Guts & Glory: Mercy (In the Shadows Security Book 1)

by Jeanne St. James

  Nothing.

  And because she had witnessed what she had, she was now a target. The same people she saw doing godawful things could be hunting her down right at that very moment, even though she had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  She’d known Michael was insanely rich, but she always assumed all of his businesses were legit. She’d learned in the last week that they weren’t. Since she was far from stupid, she should’ve known.

  But she loved Michael. She trusted him. They’d been close for years. Michael had always taken care of her, even when she didn’t want or need it.

  She really didn’t need it. Even though her practice was successful, he enjoyed spoiling her anyway.

  At first, she’d fought it. Then she realized it made him happy, he wasn’t going to be put off, and it was easier to just let him do it. However, the more he did it, the more she felt obligated to be there for him.

  So she was.

  Since she had no family besides her younger sister, Londyn, who lived on the east coast, Michael was it.

  And now here she was on the same side of the country, and she couldn’t even speak to or visit her sister.

  That was one of his “rules.”

  “...your lover.”

  What?

  What did he just say?

  Maybe she should be paying closer attention to his rules. But the list was way too long and her attention had wandered. “My what?”

  “Your lover. Paranzino.”

  She blinked. “My lover?” she repeated.

  “Did you forget him already?”

  Michael was a man who was hard to forget. So no.

  “I haven’t forgotten Michael, no.”

  “Any messages you have for him, you’ll give to me. I’ll make sure he gets them. Just make sure they don’t include hearts and kissy faces or any intimate details.”

  She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at a man like him saying things like that. “That rule won’t be difficult to follow.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “Good.”

  Parris let her gaze wander once again over the man who towered over her now that she’d kicked off her heels. She was not a short woman. She was not petite in any way, shape or form. She’d always been considered a “big girl” by society’s standards. Tall and thick. Not obese, but “luscious” as one of her former boyfriends called her. She had a “booty” and big boobs, two things that drew men’s eyes.

  However, at five-foot-eight, she could intimidate some shorter men. This Mercy was like... a freaking giant, though. Maybe an inch shorter than that Diesel, and that man had been big. Which made Mercy possibly six-three. Not freakish basketball player tall, but still... tall enough that she was forced to look up.

  Plus, he was freaking solid. His snug T-shirt clung to every ripped muscle of his chest, abs, and veiny arms. The black cotton might as well have been spray-painted on. He had removed his shoulder holster, but kept it nearby. Now that she had a clear view of his expansive chest, she noticed he wore a chain around his neck. Not fancy, not gold, definitely not expensive. But metal and whatever was at the bottom of the chain ended between his well-developed pecs under that tight tee.

  From the shape of it, most likely dog tags.

  Which meant he was former military. Or perhaps current. Reserves, maybe.

  She pursed her lips, then parted them to take a breath since she hadn’t taken one the whole time she perused his torso.

  The military background would explain his dark brown, almost black, hair being trimmed super tight, and the intensity of his gray eyes and direct-and-to-the-point words.

  Also, his no-nonsense list of ridiculous “rules.”

  He would run this “mission” like a well-oiled machine, damn it. And Parris was expected to “fall in line” and simply take orders.

  He wasn’t aware of it... yet... but she didn’t take orders from anyone. Even Michael. And Michael was well-versed in giving orders to people in his employ.

  However, this Mercy was mistaken if he thought Michael was her lover. Current or otherwise.

  Should she correct him?

  Nah.

  She lifted her gaze once more to his face to find his lips still moving. Now what the hell was he saying?

  Honestly, she only needed one rule: don’t get killed.

  Simple.

  “What’s your real name?” slipped from her before she could stop it. Did she really care? She mentally shrugged. At least it got his lips to stop flapping.

  “One of my rules is, you’re on a need-to-know basis. Call me Mercy.”

  “You’re saying when you came out of your mother’s vagina, she took one look at her sweet baby boy and named you Mercy?”

  His eyes narrowed and hardened even more.

  “Is Mercy a nickname? Michael called you Mr. Mercer.”

  “Mercy’s the only name you need to know. Let’s get something straight...”

  He sure liked to get things “straight.”

  “We’re not here to make friends. We’re not going to become pen pals. We’re not going to meet for fucking coffee. We’re not going to be Skyping or texting each other like best girlfriends after this. You’re a job.”

  Parris shrugged. “I find the name fascinating. There has to be a story behind it.”

  “There are plenty of other stories much more fascinating on Netflix. Or on the e-reader you dragged along in the three bags of luggage you did not need.”

  She lifted a brow. “You went through my luggage?”

  His nostrils flared and so did his eyes. Well, that was the first time she saw those silver shards of ice be anything other than cold.

  His reaction could only mean one thing. “I take it they not only packed my e-reader but my vibrator as well.” Probably because it had been tucked in her underwear drawer and they’d just thrown it in along with her panties, most likely thinking that it would be funny, and she’d be embarrassed. Which she wasn’t, because using a vibrator was a normal behavior as she informed her patients all the time (and highly suggested it).

  That one was one of her favorites, though not her very favorite, which she conveniently kept in her nightstand. They didn’t have a reason to dig into that drawer, thankfully, because it held a plethora of sex toys. Some of them a little more shocking than others.

  “Impressive,” he grumbled.

  That it was. “Yes, it does a good job since it finds my clit better than most men.”

  Parris watched his face carefully. He steeled his response and his face remained unreadable. He might be a fun challenge since she was sure this time in Pittsburgh, or wherever they were, would be boring. Especially since she had no access to any of her electronics and couldn’t leave the house. At least according to rule number five thousand, three hundred and fifteen.

  Her eyes traced the long, ragged scar that diagonally divided his face. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him about it once more. But it would be a waste of her breath, since he wouldn’t even tell her his real name.

  Ah. Another challenge. Finding out not only his real name but the reason his face had been sliced practically in half like a baked potato.

  He probably had a very interesting life. She was sure he kept most of that life deeply buried.

  Well, she was good at her job and could crack most nuts.

  Maybe the time isolated in this house wouldn’t be so boring after all. This could actually be entertaining, if men weren’t trying to kill her.

  But then, she was doing her best not to think about that. Because when she started to, her memories took her right back to that night. The scene she could still picture very clearly in her head.

  If she hadn’t stumbled in her damn Jimmy Choo’s and gasped loudly as she barely caught her balance, they might never had known she was even there.

  Unfortunately, she did witness the execution-style killings, simple shots to the back of those men’s heads.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Thos
e three shots had made her ears ring, her heart thump wildly and her mind try to make sense of what she just saw.

  Also what she had seen after those three well-placed bullets hit their destinations. She had actually had to fight the bile back down her throat at what remained of those men’s faces, which looked like nothing but shredded meat, exploded skin and exposed bone, all dripping with blood.

  And lots of it.

  A rustle of paper pulled her from her thoughts.

  Mercy was digging into the bag that had the Bangin’ Burgers logo emblazoned on it. He offered her one and her stomach turned.

  She’d pass on a burger made of ground meat, thank you very much.

  He shrugged, unwrapped one and took a bite so huge that he made the thick burger look like a slider. Next, he pulled two containers of fries out of the bag.

  He placed them both on the counter in the spacious, brand-new kitchen where they had had that little “discussion” he had so generously promised her. Though it wasn’t an actual discussion. Because actual discussions usually involved at least two people. Instead, he had rattled off his long list of freaking rules.

  Now, she watched as the muscles of his strong jaw worked to chew the mouthful of burger and, before he swallowed, he managed to shove about five fries in there, too.

  “If you’re hungry, this shit’s the best,” he managed around his mouthful of half-chewed food.

  She wrinkled her nose. So much for manners.

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those.”

  Those? Someone who appreciated a man with manners? “One of what?”

  “A vegetarian. Or vegan. Or whatever.”

  “I’m not. I like meat.” Normally. Just not after remembering those blown off faces.

  “Thank fuck. Because when you cook our meals, I like shit like bacon and sausage and lots of beef,” he said around another large bite of burger with a chaser of more fries.

  “I’m sorry?” Her eyes followed his hand as the back of it wiped across his mouth.

  “House didn’t come with a personal chef. Someone’s gonna need to make sure we don’t die from starvation.”

  Hold on. Pull back on those reins, cowboy. “You’re probably pretty resilient. I’m sure you cook.”

  “Don’t think you’ll be happy with boxed mac and cheese mixed with sliced hot dogs. And I doubt your Michael stocked the kitchen with shit like that.”

  Your Michael.

  She moved closer to the counter, grabbed a fry and popped it into her mouth. Surprisingly, they were good. She reached into the bag and pulled out the wad of napkins he forgot to remove.

  She offered him one. Mercy stared at it for a moment, then lifted his gaze to her before taking it. After he wiped his mouth, one corner, the side with the scar, seemed to remain lifted.

  Maybe it was just her imagination.

  He was very handsome once you looked past that scar. For most people, it was probably all they saw, besides the icy exterior and the heavy bulk of muscle. He probably used all of that as a shield to keep people out.

  To keep his secrets hidden.

  Normally when someone smiled, you automatically smiled back. Smiles should be infectious. She had a feeling when Mercy smiled, the receiver of that gesture shit their pants.

  She shook herself from her thoughts once again. “So you think because I’m a woman I know how to cook.” It wasn’t a question, but an astonished statement. Because she sure as hell was not living in the fifties. In fact, she hadn’t even been born in the fifties. Or sixties. Not even in the seventies.

  “Most women know how to cook,” came the answering grumble.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “In whose reality?

  He also lifted a brow, the one with the scar separating it like a river cutting through a forest. “You don’t know how to cook?”

  With a resigned sigh, she admitted, “I do.” Damn it.

  “Then, there you go. I was right.”

  She rolled her eyes, and snagged two more fries before moving deeper into the kitchen. If she was assigned KP duty during this “covert operation,” then she needed to see what supplies she had to work with.

  “You probably think you’re right a lot of the time,” she declared to the interior of the fridge. For goodness’ sake, Michael made sure to stock the refrigerator and most likely the freezer with only the best stuff. Including her favorite bottle of white wine. Hopefully he thought to get more than one. She had a strong feeling she’d need it.

  She shut the door and moved around the kitchen opening the overhead cabinets, before checking the lower ones. Ah, yes. There were six more bottles, two red, two more white, two blush. As well as two six-packs of Molson. She didn’t drink beer, so she knew they weren’t for her.

  She eyed Mercy, who still stood with his broad back to her, now working on the second burger that had been meant for her. He could have it. She was ready for a different type of meal. A liquid one.

  Her quick study of the man made her conclude that he didn’t look like the Molson type. He seemed to be more of a surly whiskey drinker.

  Get a glass of liquor, sit in a dark corner and brood.

  Yes, that seemed to be more his speed.

  He didn’t seem to be the crack-open-a-Molson, invite-your-best buds-over-and-throw-a steak-on-the-grill-before-the-game type of guy.

  She couldn’t imagine he’d be a barrel of fun at a party. She wondered if he even knew any jokes.

  What’s green and round and when you pull the pin, it explodes?

  A grenade. Ha ha.

  She snorted, went back to the fridge and pulled out that bottle of wine that had her name written all over it.

  She placed it on the counter and began her hunt for a corkscrew. Of course there was one in the drawer to the right of the stove. Michael was the best. Or his employees were the best. She should give credit where credit was due. They knew what Michael required, so they probably stocked this house like the messiah himself was coming for a visit.

  She went back to the cabinet which held glassware and snagged one of the stemless wine glasses she’d noticed during her kitchen exploration. A large one that probably held sixteen ounces.

  That would be a good start. The only thing better would be drinking straight from the bottle.

  Tempting. Very tempting.

  She twisted her head to see Mercy now leaning back against the center island, the second burger demolished, and about a half dozen fries halfway to his lips. He’d been watching her.

  Oh joy.

  She lifted the bottle in a silent question.

  Before shoving the fries into his yapper, he grunted, “No.”

  “There’s beer in the bottom cabinet, too. But it’s Molson, which is Canadian, and you seem to be a good ol’ American boy who probably doesn’t drink anything other than Miller or Bud. Being a staunch patriot and all that.”

  “My RPV was made in Canada.”

  Parris raised her brows in question. “RPV?”

  “The vehicle that delivered your ass here.”

  “Ah, that.” She concentrated on removing the cork from the bottle without breaking it. As she struggled with it, she suddenly felt a searing heat near her back. She glanced back... and up... as his thick arms came around her, one of his big hands holding the bottle just above hers, the other covering her fingers as he helped pry the cork loose. It released with a pop.

  It wasn’t until he freed her hands and stepped back did she breathe once again.

  Damn. Something about that whole thing had made her clench, and the clenching wasn’t her jaws, either.

  She willed her fingers to stop shaking as she splashed some wine into the glass, then splashed a whole lot more. She waited for her heartbeat to slow down from one hundred miles an hour to ninety-nine before turning around.

  “So, no wine or beer.” She forced herself to take a sip instead of the gulp she really wanted, letting the beautifully layered chardonnay tickle her taste buds. Michael knew the vineyard’s owners a
nd had taken her along with him a couple years ago to Napa Valley to meet them. “You don’t drink?”

  “I drink.”

  “Then?”

  “I drink alone.”

  Yes, in a dark corner, brooding. Just what she thought. Probably while plotting to take down some leader in a foreign country to make the world “a better place.” At least on the surface, when in reality it made that country an even bigger shit show. But as long as the American government came out looking like the hero...

  She sighed. She was going off track. “Isn’t that a song by George Thorogood?”

  “An M.O., too.”

  “M.O.? Really? You can’t make an exception this time?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not a real flexible person.” She tilted her head as she studied him again. No better time than the present to pull up her shirt sleeves and dig in. “Let me see... You’re probably a routine type of guy. Set your alarm for the same time every morning, even on your days off. You have a daily exercise routine you follow strictly. Eat two egg whites, one slice of dry multi-grain toast, and drink black coffee for breakfast. Everything has a specific place in your house. It’s most likely sparse and compartmentalized, just like your life. You only keep the necessities. If it doesn’t have a place or a use, you get rid of it without a second thought. Not just things, but people, too. Nothing has sentimental value. No fluff. No muss. Cold, direct and calculating.” All the time she had been talking, she watched the shutters lower over his already lifeless eyes. He didn’t like anyone looking too closely or pointing out his weaknesses.

  “You done?”

  If he was angry with her assessment, one wouldn’t know it besides the growl behind his question. He was very, very good at hiding emotions, even when pushed. But everyone had a breaking point.

  “Am I right? I bet you let no one in. Your brain is a steel trap but your emotions are imprisoned there, too. Do you use that scar as a shield? Do most people leave you alone because of it? You probably like that, being emotionally unavailable.”

  “Got a question for you.”

  His frosty gray eyes bore straight through her and she fought the shiver it invoked. “What?”

  “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”