Pulled Under: a standalone Walker Security novel

by Lisa Renee Jones

  I point at Blake. “Don’t bring up the money. I’m gonna help her. She isn’t in a position to help us.”

  “Then you can’t let her know you’re undercover,” Savage says. “She’ll blink at the wrong time.”

  “I’m completely fucking aware of that,” I say, “thank you very much.”

  “Run her prints,” Blake says. “Find out what’s coming at her before it comes at us, too. That’s what I did with Kara.”

  “That was different,” Kara argues. “I was working for a drug lord, and you didn’t know I was undercover. You thought I was a criminal.”

  “I hate to tell you this, sweetheart,” Blake says. “But Sierra is reading like one, too.”

  “Sierra’s not a criminal,” I snap.

  “The guy who wants to fuck a woman is not the guy who needs to decide if she’s a criminal or not,” Savage says. “Take it from the guy who swore another woman wasn’t a criminal.”

  “You’re about to get a scar to match the one you already have,” I promise, eying the huge mark down his right cheek. “And if you think being bigger than me matters, think again. I like a big target.”

  Luke laughs and everyone looks at him. “Sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “Poorly timed laughter, I know, but Savage just gave me a walk down memory lane.”

  “Germany,” I say, which is a reference to a bar fight.

  Luke cuts me a look. “He was a big dude.”

  And together, we say, “Just not big enough,” which is what we say every time we tell the story we won’t be telling today.

  “Back on point,” Blake says. “You can’t even trust the weatherman. If it were me, Ash, I’d run her prints.”

  “What’s big to a civilian is usually small to us,” Kara says. “If you run her prints and she finds out, she’ll never trust you again. Think about it before you do it.”

  “Don’t think too long,” Blake say. “Your gut will tell the story.”

  “Not always,” Savage says. “And man, put aside you anger. I fell for a woman. She was a spy and she tried to kill me. I never saw it coming.”

  Blake stands up. “Let’s get some rest.”

  He and Kara head out of the room, with Savage following them, and for Blake and Kara, sleep is nearby. The Walker Brothers own the building and apartments above the office. I don’t know where Savage lives and I don’t care. I’m just glad he’s gone.

  Luke isn’t, though. He hangs back with me, waiting for the room to clear. “Blake’s not all wrong,” he says when we’re alone. “Sierra’s in trouble and she’s afraid. You’re smart enough to make a list of the possible reasons. You need to decide if you can deal with those things before you get pulled under with her.” He stands up and walks out of the room.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, I’m at my building, three blocks from the Walker Security property. I enter my industrial-style apartment on the fifteenth floor of the high rise, and arm the security system. Two years after putting a million dollars down on the place, compliments of a contract job in a hellish jungle overseas, I still feel a sense of home every time I enter this place. It might not compare to the luxury I grew up with, but it’s mine. All fucking mine. Not a penny of it paid for with my father’s money. But Sierra has nothing that is hers and she’s living in barely livable circumstances.

  I cross the room, heading toward the open kitchen, and while my floors are a mahogany and gray mix of wood, Sierra’s floor is ugly, old laminate. My walls are a mix of brick and windows. Hers are white chipped paint. I toss my keys on the wooden island that matches the floors and walk up to the stainless-steel fridge and grab a bottle of water before making my way to the black steel stairwell and the second level. My bedroom is at the top to the right, and as I enter I’m struck by the fact that this room is bigger than the entire place Sierra is living in now.

  I sit down on the edge of the four-poster, gray-finished bed, and set the water on the nightstand, emptying my pockets next to it. I waste no time afterward, stripping down and climbing into the bed, but I stare into the darkness, sleep nowhere in sight, Sierra in her shit bed on my mind. Luke’s words play in my head: Blake’s not all wrong. Sierra’s in trouble and she’s afraid. You’re smart enough to make a list of the possible reasons. You need to decide if you can deal with those things before you get pulled under with her.

  He’s right. She’s in trouble, but no one deals with trouble better than Walker Security. We’re going to help her. I’m going to help her. Aside from that, I can’t walk away from this woman. I’ve never said that about a woman before. Something about this one gets to me. I want to get to know her.

  I grab my phone and pull up her number and I don’t even consider the fact that she might be asleep as I type: You okay, sweetheart?

  She replies almost instantly: What’s my name?

  I smile and type: You okay, Sierra?

  She replies with: Yes. Are you?

  Better if you were here, I reply.

  Stop, she replies.

  Stop is not a word I like and it’s also a word a man has to take seriously when spoken by a woman. I dial her number. She answers on the first ring. “Asher.”

  “Holy fuck, I like it when you say my name all breathless like that.”

  “Stop,” she repeats.

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “We just met. How can you be this insistent that you want to know me at all?”

  “Your answer is all in that kiss. We have chemistry, sweetheart. I know it. You know it.”

  “Stop,” she says again.

  “You keep saying that. I need you to tell me if that’s what you really want.”

  “Asher, damn it,”

  “Answer, Sierra,” I order softly.

  “You have to stop.”

  “I’ll stop when you tell me that’s what you want and that’s not what I’m hearing and that’s damn sure not what I felt when I kissed you tonight.”

  “Go to bed, Asher. It’s four in the morning.” She hangs up.

  But that’s okay. She’s okay. And the message in that call was clear. She doesn’t want me to stop, but she thinks she should. I don’t know why, but I’ll do as Kara instructed: Earn her trust and find out what she’s running from. For tonight, I settle for typing her one last message: Goodnight, Sierra.

  I stare at the screen, waiting for her reply and waiting and waiting, willing her to answer. Finally, she replies with: Goodnight, Asher.

  I smile and set my phone down on the nightstand. “Pull me under, baby,” I murmur. “I can’t wait.”

  Four hours of sleep does me just fine and I wake at nine to the alarm I’d set right before bed. By ten, I’ve showered, downed two cups of coffee, and a bowl of cereal. By ten-fifteen, I’m out the door, a leather bag with a computer inside on my shoulder. I don’t bother with my car, which is parked in the Walker garage. I bought the BMW just because I wanted my father to know I could buy the damn thing. I haven’t seen him since driving in the city is hell, and I’m pissed at myself for being this fucking old, and still motivated to show him up.

  I take the subway and by eleven, I’ve hit up a hardware store, a liquor store, and grabbed a bag of my favorite sweets. By eleven-fifteen, I’m at Sierra’s apartment, hoping she’s awake when I buzz her call button. She doesn’t answer. I buzz it again. Fuck. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial her number. “Hello,” she says.

  “Where are you?”

  “Standing right behind you.”

  I drop the phone from my ear and turn around to find Sierra, the sunlight catching auburn in her brown hair, and amber in her blue eyes. “You’re up,” I say.

  “I went grocery shopping,” she says. “Why are you here?”

  “I went shopping too. Invite me up and I’ll show you what I bought.”

  “Asher—”

  “Keep saying my name, sweetheart, but don’t finish that sentence the wrong way. I brought gifts.”

  “I don’t need g
ifts.”

  “Actually, you do need these. They’re practical.”

  “Practical.” She laughs. “Now I have to know how you define the word practical.”

  “Then invite me up. Both of our arms are tired.”

  “Okay, but just—”

  “No limits. They aren’t practical.”

  She shakes her head and laughs. “Fine. You win.” She walks to the panel, punching in the code: 1877. She looks over at me. “You memorized it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I did. Now you don’t have to tell me.”

  “How gentlemanly of you to save me the trouble,” she says, reaching for the door.

  “I’m glad you think so,” I say, catching the door and giving her room to enter first. She starts up the stairs and I happily follow behind her, with a perfect view of her cute heart-shaped ass in snug black jeans. “Are you looking at my ass?” she asks one flight up.

  “Yes. I am. Don’t tell me to stop. I can’t. It’s right in front of me.”

  She stops walking at the first level and motions me ahead. “You go first.”

  I smile. “That’s just evil,” I say, but I do as ordered, and one flight up, I say, “Are you looking at my ass?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I am. Don’t tell me to stop. I can’t. It’s right in front of me.”

  I laugh, and in morning light, I’m still fucking crazy about this woman. I want to know her story, and I want her to tell me, not her fingerprints. And I believe I can get us there. I reach the top level and step back to allow her to join me, and she sets her bags down to dig out her key. It’s all I can do not to reach forward and pull her to me, but the bags in my hands offer willpower. She pops open the door and grabs her bags. I follow her inside and she heads to the kitchen.

  “Can you lock the door?” she asks over her shoulder, that locked door obviously important to her.

  “No, actually,” I say, setting my bags down on the floor. “Because I’m going to change your lock out and install a chain and deadbolt.”

  She turns to look at me. “That’s expensive,” she says. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “It’s a gift,” I say.

  “I can’t take that.”

  “It’s already paid for,” I say. “And you need it.”

  “How much?”

  “I got this, Sierra.”

  She folds her arms in front of her. “I don’t want you to spend money on me.”

  I cross the room to stand in front of her but I don’t touch her despite the fact that I really fucking want to touch her. “I told you. I do work for Walker Security. They pay me well. I want to do this for you.”

  “Why do you bartend then?”

  “That’s a complicated story I’ll tell you another time.”

  “I understand.” She grabs a jug of milk and puts it in the fridge, effectively giving me her back, but not before I note the discomfort and disappointment in her face. She feels shut down which isn’t wrong. I did shut her down because Savage was right. If she knows I’m undercover, she’ll act differently at the bar, and blink at the wrong time. Damn it. Fuck. Damn it.

  “I’m going to get started,” I murmur, walking away from her rather than pulling her close and explaining everything. I cross to the door and grab the leather bag I left on the floor, squatting down and pulling out the MacBook inside. I set it on the desk which is what amounts to a hop away, and turn on Amazon Prime Music to a country channel.

  She leans on the counter, facing me. “I didn’t take you for a country boy,” she says, as Luke Bryan’s Light It Up fills the air.

  “I’m a clusterfuck of contradictions, sweetheart,” I say, standing up, my bag in hand as I walk back to the kitchen. “I love country and I was in a rock band for several years.” I have no idea why I just admitted that to her. I don’t talk about that part of my life, and I quickly pull out a six pack of beer and the cookies. “I brought snacks.”

  She laughs. “Beer and cookies? That’s a crazy combination.”

  I unscrew the top on a beer and hand it to her before grabbing one for myself. “I told you. I’m a clusterfuck of contradictions. Try the cookies. Best black and whites in the city. And I know my black and whites.”

  “Are you from New York?”

  “Born and raised right here in the city. What about you?”

  “No,” she says. “I’m not from here.”

  “Where?”

  She hesitates but gives me a little morsel. “Colorado. Don’t ask why I’m here.”

  “Where in Colorado?”

  “Denver,” she says.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight for a little longer. My birthday is next month. October 22nd. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three. My birthday is next month as well. The 21st.”

  She smiles. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “You get older sooner than me.”

  “I’ve learned that any time you actually live long enough to get older, is a good day, and so I’ll happily get older.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do believe I appreciate that statement.”

  I don’t ask why. She barely told me where she’s from and I want to draw her out, not push her back. “Then we’ll celebrate together.”

  “Yes. That would be nice.”

  “Yes,” I repeat. “It would be—nice.”

  She laughs. “Nice is not a word that works for you. You can barely even say it.”

  “I’ll practice.” I walk across the room and kneel by my leather bag.

  “Please don’t,” she says, crossing to sit on the side of the bed, her beer in her hand. “Nice doesn’t fit you.”

  “You might be surprised how well nice can fit me,” I say, pulling out a variety of tools. “A lot of things about me might surprise you.”

  “When were you in a band?” she asks, sipping her beer.

  I test the electronic screw gun and hesitate. “Before the SEALs.”

  “And the real story?”

  “I don’t talk about the real story.”

  “I understand.”

  I rotate and lean an elbow on the door facing her. “A little too well.”

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “And yet you don’t talk about you?”

  “I’m not the one running,” I say.

  “If you won’t talk about it, you’re running from it.”

  “Says who?”

  She gives a choked humorless laugh and looks away a moment before looking at me again. “Not me. I know nothing. I’ve proven that the past nine months.”

  “What happened nine months ago?”

  “Nothing. Everything. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  She downs a big swallow of her beer. “You seem different.” She sets the bottle down by her bed and lays back on the mattress.

  I don’t ask her what different means. There had been a soft rasp to her voice and a softening to her eyes that tells me different is good. And I’ll take that.

  I start working on the lock, and by the time I have a deadbolt installed, she hasn’t moved. I walk over to her and sure enough, she’s breathing deeply. I look around for a blanket to pull over her and there isn’t one. I try the closet, and my gut clenches when I realize just how little she owns. There sure isn’t a blanket. I cross to the bed again and stare down at her, watching her sleep. She’s peaceful and that tells me a story. She’s exhausted emotionally and physically. She’s always on edge, but with me here, she feels safe, whether she consciously knows it or not. That’s the biggest fucking compliment she can give me, and she doesn’t even know she offered it up. That’s progress. That’s trust. Quid pro quo. Which means I can’t keep giving her standard answers. I have to give to get.

  I walk back to the door and add a chain to the top above the deadbolt. Next comes a camera that I program into the MacBook. Everything else I have with me, I need to show her how to use. I wa
lk over to the bed and sit down next to her. She doesn’t move. I lay back and she rolls over and curls to my side. She’s asleep, but she instinctively came to me. And I’m not sure any woman has ever done anything that rocked my world. She trusts me. At least in her sleep. I just have to convince her she can trust me when she’s awake.

  And what the fuck happened nine months ago?

  I don’t sleep. I lay there holding Sierra for more than an hour, and I don’t think about anything but her. Her smell: floral with a hint of vanilla. Her hair: soft on my cheek, light brown with streaks of red. Her fear: right fucking everywhere. I shut her down about the bar for her protection. I shut her down about my past for her protection. I’m going to have to open the fuck up if I want her to do the same and that’s new territory for me. Everything with this woman is new territory for me. I’m just diving into about my fiftieth analysis of why that might be when she shifts next to me. I think she might roll away, but instead, she snuggles closer, and I smile. Oh yeah, I smile. This woman, up close to me, makes me one happy motherfucker.

  She inhales deeply and flexes her fingers on my chest before her head lifts and she looks at me.

  “Oh God. Did we—were we—?”

  I laugh. “No, sweetheart. When we fuck, and we will, you’ll know. I make you that promise.”

  She sits up and runs her hands through her hair. “That can’t happen.”

  “And yet it will. You know it. I know it.”

  “No, it won’t. How did we end up here? I was so knocked out I don’t even remember.”

  “You laid down and were out in about thirty seconds,” I say lifting up on my elbows. “I decided to lay down with you and you curled up next to me.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I—”

  “Why would you be sorry? I’m not.” I sit up and face her, brushing my knuckles down her cheek. “I’m not sorry at all.”

  She catches my hand and holds onto it, but I’m pretty sure she meant to set it aside. “My life is a mess, Asher. I can’t pull you into it.”

  “I’m really good at cleaning up messes.”

  “You barely know me. I barely know you.”

  “I get it. You don’t trust me yet.”

  “And you trust me?” she challenges.