No Good Truth (Bad To Be Good, Book 2)

by Dana Volney

  No Good Truth

  Dana Volney

  Copyright © 2017 by Dana Volney. All rights reserved.

  Published by CreateSpace

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  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.

  Cover Art by Kasmit Covers

  Formatting by Jesse Gordon

  Editing by Julie Sturgeon of CEO Editor

  IBSN 10: 1545059225 (CreateSpace)

  IBSN 13: 978-1545059227 (CreateSpace)

  The best gift you can give yourself

  is the realization that you are not alone.

  Acknowledgments

  To the glorious woman I call editor and friend, Julie Sturgeon: The amount of your awesomeness was too great to even comprehend this go-round (on both the personal and professional level). Your insight into this story was badass. Thank you for your best!

  Jami Wagner: Thank you for keeping me going (I know that’s a big task!) and for being an excellent sounding board for plotting (and basically all things), an insightful critique partner, and meticulous beta reader! Being on this journey together has truly made the experience brighter and fuller.

  Ashley Blevins: Thank you for being there every step of the way. This self-publishing journey would be a lot different without you. I appreciate all of your marketing (and so much more) assistance!

  Brina Courtney: Thank you for your outstanding blurb writing skills! I appreciate all of your help on publicity for the Bad To Be Good series.

  Thank you to Kasmit Covers for the sexy, sexy cover and social media artwork!

  Thank you to Jesse Gordon for your mad formatting skills!

  To my unfailingly supportive family, thank you for championing me and helping to make my dreams possible. I appreciate you more than I’ll ever be able to put into words.

  Thank you to my friends, family, writing group cohorts, and readers who have and continue to support my dreams. You inspire me every day and are appreciated!

  Chapter One

  “What are we still doing here, Claire?”

  “For the hundredth time, recon on a club.” She leaned back in the passenger seat of the 1980s truck Samson used for stake-outs and covered her lips with her hand that was braced on the door. It was either that or smack him, slam the old red and white door, and walk home in her boots. Her gaze dropped to her black Maddens. She wouldn’t get far before having to call an Uber.

  Samson tapped his index fingers on the steering wheel to whatever stupid tune was playing in his head. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to admit that your famed intuition was dead wrong on this one.” He took a little too much pleasure in her potential failure.

  She swung her head to face him. “I’m not wrong.” This teamwork deal wasn’t going to work if she was going to be paired only with Samson. They needed a buffer, or four. “I said I’d come here alone.”

  A quick chuckle made his head bob. “Give me a break.”

  “Gladly.” Literally.

  Being stuck in a truck with her ex-lover wasn’t the night Claire had planned. Yet here she sat.

  “I’m bringing Sabene with me next time.” They’d been here for four hours already and neither of them had said anything nice. So they’d stopped talking. They’d been forced to work together for two months now—which consisted of good days where they didn’t talk and bad days where each purposefully annoyed the other.

  It was an icy relationship.

  “Fine by me.” He scratched his scruff and the noise raked on her last nerve. She rolled her eyes and sighed. If only one of the other team members had been available. But no. This smooth talking, lying, cheating bastard was the only one who could accompany her tonight to check out a lead on a new case she’d received this afternoon.

  Samson turned in his seat to face her, his full lips pressed together hard. “The fiftieth sigh of the night isn’t going to change the fact that you—”

  “It’s not like we had anything better to do.” She side-eyed him then glanced back to the club door. The shady looking members of whatever gang or mafia ran this place had been coming in and out consistently. Combine that crowd with the patrons looking for a good time and the strippers who probably had glittered handprints on their ass at this late hour, the club was hoppin’.

  “You can’t go picking up people at the police station and guaranteeing our help.” His one left dimple showed when he got angry—it was full and present in the dimly lit cab.

  You’d think after two years of being exes she’d really have had the time to sink her teeth into how much she hated him for breaking her heart. And she had. That’s exactly why he was a non-issue in her life. Or at least he had been until a job had brought them back into the same office. One fact still remained certain though: no one would ever be given an opportunity to break her heart again.

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” This is what they did now—helped honest citizens who couldn’t get help through other, more conventional means. It wasn’t her fault that the police didn’t believe the Kayes when they’d pleaded with the desk sergeant in charge to look for their daughter because she hadn’t called them back in a week. Claire had looked the dad in the eyes and knew. The daughter, Grace Kaye, was in trouble and if Claire didn’t offer the services of the team, she’d not get any sleep. Of course, by volunteering to help investigate, she still wouldn’t get any rest tonight.

  “I could be drinking beer and watching the game with the guys instead of here on one of your half-cocked ideas.” What he probably meant was that he wanted to be anywhere else other than stuck in a small space with her.

  Feeling was mutual.

  “Which one?”

  “There’s hockey, basketball, football draft, the Masters all happening this month. Pick one.”

  “You know this is a better use of your time.” She could’ve come alone, would’ve in the past, but all six of them had agreed to form a team after working a job a couple months ago where professional hitters and Teagan Wyatt, a civilian who had no business poking the likes of a defense contactor, were being targeted for death. Claire had decided to stick around as part of the squad because she needed a change of pace. The virtuous side of the law was entertaining for now. It was unfortunate Samson had also decided to stay put, but he was good at what he did—assassinations, planning heists, not getting caught. Just like her, except she was also a damn good grifter.

  “Not your call,” he muttered and reached for the radio dial, turning it on to a pop song about a former lover. Heh, that was fitting. No sooner did his hand touch his thigh than he reached back and shut off the music completely. Neither of them wanted to listen to the fallout of having your heart broken.

  “Able is still vacationing with Teagan only God knows where.” She tried to keep her tone pleasant, but a bite to her words still existed. “Milo also took personal time. Sabene is doing her thing from the office, and Rife said he’d help tomorrow when we had more to go on. Stakeouts aren’t the sexist thing, I get it, but necessary all the same.” She was reminding herself more than him. Good deeds took patience. Something she was trying to work on.

  “Didn’t the parents already check out this club?” Samson asked.

  “I doubt she’s using her real name. She’s probabl
y going by Cinnamon or something in there.” And God only knew what Grace was doing behind the closed doors. If they found her and she wanted to stay, Claire wouldn’t judge. She’d made her own choices, for better or worse. But if it turned out the Kayes had a reason to be worried, she and Samson would pull Grace from a bad situation and feel better about all the good they were doing in their town these days.

  Another buttoned-up group of men entered this joint she’d never heard of before today. She’d never understood the allure of a strip club herself, but she’d used the concept on occasion to get what she wanted. Men were so loose with information when they thought they were going to get a little action.

  “You know this is just a young twenty-something flexing freedom.” He shifted in his seat, straightening the collar of his brown jacket. “I could always go in and ask.”

  “And get sidetracked by ass? I don’t think so.”

  The man partied non-stop when he wasn’t on a job. She didn’t need to add losing him in a club to the list of her concerns. She was not jealous of anything he did or screwed—they’d been over for two years now and both had moved on— but she needed his attention solely on the club tonight. She wouldn’t get back together with him even if he was willing. You couldn’t have a long-term relationship with someone you didn’t trust. And Samson Patrick was firmly listed in the untrustworthy column in matters of the heart.

  “I’m not sitting here all night.” He paused and the ends of his lips lifted. “You could go in and get your flirt on. I think Sabene gave us a camera that looks like a button.”

  “If I thought that would work, I would’ve already done it.” She winked and his left dimple appeared. That dimple show wasn’t anger—it was mischief. She knew Samson like she knew the back of her hand. Or she’d thought until the moment she hadn’t.

  Working with your ex was the worst idea. She was over him. So over him. She’d first joined the team out of self-preservation to avoid being killed by a psycho, and also maybe a little bit to annoy Samson. He deserved it after what he’d done. But continuing to work with him was only getting frustrating, and if something didn’t give soon, she was going to have to walk away.

  “Here comes trouble.” Samson reached under his seat with his left hand for his HK. He always stashed a gun under the seat of whatever he was driving.

  A Latino man from Club Alegria was crossing the street, heading straight for them. She had her gun in her purse and her baton in her crimson jacket pocket.

  There was always an easy and a hard way to do everything. Samson had been the stick when they’d made their way across Europe pulling cons, working jobs, assassinating. She’d been the carrot.

  “Kiss me.” The words sounded forced even though she’d meant to say them.

  The two men were closer; soon they’d be able to see through the windshield. She didn’t want to get made in case they needed to actually go into the club at some point to investigate.

  Samson gazed at her for a moment, catching on to her plan with a slight tick in his jaw. “Slide on over, darlin’.” Sarcasm only half touched his words as his brow arched, daring her to act.

  She rolled her eyes. He couldn’t even give a little in a pretend situation. He was something else all right. Someone from her past who was going to stay there.

  She glided quickly across the upholstered bench seat, pressing her leg against his and leaning in. He grasped the sides of her face with his palms, his fingers tangling in her hair, and brushed his lips against hers. She expected to feel something, even if it was disgust, but she didn’t. It was … an undercover kiss. He coaxed her mouth open, softly, sweetly. She reached out and pressed her palm against his washboard abs.

  Their kisses were faster, harder, as the men approached. Her mouth glided over his like they’d never been separated. She nipped at his plump bottom lip before opening her mouth wide and breathing in his rich smell of mahogany, pineapple, and roses—luxury on a man.

  Knuckles wrapped against the driver’s side window. “Yo.”

  Samson pulled back and she caught a hint of irritation in his brown eyes before he turned to the guy at the window. I should’ve just let him go inside. This might’ve been a really bad idea.

  “You’ve been sitting here all night.” The guy had tattoos streaming down his neck. “You cops?”

  Samson rolled down the window. “Giving my best to the lady here.” He patted her on the ass although she was fairly certain the intruder couldn’t see where Samson’s palm had ended up.

  “You been here for hours. If you haven’t fucked yet, you ain’t gonna seal the deal, playa.”

  Samson tensed under her fingertips. She rubbed his chest to settle him down. They could still play this con out.

  “We’ll go.” He sat up straight and she moved back a couple inches.

  “Yo, sexy,” a voice came from Claire’s side. She whipped her head to assess the danger and looked into the eyes of a short man sporting a gold tooth. He wasn’t the same guy who had approached their vehicle with Mr. Charming. That guy wasn’t around. This was feeling more like they were being surrounded.

  “We don’t want any trouble.” Samson glared at the punk on his side.

  “Then you shoulda found a different spot to try to get your jollies.” The guy, who had a Spanish accent, pointed a gun at Samson’s head. “Step out.”

  This wasn’t the type of progress she wanted to make tonight. She slowly put her hand in her right jacket pocket and squeezed her baton. These assholes were soon going to find out who they’d picked a fight with.

  Samson glanced at her and made the slightest motion to say, “No, don’t get out.” She’d only been doing the good work for two months now and it hadn’t been dull. Why should it start now?

  He opened his truck door slowly while tucking his weapon in his back waistband so the wanna-be villains couldn’t see, and then kept his hands in plain view. There was no reason to make these idiots jumpier than they already were.

  She stayed put as Samson closed the door. It was still just the two men visible and a third lurking somewhere.

  They’d been in less than favorable situations before, but nevertheless, her heart pounded faster and she took in a slow, deep breath to calm herself and stay focused on the present. She and Samson had long established signals and were in sync in the field. It had been one of the allures to him.

  The short one joined his friend on the driver’s side.

  The taller one with the gun grabbed Samson by the neck. “Tell your bitch to get outta the truck.”

  Samson gritted his teeth together and said nothing. The glare in his eyes when he met hers said that time had run out for them to preserve any sort of cover. She arched a brow back. She wasn’t ready to bring unwanted attention to them. If anything, this situation proved something illegal was going down in Club Alegria. And they were going to have to find out what it was one way or another.

  She opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, slamming the door behind her. Another guy ambled out from the shadows of the building. Then another.

  This was going from manageable to precarious by the minute.

  “I bet we can please your woman.” The guy holding Samson laughed.

  She ran the tips of her fingers over the collar of her black turtleneck, licked her top lip, and winked at the guys who could be twins standing in front of her. Whatever these idiots thought was going to happen, wasn’t.

  “It’s time to go, Angel.” Samson said between clenched teeth. Her back was to him, but she didn’t need to see his eyes to know what he meant.

  She whipped out her baton, snapped down to expand it to its full twenty-one inch length, and then she slashed the first man rushing her on the upper arm. He screamed, grabbed his arm, and fell to his knees. The next guy was in front of her instantly and landed a punch to her right cheek. She leaned into the force and knelt, backhanding her baton to connect with his mid-thigh twice before she swiveled around to beat him on the other side
of his ribs. He moaned and went down; she hit him on the back of his neck with the butt of her weapon and he went limp.

  The punk with a pony tail was up and threw his chicken arms around her waist as his momentum pushed their bodies together and his sweaty forehead rubbed against her neck. She held her breath at his stench of cigarettes and vodka as she tensed for pain. Her head hit hard and the sting radiated down her spine. The asshole was on top of her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and flipped him over then straddled him, pinning him to the ground. He hit her in the side and she stuck her thumbs in his eye sockets. He clawed at her arms, but she only pushed harder. When he stopped squirming so much she pulled her right fist back and punched him again and again until he went limp. She stood, adjusted her jacket, and went around the front of the truck to Samson.

  He had one guy down and finished the other off by choking him until he passed out. Samson let the unconscious body fall to the ground.

  She peeked around—no one else was headed toward them from the club.

  The gangbangers weren’t dead, but they were going to have some wicked pains in the morning.

  “The old Angel trick, huh?” She cocked a hip. He hadn’t called her that in ages. If they were going to keep working together, they really needed new code words.

  “Seemed appropriate.” He didn’t make eye contact with her. He was sizing up the men on the ground. They’d all live. Less an eye or two. This incident didn’t bode well for her investigation though. She didn’t want to go undercover and then get made by one of these assholes.

  “Claire!” Samson yelled at the same time scorching, searing pain emanated from the back of her head. She started to fall forward, and then her world went black.

  * * *

  Samson pulled his gun from the back of his jeans and double-tapped the bandana-ed shitstain who had just hit Claire on the head. The guy’s lifeless body dropped and Samson ran over to her.

  She was on the ground. Completely out.

  He knelt down and rolled her from her side to her back. He pressed two fingers into the flesh on her neck. She was still alive, thank God. The blow had been hard. Too hard.