Each month we have a writing prompt for our meetings for the Los Angeles Romance Authors. This month’s prompt is There was once a chance he didn't take... Here’s what I came up with, set in Rory’s world of course. I’m in the process of re-doing the opening chapter (again, lol). Enjoy.
The Girl in the Bank
© 2009 Suzanne Lazear
There was once a chance he didn't take—and that was making stupid mistakes when the matter was life or death.
That’s what caused the death of his dad.
So when Bruce was called onto the scene of a bank robbery—one where a customer had come out of the woodwork, armed, and secured him even before the police arrived—he handled the matter with the utmost delicacy.
After all, a woman, one with the body of a pin-up model, who could single-handedly take down an armed criminal, was not someone to piss off.
Especially when you were positive she wasn’t human.
But what in the world was a Hunter doing on his turf?
Unless she was here for the Great Unveiling—now that would be smart. But neither Mac nor Frank had given him the heads up. And well, the Unveiling was months away. But seriously, someone should know if a Hunter was in town, and why.
“Got paperwork for that gun?” He asked her softly as some other officers took the robber and his cohort away. Normal people did not carry guns in their leather coats while shopping in Seattle. But he wasn’t about to cuff her. Not yet.
The little he knew about Hunters was that they were far from normal and not always entirely sane. Though he’d never heard of a lady Hunter.
Hell, he thought Hunters were fairytales. Now. That the Vampires had killed them all. Not that Hunters only hunted Vampires. But here she was.
Rolling her eyes, she pulled out her Washington DC gun permit and her drivers licenses—motorcycle class, also DC.
“A little far from home?” Bruce tried to smile and put her at ease. A well-trained Hunter could kill him before any of the officers could come to his aid—or he could aid himself.
“I’m crashing here for awhile.” She shifted from foot to foot impatiently, fists clenching and unclenching. The auburn-haired lady with the giant hazel eyes kept looking over her shoulder, and kept a clear view of the exit. Someone didn’t like to be boxed in.
Being a Werewolf, he understood the feeling.
Her vague answer made him arch an eyebrow. She was about six inches shorter than him, muscular, really nice ass, pretty. She held herself like someone who fought the good fight for a living. Alpha females weren’t his type, but he knew plenty who did.
The problem was, with a woman like that, if you pinched her ass, she’d probably kick yours.
“So what were you doing in the bank?”
She shrugged as he handed her info to another officer to check out. “Cashing my paycheck. ATMs hate me.”
“Where do you work?” Perhaps she wasn’t here for the Unveiling. But she should be. When the SuNat races came out of the closet and revealed themselves to the humans in a few months they’d need all the help they could get.
“I’m a porter for the Vashon Family YMCA.” Her eyes cast down when she said that. Her shoulders rounded. The toe of her black heeled boot scuffed there ground. Her job ashamed her.
It also surprised him. He was expecting her to be an off-duty cop, maybe someone from an alphabet agency on vacay. Military even. Something about her screamed law enforcement. Also, she might be in jeans, boots, and a leather duster, but she her clothes were far too nice as was her manicured nails and a fancy haircut to have a job that paid little more that minimum wage.
Vashon was full of Witches.
He had a friend with the Bureau in DC. Last thing they needed was someone from the FBI superfreak department sniffing around and uncovering the Unveiling before they were ready to go live. But that was why they had people from every agency and every level of public office on board.
Or, she could just be what she said. Hunters were defenders of the innocent, those who fought the darkness, so his grandmother’s stories said. It might be hard to simply set up shop in the twenty-first century as a lone hero or bounty hunter.
The officer handed him back her ID and her gun permit and whispered something in his ear.
“Problem, officer?” All she needed was a piece of gum. That woman was seven kinds of trouble.
“I’m sorry, Miss Richards, but I’ll have to bring you down to the station. You’re not in trouble.” Yet.
Sighing, she blew her auburn bangs off her forehead as she checked her phone. She wore a Red Sox hat. “They always do. But I have to be at work at 6.”
“It shouldn’t take too long.” Hopefully. Depending on why she was really in Seattle and what Mac and Frank thought of the situation. What time was it in DC again?