Got it Bad

by Christi Barth

  “You said the trial should start early October? Only a few more months. Then you’ll get a whole new protectee to keep in line.”

  “Yes. A fresh challenge. That’s what makes this job so great. There isn’t usually the chance to get bored, get in a rut.” Or to connect to anyone. Which was also starting to bug her, truth be told.

  Kono slapped his hands together, like he was clapping erasers to get rid of detritus. “A new assignment will solve that. No doubt it’ll be somewhere far away.”

  “Yes. And maybe I’ll put in for a week of vacation first, to recharge.” Delaney spun her chair back around, infused with fresh resolve. The job mattered. Protecting her charges, protecting the public. It was the least she could do to balance the scales. To make up for all the heinous crimes her father had committed that had earned him a life sentence.

  It was clear-cut. She’d decided a long time ago to devote herself to her career above all else. Because her mother had taught her that love—lust—whichever it was, didn’t keep a roof over your head or food in the fridge. It didn’t guarantee safety.

  A job did that.

  She’d get the Maguires to the trial. She’d do it so well that, if not a full promotion, she’d at least earn a commendation for her file. That lasted. That mattered. A few stolen kisses did not.

  Her phone vibrated, skittering across the desk. Delaney flipped it over and swiped it open. A text from Kellan filled the screen.

  K: Yesterday? I just planned to ask you for a favor. Nothing more. Didn’t want you to think I made you fight traffic for more than an hour so I could steal a kiss.

  Oh. That hadn’t even crossed her mind.

  Kellan was spontaneous and flirty and lighthearted, but he wasn’t frivolous or self-centered. He wouldn’t have done such a thing. But it was nice of him to go to the effort of making sure she knew that.

  D: Okay.

  K: I’m sorry if you’re stirred up right now about it. Sitting at your desk, wondering if we did the wrong thing. I’m sorry if you’re second-guessing something that felt so right.

  Geez, had he implanted a microcamera during that kiss? How did he know? How did he know what she was feeling when she hadn’t been able to identify it for a full day?

  Was it possible that all those months of sniping and fighting and herding him and his brothers across the country had brought them closer?

  Was it possible that Kellan was right about her liking the fighting? About rising to the bait every time because she did, indeed, want to go on that date he’d offered on a cool November afternoon? When—if truth be told—she’d let her guard down and just interacted with him as herself.

  Not as a marshal, undercover and working to get him inside a stranger’s car so he wouldn’t make a scene.

  But as a woman. As one who’d connected with him and enjoyed it.

  Before Delaney could figure out an appropriate nonresponse response, the phone buzzed in her hand again.

  K: I’m not sorry that we kissed.

  In addition to the nearly uncountable rules she followed as a federal employee, as a marshal, as a law enforcement official, Delaney had one hard-and-fast personal rule that she stuck to with all her protectees.

  She never, ever lied to them. Since they were literally trusting her with their lives, it was incumbent upon her to make sure that trust was deserved. She was up front and honest, no matter what.

  Usually, the no matter what revolved around upsetting the protectee’s peace of mind.

  This time, the whole truth and nothing but the truth was more about Delaney’s whirling thoughts. After only a small hesitation, she bit her lip and raced her thumbs across the screen.

  D: I’m not sorry, either.

  His answer came before she could drag in her next shaky breath.

  K: I won’t be sorry the next time, either.

  Pasquale elbowed Kellan in the ribs. “Man, your brothers are the best things to happen to this town in a long time.”

  It was end of shift at the cranberry-processing plant, and they were changing out of their coveralls. All he’d heard, all day, was the telling and retelling of the way Flynn had bounced a drunk out of the Gorse last night.

  Yeah, he’d been there. He’d seen the whole damn thing. Helped with the broken wrist that lowlife had given his date until the ambulance arrived, too. But nobody mentioned that part. All they could talk about was Flynn the hero. Keeping their town safe from the transient scum of the earth.

  And when they got tired of talking up Flynn? It invariably circled back around to revisit the way Rafe and Flynn had caught a pair of burglars last month.

  Oh, Kellan had been there for that one, too. On the sidelines. Watching as his badass brothers stopped the creeps who’d stolen a bunch of jars of weed from the coffeeshop and pot dispensary Mollie’s grandmother ran.

  Nobody told stories about the guy who called 911. Even though that was the responsible choice. The law-abiding response to wrongdoers. The heroically smart response to mayhem and danger.

  A part of him itched to blurt it all out. That the so-called town heroes were, essentially, thugs and criminals in their own right.

  It kept him up more nights than not. Kellan was torn in two. He loved his brothers, would until his dying day. But he’d spent his whole life thinking they were great men, the heroes all of the guys here at the plant thought them to be.

  It turned out they were flawed, regular men. Men whose actions he’d judge severely in anyone else and Kellan didn’t know what to do with that feeling. Didn’t know how to move past it.

  He sure as hell didn’t need to hear the entire plant label them damn heroes.

  Back in the day, Kellan had dreamed about delivering closing statements at trials. Ones so powerful that the people in the jury would well up, just a little. And then they’d let his victimized and almost impossible-to-prove-innocent client off the hook in record time. He’d be the one to save the day.

  Yeah. Kellan stomped around the lockers to the doorway to toss his coveralls in the giant hamper. He was pissed.

  To be fair, a good portion of it was how much he hated his job. As Delaney had said—repeatedly—the government provided them with stable jobs. Not fantastic ones. When your entire background was made up and you were cut off from using any of the life skills you’d acquired, the choices were . . . not great.

  He wasn’t allowed to take the bar out here in Oregon. Hell, he wasn’t even allowed to be a paralegal. So what did the government decide he was best suited for, most capable of doing without any training or experience?

  Boxing up cranberries. By the bajillion.

  It was monotonous, repetitive, soul-sucking work that bored him to death. It wasn’t even physically taxing. Just fucking boring.

  There was almost nothing Kellan loathed more than being bored. Which equated to him being pissy for pretty much eight straight hours, five days a week since they’d moved to Bandon six weeks ago.

  Maybe some of his crappy attitude was from wanting to see Delaney again and not being able to come up with an excuse. Her job had brought them together, but it was also the ultimate cock block.

  No, it wasn’t all his blue balls. He was pissy about the nonstop praise being heaped on his brothers. His ex-criminal brothers. Because he’d spent so long planning to champion victims and prosecute wrongdoers. All the praise they received made a mockery of everything he believed in, had planned to spend an entire lifetime fighting for.

  When the fuck would he get the chance to be a hero? Sure, becoming a lawyer hadn’t been his choice. But once decided, he’d put his heart and soul into it. He wanted to stand up for a victim, make a difference, take down wrongdoers, big and small.

  Kellan leaned his forehead against the bank of lockers. He kind of wanted to bang it against the metal. Guess he’d have to settle for this moment of peace while everyone else gathered their shit on the other side.

  Keys jingled. A deep voice said, “Mike, do you want a ride to the resort tonight?”r />
  “Nah. I’m going to skip it. I can’t afford to be cleaned out again.”

  Huh? Kellan straightened, wondering why his fellow plant workers would go to one of the priciest resorts on the West Coast. It seemed like while half the town worked here, the other half worked at the world-famous golf resort. It was not a place where anyone raking in an hourly wage could afford to so much as order a beer.

  Aside from the beautiful marshal, nothing had given his brain a reason to flicker in months.

  “You have to. It’s the only way to stop him. We’ll all be there. We’ll pay attention, and not let him win at all. Or catch him cheating red-handed.”

  “Yeah? And then what? It isn’t like we can take a freaking member out by the dumpsters and give him a beating.”

  This was interesting. Kellan craved interesting the way a drug addict craved their next hit. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his loose work pants and ambled, all casual-like, around the corner.

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  “None of your business, College Boy” Pasquale said it with a sneer in his voice, like accusing Kellan of having a college degree was an insult. Pasquale was a first-class asshole. Kellan got along fine with almost everyone. But Pasquale had sneered the first week when Kellan used the word bloviate. Ever since then, he’d been up his ass. Clearly it was a case of jealousy.

  Or it could be that the man had a micro-penis. That had been Mollie’s giggling guess when Kellan complained about him at dinner one night. Yeah, he adored her in a big-sister way. Hopefully Rafe wouldn’t fuck it up.

  Mike shook his head. “Maybe he could help. Kellan’s smart. We all know it.”

  He put on the smile he used to win the regional debate championship. The one he’d used to seal the deal when he convinced Melissa Watkins to go all the way in her parents’ pool house after junior prom. The one he’d used in his final interview before making law review. “I’m happy to help. What’s the situation?”

  Pasquale scowled. But Mike barreled ahead. “We’re in a poker game with some of the guys at the club. Gardeners, waiters—and some of the guests.”

  The guests fell into two camps. Oregonians with more money than God who came out every weekend. And people from around the world who’d appear either for a weekend or to settle in at an over-the-top “cabin” for weeks at a time. Either way, he’d heard the buy-in to the club was a cool million, along with annual dues, and required restaurant minimums. The money it took to be a member/guest was no joke.

  Kellan leaned against the locker, ankles crossed. “How can you afford to be in a game with high rollers?”

  “They play our stakes, nothing higher.”

  “Why would they bother?” Slumming it with the help was a long-established, albeit crappy, tradition in clubs. But wasn’t that about sex, not card games? It didn’t add up.

  “They claim the club members play pansy-ass poker. Games with all wild cards that get crazier and crazier. We play hard-core poker. Nothing wild. Nothing stupid. We just like to play a good game.”

  Begrudgingly—because he hated to be left out of anything, Pasquale chimed in. “It’s been going on for years. A semisecret game that anyone can buy into if they want some honest, no-frills action.”

  Interesting, indeed. Not to mention right up Kellan’s alley. “Can I play?”

  “You don’t want to, College Boy.” Pasquale hocked up a loogie and spat in . . . well, the general direction of the sink. “We’ve got a cheat. Three weeks in a row now. We’re sure it’s a club member. We just can’t prove it.”

  Mike shrugged, hunched forward and lowered his voice as if worried a wealthy member might actually appear in their locker room out of the blue. “We can’t accuse him unless we figure out how he does it. We can’t even tell him not to come back.” Eyes downcast, mouth downturned, the guy looked beaten down.

  Even Pasquale must’ve noticed, because his cocky demeanor faded away. He looked back and forth between Kellan and Mike. Finally, he jerked one shoulder forward. “You really think that if we bring Kellan in, he can help us figure it out?”

  This sounded like fun. Not just fun. It was his chance to be a hero. To be freaking Robin Hood. To take from the rich and give back to the poor they’d fleeced.

  To stand up for a victim and take down a wrongdoer.

  “I can take him down. Teach him a lesson.”

  “Big talk, College Boy. How?”

  “I can count cards.”

  Mike didn’t look like he got the significance of Kellan’s statement. Pasquale, on the other hand, laughed and offered up a high five. “No shit? You’ve done it before?”

  “Oh, yeah. Even at casinos. And we got away with it.” His brothers didn’t know. But some of his friends had gone to MIT. There, they’d heard the legend of the MIT students who outsmarted casinos up and down the strip. They’d studied and practiced and figured out how to do the impossible—beat the house.

  Which only brought out Kellan’s competitive side. No way were MIT math nerds going to one-up the best and brightest of Northwestern’s pre-law class. So they worked it out, practiced at games in frat houses all across Chicagoland, and even took it to some casinos in Minnesota and Wisconsin one epic spring break.

  Kellan was the best of the bunch. Not only could he count cards, but he could damn well spot anyone else doing it. They all stopped after the casino trips because nobody wanted to cheat their way through life. They’d just wanted to prove their smarts. Prove that they were the smartest.

  And now he could do it pejoratively. In this case? Pasquale and Mike were right. They couldn’t force this entitled asshole to give back the money, or even apologize.

  But Kellan could catch him in a trap of his own making. He could punish him appropriately by taking all the cheater’s money.

  He could make a difference.

  And that’s when the thunderbolt of an idea hit him. What if he could make a difference every single day?

  Mike bounced a little on the balls of his feet. “Dude, you would do that for us?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It sounds risky.” Typical Pasquale. The man was all talk. No bite to back up his bark. But, to be fair, it sounded like they’d all been cleaned out. Kellan got a government stipend to augment his plant paycheck until after the trial. These guys didn’t have that kind of help. They couldn’t chance losing any more wages.

  Good thing Kellan was dead certain he could do it.

  “It sounds fun.” But to reassure them, Kellan kept going. “I’ll drive the bidding up, bleed him dry, and split the money with all of you. That asswipe won’t know what hit him.”

  As they straddled the wooden bench in the middle of the locker room and talked over the details, Kellan’s attention was divided. Half of his brain was caught up in the idea that had blindsided him with the force of a sucker punch.

  There was a job opening in town that did appeal to him. One that enforced the law he’d studied and believed in wholeheartedly. One that he could qualify for now, even with his made-up background.

  He could make a difference right here in Bandon.

  He could become a deputy. The town sheriff was severely shorthanded, a little something Kellan knew from when Delaney used her cover as the sheriff’s girlfriend to meet with them here in town.

  When he got up every morning, it would matter. And that was something that had been lacking in his life.

  The best part of this shiny new idea? It’d mean asking the beautiful marshal for another favor . . .

  Chapter Three

  Delaney stared at the front door to the Bandon Sheriff’s Department. Then she bent and slowly banged her head against the steering wheel of her Jeep.

  Only three days had passed since her vow to keep contact with the Maguires to a minimum. Three days since she’d admitted to Kellan that she didn’t regret their kiss.

  Three days since she hadn’t admitted that there was no chance of it happening again. Because that would
only lead to an argument. Kellan would’ve been an excellent lawyer, if his top-notch arguing skills were anything to go by.

  Delaney couldn’t risk giving him the slightest chance to change her mind. To convince her to forget about rules and her own personal code of conduct—far stricter than that of the U.S. Marshals—that said a relationship, an involvement, would only weaken her and thus was to be avoided.

  But here she was at the jail. The spot where, in every town, she brought the Maguires to yell at them for getting into trouble. Or announced they were pulling up stakes and being herded to a new location.

  Funny how jails made her think of Kellan now. Of all the extra glances she’d snuck at him, or the jokes she’d bitten her cheek not to laugh at. Delaney had been certain that was sufficient resistance to his charm. Enough so that she could relax and enjoy reliving those moments at night. In bed. Alone.

  She’d been so very wrong.

  She’d been too lenient with herself. The result was giving in to a kiss so spectacular that it made her efforts at resistance much more difficult. More complicated. It made Delaney furious with her own weakness.

  And clearly, she’d been far too lenient with her protectees, since apparently they’d gotten involved in a bar brawl. Not that any of the three of them had bothered to contact her with a heads-up.

  The rules were actually pretty simple to staying in WITSEC. 1) Don’t have any contact with your old life. 2) Stay out of trouble. Stay on the right side of the law.

  So why, exactly, did Flynn and Kellan end up on a police incident report? Especially without feeling the need to immediately contact her with a concise explanation of said incident?

  Frustration pounded in her head, but hitting the steering wheel didn’t decrease it. Nor did staying in a car that practically steamed because the air-conditioning had been on the fritz for the entire drive. So Delaney got out of the car with a downward tug at the short hem of her clingy black dress.