Fine Line (Crossing Lines Book 1)

by A. D. Justice

  “Maybe.”

  I can’t tell him I don’t have the extra money for a security monitoring system right now. I’ve already put myself in an embarrassing situation, and I’m working hard to get out of it. The investments in my future endeavors coupled with the usual moving expenses hit my savings account harder than I originally estimated, so I’ll need time to save up enough money to cover more than the necessities. Living in DC is not cheap, and I’m well aware I could move to another town and get away from Butch. I could pick any small town or big city in the world, but I refuse to run and hide from a place I’ve grown to call home. Maybe that makes me stupid. Or stubborn. Or both. But I refuse to leave behind the best friends I’ve ever known just because of a poor excuse for a man.

  There’s definitely much more to Nick Tucker than the rough exterior and the savior attitude I’ve seen so far. The way he carries himself screams confidence and capability—but he also gives off enough signals to let everyone know to keep a wide berth. When he speaks, his message is short and to the point. Even on the walk to my apartment, the limited conversation we had was all about me. He seemed hesitant to share anything about himself—personal or otherwise.

  Yet, he cares. Even about a stranger embroiled in the drama of domestic abuse, probable frequent flyer at the local police station, and general wimp of a woman, for all he knows. First impressions are as hard to overcome as false beliefs about women who don’t flee from domestic violence.

  “I have some friends in the security business. To the public, they’ve closed up shop and redirected their efforts elsewhere. To those of us who know them, they still provide the best security services anyone would ever need, all while keeping it under the radar. They’re good friends of mine, so I’d trust them with my life, and I don’t say that about anyone else. If you’ll let me, I’d like to call them to install a security system for you.”

  “But you don’t know me. Why would you do that?” No man would call in a favor like that for someone he didn’t know. He only knows my name because I had to give it to the police officer. We literally just met a few minutes ago. What does he expect in return?

  His eyes drop to the floor, and a dark shadow passes over his expression. There’s so much regret deep inside this man. Pain seeps out of his very essence, troubling him so much, even a stranger can see it. “You don’t deserve how he treated you. You’re entitled to feel safe in your own home.” He shrugs his muscular shoulders, still not meeting my gaze head on. “If I can help take some of that away, I want to try.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t let you do that. It’s very kind of you to be so concerned about me, though. You have a good heart, Nick.” I’m not flirting—I’m being as sincere as possible. Maybe I missed a few huge warning signs with the other guy, but my eyes are wide open now.

  “I don’t think your friend would agree with that assessment of me, but I’ll admit to having a strong sense of right and wrong. My protective instincts have always been fairly keen, too. Sorry if I crossed the line with my offer. Sometimes I do get a little overzealous…but that’s only because of what I’ve seen in my line of work.”

  When he speaks this time, those amber eyes lock on to mine and hold me captive. I almost feel bad about turning down his offer to help. It seems so important to him.

  “Your friends in security, did you use to work with them?” I’m genuinely curious about Nick, but maybe I’ll learn more about him by asking about his friends rather than about him directly.

  “Yeah. We were all Army buddies first. Reaper started his own security company when he left the service. I worked for him for a while before I took a private security job with the software mogul Dominic Powers. Now I’m with the DEA. Reaper had his security business for several years before all the guys settled down with families, but they couldn’t stand being out of the thick of things for long. Now they take high-powered but low-visibility cases.”

  “You mean they handle undercover work, don’t you?”

  “Something like that.” Is that a small smile? Finally, some type of reaction from him. Amused by my amusement.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by that type of work. I never could do it myself, but I love watching documentaries about other people who do it. It’s intriguing.”

  That amused look is gone, replaced by a haunted expression I can’t even begin to guess about.

  He pulls a card out of his wallet and writes something on the back. “Here’s my contact info, and my personal cell is on there. If you change your mind or if he shows up here, call me. My address is on the back if you ever need a nearby place to escape to. I’m only a couple of miles from here—in Georgetown. Don’t hesitate to call or drop by if you need help.”

  With that, he slides his jacket over his muscular arms and back. “Lock up behind me. Stay safe, Savannah.”

  “Thank you again for everything. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home? It’s getting pretty cold out there.”

  “No, I like to walk. Thanks anyway. Enjoy the rest of your day.” Before the door closes behind him, he graces me with a full-face smile.

  Straight white teeth against naturally tanned skin. Short hair that looks black on sight, but closer inspection reveals the dark brown mixture. Well-groomed beard that adds to his rugged and handsome appearance. But that real smile makes me weak in the knees.

  After he’s gone, I realize he never asked for my number. That really shouldn’t disappoint me as much as it does. I shouldn’t care whether he wants to call me or not. I certainly shouldn’t wonder if he has a girlfriend, or recount that I didn’t see a ring on his finger.

  And I definitely shouldn’t tell Karen about him.

  For the next few hours, I keep myself busy writing and plotting my next couple of chapters, motivated even more by the events of the morning. The distinctive rumble of a motorcycle engine slowly moving by catches my attention. My heart races, my hands shake, and my palms sweat. Sliding along the wall to the window, I peek through the crack between the curtains and the wall without giving away my location. My breath hitches in my chest, and I stand motionless while staring down at Butch. He’s stopped in front of my building, casing the scene. My only consolation is he doesn’t know which apartment is mine. The tenant names aren’t listed on the door buzzer for safety concerns—exactly like this situation. Still, if someone opens the door and holds it for him, he would find me all too soon.

  He raises his hand, his forefinger pointed outward and his thumb extended upward, forming a mock gun. Then he slowly moves his hand across the building, pretending to shoot when he reaches each window. Though he doesn’t know which one I’m in, the threat is obvious. And real—because he has no idea I’m watching, but he’s taking the time to see it through regardless.

  I can’t breathe.

  I’m never going to get away from him. He doesn’t even care about me, much less love me. So why can’t he just leave me alone?

  His arm drops limply to his side, and his spine straightens. A large figure steps out of the shadows, slowly approaching Butch’s bike. A hood covers the second man’s head and his hands are in his jacket pockets, but I’d recognize that strut anywhere.

  Nick is out there with Butch.

  So many thoughts rush through my mind, I can barely keep up with them. Was the entire scene at the coffee shop a ruse to get me to trust Nick? Is he in league with Butch and the motorcycle gang? I can’t chance moving to slide the window open, but then, I wouldn’t be able to hear them from the fifth floor anyway.

  Butch makes a show of turning the ignition key off and putting the kickstand down. He stands and climbs off his bike. An anxiety attack is imminent. There’s no way I can fight off these two muscular brutes if they turn on me. I slide my cell out of my pocket and prepare to dial 9-1-1. If they walk toward the building, I’m running and dialing at the same time.

  Butch faces Nick, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, but his fists are ready. That stance is all too familiar. But
ch is about to sucker-punch Nick. Maybe they’re not friends, after all. My imagination is all over the place, along with my paranoia and anxiety. Butch takes a swing, but Nick easily ducks before delivering a powerful blow to Butch’s stomach, one fist after the other.

  Butch doubles over in pain and drops to his knees in the middle of the road, coughing and spitting on the ground. Nick takes that opportunity to snatch something out of Butch’s vest pocket then spikes it on the asphalt in front of Butch. Then I realize what it is—or was. Butch’s cell phone. Nick stomps on what’s left of it with the heel of his boot, further demolishing it and grinding it into dust.

  Nick doesn’t walk away before adding insult to injury. He smiles and gives Butch an imaginary tip of his hat. Then Nick strolls off without a care in the world while Butch tries to catch his breath and stand up straight again. He holds his side as he straddles his motorcycle then glances down at the broken pieces of his phone before putting his bike into gear and riding away.

  First, I’m dying to call Nick and ask him what the hell just happened. Then I realize he never left my neighborhood when he left my apartment. He knew Butch would show up, and he waited out in the cold wind and snow for hours.

  Second, there’s no way in hell I can keep any of this from Karen and Spencer. She will flip her shit on me for not calling her immediately, and I’m sure Spencer will want to meet Nick. Either way, I’ll be in an embarrassing predicament—Karen with her matchmaking plans and Spencer with his law enforcement brotherhood bond pushing me on a man I just met.

  Lastly, watching Nick dishing out what I’ve taken from Butch was way too hot. I wish I’d videoed it on my phone so I could replay it a million and one times. From what I’ve seen of him so far, Nick Tucker is the perfect man. Did I mention he’s also a fine specimen to examine?

  If I wait much longer, I run the risk of facing a thoroughly pissed-off best friend, so I fish my phone from my pocket again. Funny, I don’t even remember putting it back in there. When she answers, she’s her usual chipper self. Until I recount the coffee shop scene. I only get as far as Butch dragging me out of my seat before she becomes unhinged.

  “What the hell, Savannah? Why are you just now calling me? Spence! Spence! Where is your gun? I’m going to neuter Butch and spare the world from any chance of him reproducing any satanic spawn in his image.”

  “What?” I can hear the confusion in Spencer’s tone, and it makes me laugh.

  “Hold on, Karen. Let me finish the whole story first. You’ll enjoy it.”

  “There’s more? Let me put you on speaker so Spence can hear too. He may have better ideas of how to rid Butch of his cock and balls. Maybe some dry ice. Think that would freeze them off, babe?”

  “Please don’t talk about dry-icing anyone’s cock and balls. It causes me physical pain. Savannah, please tell us your story so we can change the subject. Quickly.”

  An image of Spencer protectively covering his junk with his hand flashes in my mind, and I choke back a laugh. Then I recount everything—from start to finish—for both of them. When I reach the end of the story, I’m met with complete silence on the other end of the line.

  “Karen? Spence? Did I lose you?”

  “No. We’re here. Just in shock.” Spencer answers first, which is odd, but the hesitancy in his voice is even more so.

  “What? Do you know Nick?”

  “You haven’t been watching the news lately, have you?”

  “No. Why? I’ve been asleep during the day or on my way to work most evenings.”

  “Nick Tucker is the agent who was involved in that shootout with the Devil’s Dominion motorcycle gang in LA a few months ago. He’d been undercover with them for two years, and his cover was blown after he saved those kidnapped actresses.”

  “So, he’s one of the good guys, then?” I knew it.

  “Well, technically, yes. But Savannah, he was one of them for two years. I’m sure there were things he had to do to prove his allegiance. That’s a long time to be in with one of those gangs and not be like them. He had to fit in. If they’d ever questioned his loyalty to them, they would’ve just killed him. He may be a federal agent, but he may not be completely harmless either. Just be careful, okay?”

  And just like that, my walls go back up again.

  Chapter 4

  Nick

  My morning coffee run takes me by Savannah’s building. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I have to look up at her condo, but I don’t catch any movement as I walk by. Within a few minutes, my favorite coffee shop is in sight, and my craving intensifies. When I step inside, those emerald-green eyes lift to meet mine, and a smile lights up her face.

  What was I thinking about craving again?

  “Good morning, Savannah. How’s your day going?”

  “Good morning. So far, so good. You?”

  “About the same.” I walk to the counter and order my usual, feeling her eyes boring into my back the entire time. After I waste a few minutes making small talk with the barista, I quickly turn before Savannah can avert her eyes.

  Busted.

  Staring straight at me. Checking me out. From the angle of her gaze, she was looking at my ass. From the way she’s chewing on her bottom lip, I’d say she liked it. Without asking or waiting for an invitation, I take a seat at her table, sipping my coffee and ignoring her surprised reaction.

  “What are you working on so early this morning?” I incline my head toward her laptop.

  “Um, I’m…um, writing a book.” Her cheeks flush, and she lowers her gaze to the table, as if she’s waiting for me to ridicule her for such an absurd idea. That, however, is the furthest thing from my mind.

  “What’s it about?” I lean in, giving her my full attention.

  “I want to help other women who are in abusive relationships, so it’s about what I’ve experienced and what I wish I’d done differently.” She searches my eyes and waits for the other shoe to drop.

  “I’m impressed. That’s incredibly thoughtful and insightful of you. When you become famous and hit the talk-show circuit, I’ll be able to say, ‘I knew her when.’ You’ll be my claim to fame.” The truth is, I mean every word of it.

  Gratitude shimmers in her eyes before she swallows hard, regaining control over her composure. “Thank you for saying that, Nick. I don’t expect that will happen at all, but I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “Of course. I won’t keep you from working any longer, then. Have a good one.” Just as I push back from the table, a picture of me flashes up on the TV mounted over the barista bar.

  “Looks like you have your own claim to fame.” Her eyes remain glued to the screen as the images change.

  The first one is of me in character, decked out as a member of the Devil’s Dominion motorcycle club with my long, scruffy hair and scraggly beard, wearing my cut with the club colors boldly displayed on my back. The next image looks more like I do today, with my short, military-style haircut, neatly trimmed beard, and sporting a DEA jacket. The trial for the members running drugs, guns, prostitution rings, and kidnapping schemes is underway. The more attention it garners, the more my face is flashed on every TV screen across the nation.

  My cover was blown shortly after the gang takedown. One of the surviving members made sure to sing like a fucking canary to anyone who’d listen—after I saved his pathetic life. An overly eager journalist was all too willing to accommodate his anonymity in exchange for my name—all to get the scoop on everyone else. When the journalist ran with the story and my pictures, he annihilated any chance I have to go undercover again—ever. There’s no outlaw organization in North America that won’t recognize me on the spot by the time this trial is over—whether it’s a motorcycle gang or an organized crime syndicate. They’d never believe I’d turned rogue either. My blood bleeds DEA and following the law to the letter, and that’s the tune every reporter sings about me now.

  Calvin, my director, already warned me that this do-gooder character they’ve mad
e me out to be could all be fueled by the gang’s lawyers…to discredit me and relish my epic fall from grace when my gang crimes are revealed. Pointing out all my flaws after making me out to be the best agent since James Bond will be part of their defense. My fall from grace will help create an ounce of doubt in the jurors’ minds toward the gang members—or at least some hesitation to throw the entire book at them. My sins will be broadcast from every satellite and antennae across the nation, all in the name of discrediting me and getting those low-life thugs off the hook.

  This is another reason Calvin didn’t think I was ready for undercover work. The aftermath can be fucking brutal.

  “I wish they’d quit running that load of bullshit. They’re only trying to sensationalize the trial and get the public more engaged.” I shake my head, disgusted with how slowly the wheels of justice turn sometimes, and start toward the door. “That’s my cue to exit stage left. Good luck with your book.”

  “Hey, Nick?” The tentative tone in her voice grabs my attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you miss it?” Her eyes roam over my face while she waits for me to answer, searching for any clue of my real feelings.

  “Miss what, exactly?” I’m not sure what to make of her question or why she’s so concerned about it.

  “Undercover work, I guess.” She shrugs unconvincingly. “Being part of the motorcycle club.”

  “Miss being part of those fucked-up losers? No, I don’t miss that at all. Undercover work…wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be. I don’t appreciate that my option to participate in undercover operations has been taken from me now, but I’m still considering my options for the future. Riding a desk isn’t my cup of tea.”

  She bites on the end of her pen, a subconscious behavior showing she’s nervous about what she has to say next. “There’s something else I should tell you. Um, Butch stopped in front of my building yesterday. I don’t think he saw me, but I saw him.”