The Hot Sergeant (Second Chance Military Romance) (Hargrave Brothers - Book #2)

by Alexa Davis

  I pull out my phone and call Amelie. She doesn’t answer, but based on what I see on television; I’m not surprised.

  Her voicemail beeps and I say, “You have twenty minutes to get here or not only are you fired, but I will also use every bit of my power and influence to make sure the rest of your life is hell. You know who this is, and you know why I’m calling. Get here now.”

  I hang up the phone just in time for the camera to cut back to the full-sized, though blurred, picture of Ellie sleeping topless in the guest room down the hall from me.

  * * *

  “Who the hell do you think you are‽” I shout about a foot from Amelie’s face. “What was the point of that?” I spit, “I hope you got a hell of a payout because I’m going to ruin your fucking world! And you know nobody’s going to hire you anywhere for anything. Who told you to do this? I want you to tell me right now before I have you arrested for voyeurism!”

  She goes a full half second without saying anything.

  “I said answer me!” I yell.

  “What is going on?” Ellie’s voice comes somewhere to the left of me. Ellie’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes, her hair’s a mess.

  Amelie’s trembling. I’d never hit a woman, even for something like this, but I’m no less glad she’s scared. I hope she’s terrified.

  “You’re going to want to sit down,” I tell Ellie.

  Ellie crosses her arms, saying, “Who is this woman and why are you screaming at her?”

  “She took a picture of you while you were sleeping and now it’s all over everything,” I answer, staring Amelie down.

  “What do you mean while I was asleep?” Ellie asks. “Why would anyone care about a picture of me sleeping?”

  “Ellie, you really might want to sit down for this,” I tell her.

  Is it like someone died? No. But hearing every person on the planet with an internet connection can pull up a half-naked picture of you anytime they want isn’t the kind of thing you want to take standing up. Not in a literal sense.

  This kind of thing happens all the time, and for the very select few that plan “wardrobe malfunctions,” it’s just good publicity. For everyone else, and especially for someone like Ellie, who never asked for the spotlight, it’s the sort of thing that ends too often with a bang.

  Ellie sits.

  I turn to Amelie. “Tell her what you did,” I command.

  Amelie’s crying now, but I have no sympathy.

  “Last week,” Amelie starts, her voice small, raspy, “a man gave me a call—”

  “You can get to why you did it in a minute,” I interrupt. “First, tell her what you did.”

  Amelie looks up at me. Her eyes are big and bloodshot. She’s not crying, but that’s just the same old-fashioned stoicism my mom had when things went south with dad.

  “You were sleeping,” Amelie says to Ellie. “I knew you would be here because of the message Mr. Scipio sent me.”

  Just so there aren’t any misunderstandings, I tell Ellie, “I told her not to worry about cleaning the guest room when she got here this morning.”

  “You were asleep,” Amelie says again.

  “Just spit it out,” I demand.

  “Nick,” Ellie says, holding up one hand to me, “let her talk.”

  “At first, I just wanted to take a picture showing you asleep in his room after everyone said you two were …” she trails off. “The man who called me, he told me that it was more important to keep the story alive than to catch you doing something wrong. I swear, I don’t know what story he was talking about.”

  I’m seething, “Even if that were true, how would that possibly justify—”

  “Nick,” Ellie says again, her voice remarkably calm.

  “I saw you were sleeping without your clothes on,” Amelie continues, “the sheet was pulled up your shoulder, but I could see enough. Please,” Amelie pleads. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Continue,” Ellie says, her voice monotone.

  Amelie starts again, “I thought if they’d pay me so much—”

  “How much?” Ellie interrupts. I can’t read her face, so I don’t know what I should be doing right now. I’ll keep that to myself, though.

  “Two,” Amelie says. “Two million dollars.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask though I’m no longer shouting. “You make that what everyone’s going to think every time they look at her from now—”

  “Nick,” Ellie says. “Maybe you should sit down, too. You don’t look well.”

  How is she so calm?

  “I thought if they’d pay me that much for proof the two of you hadn’t stopped … you know,” she says. “They would have to pay me more for something like that.”

  “I would imagine,” Ellie says. “So, you were in the bedroom, I was sleeping, you could tell that I was sleeping without clothes, but that a sheet was over me. What happened next?”

  Amelie looks at me, and it’s almost like she’s expecting some help. She won’t get it.

  “I took the top of the sheet,” Amelie says, gesturing. “I pulled it down, and I took the picture.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ellie says like she’s working technical support and she’s just trying to understand the customer’s issue. “And I’m assuming from the fact that everyone in the world has supposedly seen it already that you’ve already sent the pictures and it’s been leaked to the press?” Ellie asks.

  “Yes,” Amelie says, taking half a step back as Ellie stands.

  Ellie walks over, slowly. “And so I’m assuming the story is going to be that Nick beats me or something because I got into a fight with my sister and my face is—”

  “I covered your face with your hair,” Amelie says. “I know it was bad of me to take the picture, but I know Mr. Scipio, and he would never hurt anyone like that, especially not you. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I just—” Amelie’s voice catches in her throat. “I just wanted the money.”

  Ellie turns to me, asking, “Have you seen the picture?”

  I nod. “On TV, they blurred it, but the full thing is easy enough to find online. It’s everywhere,” I tell her.

  “Just how covered is my face?” she asks.

  “I didn’t see any signs of your fight,” I answer. “I don’t know if we could get away with a denial, though. Maybe we could say it was Photoshopped?”

  Ellie titters. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just can’t believe this is how this stuff actually happens. To be honest, I liked the view from the other side of the fence better.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking this so well,” I tell Ellie, “but—”

  “It was hot last night,” Ellie says. “Yesterday was the first time I set foot in this place, and there hasn’t been a second yet.”

  Amelie glances at me before responding, saying, “What?”

  “That’s why I was naked,” she says, walking right up to Amelie until the two are less than a foot apart. “Even if I were sleeping in Nick’s room with his penis inside of me, though, that wouldn’t make it anyone’s business.”

  Ellie’s pulling her phone out of her pocket, and she’s tapping on the screen. A few seconds later, none of us has said anything, but Ellie holds up the screen to Amelie.

  “Wow,” Ellie says. “This picture isn’t that bad.”

  “Ellie, we need to find out who’s behind this so we can hit back,” I start. “This thing’s going to backfire on someone, and I want to make sure it’s the right—”

  Ellie spits in Amelie’s face.

  I’m too stunned to move. Amelie’s too stunned to wipe her face.

  Ellie just walks back and sits on the couch. She says, “Now, I believe Nick was asking you a question, and I interrupted. Now that I’m up to speed on everything else, why don’t you tell us both all about it?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Variables

  Ellie

  I’ve never had an enemy before. There are plenty of people I’ve met that I didn’t like. Ther
e are even more people, I bet, who’ve met me and didn’t like me, but when I came out into that living room and heard what had happened, something inside just cracked.

  Never have I felt anything like the cold hatred I felt for that woman as she looked to me for sympathy while she described exactly how she violated me. I didn’t want the money she got from the picture and Nick sure as hell doesn’t need it, but it seems the cops don’t allow a person to profit from their crime.

  So, these two ladies on my chest are responsible for the state of New York being two million bucks richer, or at least they will be once they convict. I don’t mind that part, I guess. I never cared about the money.

  Now, I’m just waiting for Nick to get home.

  The night I got here, I was tired and achy. After Amelie left to go do whatever it is people in custody do, I didn’t feel much like leaving my guest room for a few days. Now it’s been a week, though, and I’m starting to get curious.

  The beach house was gorgeous with its enormous and open main room, and I would like to tour those hallways and see if there’s any justification for having so many rooms in a vacation home. It’s the penthouse, though, where Nick’s wealth is a bit more apparent.

  I pull out my phone and search the internet to see if there’s anything about Nick’s homes. When it comes back with multiple articles, each claiming and inside look at the home of the Nikolai Scipio, any doubt I had left that I was now in a different world evaporates.

  Nick’s told me about his different places, but he never went into that much detail. He was always more interested in telling me what’s around the various locales he rests his head than the mansions, penthouses—apparently there’s another one in Seattle—beach homes, and vacation homes themselves.

  I’d better start getting used to this if it’s going to become a larger part of my life.

  Scrolling through the many articles, I find one about “The New York Penthouse,” and I open the page.

  It seems the floor isn’t just a floor; it’s also pressure sensitive and heated. I hadn’t noticed it until I’m reading about it on the internet, but there is an unnaturally natural feel to the temperature of the floor. The article says the pressure sensitivity is a security feature, though I’m less interested in that.

  The shower I’ve been using since I got here comes with a few features I had no idea even existed. My personal favorite is how if you touch one area of one wall, just a bit above my shoulder height, an LED menu comes up on the shower glass.

  From the menu, you can control anything from the shower pressure or temperature to a stereo with hidden speakers but incredible sound, and even catch a live stream of the inside of Stingray’s board room, though that’s password protected.

  That one’s not in the article.

  I’m running through the eight different kinds of marble contained in each tile around the hidden pool area—that might have been more a secret if Nick hadn’t shown it to everyone with a video camera and a website—when I hear the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

  “Ellie?” Nick calls, and I slither my way through the hidden door and through the walk-in pantry I first mistook as a prototype minimart. Closing the pantry door behind me, I walk through the palatial kitchen, go down the hall, take a right and come out, finally, in the living room where Nick is hanging up his suit coat.

  “Hey, you,” I say. “How was work?”

  “Oh, you know,” he says, loosening his tie, “just another day closer to my inevitable banishment and the justifiably angry mob that’s probably going to blame me for some reason when Stingray fires all of them. How was your day?”

  “It was okay, I guess,” I answer.

  “You didn’t turn the TV on, did you?” he asks. “I’m telling you, the first few days are always the worst, but if it helps at all, there’s some good news.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say the words good news before,” I smirk. “What happened?”

  “Well,” he says, “you remember how I said the whole thing was going to backfire?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. It was right before the most disrespectful, yet strangely gratifying thing I’ve ever done.

  He says, “Well, it looks like the public is so upset that this happened, they’re blaming it on the board. I don’t even remember the last time anyone in the news talked about a board of directors, but there they are going through each and every one of them, listing possible motives. It’s all hypothetical, so the board can’t do anything about it.”

  “I’m glad my humiliating ordeal has been so beneficial for you,” I say.

  The smile fades from Nick’s face, and he’s sputtering, “That’s not what I—that’s not the way I intended it. I just meant, you know, it’s a small amount of vindication. Everyone’s on your side. Even the tabloids have shifted their focus away from the picture itself or any statement about you and me to the bastards who—”

  “Nick,” I say, “relax. You got more than your fair share of jabs when I first got here. I’m just taking my pound of flesh, cut by cut.”

  “We have some stuff to work out, don’t we?” he asks. “Are you ready to go to dinner? We can cancel and eat in if you’d prefer to talk, just you and me.”

  “Weren’t we going to meet some of your friends tonight?” I ask.

  The last time I met some of Nick’s friends, it was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life. Of course, I hadn’t really begun adjusting to this life, so maybe now I’d be less impressed.

  Who am I kidding? I wonder if Ryan Reynolds is going to be there.

  So we go to dinner. I’m a little disappointed when we walk up to the table and I don’t recognize anyone, but it’s probably better that way. Now I don’t have to worry so much about making an idiot of myself.

  “Ellie, I’d like you to meet Tim Pratchett, he owns Minder Media and can’t hit a golf ball straight to save his life,” Nick says. “And this is his wife Darla, who you may know from the World Health Organization. Tim, Darla, this is Ellie.”

  I shake two deceptively important hands and Nick pulls out my chair. Nick and I sit down at the table.

  For a while, I’m just sitting there, not quite sure what to say or how to add to a conversation between these people.

  Oh, so the last time you saw the President of the United States, he neglected to give you a pen from that historic bill he signed, huh? Well, I recently replaced the front window of the junk shop I own in a place you’ve only heard of because Nick seemingly upset the whole world when he wanted to move his multibillion dollar company there.

  Yeah, I know what that’s like.

  After a few minutes, though, I realize that when I do speak, nobody looks at me like an idiot or as if I’m missing some massive part of what they’re talking about. No, Tim and Darla speak and act surprisingly like regular people.

  Until the food arrives, Nick, Darla, and Tim are just catching up, but as soon as the first fork goes into the first piece of real Japanese Kobe beef, the conversation, strangely, turns to me.

  Darla leans forward saying, “I was so distressed when I heard what that cleaning woman did to you.” She says it in a whisper as if there’s anyone at the tables around us who isn’t aware of the scandal.

  I’m a part of a scandal. That’s actually kind of cool, except for the obvious.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Yes,” Tim says, “I heard they had that woman arrested, but I say she should have been shot doing something like that, and in your sleep!”

  I’m being bucked-up by two of the more important people on the planet. It almost makes up for everything.

  “Well, I asked Nick here if that would be a possibility—having her shot—but he told me there’s all kinds of paperwork,” I answer.

  They laugh. I’m actually making these people laugh.

  “How charming!” Tim says, and while it’s not exactly how I’d characterize my remarks, I’m more than happy to be called charming by this man.


  I look over at Nick, who gives me a nod of approval, and in spite of everything, I feel pretty good about myself right now.

  Tim says, “I don’t know a great deal about what kind of work you do, but if you’re ever interested in changing careers, we could use someone like you on the board at Minder. The people we have now are among the most apathetic, timid masses of quivering flesh in the media business. What we could use is someone with your type of gumption.”

  “You know, Tim,” I say, “if I weren’t certain you were just trying to hit on my boyfriend’s pocketbook the long way round, there, I’d consider it.”

  Whoa. Oh, please tell me I didn’t just say that. Here we are having a perfectly amicable dinner and that’s what comes out? “Hit on my boyfriend’s pocketbook.” What does that even mean?

  The table is silent for a second and Nick places a hand on my upper thigh. The gesture is hidden by the table, but I feel no less exposed.

  Then it happens. It starts with Darla, but within a few moments, Tim and even Nick are boisterously guffawing. I smile and squeeze out a few chuckles, but I’m the death row prisoner getting a last minute call from the governor.

  Under the table, I find Nick’s hand with my own and give it a squeeze.

  Wiping his eyes, Tim says, “Nick, she’s a firecracker. You hang onto her.”

  “I plan to,” Nick says and smiles.

  The rest of the dinner is me finding not just my confidence, but my ability to feel confident. It’s funny how people draw these imaginary lines between themselves and anyone they see as somehow different, but after sitting down to dinner with the kind of people that are supposed to have everyone peeing their pants, I’m finally starting to feel like there’s somewhere I belong.

  When we get home, I’m not thinking about the picture. I’m not thinking about the store or what I’m going to do with it, and I’m not thinking about all the fickle people who find it so easy to hate me. For the first time since that shopping trip on Fifth, I actually feel comfortable in my own skin again.

  Nick’s quiet, though.

  I go to the kitchen and fix up a couple of drinks and Nick follows me into the kitchen.