Deviated
Esther E. Schmidt
Contents
Letter to the Reader
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
The Salvation Society
Acknowledgments
Books by Esther E. Schmidt
About the author
This book was inspired by the Salvation Series written by Corinne Michaels. It is an original work that is published through The Salvation Society.
Copyright © 2020 by Esther E. Schmidt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, places, characters and other stuff mentioned in this book is the results of the author’s imagination. Deviated is a work of fiction. If there is any resemblance, it is entirely coincidental.
This content is for mature audiences only. Please do not read if sexual situations, violence and explicit language offends you.
Cover design by:
Esther E. Schmidt
Editor #1:
Christi Durbin
Editor #2:
Virginia Tesi Carey
Cover Model:
Kaz van der waard
Photographer:
Wander Aguiar
wanderbookclub.com
Letter to the Reader
Dear reader,
To read Corinne’s books and to write in her Salvation Series world was amazing and I thoroughly enjoyed every single moment. Being able to combine both her world and mine made the words flow easy, creating this story especially for you.
I can’t wait for you to dive in and meet some of my characters from the Broken Deeds MC series. This motorcycle club is above the law and yet it has a contract with the government to solve cases where the justice system fails.
This is the reason why I combined Broken Deeds MC with Corinne’s world; a perfect challenge to let them collide with the CIA through Mark and Charlie’s son, Cullen. I absolutely loved the ability to give you a biker filled romantic suspense along with the familiarity of Corinne’s characters.
I mostly write suspenseful biker series. Though, I also write paranormal romance, mafia romance, contemporary romance, and more. Each one of my stories is about a bad boy Alpha with a heart for only one woman. To make it a bit interesting, that woman needs to be a badass herself.
I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. A huge thanks to Corinne, for without her this story wouldn’t exist.
Much love,
Esther
Chapter One
ESMEE
“What?” I gasp while anger flows hot through my veins. “You’re shitting me, right? I did what needed to be done, and you know it. I saved that little baby. There’s no such thing as following protocol when bullets start to fly. I was wearing a vest, he was wearing a vest. The little freaking baby I was holding wasn’t; I needed him to cover her front. And if I didn’t pull him in front of me, he would have a bullet in his head he never even saw coming. But he makes it seem as if none of it matters because he felt the need to write a report about my incapability? We don’t even do reports. We don’t follow any damn rules, what the hell, Dad?”
This cannot be happening. Broken Deeds MC—my father’s motorcycle club—solves cold cases or high-profile cases the government can’t seem to close themselves. All the bikers of Broken Deeds MC are skilled and trained and will go above and beyond to solve each case we take. Everything is off the record while this country is fully aware who they need to contact to get things done.
“This is about me, isn’t it? It’s because I don’t have actual balls to show them I’m a part of this MC. I’m not a biker who wears a leather cut. I’m just the president’s daughter who rides a bike for show. Yeah….am I even a part of it?” I sneer.
I know very well this isn’t about being the only woman taking on assignments in this MC—because I’m highly qualified to do so—but I am beyond pissed to be accused of being incapable by some asshole who doesn’t even know me.
“Watch your mouth, young lady,” my father snaps.
My shoulders sag and I let myself drop into the chair. I was hovering over his desk, firing off my anger at him for calling me into his office to confront me about the fact some asshole filed a report about my incapability, liability, whatever…the point is, this report is going to cause problems for this MC, and all eyes are on me—or so it feels like it.
My dad places his elbows on his desk and rubs his temples. “Look, here’s the thing. I’ve been expecting it for a while. Broken Deeds MC has been taking cases well before you were born. Sometimes the ones sweeping things under the rug come to check out the mess underneath and I think that’s what’s happening now. I had a conference call with Jackson Cole and Mark Dixon from Cole Security Forces right before you walked into my office. On their side everything seemed official and there was a last-minute contract initiated by someone from the CIA which demanded Cullen Dixon to be present, yet it was only to observe. They didn’t question it since Cullen is Mark’s son so he was included in the hostage extraction.”
He releases a deep breath, contemplates his words and finally continues, “What I’m trying to explain here is how all of this might be a coincidence or some screwed-up timing. We’ve lost other brothers in the line of fire, which I think is due to the government agencies fuck-ups and they damn well know it. They just want to point fingers to wash the blood sticking to their hands. Though, I also think this pencil-pecker who wrote the report was put in this position by someone higher up. But all of this will be handled, don’t worry about it, Princess.”
Princess. The nickname all bikers of Broken Deeds MC call me. And even if I thought it was cute when I was eight, with each passing year I came to find it degrading. And I know my dad is using it to calm my nerves, but all it does is flare up more anger. Because it’s not as simple as he makes it seem.
“When Abe and I ran into those guys during the extraction, they all seemed military. But I smelled something fishy right before things went apeshit. Even more when the guy got in my face the second we extracted the hostage. This Cullen guy, whose name is linked to the report lying in front of you, isn’t just some pencil-pecker, Pres.” I make sure to mock his title because if I’m pissed, he should be too instead of taking this lightly. “It’s the name of the asshole who was wearing military gear along with the rest of his unit, and like you said, he wasn’t exactly part of the unit from Cole Security Forces. Not to mention the fact they shouldn’t have even been there in the first place, or that he’s pissed at me because I needed him to catch the bullets I didn’t want hitting the freaking baby. Yet, he’s the freaking baby, whining about my incompetence. He got shot in the arm, so what? I took bullets too; it happens when an extraction goes to shit.” I point at my bandaged arm where they took out the bullet and at my cheek. Though the one in my face was a ricochet but I’m fairly sure it’s going to leave a scar.
I’m not complaining about the need to keep my face pretty, I’m not like any other girl; I’m just trying to prove a point. I’m not whining but buckling up to do what I have to in an effort to get everyone out alive. I guess I did fail at some point since my friend Abe was killed in the line of fire.
The hostage situation was risky to say the least. It involved a few week old baby that was supposedly kidnapped by the father. Since the father had diplom
atic immunity and had ties with a drug cartel where he got a few guys from as backup, we needed to proceed with caution.
We were already on the scene but a unit of Cole Security Forces was sent in at the exact same time. Neither of us were aware of each other and this is something that needs to be investigated; why the government thought it was smart to send them in while Abe and I were already handling it.
Sure, we fly under the radar and don’t have to write a thick report about everything we do, but once we actually jump into action? We always call it in; the government knew we were in there. It’s safe to say there was a damn mix-up on their side because I called it in myself, so why send the others and not let either of us know?
I can still vividly recall the moment Abe was killed. We collided with the unit. Guns drawn, adrenaline pumping, while I was holding onto a mere few weeks old baby. It’s all in the blink of a freaking eye we have, and not like we can have a long discussion, flash a badge or anything. Hell, I don’t even have a badge to flash.
Besides, we rarely go into a situation dressed as civilians. And this was a coordinated hostage extraction, so we were wearing uniforms. This is the reason the unit quickly assessed we were friendly, but the moment Abe said, “We need to move. Now,” that’s when the bullets started to fly and Abe was instantly killed.
A deep breath rushes out before my father says, “I know he’s not a pencil-pecker, nor an asshole, Esmee, because he was doing his job; he’s CIA. But he for sure as shit didn’t need to be there, even if Cole Security Forces has it all official in black and white. We didn’t fuck up. I’m pretty sure the unit didn’t fuck up either because they didn’t shoot the two of you. I’m not entirely sure this unit knew the one who attacked you, and killed Abe, had diplomatic immunity. Anyway…something higher up the chain went wrong, and that’s all I’m going to say. What I need you to do now is to take a few weeks off while I’m handling this, and then we’re going to—”
“You’re benching me?” I huff, stand, and throw my arms into the air. “I can’t believe this.”
My father smacks his hand on a pile of files on the desk and winces due to an old injury. “I don’t need this right now, Esmee. I have other shit to deal with. Like the fact we just buried one of our own. You were right there, you two were close and you sure as fuck need to process it too; no matter how damn strong I know you are.”
I swallow hard and drop my head. He’s right. This mission might have been successful because we managed to get the baby held hostage out safe and returned to her mother, but we lost Abe. He’d been a part of this MC for over three years. Though, he was my friend way before that.
We served together and that’s the reason he became a prospect with Broken Deeds MC. Usually, we took cases together as a team, like the hostage situation. He was the only one who would treat me like one of the guys. Unlike everyone else around me.
It’s as if they keep reminding me I don’t have a dick and therefore am incapable of being one of them. Hell, within the MC I even have the title Princess because I’m the president’s daughter. I bet they don’t even realize they treat me with kid gloves, but Abe never treated me as such; he treated me as an equal.
The reminder of Abe’s loss makes my anger drain away along with the lack to care about that pencil-pecker who is out to stir trouble. CIA or not, he’s still an asshole in my opinion.
Yet, I know what my father is implying, the whole “upper-hand, fucked-up situation” where he needs all of his attention to focus on. The easiest way to do this is to sideline me. I swallow hard in an effort to ignore my emotions. Pain. Grief. Anger. I need to focus and get this handled. Chin high, swallow hard, and move forward.
“Fine,” I tell him in a monotone voice and head for the door.
“Esmee.” The way my name falls from my father’s lips is both a warning as well as a plea.
I glance over my shoulder and tell him, “I’m fine, Dad. You need to focus on who screwed us over higher up the chain, but mostly why. Don’t worry about me, I can handle myself. Besides, you’re right. I need time to myself and to not interfere since I’ve done enough already. Talk later.” I slip out the door and let it fall shut behind me.
Ignoring everyone in the clubhouse, I stalk out and head for my bike. I need the wind in my face and to let everything flash by to clear my head and heart. I might look like a hard bitch on the outside and fight for my place in this man’s world I grew up in, but deep down I know very well I’m still the little girl my father sees in me.
A little girl who’s seen more death and destruction this world can inflict than most males in my perimeter. Maybe that’s the reason why I don’t date; because they can see it in my eyes or smell it on my skin.
Oh, who am I kidding? My standards are high if I would even consider having a boyfriend, and I’m always surrounded by alpha male bikers who feel the need to watch over the princess of Broken Deeds MC.
Though, I’ve showed everyone over the years I’m very capable of handling myself. Eight years in the military, MMA training, competitions, and the added years of training I’ve followed outside the US make me a weapon instead of the blonde, tiny and delicate flower everyone sees.
Outer appearances are the thing this world thrives on while no one ever actually takes a moment to see and appreciate, the strength and value within. Great, now I’m throwing a pity party, for and by myself. I need a goddamned drink.
I finally arrive at my apartment and throw my keys on the floor right next to the door along with my helmet, jacket, and boots. I slam the door—shutting out the rest of the world—and head for the bedroom to change into something comfy.
A few minutes later I’m wearing sweatpants along with a tank top and my favorite socks. They are tangerine and have the face of a pig on them, tiny ears on the rim along with it. I don’t care if they’re childish or not, pigs are my comfort; my private boost of joy. I glance at the wall of my bedroom where my other weird, disarrayed quirk is displayed.
My whole apartment’s interior is serene; minimum furniture which basically is my only necessity. The wall of my bedroom on the other hand resembles the inside of my head; a freaking mess of memories.
All different sizes and shapes of frames with pictures, text, or an item behind glass. There are souvenirs in between and there’s barely any space left. I can stare at this wall for hours. Either for comfort, to clear my head, a trip down memory lane, or like right now…to let my heart feel the loss of a good friend.
“Dammit, Abe.” My voice is strained and my throat feels like it will close up at any second.
I want to cry, let my emotions run free, but for some reason I can’t. I feel my eyes sting but nothing spills out; everything stays locked up and on the inside.
I hear a key in the lock and right after a voice flows through my apartment. “Hey, Es. Care to tell me why I am getting text messages from both your mother and your father asking me to keep an eye on you?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before slowly releasing it. Spinning on my heels I head for the living room.
“Because my dad benched me,” I tell my best friend, and neighbor, Sona.
“Great,” Sona sighs and places the bottle of Baileys on the table. “I knew I should have grabbed the vodka instead of the Baileys. Dammit. I thought it was a spiked coffee moment, but this calls for the strong shit.”
Without another word she pivots, rushes out, and leaves the door open. She lives right next to me and we have been friends ever since I moved into this apartment four years ago. Sona stalks back inside and kicks the door shut with her foot because her hands are overflowing with necessities.
“What do you have in mind?” I groan, knowing I’m about to become her test subject.
Sona likes to experiment with stuff she finds on social media. Well, mainly when it comes to alcoholic beverages. I really think she has the desire to prove people wrong about their taste or something, because sometimes she adds videos on her timeline where she talks ab
out stuff going bad or when it’s absolutely the best thing ever invented.
Good thing she’s her own boss. Otherwise it would become awkward at some point in life if they ever check her social media for credits. She’s an editor and uses a pseudonym to keep it separate from her personal life.
All of her business is handled online. She works hard but plans her own time, for which I’m thankful because she’s always there when I need her, like now. The watermelon bounces softly on the counter as she places different items next to it, including a bottle of vodka.
She shoots me a grin. “It’s a watermelon vodka keg kinda day, don’t you think?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. She mentioned the watermelon vodka keg a few days ago too but with everything going on and the recent funeral, I’ve been trying to keep my head clear. Sure, I’ve had a few drinks here and there, but I always have my limit of three drinks.
You can say I’m never off duty. The need to have a clear head and to be ready at every waking second is something I grew up with. It’s both a blessing and a curse. A blessing since I’ve been called in loads of times to be ready for action the next minute. That is the very reason I’ve been given more jobs than many of the club brothers.
A curse because I don’t let myself go. Not ever. Yet now? The fact someone called me incapable…a liability. On. The. Freaking. Record. We don’t do records, reports, files to justify our actions or wait for a court order.
We simply get the job done with minimum risk and minimum casualties. Who the hell does this CIA guy think he is? Starting a damn fire that might burn away everything Broken Deeds worked hard to accomplish.
Deviated Page 1