The Switch

by Jc Emery

  “Chase is good,” I say before anything else, just like always.

  “He’s strong and smart, and he loves me.”

  Series & Titles by JC Emery

  MEN WITH BADGES

  Marital Bitch

  The Switch

  THE BIRTHRIGHT SERIES

  Anomaly

  BAYONET SCARS

  Ride (available October 28th)

  Praise for JC Emery’s Marital Bitch

  “RUN don't walk to buy Marital Bitch by JC Emery now. Colleen Fraser and Bradley Patrick are what Stephanie Plum and Joe Morelli wish they could be. They're funnier, more messed up, and hilariously outrageous.”

  - Dames Unrestrained

  http://www.damesunrestrained.blogspot.com/

  “Marital Bitch is volatile, sizzling, pulse-stopping, and at times, shocking (in a totally good way). I swear, one minute my heart went from racing to dropping into my stomach.”

  - Danielle Taylor, Author

  http://authordtaylor.wordpress.com/

  “If you love funny books with bantering couples and awesome supporting characters, go grab this NOW! I really need more than just five stars to rate it properly.”

  - Bibliophile Mystery

  http://bibliophilemystery.blogspot.com/

  The Switch

  Shelby Brignac has gotten herself into some trouble. From her awful taste in men to her poor choices, she just can’t catch a break. After stupidly helping her boyfriend with his loan-sharking business, Shelby has decided she wants out. It’s just too dangerous for a waitress, in her opinion. But just when she thinks she’s free of the headache, she’s offered up one last job—one last job she can’t refuse: retrieve a precious antique gem and she’ll get her best friend back alive.

  Hiding out in New Orleans’ French Quarter with the rare purple diamond in tow, Shelby thinks she has no way out of the seemingly hopeless situation—until Chase Guilliot, an off-duty cop intervenes, saving her life. Too bad for Chase that the gunman who’s hot on his tail doesn’t care if one of his targets carries a badge—he just wants Shelby’s head and that diamond back. And he’s not above killing a cop to get it.

  On the run with a hot rare diamond and a beautiful hot-headed woman, Chase’s oath to serve and protect is pushed to the limits. Unsure if he can trust the one person he wants to more than anything, Chase swears he’ll get both he and Shelby out of this mess alive, but then he’s done with her for good—or is he?

  The Switch is a thrilling contemporary romance that likes to live on both sides of the law.

  Men with Badges

  A line of romance novels with spunk! New city, new love, new characters, and new adventures—all with the classic heat you expect in your romance. From silly to suspenseful, each Men with Badges book features a hot new male lead. He may not always be in uniform, but he always carries a badge.

  The Switch

  a Men with Badges novel

  by

  JC Emery

  Copyright 2013 by JC Emery

  Kindle Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Find JC Emery on the web!

  http://www.jcemery.com

  http://twitter.com/jc_emery

  http://www.facebook.com/jcemeryauthor

  http://www.goodreads.com/jc_emery

  Cover Design by Gonet Design

  http://www.facebook.com/gonetdesign

  Editing by Michele Milburn

  michele.editing@gmail.com

  For Amy

  Your support makes me puke rainbows and burp unicorns.

  CHAPTER 1

  Shelby

  Let’s not lie to each other.

  THE HUMIDITY IS intense, but what else could I possibly expect from New Orleans in August?

  A slice of wind picks up from the river and breaks through the crushing humidity. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, let my weight settle against the railing, and relish the brief respite. The wind isn’t exactly cool, but it sure beats the stagnant heat that’s set upon the city.

  If Becca were here, she would say, “It’s just a little warm out. Don’t whine. You’ll look like a tourist.” A smile finds its way to my face, and I close my eyes. Back when we were kids, folks always thought we were sisters with how much we looked alike. I barely see the similarities anymore, though we have the same build and same auburn-colored hair—even if mine is dyed. My happy thoughts of the best person I know are dashed with the reality of the situation.

  Becca was kidnapped because of me, and now she’s leverage.

  And all because I got involved with the wrong guy. I mean, I’ve had my fair share of bad boys, but this one tops the list. Victor Abraham. Sure, he was suave and smart and terribly sexy. He also turned out to be a ruthless loan shark—which I could handle. At least I thought I could. I broke up with him, which he apparently didn’t like. He sent a few goons to get me back, but they took Becca by accident instead. I offered myself up to Victor, but he doesn’t trust me anymore. Having me isn’t enough. Now Victor wants me to prove my loyalty to him by stealing the one thing he hasn’t been able to steal himself—his great-grandmother’s purple diamond necklace.

  The entire situation is a disaster of my own making, so when Victor laid it out for me, I had little choice but to do as he’s asked. Still, I haven’t been able to help but wonder why on earth he would want me for this job. It’s not like I’m some master criminal or something. I’m just a dumb girl who got herself in a stupid situation. And it was all over a purse—a stupid handbag that I just had to have.

  Beads of sweat slip down my damp, sun-kissed skin, and gooseflesh appears as another all-too-brief burst of damp air drifts by. It’s going to rain soon. Good. I won’t have an easy time getting away with all this damn sunshine. I take a moment to thank Ed Carls, Channel 2’s weatherman. He’s usually wrong, but he managed to get it right today. I look down at my watch as a bead of sweat catches at the tip of my nose and falls, splashing on the dial. Five to noon. I wipe the droplet way and look out at the river and take several deep breaths. I should be going.

  I push myself off the railing and give the Mississippi one last look. I leave Woldenberg Park and stride down the Moonwalk. It’s only a few hundred yards, but the walk feels endless. I’ve always loved the Moonwalk—it’s a great place to watch the brackish water beat against the levees as the ships sail by. As I pass St. Peter Street, panic rises in my chest. I have one more block to go, but with the way my hands shake and my chest heaves, I’m not sure I’ll make it.

  We rehearsed this, I tell myself. I force my legs to keep moving, and when I reach the next passable crossing into the French Quarter, I take it. Crossing the train tracks and a small parking lot, I climb the steps to the raised viewing area above the visitor center. Here I can look down at the Mississippi from one way and from the other I have an excellent view of Jackson Square below. Across Decatur and through the iron gates, stands my mother. I can’t see her just yet, but I know she’s there.

  The first cloud breaks above my head, and raindrops filter through. I lift my hand up
, catching a few warm drops in my palm, and then it stops. I wipe my wet hands on the legs of my already damp jeans. The action does little to dry them. Everything is wet here in the summer. The humidity is relentless.

  Back in Michigan, the rainwater is always cold—even in the height of summer. I used to hate it when we visited my mother’s mother there in the winter. It was too damn cold. But not here. The tropical climate sees to that. It’s almost always warm here.

  I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. The moment I step into Jackson Square there will be no turning back. I walk down the steps and onto Decatur where I can blend into a sea of people. As I approach the stoplight and push the button for the cross walk, I find that I’m overdressed—jeans, brown leather jacket, brown boots, loose-fitting cream-colored top. I look out of place and ridiculous in the summer heat, but how am I supposed to hide anything if I’m running around in cutoffs and tanks like everyone else?

  Despite the incredible summer heat and looming rain, Jackson Square is packed to the gills. I take a moment to survey the landscape from my vantage point. New Orleanians don’t mind a little heat, especially when there’s a festival going on, like now. To the east, toward Chalmette, food vendors have lined up along the street and are peddling everything from frozen lemonade to roast beef po’ boys. To the west, toward the Garden District, the street is packed with festival-goers spilling out of taverns and local lunch favorites. People walk lazily in front of cars and trucks that have found themselves in unmoving traffic. I don’t even know what this festival is for—all I know is that it’s giving me the perfect cover.

  A cluster of people sidle up to me and wait for a break in traffic. I take another deep breath and remind myself why I’m doing this. I can’t screw this up and risk putting anyone else I love in danger.

  I can’t wait any longer, or it will be too late.

  The slow-moving traffic stalls, and the people beside me take off toward Jackson Square for the heart of the festival. I follow behind and keep my head low. The square doesn’t have many cameras. According to Victor, there are the ones at the corners of the Pontalba Buildings and also above the entrance at Cafe Du Monde. I have it on good faith that the only one that records is the Cafe Du Monde camera, but I don’t know how far out the lens reaches.

  I walk through the open gates of Jackson Square and smile at the sight before me. My mother, with her dark brown hair tucked neatly under a black and gold ball cap, smiles at me from beneath the statue of Andrew Jackson right at the center of the square. Her hands are tightly clutching a brown paper lunch sack. The incredible worry shows in her light gray eyes, and she’s chewing at her lip. I want to tell her that her baby girl will be all right. I want to tell her not to worry. There are so many things I want to say, but I can’t risk anyone finding out about her. The gun Victor gave me for this job turned out to be hot, having been used in a robbery a few years back. I wasn’t about to use that one and risk having that robbery pinned on me, too.

  Her eyes lift slightly the nearer I get. I can only pray she remembers what she’s supposed to do. I roll my right shoulder and jerk my right thumb out, pointing toward the east. She nods her head once before diverting her eyes and turning her body eastward. Good. She fidgets with the bag, and her hands are shaking. Jesus Christ, she’s worse at this swindling business than I am. If she doesn’t calm down, they’re going to notice. I don’t even know where they are, but Victor has men watching. He’d never let me do this without at least a few eyes on me.

  I reach my mother, look up at the statue of Jackson, and rub the back of my neck with my right hand. As I turn to the east, my left hand takes hold of the brown paper bag. I pull on the bag, but her hands grip the wrinkled paper.

  “Be safe, baby,” she whispers and then lets go.

  Out of the corner of my eye, as I walk away, I see her wipe a tear from her cheek before she lowers the bill of her cap and disappears into the crowd. I don’t give myself the luxury of watching her go. I can only pray that everything goes according to plan and I’ll be seeing her in a few hours.

  As inconspicuously as possible, I open the brown paper bag and feel around inside. I pull out the Swiss Army knife and slide it into my pocket. A laugh bubbles up in my chest. It’s my father’s knife that he insisted I carry with me for protection. I opted for pepper spray, thinking I knew better. I didn’t like the idea of carrying a weapon—and now here I am with a Swiss Army knife in my pocket and a handgun in a paper bag. Now my hands are shaking.

  I slide the gun out of the paper bag and up my sleeve. The feeling of the metal against my skin sends shudders up my spine. Suddenly this is all too real. My heart hammers in my chest, and tears well in my eyes.

  “I don’t care what you did, Shel,” Becca says. Sitting across from me, she slides closer, pats my knee, and tucks my hair behind my ears. She lifts my chin, forcing me to look at her.

  “It’s bad, Bec.” Shame fills me from head to toe. I’ve never been a big conformist, but this takes the cake.

  “Just tell me,” she says, urging me to trust her.

  I start laughing—that crazed laughter that only comes when you’re at the end of your rope—and tears fall. The ugly cry starts with snot dripping down my face. I can barely breathe. Finally, I calm myself down enough to talk. Not once, no matter how disgusting I am, does Becca seem annoyed, nor does she try to rush me.

  “I made some deliveries for Vic,” I say. Lines appear between Becca’s eyes, and her lips form a grim line. “I know, I know. I screwed up.”

  “Shel, you knew what Vic is.”

  “Yeah, I did. It was easy money. It was stupid.”

  “Easy money?” Becca nearly shouts. I cringe away from the disgust on her face.

  “Anyway, I broke up with him,” I say.

  AT THE CORNER of Jackson Square, I toss the paper bag in the nearest garbage can and head up St. Ann toward Louis Armstrong Park. The metal rubs against my skin, practically chafing my arm. The walk is quick, two small city blocks.

  Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the Deep South Cigar Shop. The shopkeeper is just about to close up for lunch. He’s slow-moving, well above sixty, I’d say. He ambles around the shop, tidying things up before he heads down to the festival for a little bit. It’s the third and final day of the festival, and the old man has made a visit to the square a part of his routine.

  My hands shake, and I blow out a nervous breath. The gun slides slowly down my sleeve, into my hand, and I grip it tightly. I move my hand with the gun in it behind my back and open the door to the shop with the other. A bell rings above my head. The old man jumps in place and turns around with his hand over his heart. Then a soft smile appears on his face.

  “Hello,” he says. “I’m just closing up for lunch. Is there something I can help you with before I head out?”

  Tears well in my eyes as I raise the gun. My stomach churns. This man is old enough to be my grandfather. And here I am holding a gun that’s pointed at his heart.

  “I sure hope so,” I say. “I’d like a box of your best Cubans.” The man’s hands are raised in the air, and he shakes his head in confusion. His chest heaves, and he moves quickly, nervously.

  “Miss, you must be confused. We don’t sell Cuban cigars here. They’re illegal, you know.” He stutters as he speaks. Sweat collects along his brow.

  A twinge of sadness engulfs me. The gun is heavy in my hand, and I realize I’ve lowered it. I jerk the gun, the barrel at his chest once more.

  “Let’s not lie to each other. There’s a wooden box of Havana’s best somewhere in this room. Where is it?”

  “I . . . I . . .” His voice trembles, and I realize his cheeks are wet with tears.

  I fight the urge to run away and expel my breakfast in the small alley across the street. Running away won’t get Victor his stupid precious necklace, and it won’t get Becca back.

  “Under the cash wrap,” he says.

  I jerk the gun toward the cash register.

  �
�Get it,” I say. He backs up toward the cash register and moves slowly around the counter. “And if there’s a gun back there, I would leave it where it is if I were you. Those Cubans aren’t worth dying for.”

  The old man keeps one hand in the air and dips the other behind the cash register. He moves slowly as he lifts a small wooden box above the counter. The cigar box hasn’t held a single cigar in over half a century if I’m to believe Victor’s story about the stolen diamond.

  “Bring it here.” I tighten my grip on the gun.

  He walks toward me with the box barely staying in his hand, nearly dropping it as he hands it over.

  “Thank you, and I really am sorry,” I say, grabbing the box and backing up to the door. It’s shut. With the gun in one hand and the box in the other, I can’t possibly open the door. With as little movement of the gun as possible, I tuck the box under my arm and reach for the doorknob. Heavy footfalls sound overhead, followed by the slamming of a door and feet hitting the stairs in the back.

  I swing the door open and grab the box from under my arm. Just as I get one foot out the door, a tall man with a gun rushes out from the back. He’s more able-bodied and less hampered by age than the shopkeeper. His jet black hair is slicked back, and he has a wild look in his eyes.

  I nearly trip as I’m running out the door and into the crowded street. I bump into a middle-aged couple, and without thinking about it, I throw my hands up in apology. The 9mm in my palm doesn’t serve to calm the woman’s frustrations—it sends her into panic. Her shrill cries draw the attention of the crowd as people flee. I want to run with them and hide away from the danger, but in this situation, I’m the danger.

  The man rushes out of the cigar shop. He holds his gun like a pro, his hand steady—unlike mine. My head is foggy and I can’t think properly. Screams seem to ricochet off one another and slam against my head. They’re all so loud. The crowd is thinning out. The red faces of the people running for their lives makes me swallow hard.