Surrender To Me. Donna Hill

      “See you then.” Kerry’s pager went off. She pulled it from the clip on her hip and checked the number. “Duty calls.”

      “Always. And don’t forget the extra hot mustard.”

      “Got it.”

      They parted and headed in opposite directions.

      Maybe she should have given Rafe her number, but now that she thought about it he hadn’t asked. Just as well. Relationships were difficult in the best of circumstances. Long distance was worse. Beyond that, her career didn’t make for the best in partnerships. At any given time she could be called on to travel halfway across the globe. She’d lost count of how many dinners, getaways and “sleepovers” she’d had to either cancel or end abruptly. Compound that with being the daughter of Horace Richards, the ranking senior senator, and she was never quite sure if a man was with her because of genuine interest or to get close to her father.

      Kerry was right, though. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man—in every sense of the word. She did miss being touched, waking up with someone beside her, having doors opened, being told that she was beautiful, having someone to look out for and protect her for a change. Wishful thinking.

      She got behind the wheel of her Navigator and headed away from headquarters. The imposing images of democracy stood firm against the horizon; the Capitol, the White House and in the distance the Lincoln Memorial. A surge of pride filled her. This was the life she chose—to protect and defend. It was the life she’d been groomed for since college.

      * * *

      Avery spent a full two hours in the gym, part of her weekly regime. She not only worked out to stay fit but for health reasons, as well. Her mother had died of a massive heart attack when Avery was only fifteen. The doctors had warned Linda Richards that if she kept up the fried foods, didn’t quit smoking and lose the weight, her outlook was not good. Linda remained stubborn and determined to hold on to her southern-style soul-food cooking, brushing all well-meaning advice aside.

      Avery remembered Sunday dinners being more of an extravaganza than a meal. Two kinds of meats—one of which was always fried—collards and string beans seasoned in fatback, six-cheese baked macaroni, sweet tea and pies that would set off diabetic alarms.

      Eat up were her mother’s two favorite words.

      Growing up Avery believed that everyone ate the way her family did, even as she put on the pounds herself. By the time she turned fifteen, shortly before her mother’s death, she was 190 pounds at five foot five.

      Instead of tears Avery mourned with food, pushing beyond two hundred and ten pounds by her seventeenth birthday. It was her own brush with a health scare that finally turned her around.

      It was three months before her high school graduation. For about a week she’d experienced shortness of breath and mild dizzy spells. She wouldn’t tell her father. It was bad enough that he looked at her with a mixture of disgust and sadness. The decision was taken out of her hands when she collapsed in the school stairwell.

      Two days in the hospital, dependent on an oxygen mask and lectured by doctors, nurses and nutritionists, Avery came home determined to live.

      * * *

      Wrapped in a towel Avery stepped out of a long, hot shower and walked through her two-bedroom condo. It was almost six. Knowing Kerry she would arrive any minute. She had a penchant for turning up early for any and everything. Avery decided on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

      After getting dressed she put a bottle of wine in the fridge to chill then curled up on the couch to catch up on the news until Kerry arrived.

      There was the usual litany of disasters, fires, floods, home invasions and yet another unarmed black man shot by police.

      Avery’s stomach turned with anguish and disappointment. Anguish for the family and friends and community and disappointment in the profession that she was part of.

      As the names of the fallen continued to climb she’d begun to question how the country that she loved had devolved into one of fear of the very people sworn to protect you, and she’d begun to question if in fact she should stay in her line of work.

      The newscaster skillfully switched gears to talk entertainment politics. Her heart lurched. There on the screen in bold, living color was Rafe Lawson on the night of his grandfather’s birthday party. He was on the small stage in the center of the massive ballroom, playing the sax. Avery leaned in.

      “Rafe Lawson, one of Louisiana’s most eligible bachelors, and the eldest son and heir to the Lawson legacy is seen here playing a tribute to his grandfather Clive Lawson. The celebration of the 85th birthday of the patriarch was a star-studded affair that included a surprise visit by Vice President Reynolds, a long-time friend to the senior Lawson. His son Senator Branford Lawson is actively campaigning for the seat of Chairman of the Homeland Security Committee.”

      Avery couldn’t tear her eyes off Rafe and wished that she could hit replay when the station segued to the weather. As if deflated she flopped back against the pillows of the couch. Her pulse continued to race and that funny feeling in the pit of her stomach remained. Crazy that he could have the same effect on her through a television screen as he did up close and personal.

      For a moment she closed her eyes and inhaled. His scent awakened in her memory. The sound of his voice, slow, easy and deep, whispered in her ear. A shudder rippled through her and her eyes flew open. She jumped up and went for the wine that was chilling in the fridge. She couldn’t wait for Kerry.

      She poured a full glass and took a deep swallow. If Kerry hadn’t rung the bell when she did, Avery was certain she would have put on her sneakers and ran Rafe Lawson out of her system.

      “Hey, girl.” Avery stepped aside to let Kerry in. “Hmm, smells good,” she said, eyeing the bags in Kerry’s hand.

      “I am starved.” Kerry breezed in and went straight to the kitchen to put down the bags. She moved around Avery’s kitchen like it was her own, taking out plates and flatware. “Drinking without me?” she said, noticing Avery’s glass of wine. “Thought we were doing mimosas.”

      “We are. I just needed something to take the edge off.”

      Kerry stopped emptying the bag of its food cartons. “Why? Something happen?”

      “Not exactly.” She twisted her lips to the side. “Sort of.”

      “Okay. I’ll bite. What?”

      Avery told her about seeing Rafe on television and the crazy way it made her feel.

      “Wow. Sounds serious.”

      “No, it sounds crazy.” She opened a carton and loaded her plate with stir-fried vegetables and generously drizzled them with hot mustard.

      “So what are you going to do about it?” Kerry crunched on a spring roll.

      “Sum it up to a pleasant memory and move on.”

      Kerry threw her a skeptical glance. “Right.”

      “I will. You’ll see.”

      Kerry chuckled. “Whatever.”

      * * *

      For the most part Avery was as good as her word. In the ensuing weeks she’d all but put images and thoughts of Rafe Lawson in her rearview. Every now and again she had a flash but quickly pushed it back where it belonged. Her tough schedule was a big factor.

      Since the night of the party VP Reynolds had been so impressed with her that he’d requested Avery as part of his second-shift detail, which was great for her as it left a good chunk of her day free and occupied some of her evenings. Evenings that would more than likely have been spent alone anyway.

      She was at her desk reviewing status reports when she got a call from the lobby security advising her to come down.

      “Be right there.” She reached into her desk drawer, removed