Saving Jade: Stormborn Security Services

by Ava Bloom

  SAVING JADE

  STORMBORN SECURITY SERVICES

  AVA BLOOM

  Copyright © 2019 by Ava Bloom

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  CONTENTS

  1. Jade

  2. Logan

  3. Jade

  4. Logan

  5. Jade

  6. Logan

  7. Logan

  8. Jade

  9. Logan

  10. Jade

  11. Jade

  12. Logan

  13. Jade

  Epilogue

  More by Ava Bloom

  Join the Club

  1

  JADE

  HARSH SLASHES of black cut across the soft greens and yellows of the grass, and pulled attention from the dignified white house sitting on the distant hill. I would have loved to leave the tire swing out of the painting altogether, instead focusing on the ancient Oak tree filling the foreground and the blanket of wildflowers growing on the hill, but my client loved the old tire swing. Or rather, his grandchildren did. The photo was one he’d taken the summer before—a view of his summer house that was bigger than most people’s year-round house from the nearby hill where his grandchildren loved to swing and roll down the hills into beds of flowers. He wanted the painting to hang above the fireplace as a testament to why the house was there: Family.

  He’d offered me an obscene amount of money for a fast turnaround time, so I’d been pulling late nights all week. Between this, running my online print shop, and working on my collection for Made Good, the high-end home goods store that wanted to sell my prints, I was running ragged. But that was a good thing for a small business owner. It meant business was good, which meant money. My own money.

  Every opportunity that came my way had to be run through a rigorous background check in which I made sure it had nothing at all to do with my father. I had spent my entire career trying to step out from behind my father’s very large business shadow, and the last thing I needed was him sending all of his clients to me out of pity. Or even worse, his potential clients hanging my pieces up in their offices to try and gain favor with my father. I do not want to be his pity project or a bartering tool.

  My partnership with Made Good was a huge step in cementing my success in the art world. After years of scraping together money from my online print sales, calendars, and commissions—including one nude portrait of a bride as her gift to her future husband, of which I destroyed all evidence—I would finally have a consistent source of income. Before signing any contracts, Made Good ran all of the numbers, figuring out what the interest in my art would be and how many units they could be expected to sell. So, although those numbers were not finite, they were a very good omen. An omen that maybe I wouldn’t have to spend every night working in my studio, and I could actually go out into the world and meet someone. Maybe even a man. I hadn’t dared to let myself consider the possibility before, but now manly company sounded very nice.

  I stepped back from the canvas and squinted, closing one eye and then the other, trying to see the painting from a new point of view. After staring at it all day, I was starting to lose perspective, which was always a sign it was time to go home. So, I dumped my brushes in the sink and began the arduous task of cleaning them all. Then, I moved the unfinished canvas into the back room to dry, turned off all the lights, and locked up the studio behind me.

  I’d been in my studio space for almost two years. The front functioned as a gallery where people could stroll in and peruse the art hanging on the walls, along with a few pottery and jewelry pieces from some of my other artist friends who didn’t have their own galleries, and the back was my studio. There was a large back room where I went when I was stuck on a project and needed to be alone to think and focus, but mostly I stayed in the main space. It got good light from the large front windows, and I liked seeing the bustle of the city as people and cars whisked past. I wasn’t on a main road, but our little street was crammed full of independently-owned shops, like the coffee shop next door.

  Faith started Dark Roast Coffee when she was only twenty-three, and popularity had been growing steadily over the last two years. There was almost always a line out the door, which worked for me, because people would peek through my windows and then walk in fifteen minutes later to check out the artwork with a latte in hand. She sent business my way, and I did my best to send my clients over to her. One of my other commission clients ran a local charity, and due to my recommendation, she had hired Dark Roast Coffee to set up a coffee bar at three of her charity events in the last year. We small business owners have to stick together.

  I peeked through the front window and scanned the dark interior of the coffee shop. The chairs were up on the tables, but that didn’t mean anything. Faith often stayed just as late as I did, sometimes even later, working on new flavors for coffee of the month and different latte art, but she must have gone home early tonight. So, I started down the block on my own, my computer bag over my shoulder and a bundle of brushes under my arm. I could just buy a second set of brushes, but I am suspicious. Like a sports star who refuses to cut their hair until the end of their winning season, I refused to buy a new set of brushes while I was on such a hot streak with work. And even though I had a studio space, I sometimes liked to spend my slower days painting at home in the morning before going into the studio in the afternoon. That is the benefit of owning your own business and making your own hours. My father thinks having a shifting schedule leads to inefficiency, but I had long ago given up any hope of ever impressing my father.

  I glanced up and down the street and turned around to check behind me. I’d selected a good neighborhood for my studio to avoid the kind of late-night crimes that affected other areas of the city, but still, it was always good to be cautious. I had a bottle of pepper spray somewhere—probably in the bottom of my purse, which I hadn’t carried in over a year. As I passed the alley, I was thinking it would be a good idea to stash it in the bag with my brushes when meaty hands wrapped around my arm and yanked me into the dark.

  I gasped, my feet seeking purchase on the cement, as I was dragged backwards further into the alley. By the time it occurred to me to scream for help, there was a hand over my mouth. The palm tasted like sweat, and I swung my arms wildly. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost my brushes and my computer bag, but they were the least of my worries.

  “Don’t fight, and we won’t hurt you,” a deep voice whispered in my ear. Goosebumps rose along my skin, and I knew instantly the man was lying. There was a seductive kind of purr in his voice that let me know he wasn’t a desperate man looking for a few bucks. He wanted something else.

  “Yeah, we won’t hurt you.” The second man said. His voice was higher, but no less menacing. No less taunting. He walked around in front of me, a ski mask pulled down over his face so the only identifying feature I could make out was that he was white. He patted my laptop bag hanging from his shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind if we keep this.”

  I would have told him to go to hell, but the hand over my mouth was unrelenting.

  “She doesn’t mind,” the man holding me said. He dragged his finger down my cheekbone and along my neck. “Do you, sweetheart?”

  This was not going to end well. It didn’t matter how much I gave these creeps, they’d always want more. I had to get o
ut of here. Now.

  As hard as I could, I pulled my knee to my chest and then slammed my foot back into what felt like the man’s knee. He cried out in pain, his hand slipping from my mouth for a second, just long enough for me to scream. The smaller man lunged forward and picked up the slack left by his groaning friend. He pressed a hand to my mouth and slammed me back against the brick alley wall hard enough that I lost my breath.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he hissed, his breath acrid like cigarette smoke. “No one is around to save you. Don’t make things worse for yourself.”

  The bigger man walked towards me, limping, his eyes glimmering with rage from behind his mask. “I like her. She’s a fighter.”

  I shook my shoulders, trying to free myself from the smaller man’s grip. As soon as the bigger man grabbed me, I didn’t stand a chance. He looked like he could pinch my head like a grape. But the smaller man was barely bigger than me. If I could escape, I could run down the alley, and with the bigger man’s injured knee, I might be able to get to the main road two blocks over. I might be able to flag someone down.

  I thrashed, kicking and punching out like a wild animal in a trap, using every ounce of energy in my body to fight them off. For a second, the smaller man’s hands slipped from my shoulder, and I managed to make it a few steps from the wall before the giant swung his large arm like a baseball bat and hammered me back against the wall. My head bounced off the bricks, and I saw stars.

  Then, his sausage-like fingers were on my arms, his fleshy waist pressed against my hips, grinding my body into dust against the bricks. “Someone needs to teach you some manners.”

  “I bet you could teach her some,” the smaller man said, stepping back and crossing his arms. He was almost laughing, and for the first time, I was glad he was wearing a ski mask. If I saw him smiling at me while I was being pressed into a pancake by a sweaty mass of a man, I might have thrown up.

  The big man threw one of his mitts over my mouth and the other crushed against my breast and down across my stomach. Every cell in my body was repulsed by him, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. He found the tie of my wrap dress on my hip and tugged on it. Instantly, my dress fell open, revealing my lacy white slip and the pale stretch of my left thigh. The man groaned and ground his hips against mine.

  As soon as I felt his hardness brush against my lower stomach, the fight in me shifted. Rather than kicking and punching and scratching, it molded itself into a shield around my mind. It felt as though I was floating above the situation, looking down at myself, clammy and terrified against the wall. This man was going to take my body, but he couldn’t have my mind. He couldn’t have my spirit. He would not beat me down and demean me the way he wanted. I would do what I needed to do to cooperate, to get through this, and then I would go to the police and describe it all in detail. I would make sure these monsters were captured and thrown in prison so they couldn’t hurt anyone else. The man thought he was winning as his fingers gripped my hip and began to tear at the waistband of my panties, but I would have the last laugh. I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned my head back against the wall.

  “I called the cops, assholes.” A voice echoed down the alley, and my eyes snapped open. At the mouth of the alley, I could see Faith silhouetted against the street light. I knew her voice, it was her for sure.

  Both men startled at the sound of her voice, and before they could say anything, I heard the sirens in the distance.

  Just as fast as they’d dragged me into the alley, the smaller man took off in the opposite direction, my computer bag under his arm, but the big man hesitated. He glared down at me, a white-hot rage burning in his eyes, and then he leaned so close I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he snarled, “This isn’t over.”

  Then, he ran.

  I was still leaning against the brick wall when Faith reached me and pulled my dress closed, asking over and over if I was okay. I don’t remember what I told her.

  2

  LOGAN

  SWEAT POURED down my face and back, and the towel I’d brought with me was already soaked. Still, I increased the incline on the treadmill again and turned up the speed. The man on the machine next to me grabbed his water bottle, used the muddy brown rag to clean the machine quickly, and headed for the locker rooms. He was the third person to start and finish their workout while I did mine. The burn in my legs was addictive. It quieted the voice in my head that whispered I wasn’t good enough. That whispered I was a quitter and a coward. For as long as I was on the treadmill, my head was quiet, and I welcomed the reprieve.

  Plus, today I had more than my own inner demons to outrun. I had to go into the office and once again explain to Mr. Armstrong that I needed a new assignment. He was a nice guy, very understanding. He’d let one team member maintain a paid position at Stormborn while he dealt with the death of one of his clients for half a year. As far as nice bosses go, Mr. Armstrong was unprecedented. However, that situation had involved personal tragedy. Mine involved a string of lackluster clients who blamed me for their troubles. The first was an elderly man who was going through what I suspected to be the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He’d hired me to protect him from his children who he believed were stealing from him, and by the end of my first week, he thought I was trying to steal from him. He fired me in a rambling voice message on Mr. Armstrong’s office phone.

  The next client was a hopeful politician whose campaign collapsed when it was discovered he and his wife were each cheating on each other with the same member of the campaign staff. I electively chose to leave that position when it was suggested by the client that perhaps I was fucking his wife, too. I don’t do family drama.

  My most recent client had recently separated from her husband, and provided legitimate proof he was attempting to have her murdered. I staked out her house for days, slept in her downstairs guestroom, and watched hours of security footage in search of anything we could take to the police as proof. I also spent a great deal of time fending off advances from the woman who seemed to think we were the stars in a porno. She’d come into the kitchen with nothing more than a towel on that barely hid her rock-hard fake breasts and showed off more leathery tanned leg than I cared to see. After two weeks, I walked in on her and her husband doing it doggy style on their living room sofa. An hour later, she left me a voicemail saying I was fired for coming onto her and being sexually inappropriate, no mention at all of the fact that the man she thought wanted her dead actually only wanted back in her pants.

  So, I was back at the gym trying to blow off some steam and maintain the physique I’d earned in the U.S. Army. I refused to be one of those veterans who let themselves go and then spent their time remembering the “glory days.” God willing, my glory days were still ahead. At least, I sure as hell hoped so.

  After an hour on the treadmill, I decided to lower the incline and the speed for my cool down when my phone went off. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have answered it, but considering I was currently a bodyguard without a body to guard, I was taking every phone call that came my way in hopes of securing a position.

  “Hello?” I breathed, trying to sound less exhausted than I felt.

  “Hello, is this…Logan Richard?”

  “Speaking,” I said, hoping my curtness didn’t come off as rude. I was still breathing too hard to string together long sentences.

  “Great. I got your card from a friend of the mayor,” he said as if I was supposed to be impressed. “You work for Stormborn Security, yes?”

  “Yes,” I agreed before placing my hand over the speaker and taking long, loud inhales and exhales.

  “I’m in need of your services,” he said. “Would you be able to meet me in…how about an hour?”

  Yes. A job. I’ll do it. Alzheimer’s, sex scandals, sexual harassment—bring it on. Anything to get me back into the routine of work.

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Dark Roast Coffee on the West side. Do you know it?”

  I didn’t
, but I could figure it out. “And who will I be meeting?”

  “Oh, yes. Introductions. My name is Wade Jensen.”

  The name registered somewhere in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place it. Maybe I only thought I remembered it because it sounded like the name of a superhero’s secret identity?

  “And I already know you, so do you have any more questions Mr. Richard?” he asked, pausing for half a second, which wasn’t even enough time for me to register the questions. “Okay then, I’ll see you in fifty-seven minutes.”

  I looked down at the phone to confirm he had hung up without saying goodbye, and the prideful part of me wanted to stand him up and see how his obviously large sense of self-importance handled that blow. But the part of me that wanted to keep my job and pay rent hopped off the treadmill with wobbly legs and headed for the showers. I needed this job, and if I had to hand out with a snobby rich guy indefinitely, that was fine. It was better than spending my time alone in my apartment.

  * * *

  DARK ROAST COFFEE was a microscopic coffee shop wedged between what appeared to be an art gallery and a vintage clothing store. There was enough room for a few tables in front and a few along the narrow hallway that led to the bathroom, but otherwise it was standing room only. Which seemed to work for a lot of people. When I showed up, the line was out the door, and people were standing in clusters on the sidewalk and along the bar inside, clutching paper coffee cups in their hands. I was standing in line for less than a minute when an average-sized man with a slick head of black hair and an equally black suit walked up and extended his hand.

  “If you aren’t Logan Richard, I’ll eat my hat,” he said.

  “Lucky for you, I am,” I said, grabbing his hand.

  He squeezed my fingers unnecessarily hard and smiled. “And lucky for me, I never wear a hat. Come on in. I already ordered for us.”