NEXT TO ME (A Love Happens Novel Book 1)

by Watters, Jodi

  ***

  Ali stepped into the empty elevator and quickly punched the button for the sixteenth floor. Although it was spacious and spotlessly clean, all tricked out in beveled mirrors, plush carpeting and silver trim, with soft jazz and the smell of fresh linens piping through the vents, she was grateful to be the sole rider. It was the kind of elevator one would expect in the modern office building, each suite housing some professional—and pricey—this, that or the other. Not even her lawyer had such nice digs and Ali’s pocketbook knew, she was pricey.

  Smoothing a hand over her tight black sweater and lace trimmed, leopard print pencil skirt, Ali gripped the white envelope in her fingers and took a deep, calming breath.

  It didn’t help one iota.

  This was the most nervous she’d been since the first night Sam had walked into her house. The night when what should have been drinks between two virtual strangers had turned into Ali panting like a cat in heat on the kitchen counter, her fancy panties wet and Sam’s handsome face plastered against her breasts. Oh, great. So along with her erratic breathing, her face was now red and she was starting to sweat. Anybody looking at her would think she’d just run the sixteen flights of stairs instead of taking the posh elevator.

  Before she was ready, a soft bell dinged overhead and the tapestry paneled door swished open, revealing a large, glass walled office suite directly across the wide corridor. The double door entry invited people to step inside the comfortably contemporary space, done in shades of charcoal and ivory. It was easy for visitors to assume a stuffy brokerage firm or swanky law office resided there. Until they saw the enormous, black and white mechanical drawing of what appeared to be an AK-47 to Ali’s untrained eye, boldly printed and framed in thick, black barbed wire. Perfectly placed for maximum impact, it hung at eye level directly over the front desk, the oddly refined piece of artwork a focal point for all to admire. Made from rough, natural materials, it depicted an uncivilized and intimidating, yet sophisticated looking, lethal firearm.

  Ali had to smile. It was so very Sam.

  He was here, she knew. His low slung sports car was parked in a reserved spot near the main entrance, gleaming brightly in the sunlight. Just the sight of it had made her palms sweat. Not knowing what to expect when she she saw him, Ali squared her shoulders and stepped off the elevator, praying Grady was right.

  Last night—or technically early this morning, when her life had taken a sharp left turn into a cheesy Lifetime Movie of the Week—the door had barely slammed shut behind Sam when Grady had looked at her with a straight face and said, “This is gonna sound crazy, but all of that,” using his index finger, he’d circled the room, “was because he cares about you.” Despite feeling like she might bawl her way through the next decade, Ali had laughed in disbelief but her deranged, yet loyal friend with excellent facial hair had been undeterred. “I know Sam, Ali. And if he didn’t care about you, and I mean really care, he would’ve given you an awkward pat on the back, mumbled some stupid nonsense about the circle of life, and hotfooted it out of here before things got any more messy.” Reaching out, he laid his hand on top of hers. “I don’t have a clue about the what, why and where that’s burning hot and heavy between the two of you, and trust me, I don’t want to. But what I do know is that shitstorm of a speech Sam just gave was him in full self-preservation mode.”

  Grady’s pep talk had given her two things she’d sorely been in need of. Hope and courage.

  And it was a damn good thing, too, because when she looked up and saw a stunningly beautiful woman staring at her curiously from behind the sleek, white front counter, it took everything Ali had not to turn tail and run. Sporting long, inky black hair and blunt bangs, with ruby colored cat eye glasses and lipstick to match, she looked like a mix between a retro pin up girl and a petite dictator.

  “Welcome.” Her quirky, questioning grin did little to put Ali at ease. “How may I help you?”

  Forcing a smooth smile in return, Ali darted a quick look past the woman’s narrow shoulder, seeing a wide hallway with opened doorways lining each side. “I was hoping to speak with Sam.”

  “Hmm...” Her fingers, with nails painted the same color as her glasses, flew across a small keyboard, precisely placed in front of the thinnest computer monitor Ali had ever seen. “Was he expecting you? Do you have an appointment he forgot to mention to me?”

  “Umm, no. I don’t have an appointment.” Butterflies fluttered in her stomach.

  “Unfortunately, he’s in a meeting right now. What services are you looking for? I can have you speak with someone else.” More rapid tapping, then, “Beckett Smith is available. He’s quite capable. And very dashing. Has these hypnotic green eyes that’ll give a girl the shivers.”

  The comment was less female appreciation and more statement of fact.

  “I just need a few minutes. Can you tell him Ali’s here?” Glancing down the hallway again, she wondered what would happen if she started going door to door.

  Reading her mind, the woman leaned slightly to the side, as if she was prepared to make a full body tackle if necessary. Instead, she gestured toward the only closed door at the end of the short hall, obviously leading into one of the suite’s executive offices, and said, “The closed door means he’s unavailable. For a man with an open door policy, a closed one means some seriously heavy shit is going down in there. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t care who you are. I am not interrupting him.”

  Well, hell. Short of storming the place, Ali wasn’t getting past the pit bull slash calendar girl Sam had working the front office. Fingers tightening on the envelope clasped in her hand, she quickly thought through her next move, noticing a silver framed photograph sitting on the credenza behind the desk. Three little boys, the youngest a tiny infant wearing a camouflage onesie, posed adorably for the camera. A small pang fluttered near the vicinity of her heart.

  And Ali had no freaking business feeling pangs.

  “Can I borrow a pen and paper, please?” Not her preferred form of communication, but thanks to the strictly enforced closed door policy in this place, she was in a bind.

  The keeper of the gates nodded and swept her eyes down Ali’s body, from her painstakingly hot-rollered hair to her knee-high, stiletto suede boots, which were currently causing her a serious amount of foot pain. “Are you the reason Sam has been smiling so much lately? Normally, he does a lot of frowning. But these days? More smiling.”

  “I don’t know how to answer that.” Feeling a blush bloom on her cheeks, Ali looked away from the knowing grin and stared at the blank sheet of paper. She quickly jotted down the first thing that came to mind.

  Just then the front doors swished open and Ali turned, following the woman’s eyes as she smiled broadly. A man, taller than Sam by a few inches and just as strikingly handsome but in a rugged, unnerving way, walked in carrying a long, thick duffel bag in one hand—and Ali was sure it didn’t hold hockey sticks—and two large coffee containers in the other. His eyes assessed her instantly, more objective than interested, and he nodded in that universal way all men did. The one that said hello, how are you, and have a nice day all at once. His frayed cargo pants and faded black t-shirt gave the impression that he didn’t care about his appearance, but years spent rubbing elbows with people who came from money meant Ali could see right through that. The black Rolex and stylishly messy, hundred dollar haircut gave him away. She didn’t judge him for it, though. The fact that he was tracking in dirt from his muddy boots proved there was a rebel underneath those well fitting, but worn out clothes.

  He held out the large hand easily gripping both coffee cups and the woman put a palm over her heart and sighed. “Is one of those for me?” she asked, hopefully.

  “Got your name on it, doesn’t it?” the man said, his voice matching the rest of him. One part heavy grit sandpaper, one part smooth Kentucky bourbon.

  “An iced vanilla caramel latte, no ice, right?” She took the cup marked Carrie. “With non-fat so
y milk?”

  He looked at her as if to say, ‘you know it is, because I don’t make mistakes,’ and walked past them and down the hall, toward the open office door right next to Sam’s closed one. An aura of capability surrounded him like an invisible cloud.

  “I hope you don’t think this means I’ll call you Mr. Coleson for the rest of the day,” she called out to his retreating back.

  He looked over a broad shoulder, but didn’t stop. “Sir will do.”

  She barked out a sarcastic laugh in response and took a fortifying sip of the latte. Ali had watched the whole scene unfold without a word, but got the feeling that a similar exchange took place frequently.

  “I’m Caroline Mendoza, by the way.” Setting the cup down on the organized desk, she turned her full attention back to Ali, politely looking past the small bandage on her neck without commenting, and smoothed a hand down her abdomen. “I really like your skirt. Does it have a built in body shaper? I recently had a baby, you know.” Motioning toward the source of Ali’s unwelcome ovary explosion, the photo, she sighed. “Nursing bras and Spanx are my go to pieces of clothing right now. If your husband ever promises you a girl baby if you’ll let him forgo birth control,” she made air quotes, “‘just this once,’ take it from me and don’t believe him.”

  Ali laughed out loud at the completely inappropriate advice. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Oh, and don’t fall for the ‘just the tip’ argument, either.” She shook her head and pointed directly at the oldest boy in the picture. “It’s a dirty trick.”

  Feeling a weird sort of kinship begin, Ali grinned and folded her hastily written note, stuffing it inside the envelope and sealing it quickly. Sliding it across the desk, she said, “Can you make sure he gets this, please? As soon as possible?” Caroline nodded and reached for it. “It’s really important,” Ali added, with a final glance at Sam’s still closed office door.

  Smiling her thanks, she left the same way she came, trying not to dwell on the fact that she had dressed to the nines and done her hair and make up for no damn good reason. She should have stayed in bed, hiding under the covers and waiting for the shame to diminish. Closing her eyes as the elevator silently descended, she acknowledged the guilt and weariness weighing heavily on her. Danny was dead and she was responsible. Her deceptive actions had set in motion a fate she had never intended and people had gotten hurt, in one extreme way or another. Ali had only wanted him to leave her alone. To make him see she had a life without him, which included a strong man that would easily stand up to him should he decide to come looking for her. The possibility of a real, physical confrontation between Sam and Danny had never crossed her mind.

  Prepared for Danny’s visit last night, her strategy had been simple. Make sure he broke a window to gain access into the house, therefore triggering the alarm. Disengaging it, she would hit the panic button and wait for the authorities to arrive momentarily, all the while keeping Danny distracted. Getting him to talk, which was one of his favorite things to do, was the best option. The police would show up and arrest him for not only breaking into her house and violating the restraining order, but for multiple probation violations. According to the State of New Jersey, he couldn’t contact his victim—which was her—in any way, shape or form, nor could he cross state lines. Surely, no judge would ignore all that evidence. The law would punish him again, and he would leave her alone for good.

  Her mama’s voice rang loud and clear in her mind. Be careful what you wish for, Ali Ann, because you just might get it.

  The other thing she had gotten was the brutally raw, cringe-inducing wrath of a highly pissed off Sam Gleeson. And while it hadn’t been pretty or pleasant to endure, she had deserved every last harsh word he’d thrown her way. The horrible scene had been replaying in her mind repeatedly and each time, she wished she would’ve said something. Apologized. Begged for forgiveness. Declared her love. Instead, she’d let him walk out of her house thinking he was nothing but a means to an end, all because his ferocious reaction had hurt her feelings. It was your classic hypocrisy at its finest.

  But Ali wasn’t going to let pride stand in her way of happiness. And she wasn’t going to lay low and lick her wounds while Sam forgot about her. She was going to fight for what she wanted, even if she had to get dirty while doing it.

  The white envelope was a peace offering. An olive branch. Now all she could do was wait for Sam to take it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After a hellishly long meeting with Ray Berg and a subdued Dwayne Jackson, who was downright contrite even though Sam stood firm and refused to reinstate his contract, Ash ambled into his office to brief him on the missionary rescue.

  Which meant when Sam asked him how things went, he simply replied, “Routine.”

  In true Asher fashion, he made himself comfortable leaning back against the edge of the wide window sill overlooking downtown San Diego, preferring to sit near the perimeter of the room instead of the oversized chairs meant for exactly that. The corners of his mouth tipped up at the sides, silently sizing him up, and Sam’s bad mood kicked in. “What?”

  Nearly grinning, Ash slowly shook his head. “You look like somebody pissed in your Cheerios this morning.” Not expecting a response, his expression turned pensive as he stretched his legs out in front of him. “Something’s going on with Beck. His focus is off.”

  Concerned but not surprised, Sam leaned back in his chair. He’d sent Beckett out an hour ago to repair Ali’s broken back door. After grumbling about running what was clearly a personal errand for Sam, he’d simply nodded and left to take care of it. “Could it just be fatigue? Or do you think it’s more serious than that?”

  Ash shrugged. “That might be a small part of it. Never saw him sleep a wink even when there was opportunity. But hell, Sam, we’ve all gone days without decent sleep before and still stayed sharp. He was by the book the entire op, just distracted. And isolated. He’s playing hard at hiding it, but I can see it in his eyes. His mind is getting to him again. If it ever stopped.”

  “What’s Nolan saying?” Nolan was the closest thing to a best friend Beck probably had and the two stuck together like glue. If he was talking to anyone, it was Nolan.

  “Nothing. Tells him everything’s fine. Tells me that, too.”

  Sam felt his concern go up a notch. “Do you think he’s using? If so, we need to have him tested. And sit him until we know, either way.”

  A lot of guys returned from combat fucked up, in one way or another. The majority probably had everlasting, negative affects to at least a small degree, but there were those with more severe symptoms. Some chose to seek help, whether that be in the form of various therapies or medication. Some chose to endure it alone, overcoming it through sheer will and a touch of denial, lucky if any of their loved ones were still standing when they did. And some, like Beckett Smith, turned inward and coveted privacy, plowing silently through anxiety filled days and nights while a demon nipped at his heels. Except that they’d all noticed his tendency to have a few too many at the end of the day. Or when he showed up in the morning, always on time and ready to go, but slightly hungover from a private party he’d held the night before. So far, there had been no signs of drug use, but that could easily be Beck’s next outlet.

  The possibility was on Ash’s mind, too, but he shook his head. “Naw, I don’t think he’s that far gone. Never saw him take anything or try to hide any of his gear. Might be getting close, though. I’ll have Nolan nose around a bit and report back.”

  Sam nodded, but knew there was a fine line between brotherly concern and invasion of privacy. “It’s not a crime to be anti-social, Ash. You, of all people, should know that. Let’s just keep an eye on him for the time being.”

  Asher seemed to agree with Sam’s wait and see approach, and didn’t deny his own tendency to isolate. “I’m socially selective, there’s a difference. And I ran into Jason last week. Stopped and talked with him for ten minutes straight. That’s plenty social
, if you ask me.”

  Jason Reynolds was an active duty Navy SEAL and about the biggest bad ass Sam had ever come across. Hardened to everything, he was worse than Asher when it came to showing emotions and building relationships, and that was saying something. Ash was hardhearted. Jason was plain and simple hardcore. And for some goddamn reason, the ladies loved him. In their younger days, when they all happened to be stateside, they’d hit up a seedy bar for a few games of pool and a few too many tequila shooters. Jason would do his thing, showing little regard for the female attention directed his way. Stalking around the pool table, making bank shot after bank shot, he’d fend off the more aggressive women who dared to approach using only a subtle but unmistakable shake of his head. And some of those women had been damn fine. He drew all kinds, from the leather miniskirt and fishnets type to the buttoned up blouse and low black pumps, repressed kind. More often than not, he left alone at the end of the night, but when he didn’t, it was a sight to see how little work he had to put in, to get a woman to put out. One night in particular had gone down in history, with Sam and Ash watching in awe. Finishing his last beer, Jason had simply tipped the empty bottle toward a brunette sitting at a barstool a good fifty feet away. She’d been watching the table and it hadn’t gone unnoticed, but she wasn’t one of the unlucky who’d approached, only to get the hard brush off from the guy they called Tin Man. Without hesitation, the woman had signed her credit card slip and walked toward the door, waiting patiently while Jason threw down a few bills to cover their tab before walking to the exit, opening the door so the brunette could precede him out and presumable toward a conveniently located hotel. She had accepted his wordless invitation without so much as a how do you do.

  Sam’s voice was skeptical. “And? How’s the hard sell coming? I’m sure you worked him over with your good-natured wit and charm. Did you remind him that we offer an extensive benefits package and a war-zone free working environment? At least, most of the time.”