Knock Before You Enter

by D. A. Bale

  KNOCK BEFORE YOU ENTER

  Book Three in the Bartender Babe Chronicles

  By D. A. Bale

  Copyright by D. A. Bale, 2016

  ISBN 9781370350100

  Cover design by D. A. Bale and T. S. Bale

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the author and copyright owner listed.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  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 Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgments

  I never thought I’d be able to release three books in one year. I feel like dancing with bells on my toes, crashing cymbals in my hands, and purple ribbons in my hair. A great many thanks goes to several people for helping make this extraordinary event happen.

  Brainstormers – you know who you are. You get the first draft write-ups and make them come alive with your ideas and suggestions. Thank you for making Vicki even more snarky at times.

  Deb, Sandra, and John, my ever-patient beta readers. Once again, I gave y’all a very small window of time, at an already busy time of year, and yet each of you turned it around and got thorough notes back to me by the deadline (even with a looming wedding too – thank you, Deb). I appreciate your efforts on behalf of my readers so much more than I could ever convey.

  Last, but not least, thanks goes out to my son. Tyler, for all of your support and encouragement, through the many late meals, sandwich dinners, and fend-for-yourself nights you’ve had to put up with all through 2016, I can’t thank you enough. I’m so proud of the young man you are becoming and the talents you’ve displayed in helping get this series to publication, not to mention the awesome job vacuuming the house all those weeks and months – and all without complaint. You’re gonna make one heck of an awesome husband to a lucky gal someday.

  Dedication

  To my sister, Angie

  Because you make the best dadgum homemade, from-scratch, ooey-gooey, chocolate pie on the planet for every single holiday family gathering – and never complain when it’s all gone in the blink of an eye.

  Chapter One

  The gathering darkness summoned the stars scattered across the vast Texas sky. The intermittent flash of lightening along the horizon and gentle rumble of distant thunder signaled an approaching storm beyond the glow of the downtown Dallas metropolis. Fall brought a welcomed chill to the night air, and I snuggled deeper into Bobby’s warm embrace.

  Like a whisper, his finger trailed along my jaw until lifting my chin. His blue-eyed gaze connected with my green – deep and fathomless.

  Warm.

  Inviting.

  Our legs dangled from the tailgate of his truck until entangling when our lips crashed together, sending arcs of electricity along every inch of my fiery skin. The truck bed was softer than I remembered as we fell against it, Bobby drowning me with feverish kisses as his hands entwined in my raven hair.

  Until a single drop of rain against the truck cab interrupted the ravishing.

  Plink.

  A second plink followed.

  Then a steady cadence like an irritating leaky faucet beat against the truck cab roof in rapid succession, ripping me from the flowery and delicious dream like Freddy Krueger going after his next victim.

  I really needed to tamp down on the horror movie marathons.

  Fevered kisses from my high school squeeze dissipated into the sandpaper-like tongue of Slinky, my not-so-sweet-at-the-moment tabby cat. The constant plink like a leaky faucet? That turned into what sounded like nail guns firing in stereo one floor beneath my apartment. The high-pitched whine of a table saw quickly joined the contractor’s chorus.

  And it wasn’t even eight A.M.

  That rankled my catnip six ways to Sunday. One surefire way to bring out my inner bitchy? Wake this twenty-six year-old before ten o’clock in the morning – if you dare. Preferably after eleven, because this bartending babe didn’t get to bed on most nights until after three. In the morning. That’s A.M., folks. All of which meant I hadn’t even gotten five hours of sleep last night.

  A growl passed my dry and slightly hungover lips.

  I wrenched off the cozy comforter, slid down the side of Mount Everest, and marched my hot-and-bothered carcass out the front door and down four floors to apartment one-oh-two – the newly remodeled home of Jimmy-the-Super.

  For the past couple of months my downtown former-warehouse-turned-apartment building had been in the throes of a total makeover to bring it forward in time from the mid-eighties. Blame it on my mom.

  Last summer my apartment suffered a tornadic terror when a now deceased co-worker went on a rampage to try and stop me from providing a get-out-of-jail-free card to a former lover. But no matter how my dreams kept toying with my subconscious, Bobby and I could never again be an item.

  Cross my heart.

  And no, it had nothing to do with his short stint in the slammer. More along the lines of Bobby was now a certified pastor and head of a prison ministry he’d started after the little mix up I’d helped clear up to rescue his recused carcass. Trust me – there was no way a smart-mouthed bartender like me would ever survive the self-righteous rigors of the born-again brigade.

  I’d barely survived the first exposure. No way was I gonna willingly dive in for a second helping. I mean, can you see me leading a women’s Bible study? Acting like the epitome of a good Christian housewife? No way, no how, and a big hell no.

  I swear.

  But the little remodel my mom and her interior designer undertook for my place put a burr under the saddle of the new landlord. So now every resident in my six-floor building got to suffer through the same upgrade displacement I’d undergone – only I assumed my suffering had ended when I’d moved back into my place in August.

  Silly me. You know what they say about those pesky assumptions, right? However, this time it would be Jimmy’s ass in a sling instead of his arm.

  Don’t ask.

  My haunches were so heated, I barely noticed the stir of the crisp November breeze from the propped-open front entrance as I pounded on Jimmy’s door. Then waited. And waited. That boy better not still be in bed at this hour. If I was gonna be awakened at the butt-crack of dawn, the super better drag his sorry carcass outta bed too.

  The slide of a chain and clunk of a drawn deadbolt, then Jimmy in all his bleary-eyed, three-hundred pounds of solid muscle opened the door. The skull tattoo on his bicep winked as he dropped his hand from the doorframe and rubbed his face.

  “Oh hell, Vicki. Can’t you go and bother someone else today?”

  “If anyone else had control over the contractors, I’d gladly leave you to lazing around and go back to my own bed,” I retorted. “But since they keep waking me up at ungodly hours of the morning, I figured you may as well join the party.”

  His gaze traveled up and down my scantily-clad frame. “Nice outfit. Somethin’ new for work?�
�

  I stared down at my babydoll nightgown that barely covered my rear end. A sharp tug threatened to expose my upper assets as I tried to keep my girlie bits protected from the wolf whistles as workers trudged by carrying supplies upstairs. I offered up a scowl their way and a southern salute before addressing Jimmy again.

  “Do you remember when I reminded you I work nights?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Hang on.” Jimmy pushed past to glance up and down the hallway and the stairwell.

  “What are you doing?” I huffed.

  “Just checking to see if anyone is carrying a gun around here. You wouldn’t happen to be packing heat somewhere inconspicuous, would ya?”

  I was heated alright, but I don’t think erotic dreams were what he had in mind. “Ha-ha. Very funny. Like I could hide anything in this get-up.”

  “I don’t think I’m up for takin’ another bullet for ya.”

  “That’s not funny, Jimmy.”

  “My arm didn’t think so either, the first or second time,” he said, rubbing the offended bicep.

  “Hey, I wasn’t the one who shot you,” I countered. Though at the moment I was frustrated enough – in more ways than one – to give it a whirl. They say third time’s the charm. “But let’s focus on the topic at hand. What are you gonna do about all this racket?”

  “It’s construction. A work in progress. By definition that means it’s gonna be messy, stinky, and loud for awhile.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about messes or smells.” Though Jimmy’s early morning musk had me reconsidering. “It’s the noise. This has got to be breaking all sorts of ordinances and laws,” I challenged.

  Jimmy shook his head. “Doesn’t apply inside apartment buildings.”

  “Then it’s a blatant violation of the sixth amendment of the Constitution of these here United States.”

  “Violation of…huh?”

  “Against cruel and unusual punishment.”

  Wow. I was on a roll this morning – and with only a few hours of sleep. Color me impressed.

  “Punishment?” Jimmy’s eyelids hovered closer toward awake. “How in the hell…?”

  “Sleep deprivation,” I explained. “It’s what they use to soften up a target before extracting valuable information from him…or her.”

  That earned me a grunt and a scowl. “You’re not a spy, and this isn’t some stupid movie.”

  Hmm. He had a point.

  “Then may I remind you, some of the building inhabitants work late and sleep late?” Or at least they tried.

  “Your point is?” Jimmy grumbled.

  “You promised to take that into consideration when hiring these yahoos.”

  “Promised is a pretty strong word.”

  I gave him my best evil eye. Maybe I should breathe on him with a touch of eau d’ morning mouth instead.

  “Look, Vicki, I’ll talk to them again and see what we can work out,” Jimmy conceded.

  “Thank you.”

  “But I can’t guarantee anything. These guys operate a business on their terms and set their own hours.”

  “At least see if they could do something quieter for a few hours after they arrive. Like painting,” I said as Jimmy slammed his apartment door in my face. “Or grouting!”

  Or counting sawdust flakes. Staring at the sunrise until their irises burned away?

  Doubt I’d get that lucky.

  Chapter Two

  The fall air caressed my bare arms and raised goosebumps like a patient lover as I crossed the gravel parking lot, paid the fee, then settled into a lane at the outdoor shooting range. I popped in ear buds and slipped on goggles, then took a deep, cleansing breath of spent gunpowder to help stem the sensation of watchful eyes.

  It’s a feeling I’ve had to get used to these last few months. After all, not everyone has the opportunity to play footsie with both a high-powered drug smuggler and a member of a well-known drug cartel – who also happens to be the Mexican Ambassador to the United States.

  But I digress.

  Most of the lanes I’d passed were empty this time of the morning. The occupied few at the opposite end were likely law enforcement just off a night shift, as this was one of their favorite ranges. I only knew that because my Texas Ranger ex-boyfriend had brought me here when we’d dated several years ago and taught me everything I knew.

  Yeah, that too.

  The outdoor range was easier on the ears than the enclosed ones. Plus, I enjoyed the breeze. Once the temperature dipped below seventy degrees, most of Dallas dragged out coats and jackets and ran for the indoor shooting ranges.

  Me? I’m what you’d call an odd duck here in the south. Fall and winter are my favorite times of the year. I may own a coat, but it’d be rare to actually see me wear one – even during an early morning chill. After being unceremoniously awakened by the too-early toolshed tinkering, I felt even more heat in my haunches today. What better way to take out frustrations than to shoot something?

  I slipped the target into the hanger clips and flipped the switch to send it fluttering along on a short zip line journey of five yards before sliding the gun and extra magazines from my bag. The rainbow finish of my firearm gleamed in the sunlight. My hands no longer shook as I cradled it in my hand and snapped in a full magazine.

  I guess Zeke was right after all – but don’t you dare tell him I admitted that. Just like after getting bucked from a horse, it was best to get back on as soon as possible to overcome the fear.

  About a month ago, I’d finally gotten my Sig Sauer P938 returned from the Dallas Police Department after it was used in a shooting this past August. I promise, I’d aimed for Han’s shoulder – and got him right between the eyes. Suppose that’s why instructors always say to target center mass, ‘cause you never knew what could happen to your aim amid the stress of an actual life and death scenario.

  Believe me. I like my life, thank you very much – even with the chaotic and crazy that sometimes sneaks around and bites me in the butt.

  Hmm.

  For the sake of full disclosure, Han was waving his own peashooter around my apartment and threatening not only my life but that of my dear friend Reggie as well. There was also the fact Han had blackmailed his boss, and I couldn’t stand by and do nothing while Reggie suffered such indignation. By sheer happenstance, Han ended up shooting Jimmy-the-Super through a thick piece of wood – namely my ridiculously heavy apartment door – after ending the lives of my favorite Coach purse, checkbook, and brand new cell phone.

  At least I had full replacement insurance on the phone that time. It even covered gunshot wounds.

  ‘Course I didn’t take too kindly to someone threatening my life for the second time in as many months. But seriously, I hadn’t intended to kill Reggie’s assistant either – just take his dominant shooting arm out of commission.

  Ever since then, I’d been biting the bullet – no pun intended – and shelling out precious funds for a couple of range visits a week. Figured it was safer that way – for everyone.

  The chambering round clicked into place, and I sighted the cardboard target. The familiar recoil shot through my wrists and reverberated up my arms to settle in my shoulders. A quick roll of my neck, then I pulled the trigger again. By the time the magazine emptied, I had the beginnings of a grouping just above center mass. It was an improvement over last week. And the two weeks prior.

  Before ejecting the spent mag and snapping in fresh rounds, I caught a familiar musky scent amid the gunpowder grains. The warmth of his presence knocked up the temperature in my little lane about ten degrees. Hot breath tickled across my neck as he popped out one of my earbuds and whispered in my ear.

  “Relax your shoulders.”

  Ranger Zeke Taylor rested his hands on my tense traps and offered a momentary massage that sent a zing straight to my nether regions. I returned the earbud to its rightful place and pressed in a full magazine. His hands slid down my naked arms and adjusted my grip on the Sig as his body closed the ga
p between us.

  “Widen your stance,” he commanded, pressing his leg between mine.

  Have you ever experienced that strange dichotomy of feeling totally relaxed on the outside while experiencing a clench of sexual energy flowing like a freight train through your innards?

  Maybe it’s just me.

  I sighted in and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet racing straight through the ‘X’ in the middle of the target. Another spent magazine later, I had a small blackout smackdab within center mass.

  The earbud came out again. “How was that for you?” Zeke asked.

  “It was great,” I said, even though by then I had something other than shooting a gun on my mind.

  I laid the Sig on the counter and turned to take in all six-foot-five of Ranger Taylor situated beneath his black Stetson. The ebony cotton jacket gapped just enough to reveal Big Z’s shoulder holster and state-issued weapon.

  My favorite weapon rested about a foot or so lower on his chiseled physique. Or it used to be my favorite.

  “How’re you doing, Vic?” Zeke asked with a wry grin, as if he’d had a front row seat to my fleeting thought.

  “Good. Doing good. Everything’s going good,” I stammered.

  “When do you leave for Louisiana?”

  “Sunday afternoon.”

  “Flying out with the family?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Taking your gun?”

  “Why in the world would I need it on vacation?”

  Zeke paused for a half second. “Staying the whole week?”

  “I have to this time,” I groaned. “For Janine’s sake.”

  My best friend and her family have been like – well, family with mine since before we were born. The Bohanan and De’Laruse clans have topped the charts of Texas family fortunes for decades, even through the oil slumps, gluts, and gains. All because of diversified portfolios, as our fathers claimed.