The Contractor: Max Jones #3 (PAPERBACK)

Maya exhaled happily as she made her way through the crowd of gyrating dancers packed onto the tiny dance floor. The rhythmic beat of the reggae track pulsed through the open-walled bar, and the overhead fans high in the rafters did little to ease the heat inside. She was hot and thirsty, but it didn’t matter. She was happier than she’d been in months.


She reached the bar, slipping between the people leaning on it, and waved at the bartender. He grinned, winked, and held up a finger. One minute.
Turning away, she looked out past the bar toward the beach. The sun was setting, a large red ball hovering just above the horizon, casting streaks of red, orange, and gold across the glasslike surface of the sea. 


She had been in Goa for a week and wondered why she had not come here earlier. For the past three months, she had been backpacking across India, sometimes alone, sometimes with others, often running into fellow Israelis on the same post-military-service pilgrimage. She had completed her full twenty-four-month term in the Mishtara Tzva’it, the Israeli Military Police, and she had needed this break. But it had taken her a while to let go. Two years of constant vigilance, fear, and stress at checkpoints in the West Bank was not easy to shake off. But here, in this beachside bar, she was finally beginning to feel free.


Bringing her attention back to the bar, she glanced around at the crowd. There were the cool kids from Mumbai, Bangalore, and Delhi, the men with high fades, immaculately shaped beards, and sleeve tattoos, and the women in loose sundresses, their highlighted hair spilling over bare shoulders, delicate butterflies or poetic quotes inked on their wrists. A few Westerners—Germans or Brits, judging by their bright red sunburns, mingled among the locals.
There were others too, travelers from smaller towns, unfashionably dressed, less polished, their eyes wide with excitement at a scene so far removed from their normal everyday lives.


And then there was the attention. She could feel it. Lingering glances from the men. Jealous stares from the women. She smiled to herself. Even after months of backpacking, she still turned heads. She had been supremely fit in the army, and though she had not exercised since leaving, her body hadn’t softened like the city girls who spent their days behind office desks.


A hand touched her shoulder.
She turned back to the bar and smiled at the bartender.
“A glass of water, please.”


He gave her a playful pout. “Water? That’s it?”


“For now.” She grinned.


He sighed theatrically, then reached for a glass.
He was cute. Lean, with smooth skin, designer stubble under sharp cheekbones. His long hair was tied up in a man bun, normally a turnoff, but somehow, here, it worked.
He slid a tall glass of iced water across the bar and held out his hand.
"Vikki."


"Vikki?" She raised an eyebrow. "That's a girl's name."


“Short for Vikram. But my friends call me Vikki. So can you.” He grinned, flashing a row of brilliant white teeth.


Maya felt a warmth in her chest, something she had not felt in a while.
“Oh, so you think I want to be friends, do you?”


He winked. “More than friends.”


Her face flushed. He wasn't wasting any time.
She glanced at his outstretched hand. What the hell. She was on holiday.
She took it. “Maya.”


He held her hand just a little longer than necessary. His grip was firm. Confident.
“Maya,” he said softly. “Shalom.”


Her eyebrows shot up. “How did you know?”


He winked again, then turned to serve another customer.
She watched him walk away, her eyes trailing down his back to his buttocks. She blushed when he glanced over his shoulder and caught her.
Turning away, she sipped her drink, letting her gaze roam the bar, but her mind was still on Vikki. It wouldn't hurt to have a bit of fun, she told herself.


A voice cut through the music. Low. Steady. Confident.
“Stay away from him. He’s bad news.”


She frowned and turned.
A man leaned against the bar beside her. He had not been there a moment ago. He was not looking at her, just staring down at his nearly empty beer bottle, his hands wrapped around it, thumbnail picking at the label.
He was tanned, his hair cropped close to his head, clean-shaven, with a strong jaw. The lines around his eyes suggested a life spent under the sun.


“Did you say something?” A flicker of irritation sparked in her. Who the hell does he think he is?


He turned slowly, and she was struck by his eyes. Not their color, but the way they seemed to bore right through her.
“I did. I said stay away from him.”


Resentment bubbled up. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”


He did not look away.
There was something about him. Something familiar.
“I’m no one,” he said. “Just giving some friendly advice.”


His accent was very slight, unidentifiable, but tugging at something in her subconscious. 


Before she could say another word, he turned and walked away.
She stared after him.
“What the f—?” she muttered, her good mood quickly souring.