Pulled Under: a standalone Walker Security novel

by Lisa Renee Jones

  His father beats him up with a stare and then looks at me. “Twenty thousand in jewels,” he says, looking at Asher. “At least you know how to decorate. The ceremony is in an hour. Mingle until then.”

  He walks away.

  “You know how to decorate?!” I whisper. “He is—”

  “A prick,” Asher says. “Now you see why I said I’d ruin him if I worked for him?”

  “Yes. I do. Maybe we should leave?”

  “Wounded Warriors, sweetheart. We’re here for them. Let’s go mingle and make some people feel the love.”

  He guides me into a giant room that is dimly lit and crowded. A stage sits at the opposite side of a dance floor, while soft music fills the air played by an orchestra in the right corner, and various food stands tempt visitors. A stage is at the very front and Asher is immediately cornered by a soldier in uniform with only one leg and he gives the man his full attention, as do I. There is another soldier without an arm that is next and I end up dancing with him, as Asher dances with a female veteran. We both become completely absorbed, and the respect they have for Asher as SEAL Team Six, is overwhelming.

  “I should have invited Luke,” Asher says, as we steal a spot on the dance floor. “He would have been honored to be here.”

  “So your father did a good thing?”

  “For the wrong reasons, but yes. They charged for the event and wrote off the costs while asking for donations tonight. But don’t let him fool you. He’s—”

  “A prick. I know.”

  “I will never take his money. You need to know that. He’ll pull stunts like this tonight, but it will never change anything.”

  I touch his face. “I love this necklace and this dress, Asher, but I had money before you. I was miserable. I just want you.”

  There is an announcement and Asher is called to the stage. He leads me that direction and finds me a seat at a table close to the front. He then leans in and kisses me. “Don’t go far.”

  “I’m watching you,” I promise. “I’ll be right here.” He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to leave me, and really, I don’t want him to, but this is an important event. He turns away and heads up the nearby steps leading to the stage and I clap with the audience as his father announces him. There are wounded warriors across the stage and each tells a short story, all heart-touching, and a singer who performs a patriotic song, which really energizes the crowd. Soon people are on their feet, crowding the stage, and I do the same. Finally, Asher is called to speak and the warrior in him radiates from beneath that suit. It’s in his eyes, his grace, his power.

  He begins to speak when someone nudges me from behind and grabs my arm. I turn and my heart sinks. I know him. This middle-aged graying man is Ju-Ju’s partner. He lifts his coat and shows me a gun. My heart races and I can barely breathe as he yanks me toward him, pressing his lips to my ear. “I will kill them all if you don’t come with me.”

  And he will. He’s that volatile. I ease through the crowd and start walking, and he is behind me, watching me, ready to shoot. The minute we clear the room, he directs me left and we start walking. Almost immediately we turn left again and there is a stairwell door. Part of me wants to bolt, but I know others could die. The other part knows entering that stairwell makes this me against him, and that means one dies, not two. He opens the door and my hand goes to my purse. I step through the doorway and I unzip my purse.

  He’s right behind me though, shoving me and I stumble forward. “Get up! Walk.”

  I do it, one reach from my gun, but he’s behind me. If I move wrong, he could drop me before I can kill him. And so I charge up the stairs, but I try to keep him distracted. “It was never Ju-Ju, was it?”

  “Of course not. He’s a fool. A tool. My bitch slave. He really is. He protected me. He went to jail.”

  “How many have you killed?” I ask.

  “Dozens. Ju-Ju, like his father, favored poison, so I humored him. Just like I humor all my seconds, but tonight it’s my way. Tonight, you’re my pick.”

  “You were sloppy,” I dare, realization hitting me. “I saw you at the bank.”

  “I wanted you to see me,” he says. “That’s the fun. You see it coming, but you can’t stop it.”

  “It?”

  “Death.”

  We are now at the exit to the roof and I know that I have to act or I am dead. I push open the door and the minute I do, I pull my gun and turn, my finger on the trigger. He enters the rooftop and I shoot him in the chest. He falls to the ground and I lower my gun, just about to finally breathe. That’s when Devin appears, and he too is holding a gun, but his is pointed at me, while that moment that I lowered mine could prove fatal. The door slams behind him and now we’re alone, the lights dim, the sky dark.

  “Good to see you, beautiful,” he says, and he’s actually come to kill me in an Armani suit.

  “What happened to escaping to paradise?”

  “Drop your gun or I will make sure you lose the hand holding it.”

  He will. I know he will, and I drop my weapon, praying that Asher finds me in time. Before it hits the ground, Devin is charging me and I am knocked to my back, the breath forced from my chest. He comes down on top of me. “Maybe I should fuck you one last time right here. Maybe. After you talk. Who did you share that file you gave my attorney with?”

  “Just me. Just—”

  He slaps my face and it hurts. God, it hurts. “Who?” he demands. “Next time it will be my fist.”

  “No one. I told no one.”

  He rears back to punch me and suddenly he is gone. I scramble to my knees to find Asher holding him, a gun pointed between his eyes. “Asher!”

  “Yeah, sweetheart. Sorry about being a little late. But I’m here now.”

  “Remember me?” he asks Devin. “Remember my promise?”

  “You’re a SEAL. You couldn’t kill me then and you won’t now.”

  “Ex-SEAL. I got tired of saving lowlifes like you.” Asher grabs his shirt and shoves him backward until he’s by the ledge. “Get up on it.”

  “No.”

  Asher smashes him in the nose and he howls in pain while Asher sets him on the ledge. “Stand or die,” he says before releasing him.

  Devin wobbles but stands, and he’s still holding his gun at his side. “Asher! He has a gun.”

  “Yes, he does,” Asher says, lowering his. “Now we’re even. Let’s do it Old West style. Let’s count down. One. Two. Three.” Devin raises his gun and fires, but it’s too late. Asher’s bullet is in his head and he stumbles, falling face first onto the pavement.

  I scream and Asher is in front of me, pulling me to him, and I punch at his chest. “You asshole arrogant man with a hero complex. You dropped your weapon. You showboated.”

  “I made sure that it wasn’t murder.” He cups my face. “I made sure he can never hurt you again. I made sure your mine. Marry me.”

  “Are you serious? You’re asking me now?”

  “Yeah. Death and near death has a way of making you never want to lose another moment. Marry me.”

  “Yes. Yes, I will. When can we go home?”

  “Not soon enough, but when we do it’s over. It’s really over. All of it. And then there is just you and me, sweetheart. Forever.”

  Thanksgiving…

  Since leaving the SEALs, Thanksgiving has been about food, football, and friends but this Thanksgiving is really about thanks, as it should be. Almost losing Sierra made me understand that. She’s made me understand that. A week of her going through a million interviews and the emotional stress of killing someone made me understand that. All these things will take time to heal, but I want to heal her and what I can’t heal, I want to mend and mend again, as many times as she needs me. And sometimes when she thinks she doesn’t.

  So, come this Thanksgiving morning, with Devin, Ju-Ju, and Miller behind us, I aim to make this day special. So we have our friends, football, and food, and watching Sierra joke and interact like family with everyone
only makes it more clear to me how much she belongs here, and with me.

  By early evening, she wants to pick out a tree and for the first time in my adult life, I find myself in my living room, willingly putting up a tree, while she fawns over ornaments we’ve picked, and smiles. I love her smile. How the hell did I live without that smile?

  Apparently, I need roasted chestnuts too, because her mother said so, and now she says so, and while she fires up the oven and puts them in to cook, I set the blue box I bought when I bought her necklace under the tree. She returns and points at her turkey shirt. “Can you believe I have a turkey on my shirt?”

  “No. I cannot.”

  “Never make a bet with Savage over cookie baking. Lesson learned.” She joins me by the tree. “He can really bake.”

  “His cookies were good but—”

  “He’s an asshole,” she finishes for me. “I know.”

  I lean in and kiss her. “There’s a present under the tree.”

  “Already?”

  “I want you to open it now, Sierra.”

  “Oh no. We have to wait. That’s the fun of it. You’ll see.”

  I go down on one knee and grab the box. She sucks in air. “I’m going to do this right this time. Sierra. I cannot think of a way I could live without you. Will you marry me?”

  She starts crying. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I just—I never thought I’d feel this happy and—”

  “Say yes, sweetheart.”

  “I already said yes and yes. A million times yes.”

  I open the box and slide the heart-shaped platinum diamond ring on her finger. “Julie found your size for me.” I kiss her hand. “Do you like it.”

  She holds it up between us. “How can I not love this ring? It’s stunning and perfect.”

  “I have one more gift.”

  “That gift has to wait until Christmas.”

  “Actually, it does,” I say. “I found your mother. She’s engaged. She wants to know if we want to have a double wedding on Christmas Day here in New York City.”

  She wraps her arms around me and hugs me until I can’t breathe and yet that hug and this woman is the only reason I can breathe.

  Christmas…

  I stand in front of a Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center in a pink silk dress while my soon-to-be husband is in a tuxedo, his tattoos peeking from his sleeve, the perfect touch. My mother, on the other hand, wears red, because her new man has made her daring and happy. Her soon-to-be husband who is twenty years younger than her, wears a tropical shirt. A preacher takes us through our vows, while our friends who are now family to me, watch. I think of the money I may inherit, and it means nothing. I’ve seen how it corrupts and hurts people. I want to donate it. I want to help those in need. This, Asher, is what happy is. I have never been so happy in my life.

  When it’s done and Asher kisses me, it’s like coming home. He is home and when we dance, the past fades away and there is only this. Him. Us. And when he leans in and starts singing to me, I think I fall in love all over again. But then, I’m pretty sure that’s what happens when you marry an arrogant asshole who doesn’t just think he’s a hero. He is a hero. My hero.

  The End

  ***

  FALLING UNDER—JACOB'S BOOK, COMING JANUARY 23, 2018—AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER EVERYWHERE!

  Want more Walker Brothers? Turn the page for an excerpt for DIRTY RICH ONE NIGHT STAND, a sexy standalone featuring fun cameos from the alpha men of WALKER SECURITY!

  Hi readers!

  Thank you so much for picking up PULLED UNDER, Walker Security book two! Have you read Kyle and Myla’s story yet—it’s available now! And are you excited for Jacob’s story—it’s available for pre-order and coming January 23, 2018!

  Check them both out here: http://lisareneejones.com/walker

  And don't forget to check out the original series: Tall, Dark and Deadly (all standalones and available now):

  - Hot Secrets (Royce's Story)

  - Dangerous Secrets (Luke's Story)

  - Beneath the Secrets (Blake's Story)

  For more information on the available titles visit here: http://lisareneejones.com/TDD

  If you’re looking for more WALKER BROTHERS check out the following excerpt which is chapter one of my standalone title, DIRTY RICH ONE NIGHT STAND! It’s available now, and has a lot of fun Walker Brother moments in it!

  xoxo,

  Lisa Renee Jones

  Chapter One

  Cat

  Day 1: The Trial of the Century

  Coffee is life, love, and happiness. Actually, it’s just alertness, and on a day that I’ll be covering the trial of the century along with a horde of additional reporters, I need to be sharp. That need is exactly why I’ve dressed in my sharpest navy-blue suit dress and paired it with knee-high boots before enjoying a fall walk to the coffee shop three blocks from my New York City loft. Only two blocks from the courthouse, it’s bustling with people, but the white mocha is so worth the line, and I’ve allowed myself ample time to caffeinate. In fact, I have a full two hours before I have to be inside the courtroom, and I plan to sit at a corner table and draft the beginning of my daily segment Cat Does Crime before heading to the courthouse.

  I step into a line ten deep that slowly moves, and google the name of the defendant, looking for any hot new tidbit that might not have been live before bed last night. I tab through several articles, and I’ve made it to a spot near the front of the line when some odd blog linked to the defendant’s name called “Mr. Hotness Gets Illegally Hot” pops up in my search. Considering the defendant is a good-looking billionaire accused of killing his pregnant mistress, I buy into the headline and click. The line moves up one spot, and I move with it and then start reading:

  I need help. I’ve done something bad. So very bad. I was told he would take care of me. Protect me. That was three months ago. I remember that day like it was yesterday. But now, it’s today, a world behind me and in front of us. I enter his office and shut the door. We stare at each other, the air thickening, crackling. And then it happens. That thing that always happens between us. One minute I’m across the room, and the next I’m sitting in his chair, behind his desk, with him on his knees in front of me. Those blue eyes of his are smoldering hot. His hands settle on my legs just under my skirt, and I want to run my hands through his thick, dark hair, but I know better. I don’t touch him until he tells me I can touch him.

  I grip the arms of the chair, and his hands start a slow slide upward…

  “Next!”

  I blink out of that hot little number of a read and pant out a breath, feeling really dirty and gross, and with good reason. I’m hot and bothered over what I think is a fantasy piece about a man who is accused of pushing his pregnant girlfriend down the stairs and killing her. Correction, his pregnant mistress. Only the baby wasn’t really his, and he says he wasn’t her lover, and he was stilled charged over fingerprints on a doorknob.

  “Cat!”

  I jolt at my name as Jeffrey, who works the register as regularly as I visit, shouts at me from behind the counter. I take a step forward, only to have a man in a dark gray suit step in front of me. Frowning, I instinctively move forward and touch his arm. “Excuse me.” He doesn’t respond, and I am certain he’s aware I’m now standing right next to him. “Excuse me,” I repeat.

  He doesn’t turn around, and now I’m irritated. I tug on the sleeve of what I am certain is his ridiculously expensive jacket and achieve my intended goal: He rotates to look at me, the look of controlled irritation etched in his ridiculously handsome face telling me I’ve achieved my goal. He now feels what I feel, and as a bonus: He now knows that despite my being barely five foot two, blonde, and female, I will not be ignored. “I was next,” I say.

  “I’m in too much of a rush to wait for you to finish playing games on your phone.”

  “Games? Are you serious?” I open my mouth to say more and snap it shut, holding up a hand to stop him from doing or sayin
g something that might land me in a courtroom today for the wrong reason. “Wait your turn, like the gentleman you should be.”

  His eyes, which I now know to be a wicked crystal blue, narrow ever so slightly before he turns to the counter. “A venti double espresso and whatever she’s having.” Mr. Arrogant Asshole looks at me. “What do you want? I’ll buy your drink.”

  “Is that an apology?”

  “It’s a concession made in the interest of time. Not an apology. You were the one on your phone playing—”

  “I was not playing games. I was working, while you were plotting the best way to push around the woman who was ahead of you.”

  “That’s the best you’ve got? I’m pushing around women?”

  “No, you’re not pushing around women today,” I say. “You tried and failed. I can buy my own coffee.” I face the counter. “My usual.”

  “Already wrote up your cup,” Jeffrey says. “It should be ready any minute.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and while I should just move along, I find myself turning to Mr. Arrogant Asshole because apparently, I can’t help myself. “I’ll leave you with a helpful tip,” I say, “since you’ve been so exceedingly helpful to me today. The phrases ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ are not only Manners 101, but failure to use them will either keep a man single, or make a man single.” And on that note, I move on down the bar, which has a cluster of people waiting on drinks, but thankfully, I spot the corner table I favor opening up. Hurrying that way, I wait for the woman who is leaving to clear her space, and then murmur the “thank you” that Mr. Arrogant Asshole back at the counter doesn’t understand before claiming her seat and placing my bag on the table. Settling into my seat, I have no idea why, but my gaze lifts and seeks out Mr. Arrogant Asshole, who now stands at the counter, talking on his cell phone and oozing that kind of rich, powerful presence that sucks up all the air in the room and makes every woman around look at him. Me included, apparently, which irritates me. He irritates me, and the only way you deal with a man like him is naked for one night, which you end with a pretty little orgasmic goodbye, and that is all. Anything else is a mistake, which I know because I’ve been there, done that.