The Beckett Boys- The Complete Series Box Set

by Olivia Chase

  “You would.” Brooklyn swats his arm and rolls her eyes.

  “I can’t help it.” He gives a cheeky grin and innocent shrug.

  An older black woman appears from the back, holding a massive key lime pie. “Okay, you crazies, if you don’t finish this pie, all of you are banned from coming to my diner ever again, you hear me?”

  “That’s Aunt Sylvia,” Brooklyn whispers in my ear. “Not their aunt but their grandmother, but she likes to be called that. She’s kinda scary but kinda awesome. You’ll see.” She loops her arm through mine and takes me toward the table. Jamison’s right behind me, talking with Smith like there was never any tension between them in the past. All has been forgiven between these men, and I know that has to make my husband happy.

  I can’t fight the smile on my face. My heart is as light as I think it’s ever been.

  Epilogue

  Zack

  I sit down at the rickety table in the visitor’s area and wait for my father to show up. This wasn’t a planned meeting, but when I told him we needed to talk, he asked me to come as soon as I could.

  The room around me is filled with orange-clothed inmates talking to family and friends. Some are bouncing kids on their knees. Others are having tense conversations across the table, their anger hushed but evident.

  I admit, I hate it here. I hate that I can’t see my dad whenever I want. That I have to schedule short visits. Over ten years now we’ve been carrying on like this.

  Thank God he’s up for parole soon. We hope.

  The door opens, and my father comes strolling in, escorted by a guard. He’s looking more tired than usual, his brow furrowed, his hair a little grayer. But he’s still got those muscular arms with the faded tattoos, the battle scars, and he’s still got an expression on his face that let’s you know not to fuck with him unless you want to get it back twice as bad as you gave it.

  Dear old Dad, he really is a piece of work. I can’t help but want to smile a little.

  But then when he sees me, he gives a halfhearted nod and then comes over and takes a seat across from me.

  I fight back the small wave of disappointment at his lackluster greeting. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Zack.” His eyes scan the room around us, taking in everything. “So, you said we needed to talk. What’s going on?”

  I talked to my brothers a few days ago, and we agreed that I should be the one to full Butch in on the news about Jamison. My dad has a horrendous temper, but I can usually get him to shake it off through a joke or two. Always been my role in our family, and I took it seriously, as weird as that sounds. An angry Butch meant that we’d end up getting a taste of that fury, as well. So if I could make him laugh, get him to ease off us, then I’d usually get a smile in reward, sometimes a tousle of my hair.

  I choose my words carefully. “Jamison decided to leave the family business.”

  Dad goes still. “What?” To anyone who doesn’t know him, the question probably sounds calm. But I can see the storm brewing in his eyes, in the set of his face.

  I continue delivering the bad news. “He moved out to his own apartment, got a job at a construction company, and I heard through the grapevine that he got married to some legal chick.”

  Dad stares at me for a minute, then starts to laugh. “You’re fucking with me. Very funny.” He stops laughing when he sees I’m not joining in. “Tell me this is a joke.”

  “It’s not. And there’s one more thing. He told us we had to back off Outlaws, that we were going to let Smith and his brothers continue to own and run it.”

  When Dad is pissed, his initial reaction isn’t to yell or scream. He gets cold, quiet. Calculating. The quieter he gets, the worse it will be in the end. Right now, he stares at me with ice shards in his eyes. “The fuck you say.”

  I nod. “We figured you should know. Since he isn’t in the business anymore, I’m taking over heading things up.” I’m the second oldest brother, so the task falls on me, something I’m proud to do. I can keep the business running while Dad’s here. When he comes back, he’ll see what an amazing job I’ve done.

  His jaw is working as he clenches it. “Okay. Jamison is dead to me. That’s it. Your brother is cut out of everything from now on.”

  “It’s done.” I nod. “What else?”

  He pauses, rubs his jaw, which is covered in gray scruff. Looks at me. Really looks at me. “You have the balls to make this right, don’t you?”

  My ribcage tightens in my chest. I don’t know what he’s going to ask me, but I’ll do it. Our family won’t stand by and let what’s rightfully ours slide through our hands. “Fuck yes.”

  “We’re going to handle this Outlaws thing once and for all,” Dad tells me. “And this time, we’re going to do it my way.”

  Even as he says it, I know what this means. And I understand, as I nod my head, exactly what it is I’m agreeing to.

  This means war.

  THE END

  ZACK (The Beckett Boys, Book Five) by Olivia Chase

  Autumn

  I can’t believe I went to prison.

  Well, I suppose if visiting counts as going to prison, then I went.

  But now it’s mostly over, and I’m relieved.

  I step into the sterile lobby and press a trembling hand to my stomach, which is filled with a riot of butterflies—I’m unsettled, to say the least.

  But I did it. Despite all my fears, all my misgivings, I gathered my strength and did it.

  I met my birth father, something I never thought would happen in my lifetime. Emotions of all kinds are exploding in me right now, overwhelming me. Confusion. Sadness. Discomfort. This prison, with its bland gray cement walls and thick bars and rigid rules, is far removed from anything I’ve ever experienced. And I certainly never thought I’d be here to meet one of the people responsible for bringing me into this world.

  I’ve known for a long time that I was adopted, but it wasn’t until a couple of months ago that my parents told me about the circumstances of my adoption. That my birth father was reaching out to them and wanting to meet me.

  With slow steps, I head toward the exit doors. My mind won’t stop whirring. Won’t stop thinking about what just happened. I didn’t know what to expect during this visit. Certainly not someone so gaunt and aged from years of hard drug abuse, which caused him to spend multiple stints of time in places like this. Someone whose regret over his past choices was etched in hard lines on his weathered face.

  A stranger’s face.

  I don’t know why, but I expected myself to instantly recognize him for some reason. But when I saw my birth father, there was no jolt of familiarity. Nothing that made me feel like we were related. He seemed wholly unfamiliar, like any random person I might have run into anywhere on the street.

  Except for his dark brown eyes…they looked just like mine, down to the flecks of amber in the irises. It was uncanny, startling. He asked me a few questions about myself. Seemed proud that I was working on my Master’s degree.

  At least he’s trying to get clean…and stay that way. I let that thought rally me a bit, even as I’m filled with worry. I don’t know anything about prisons, of course, but I’ve seen a couple of documentaries on Netflix. They’re filled with drugs, a real epidemic, it seems. I just hope he can find his inner strength to stay clean despite his circumstances.

  I shudder and push open the doors, stepping out into the brisk November air. Drugs—another thing I know nothing about. My adoptive parents, my middle-class upbringing, kept me pretty sheltered, that much is for sure.

  Hell, I rarely take over-the-counter meds unless I’m seriously ill. And none of my friends ever did anything more serious than smoke the occasional joint.

  I tug my coat around me to ward off a stiff breeze of wind that causes the trees surrounding the parking lot to sway to the left. The last few dying leaves clinging to the branches are whipping furiously in the air. It’s frigid but pretty outside. At least the sun is out to keep it from being bitter
cold.

  “Hey, hey, girlie,” a deep voice says from my right.

  I turn out of instinct to see if the person is talking to me. There’s a group of several rough-looking men, wearing beat-up leather jackets and covered in tattoos, leaning against the wall smoking. One man, the one I guess was talking to me, puffs out a cloud of smoke as he’s eyeing me up and down. He has several tattoos on his face.

  The way he’s looking at me is like he’s ripping my clothes off right here in the parking lot. I give a stiff smile of discomfort and nod politely, then turn back around, searching for my car. Where did I park it? My fingers are fumbling in my coat pocket for my car key.

  “Sweetheart, you looking for some fun?” that voice says.

  I move faster without acknowledging his words, heading blindly up one parking lane. I keep my head high in a meager attempt to portray confidence. But my heart is hammering against my ribs, and my fingers are starting to shake. If he got anywhere close to me, he’d see it.

  “Fucking snob, are ya?” The voice is moving nearer, and I can hear the thud of multiple boots behind me.

  Crap.

  I swallow and turn around, stopping in place. “Not interested, thank you.” I keep my words light and vague, proud that I don’t tremble when I say them.

  He quirks a brow and gives a wide grin, flashing crooked, brown-stained teeth. “Oh, ‘not interested.’ Well, ain’t you fancy. Too good for us regular guys, huh? What are you doing here—your old man get arrested for some kind of rich-guy bullshit? You here for a conjugal visit or something?”

  My jaw clenches. I’m not going to bother explaining myself to them. The guys form a semi-circle around me. They’re hulking, with sinister grins, and now a frisson of genuine fear shivers down my back. I freeze in place out of panic, unsure what to do, my body flashing hot and cold.

  Out of nowhere, a hand wraps around my elbow, and a tall man is leaning beside me, saying in a low tone, “I’ll walk you to your car.” And then before I know what’s happening, he and I are turning around and I’m heading down the asphalt.

  The guys behind me mutter a few phrases I don’t fully hear, laden with some choice cuss words that punctuate the air, but I try to shut them out and focus on moving away from them. I glance up at my rescuer to thank him, and my heart gives a crazy kick-start beat against my ribcage.

  God, he’s hot. Insanely, impossibly hot. His dark blond hair is clipped short on the sides, but longer on the top and swept away from his face. He has piercing green eyes with thick lashes, a firm jawline, and sexy lips. Lines of a black tattoo peek out from under his coat collar on his neck.

  Our eyes meet. In that moment, there’s a crash of sexual awareness that makes me flush all over, sends a swell of heat to my lower belly. And intensity I hadn’t expected. A connection.

  The man suddenly stops in place and spins around, and I realize that the group behind us hasn’t left us alone after all. But I hadn’t noticed, so distracted by my rescuer’s looks. He shoots the men a glare, his body tensing visibly. “Do we have a problem, guys?” He removes his hand from my elbow and cracks his knuckles.

  The tattoo-faced guy narrows his eyes at him. “You Butch’s kid?”

  “Yup. I’m also the guy who’s going to fuck you up if you don’t back the fuck off right now,” he replies in an even tone.

  My lips part in surprise, and I blink in shock at the aggressive words. I’ve never heard anyone speak like that in real life before.

  The group’s attitude seems to change in an instant. They pull back, and tattoo face holds up his hands. “No problem, man. No problem. I got respect for your pop.” They spin on their heels and walk back toward the prison building.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to my protector.

  He doesn’t reply, just takes my elbow again and turns me back toward my car. As we walk, I do my best to focus forward, not think about how the breezes are sending wafts of his rich cologne to me. Or think about the strength, the heat, I feel emanating from his lean figure beside me. He screams sexiness. Wickedness. He’s hotter than anyone I’ve ever seen. I’ve never felt instantly attracted to someone this way before.

  Especially someone who is clearly dangerous.

  But even odder, the moment this man approached me, I felt completely safe and taken care of in a way I’ve never experienced before. He didn’t owe me, a stranger, any protection, but he gave it to me anyway. Gratitude warms my chest and mingles with the attraction I’m feeling for him, and my cheeks start to burn in response.

  I finally see my car. Relief washes over me. We stop at the trunk, and I turn toward him. “Um,” I say, shoving a strand of dark hair behind my ear. “So, thanks again. I really appreciate it. Those guys kinda freaked me out.”

  Lips thinned, he raises an eyebrow, his eyes raking over me with a frosty scrutiny that makes my pulse stutter at the mood shift. Did I just imagine the chemistry between us before? “If you really wanna thank me,” he says in a flat tone, “stay the hell away from here. You don’t belong, princess.”

  The term “princess” grates at me. Like I think I’m better than everyone else or something. I frown. “My…father is in here, and I may come back to visit him.” Not that it’s any of his business—why did I even bother to explain that to him? I lift my chin. “And I’m not a princess. Don’t call me that.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Sure you’re not. You practically ooze privilege.” He shakes his head. “You don’t belong in a place like this. You should stay away from these kinds of people—including me. Next time, there may not be someone around to rescue you from the wolves.”

  I feel a hot flush of embarrassment on my face and throat.

  And then before I can say a word in response, he stalks off.

  I bite my lower lip and get into my car, flipping the heater as high as it can go and warming my icy hands in the lukewarm blast of air. Irritation wars with confusion in my mind. Evidently I imagined the way he looked at me when our eyes first connected. He’s from a different world—tattooed, comfortable with aggressive physical confrontation…and way out of my league in the looks department.

  Time to get him out of my mind.

  To get back to my apartment and try to shake off these unsettled feelings I have. Maybe call my friend Harper and see if she wants to hang out tonight. She also teaches at the elementary school where I’m working while finishing my Master’s degree. We do a lot of after-work cocktail hours, especially during testing weeks.

  After the car is suitably warmed up, I pull out of my spot and head toward the parking lot exit. I pass my surly rescuer standing in front of his black car with the hood up, peering inside the engine area. Something must be wrong.

  My brain tells me to keep on driving. Reminds me that any guy who warns you off him should be listened to. He’s likely on the same level as those other thugs. No, he’s probably even worse, because once they figured out who he was, they backed right off. My protector scared them.

  But my conscience won’t let me just leave the man out here. It’s cold outside. And he did me a favor with no expectation of getting something in return.

  The least I can do is pay him back as thanks.

  I circle around and stop, rolling down my window. When he sees me, his brow furrows.

  “Need any help?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. I’ll call my brothers for a ride. I don’t live too far from here.”

  “Since I’m already here, why don’t you let me give you a ride to where you need to go?” I don’t know why I’m pushing the issue. I can tell myself that this is just about returning a favor, but deep down I know it’s more.

  He’s compelling.

  And I’m drawn to him against my better judgment. I raise an eyebrow to cover up my internal confusion. “Are you always this stubborn about accepting help?”

  He lips curve in what comes dangerously close to a smile. “In fact, yes. Nothing comes for free, you know, princess.”

 
; “Oh? So are there strings attached to the help you gave me earlier, then?” When he scowls at that, I laugh. “Yeah, I thought so. Just get in the car, Mr. Mysterious. I can drop you off. It’s not a problem.”

  “Name’s Zack,” he mutters as he walks toward the driver’s side of the car and slides in. My car feels about half its size with him beside me. It’s not just how tall he is. He has a presence about him that makes him feel larger than life.

  “I’m Autumn,” I reply and try to focus on driving. Which is hard when he’s so dang distracting. Heat pours off his body, and every passing minute, I feel myself growing tighter and more sexually aware of him. Noticing the length of his fingers. His muscular thighs, clad in faded jeans.

  The tattoos on his skin that hint of danger, of drink, of late nights with caution thrown to the wind…

  He gives me minimal directions for navigation but other than that, sits quietly in the seat. Doesn’t really fidget. Just…owns the space with self-assurance. I’ve never met someone like him before. It’s unnerving, and I’m totally unused to it.

  I clear my throat. “So. Zack. What do you do for a living?”

  He gives a soft snort. “Well, I make money doing this and that.” His voice is husky and sexy as hell. Hearing it fill the space of my car makes me hyperaware of the scant few inches between us. We’re both fully clothed, but I can’t help but imagine what he’d sound like whispering against my ear, touching my naked flesh.

  I turn the car onto a side street. “That’s a little specific, don’t you think?” My voice is flat in a purposeful effort to shake off my dirty thoughts. “I suppose you work ‘here or there’ as you earn this mysterious money.”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  My eyes roll of their own volition. “Excuse me for trying to make polite conversation. It was a skill I learned in princess school, I guess.”

  I’m rewarded with a brief chuckle. “You’re feistier than you look, Autumn.” The words roll over me with warmth, despite the snarkiness. He’s teasing me.