Tough as Nails
By Velvet Vaughn
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 VELVET VAUGHN LLC
ISBN:978-0-9861652-8-3
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Visit Velvet's website at: www.velvetvaughn.com and her Facebook Fanpage HERE.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the men and women who serve our country, both home and abroad. Thank you for your service.
Acknowledgements
I would like to sincerely thank the members of my Velvet Vaughn Street Team who help spread the word: Cindi R., Debbie M., Gary A., Karen D., Karen J., Lisa B., Tammy T. and Lisa B. I’m so thankful for all of you and truly appreciate your support!
And as always, a huge thank you to my mom. I couldn’t do this without you!
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Notes
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Several Months Ago
Hillary Billings inhaled deeply, savoring the enticing aromas drifting from the nearby eateries. She was in Greece, absorbing the culture and experiencing the rich history of the birthplace of modern civilization. Athens, the largest city and capital, was a bustling metropolis on the mainland, surrounded by ancient ruins dating back over seven-thousand years. She could spend days here—weeks—and still not see everything the beautiful country had to offer.
Daphne Demarchis skipped over and locked her arm through Hillary’s, guiding her down the sidewalk to drool over a display of decadent chocolates in a bakery window. Daphne was the younger sister of Hillary’s COBRA Securities coworker, Dorian. Her impromptu trip overseas came about when the case Dorian was working turned personal. A man was killed in the building his mother owned, in the apartment above his family. Daphne found the victim and almost walked in on the perpetrator in the act. When the case hit too close to home, Dorian worried for the safety of his mother and sister, so he sent them to his mother’s homeland. Her sister lived on the island of Mykonos and she served as their tour guide. Hillary had always wanted to visit Greece and she couldn’t believe how lucky she was that she was available to take the case at the last minute. Having a native serve as escort was an unexpected bonus.
"Mama, you and Aunt Helen come stand next to Hillary." Daphne waved the two sisters over. "I want to get a snap of the three of you with the classic architecture of this building as the backdrop."
Though only a teenager, Daphne was an amazing photographer with an artistic eye, capturing subjects with creativity and depth. She arranged the three of them, tweaking positioning and placement until she was satisfied, and then stepped back, lifting her lens to frame the shot. Two men ambled down the street, casually approaching in dark clothing and sunglasses. Though they were glancing around the area, not seeming to pay them any attention, awareness crept down Hillary's spine and she automatically fingered her weapon.
Daphne lowered her camera. "Hillary, quit moving or you'll ruin the picture."
Everything happened in slow motion.
Sensing impending danger, Hillary’s instincts kicked in and she urged Mama Demarchis and Helen inside the chocolate shop, while yelling for Daphne to run. One of the men lifted a gun before she could draw and fired. The bullet impacted the Kevlar vest her bosses insisted all agents wear on assignments and knocked her backwards. She slammed into the building with the classic architecture, struggling for breath. The next shot pierced her non-shooting arm. The pain was excruciating but she blocked it out and fired at the shooter, relieved to see him fall. But the other man had grabbed Daphne and thrust her in front of him as a shield.
Daphne put up a good fight, throwing a sharp elbow into his stomach. He doubled over but didn't lose his grip. Then she stomped on his foot, but he was wearing combat boots while she donned a cute pair of gladiator sandals purchased on Ermou Street. Hillary wore a matching pair. Daphne tried smashing the palm of her hand in the kidnapper’s nose and he grunted, then she swung her arm down to punch him in the groin. The man "oofed" but kept his hold. Mama Demarchis and her sister were screaming. People had stopped to gawk, but no one wanted to interfere in a fight, much less one with guns. Tires squealed as a car screeched to a stop and the passenger door swung open. Another man jumped out. Hillary fired before he could and he tumbled to the ground. The kidnapper shoved Daphne inside and dove in after her.
“No!”
Hillary lunged but this time, the bullets that slammed into her stole both her breath and her consciousness.
Chapter One
Rocky Dixon pounded the receiver, ignoring the harsh glare from the guard who had just escorted him out the penitentiary doors. He’d been planning this day for over five years. When they finally unlocked the steel bars, signed over his meager possessions and led him to freedom, he’d strolled straight for the phone attached to a metal pole outside the facility. Frankly, he’d been surprised the thing still worked. With everyone and their dog having a cell, pay phones had become dinosaurs. Using the bottom of his shirt, he’d lifted the finger-print smeared receiver and fist-pumped when a dial tone sounded in his ear. The first call he’d made was to his old buddy Calvin Grimes. Calvin had only visited once, in the beginning days of his stint in the joint. He hadn’t heard from his so-called friend in years. When he couldn’t get in touch with Calvin, he’d tried Calvin’s old man. Martin Grimes was a mean son-of-a-bitch, but Rocky was willing to deal with the devil himself to find Calvin. He owed him. He owed him big. And Rocky was coming to collect. Except, he couldn’t get in touch with the old man, either. His phone had been disconnected.
Rocky turned away from the booth and glanced around the area. Nothing but dry brown grass, bare trees and flat land for miles. He checked his pockets. His only source of cash was what he’d had on him when he went inside. It wasn’t enough to purchase a bus ticket to his grandmother’s house across the state. God knows she’d never send him the money. He’d have to hitchhike. He didn’t eve
n have a jacket to stave off the chilly spring air.
With a frustrated exhale, he headed down the dusty road leading to the highway. He was in great shape, thanks to hours of lifting weights in the yard. There wasn’t much else to do. However, he concentrated on building muscle so his cardio was severely lacking. He was breathing heavy and sweating profusely by the time he reached the interstate. From what he remembered, there was a rest stop close where he could hitch a ride or pass out, whichever came first.
Vehicles sped by him as he plodded along the side of the road. Exhaust choked him and he ignored the taunts from a school bus full of annoying brats. When one thrust his chubby little hand out the window and flipped him off, Rocky returned the gesture. He almost wept in relief when he spotted the blue sign announcing the rest stop a mile away.
He trudged to a picnic table in front of the information building and dropped down. His feet were killing him. Unlike the famous song, his boots weren’t made for walking. He glanced around, looking for an opportunity to bum a ride. The area was shockingly deserted. He plopped his arms on the table and lowered his head. Nothing was working out for him. What was he supposed to do now?
Air brakes whizzed, screeched and popped, drawing his attention to a huge rig as it slowed and angled into a long, narrow parking space. A burly dude with a black buzz cut and tat sleeves that rivaled his own jumped down with an agility that was impressive for the man’s girth. The guy was maybe five-three or five-four, and looked as wide as he was tall. He followed the man’s trek to the john, his eyes bulging when the guy ambled straight into the women’s restroom. Dude was a dudette. Huh. He hadn’t seen that one coming.
Glancing around for an alternative option, he couldn’t find another car, truck or, hell, human for miles. Sighing, he resigned himself to the task. She certainly wasn’t his first choice, but hell, he hadn’t had sex—with a chick—in over five years. Calling the husky trucker a female was pushing it, but desperate times and all that. Plus, he needed to get to his granny’s house where he’d have access to cash and a set of wheels.
He positioned himself directly in her path so she’d have to walk right past him to get to her rig. With jerky movements, he rolled the sleeves of his t-shirt and flexed his impressive-if-he-did-say-so-himself biceps, shaped and honed from all those bored hours pumping iron. She emerged from the restroom, wiping her hands with a brown paper towel. She noticed him for the first time, her eyes widening before darkening with interest. She kept her gaze trained on him as she deposited the towel in the waste receptacle and headed his way.
“Hey, sugar,” he drawled, treating her to a full body scan. “Don’t suppose you could help a guy out?”
The woman stopped inches away and eyed his tattoos. They were abundant. “Nice ink.”
He winced. Her voice sounded like James Earl Jones. “Yours, too.” He indicated the colorful sleeves that ran the length of both her meaty arms.
“What do you need, sugar?”
You to quit talking. “A ride to my granny’s house across state. She’s very sick and I want to see her one last time before she passes.”
“Aw, that’s too bad,” James Earl…er…the woman commiserated. She eyed him up and down. “I got room.”
“My wallet was stolen, so I can’t pay you.”
“We can work something out.”
During the next few hours, he discovered her name was Leslie and she had a predilection for whips and chains, which she kept stowed inside the sleeping compartment of her rig. His ass was still stinging as he navigated the steps to his grandmother’s house. He’d talked Leslie into stopping by a thrift shop so he could pick up a suit to wear—on her dime. Hey, he figured he’d more than earned it. Hazard pay. Then they’d hit a truck stop for a quick shower. He’d even shaved.
His druggie parents had dropped him off at his pop’s mother’s house when he was five and hadn’t looked back. They’d died soon after from overdoses. The old bat who raised him had washed her hands of him when he got locked up. Fine. He didn’t need her or her Bible-thumping ways. He was so tired of her accusing him of being a minion of Satan. Hell, maybe he was because all he wanted to do was take that holy book out of her hands and bash her over the head with it. Repeatedly. Still, he adjusted the lapels of the suit jacket and slicked back his hair. His tats were covered for the most part. Not much he could do about the ones climbing the sides of his neck. Granny decried tattoos as Satan’s handiwork. Leslie had loved them.
Gripping a bouquet of fresh flowers he picked out of some yard down the street, he rang her doorbell.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s your grandson.”
“Who?”
“Your grandson. Ricky.” He hated that stupid name, which was why he’d changed it to Rocky. It sounded tough, like him. He’d given himself the moniker after watching his hero Stallone beat the ever-loving daylights out of Apollo Creed, never mind that Creed won the fight in a split decision. Stupid movie writers. Stallone should’ve won.
The door creaked open and a frizzy cloud of white hair appeared. Granny had been ancient when he’d been locked up, but now she looked positively decrepit. Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something foul. He opened his arms wide. “Granny!”
“Go away.”
He barely managed to wedge his foot in the door before she slammed it shut. “But Granny, I’ve missed you. It’s been over five years.”
“And whose fault is that? Satan has a hold on you, boy. You ain’t nothing but the devil in disguise, just like your good-for-nothing daddy.”
Rocky gritted his teeth and spouted the one lie that was sure to win her over. “But Granny, I found Jesus.”
Granny pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, judging his sincerity. He pasted on his most innocent smile. Granny was big on people finding Jesus. She considered it her mission in life to spread His word with her holier-than-thou attitude. He knew the key to getting her to let him in and he wasn’t ashamed to use it.
She finally relented and pushed the screen door open. The smells of his childhood hit him in the gut, making him swiftly nauseous. Lemon furniture polish. Granny considered cleanliness next to Godliness. Burnt microwave popcorn. Granny’s favorite snack. Why she couldn’t figure out that if she removed the damn bag ten seconds earlier, it wouldn’t burn, was beyond Rocky. Cat shit. Granny might like to clean, but the dozen or so varmints wandering around made her house reek like a giant litter box.
“Have you been saved?”
Rocky gaped at one limber orange cat licking himself and turned away in disgust. “Huh?”
“I asked if you’ve been saved, boy.”
“Yes, of course. I just told you that.” Was the old bat’s mind going?
She crossed the toothpicks she called arms and glared at him. “No, you told me you found Jesus. To be saved, you have to be baptized and pledge your life to Jesus.”
Well, hell. Not a thing wrong with her mind. It was a steel trap. “Uh...” Suddenly a plan struck. “Well, not officially. Yet,” he tacked on when she narrowed her bird-like gaze at him. “I met a priest who offered to baptize me, but he lives in North Carolina. I have to go to him and then I’ll be saved.” He smiled victoriously.
Granny pursed her lips. “Priest? You becoming Catholic, boy? Our family has been staunch Baptists for generations. You going against the family?”
“Slip of the tongue, Granny. I said priest, but I meant uh, minister?” When she nodded, he knew he used the correct term. “I need to get down there so I can fully immerse myself in the Baptist religion.” He’d be lucky if he didn’t gag on his words…or if God didn’t strike him down for the lies.
“That’s more like it.”
“There’s just one teensy problem.” He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart.
Granny’s frown was back in full force and her fists perched on her rail-thin hips. “What’s that, boy? You having second thoughts about accepting our Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” he quickly assured her, using his hands to emphasize the point. “I’ve accepted Jesus. That’s a done deal. But I was just released today and I had to see you. I’ve missed you so.” Gag. “You’re my first stop. I haven’t been able to look for a job and I’m a little short on cash.”
“You asking for a handout, boy?”
“Of course not,” you old biddy, he almost voiced aloud. She was trying his patience something fierce. If that huge Bible was within grabbing distance, Rocky would be tempted to launch it at her and wipe that disapproving glower off her prune-like face. “If you could spot me the money, you can consider it a donation to the church. I’m even thinking of becoming a minister when I return.” He shot a glance out the window, hoping there were no storm clouds brewing. God would surely strike him dead for that whopper. When Granny remained silent, he chanced a look at her. He feared he’d gone too far when her thin lips puckered. He forced a smile and finally she nodded. “Don’t you need to check in with a parole officer or something?”
“No, I was released for good behavior.” He even managed to keep a straight face while delivering that lie. He’d caused so much trouble in the joint, he was denied parole at every turn. He’d served his entire sentence, plus a few extra months tacked on for various indiscretions. Hey, in his own defense, it was dog-eat-dog in there.
“Fine. I’ll lend you some money.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh and slapped a hand over his chest. “Thank you so much. But, uh, Granny, there’s one more thing. To get to North Carolina so I can be saved, I’ll need to borrow Gramps old truck.”
“You are pushing it, boy. Fine. I’ll give you one week. If you’re not back in seven days, I’ll report the truck as stolen by my felon grandson.”
You miserable old bitch. Rocky ground his teeth. “I’ll be back.”
“And call me every day to check in. If you miss a day, I’ll call the police.”
God, what was he, twelve? Hell, she hadn’t cared that much about his whereabouts when he had been twelve. “Of course,” he gritted out.
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