by Jodi Watters
The problem was, Beck looked plenty worried. Grumbling, he ran a hand over his stubbled cheek repeatedly, and her thighs clenched at the scratchy, masculine sound. Her nipples might have gotten hard, too. Of all the men in the world, her body had it bad for this one. It was her mind that wasn’t quite on board.
She pointed to the piece of paper in his clenched fist. “What else do you need? You want my blood type? My immunization record? The details about how I lost my virginity? Oh, wait. You already know that romantic story, don’t you? It had a real fairy tale ending.”
It was a cheap shot, and if the chagrin on his face was any indication, a direct hit of her own.
A hand gripping the back of his neck, his words were impersonal. “I’ll be in touch.”
The front door clicked shut a second later, leaving Hope alone on the porch.
Well, that was it, then. Staying was out of the question. She needed to find a new parking spot or get real comfortable with the stage. The pole, specifically.
Hurrying back to her car, she told herself it was for the best. She didn’t even know him. He could be a serial killer. Or someone who left toothpaste spit in the sink. That was one quality she simply couldn’t live with.
The squealing of tires distracted her and she watched in amazement as a black Mustang whipped out of the driveway and bolted down Lark Street, the rush of wind in his wake blowing her hair against her cheek. He didn’t wave or so much as even glance at her.
Hope tried not to take it personally, watching as he hightailed it out of her life for the second time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Beck had fucked up plenty in his life when it came to women.
The first was Rachel Wells, a quiet, geeky girl who played clarinet in their high school marching band. As a starting safety on the varsity football team, the ribbing he’d taken from his jock friends had been hardcore, but her black-rimmed glasses and conservative clothes hid a seriously rocking body and an aggressive sexual nature that fueled his raging teenage hormones. He’d had Rachel in the backseat of his mother’s Cadillac, with one leg out of her pants and the front of his jeans open, when a county Sheriff’s car pulled up behind them, flashing his red and blue’s through the steamed up windows. At seventeen, Beck thought he knew it all, but the fact that Rachel’s daddy was not only a local Deputy, but also an expert marksman with a compound crossbow, had been an unpleasant surprise.
And now this. His latest mistake in the form of a girl named Hope fucking Coleson.
But he was a grown man, so blaming this one on his inability to think with anything other than his dick just wasn’t going to cut it.
Hope. The dark knot of deprivation taking up permanent residence in his gut had unraveled slightly and something dangerously close to happiness filled him when he’d found her sitting in that obnoxious orange car, her hair a dark, tangled mess around her face. It almost outweighed the shock of her sudden appearance. And now that he knew where his mystery girl was, maybe he could get her out of his head for good. Maybe what sporadic sleep he managed to get these days wouldn’t be filled with brilliant visions of a blue-eyed vixen who’d somehow snared him with her quick grin and lushly compact body. The erotic dreams were always the same. Her above him, smiling as she straddled his hips and rode him smoothly, a look of complete trust and blatant desire on her beautiful face. Inevitably, he would push her away, turning his back on her hurt expression and naked body as he slipped out of the room. And then he’d wake up to his bleak, lonely reality, sweating bullets as his heart raced, sporting a hard-on that no cold shower could cure.
Beck had never run from anything in his life. Years of constant deployments had only made him tougher, and some would say meaner, enduring physical and mental punishment during both real world missions and the demanding training that went with them. He’d stared down the world’s most evil people while on their turf, willingly walking into situations where the likelihood of his death was on the far side of probable. If he or his teammates lost focus for even a split second, more than just the bad guys were going to die. Sure, he’d ridden the razors edge of fear at times. He was human, after all, even though some of his friends and a few female acquaintances from his past might dispute that fact.
But no way in hell had he ever run from anything.
Until the night he met her. Hope with no last name.
Man enough to admit it, Beck knew he’d never faced a threat to his well being quite as lethal as this girl. She could grab hold of his balls and drop him to his knees without even trying, then have him thanking her for doing so. Christ, maybe she already had. Defying all reason, he’d crashed three weddings and a drunken, geezer-filled retirement party at the Vistancia since that life jarring night a month ago, regretting the chicken shit way he’d hauled ass out of the hotel like she’d been nothing more than some quick and dirty strange. He’d never been accused of being a boy scout, but that was definitely not his finest moment. Walking into the Vistancia thinking he’d easily spot her working the event, he’d scoured the catering crew and then the crowd with methodical precision. Regrettably, there hadn’t been an energetic brunette running circles around her colleagues and when he questioned the barracuda with the clipboard, all he got was a satisfied, “Gone.” The skunk haired dude who’d been rubbing elbows with Hope during Sam’s wedding had no answers either, his skittish gaze roving over Beck like he was a prime cut of beef who might go bat shit crazy momentarily.
With precious little information about the girl who’d quickly become a pain in his ass, he’d had no way to search for her and only himself to blame.
It was a damn good thing he and guilt were already on a first name basis.
Beck wasn’t weirded out by her virginity, although he did wonder what was wrong with the entire male population of Southern California. Were they blind or just plain stupid? Because a girl like Hope didn’t go unnoticed by the young, dumb, and full of come, and the pressure to put out must have been intense and sustained. Yes, he could classify himself in the stupid category, as evidenced by the door not hitting him on the ass as he made his exit, but it wasn’t because he was intentionally callous. It was because a woman who was twenty-five, beautiful, and still a virgin, was also a woman who came with expectations. Ones that, based on the proper rule of gift giving, were automatically expected from the guy taking her virginity. You give something, you receive something in return. It was a law of the fucking universe or some such shit. Martha Stewart etiquette, maybe. And Beck was a man who knew his limitations. There was no potential for a relationship or promise of a future. One nighter’s were his specialty, although since Hope, there certainly hadn’t been any. The desire for mindless release with any willing woman had been lost the second she’d taken him into her body. Once he’d had some quality skin on skin time with Hope, it was hard to get hard for anybody else.
But this girl didn’t just come with strings, she came with a shitload of goddamn rope. The thick, heavy-gauged kind that you could use to rappel down the sheer face of a jagged cliff. Or hang yourself with.
Sure, it was irresponsible for him to run out on her. Downright reprehensible, if you asked most morally-driven people. But not even he could have predicted how badly this would blow up in his face. Because Hope with no last name—the one that had screwed both his body and his mind far better than anyone else ever had—was actually Hope fucking Coleson.
And there was a large man standing not far from him, holding up a mahogany paneled wall with his massive shoulder, that wasn’t going to be too keen on what Beck had done to his sister.
His ribs tightened at the thought and he drained a bottle of water in three swallows.
“You’re not looking too good there, bro.” Nolan barely leaned toward him, the comment said under his breath so the others wouldn’t hear. “You okay? Gettin’ any sleep lately?” His loaded question could be loosely translated to a disappointed sounding, “You’re not on the sauce again, are you?”
Leaning too far
back in the oversized, black leather office chair, Beck pushed the spring mechanism to its limit and nodded once in response to Nolan’s fishing expedition, tapping his fingers against the padded arm rest. It took every ounce of his strength not to squirm under the watchful gaze of Asher Coleson. His boss. His mentor. His friend.
And his smokin’ hot hook up’s goddamn brother.
They were all sitting at a large, rectangular table in the conference room of the posh Scorpio Securities office. Everyone was in attendance at the mandatory Friday morning meeting, with the exception of Sam, who was late. Beck glanced at his watch, trying to look normal as he avoided eye contact with Ash. Eleven minutes late, to be exact. And Sam was never late. It just plain didn’t happen and speculation as to why was running rampant, with Grady leading the chorus.
“I can’t believe Sam is late. That’s an unprecedented event,” Grady said, speaking to the group from his spot at the foot of the table, cracking open another can of the energy drink he mainlined. “What’s next, a zombie apocalypse?”
Mike sat across from Beck and Nolan, scanning his phone for the latest photo of his middle child learning how to use the potty, oversharing as usual. “Here’s one of him trying to hit a cheerio. Carrie drops a handful in the water and makes it a game. The kid has amazing aim.”
Aside from the newly hitched Sam, Mendoza was the only married one in the bunch, and his wife Caroline was currently holding court at her perch behind the front desk in the lobby. As Scorpio’s office manager, she kept the place running smoothly, and Sam and Ash organized and in line. She could crack a whip like nobody’s business and wasn’t above making it known, either. The fact that she did it while making you think it was your idea helped to take the emasculating sting away. Beck figured her strategy wasn’t much different when it came to peeing in the potty instead of your pants.
“Nobody cares, Mike.” Grady replied good-naturedly, pulling his camouflage skull cap down low over his ears. A rainy day in Southern California was the equivalent of a snow day in Minnesota. “Now let me translate for all of you how this is going to go down. Sam will walk in here and say, ‘Okay, kids. Daddy’s going away for awhile. Now, it’s not because you’ve been bad or because I don’t love you anymore. It’s because I have a new family now, and I’d rather spend time with them.’ ” He stopped to chug his liquid caffeine, grinning at his own joke. “Of course the ‘I love them more than I love you’ goes without saying. He’ll call each of us slugger or champ, then quickly wrap it up by promising to visit every other weekend and on Wednesday’s. Unless he has more fun things planned with his new family. Which we all know he will.”
“Very funny, smartass,” Sam said, as he casually strolled in, overhearing Grady’s comments. The starched collar on his dress shirt was askew as he dropped a myriad of mobile electronic devices at the head of the table, barely hiding a grin. “Fucking traffic on the Coast Highway was terrible. Goddamn it, I hate being late.”
They all looked at each other questioningly, Beck’s eyes darting toward a smirking Ash who remained at his spot near the window, away from the group yet close enough to participate if he deemed it necessary. He usually didn’t.
Grady’s smile was knowing. “I didn’t hit traffic. Did you guys hit any traffic? No? Hmm, that’s odd, Sammy. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the super hot babe in your bed, right?”
“Fucking traffic,” Sam repeated firmly, “and we’re gonna leave it at that. And I’m not going away for good. God knows, you yahoo’s need constant supervision. I’ll only be gone for two weeks, so try not to blow the place up or run us out of ammunition, okay?”
“Ah, the perks of a honeymoon,” Mike piped in. “Sex, morning, noon and night.” Holding up his phone, the screen showing a high resolution photo of a bawling baby with snot bubbles coming out of his tiny nose, he cautioned Sam. “Don’t let this happen to you, man.”
Grady snorted. “Can’t you do that here, Sammy? Why do you have to leave us with the irresponsible uncle?” He gestured toward Ash. “There’s a good chance he’ll leave us locked in a hot car while he sits in a crab infested titty bar for hours. We’ll have nothing to drink and only a stale french fry from underneath the driver’s side seat to eat.”
Beck abruptly sat forward in his chair, his chest burning at the mention of a strip club. Brushing off the questioning looks with a shake a his head, he wondered when the fuck water started giving him acid reflux.
The man in question—still propped against the wall on the far side of the room, much the way he lived his solitary life—observed them all with a barely there grin. “Only if it’s happy hour all day long and they have ESPN. Or if it’s Wet and Wild Wednesday. I hear that’s when the best girls show up.”
“When is it Sorority Sisters have a Slumber Party Day?” Nolan asked, serious as the day was long. “That’s my personal favorite.” Winking, he added, “Pajamas are optional.”
Sam stifled a smile. “Waiting a month is already pushing it with Ali. She’s threatening to go to Italy with or without me, and considering she’s packing very little in the way of clothing, I’m gonna be on that plane.”
“And the rich get richer,” Nolan mumbled, shaking his head.
That did spark a smile from Sam. “Can we move on now, people? And keep it somewhat clean? This is a professional working environment.”
“Yeah,” Mike whispered nervously, hitching a thumb in the direction of the lobby. “She’ll castrate me if I so much as think about frequenting a nudie bar.”
“And the rest of us, too.” Ash muttered, reaching for his phone when it chirped, tapping rapidly across the screen. “Nobody’s safe.”
“So if we’re done with talk of female nudity, how about we discuss what pays the bills around here?” Sam asked, with an easy grin. “Anything unexpected go down while you two were in Bingham Heights?” He looked first at Nolan, then Beck.
Bingham Heights was a small suburb on the south side of Chicago. Once a decidedly stagnate neighborhood with a population that held steady at three thousand people, give or take the current year’s birth to death ratio, it was a quaint town for those seeking the quieter side of life. Its saving grace for city commuters was the Chicago Transit station near the edge of town. You could make it to the downtown loop in an hour if you took the L, versus a solid two in your car on Interstate Ninety-Four. Word on the street was that you took your life into your hands trying to shave sixty minutes off your commute time by taking the red line train northbound, but it hadn’t always been that way. A richly funded Chamber of Commerce campaign had touted the idyllic town as the perfect place for young hipsters to buy cheap fixer upper’s, ride their beach cruisers to the public library, and drink vegan smoothies at the organic street cafe. The whole thing had backfired miraculously though, when the Chicago gang element realized Bingham Heights might also be the prime location to run drugs, guns, and the occasional cracked-out prostitute. The Chicago PD’s presence in the town had always been scant and the local police department was no match for the violent Gangster Disciples and the havoc they wreaked. The infiltration had been slow, their numbers increasing over a handful of years, and before city leaders could grasp what was happening right before their eyes, the town called Bingham Heights became affectionately known by pot dealers and gang bangers alike as Be High. And those bangers now made up the majority of the population. The inept Chief of Police began a mass recruitment of law enforcement, and given the alarming level of illegal activity, the bar for hiring qualified applicants was set radically low. Soon, the interaction between an inexperienced police force and an antagonistic gang population was nothing short of a powder keg.
Last week, when a beat cop on routine patrol shot an unarmed, sixteen-year-old boy matching the description of a burglary suspect, that keg had blown sky high.
The department’s official report stated that shooting a high school kid three times, twice in the torso and once in the head, was justifiable due to provocation. Outraged members o
f the community said it was racially motivated abuse of power and the excessive force was first degree murder, plain and simple. Within hours, protests erupted in the streets of Be High, led by family and friends of the victim. Peaceful during the light of day, hoards of citizens exercised their right to assemble as the national media ascended on the town. So did a criminal element that saw the tragedy as an opportunity to vandalize and riot when the sun went down. Businesses were broken into, looters stealing everything from Twix bars to truck tires. Fires flared up along populated streets as Molotov cocktails were hurled in protest, law enforcement repeatedly failing in their attempts to contain the violent crowds. Buildings were damaged and livelihoods were wiped away during the long hours of the night, as violence spread over the entire region.
State government had finally stepped in, with the Feds following shortly after due to the saturated media coverage and public outcries of police brutality. With arrests ranging into the hundreds and the exchange of nightly gunfire nearing third-world levels, the US Attorney General decided it was the perfect time to visit the quaint town. Scorpio had been contracted by the alphabet agency to provide a high risk team due to the AG’s rank within the government and the quantity and quality of potential threats.
Consisting of Beck, Nolan, and Grady, it was a basic bodyguard detail—on steroids.
Escort the AG and his small posse of people, getting him in cleanly so he could make a public statement on the front steps of the city courthouse and meet with the victim’s inconsolable mother—for no more than twenty minutes, but no less than ten—then back out without incident.
The wheels on the AG’s plane had barely left the ground before they implemented the second and final portion of their assignment. Get the cop that killed the kid out of the city. Seemed easy enough, if it wasn’t for the mob of armed thugs ready to implement some ghetto justice of their own. The officer’s identity had been withheld for his safety, but under Freedom of Information laws, the chief was not only obligated, but under intense pressure to cough up the name to the media. Beck’s experienced direction had the hunted man on a private plane headed toward east Jesus Wyoming before that revealing press conference was over.