Protagonized
Shannon Myers
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
PREVIEW OF ANGEL OF DEATH
PREVIEW OF OPERATION FIT-ISH
Also by Shannon Myers
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Shannon Myers
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to- being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
* * *
Cover Design by: The Final Wrap
Teasers by: The Final Wrap
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Cover Model: Colton Benson
Editing: My Brother’s Editor
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First Printing: 2019
ISBN- 978-0-9994716-8-5
Created with Vellum
To everyone who followed their dreams, even when the world said they were too big.
Acknowledgments
As always, it takes a village, y’all.
Rebecca- Thank you for once again taking my ideas and turning them into a kickass cover. You are the queen and I bow to you.
Wander- You have an eye for detail and the cover image of Colton is no exception. I am in love with it, as well as your kind and generous spirit.
The Forsaken- You guys keep me motivated when I feel like I’ve got nothing left. Thank you for joining me on this little journey.
Laura- Thank you for falling in love with Travis and comparing every leading man to him. It has forced me to work harder to try to top that. And I will. I’m so happy you talked me into starting a book club. Long live the introverts.
Jen & Wendi- Thank you both for your patient nudges in the right direction when I feel like I’m floundering. I know I can always count on the both of you to mention needing something new to read before giving me the side eye. I am thankful for our friendship and the support you guys give me. You make me wanna be a better man—er, woman.
Olivia- Thank you for believing in me when I couldn’t and for staying when you could’ve left. Your positive energy always comes through just when I need it and I am honored to be your friend.
Ellie- Thank you for taking on this project at the last second. Your ability to find and correct my mistakes is second to none and I will have many more books for you in the future.
Shayla- Thank you for being you. I am lucky to call you my sister and my best friend. Being the older sister, I should be the wise one, but you prove me wrong time and time again. Thank you for always being in my corner. Love you, Bug.
Zach- We did it, babe. Book number nine. This past year has been rough and there were so many times I was convinced that my creative side was tapped out, but you believed in my dream for the both of us. I see you; running the house and parenting the kids while I chase these crazy dreams and I know how blessed I am. I love the life we’ve built, but not as much as I love you.
Prologue
Detective Jake Hopkins sat in his office, bathed in the soft blue light of the computer screen in front of him. Countless times before, he’d been here, and with far less to go on.
With a furtive glance through the open door of his office, he snuck the bottle from the second drawer of his desk. He poured two fingers of whiskey into a stained police academy mug before reviewing the evidence again. Drinking whiskey inevitably led to a craving for nicotine. Knowing that it would only draw unwanted attention, he waited on the cigarette.
It had devastated the city to lose their young assistant district attorney. Worse than that, he’d lost the woman who’d kept his bed warm off and on for the past year. His might have been the greater tragedy, he thought. Jake had known she was a wildcat in bed, but never imagined that she would have been ballsy enough to go after the cartel on her own.
Hadn’t he warned her against that very thing the last time they were together? However, Addison had been more concerned with the tube of lipstick she’d found in his bathroom than she was with taking his advice to heart. Jake hadn’t understood her anger; she’d known what they were from the word go.
Now she was dead, and it was up to him to find her killer. At first glance, it was assumed that she’d died due to a fire in her apartment building. The autopsy showed that her lungs were clear; meaning that she’d been dead before it had even started.
It should’ve been a cut and dry case against the cartel, but with family members fighting over life insurance money and a shady ex-boyfriend popping up out of the woodwork, Jake was beginning to think that nothing about this would be simple. He took a long sip from the mug, letting the whiskey burn its way down into his chest.
How many cases had begun just like this? He was starting to lose count. If he was going to keep his focus, he needed to treat Addison’s case exactly the same as the others. It wasn’t like she was some great love of his life—she’d just been a way to pass the time.
Which reminded him—he glanced down at his watch. He’d promised Tiffany a night she wouldn’t forget. His badge parted legs faster than Moses parted the Red Sea.
Jake frowned at his desk. The case would wait until morning—it wasn’t like Addison was going to get any deader if he left now. She’d still be just as murdered in the morning and, in all honesty, she’d want him to kick back and unwind.
Shoot, the entire department worshiped the ground he walked on. He’d single-handedly solved more cases than any of the other detectives—combined. Jake could set fire to the entire station and instead of a reprimand, they’d just thank him for warming things up.
He deserved a night off.
With that, he downed the rest of the whiskey and grabbed his coat before heading out to clear his head. He pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit up on the walk to his truck.
What his truck lacked in luxury, it more than made up for in price. Addison had tried to talk him into a sports car, some pricy foreign shit. Jake only bought American vehicles though and the sleek black Raptor in the reserved parking space was no exception.
He was a goddamn patriot.
And, in his mind, there was nothing sexier than a jacked-up truck.
His phone vibrated from his pocket and he pulled it free with an easy grin. Jake knew it was Tiffany wondering where he was. She was getting lonely, pacing that high-rise condo by herself. He inhaled slowly, letting the nicotine hit his lungs, before telling her he was on his way.
That was the thing about Jake—he could have told her he was going to be working for a few more hours and she would have waited. And if she’d thrown a fit? Well, there were hundreds of other women who would have gladly taken her place. Everyone knew that all work and no play made Jake a real bastard to deal with.
The tires on his truck screeched
against the pavement as he put the pedal to the floor on the way out of the parking lot. Yellow lights turned red, but he blew past them, flipping off any driver who had the audacity to honk.
Fuck them.
He had needs. Jesus, it had been almost three days since he’d gotten laid. That was his problem—too much pent-up aggression. Addison’s case would’ve been much farther along if only he’d gotten his dick wet.
He pulled up in front of Tiffany’s building with resolve. He’d get his head clear before reviewing the file again. Hell, he might just have the entire thing wrapped up by morning.
He whistled to himself as he took the elevator up to the thirtieth floor, deciding that he’d make the rook buy the celebratory breakfast for him.
A week off seemed like fair compensation as well. He’d been pushing himself too hard lately. There’d still be other cases waiting on his desk whenever he graced the office with his presence again.
The first thing he noticed when stepping out into the hall was that the door to Tiffany’s condo was sitting wide open. The second was the trail of candles that led out onto the balcony overlooking the city. He loosened his tie and walked out, expecting to find her in some provocative outfit. There was something caught in the railing, but the rest of the balcony was empty, save for the few candles scattered along the large stone tiles.
Jake had just leaned over to check it out when he was shoved forcefully from behind. The railing gave way, and he found that he had nothing to grab onto. His arms pinwheeled like something out of a cartoon, but the momentum from the push sent him hurtling over the edge. The last thing he noticed was the split-second flash of blonde hair retreating inside the condo. Addison had been a blonde, he thought, as he fell to his death.
To be continued…
One
A speaker at a popular writer’s workshop once said that the best way to write a character was to list all the things the reader would never know about him or her.
Their secrets, if you will.
Everyone had secrets; to assume that a fictional character didn’t was two-dimensional and lazy.
Shallow.
What made a writer great was their willingness to go the extra mile—to investigate the characters they were bringing to life.
I wasn’t a shoddy writer. I prided myself on all the research that went into each and every one of my novels. I’d also ensured ahead of time that my best friend would wipe my hard drive should something ever happen to me. There were some rabbit holes that parents should never venture down.
Here was what the world would never know about Detective Jake Hopkins:
1. He wouldn’t touch beer. Whether it was a Bud Light or a hand-crafted microbrew from northern Colorado, the guy couldn’t stomach the taste.
2. He told everyone that he lost his virginity when he was fifteen; in actuality, he was twenty-two. Bit of a late bloomer, that one.
3. He smoked… a lot (which was common knowledge), but tried to convince himself that every pack was his last.
4. Killing him was the best decision I ever made…
Until it wasn’t.
Okay, I might’ve jumped the gun a bit. There had been some… strong reactions to it. Which was great because, as a writer, you really wanted to invoke powerful emotions in your readers, right?
Where was I?
Oh, right.
My newest book.
The blinking cursor taunted me. I drummed my fingers against the keys, waiting for inspiration to strike. I just needed my newest main character to start talking. It seemed like Jake had never shut up. Maybe the new detective was feeling shy in comparison.
I decided to grant her a brief reprieve before typing a few letters into the search bar on my laptop. It pre-filled the rest. Obviously, I’d been visiting this site a little more than normal.
I could stop.
This was the last time and then I’d quit—cold turkey. It wasn’t an addiction or anything.
I’d been warned from the very beginning to stay away, but I didn’t listen.
It started out innocently enough.
I’d stay on no more than ten minutes; just long enough to feel good. Now, it had become a seeping wound on my skin; each click of the mouse poking at the lesion over and over again just to see if it still bled. Over the last few weeks, I’d grown addicted to the pain.
The Goodbooks icon cheerfully greeted me from the top left corner of the webpage just as the icy fingers of dread wrapped themselves around my gut.
This was definitely the last time.
“Okay.” I blew out a soft breath. “You can do this.”
Detective Hopkins: One in the Chamber had an average rating of… 2.21.
Oh god.
I’d somehow lost an entire star overnight. One star just gone.
Poof.
The male cover model stared back at me, his look of perplexity matching mine perfectly.
How had I gotten this one so wrong?
“You are okay, Hayden. You are safe. You are grounded. You are balanced. You are centered.” I took a deep breath to calm myself, adding, “And you are Zen,” before scrolling down to read the newest reviews.
If I could give this ZERO stars, I would. I cannot believe the author had the audacity to kill off Jake after three books! Worse than that is the news that there’s going to be a new Detective Hopkins novel featuring a female detective! A female! It’s unheard of. I bet the author is laughing all the way to the bank at the expense of the poor readers. Well, this reader is done and I will be telling all of my friends to boycott this garbage as well. I hate when writers pull this shit.
I noted that she’d even taken the time to shelve the book as “AWFUL” and “Authors to Avoid.”
Well, at least she was thorough.
I scrolled farther to find another message I was frankly getting just as sick of seeing.
Okay, you got a bad review. Deep breath. It happens to every author eventually. Keep in mind that one negative review will not impact your book’s sales. In fact, studies have shown that negative reviews can actually help book sales, as they legitimize the positive reviews on your book’s page.
We really, really (really!) don’t think you should comment on this review, even to thank the reviewer.
Right.
All those negative reviews were just going to push my book into the upper echelons of the bestseller ether.
Any minute now.
I ignored their repeated warnings and stabbed Accept and Continue with a low growl.
“Dear Eleanor,” I began, with short angry bursts on the keys. “I am so sorry to hear that Jake’s untimely passing affected you on a personal level. It’s just a friggin’ book. I am not laughing all the way to the bank as writing isn’t really all that lucrative of a career option. Also, my cat and I are not sorry to see you go. You sound old and crotchety.”
I mashed the backspace button until the cursor flashed over an empty box. What was I supposed to say? Elitist Eleanor was only one of many angry fans.
I really thought that killing Jake off was a bold move—one that would propel me up there with the likes of Jodi Picoult and George R. R. Martin. I wasn’t afraid to off my main character and carry on with the series as though nothing was amiss.
Bootsy—the cat of House McFluffsalot, First of Her Name, Queen of the Apartment and Balcony, Khaleesi of the Litter Box, Breaker of Trinkets, Mother of Dragon-sized Hairballs—chose that exact moment to jump onto my desk, minimizing the offending review and freeing me to the more important task of petting her.
“What are we gonna do? They’re all jumping ship!”
Bootsy, in her infinite wisdom, flicked her tail carelessly and stretched out across my laptop.
“Well, not writing is certainly one way of dealing with the problem, but I’m not sure that it’s going to help us maintain our lavish lifestyle. I mean, if I’m not writing, then the catnip and vodka are going away, Bootsy. I mean it this time.”
I’d done
surprisingly well as an Indie author. Not immediately, no, but the Detective Hopkins novels had been my turnaround. For whatever reason, women and men alike were crazy about the hardened detective with a penchant for whiskey and women. Problem was, I never meant to make him a likable character.
Jake Hopkins was a combination of the worst traits in men—alcoholic, workaholic, womanizer, cheater, smoker, and just an all-around dick. The man had a huge fear of commitment and probably could’ve solved his cases a lot faster were he not constantly distracted by every pair of breasts that came his way.
He was supposed to have been a one-off, but somehow, he took over the story and people began to demand more. I never intended to make it a series. I started countless other books but was always pulled back to his out of guilt. Given what I’d spent on cover designers and editing, I was left with no choice but to give the people what they wanted. I thought if I played by the rules for a little while, then eventually I’d be given free rein over my work.
The plan was to carry on the Detective Hopkins series with a new lead—a lead I actually enjoyed writing.
I caught a discreet eye roll from Bootsy and opened my mouth to argue when she shifted. Goodbooks reappeared on the screen along with another review. I pulled her limp body onto my lap and adjusted my glasses before leaning in to read it.
1 STAR! I hope someone throws the author off a thirty-story building. Would serve you right for what you did to Jake. He gave you three books and that’s how you repay him? Shame on you and shame on the publisher who encouraged this.
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