Blasts explode and light the sky. It’s yards away and not firing at us. Air support. Fuck me, thank God. Relief floods my mind. I can do this, totally survive this night. Maddox will, too.
“Ford, you there?”
I nod, panting from exertion. “Affirmative, sir.”
“Extraction helo coming in hot. Head east, two hundred yards. Remain for pick up.”
“Roger that.” I signal Maddox; he signals back. There’s a wall ahead. We’ll be in the open for fifty yards, but we will get to that wall. We’ll have partial concealment on the way to our pickup. That’s our cover. That’s where we can hunker down and breathe. “Ready?”
Maddox gives a thumbs up. He’s back, at least enough to run.
“Let’s go.”
We run. My pulse races as we close in on the wall, and—thump—I turn around. The world slows.
“Gray!” Maddox reaches for me. Even in the dark night, I see his face twist. He’s been hit. Mid-run, he’s falling down. Blood coats his face, and just that fast, his expression is gone.
“Maddox!” I dive next to his body. “Don’t do this, man. We’re almost out. C’mon. C’mon!”
His eyes are wide, his mouth open. But he’s gone. Dead. I scream into the night. “No! Damn it!”
“Jesus, fuck,” comes in my ear. “Ford. Go.”
My eyes pinch. Emma. She’s the only thing that will get me out of here. I drop and roll, then zigzag toward the pickup location.
A new voice breaks into my earpiece. “Alpha, bravo, one-one, extraction team here. Arriving in one minute, boys.”
My throat stings. “Just me. Last man standing.”
There’s a pause, and for a second, I wonder if they’re assessing the risk of picking me up. One man. They’ve already lost the team. Why risk the helo, the men, all to save one guy? Doom wrecks my hope.
Garbled noise pops in my headset. White noise and static. The earpiece crackles again.
“Roger that, Ford?”
“No. Repeat.”
“We’re coming in hot, dropping a line. You grab it and tie on. You’ve got one shot out of hell. You got that, son?”
They’re still coming. “Got it.”
“Ten seconds.”
I fumble for the extraction spot, see the clearing, and run all out.
“Three, two…”
“Here!” The quiet thumps of the stealth chopper arrive.
A line with a hook drops mere yards away. I run after it, pushing my body to reach the only way out of this hellhole. My muscles scream. My head spins. I can’t breathe, but I grab the rope. Most of my equipment is gone. I have nothing to secure myself to it. No harness. No carabiners. Shit. Okay. I thread the line through my nylon belt, clip it to itself, then wrap both fists around it. One tug and my body jars in pain as the belt rips into my back, and my feet leave the ground. I hang on, gritting my teeth as the chopper pulls out but stays low.
The wind is harsh. The faster we move, the harder I grip, trying to absorb some of the impact of the line and the burn of my belt tearing into my back. The chopper pulls right. Then left. We’re evading attack. They’re protecting me from sniper fire while I’m hanging like some American bull’s eye.
I don’t know the plan. I can’t hear my earpiece any more. Will they pull me up? Will we land and load me in? Whatever they’re doing, there’s a firefight behind us, and we need to clear the attack zone.
Deep, brilliant, violent pain rips in my side. My nerves scream. I scream. Pain I wasn’t expecting overpowers me. Shocks me. I can’t hang on. Can’t hold myself up. I’m losing my grip. My belt’s the only thing that catches me.
Fire burns in my side. I’m shot with no idea how much I’m bleeding. My body dangles and spins out of control on the line. I’m dizzy and dim. Blood is on my tongue, and my life is on my mind. I’ve done two things wrong in my life: killed my mother and left the girl I loved.
Brutal regret ricochets through my body. The memories I use to fight my hell won’t come. Emma’s face is dark, blank. I can’t remember her kiss, her taste—God, I’m dying. I can’t even hear her voice. I’ve got nothing, no memory of the only girl who made me run, the only one who could save me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Emma
“Two minutes, Ginger.”
Shit, shoot, shit. The reflection in the mirror isn’t doing me any favors tonight. But there isn’t time to fix what can’t be changed. My hair is sprayed into place, and my boobs are squeezed to look like they are way bigger than they are.
“Ginger!”
God, I hate Wednesday nights. The only thing that can save tonight is… glitter, which I hate. Grabbing the can, I shake it up, close my eyes, and spray down.
My music thumps from above. No way was that two minutes. I have no time to wait for my shimmer to dry. Cursing, I shuffle in shoes that want to kill me and head up the narrow stairs. The higher I climb, the heavier the smoke stinks. My eyes burn, threatening the barely dry fake eyelashes I just glued in place.
“Ginger Raine!” The announcer’s baritone still booms through the crappy sound system, making what has to be one of the stupidest stripper names in history echo around me.
“Ta da. I’m here.” I wave to Bruno and take in the place.
Packed, even on a weeknight. But it always is. They come to see me. I’m the stupid marquis name. If there ever was a career high point that was completely humiliating, I had that nailed.
This is what I do well. I sell the idea of sex. Of want. Of having an untouchable fantasy.
Because I am one.
Ginger Raine is my only salvation. My biggest secret. She’s the once-a-week moneymaker that lets me live my life somewhat comfortably. I’ve got a future waiting for me, and it has nothing to do with the G-string I’m about to show.
“Work it.” Bruno nods as I step onto stage.
The lights are hot. The floor is mine. A hundred eyes are on me, and my smile molds onto my face. It’s not even that I’m gorgeous; it’s that my smile says so much to the men watching the stage. I learned early on a blink of an eye or a sway of my hips does wicked good things for my wallet.
If it weren’t for that, I’d be home and wouldn’t hate Wednesdays.
A crescendo of pop beats and bass hits crawl from the speakers. This is work. That’s all it is as I mentally drift to another place where I’m dancing for one person, the only boy I ever loved, the only one who ever had me.
What if we just have tonight? The tremble of a memory runs down my spine. Years ago, his hands curled over my naked shoulders, sliding down my bare back, and tonight I drop my head and roll my body remembering how I cried for more. Slowly, my hips sway, remembering the only thing that makes me good at my job.
My eyes close. It’s just Grayson and me, all night long. This is my torture every Wednesday. It is also my moneymaker. Bruno says he’s never seen a girl bring so much tension to the stage. Guess that’s a compliment.
I’m numb to this room. When I drop to my knees, my body lies. It begs each man to touch me, to run their paycheck over my curves. I do it all without seeing a soul.
I’m crawling, gyrating, moaning, and the cash falls. Dollars rain down, and lost in a dream of a man I can never have again, I roll in my take. Fingers scratch my skin as they shove ones into my G-string. My knees slide under the carpet of money as I arch my back. Their bills stick to my skin. Only when the music ends does my autopilot trance shut down enough to sway my near-naked ass away.
The night has only just begun. It’d make me sick if I hadn’t developed have-no-choice thick skin.
“Give Ginger Raine a few minutes, and she’ll be on the floor. If you have a dream, she’ll make it come true.” The announcer promises the same thing every week to the crowd at the Emerald Gentleman’s Club.
I’m their biggest cock tease. No matter what Bruno tries to bait me with and what the announcer promises, I dance, and that’s it. Any release that men want can be found on their own.
Br
uno is stage left, holding a clove cigarette in his thick fingers. He nods to the beat of the music. “Good girl.”
He rocks a Rastafarian look, but it’s coupled somehow with a body builder’s physique. His bouncers are all similar versions of him. How there’s a contingent of Rasta bodybuilders available in the semi-metropolitan area outside Summerland, Virginia, I have no idea. But he’s found them.
“I try.” But I can’t keep trying if I don’t head downstairs and change.
“Emma.” He’s blocking my path to the stairs. Tonight, his thick dreads are tied into some ginormous manly bunch at the back of his head, making him seem every bit the dread-head owner. He’s sexy. He knows it. His powerful body is in a tailored suit that hangs perfectly on his bulky muscles. Between that and owning this place, his ego is as big as his personality.
Almost every girl to walk onto his stage has been with him, not because he makes it a requirement but because they can’t stay away. Until they never come back. It’s not a job for the stable, even if Emerald’s Gentlemen Club is about as high class as exists around here. It’s not a profession that screams lengthy job history. My two years with Bruno are outliers, and because of that, we’ve developed a rapport. In his own way, he cares.
“Where’s your head tonight? You went deeper than normal.”
My sad smile tells him everything he needs to know. Bruno never flirts with me. My guess would be because he knows most of my story. For as hard as he acts, I think he actually wants to help. Why else would he have hired me back in the day when my body was a little soft?
“Just doing the gig.”
“You’re too young.” He shakes his head. “To live like you’re that old.”
It’s almost like he wants to fix my past by supporting my future. I don’t know if that even makes sense. It’s just what it is. I’m his marquis girl, so he wants to take care of his meal ticket.
But he’s also convinced that being twenty means that eventually, I need to let loose and party with someone, preferably one of the patrons. That way he’d make a little, I’d get a little, and everyone would be happy. In his mind, a good old-fashioned, screaming orgasm—from a person, not a vibrator—would be life altering.
Well, no thank you. Did that once, and it was life altering. That’s about as much paradigm shift as I could handle.
“I need a couple minutes, Bruno. Seriously, I’m fine, and I promise I’ll make us good money.”
His hand lands on my shoulder, and his fingers give me a squeeze. “You raked in more money in the last hour than ever before.”
“Yay, me. That’s a good thing. Right?”
He smirks sarcastically. “Emma, you cleaned out wallets. So I know you’re in your head.”
“You give me this same speech every week.”
Nodding, he looks over my shoulder. “Just want to keep you working for as long as possible.”
“Got it.”
“And…” He paints on a smile that can only mean vulgarity ahead. “If you feel the need to blow someone, make him pay first.”
“I’ll remember that.” My eyes roll. The shit that comes out of his mouth is so foul that it’s not. Sex is business. To Bruno, it’s no different buying someone an ice cream, a Rolex, or an orgasm. Each provides pleasure.
He moves aside, and I teeter-totter down the stairs, heading to my vanity. A quick once-over of my makeup and that damn glitter spray, and I’m good. I check my phone. It’s blinking with a text message from Cherry. She knows I’m at work, and my stomach drops.
Cherry: Call me.
Shit. I swipe the screen and call back. My mind’s running fast as the music’s dropping upstairs. The phone’s ringing, and I’m trying to stay grounded. Nothing’s wrong. I tie on my corset and slip on some thigh-highs. No answer, voice mail.
Biting my lip, I think, it’s probably nothing, but my heart’s beating faster. “Hey, it’s me. Just checking on everything. Call me back.”
The room feels like it’s closing in, but if something was really wrong, Cherry would’ve called and texted something like SOS or ASAP. Something. Anything. I grab a black see-through robe and sash it so my boobs are on display.
My phone rings, and I jump for it. “Cherry? Everything okay—”
“Emma, oh my God.”
My pulse skyrockets. “What?”
“We went for ice cream. I saw Julie, who was with Trevor and—”
“Cherry, what?”
“Grayson Ford’s unit was attacked. They said no one survived.” Cherry’s voice cracks. “I’m so sorry.”
I falter, stumbling back to my chair. “God…”
Bile churns in my stomach. I want to be sick. I want to run away from tonight, throw my phone away, and pretend what she said is wrong, that he’s just far away, never to be heard from. Death is final. My hopes… I always had hopes. “Oh, God…”
Footsteps creak at the top of the stairs. “Emma. Get up here. Folks are restless.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat. “Okay… I have to go.”
Ending the call, I’m numb. But I have to go to work. I need to… just do something. Otherwise, the overwhelming loss might kill me in my chair. “Coming.”
Slowly, I push back up the stairs and zero in on my prospects for the night. It’s easy to map who’ll be up for private time. I can close my eyes and hide my tears. I’ve lost my Grayson, but at least I have our daughter.
** Coming Soon: Only For Her, the next installment in the Only series. To ensure you do not miss Grayson and Emma’s story, please text TITAN to 66866 to sign up for exclusive emails or click here. **
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cristin Harber is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling romance author. She writes sexy, steamy romantic suspense, military romance, new adult, and contemporary romance. Readers voted her onto Amazon's Top Picks for Debut Romance Authors in 2013, and her debut Titan series was both a #1 romantic suspense and #1 military romance bestseller.
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The Only Series:
Book 1: Only for Him
Book 2: Only for Her
The Titan Series:
Book 1: Winters Heat
Book 1.5: Sweet Girl
Book 2: Garrison's Creed
Book 3: Westin's Chase
Book 4: Gambled
Book 5: Chased
Book 6: Savage Secrets
Book 7: Hart Attack
Book 8: Black Dawn (releases in 2015)
The Delta Series:
Book 1: Delta: Retribution
Book 2: Delta: Revenge (releases in 2015)
Each Titan and Delta book can be read as a standalone (except for Sweet Girl), but readers will likely best enjoy the series in order.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you, readers! The Only series is a new adventure for me. The overwhelming support I’ve received has been amazing. I felt this story deep in my soul and couldn’t let go of the characters. They’ve pushed me to write differently, to explore new ways of storytelling, and for that I’m forever grateful.
Thank you and huge tackle hugs to Team Titan. Each day you make me laugh and smile. I love your support and willingness to try something new. You will never know how much your messages, posts, tweets, shares, and reviews means to me.
Each day I get to work with amazing authors whose opinions I cannot live without. Thank you for your advice, your time, and your considerable strength: JB Salsbury, Racquel Reck, Claudia Connor, and Sharon Kay. I am forever a friend and in awe of each of you.
Another huge thank you to the team that makes my dreams come true. Thank you to Julia Sutherland for your heart and your time, to Red Adept and Jacy’s Red Ink for editing and proofing, to Okay Creations and Sarah Hansen for creating a cover that is brilliantly beautiful, and to Inkslinger PR—KP Simmon, Tara Gonzalez, and Amber Noffke—for the creati
ve energy that you ignite.
Finally, thank you to my family who supports me without hesitation.
COPYRIGHT
Copyright 2015 Cristin Harber
All rights reserved. This book or any portions thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author and publisher except for the use of brief quotations used in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.
ISBN-10: 1942236107
ISBN-13: 978-1-942236-10-8
www.CristinHarber.com
Only for Him Page 7