Chapter 1

"All right. It's time to go, boys," my voice booms through the bar.

I shut off the music to a chorus of moans and groans from the half dozen barflies who've been hanging on, not wanting to go home to who and what is or isn't waiting for them back home. I understand the sentiment. Nothing and nobody is waiting upstairs for me, either. Even still, it's after midnight, which means it's closing time.

"Let's go, fellas," I call. "I love y'all, but drain those glasses and get the fuck out. It's been a long day and I'm tired. Let's go."

"Come on, Cash. One more round, huh?" a salty old Navy man named George complains.

"Sorry, Georgie," I say. "You know the drill. It's the same as it is every night."

I clap my hands to emphasize my point, earning me more grumbles and a few middle fingers to go along with them. It's the same routine I go through every night with usually the same group of guys. They've been my regulars for years now. Some of them were regulars back when my father owned the place. They're a good group of guys and I enjoy hanging out and having a few drinks with them. I like swapping war stories. Some of these guys have seen shit I can't even imagine. It's why a lot of them come to the DMZ—to try to wash away those memories that continue to haunt them beneath a tide of beer and bourbon.

My old man opened this joint after he came back from the Iraqi desert in what seems like another lifetime. He died a few years back. When I was running missions in some of the same deserts in the Middle East he did his tours in. He built the DMZ as a place where veterans could gather and have a drink while sharing their experiences. Most people don't understand the things we've seen and done in the defense of our nation. Most don't want to understand. So, my old man built this place as a way to give combat vets something we don't really have: a community.

My dad willed the place to me after he died, and I wanted to honor his legacy as well as the sacrifices made by the men and women who fill this place night after night by keeping it open. By building on it, growing the community for vets, and giving them all a safe place to come and be with those who can relate to their life experiences. Personally, I think it's every bit as beneficial as some of the group therapy sessions down at the VA that I've been to.

The guys all finished their drinks and got to their feet, bidding me goodnight as they shuffled toward the door.

"Goodnight guys," I say as I clap George on the back. "Get home safe."

"Sure you can't stay open for one more beer?" he asks hopefully.

I laugh. "See you tomorrow, Georgie."

"Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow," he replies with a grin.

I close and lock the door behind them, then pull all the shades down. That done, I turn and walk back behind the bar. Turning on the music again, I sing along with Rob Zombie as I grab a plastic tub and move around the bar, picking up all the glasses that have been left behind and putting them in the tub. Once I have them all picked up, I begin spraying the tables with a disinfectant cleaner and wipe them down. After that, I grab the broom and sweep the floor. I take pride in my place and believe in keeping it clean. That's something my old man taught me as well.

I'm just about to take the tub back into the kitchen to wash the glasses when a frantic pounding sounds at the front door. A frown touching my lips, I set the tub down, grab my 9mm Glock from behind the bar, and walk over to the door. With my weapon at my side, I unlock the door, pull it open, and pause. My heart stutters in my chest and my mouth falls open when I see a young redheaded girl standing on my doorstep. Thunder rumbles overhead and a flash of lightning briefly illuminates the world beyond her.

Her hair is wet and clings to her face as she looks at me with eyes that sparkle like emeralds. The girl's complexion is pale, but bright red and splotchy, and her eyes shimmer, tears blending with the raindrops that run down her smooth cheeks.

"Please," she says, her voice quavering. "I need help."

I look at the street behind her, expecting to see somebody chasing her. The street is empty, though. Stepping out of the doorway, I stand under the awning over the door, cutting my eyes to my left and right, but still don't see anybody out there. Whoever spooked her isn't out there now, but she's soaked through, shivering from fear and the cold, and remains absolutely terrified.

"Please," she says again.

"Come in, come in," I reply.

Ushering her into the bar, I close the door behind us and lock it up tight. Pulling the shade aside, I take one more peek out at the street but still see nobody out there. The girl, her arms wrapped around her chest tightly, shivers and drips on the floor, her entire body trembling. Even wet and bedraggled as she is, the girl is staggeringly beautiful. Her clothing is soaked and clings to the gentle swell and curves of a body that's young but entirely feminine. My stomach lurches, and my groin tightens as I stare at her.

Giving myself a small shake, I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair as I take a beat to gather myself. Her eyes are wide, her lower lip trembles, and she looks like a frightened deer on the verge of bolting.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Cassie," she replies, her voice a shaky whisper. "Cassie Robb."

"I'm Cash. What's going on? Is somebody chasing you?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know. I just ran. I saw the lights on in your bar and didn't know where else to go. I'm sorry, I just?—"

"It's all right. But you're soaked. We need to get you some dry clothes and probably some hot coffee so you don't get hypothermic."

Her voice carries a soft and sweet accent that I find sexy as hell. If I had to guess, I'd say she's from Georgia. A guy in my unit back in the day had an accent that sounded a lot like hers. It just sounded a hell of a lot less sexy coming out of his mouth than it does coming out of hers. Cassie looks around the place with a skeptical expression on her face. It's as if she's only just now realizing she stumbled into a bar.

"I own the building. There's an apartment on the second floor," I tell her.

"Oh."

"Come on," I say. "Let's go upstairs. We'll get you dry and warm and maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on."

She nods. After dropping the tub in the kitchen, figuring I'll wash the glasses tomorrow, I shut off the lights and lead the girl upstairs. When I pass by her, I get a whiff of the citrus in her hair and the light floral scent of her perfume and close my eyes, savoring her aroma. It's heady. She's about a foot shorter than my six-three frame and tiny. Pixie-like. Cassie is small and delicate and the innocence I see in her eyes stirs something deep and primal within me.

The urge to tear her wet clothes off and have my way with her is powerful and unlike anything I've ever felt before. I don't know how to explain it. Hell, I don't even fucking understand it myself. But this girl is triggering something inside of me that's raw. Something that's consuming, and it's all I can do to keep my hands to myself. We get to the top of the stairs, and I open the door, letting her go in ahead of me.

Gritting my teeth and trying to stuff down those primal urges, I close and lock the door before I walk into my bedroom and grab some sweatpants, a t-shirt, socks, and a towel, then step back out into the living room. She's standing in the middle of the room, her arms still wrapped around her midsection. Though she seems less frightened, she's still wary. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape route. It's as if she knows she jumped out of the fire but doesn't know if she's landed in the frying pan just yet.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice trembling. "I should probably go."

"You're going to catch your death out there. It's pouring." I set the bundle of clothes on top of the towel down on the coffee table in front of her. "The shower is through that door. Go take a hot shower. These clothes might not fit very well, but they'll do until I can get your clothes dry."

She gnaws on her bottom lip, her emerald eyes searching my face. I can see her taking my measure. See her trying to decide whether she can trust me or not. I must pass whatever test she has in her mind because she gives me a nod as she picks up the clothes and towel, doing her best to keep from dripping all over them.

"Thank you," she says.

"I'll put on a pot of coffee while you clean yourself up. And leave your clothes outside the bathroom door. I'll pop them in the dryer."

"I appreciate your help. You don't have to do this."

"I'm not going to turn my back on somebody who needs help."

Her full, heart-shaped lips curl upward in a gentle smile that takes my breath away as she turns and walks into my bedroom. I've got two showers in the apartment, but the one in my room gets hotter and has better water pressure. I figure that one will be better for her. As I put a pot of coffee on, I hear the bathroom door open and then close, so I walk into the bedroom, scoop up the bundle of wet clothing, and carry it into the small laundry room set off in the kitchen.

Opening up the washing machine, I toss her jeans and socks in, then her long-sleeved red t-shirt and black hoodie, socks, and bra. I find myself holding her panties. They're simple cotton and pink with red balloons on them. They're adorable and only add to that air of innocence the girl has about her that sets me on fire. My head is swimming as I stare at the pair of panties in my hand, and before I even think about it, I find myself raising them to my nose and inhaling the sweet, light scent of her musk. A low groan passes my lips as my cock thickens in my jeans.

I hear the shower turn off, so I drop the panties into the washer, throw in some detergent and fabric softener, and then start the load as I fight off my raging hard-on. A few minutes go by, and when she still hasn't come out to the living room, I poke my head into the bedroom. Cassie is so small and delicate that when dressed in my clothes, she looks like a child playing dress up. But she's stretched out on my bed, fast asleep, the ordeal of her evening having taken its toll.

I stand and watch her sleep for a few moments, watching the rise and fall of her chest and the sound of her deep, even breaths. Her rich, red hair is splayed out like a fan under her head. She looks so peaceful. Her face is smooth and untroubled—the complete opposite of the harried and bedraggled girl who stumbled into the bar.

A small smile on my lips, I close the door and let her sleep.