by Natalie Wrye
The Enforcer
Natalie Wrye
Contents
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About
Prologue
Tell Me
Too Much Too Late
About Time
Stand Still
Frozen
Broken Clocks
If You Let Me
Say It Again
Focus
I Won’t
Every Kind of Way
Get You
All to You
In the Morning
Unfold
Cross Your Mind
Don’t Let Me Down
Unravel Me
We Have Time
Confidently Lost
Used To
Find You
Belong to You
Get In
Two AM
What Lovers Do
Normal Girl
The Need to Know
Homemade Dynamite
Hideaway
Across the Room
Dusk till Dawn
In The Wind
Love Lies
Fallen Angel
Love Galore
Epilogue
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Copyright © 2018 by Natalie Wrye.
No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without the written permission of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a book review).
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About
I was never supposed to be this woman.
I was supposed to be a wife. A mom. A business owner. And I was... Until an armed robber sticks a gun into my face.
The man who saves me? Javier Mondello.
My former high school crush. A tattooed troublemaker turned Adonis overnight. A blast from the past too good-looking for his own good.
There's no denying it; the chemistry between us is all-consuming--electric.
But when danger finds me again, when a crime of opportunity takes a twisted turn, I can't decide which fate is worse: falling into the arms of my hero... Or finding out what he's really up to...
Prologue
JAVIER
“Tell me again, Mr. Mondello… Where were you when you found her body behind the tree?”
The branches beneath my foot snap. My patience is about to do the same. The March weather is frigid—icy even. The cold hard dirt beneath our feet only reminds us that even on the first day of spring, nothing has sprung, the forest floor barren from a long merciless winter.
I can feel the death in the air.
Nothing lives in these woods. Not even the roses. And the leaf-less trees hanging overhead show me that the winter’s reaper is only a breath away, its harsh wind a prickly whisper. I look into the eyes of the FBI agent, staring down their forest green depths, and notice how pretty the agent actually is, how delicate her face and how she has no idea who the fuck she’s talking to.
I smile. “Agent Lisa?”
“Leslie,” she corrects me. “Sarah Leslie.”
“Okay,” I inhale the cold air through my nose, blowing it out over my now dry lips. “Agent Sarah Leslie, I don’t mean to be a prick when I say this, but I, uh…I was actually, you know…behind the tree when I found the woman’s body…” I place my hands in my pockets. “You know, behind the tree.”
She glares at the dirt floor. “Oh…” she comments, a hint of blush hitting her cheeks. “Right. Sorry about that.”
The blush deepens, and I stare at her face. She isn’t stupid. Far from it, actually. The agent—albeit, beautiful, in front of me is simply a rookie, and, like all rookies, she’s wavering a bit in the face of the spotlight, the anticipation actually nothing compared to the bitter, hard reality that the field is much harder than “practice” ever could be.
The Academy hadn’t prepared her for this. For the shock of seeing her first dead body.
Most recruits aren’t prepared for this sort of morbid shit, so when her hands tremble slightly, when the pen between her fingers flicks against the clipboard just a little too fast, I try not to judge her. In fact, I feel sorry for her. Truth is, you don’t have to be a dumb agent to wind up a dead one; I’d seen enough of those. Hell, I’d held a dying few in my own blood-covered hands.
Her fear was the least of her problems. Her biggest one right now?
Well, that was me.
She hadn’t asked me the right questions, hadn’t delved far enough. Like, “Had I seen this woman before? Did I visit these woods often? Did I have a record of violence?”
Maybe if she had asked the right way, she might have found the answer to all three…which was “yes.” Of course. You had to have spilled at least a gallon of blood in my line of what I liked to call “work” to get this far. Unscathed. And still breathing.
And yes, I had known this woman. I had met her before. I was actually the one who put her body there.
And in the midst of the woods, among the dying trees and silent animals, I shift on my feet, my head hung with the knowledge there’s an even bigger beast among the flora and fauna out there. And that beast is me.
My mentor once told me that an animal exists inside every man. And it comes out the day he holds another’s life in his hands.
For me, today is that day.
Tell Me
DELILAH
Today was my day. Or, it was supposed to be.
I pace the brown tiles of the shop, the letter wrapped inside my fingers. The edges of the envelope scratch at my skin, the paper biting, but I barely notice. I’m too busy ripping the seam to shreds.
Tearing the paper inside out, I scan its contents, my hands shaking as I read every word. My heart sinks with each syllable.
Ms. Delilah Castalano-Cook,
We regret to inform you that your application for a loan has been denied. We thank you for…
I drop the letter to the floor, letting it drift to my feet. My hands lower to my hips and I plant them there, my fingernails digging into the fabric of my skirt.
Shit. Today was not my day. But I can’t think about it. The front door is now open, and the first customer of the day waltzes in, a frown on her fleshy face, a large purse in her hand. She waves a credit card, black and gleaming, through the air to the beat of the slow-tinkling Blossom Dearie song playing softly in the background. I plaster a gleam in my eye and smile.
“How may we help you?”
“Only if you can perform a hysterectomy.” She sighs heavily, her shoulders slumping. “Sorry. I need fifty cupcakes for a third grade birthday party.”
My smile is real this time, the gesture spreading across my face. I know the feeling. “Of course. Right this way. The hysterectomy section is on the left.” I wave my hand. “And to the right, we have the cupcakes.” I lead her to the counter. I splay my hands across the surface. “What will you have?”
Thirty minutes, seven tube-tying threats and several gallons of frosting later, Mrs. Hannah Baker walks out with two of my best cashiers and three boxes of my cupcakes. I sigh.
Okay, maybe it was half my day.
Opening my phone to the e-mail app, I practically sprint to the stock room, hiding among the shel
ves, as I type in a blank box, the taps of my fingers echoing in the small room. My fingers fly.
Peabody,
I hope you’re reading this in some small café, a song in your heart and a smile on your face. I received a letter from the last bank. Another rejection.
I’ve become used to them at this point. Carrie suggests I plaster them to the back wall, create a mural for when the first acceptance letter comes through. I suggested that I make a voodoo doll out of the loan officer and prick his penis with pins, but I guess that’s just the difference between us.
I’ve already written the next letter. I did what you said. Used the formal letterhead for the shop. I’m headed to the post office now to send it, but I just wanted to stop and say: I wish I could run this new note by my lawyer.
I miss her. I miss my sister. In short, I miss you.
Don’t forget to brush your teeth at night. Always wipe front to back. Save me a smile. Because the day you disappeared, you took mine with you.
With all my kisses and pinky promises.
Your big sissy,
Del
I shift on my feet, pushing away from the shelves. Strands of my earth-colored hair fall over my face, and I push them, and the tears they mingle with, away. Grabbing the keys from the front counter, I call out to my returning cashiers, yelling out a garbled message about the post office and I hop in my Audi, parked around the corner, my legs unsteady, my heart hammering a million beats per minute.
It only takes a half a mile to get to the Post Office, but by the time I make it, my fingers are hurting, almost permanently pried to the steering wheel as I park in front of the bland-looking building, my letter still in my hand, tiny paper cuts now decorating my fingers.
I step out of the car. Making it inside of the mail room without any more injuries, I stand shakily in line, my fingers still beating that damned Blossom Dearie beat from the shop on the lines of my skirt, the drumming calming my humming nerves.
I make it to the counter.
Ms. Sherry Ella Carrington—that’s Sherry with a “y”—grins in my direction, her cocoa brown face glowing as she plants her hands on the gray-slate colored counter. She looks down at my constantly moving fingertips.
“That type of day, huh, Ms. Cook?” she whispers with a wink.
“You have no idea.” I stop fidgeting long enough to hand her my letter. “Another one for the banks.”
“And the last?”
I shake my head, my hands itching to keep thrumming, my body brimming with that nervous energy that has plagued me for damn near a decade. Ms. Shelly understands. More than most, actually, and she nods, her grin quivering at the corners, her eyes growing glassy.
“This is the one,” she says, her honey-coated voice strong and steady. “Today is your day.”
I laugh, a rasp in my throat. “You always say that, Ms. Shelly.”
“That’s because I know. I can feel it. You’ve got to go with the feeling, your gut. Ya see, ‘cause there’s only two ways to make out spoiled milk. Using your sense of smell and your gut.” She raises an eyebrow. “And in the case of actual spoiled milk, better to use your smell first before the milk ever hits your gut.”
A smirk plays on my lips. “Wise words from a decent woman.”
“And you better know it.” She slaps a stamp on my letter and shoves it into the mail shoot. “Good luck, Ms. Cook.”
“Thank you, Ms. Shelly. Have a great day.”
With a wave I stagger awkwardly back to my parked Audi, a grin finding its way to my face. Hysterectomies and loans aside, today just might be my day. At least, I’m hopeful. And when the sun breaks through the gray of this overcast day, I almost believe it. Almost believe that my bakery business, the cupcake shop that I affectionately named The Sweet Spot, will stand on its overcrowded San Francisco street another month. I almost believe that the next bank will approve my new business loan. I almost believe in the concept of “belief.” And just as that belief takes hold in me, clearing out the clouds of my gray mind, it’s broken by the sound of a text message pinging my phone. I turn the screen towards me, and the belief shatters further.
I’m so sorry, babe. Can’t pick up Mel today. Got pulled into two other meetings for the new acquisition.
You’re the best. Kisses.
Darren
He signs the text message with a signature like any other message he sends. I can’t feel the kisses he sends through the phone, and whatever sunlight was cracking into my morning is shut out by the roll of thunder in the distance, ominous storm clouds crowding the sky as they move into my periphery and into my heart.
I start the car, rolling it forward. Back to the bakery I go, and five hours later, after the semi-busy day in the shop slows and the gray of the sky turns black, I barrel out of the front door, facing the barrage of rain that now beats on the San Francisco Bay, turning a moody Monday sad.
I breathe in the cool March air. I breathe out the last remnants of belief.
And when I pull up to Melanie’s building, my spirits lifting despite the deadened color of the afternoon, my fingers fidget, the anxiety I’ve lived with too long to forget now coming back in full-force.
It’s the rain, the letter, the text messages—the day. I take a deep breath, reciting the lyrics to one of the shop’s many ambient jingles, beating a rhythm against my steering wheel with the heels of my hands.
I feel the anxiety threatening to swallow me, and instead I swallow it, pushing down the stomach bile that tries to crawl up my throat. Don’t listen to it, Delilah. The panic is in your head. Nothing more. The words I hear in my head are not my own, but Penelope’s, and I miss my sister all the more, the memory of her sweet, soothing mantra a reminder of what I’ve lost.
My parents. My sanity. Her.
I remember all that I’ve gained since the bad dreams began, and I look towards the window, expecting Melanie’s blonde head to come bobbing my way, but as the crowd outside the red-brick building thins, I see nothing beyond its gate.
No tiny hands. No blonde curls. No Melanie.
The panic in my throat starts to solidify and as I reach for my driver’s side door, the sight of her teacher makes me throw it open. Cold wet drops of rain run over my head and face, and I stagger across the street towards the wide-eyed instructor, the round shape of her almond eyes confirming the fear I’ve already felt.
Melanie is missing.
Mrs. Cheng peeks at me through black bangs and an even blacker umbrella, trying to tell me so, but I can’t hear her over the pounding rain against the pavement. Over the drumroll of my pulsating heart. My steps match the pace of my racing pulse, and as I slosh towards the sidewalk on the opposite street, I don’t recognize my own screams.
“Help!” I shout. “Somebody, help me! My daughter!”
Nearby parents collecting their own children look towards my cries. A few come over.
“What’s wrong?” one asks.
“My daughter! She’s missing!”
My head swivels, my brunette strands slinging across my face. I can’t see the street anymore through the icy rain and the salty tears. A sob escapes my throat as I search the school grounds, wet grass squeaking underfoot, the mud mingling with the squishy sound.
I’m probably covered in it as I run. I don’t care. My esophagus has crushed on its own, and I struggle for breath with every foot of ground I cover, my body betraying me as it stumbles over the mixed mash of grit, gravel and grimy earth.
“Melanie!” I screech. I listen and hear nothing but the rain. The foreboding beat of an empty street. And then the faint cries reach my ears. Muffled and buried beneath the rumbling thunder.
“Mommy!” A sound so soft I almost fear that I imagined it. I turn towards the tiny shout. And there she is.
My Melanie. Huddled near the building. Her soft blonde curls stuck to her forehead, a small frown on her sweet face.
I don’t think; I run, rushing to her side. Through the slick and now small distance between us
, I sweep her up into my arms, holding her small body close, squeezing her so hard I might hurt her.
I sob into her little shoulder and pull back to look at her, my eyes skimming her scrunched expression, my fingers framing her innocent face. I gaze into her blue eyes.
“Where were you, honey? You scared me to death!”
She breaks out into a tiny cry, her red lips blowing outward. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I was holding Mrs. Cheng’s hand and then I saw the doggy over here. A small white doggy with brown spots and a black nose.”
My voice turns gritty, the words sticking on my tongue. “What have I told you? Never wander off by yourself, Melanie.”
“I know that,” she squeaks as we crowd under the tiny awning overhead, the thin fabric barely blocking us from the barrage of sloppy wet drops. “But the man said the doggy needed help.”
My face furrows. “What man?”
“The man with the white puppy. He said the doggy needed help. I wanted to…to…” Her voice trails off as she sees the anger written across my face, my brows pulling together so tightly my face begins to hurt. I hug her again, holding her close as she begins to cry.