Frankie directed the driver where to turn next, and as he did, Tarr said in a clear but low voice, “Erick.”
“I’m fine, by the way,” he answered casually. “Depth perception is fucked. But thanks for asking.”
Tarr waited a beat before saying, “Quiet. Don’t move.”
For once in his fucking life, Erick knew he should listen. He shut his mouth, and he froze like a statue. Frankie was pointing out the windshield as Tarr moved. Erick watched, feeling like everything happened in slow motion, even though it was a fluid action like something out of a movie. Tarr elbowed the two men sitting with him in the sides of their heads, right on their temples, stunning them enough for him to reach into their shoulder holsters and grab a gun with each hand. Without looking—without fucking looking—he held the guns upside down on either side of his head, pointing backward, and fired.
The men on either side of Erick jerked and slumped, bullet holes in their foreheads. Tarr, with the handcuffs dangling off one wrist, flipped the guns back and shot the men on either side of him. Blood and brain matter exploded onto the windows, and Erick still didn’t move, still didn’t speak, stunned into silence. Tarr brought the guns around, and Erick figured he was aiming for the driver and passenger when Frankie twisted around and placed his gun directly on Tarr’s forehead.
Tarr didn’t move. He held the guns in either hand, but he wouldn’t get them pointed in time if Frankie fired.
“Throw the guns up here,” Frankie said through gritted teeth. “You piece of shit.”
Tarr tossed the guns at Frankie’s feet, and it was then Erick noticed his right hand was swollen. Had he broken his hand to get out of the cuffs?
Frankie’s nostrils flared, and he shook, red-faced with fury at Tarr. “Four men in four seconds, huh? Record for you?”
Tarr finally broke his silent act. “You want to talk about records? Tell me yours, Frankie. In fact, tell me how many people the Haros have taken out. Women. Children.”
“Fuck you.” Frankie spat. “You’re not better than me. I don’t know what lines you’ve fed your family or that man back there, but you’re scum just like I am. Maybe if you hadn’t killed Mark, I’d have you on my crew. Impressive skills even with a broken hand.”
Erick sat in the back, helpless to do anything. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. The car smelled like blood and death and he gritted his teeth at the feel of the still-warm bodies next to him.
“You know what, pull the car over, Paul,” Frankie said.
“What?” the driver asked.
“Pull the fucking car over! I’m done waiting. We do him now, dump the body.”
“Whatever, man,” Paul said. He turned the wheel just as headlights rounded the curve up ahead, heading toward them.
“Put on your turn signal,” Frankie said, taking the gun off Tarr for a moment. But it didn’t matter because the car continued past them in the opposite lane. The car’s engine revved, and the car turned at the last second, slamming right into the front of the van. Erick pitched forward, pain streaked through his neck and back, and his seat belt cut against his already tender ribs. Glass and bodies flew as the van jerked forward from the force of the collision.
Pain, shouts, more glass, and the crinkling of metal. Steam billowed from the van’s hood. It clouded Erick’s vision, and he was plunged into darkness.
When the sound dulled, he opened his eyes and shook his head. The beam of a headlight shone somewhere in front of him, but the van was dark. He made out a shape in front of him, and he had no idea if it was a friend or a foe. “Tarr?” he whispered, unable to make his voice sound anything near normal. He coughed and tried again. “Tarr?”
A hand reached out of the darkness, and Erick cringed back, unsure who it was.
“Erick,” came a voice.
Erick nearly wept. “Tarr?”
“Fuck, we gotta get out of here.”
“Where’s Frankie?”
“Can you see?”
“Barely.”
Tarr’s face came into view as he pushed down the seat trying to get to Erick. “There’s a big ol’ hole in the windshield so I’m thinking Frankie ain’t doing too hot.”
“Erick!” A voice shouted frantically, and Erick knew exactly who that was.
His eyes filled with relieved tears. “Roarke! We’re in here.”
“Jock, we need some fucking jaws of life or some shit,” he heard his friend mutter.
Tarr pulled on his shoulders, and Erick cried out. “What?” Tarr froze. “What hurts?”
“Probably easier to ask what doesn’t hurt.” Erick moaned.
“Shit.”
“It’s okay, just get me out of this car.”
After much pain and tugging, Tarr was able to wrench open the van door. They tumbled out at the feet of Roarke and Jock, who immediately scooped them up. Jock fiddled with their handcuffs until they fell open with a clatter onto the street.
“Sorry about the driving,” Roarke said. “That was ugly and zero finesse, but desperate times call for desperate measures. We bugged the SUV and planned to head you guys off, fuck with the traffic lights ahead, but when we heard Frankie was cutting the trip short, we had to do something.”
Jock clapped Tarr on the shoulder. “Glad we’re here, lone wolf?”
This Tarr was completely different than the stone-cold Tarr that he’d been since he showed up at the apartment. In fact, he looked like he was going to collapse on his feet. “I was scared shitless. Where’s Frankie, by the way?”
“Uh, you probably don’t want to see him or his driver. They weren’t wearing seat belts. It’s ugly.”
Tarr glanced back at the van, unease written all over his face as he stepped into Erick’s space. “You okay? I’m sorry but there were too many men, and I had to take some out to concentrate on Frankie. Also, I might have had a rage blackout when I saw your face, and those guys were who I took it out on.”
“Did I want those guys to die? No, but you were protecting me and yourself.”
Tarr ignored Roarke and Jock and gripped Erick’s face. He touched their foreheads together. “But I’m done now. I’m out. I’ll toss all my weapons.”
“You want to be my kept boy? Make me dinner while I go out and fight the bad guys with my computer?”
“Whatever you want. I want to fight about camo with you and go on a first date. Jesus, fuck, I didn’t think we’d get out of this.” He turned to Jock and Roarke. “Thanks guys. Back to owing you, Jock.”
“So this”—Roarke gestured between the two of them—“is a thing?”
“It’s a new thing,” Tarr explained.
“Very new. Fledgling. Amniotic,” Erick added.
“Repay me by making this guy happy,” Jock said. “And do that by hanging up your guns. Well, maybe keep one or two, might need you to fight the bad guys every once in a while.”
“Can do,” Tarr said, his arm around Erick.
Jock was already on the phone, talking to someone about needing a “cleanup crew.” Erick didn’t even want to look back into the van.
“First stop, hospital,” Tarr said, pressing a kiss to Erick’s temple. “For both of us. Then next stop…” He let his voice trail off.
Erick answered for him with a grin, not worrying about his split lip. “Next stop, vacation.”
“First class.”
“Private bungalow.”
“Room service.”
“Cabana boys in Speedos.”
Tarr laughed just as Roarke walked back over to them. “Rides coming, and we got someone to take care of this before a cop swings along and wonders what the fuck happened.”
“Who’s our ride?” Erick asked.
Roarke held up his finger, and a second later, the sound of an SUV roared down the road toward them. It screeched to a halt, and a head with long black hair peeked out of the window. “Hey bro,” Wren said, smiling. “Looking rough.”
Erick grinned. “Tarr, meet my sister. Wren, meet my new
boyfriend.”
She waved. “Hey man, looking forward to getting to know you better, but how about we all pile in here and get moving, all right?”
Five minutes later, they were on the way to the hospital, debating what to tell the doctors to explain their myriad injuries. Erick was going with a mugging. Tarr was going with slamming his hand in a car door. Neither seemed plausible. And Erick didn’t really care. Because the good guys had won, and next stop was vacation.
Epilogue
Rett
“Rett.” Erick’s voice floated through the salty air, and Rett smiled. He’d never get tired of hearing Erick say his name. He’d dropped the “Tarr” moniker the moment they touched ground in Bermuda. They’d had a little funeral for it—Erick insisted—by writing the name on a scrap of paper and burning it.
With his hand clasped in Erick’s, he had watched the ashes drop and felt fifteen years of despair lift from his shoulders.
Rett opened his eyes and turned his head. He lay on his stomach on their private patio. Erick stood in the doorway to their rented bungalow while white curtains swirled around him in the breeze. He wore nothing but a tiny towel. “You going to sleep all day?”
“Mmmm,” he moaned, stretching. He wished he could flex his left hand, but it was in a cast. “Maybe.” He rolled onto his back and opened his arms. Erick joined him on the chaise, stretched out beside him, put his head on Rett’s pecs.
Erick’s dark hair was damp from his shower, skin still covered with beads of water. They stared up into the blue sky, listening to the waves lap at the shore about a hundred yards away.
They’d been in paradise for two weeks. Nothing to do but swim, snorkel, eat, and fuck. Rett had never realized he could be this happy.
“Your sister called while you were sleeping,” Erick said on a yawn. “She’s having those practice contractions. What are they called?”
“Braxton Hicks.”
“Yeah, that’s it. She thinks she’ll have the baby this week.”
“If she does, I’d like to fly home.”
“Of course,” Erick said. “I mean, babies terrify me. I like it better when they are talking, but I gotta up my uncle game.”
“Wren pregnant?”
“No, but she said they are trying. Roarke probably has super sperm, and she’ll be pregnant with triplets or some shit.”
Rett laughed. “I hope your tiny sister doesn’t get knocked up with triplets.”
“Yeah, me too.” Erick fell silent as his hand rested on Rett’s abs.
“So when we go home,” Rett said, “home base for you is in DC, right?”
Erick’s hand flexed. “Yeah.” He sounded nervous.
“So I don’t have a home base. I’m never in one place for long. So I’ll move in with you. I’ll learn how to cook and clean and be a domestic god while you work. I have some investments, so I got money that’ll roll in without me having to pick up a gun. You do your thing, I’ll do mine, and we’ll live happily ever after.”
Erick waited a beat before propping himself up on his elbow. “Did you just tell me that you’re moving in with me?”
Rett nodded. “I did.”
Erick beamed, that bright smile that could warm Siberia. “That’s rad. I hate coming home to an empty apartment.”
“But if your crew needs me, I’m available. I’m not sure Maximus is done with your crew.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so either. He’s just biding his time.”
“I’d like to start fresh. Be the good guy with you. Take out the bad guys.”
Erick straddled Rett’s waist, the towel slipping up to reveal a whole lot of thigh. Erick braced his hands on Rett’s chest. “I like that plan. It’s a good plan. For now though, I’d like to stay in paradise a bit longer.”
Rett clasped his hands behind his head, gazing up at Erick with the blue sky as his backdrop. “If you told me a month ago I’d be here with you, I’d never believe it.”
Erick leaned down and brushed their noses together. “Believe it, baby. It’s a happy ending. How about we make it happier and get in bed?”
“Private balcony, baby. How about we make it happier right here?”
Erick tossed off the towel with a wicked grin. “Sold.”
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my readers who have embraced this series. It was a new direction for me, and it’s been really rewarding. I love this crew so much! Each and every character is special, and I love that my readers see that.
Thank you to my agent, Marisa Corvisiero, for working so hard for me on this series. Thanks to my wonderful editor, Alex Logan, who is smart as heck and gets these characters like I do.
Thanks to Meg’s Mob because I’m not sure where I’d be without you all. You’re such a bright spot on the internet and I adore you!
Thanks to my friends and family for telling everyone about this series. I couldn’t have done it without you.
About the Author
Megan Erickson is a USA Today bestselling author of romance that sizzles. Her books have a touch of nerd, a dash of humor, and always have a happily ever after. A former journalist, she switched to fiction when she decided she likes writing her own endings better.
She lives in Pennsylvania with her very own nerdy husband and two kids. Although rather fun-sized, she’s been told she has a full-sized personality. When Megan isn’t writing, she’s either lounging with her two cats named after John Hughes characters or…thinking about writing.
Learn more at:
meganerickson.org
Twitter @MeganErickson
Facebook.com/meganjerickson
Bodyguard Jock Bosh has one job: Keep Fiona Madden safe. Safe from the men who’ve been hunting her. Safe from the bastard responsible for ruining her life. And with the attraction sizzling white-hot between them, that means keeping Fiona safe from him too.
An excerpt from Darkest Night follows.
CHAPTER ONE
She’d nodded at him one time.
He remembered it—the way her blue eyes slid up to his, narrowed a minute, assessing, before her chin had dipped quickly. Her running shorts had made a swish swish sound as her long legs ate up the length of the apartment hallway, and a bead of sweat dripped toward her belly button from her sports bra. As she’d passed him, she’d tucked a stray piece of blond hair behind her ear.
It was a fuckup. She was never supposed to see him, but he’d had to run to his P.O. box to pick up some equipment. She’d changed her schedule that day. Thrown him off. Jamison “Jock” Bosh didn’t like to be thrown off. That had been a week ago, and he still couldn’t get that nod out of his mind.
He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing at the cramp in his muscles as he squinted at the lines of code on the computer screen inches from his face. What time was it? He glanced at his watch. Six in the morning. He blinked at the digital letters and scratched the days-old stubble on his jaw. Another sleepless night, but at least it was also another night of Fiona Madden still breathing.
That was why he was here, camped out in an apartment rented under one of his aliases, surrounded by empty takeout containers and the hum of PCs. There was a bed in the corner but he hadn’t slept much.
He’d sleep when he was dead.
A week of living in this Brooklyn apartment and he’d successfully tapped into just about every part of Fiona’s life and made it secure—anything he could do to make her existence invisible to those trying to find her.
Two months ago he’d joined up with Roarke Brennan to avenge the murder of Roarke’s brother. While searching for the killers they’d uncovered an underground sex ring that had landed them on the radar of the most notorious, dangerous hacker there was—Maximus. Maximus’s connection to Fiona and the sex ring was murky, as were most things with the skilled hacker, but he’d made his threat to her clear. She was a loose end. Fiona had been victimized once, almost ten years ago in college, when she’d been drugged and abused. Like hell would it happen again.
Her life seemed good. At least, good in a way that he could be happy. But also not good in a way that he knew wasn’t healthy for a thirty-year-old woman who looked like Fiona. She didn’t leave her apartment much—she was a freelance writer—and she never had friends visit. She also had a big mutt she called Sundance who barked at goddamn everyone. Sundance was a German shepherd mix—at least, that was what he looked like to Jock—who guarded Fiona like she was a queen. Jock considered him a silent partner.
Most of Jock’s work was done. He’d placed Fiona’s apartment security on a separate server because that had been faster than making the entire building more secure. He’d stopped short of installing a camera in her apartment and worried every day that his discretion would turn out to be a mistake. Anyone else and he would have done it, but spying on her when she thought she was alone, after the way she’d been violated already…he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he worked day and night making every other area of her life safe.
The lack of rest was catching up to him. The rumpled sheets on his bed called to him. He couldn’t sleep yet, though. Fiona always woke up early and took Sundance out into the small apartment courtyard around seven. He could see her clearly from his window, and while he’d started watching for her safety he couldn’t deny that he looked forward to seeing her there every day. Some days, it was the only time she left her apartment. Everything she needed, she got delivered to her door. He knew because he ran background checks on the delivery employees of the few businesses she used. If a new driver was sent, he ran checks on them, too, and he would go as far as to hide out in her hallway if he wasn’t able to get a check finished on the delivery driver.
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