Back To The Start Box Set: Five Full-Length Novels

by Aly Martinez

  It’d been weird not having them in my life at first, but a clean break was what we’d all needed. Or at least it was what I’d needed—starting anew without the memories of the past hanging over my head with every step.

  For the first six months after our divorce, I couldn’t stomach restaurants he and I used to frequent, much less keep a relationship with his family as they all carried on with their lives—with him.

  However, the Leblanc family was a force to be reckoned with. His mom and his sister flat-out refused to accept the brush-off. In the beginning, they called daily, and when I didn’t answer, they took to showing up at my house with wine and sushi. If I’m being honest, they were the only reason I made it through that first year.

  As time passed, they slowly gave me my space, recognizing that moving on would probably involve another man. It hadn’t. At least, not yet. Though, considering my date with Jon, that might be changing.

  I reread her letter and settled on one of the wooden barstools that surrounded my large, granite island. It was a custom build—a gift from my parents when we’d first closed on our tiny starter house. I’d never forget the shock on Roman’s face when the contractor had accidentally left the bill. My parents weren’t loaded by any stretch, but I’d been born to them late in life, long after they’d given up the hopes of having children.

  My father had spoiled the hell out of me when I was growing up. Fortunately—and unfortunately, depending on at what age you’d asked me—my mom was strict as hell, so I hadn’t grown up to be a little shit. My father had been wrapped around my finger before I’d even come out of the womb, so when I was twenty-six years old, marrying a West Point graduate, Army Captain, and all-around amazing man, Daddy went over the top.

  I swear I thought his smile would swallow his face as he placed my hand in Roman’s on our wedding day. A day that had two hundred guests, a full dinner, an open bar, and an equally ridiculous price tag attached to it. But his little miracle only got married once, he’d said.

  She apparently only got divorced once, too.

  Fighting with my mind to stay grounded in the present, I grabbed the phone and dialed Kristen while I finished going through the stack of mail.

  More bills. More junk mail. A Christmas card from an overachieving client seeing as we were still two weeks from Thanksgiving. And then my body jerked as I lifted a letter from Leblanc Industries into my sights. My face flashed hot as ice formed in my veins.

  I was tearing it open just as Kristen answered.

  “You’re alive!” she greeted enthusiastically.

  “Son of a bitch,” I snarled through clenched teeth as I pulled a check from the envelope.

  “Shit. Did your hymen really grow back? I should have known better than to try my hand at the chain mail game.”

  “Your. Brother,” was all I had to say.

  She cursed under her breath. “What did Mr. Personality do now?”

  Loretta began yipping at the back door, but I ignored her demands and headed straight for the fridge.

  “Um…hello. What did Roman do?” Kristen called when I didn’t immediately reply.

  But I needed to get at least half of a bottle of wine in my system for this chat.

  “I’m drinking,” I explained.

  She sighed, knowing exactly what that meant. “Shit. How much?”

  I didn’t bother with a glass. Instead, I yanked the cork out with my teeth and then drank directly from the bottle.

  “More than the last one?” she asked when I didn’t reply.

  “Mmmhmm,” I mumbled around the bottle.

  She groaned. “Dad talked to him. I swear. We’ve all talked to him. He doesn’t listen.”

  I swallowed the mouthful of Chardonnay, making a mental note that wine should never be chugged. But that didn’t stop me from tipping it up once again.

  Kristen waited patiently on the other end of the phone until I’d finished enough to gather my thoughts. I sucked in a deep breath, silently cursing myself for having given up the meditation bullshit I’d started when we were trying to get pregnant.

  When I finally got my emotions under control, I very calmly opened my mouth and then yelled at the top of my lungs, “He doesn’t listen to anyone!”

  So much for under control.

  “I know,” she replied somberly. “How much?”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Fucking shit,” she whispered.

  I dug through my fridge, praying that a mini bottle of wine had gotten lost somewhere in the back behind the mass amounts of Tupperware filled with leftovers. I still hadn’t mastered the art of cooking for one. A stray beer from God knows when was all I found, but I quickly twisted the top off and chugged it. Beggars can’t be choosers on the hunt for intoxication in order not to kill your ex-husband.

  “This has got to stop!” I said, slamming the beer on the counter. Foam bubbled from the top. “Shit. Shit. Shit!” I rushed to the sink, making it just in time to keep it from spilling.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  I ignored the question. I was in no way okay. I was, however, pissed off, and she was the only one around to listen. “I don’t want his money. I didn’t get a say when he paid off the house. But I’ll be damned if I’m taking quarterly payouts.”

  She was quiet for a minute. And I knew what was coming. It was the same bullshit his mom had spewed when I’d first called to ask her to make him stop sending me checks over a year ago.

  “He’s trying to take care of you,” Kristen whispered.

  I barked a humorless laugh as angry tears pooled in my eyes. “Don’t you dare feed me that crap. You know better than anyone that he could have taken care of me when we were married. Now, he’s lost that right.”

  She sighed. “He started the company when y’all were still married. Technically, half of it should be yours.”

  “Technically?” I snapped, squeezing my eyes shut and gripping the phone so tight I feared it would break. “You want to talk technically, Kristen? Because, technically, Roman started that little shithole company less than twenty-four hours after Tripp died. And, technically, he ignored me for six months to get it up and running when I needed him the most. Technically, I was grief-stricken and still went back to work three weeks postpartum so he could quit his job and play scientist. Technically, that fucking company ruined my entire life. So, you know what? Technically, I don’t want shit from Rubicon, Leblanc Industries, and, most of all, Roman.” I stopped to catch my breath when a sob tore through me.

  “Jesus Christ,” she breathed.

  “Just make it stop,” I choked out. “It’s been two years. Make. Him. Stop.”

  “Okay. Okay. Calm down. I’ll talk to him again. I’ll make Mom and Dad give it another go, too.”

  My hands shook as I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m trying to move on with my life, but I swear to God he won’t fucking let me.”

  “You’re right,” she replied immediately, probably fearing another explosion. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll make it stop.”

  I swallowed hard and did my best to collect myself only to give up and polish the foamy beer off instead. “Thank you,” I grumbled, tossing the bottle and the check into the trash can on my way to the back door to let Loretta back in. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you just to bitch about your brother.”

  “It’s okay if you did, ya know. We all know he’s a prick. It’s not a newsflash. Besides, I miss you, and if you’re only willing to call and bitch, I’ll take what I can get.”

  A small smile played on my lips. “You know, I should have married you instead.”

  “Damn straight. I’m a freaking catch. It’s a shame neither one of us swings that way.”

  The anxiety slowly ebbed from my system, and my smile grew. “Definitely a shame.”

  “Okay, now that we got the ‘Roman is an asshole’ out of our systems, what’s new with you?”

  God, I’ve missed Kristen.

 
I toyed with the ends of my hair and then mumbled, “Jon asked me on a date.”

  “What!” she shrieked so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Oh my God. What did you say?”

  I sank down onto the stool and kicked my heels off. “I said, ‘Okay.’”

  Chapter Two

  Roman

  It was past seven when I’d last checked the clock. Still at the damn office, I was beyond fed up with my so-called “meeting.” With every intention of ending the bullshit once and for all, I extended my hand across my desk.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Simon Wells, the seventy-something-year-old founding CEO of Defender Armor, stared blankly at my proffered hand. “Mr. Leblanc—”

  A slow grin grew on my lips. “Simon, I believe we’re way past the formalities. Please, call me Roman.” I pushed my hand farther across my desk and leveled him with a menacing glare. “Then get the fuck out of my office.”

  His gaze jumped to mine, the corners of his eyes crinkling as they narrowed. “I’ll repeat: This is my final offer.”

  It always was.

  We’d been doing this song and dance for nearly two years. Ever since my team had created the most superior bulletproof material on the market. Rubicon, named due to its natural red coloring, was not only stronger than the competition but half the weight and thickness, making it easier to wear for long periods of time and conceal under uniforms during covert operations. In the last year, it had become the most sought-after product in the business.

  I knew it.

  And so did Simon Wells.

  Which was precisely why he was sitting in my office for the tenth time in so many months, attempting to buy a bulk order at less than half of its current asking price.

  Done with the games, I dropped my hand and stood from my chair. After fastening the top button on my suit coat, I strolled away while casually shoving a hand into the pocket of my slacks. I stopped at the door and gave him my full attention. “I hope to God this is your final offer, Simon. Because, if you come back with a number that low again, you may want to consider wearing some Rubicon of your own.” Arching an eyebrow, I dared him to argue.

  I should have known better. Simon lacked the ability to quit. It was annoying as fuck when you were across the table from him, but I suspected it was what kept his company on top for the last decade.

  The muscles in his jaw ticked as he remained in his chair. “Cops are dying out there,” he seethed through his clenched teeth.

  I shrugged. “Yes. They are. Because they’re wearing your vests. Maybe you should do something about that.”

  His fist slammed down on my desk as he shot to his feet. “You bastard! Have you no conscience? I know for a fact you made a deal with the military for half of what I’m offering.” His hand shook as he raked it through his gray hair. “Sign the fucking contracts and let those officers dying on the streets go home to their families.”

  I tipped my head to the side but otherwise remained impassive. “And how exactly would you know what the bottom line on my contract with the military read?”

  He squared his shoulders and attempted to regain his composure. A flicker of pride hit his eyes as he assumed he’d guessed correctly. “I’m not stupid, Leblanc. Word gets around.”

  He wasn’t wrong. The body armor community was small.

  For nearly fifty years, Kevlar had dominated the market. But, as new weapons and ammunition capable of penetrating the material began flooding our battlefields—and then, eventually, our streets—it was time for a change. Always the entrepreneur, I saw the literal and figurative gaping hole in the industry and pounced.

  I wasn’t a scientist though, and I quickly found myself nose-to-nose with the same brick wall most of the country was facing. Companies were pouring millions into research, knowing that the pot of gold at the end of the race was going to be astronomical.

  I didn’t have millions, but what I did have was a life I refused to face, a marriage I was hiding from, and the idea that dollar bills could fix it all. I threw myself into research, took a few investors on, and then hired the best team of scientists I could afford: two ex-cons with MIT degrees and my old Army NCO, who had been struggling to find a job in the civilian sector.

  It wasn’t exactly ideal.

  But maybe that’s why we were successful.

  Desperation was one hell of a motivator.

  For months, the four of us spent every waking moment huddled together in a makeshift lab, running on cheap coffee and fueled by hopes and dreams. Research was extensive, and failures were a daily occurrence.

  Too heavy.

  Too thick.

  Too bulky.

  Until Rubicon.

  One day, I woke up miserable, alone, and broke.

  The next, I woke up miserable, alone, and in the running for Time magazine’s man of the year.

  In a matter of months of going live with our product, Leblanc Industries had revolutionized the entire market—if not the world.

  And it was exactly why Mr. Wells was beating my door down in order to save his own business. People weren’t buying his second-rate products anymore, and as the days passed, Defender Armor fell deeper and deeper into the hole.

  Now, he was hoping I could save his ass.

  But I’d never been known as a philanthropist.

  And his idle threats only served to piss me off.

  He had no fucking clue what he was talking about when it came to my sales. Because, if he did, he’d have known that I sold Rubicon to the military for a quarter of what he was offering me. But the difference was the military wasn’t using my product in flak jackets and then selling it at four times what they’d paid, which was exactly what Wells was planning to do.

  The Army was using it to save lives. If I hadn’t had employees who needed to be paid, I would have given it to the government at cost. I’d watched too many good soldiers die during my time in service not to want our men and women equipped with the very best. I would have loved to arm our police forces with it as well, but that did not mean giving my product away so another company could profit from it.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have the facility readily available to make the body armor. And Wells didn’t have my product. We were at a stalemate.

  He couldn’t afford me. And I couldn’t go at it alone—at least, not yet.

  The good news for me was that Rubicon had dozens of other uses that kept our bank accounts overflowing. And, as far as I knew, bulletproof vests were a rather niche market.

  He needed me far more than I’d ever need him.

  “This is ludicrous!” Wells growled.

  I nodded matter-of-factly. “I agree. Now, get the hell out and don’t come back unless you’re ready to sign my contracts. No revisions.”

  His eyes burned into me as he finally moved toward the door, pausing just before leaving. “You know, I expected more from you. Former soldier, now CEO. I love a rags-to-riches story just as much as the next guy. It does the whole world well to be reminded that hard work pays off. But then there are men like you who disgrace us all by allowing the money and power to go to your head. It’d do you well to remember where you came from, because if you keep this up, I have a feeling you’ll be back in that dingy garage lab sooner than you think.”

  My lips thinned, but I took a step forward, once again extending my hand for a shake. “Then perhaps it’s good that I’ll have you to save me a spot in the unemployment line.”

  The vein in his forehead bulged as he nearly vibrated with anger. “You—”

  Turning, I gave him my back and strolled back to my desk. “Have a good day, Simon.”

  Moments later, the door to my office slammed and my whole body sagged.

  “Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”

  The intercom on my phone buzzed immediately. “Mr. Leblanc, your sister is on line one. She’s been calling for the last hour and says it’s important.”

  Fucking great. I loved my sister, but Kristen had ex
actly two speeds in our relationship: bitch at me or bitch to me. And, considering we’d had dinner the night before and she’d bitched to me for nearly three hours about a dickhead she’d slept with and then he hadn’t returned her calls, I figured her calling with something important meant I was going to get bitched at.

  I groaned, preparing for whatever shitstorm she was about to drop at my feet.

  “What’s up, Kit-Kat?” I asked, after lifting the receiver to my ear.

  “Oh, don’t you dare ‘Kit-Kat’ me.”

  Yep. Bitch-at-me mode.

  I switched the phone to my other ear and wedged it against my shoulder as I fired my computer up. “I’m seriously not in the mood to take your shit tonight. I’ve had an old man up my ass all fucking day. I really don’t need you joining him.”

  “I just got off the phone with Elisabeth. She’s getting remarried.”

  My body solidified, causing the phone to fall from my ear. Scrambling after it, I ignored the way my chest constricted.

  I reminded myself that it was what I’d always wanted for her—to find someone who made her happy and could give her the things I never could. I just hadn’t considered how much it’d hurt when it finally happened.

  Slowly lifting the phone back to my ear, I licked my lips and opened my mouth, but not a single word escaped.

  “Roman?” she probed.

  I cleared my throat, strapping on the false bravado. “Good for her. This is important to me how?”

  “You have to stop sending her checks. Her fiancé is livid about it.”

  Now, that made me smile. “Sounds like a personal problem. That money is hers. If her man has a problem with her past, I’d be happy to have a talk with him. Set him straight.” Before I killed him.

  I swear I heard her roll her eyes from across the line.

  “Right,” she said. “Just what every woman wants. The new guy having a chat with the old guy. Especially when the old guy is still in love with you.”

  “I’m not still in love with her,” I growled. That would imply I’d ever been out of love with her. “And this is not my problem. So, if that’s all you called to say, I need to get back to work.” Or, more likely, down a bottle of scotch.