Jameson’s Salvation
Riley Edwards
Jameson’s Salvation
Gemini Group Book 2
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Riley Edwards
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2019 by Riley Edwards
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design: Lori Jackson Designa
Written by: Riley Edwards
Published by: Riley Edwards/Rebels Romance
Edited by: Rebecca Hodgkins
Proofreader: Julie Deaton and Rebecca Kendall
Jameson’s Salvation
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7339667-8-8
First edition: September 24, 2019
Copyright © 2019 Riley Edwards
All rights reserved
To my family - my team – my tribe.
This is for you.
Contents
1. Jameson
2. Kennedy
3. Jameson
4. Kennedy
5. Jameson
6. Kennedy
7. Jameson
8. Kennedy
9. Jameson
10. Kennedy
11. Jameson
12. Kennedy
13. Jameson
14. Kennedy
15. Jameson
16. Kennedy
17. Jameson
18. Kennedy
19. Jameson
20. Kennedy
21. Jameson
22. Kennedy
23. Jameson
24. Kennedy
25. Jameson
26. Kennedy
27. Jameson
28. Kennedy
29. Jameson
30. Kennedy
31. Jameson
32. Kennedy
33. Jameson
34. Kennedy
35. Jameson
36. Silver
Riley’s Rebels
Also by Riley Edwards
About the Author
Acknowledgments
1
Jameson
Jameson Grant was sitting on an old stump drinking a beer, looking at his buddy and former teammate’s old yellow barn. He was hot, tired, and his body ached from old-fashioned manual labor. He was doing that while thinking life was good—and since Jameson hadn’t had all that many really good days in the last fifteen years, he was thinking life wasn’t just good—it was fucking fantastic.
Cold beer, no neighbors for miles other than his best friends who lived with him on the old Swagger Farm, and of course Nix and McKenna who lived on the other side of the woods that surrounded the property. But other than that, no one. Nothing but the summer corn crop to his right, and a soybean field to his left.
He was living a goddamn country song and he couldn’t have been happier.
Business was good, money was rolling in, not that he needed much, but it was always nice to have.
So, life was perfect for Jameson Grant and it was about damn time.
His head tipped back, he took a few more swallows of the icy brew, and his attention went to the rumble of an F150 driving up the lane. The truck passed the house and continued the last quarter mile up to the barn, and suddenly Jameson’s life wasn’t so great.
He hated visitors. The only thing he hated more was when someone came calling unannounced. He watched as the pickup slowed, and he was happy to see it was filthy, that the seventy-five-thousand-dollar truck was used for working and not just for showboating. Said a lot about the truck’s owner.
Jameson hated when people showed off their money. Like anyone gave two shits you could afford a luxury vehicle. Or more appropriately, the bank owned it, and they were really living paycheck to paycheck like the rest of the population, yet pretending they were highfalutin’. He’d seen enough of that shit to last a lifetime.
It was safe to say, Jameson didn’t like much. People accounted for the majority of his gripes. That was because he’d learned the hard way that people sucked. They robbed, they lied, they cheated, and they killed. It was the last part he struggled with the most. Some could say he, too, was a killer and they wouldn’t be wrong.
He had indeed taken a life, many, as a matter of fact. One did not serve as a Navy SEAL for nearly fifteen years and not earn the black hashmarks he now had. One didn’t carry the burden of death and wonder if everything he’d done would be forgiven when he knocked on the Pearly Gates. Perhaps Jameson Grant would be an unwelcomed, unannounced visitor, the kind he detested so much.
Whatever was in store for him on the other side, was something he spent a good amount of time trying not to think about. And right then, as the driver of the pickup was opening their door, wasn’t the ideal time to be thinking about his morality.
The sun was setting and the last rays of the day were glaring off the windshield, making it impossible to see the occupant. Jameson stood and squinted as he waited for the driver to make an appearance. And when she did, the glimmers of light highlighted her shiny golden hair and Jameson was extra-pissed.
Kennedy Lane.
He’d seen her arguing with a man in her front yard, not two weeks ago. She’d been relieved when Jameson had appeared on the street, and with nothing more than a glare from Jameson, the man who had been yelling at Kennedy took off. She’d tried to show her gratitude by inviting him in for an iced tea.
Christ, an iced tea. For a moment, Jameson had thought he was living in Mayberry and not a small town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Though by the look of the town, and the feel of it, too, he might as well be on the lookout for Sheriff Andy Taylor and Barney Fife.
Though, the last man that had served as sheriff of Kent County was a dirty piece of shit who’d tried to kill McKenna, Nixon’s woman. Thankfully, that scumbag was six feet under where he deserved to be. He’d been terrorizing the county for two decades. Just thinking about Sheriff Dickhead Dillinger made Jameson furious, and yet again reminded him why he disliked most everyone.
“You following me?” Jameson barked.
Kennedy jerked back in surprise before she smiled.
Good God, the woman was lethal. Her smile alone was enough for Jameson to break all his rules and ask her to sit and stay awhile.
“Hey. Jameson, right? How ya been? I’m actually lookin’ for Nixon. He around?”
Her musical voice floated across the barnyard and just as it had done the first time he’d heard it, it slammed into his chest, making him feel funny.
“Nixon?”
“Yeah. I need to talk to him.”
“’Bout what?”
Jameson had no clue why he was being nosey. It was out of character for him and he knew he should just tell Kennedy, Nix wasn’t there and be done. But he couldn’t stop himself from wondering why she wanted to see his friend.
He told himself it wasn’t jealousy and he was just looking out for a buddy who didn’t need a very beautiful woman causing trouble for him. And Kennedy Lane had trouble with a capitol T written all over her.
“Heard he set up shop,” she answered. “I know most of the gossip you hear around town you can’t believe but I thought I’d take a chance and see if it’s true.”
“And what’d you hear?”
“That he’s some sort of PI.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t false either. Gemini Group did more than private investigations.
“Why do you need a PI?”
Kennedy’s smile faded and she unnecessarily looked around the yard. They were alone. Holden was at the office where he spent most of his time. Weston and Chasin were taking their Saturday to go kayaking on the Chester River. Nixon was at his house with his woman and her siblings. So that left Jameson alone on the farm to finish painting the roof of the old milking parlor.
It had taken a shit-ton of man hours and elbow grease, but the old farm had been restored to its former glory. No more peeling paint, rusted tin, falling down barns, and the forest of weeds and grass had been mowed down. The place looked great, and he was happy to help. Nixon had been seriously depressed when he’d come home and found his father’s farm in disarray after he’d passed away.
Nixon Swagger loved his old man and the land he’d grown up on. After Nix had separated from the Navy his plan was simple; come back to Kent County, fix up the house and barns, and rent out the land. Then he was supposed to go back to Virginia Beach and they were going to start their business there. But he’d met McKenna. Everything had changed for him and he decided to stay. And if Nixon was there, the rest of them would be, too. They were a team.
“You remember the guy who was in my face at the Tea Party?” she asked.
Jameson remembered. He’d been walking around the street fair and when he couldn’t take another minute of the crowd and people bumping into him, he’d split and taken a walk down a residential street. He was enjoying the solitude until he saw Kennedy and the man. He was indeed in Kennedy’s face yelling at her, and the beauty was yelling right back.
The first thing Jameson had thought was, he was impressed the woman was standing her ground and not taking shit from a man who towered over her and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. It wasn’t muscle that accounted for the size difference, the man had looked like he’d never met a cheeseburger he didn’t like and had never seen in the inside of a gym. Or knew that such a facility existed.
His next thought was, she was crazy. She should’ve gone back into her house and called the police. People did fucked-up things, especially in anger, and the man had looked furious. But so had Kennedy.
“Yeah, I remember him.”
“Well, he’s a pain in my ass. I guess I don’t need a PI to find him, since I know who he is, I just need something on him to make him stop. I was thinking that maybe Nixon could find that something.”
“You wanna blackmail him?”
“Blackmail’s an ugly way to put it. I don’t want anything from him other than for him to stop harassing me. And men like Reggie Coleman don’t stop just because you ask them to. And most especially if you’re a woman.”
Jameson’s eyes narrowed and his body went tight. “What do you mean, especially if you’re a woman?”
All sorts of crazy thoughts were floating through Jameson’s head. Ones that made him want to mete out violence. Was the man sexually harassing Kennedy? Had he physically hurt her?
“Reggie’s a good ol’ boy. You know the kind.”
“No, I don’t know the kind,” Jameson lied.
He did know plenty of men who behaved like assholes because they thought just because they were male they could treat women like they were inferior. It was bullshit, it went against everything Jameson believed in. Even though he hated most things, one thing he never wavered from was women were precious and should be protected and treated as such. And just because he felt the need to protect them didn’t mean they weren’t equal. As a matter of fact, in Jameson’s eyes women would always be superior to men.
“He’s a land developer and he lives by the notion, you don’t pitch the bitch.”
“What does that mean?” Jameson had never heard the phrase.
“When he’s working his contracts trying to pay pennies on the dollar for land he’s trying to strong-arm the owner into selling, he never speaks to the woman. Even if she’s the landowner. He’ll try to circumvent her and go to her father, brother, male cousin, hell, even a friend if it means he can speak to a man.”
“He was talking to you,” Jameson noted.
“Only because my dad’s dead, I’m an only child, I have no cousins local, he tried approaching my friends’ husbands and they all told him to take a hike. So that leaves me. As you saw, he’s not happy about it, and even less so since I’ve told him to fuck off more than once.”
“You told him to fuck off?”
Jameson was impressed, Reggie Coleman sounded like a dick.
“Well, yeah. I didn’t start out being so crass. I tried to politely decline his absurd offer but he likes being told ‘no’ by a woman only slightly less than having his balls twisted. So after the twentieth time of him coming around I finally told him to fuck off.”
Jameson couldn’t help it, his lips tipped into a smile.
“You had first-hand knowledge on his thoughts about his balls being twisted?”
“I see your point, I don’t. Perhaps Reggie Coleman enjoys that sorta kink. You never know what floats someone’s boat. Now that you mention it, I could see him getting off on it.”
Jameson couldn’t help it, he was enjoying the woman’s banter, so he continued to engage even though he knew he should just tell her Nixon wasn’t there and send her on her way.
“I didn’t mention anything. You’re the one that seems fascinated with the man’s balls.”
“Ew. That’s gross.” Kennedy’s face scrunched in disgust and Jameson chuckled.
Needing to steer the conversation back to something more appropriate—and to a topic that didn’t make Kennedy’s sharp wit come out along with cute gestures that made Jameson want to laugh—he moved along.
“What’s he want?”
“My land,” she answered.
“Your land?”
“Yep. He bought the farm behind me when Mr. Nickels passed away. His widow didn’t want to sell, but after a year of not being able to find someone to rent the property to who could till it, she had to. Her only son lives in New Jersey and he never had any interest in farming. The land taxes were coming up and she couldn’t afford to pay them from her social security. Not to mention, you can’t leave nearly four-hundred and fifty acres unattended. She was growing a weed crop and the farmer next to her was pissed.”
None of that meant anything to Jameson. He had no clue why a neighboring farmer wouldn’t be pleased the fields next to him were growing weeds and didn’t understand what any of it had to do with Kennedy’s land.
Luckily, she continued. “Now that he owns the land behind me, he wants mine, too. I only have fifty acres but I have the most street access.”
“I take it you don’t want to sell. Even at fair market value.”
“Over my dead body. That land is mine. I’ve worked hard for it. And I’m not selling to anybody, but most especially not to that snake so he can turn it into a development.”
Jameson was taken aback at the vehemence in Kennedy’s voice. Gone was the sweet lyrical tone. And in its place was steely determination. He was impressed and more than a little curious about the feisty woman who’d fight to keep her patch of land.
It was out of inquisitiveness he asked his next question, an offer he hoped didn’t bite him in the ass. But he’d decided the moment she’d stepped out of her truck and smiled at him he was going to ask it. Even before she’d told her tale of woe.
Now he had an excuse for his odd behavior, and the truth was, Reggie Coleman sounded like a man who needed to be taught a few lessons. Luckily for Kennedy, Jameson was a good teacher.
“Wanna go on up to the house?”
“The house?”
“The house, Kennedy. The place you passed on your way up here.”
“Smartass,” she said with a smile. “You think Nixon can help me?”
There was that jealousy again. Jameson tamped it down and answered.
“Yeah, I think we can help you.”
Jameson wasn’t entirely sure why he put so much emphasis on the we, but f
or some crazy reason it was important to him. Almost as important as her accepting his invitation.
2
Kennedy
I seriously hoped Jameson couldn’t tell how nervous I was. My hands may’ve been shaking, though since I’d shoved them in my pockets, I couldn’t be sure.
Had I known I was going to run into the man, I wouldn’t have come, or at least I would’ve gone home and changed out of my dirty clothes, maybe washed some of the dirt and dust off me, and run a brush through my hair. But I hadn’t done any of those things because I’d been red hot mad and I’d thought I was coming over to talk to Nixon.
While Nixon was one good-looking man, he wasn’t as hot as Jameson. And, well, he was just Nixon. I’d grown up with him. He was a cute kid when we were in elementary school, but I could still remember him picking his nose. And when we got to middle school and he’d shot up two feet over the summer—okay that was an exaggeration, but he’d had a growth spurt and started to fill out—he’d become even cuter. However, I couldn’t forget the way his voice had cracked, making him sound like a frog for a full six months. In high school, he’d come into his own and there was a presence about him that everyone wanted to be around. But by then, he was just Nixon.
My buddy.
So, I’d appreciated the boy-man he’d become but I’d never looked at him as more than a friend, even on the night I’d almost screwed everything up. A boy I could pal around with and know I was safe to do silly teenage stuff, because Nixon Swagger was a champion for girls. Sure, he’d nailed quite a few of my classmates, but he’d never broken hearts. And when Rich Dillinger had hurt some of my friends, it was Nixon who’d stepped in and helped.
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