by Freya Barker
His hook delivered—playing on my ego—he gets in behind the wheel and starts up his ride. He revs the engine a few times, the loud rumble of the engine turning heads, before peeling out of the parking lot.
Typical small-dick move.
Still, I tuck the card away in my pocket, and smile as I walk to my vehicle.
Radar is already at the office when I get there.
“And?”
“Hook, line, and sinker.” I hand him the card.
“Jason Krupcek. Sounds like a douche name,” he observes, turning the card over in his hand. “Raw Vice talent scout. Jesus.”
“Dig up what you can? On Raw Vice and that weasel. Something, anything. I want to know what, how, and where, but most importantly I wanna know who is behind it. Jason is a peon, not a big player. I need to know who he answers to.”
“Sure thing.”
“And Radar, keep this off the books, if you can—at least until I know the lay of the land—and find out if someone starts probing around my background.”
“Of course.”
Last thing I want is any of this to blow back on anyone else. I know Yanis is going to have a stroke when he discovers what I am willing to do to get to the bottom of this.
Hank has been instrumental in keeping Brad out of jail so far, but it’s clear the cops have a hard-on for him. They’ve been sniffing around.
“You heading back to Palisade?”
“Yeah,” I answer grudgingly, as I head out the door.
God, I almost lost my shit when Mercedes fucking Rockton came walking down the stairs of the private plane sitting on the tarmac, when I got to the airport earlier this week. I was about to turn on my heel and march right back to my truck, leaving her to fend for herself. Then her father came down the stairs behind her, waving me over.
Apparently his daughter had received threatening messages and phone calls in the prior week. Someone was apparently able to get into her apartment in Dallas, where certain ‘gifts’ were left for her. The last one had been found that morning in her bathroom; a message on her mirror that looked to have been written in blood.
No one but their regular security detail had entry to her apartment, so her father had freaked. He wanted her out of the way while he tried to find out who was doing this. The old man didn’t even trust anyone else to accompany her to Grand Junction. He was so paranoid about anything happening to his daughter, he made up some story for Yanis, and then smuggled his daughter on board the private jet in a catering cart.
I was suspicious, especially after he mentioned she was the one who suggested coming here. A business associate of his, who is on a cruise in Europe for a few weeks, owns a sprawling property in Palisade.
I called Yanis on the spot, told him this wasn’t a simple drop off and told him to meet me at the office.
Rockton got back on the plane, and I walked her to my vehicle. She tried hard not to meet my eyes, which only confirmed my belief this was somehow by her orchestration, but since her dad thinks otherwise and he’s footing the bill, who am I to argue?
She seemed disappointed when we stopped at the PASS office and Yanis got in the SUV with us.
It may appeal to some to be stuck in an opulent mansion, with more beds and bathrooms than fucking Buckingham Palace, but these past days have been far from fun for me. First of all, I don’t care for fancy shit, and moreover, I don’t care for Mercedes Rockton. The entire time I was there, she made suggestive remarks and dropped hints that had my brother looking at me funny.
Whether or not the claims of a stalker are true, she clearly came here with an ulterior motive, but I’m not touching that again.
Radar is staying behind, at my suggestion, running a few checks on her cell phone account and credit cards, just to see if anything looks out of place. I’m gonna drive back with Bree, who also had a night off, before taking over the detail for Jake and Yanis to get a break.
As much as it seems to annoy Mercedes that she can’t have me out there alone, there is no way we can protect her properly without at least two people on her at all times. Already she’s getting tired of being cooped up and unable to go anywhere.
Not that I give a shit. We’re paid to keep her safe, not to cater to her needs. Her father can do that. She threw a fit right before I left yesterday, and I’m fully expecting my fifteen-minute indiscretion to be used as a weapon sooner or later.
I’m bracing myself for the fallout from that.
While I wait outside Bree’s apartment, I quickly pull my phone out to turn the sound back on and notice a message from Willa.
Willa: Slept like a baby, thanks. :)
Me: Good. I’ll try to give you a call tonight.
Willa: I vacuum on Wednesday nights. I might not hear your call.
Me: LOL. I’ll try to catch you at bedtime. We can talk dirty.
Willa: Mmmmm. I’m deciding whether to be offended or excited.
Me: Excited. Definitely.
“Jesus,” Bree says, as she climbs in the passenger seat. “What the hell’s with the goofy smile?”
I try to straighten my face but it’s impossible.
“Can’t I be having a good day?” I ask as I start the SUV and pull away from the curb.
“Sure, but that smile is not it. That smile says you had some and you liked it, and I don’t wanna spend an hour having to look at that mug, picturing you doing the nasty.”
“You picture me doing the nasty? Wow, Bree, I had no idea,” I tease, grinning wide. It earns me a solid punch in the shoulder, and Bree doesn’t hit like a girl, she can make a grown man cry.
“Kiss my ass, Mazur,” she snaps.
“Only because you ask nicely.”
Chapter Nine
Willa
I’m about halfway through my morning when the cops show up, interrupting what has been a really good buzz.
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the slight soreness between my legs, taking me right back to Dimas’s powerful thrusts last night. My disappointment was instant when I rolled to find myself in bed alone. I’d already worked up a decent head of steam when I found his scribbled note tucked under my phone.
Morning. Sorry I had to run. Hope you slept well. Call you later.
xo D.
It was the hug and kiss that had put a smile on my face. Most men would lose their mancard if they resorted to X’s and O’s, but for some reason Dimas can pull it off and still be a certified badass.
The happy buzz had lasted through a tough session with one of our residents this morning, who had broken shelter policy by bringing in drugs. We have a drug and alcohol-free policy in the shelter, but we don’t really have any control once they walk out the front door. Turns out Art’s death had hit Rick hard. The two shared a room and despite initially reacting like he didn’t much care, he’s feeling the loss.
I had to warn him; residents only get one second chance and this was his. By the time he walked out of my office, I’d been able to get him to unburden and he left with a promise he’d show up for group at noon.
But now, a heavy weight settles on my shoulders as I watch the same uniformed officer, who was here last time, walk in with a second man in civilian clothes.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?”
“Detective Craig and Officer Bergland, Ms. Smith,” the shorter, stocky detective says. “We were hoping we’d be able to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m afraid, as I explained to your colleague here, I’m limited as to what I can discuss with you. I’m not sure how helpful I can be, but please have a seat.”
Bergland is an ass, but Craig seems a decent guy. We spend the next few minutes setting the parameters to what I can and cannot answer.
“Do you feel you know everyone living here well?” he asks.
“The residents? As well as they’ll let me, I guess. Some are more reserved and cautious than others.”
“Was Arthur Hicks? More reserved than others, I mean?”
I pull up a men
tal image of what he was like.
“He struck me as a normal guy. Was friendly with some and didn’t care much for others—no different than anyone. Mostly went his own way, but I wouldn’t consider him more reserved.”
“Any violent tendencies? Arguments or fights? Was he quick to use his fists?”
“Arguments happen, but we haven’t had a fight here yet, to my knowledge.”
Craig looks at Bergland, before turning back to me.
“Really? From what I understand there was a fight in the kitchen not long ago that involved Mr. Hicks?”
“That wasn’t a fight,” I insist, throwing Bergland a glare when he chuffs. “Unless fists are involved—and they weren’t because I was there—it’s considered an argument.”
“No punches exchanged?” Craig asks.
“No. Don’t get me wrong, it was heated but over quickly, just like most arguments are. There are at least a couple a week.”
That’s when Bergland speaks up.
“Except people don’t turn up dead after.”
“What is your impression of Brad Carey?” Craig fires off, before I have a chance to voice my opinion of Bergland’s comment. “I’m not asking for a professional opinion, just your personal observation. Does he have violent tendencies? Get into fights?”
I can’t believe they’re persisting with this.
“Never,” I state firmly before adding sarcastically, “from my personal observation. In fact, I’ve only seen Brad Carey as quiet but friendly, he works hard in our kitchen on a volunteer basis, and participates in weekly group sessions as required of all our residents.”
“I see,” the detective comments, but I can tell he’s not convinced. “Just one more question, Ms. Smith, and we’ll let you get back to work. Are you familiar with a club by the name of Raw Vice?”
“Never heard of it. What is it?” I ask, a little confused as I note both men observing me closely.
“The name of an underground fight club we have reason to believe Arthur Hicks was part of.”
I can’t hold back the small gasp as a flashback to a conversation I had with Brad not that long ago hits me. Craig narrows his eyes on me and I quickly blank my expression, but the damage is already done.
“Nope. Never heard of it,” I reiterate, reading the disbelief on the detective’s face.
The two men leave my office, not long after, with a warning they may have more questions for me. The moment they’re gone, I close my office door, open my laptop and type Raw Vice in my browser.
When my alarm goes off on my phone, warning me I have five minutes until today’s group session, I slam my laptop shut. An hour of sifting through vegetarian sites, WWE articles, and some disturbing shit about cannibalism, my search hasn’t netted me a single viable lead to an underground fighting ring. I realize it was wishful thinking it would be that easy to dig something up on mainstream media, but I had to start somewhere.
I’m pleased to see both Brad and Dave in the community room, although neither contributes during the session. I corner Brad after.
“Do you have a minute?”
He looks over his shoulder where I can see Dave watching us.
“Sure.” It’s clear he’d rather not talk to me, but he follows me to my office nonetheless.
“The cops were in this morning,” I inform him, but it doesn’t appear to come as a surprise, he just nods.
“Heard that.”
“Did they come to see you?”
“I won’t talk without my lawyer present, they know that. They seem to have talked to everyone else, though.” I hear a resignation in his voice I don’t like.
“Look,” I start, leaning forward on my desk. “I think you should know, they really seem to be pushing a theory that somehow has you involved in Art’s death. The detective guy—”
“Craig?”
“Yeah, him. Something he said worried me. Remember you mentioned something about fighting? A fight club?” Immediately his eyes narrow. “Don’t worry,” I quickly say. “I didn’t say anything, but he wanted to know if I’d heard of Raw Vice. He said it was an underground fight club. Is that the same—”
“Shit,” he curses, startling me. “Forget you ever heard that name.”
“But I thought maybe—”
“Willa, please. For your own safety.” Without another word he abruptly leaves my office.
I lean back in my chair and pull out my phone to dial Dimas, but there’s no answer, so I leave him a message instead.
Me: If you have a minute, can you call me?
Dimas
“She’s some piece of work,” Bree mumbles, annoyed as she walks into the cavernous kitchen.
The whole place is ridiculously pompous and oversized. Its only saving grace is the view from every window in the house. Located in the Cottonwood Creek valley, with nothing but mountains surrounding it. Eight miles south of the highway and no other buildings out this far; the place is remote enough we can see anyone coming. Especially since Radar spent the first few days here installing cameras along the only road to the property.
When we arrived this afternoon, Jake and my brother were in a hurry to get out of here. Our client’s daughter had not stopped whining, and both men had been ready to slap duct tape on her to shut her up. As it turns out, her whining consisted mostly of asking when I was going to be back. That earned me a sharp look from Yanis, but luckily he was more concerned about getting out of here than giving me the third degree.
Protection detail is boring as fuck if you’re doing it right. Trying to stay sharp when nothing’s happening, just so you can act quickly should the shit hit the fan, is a challenge. That’s why we switch it up; one of us is with the detail, the other mans the monitors, and then we trade places.
When I switched with Bree after dinner, it did not make Mercedes Rockton happy. She’s one of those women who sees every other female as competition, so where Jake and Yanis got the whiner, Bree got the flaming bitch.
“That woman has her sights set on you,” Bree says, pouring coffee from the thermos on the counter and holding it up to me. I shake my head. I’ve had enough coffee to keep me awake for a week.
“I know.”
“Word of warning,” she cautions, sipping her reinforcement. “If she’s been hinting to Jake or Yanis the way she’s been hinting to me, your little encounter with her is gonna be common knowledge soon.”
“What?”
She shrugs. “Maybe it’s only obvious to me because I’m a woman, but before it becomes clear to everyone you slept with her, maybe you should give your brother a heads-up, or I can see this going sideways in a hurry.”
“Jesus. I swear it was only the one—” She cuts me off when she holds up her hand.
“Really not looking for details, Dimi. Just thought you should be warned.”
I’m such a fucking idiot.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Good. Get in front of it. This kind of thing can wreck the dynamics of a good team.” She pulls something from her pocket and tosses it on the counter in front of me. My phone. “Found it tucked in the couch pillows when she went up to bed.”
Shit. I’d let Mercedes use it before dinner when she wanted to call her father. For security purposes we’d confiscated her phone and laptop when we got here. I forgot to get it back.
I quickly scan through messages, but the only one I missed was from Radar with a file attached.
“Thanks,” I tell her, as she settles with her laptop on the couch in the family room, and flips on the TV. “I can take first watch,” I offer.
We alternate using a bedroom beside the master to get a couple of hours of sleep, while the other stays alert downstairs, and we switch halfway through the night.
“I’ll be good for a few hours,” Bree says, holding up her mug, so I head upstairs.
The door to the master is closed and I tiptoe past to the second bedroom. I take off my boots, and lie back on the bed, fully dressed, my phone in my hand.
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It rings five times before my call gets kicked to voicemail. I’ll try again in a few minutes; maybe she’s having a shower. But when I try five minutes later and then again ten minutes after that and she still doesn’t answer, I leave her a message.
“Hey, sweetheart. It’s me. Guess you’re already sleeping. Sorry I missed you. Gonna catch a couple of hours, but give me a call when you get up, I’ll be awake by then. I—”
“Who are you talking to, honey?”
I shoot up in my bed at the sight of a half-naked Mercedes coming into my room. I quickly end the call and swing my legs over the side.
“What the hell game are you playing at, Mercedes?” I bark, and not too softly either.
I stalk toward her but instead of her backing up, she takes a step forward and puts her hand on my chest.
“Don’t be like that. I came here for you.”
For the life of me I can’t stop myself slapping her hand from my chest as I take back a step.
“You what?”
“Oh, come on. You know you want me,” she says, moving too close a-fucking-gain. “You can’t tell me you weren’t flirting with me all week.” She pushes whatever that flimsy thing is she’s wearing off her shoulders.
The bitch is off her fucking rocker.
“You’re delusional, woman! I want nothing to do with you.”
She looks shocked, tries for a wobbly bottom lip, but then decides on anger instead.
“You weren’t saying that when you were fucking me,” she hisses.
“Christ. Here’s a newsflash, when a guy doesn’t bother taking off his pants, he’s not in it for the long game.”
Her mouth drops open and she makes a strangled sound.
“You’ll change your tune when I’ve had a word with your boss,” she snaps, tugging the thing back over her tits, which almost spill out of that mini-bra she’s wearing.