. Along with his tank, his sweatpants and the jockstrap that had brought him to his senses.

“You don’t have to stop,” she said.

“Yes, I do.”

“It was just a kiss.”

“It was more than that.” It was foreplay, he thought. An explosion just waiting to happen. “I don’t do this kind of thing. Not with—” He stalled and got to his feet.

“Not with what?” She sat up and struggled to hook her bra. But she was careful not to lift her top, at least not in front.

Kyle thought her cautious manner made her seem vulnerable again.

“Not with what?” she repeated, frowning at him. She still hadn’t fastened her bra.

“With women like you,” he admitted. “I don’t get involved with white women.”

Her jaw all but dropped. “That’s what this is about? My race? The color of my skin?”

He didn’t know how to respond, how to explain why it mattered. She was looking at him as if he were some sort of monster. “I’ve never been drawn to white women. You’re the first one I’ve ever kissed. Or ever wanted to sleep with.”

She ignored her bra and stood up. When she did, the straps peeked out from under her top, falling down her shoulders, the way they’d done earlier. “And that’s why you hate being attracted to me? Do you know how offensive that is?”

“It doesn’t help that you’re a cop.”

“Screw you, Kyle. On both counts.”

He wanted to move closer, to touch her, to stop her from being so angry, but he kept his hands to himself. “You’re making a bigger deal out of this than it is.”

“Am I?” She rounded on him. “You’re part white. So what does that say about you?”

He wasn’t about to answer her question. He didn’t want to discuss his childhood with her. Or his adulthood, for that matter. Being a half-blood wasn’t easy, not then and not now. “Drop it, Joyce. Let it go.”

“Why? Because you don’t want to admit that you’re a bigot? Do you know how many hate crimes are committed in this country? People bashing other people because—”

“I’m not committing a hate crime. I’m not hurting anyone.” As soon as those words spilled out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. He’d just hurt her. He could see it in her eyes.

Blue eyes. White eyes, as his ancestors used to say.

“Why do you hate being attracted to me?” he asked, turning the tables on her.

“Not because you’re Apache. I don’t let someone’s race get in the way.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the way you make me feel. All hot and jumbled. Not like myself.”

“You do that to me, too.”

“I know.” She grabbed her gym bag. “But I’m not interested in training with you anymore.”

“So that’s it? We’re done?” He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. The thought of losing her clenched his gut. He didn’t want her to disappear.

Yet when she left, when she walked away, he let her go, unable to admit that the choice he’d made was based on prejudice.

At 9:00 p.m. Kyle walked through the courtyard of Joyce’s apartment building. She lived in a large complex, with flourishing flower beds, lush greenbelts and winding hardscape.

He approached the sidewalk that led to her stairwell and frowned at the path in front of him. He’d called Olivia and asked her for Joyce’s address, and now he was taking reluctant steps to her door.

He’d never apologized to a woman before and the notion of saying “I’m sorry” was making him squeamish. He’d rather be tortured, stretched on a medieval rack with metal thumbscrews on his hands and an iron mask on his face.

Then what was he doing here?

He ignored the question and started up the stairs. Her unit, D-2, was on the right. On the left was D-4. Both doors displayed Halloween decorations. Joyce had chosen a glow-in-the-dark skeleton, a friendly looking fellow who mocked him with a toothy grin.

He knocked on D-2 and waited for her to answer. She didn’t respond. So he knocked again, harder this time. He knew she was home. He’d seen her car in the parking structure and if he listened close enough, he could hear strains of one of those crime scene investigation shows on her TV.