Alphas & Fairytales: A New Year's Eve Anthology

by Molly McLain

  Also By Anne Mercier

  THE ROCKSTAR SERIES

  Falling Down (Rockstar Book 1)

  Blush (Rockstar Book 2)

  A Very Xander Christmas (Rockstar Book 2.5)

  Amplify (Rockstar Book 3)

  Interlude (Rockstar Book 4)

  Ballad (Rockstar Book 5)

  Lullabye (Rockstar Book 6)

  A Very Xander Christmas 2 (Rockstar Book 6.5)

  Kadence (Rockstar Book 7)

  A Very Xander Christmas 3 (Rockstar Book 8)

  Duet (Rockstar Book 8.5)

  Rockstar Box Set 1 (Books 1 - 3)

  Rockstar Box Set (4 - 6.5)

  THE WAY SERIES

  The Way Back To Me (The Way Book 1)

  The Way With You (The Way Book 2)

  As The Tide Turns

  USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  BT URRUELA

  As The Tide Turns

  Copyright © 2016 BT URRUELA

  All Rights Reserved

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely co-incidental.

  * * *

  Any opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author.

  Chapter 1

  There are a thousand little quirks that come with being an amputee, but these days it's all just second nature. I don't even realize I'm missing a leg half the time… until it hurts that is. But I manage. Five years ago, when I was in a combat hospital in the middle of a fucking war zone, a mangled nub where my leg should've been... that’s a different story entirely. It's funny how as they’re happening, the worst moments in our lives are unbearable desperate things. But years ahead, in a different place and looking back, they can seem so foreign and distant. Like they never happened at all. You’re just an outsider looking in. With enough time, all wounds heal. It's just a matter of how thick the scar tissue is after.

  Me? I choose to bury myself in my work. I don't talk about my days as a Ranger or my time battling PTSD either. I wear a memorial band with my best friend’s name on it, but I don’t discuss it. It's in my past, and that's where I want it to stay buried.

  That’s why I love being a bodyguard. It's a solitary job. Clients don’t often talk to you and you surely don't care to talk to them. Or at least I don’t. Our job is to watch. To listen. To analyze everything in any given place, at any given time, no matter what. That's what gets me the good money. I'm proficient at what I do because I work twenty-four seven and I don't want to be your buddy. Some of these celebrities do want that in their security, but I'm quick to let them know I'm not their guy. And we aren’t that company.

  They hire me to protect them, not to stroke their fucking egos.

  Now don't get me wrong, I'm no celebrity hater. I have many clients who've impressed me. Denzel is the fucking man. And for the most part, Savannah Jordan hasn't given me much reason to hate her either, but I know her type. I've watched her friends as they selfie and reapply their lipstick on a constant rotating basis. She doesn't seem quite like the rest of them, a little more reserved and soft spoken. She sure doesn’t seem as vapid, but again, how am I to know? I don't get personal with my clients. In our three weeks working for Ms. Jordan, I've spoken with her only briefly. All business. She’s pushed for more, but I’m always quick to shut it down.

  There are three of us watching over her and her friends tonight in this vast arena for what is one of the biggest MMA cards and charity events of the year. Twelve of them in all, a healthy mix of males and females, who have yet to take their seats and the alcohol is flowing freely, which makes our job that much more difficult. Tito, Brad and I stand before strategically picked seats surrounding the group. I'm watching the point a row behind them, and Tito and Brad are on either side. They're both big brutal motherfuckers tatted to high hell just like I am. Both served with me in Iraq and Afghanistan multiple times. Both I trust more than anyone.

  They’re my only family.

  Tito was one of my best soldiers. A high school football standout, he fell into gang life soon after, before eventually deciding to enlist in the Army. Like most of us, he got sick of deployments and the quickly changing military climate, and got the fuck on out a few years later. He’s got the mind and attention span of a fourteen-year-old, but he’s as loyal as they come. Not to mention the strongest motherfucker I know.

  Brad is a corn-fed fuck I grew up with in Iowa. He wrestled all throughout high school and two years for the University of Iowa before his brother was killed in combat. That was all it took for him to give up his full ride and enlist. I finished up my writing degree and joined him soon after. He is the brother I never had and my business partner in Security Elite Services. The difference between him and I? He loves showing these girls attention. He’s got a nice post-military beer gut starting to form, but he’s a good-looking guy. And he can spit game with the best of them. These girls eat that shit right up.

  I work a hand around my belt to a little radio control clipped to it, my eyes still scanning the mess of people, lights and movement. I press the call button and static fizzles over the line.

  “Brad,” I say quietly, the mic clipped inside my tux jacket more than capable of picking me up. “Focus. Cut the flirting.”

  He's mid conversation with Alexis James, a YouTube superstar and typical Barbie type, when his eyes dart up toward me. I shoot him a quick stern glance, just to drive my point home, and the smile fades from his face. He rolls his eyes and brushes me off.

  In my peripheral I can see Alexis pouting, but fuck her. This is our career. If she gets fucked up, or God forbid somebody kills her, like that poor Christina Grimmie chick…well then, that's on us. I've had men under me die. All three of us have. It's not pretty. It's also not something that can be erased.

  It sticks with you forever.

  As my gaze fixes on the swaying crowd of thousands, I feel a soft touch against my hand and it startles me. I shoot my eyes down to Savannah as she rears back, concern thick in her face.

  “You okay?” she asks, putting her hands up in defense. I force a slight smile while letting my attention return back to the commotion around me. And of course trying my best not to watch the two dudes kicking the shit out of each other as I have been all night. I do love me some MMA.

  “Yeah, sorry, didn’t see you there,” I mumble, trying my best to show no interest in further conversation.

  “Isn’t that your job?” she asks playfully and I pass her a crooked glare.

  “I saw you. Just busy watching all the chaos around you as well,” I lie, my eyes fixed back on the crowd, much to her behest as she bobs her head into my sightline.

  “Why are you always so hard on Brad?” she asks, that gorgeous smile still planted on her face, rich golden curls framing her flawless cheeks and making it hard to maintain focus. I can see how she found her way to the red carpet. This woman is breathtaking.

  “Brad’s got a job to do,” I say. “And seeing as it’s protecting you and your friends, I’d say you and I should be on the same page here.”

  “It’s just harmless flirting. I’m technically paying you all and I say he can flirt all he wants.” She giggles, a buzzed little glow about her.

  “Well, as majority owner, and with interest in only the safety of you and your friends, I’ll have to veto that decision.”

  “You sure do have a stick up your ass, don’t you, GI Joe?” she says, again in a playful tone, but with a little more bite to it this time.

  “I’d rather a stick up my ass than blood on my hands, Ms. Jordan,” I say, looking her dead in the eyes with the last of it to ensure she hears me loud and clear. She huffs and brushes me off with her hand, turning and heading back to the mess of blondes and douchebags who make up her entourage. She glances back one last time, catching my stare, and she blows me a kiss. �
�It’s Savannah to you. Stop making me feel so damn old,” she calls out before grabbing a beer from one of her friends and tossing it back. I just shake my head.

  “Now would that be considered flirting?” I hear Brad say over the radio. I look to him and he has a wry little smile on his face.

  “Not even close. I believe it’s called an unwanted distraction,” I respond.

  “Oh, c’mon Jason. Ain’t shit gonna happen. It never does,” Brad says, directing his attention back to the crowd, though Alexis is doing everything in her power to distract him.

  “You know just as well as I do that shit can happen at any time,” I say.

  “Shit, maybe in combat,” Tito grunts into the mic. “This ain’t combat... mind numbing is what it is. Is it bad I’m kinda hoping something happens for boredom’s sake?”

  “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty fucked up,” Brad says with a chuckle.

  “Says the jackass that’s got every starlet up his fuckin’ ass. I’d probably be having a good God damn time too,” Tito complains.

  Brad shrugs, a cocky smirk on his face. “Hey, I can’t help that I’m so beautiful,” he says, brushing his shoulder off.

  “Alright, guys. Let’s focus here. There’s a whole hell of a lot going on,” I say.

  “A hell of a lot of nothin’,” Brad says sarcastically. “At least the fights are good.”

  “Okay, okay, first off you shouldn’t be watching the fights, numb nuts. Second, this isn’t an environment we work very often. Just keep focused, please.”

  “How much of the event is left anyways?” Tito asks, ignoring my last request.

  “We’ve got just the main event after this, so not much longer. We need to actually start preparing to funnel out of this place, so please, let’s get our heads in the game.”

  “Aye aye, captain,” Brad says with a pseudo salute and it wins him a heavy eye roll and a middle finger scratch to the cheek.

  Chapter 2

  Beyond the gaggle fuck of people leaving the arena, moving our group to the gala area wasn’t as much of a pain in the ass as I presumed it would be. Unfortunately, this area is what I was worried about the most. When they were reasonably locked in one spot in the arena it was fairly easy. Now that they have the ability to wander around this massive space with hundreds of people dancing and intermingling, that creates some problems.

  I can feel the anxiety beginning to crowd my brain like a vise… blood pressure rising… vigilance peaks. We try our best to keep them in no more than three groups, but that’s just a pipe dream with how drunk and sporadic some of these people have become. My main priority, however, is Savannah Jordan. She’s the one who hired me. She’s the one I’ll be watching like a hawk. I only hope Tito and Brad are holding up their end.

  “Brad, what’s your position?” I ask through the mic, my eyes on Tito across the room with one group, another in my vicinity, but no sight of Brad.

  There’s a moment of silence, then the radio crackles and Brad’s voice comes over the line. “Another piss break for Alexis,” he responds.

  “Brad, I swear to God, I hope you’re not doing what I think you are,” I say, knowing full well this man’s weakness for the opposite sex.

  There’s a woman’s giggle over the line and then Brad says, “Nah, man, piss break. Like I said.”

  “I hate you, B,” I say flatly and he laughs.

  “You love me and you know it. Be back out in a few. Waiting on one of the Bieber clones to finish up. Little fucker is taking longer than her,” Brad says, another giggle coming from Alexis in the background.

  I wave for Tito, who’s across the room, until he sees me and I motion for him to come over. He obliges, hulking across the dance floor and catching more than a few admiring glances.

  “What up, boss?” Tito asks, brushing the slick, midnight black hair from his face.

  “Tell me Brad isn’t fucking that chick,” I say, an eyebrow arched.

  “Nah, Jason, he’s not that much of a whore. They’re just flirting anyways. You know he’s got that shit going on with his baby momma right now,” he says with a chuckle.

  “And when has that ever gotten in the way?” I ask and Tito full out laughs this time putting a hand to his stomach.

  “You got me there!” he cracks, still laughing.

  “Hey, what are we talking about?” I hear Brad ask just behind me as I see Alexis and the dude she came with scurrying past me. Her eyes are on me though and she passes me a wink before turning around again as they make their way toward Tito’s group.

  “Tito, get back over there if ya could. Eyes peeled.” Tito nods and heads off as I pull Brad in.

  “Brother, this is your business too. We have to keep shit professional,” I whisper and he pulls back, his eyes rolling and head shaking from side to side in disbelief.

  “Jason, how long have you known me? You just gotta trust me, man.” He scoffs and nods toward Alexis, who now is gathered with the whole group, their attention to the stage as announcements are made to take their seats soon.

  “Would I tap the shit out of that on my own time? You better fuckin’ believe it. But I’m not dumb enough to do it here. Not when we have a job to do. It’s harmless, my brother,” he says, beginning to walk off, but motioning for me to follow. He shoots a smirk back.

  “You coming or what? We’ve got a job to do, no?”

  Little shit.

  Chapter 3

  The gala is much more manageable now with everyone’s asses in their seats and shoveling the first of four courses and more alcohol down their gullets. It’s quite funny to see each tuxed-out bodyguard lining the venue walls, about fifteen of us in all, along with MGM security pacing the room. I’m not sure why I’ve even been so uptight. This place is like Fort fucking Knox. Habit, I guess. Those little military behaviors you can never quite shake. That two a.m. walk through the house with a 12-gauge after hearing a sound mentality. That pick out all the things in your vicinity that could be used as a weapon if the guy in front of you robs the 7-11 type of mentality. I don’t hate myself for it. I’m more prepared for anything than anyone else because of this hyper-vigilance. But it would be nice to let up every now and then.

  As bow-tied waiters and waitresses deliver second courses, a well-dressed, older gentleman steps up to the podium, standing tall and clearing his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he addresses the crowd, “I thank you for participating in the first ever VETSports Fight Night and Black Tie Affair here at the beautiful MGM.” He lifts his hands and motions around the immaculate room. “All the funds raised today will go toward supporting VETSports, which is a 501(c)3 non-profit organization helping veterans transition through team sports and community involvement.”

  His last bit catches my attention and pulls it to the stage. I’d known the basics of the event—that it was a charity fundraiser for a sports organization of some sort—but hadn’t paid much attention to what the organization actually was.

  “For those who don’t know me,” the gentleman continues, “I am the President and Board Director of VETSports, Ed Meyer. I am a veteran myself, having served twenty years in the Air Force, and I know how hard it can be to transition into a world much different than the one you lived in for so long. I’ve been able to witness VETSports grow from helping thousands in a handful of states on the eastern seaboard, to serving millions across all fifty states in our great nation. This could not be done without the incredible generosity of donors like you.”

  He smiles, his eyes narrowing through the dimly lit venue to the table just before me. The table where Savannah and her friends sit.

  “This brings me to my greatest honor of the night, and that is welcoming our largest donor this year, at one point five million dollars, to the stage.” He presents a hand to the same table. “Ladies and gentlemen, please bring your hands together for Ms. Savannah Jordan. Not only is she an Academy Award-winning actress, not only is she a box office sensation, folks, but she has given mor
e than five million dollars to our programs over the last three years.”

  Applause erupts as Savannah stands, a timid smile on her face, and she sets the napkin to her chair. The look of unease as the deafening applause welcomes her to the stage is endearing. Nearly as endearing as the fact that this woman isn’t like all the rest of them after all.

  She ascends the steps with the help of a greeter. Swaying gracefully toward the presenter, he embraces her for a moment before letting go, a wide smile on his face. He then directs his attention back to the mic. “Savannah, thank you for all that you do for the veterans of this country who have given so much. We are honored to have you here as our keynote speaker and title sponsor. And really, the reason this event even came to fruition.”

  Savannah smiles, that same timid smile, as she nods her head toward the older gentleman in appreciation. He steps to the side, bringing his hands together as she approaches the podium, her eyes falling on the crowded room.

  “Thank you, Ed,” she begins, followed by a quick clearing of her throat. “The honor is all mine… to be able to support and contribute to an organization that is doing so much for our veterans. As some of you may know, my father, US Army Captain David Jordan, was hit and killed by a roadside bomb in January of 2012 in Afghanistan. I will never forget what that loss did to me and my family, but I will also never appreciate anything more than the sacrifice my father gave that terrible day. And I know in my heart he’d give it again in just the same way if he had the opportunity. He lived and breathed for serving our country, and as kids, my sister and I…” Savannah pauses, her gaze roaming to her table, and to her sister, Vanessa, who is equally beautiful. Vanessa dabs at her eyes with a cloth napkin, but a small smile peeks out from behind it.