First to Fight Box Set: Books 1-5

by Nicole Blanchard

  “What happened?” I ask as I cross the parking lot.

  His lips twist, as if the words themselves have a bad taste. “Same MO as the last attack and the one with your girl. Public park, but an otherwise secluded area of the trail. Single woman who is approached by a man and then attacked. This one was different, though.”

  “In what way?”

  He jerks his head toward the sidewalk, and I follow him down a ways. There are techs and other officers processing the scene, but I don’t need their evidence markers to know what happened.

  For one, there is blood everywhere. On the ground, on the trees, in the bushes. It’s as if he tried to imitate a morbid Jackson Pollock painting.

  Thinking of Piper and how close she came to this conclusion, I hiss, “Jesus Christ. How is she?”

  Colson sighs. “Not good. She’s in surgery now. We won’t know anything for a few more hours at least.”

  “Was she able to identify her attacker?”

  “She was unconscious when another jogger found her and scared him off.”

  “There is a witness?”

  Colson nods to a pair of officers interviewing a young woman. “The victim didn’t see much and the jogger got there after he lit out. They’re hoping she saw enough to provide a sketch to help identify the sick bastard.”

  I can tell by the drawn look on his face there’s something more. “What?”

  “By any chance did this creep from Miami have a thing for cutting off his victim’s hair?”

  Piper’s long blonde hair flashes like a beacon through my mind. “I haven’t looked at the files yet, they should be waiting for me at the station, but I’ll be able to let you know for sure once I get back.”

  “The bastard cut off her hair. Took it as a souvenir.”

  I curse under my breath. “Any trace?”

  All we need is one piece of physical evidence to link the guy conclusively, either to Piper’s ex or otherwise, but Colson shakes his head.

  “This guy isn’t an idiot. He’s smart. Very smart. Based on that and the fact that he’s been able to successfully target these women in such a short time frame tells me this isn’t his first rodeo. But sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake.”

  I don’t say it aloud, but he already has. The moment he came back to target Piper, he signed his own death warrant.

  Hours later, the results from the Miami investigation land in the empty tray of the printer. I snatch them up in my spare hand as I pound back a cup of old coffee, and I pull a face at the tar-like taste. It’s a sludge-or-nothing night as the part-time communications officer / receptionist went home a couple hours back, leaving the on-duty patrolman and me to fend for ourselves.

  Colson gave me the go-ahead to take the rest of the night off after a long evening of interrogating possible witnesses in the investigation, but I brushed him off. After working as a sniper in the Marines, I’ve learned to pay attention when something makes me twitchy. And there’s something off about this one. Something that’s making me real fucking twitchy.

  As I cross the small bull pen filled with cluttered desks crammed together, my phone begins to ring across the room. I choke back the rest of the stale coffee as I weave though the heavy scents of burnt food, antiseptic cleanser, and the lemon air freshener the lieutenant prefers. Tossing the background check info onto the desk, I snatch up the landline and bark, “Blackwell,” into the mouthpiece.

  “You gonna come in the morning? Momma’s making her famous ham and cheese omelets for breakfast. Bring Sienna, if you like. That girl could use a good meal.”

  At the sound of Diane’s voice, I relax into my rickety old office chair with its customary beleaguered groan. “Only if I can see your pretty face,” I reply.

  “I’d be just brokenhearted if I didn’t get to see your ugly mug first thing.”

  “Then I’d hate to disappoint you. Make sure to have a cup of coffee ready for me, pretty please. The shit I’ve been drinking for the past couple hours will more than likely kill me.”

  “Would serve you right,” Diane says, and I can hear the teasing in her voice over the line.

  I lean back in the chair, rubbing a hand over the scruff on my cheeks. “Oh, no. What’d I do now?” I ask.

  “You know I don’t like to meddle,” she says, and I respond with a snort. She ignores me and continues, “It’s not my business how you run your life or do your job.”

  “Then why do I have the feeling you’re about to stick your nose in it?”

  “Logan Elias Blackwell, I’ll not have you mistreating that girl.”

  Her fierce tone makes me scowl and I sit up straight and hang my head in defeat automatically. “Aunt Diane, I’ve been grown for over a decade. Way past time for you to meddle in my love life.”

  She snorts. “I’ll interfere any time I damn well please, and I won’t hear a word from you until I’ve said my peace.” I know better than to argue with a riled woman, so I hold my tongue. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that girl’s been through hell, and now with this on top. It’s enough to test even the strongest person.”

  “That may be true,” I say when she takes a breath, “but it’s not my intention to hurt her. Now, I love you, Aunt Diane, but it’s none of your business.”

  “I’m not interfering, but you listen to me when I say you take it easy on her. That girl wouldn’t hurt a fly, if you’ve been paying any attention.” There’s a pause of the line, and I can hear the familiar sounds of the household coming to life and my Grandma Rosie chatting up a storm as she cooks in the background. “And don’t tell me you haven’t.”

  Realizing she’s about to go off on a tangent about me remarrying, I start to tune out the conversation and glance over my desk for a distraction. My eyes land on the reports from the Miami-Dade Sheriff’s Office, and I pin the phone between my ear and my shoulder to reach for them. While Aunt Diane chatters on in the background, I begin to read.

  Piper Sienna Davenport, 26, formerly a resident of Miami, Florida, originally from Alabama, attended Southern University until she was attacked by a Gavin Lance who’d raped and murdered two co-eds before his last victim, a Paige Davenport.

  “Are you listening to me, boy?” Aunt Diane demands.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say without a pause.

  “You better be,” she warns. “Sienna is a sweet girl. In fact, you’d do well to have a woman like her.”

  “She likes to be called Piper,” I say absently.

  “Piper? Now that’s a pretty name. Spunky as she is.”

  Normally, I’d be the first to remind her that I’m not looking to remarry, but my train of thought derails as my eyes snag on a line of the report. I read it three times over before my brain processes the words. When I do, my fingers clench over the paper and it crumples.

  “Hey, Aunt Diane, I have to go, but I’ll see you for breakfast later.”

  I don’t wait for her response, which will surely earn me another lecture, but the note on the file has all of my attention.

  The investigation included a woman murdered inside Piper’s bedroom. The victim in question, a twenty-five-year-old female, had been viciously beaten and assaulted. Piper found her after she returned home from a bar where they’d both had a couple drinks a few hours before. All of that, I was expecting.

  The papers flutter to the top of the desk with Piper’s license photo staring up at me as I dial Piper’s cell for her to meet me at the station. I try to still my trembling fingers, knowing I won’t be able to relax until she’s with me. The twitchiness intensifies as all the details snap into place.

  All the women attacked in Miami also had their hair shorn off.

  Piper

  I’m unsurprised by Logan’s summons to meet him at work later that afternoon. It’s the call I’ve been dreading since we started getting closer. I face it like I’ve faced every other hard decision since I was ripped from my home: with detached determination.

  The sheriff’s office isn’
t what I expect. The plain white stucco stained with years of dirt and grime is underwhelming. The big box stores and discount foods across the parking lot seem out of place. For a man like Logan Blackwell, I expect . . . more. Something as sleek and devilish as the image he inspires whenever I think about our interrupted morning. Or maybe a grimy old Western style jailhouse just as dangerous as the man himself.

  Apprehension rolls through me, thick and hot, turning the chicken salad sandwich I’d snagged from the gas station to fill my stomach into a greasy ball. I suck deep breaths in through my nose and exhale through my mouth.

  It doesn’t help. There aren’t enough calming techniques in this world to quiet my growing panic.

  Fall is technically upon us, but Florida hasn’t quite gotten the memo as a few days of Indian summer have ratcheted up the temperature. The stale air inside the tight cab of my 1998 Ford is about ten degrees over roasting, and the ancient air conditioner does little more than puff out even more hot air. Sweat is already clinging to my hairline, melting off what little makeup I cared to put on this morning.

  I thought I’d be more prepared for this, having done it once before, but I guess I can’t prepare for giving statements to the police. It’s one of those things that doesn’t get easier with repetition. Like major surgery or going to a funeral. No matter how much I prepare, it’s just going to suck all around.

  I wipe my upper lip and forehead and then turn off the car, tossing my keys into my small handbag.

  Based on his reputation alone, I’d imagine a huge office with expensive furniture, a lethally sexy blonde secretary, and three piece suits. Not peeling paint and parking spots with faded yellow lines.

  Brushing off the sense of foreboding that coats my skin like a sticky layer of sweat, I pull the handle to the front door and simultaneously take a deep breath to settle my nerves. In spite of the lackluster exterior, the inside of the office is pleasantly clean and modern. I wince when my clearance rack sandals squeak against the pristine polished white floors.

  The person manning the front greets me and motions me back to Logan’s desk in the middle of an empty room full of them. She offers to call him in, but I tell her no. I’d rather wait and allow myself one moment of reprieve. It’s not cowardice. It’s . . . preparation. Confronting my past should be like dipping into a pool when I’m unsure of the temperature. One step at a time.

  As I wait, I study the news clippings lining the walls of his cubicle. In addition to his certificates, I find a prestigious college degree. A ton of commendations. My stomach muscles are finally starting to unclench in small degrees when two burly men burst through the side door, scaring me so bad, I jump to my feet and put my back to the cubicle wall.

  “Goddammit. I told you to stop resisting, cupcake,” comes a low, gravelly voice that strokes all of my girly parts to life in spite of my apprehension. In contrast to his words, his voice is altogether too delicious, like smooth hot chocolate. “It’s your own fucking fault if you break your arm.” The ‘your’ is more like ‘yo’, and I have to press a hand to my stomach.

  Stop it, Piper.

  The jangle of nerves multiplies, and I glance at the door over their shoulders. Maybe I can make a run for it before either of them notice me. This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. Running is preferable to baring myself to him this way. Physical intimacy is one thing. Emotional intimacy is another altogether.

  “Then uncuff me, and we’ll make this a fair fight,” growls the man Logan’s pushing toward booking.

  Logan grunts when the smaller man, though only marginally smaller, elbows him in the gut. Then Logan simply body slams his attacker right at my feet, as though it’s an everyday occurrence. Based on the easy rise and fall of his massive shoulders, it very well may be an everyday occurrence.

  His hooded, jewel-blue eyes spare me the briefest of glances, and I do my best to ignore the fact that he doesn’t even blink twice before he hauls the now moaning and handcuffed man to his feet and tosses him into the chair next to me. “You wait right fucking there, cupcake, or we’ll move on to round two.”

  Not wanting to draw his intense stare my way again—at least not for a few more minutes—I very carefully and very quietly take my seat again, even if it’s next to a criminal. I’d almost prefer the criminal’s presence. Logan didn’t look too happy to see me, which doesn’t bode well for me and kind of makes me mad since he is the one who called me down here.

  The man lifts up the receiver for the landline and angrily punches in numbers. He pauses, keeping those hard-as-granite eyes on my companion. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “It’s Blackwell. I have a skipper here just waiting to be taken home.”

  He flashes another cool glance at me and blood rushes to my head, drowning out the rest of his words to whomever is on the other end of the line.

  The tips of my fingers and my lips go numb and I have to blink heavily to make sure I’m not staring. He’s . . . not like the other police officer’s I’ve had to work with. But at the same time, he fits the role of cop and all around badass about as well as his jeans hug his enormous thighs and firm backside.

  “Dude, let me the fuck out of here and we’ll work something out,” says the man next to me, desperation seeping into his voice.

  Logan ignores him, instead reading out something from a piece of paper. Then he says, “Thanks, gorgeous,” and sets the receiver back down on its cradle.

  The man next to me squirms in his seat, the chain on the handcuffs clanking discordantly against the lacquered chair. “Come on, man. I can’t go back to jail,” he whines.

  I very nearly roll my eyes. When I do manage to look up, I find the man himself staring straight at me.

  Now, I’m no wimp, I’ve dealt with my fair share of intimidating individuals, my ex-fiancé and father included, but no one—and I mean no one—has ever made me freeze like Logan does when he directs that stare my way. My lungs seize and my shoulders lock. Just about the only part of my body that doesn’t come to a stop or jump ship, is my heart, which is trying its damnedest to beat itself straight out of my chest.

  When he turns away a few seconds later, I suck in air in deep gulps while turning my head to face the parking lot. Anything to keep my eyes off his intimidating form. The energy that surrounds him is palpable and all the sensible parts of my brain are screaming, “RUN!”

  If my experiences have taught me nothing else, it’s to listen to my instincts.

  I force myself to swallow down the panic that threatens to claw its way up and resume deep breathing like I had in the car. At least this time, the air is fresh, clean, and slightly scented from the air freshener plugged into the outlet next to the reception area. When I’m reasonably calm, I manage to glance back, curious in spite of my trepidation.

  Logan is bent over the desk, his thick brows furrowed in dark lines as he scribbles something down on a piece of paper. If he weren’t so intimidating, I’d think the way his lips twist slightly to the side as he fills out his paperwork was adorable.

  But I’m not sure a man his size can actually be classified as adorable.

  The gray T-shirt leaves little to the imagination and based on a cursory—okay maybe a thorough—inspection from the other night, he’s all man underneath those unassuming garments. I give myself a little shake and pull my eyes away from his hunched form. Shit, but shit, I promised myself he wouldn’t be a distraction.

  Focus, Piper. Don’t be an idiot.

  I don’t have much time to consider the curls of ink I’d seen snaking over his biceps from underneath his shirt, because the bulky man beside me decides to lurch to his feet and dive toward the door.

  I’m no ninja superstar, but I did take several self-defense lessons. I haven’t had much need to use the techniques, but it’s like muscle memory. So, when the idiot beside me attempts to make a run for it, I stick out one sandal-clad foot directly in his path and catch his shins just as he’s crossing in front of me.

  He lets out a girlish squeal
as he falls face first against the floor. Logan rounds the desk with a scowl on his face and jerks the lump to his feet. The guy lets out a groan, but Logan shows no mercy when he yanks a side door open and thrusts the guy down a hallway. I use the time to run a trembling hand through my hair to calm my frazzled nerves.

  I barely manage to pull myself together by the time he strides back through the door. With my eyes on my pearly pink toes, I’m in the perfect position to see his booted feet stop right in front of me.

  Managing to control my racing thoughts, I look up and subtly suck in a breath.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” he asks, his face hard and direct.

  Um . . . “I’m sorry?”

  “That man is twice your size when he’s not a goddamn fool from throwing back gin like it’s water. If he would have gotten pissed instead of stupid, he could have hurt you.”

  My neck snaps back so fast the back of my head bumps into the plaster wall behind me. I’m so shocked, I can’t even wince in pain. “Excuse me?” I manage to squeak out.

  “Did I stutter?” He runs an impatient hand over his close-cropped hair and scrubs back and forth impatiently. “I’m sorry,” he says before I can object. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m not handling this as well as I thought I would.”

  Ignoring the tell-tale burn in my throat, I press my lips into a line before saying, “I can speak with another officer if you prefer.” When he just gives me a blank look, I add, “I don’t mean to drag you into all of this. I didn’t want you to be involved.”

  His expression darkens, and he rounds the desk to put his hands on the chair where I’m sitting. He hunches that powerful torso over, his face stormy with concentration. I can almost feel the electric sizzle of lightning on my bare skin.