by Logan Jacobs
“Thanks, I had a great role model,” I said back as seductively as I could.
“Yeah, you did,” she replied. “So, look, I’ve had just enough to drink so that I could remove the stick I have to have up my butt for work and I’m going to kiss you now.”
“Uh, good?” I muttered.
Olivia sauntered over, leaned her breasts into my chest, and I cupped her face with my hands as I brought her lips to mine. She tasted faintly of alcohol and dark licorice. The kiss was slow, wet, and sexy as fuck.
“Yeah,” she said as we finally broke off. “You are worthy of the reputation you have. That was a damn good kiss.”
“Well,” I said, deep and low. “There is more where that came from.”
“Good,” she said and then kissed me quickly again. “How about you give me a lift home after the movie. I can show you my handcuffs.”
“T-That,” I stammered just a bit, “sounds like a plan.”
“Okay, good,” Olivia said and started to walk out my bedroom door.
I was mesmerized by the soft sway of her ass and hips as I watched her leave and was lost in thought for a few moments.
“Marc! Get out here!” Artemis yelled.
“Gosh, okay,” I said to myself as I rushed out into the living room.
The sight that greeted me nearly made me fall over.
The President of the United States of America stood in my living room. He was very uncharacteristically frazzled. Standing next to him in a sleek, business-like suit, was a tall, bearded man in his mid fifties. He was fit and carried himself with the calm, quiet of someone who can turn terrifyingly deadly in a moments notice. I assumed he was a Secret Service agent.
“Mr. President,” I started to say. “What a surprise. I didn’t know you were making--”
“They took her, Marc,” he spat out in a rush, interrupting me.
“Who?”
“My daughter,” he said, visibly worried and upset. “She’s been kidnapped.”
“By who?” I asked. My good mood had been blown all to hell and I was back to business.
“We think it was the Skalle Furia,” the man in the suit said. “The ransom request dictated terms that must be adhered to or they will execute her in forty-eight hours.”
“Marc, you have to help us get her back,” the POTUS pleaded.
“Mr. President,” I said with grim determination. “Team Havak is at your disposal. We will do everything in our power to get her back.”
“Thank you, Marc,” he said, relieved. “I'd like for you to coordinate with the leader of our highly classified, off the books, black ops group here.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied as I turned to the man in the suit. There was something about him that seemed familiar. Like I’d seen him somewhere before. The shape of his nose and the color of his eyes reminded me of someone but I couldn't put my finger on it. Like an old, long lost friend. But he was too old to have been anyone I would have been friends with. Maybe he knew my great uncle Joe. I extended my hand to the man. “Marc Havak.”
“I know who you are, son,” the man said as he took my hand and shook it. His blue eyes bore into mine with blazing intensity.
“Sorry, Marc,” the POTUS said as he began to regain some of his normal presidential confidence. “This is Colonel Thomas Havoc, spelled with an ‘O C’ at the end. He’s the leader of a super-secret hush-hush black ops group. Only three people in the world know he, and his team, even exist.”
“Havoc, huh,” I said with a chuckle. “What a coincidence.”
“Actually, it’s not, son,” Colonel Thomas replied, his eyes still locked on mine. “It’s the traditional spelling of our name.”
“Sorry, did you say our name?” I asked as I started to feel like the room was beginning to spin.
“Yes, I did,” Thomas Havoc said with a soft, yet commanding voice. “I’m your father.”
End of book 6
End Notes
Hey! Thanks for reading Arena 6. Did you like the book? If so, please leave a review and let your friends know about the series. Sales have tapered off on the series, so I’ve thought about ending it in a few more books. Any help you guys could give me would be appreciated.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Logan Jacobs