Shamefully Shared

by Loki Renard

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Similar Books by Loki Renard

  More Stormy Night Books by Loki Renard

  Loki Renard Links

  Shamefully Shared

  By

  Loki Renard

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard

  All rights reserved. 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 permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Renard, Loki

  Shamefully Shared

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Dreamstime/Arturkurjan, Dreamstime/Alessandroguerriero, Dreamstime/Vladimirs Poplavskis, Dreamstime/Jason Baca, Dreamstime/Ekhphoto, and 123RF/gstockstudio

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  Chase

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me. No. No way! Are you crazy? We’re not helping her!”

  Chase Rathkeale stood calmly as Col, his best friend and an integral part of their unit swore up a storm. He was all dressed up and ready to go in black fatigues, his dark hair cropped close to his head, his handsome features twisted with disbelief and outrage. All had been fine until Chase had made the tactical error of telling him where they were going and why. He should have waited until they were on the freeway to say anything.

  “She needs us.”

  “No. Absolutely not. I’m not lifting a finger to save her after what she did.”

  “Rex, Max, and Brian are all waiting in the van,” Chase said. “We need you, buddy. Do it for us, not for her.”

  Col rounded on him, finger pointed. “You always wanted to fuck her. You should have done it back then. Got it out of your system.”

  “This isn’t about sex, Col.”

  “What is it about, then?”

  “It’s about a woman who needs our help.”

  “Oh. A woman needs our help,” Col sneered. “And this one, unlike the tens of thousands of other women who need help in this country, just happens to also have seriously fucked us over. Hard. Is she paying us?”

  “Well…”

  “No, of course she fucking isn’t.” Col let out a dark laugh and threw his hands up. “What is it with her? Why is she the damsel that just has to be rescued? She fucking betrayed us, Chase. She ruined our lives. And you expect me to help her?”

  “I expect you to follow orders.”

  The voice that spoke wasn’t Chase’s. It belonged to Rex. At thirty-eight years of age, he was the senior member of their group. His dark hair was flecked with gray toward his temples and he carried a gravitas that made him seem far older than his years sometimes. Before they’d been dishonorably discharged, he had been their captain. Now he was the boss.

  Col shut his mouth, gritting his teeth.

  “You don’t need to worry if she’s paying us, because I’m paying you,” Rex continued. “And I expect you to do your job without complaint. We’re moving out. Now.”

  Chase waited to see what would happen. There were only five of them in their elite private security unit. That was what they called it anyway. The rest of the world had a different name for them: mercenaries. Of the five, Col was usually the least likely to disobey a direct order. He had been the golden boy before the incident that had seen their likenesses splashed across every newspaper and website in the country, and before the military had cut them loose as national embarrassments.

  “Rex…” Col’s voice dropped to a near whine. “Why? Just tell me why?”

  “Have I ever told you why?” Rex fixed Col with a steely look. “I’ve told you to do a thousand things far more dangerous than this, and now you decide to start questioning my judgment?”

  Rex was pulling rank. It was a risky move given how pissed off Col was. There was every chance Col would finally snap and tell Rex and the rest of them to go fuck themselves. He’d been close a few times before, but never this close.

  It worked.

  Col swore under his breath and picked up the pack he’d already prepared. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Chase followed Col out to the van, taking up the rear as they piled in. Brian had the wheel. He was the smartest guy Chase had ever met, bar absolutely none. Genius-level intellect and a twisted personality to match. Chase didn’t know how Brian felt about the mission. Actually, Chase wasn’t sure he had feelings at all. Everything was a problem to be analyzed for Brian. He was less well built than the rest of them, but he was still well over six foot and twice as powerful as most men.

  As Chase got in, he noticed that the only guy who looked happy about this was Max. Max was hanging out the window, banging on the side of the van. He’d taken the opportunity of leaving the military to grow his dirty blond hair out to the base of his neck and he usually sported a five or even ten o’clock shadow. Right now he had sunglasses pushed up over his head and was doing his best impression of a 1980s action hero.

  “So we’re really doing this,” Col said, taking the center seat. “We’re going to help Lacey Christie. This is some serious…” He trailed off as Rex sat next to him. The cursing that would have escaped him was cut off abruptly. Rex quite often positioned himself next to Col, like a physical fuse on his temper.

  “Don’t worry,” Max said from the front seat. “There’s something sweet in it for us.”

  Chapter Two

  Lacey

  Lacey bit her fingernails and twitched the blinds for the fiftieth time. She was nervous, a sheen of sweat covering her body as she paced the floor of the cheap motel room where she was holed up. She did not look her best, which shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow it did. With her entire life out of control, at least looking somewhat put together would have made her feel a little better.

  She was wearing gym clothes. Dark leggings, a pink tank top, and near enough matching tennis shoes. Her long brown hair was drawn back off her face and tied in a ponytail. In preparation for seeing Chase again, she’d tried to enhance her appearance with a bit of mascara and the remains of a tube of lipstick she’d found in her glovebox. She had nothing else. Her apartment was too dangerous to go back to. She’d been on her way to the gym when she’d realized she’d forgotten her ionized water and headed home just in time to see two shadowy figures through the window.

  Most people would have interpreted that as a sign of a burglary in progress and called the police, but Lacey knew better. She knew three other journalists, her closest friends and professional confidantes, were dead. She
knew that all their deaths had occurred in their homes, a series of unfortunate ‘accidents’ that weren’t accidents at all. She had footage from the last one, and in that she had seen those shadowy figures moving around before they got her friend. She was not going to stick around to find out how she was supposed to go out. So far it had been slipping in the shower, accidental electrocution by faulty blender, and a home gym weightlifting accident.

  If it weren’t for Adam getting suspicious and setting up a hidden camera that streamed his murder, there would be no evidence at all. But this wasn’t the sort of evidence she could take to the police. This was the sort of evidence that would lead to her dying in a cell. The people she had crossed were not ones to be concerned by police. They owned the police. And they wanted to own the media too.

  With nowhere left to turn to, she’d fled to a shitty motel on the outskirts of Washington DC, knowing there was only one person she could call. Unfortunately, he didn’t owe her a favor. He didn’t owe her a damn thing. She owed him everything.

  To her utter shock, once she’d given him a hurried explanation of what was happening, he’d agreed to come. Right away. That she hadn’t expected. He wasn’t as far away as she’d thought either. They were all based in Washington, apparently, though she was now looking to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible.

  A big dark van pulled up outside her room. She held her breath as someone got out of the driver’s side. Tall, dark hair, handsome, maybe mid-twenties. She didn’t recognize him, but he did look familiar somehow. He wasn’t Chase. Another guy got out of the other side, shaggy blond hair down to his collar, sexy in spite of some facial scarring. Him, she did recognize. That was Max Brolin. The back of the van opened and three more men got out.

  Had Chase brought… everybody?

  She took a step back from the blinds and tried to gather herself and her thoughts. Everybody. All of them. This was the reunion she’d hoped would never happen.

  A heavy knock at the door startled her, even though she knew exactly who it was. She hesitated, not knowing if she should open it. These weren’t friends, in any sense of the word. Chase alone was a risk. The whole clan?

  It had been three years since she last saw them. Two and a half since she’d ruined their lives. God. This wasn’t a rescue mission. This was… she glanced toward the back of the motel unit, wondered if she could make it out the back.

  Another hard knock brought her out of her panic and made her think a little more rationally. There was no running away from these guys. Maybe Chase had just brought them as backup. Now wasn’t the time to be refusing help, no matter where it came from.

  Lacey opened the door and saw Chase standing there, looking down at her from his great height. She was 5′4, a respectable height for a woman. He was a giant of a man, 6′3 and counting. She gazed up at him, her heart skipping a beat as she was instantly transported to the first time she’d ever looked into those stunning blue and gold eyes.

  * * *

  Three years earlier

  Lacey tried to get comfortable on a hard stone ledge that doubled as her bed. She was barely able to move thanks to the ropes that were biting into her skin, causing sores that were already getting weepy in the Venezuelan heat. The little room stank. There was an uncovered bucket half-full of her own waste in the corner, which made things even worse. It was hot and dark and oppressive in that little cell, which was barely the size of a single closet. There were no windows. There was no fresh air and the light came from a single incandescent bulb that burned continuously. Flies swarmed around the bucket in an ever present cloud that was the only way she could tell the time. They slept in the evening and rose in the morning, their little insect brains attuned to the world she was no longer part of.

  “American spy bitch!”

  The guard’s vicious voice made her tremble as he came past and banged on the iron door. Every time they came to see her they threatened to kill her. She was sure that they would make good on that threat sooner or later. Probably sooner. She wasn’t a spy, but she knew she’d seen too much for them to let her live. What truly frightened her was the reason they were keeping her alive. What were they going to do with her? Ransom her, maybe. That was about the best case scenario. All of the others she could think of were far worse.

  She didn’t know anything, but that didn’t stop them from dragging her out every few hours or days and screaming questions at her. Press credentials hadn’t satisfied them that she wasn’t a spy. They refused to contact her editor to confirm her identity. Apparently he was a spy as well. Everyone and everything was a spy to these paranoid militia who were trafficking so much cocaine they basically bathed in the stuff. There wasn’t one of them that didn’t have perpetually dilated pupils, a powder mustache, and a nasty teeth-grinding habit that made them grimace from time to time, their sweaty cruel faces contorting in demonic ways that made her sick to her stomach with fear.

  Half the questions they asked didn’t make any sense. The other half were so far out of her realm of knowledge that she could barely think of anything to stutter in response. At first it had been terrifying, but as the days had gone on, her body had adapted into a survival mode and she was no longer fully aware of her own fear, except in the moments between the bolts of pure terror that were evoked every time one of her guards came near.

  Tense, she waited for the guard to come back. She was hungry and thirsty. Sometimes they refused to let her eat or drink until she told them something. She’d told them everything they wanted to hear. She’d told them lie after lie. She’d told them the truth too. None of it mattered because it didn’t really matter what she said.

  Loud bangs outside made her cringe. Her captive mind was unable to parse the sensory information with any kind of hope. It sounded like gunfire. Were they practicing for her? Were they fighting each other? Were they just discharging weapons at random? Anything was possible. Paranoia was everywhere, and had sunk into her bones. She couldn’t help but hear her death in the sounds that were growing closer.

  Lacey began to whisper the only prayer she knew under her breath. These weeks in Venezuela had taught her there was no God, but she prayed anyway, because it was all she had.

  Bam!

  The door burst open, a gun was pointed straight at her face, and her eyes widened as she saw the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life: an American soldier. He was dressed from head to toe in black tactical gear without any kind of identifying markings. His face was covered aside from his eyes, two brilliant blue orbs the color of the sky. There was no real sign that he was what she thought he was, but she knew in the core of her being that he was American. She knew. She just fucking knew.

  She started screaming. “Help me! I’m a journalist! They’ve captured me!”

  He stared at her, his weapon lowered to the floor. For a second, absolutely nothing happened. Then he spoke.

  “Shit.”

  That was the first word she’d ever heard Chase Rathkeale say. A curse word in a mid-West accent. It was like hearing a choir of angels sing and she burst into tears of pure relief.

  * * *

  She could burst into tears right now, just seeing him again. It took a real effort not to throw herself into his arms, but she resisted, not knowing the kind of reception that would get. He’d come, but that didn’t mean he’d forgiven her.

  “Hi,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as shy as she felt. “Come in, please.”

  She held the door open as the men filed in. She looked at their hard faces carefully, trying to work out where sympathy lay. Chase, sickeningly handsome, was the only one to really make eye contact with her. The others either stared over her head or through her completely. The one at the end wouldn’t look at her at all. His jaw was twitching as he stared at the shitty motel art.

  “Are you okay?” Chase looked at her with concern.

  God, he was handsome.

  “Um, yeah. I mean, I don’t think they saw me. I think they’re still wa
iting for me to get home. I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” he said, taking her by the arms. He moved her around and sat her on the end of the bed, which left her looking up at the line of men and then he crouched down in front of her, holding her attention with his gaze. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I went home and…” She launched into a description of the events of the day, and those that had come before it. Pulling out her cellphone, she showed him, and by proxy, the rest of the silent men, precisely why she was so sure that death was stalking her. It was the footage Adam had taken. The evidence that proved his death was no accident whatsoever.

  “His name was Adam Stern,” she said. “He’d been followed and he thought something might happen so he set up cameras in his apartment that streamed to our secure server.”

  Tinny voices were raised through her phone’s speakers. She heard Adam’s last words. They weren’t brave. They were confused and laced with fear. Lacey knew what happened next. She half-shut her eyes, but she could still hear the sickening sound of a heavy bar of weights being dropped on his prone neck.

  Chase didn’t so much as wince. He took the phone from her limp fingers, and she let him have it.

  “So you’ve got this,” he said, no reaction whatsoever to seeing a man die. “Anything else?”

  “I’ve got a lot of stuff,” she said. “We worked independently to uncover a range of crimes. They all led back to Senator Fishland. You know, the one with those shitty ads where he’s fishing and then he makes that dumb joke about being a fish out of water? That guy has fingers in every fucked-up pie there is. There’s not a criminal syndicate in the country that doesn’t own him. He has ties into the FBI for sure, likely the CIA as well. He’s pretty much untouchable at this point. I guess that’s why he got so blatant with some of it. Anyway, everyone had a piece of the puzzle, and everything was encrypted. That was supposed to keep us safe. There’s a system. We were all linked up to it, and when any of us didn’t sign on for a twenty-four-hour period, the information we held was sent to those who still had active accounts. I have the last one. I have everything. And it’s, uhm… it’s a lot.”