ONE YEAR AGO
I need to get off this plane before I bathe the interior in blood.
I’m so fucking sick of these security details. I need something more exciting, something where I’m allowed to release my fucking rage on people who deserve it. We’re paid to cover the asses of high-profile scum bags, when really I want to kill this asshole I’ve been protecting for the last week.
Tristan Pierce is an up-and-coming attorney for the state of Washington. He’s young, passed whatever fancy ass law school he went to at the top of his class, and he’s just the right amount of shady to be a district attorney. He was supposed to be on a vacation this week with his fiancée, but he kept slipping awayfor hushed phone calls and late-night video calls with clients while his lady friend was passed out in another room.
I had the displeasure of over hearing one such call late last night, and I’ve had to rein in every demon that roars inside my body to avoid me spending the rest of my life in a fucking cell.
The truth behind why Maverick and I provide high level protection for these people isn't what it looks like from the outside. Our…upbringing taught us that the elite, the rich, and the leaders are the worst of the worst, and they get away with it due to their status. The real-life monsters are the ones in a neatly pressed suit and a million-dollar smile. We have built a very delicate and complex company dedicated to taking them out however we need to. Most of our clientele are good people, but we do take jobs for pricks like Tristan here often.
The plane touches back down in Oregon, and I make my way to the front of the jet to exit. On the tarmac, I meet with Tristan’s driver to go over his route back one last time before standing back at the base of the jet stairs. Tristan exits first, phone to his ear, not paying attention at all to the leggy blonde behind him that’s struggling to keep herself from swaying. His woman’s a lush, not that I can blame her–being around these pricks all the time makes me want to drink, too.
I silently follow him to his car, opening the door for him and he slides in the back seat, followed by…what’s-her-fucking-name. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t give a shit. Soon enough, I’ll never see this asshole again and therefore I don't need to know it.
“God you’re such a fucking–” Tristan’s voice is cut off by me slamming the back door shut, then taking my place in the passenger seat. My jaw clenches and my teeth grind to dust when I hear her start to cry, and the partition closes between us.
I can’t kill him…yet.
It’s a thirty-minute ride back to Tristan’s home. After ensuring the property was clear and payment has been sent for my time, I haul ass before my last bit of control snaps. A week with that prick was far too long. Walk by Pantera blasts through the Camaro’s speakers as I speed down the road back toward my apartment. I’m on edge, and nothing good ever comes from me being on edge.
I need a drink.
As if answering my prayers, I round a sharp turn and an old, run down, brown building comes into view. There’s a dirty white sign on the side of the road that readsDOC’Sand the glowing neon signs in the window call my name. Downshifting quickly so that I don’t pass the entrance, I pull into the parking lot and find a spot. There are a total of five cars in the parking lot, which is perfect, I’ve had my fill of people this week. Exiting the car as the sun starts the set behind the building, I lean against the trunk for a much needed cigarette before going inside. One quick drink to take the edge off and quiet my mind, then I’ll go meet with Elias since Mav isn’t back for another day or two from his most recent job.
Flicking the cancer stick into the road, I walk across the parking lot and pull open the door to the building. Four people sit at the bar, one of which is an older man in the corner practically slumped over the counter.
This place is the very definition of a dive bar, and I love it. I don't go out much, and I drink even less–I work meticulously to keep myself in check. One too many drinks and all that hard work that I’ve done–that Maverick and Elias have helped me do–goes down the drain.
Removing my jacket, I find a place at the bar and sit. Angel by Theory of a Deadman plays softly in the space. The bartender says something to the gentleman in the corner, and he perks up. She slides him what looks like a cup of black coffee,which he takes it graciously. She checks in with another patron before turning to face me fully, and it feels like I’ve been hit by a freight train.
She stiffens instantly, and her soft expression is quickly turned into something different, a mixture of shock and hurt. But I’m too stunned to say or do anything. The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, eyes I thought for sure I’d never see again, glare at me. Her cheeks heat, highlighting the freckles that line under her eyes and across her nose.
She steps hesitantly toward me, and every memory of her crashes into me at once–including our final day together, where I left her crying, begging me not to leave her. To take her with me, and me telling her I’d be back. Except I never did make it back. I have spent years kicking myself in the ass for that day. For being too young and fucking stupid to figure out how to find her.
When she finally stops in front of me, I look up at her and watch as the hurt in her eyes turns to pure hatred–the blues turning darker and the light from them dimming slightly.
Say something, Karson you dumb fuck.
But she beats me to it.
“Get out,” she says quietly but firmly, so only I can hear her. And I’m not sure why but the venom in her tone makes me smirk. The rage in her gaze grows, and I laugh.
“Miss me?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The insideof her apartment is cozy despite the space being completely open. All four walls are exposed brick, which looks nice with the steel beams that run along the ceiling and frame out the bedroom area above where I stand in her kitchen. I lean against the large, black granite covered island–my ankles and arms crossed–looking at the pictures I've seen a thousand times on her refrigerator. Most of them are photos from Mav and Parker’s wedding, mixed in with a few from her short stint at college before she dropped out and moved after deciding school wasn't for her.
My attention is drawn back to a photo from the wedding. Parker and Mav stand at the center; him looking down at her as if she’s the very reason he breathes. Nick stands next to Parker, Elias next to Mav–both men beaming–which is an odd sight forme considering I can count on both hands the number of times I’ve seen Elias smile. Grumpy old bastard. Nick’s smile could light up the tri-state area. Anyone who knows the man, and what he and Parker have been through, couldn't blame him. Then, standing tucked underneath Nick’s other arm is Ashlynn. Her eyes glitter in the natural light of the sunset, and she’s laughing. The photographer caught the perfect shot of her looking the happiest she’s ever been. Her copper hair is down and fluffed to one side, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. She’s got one arm around Nick’s waist and the other down at her side brushing against the dusty blue bridesmaid dress she had on that day–the color made her eyes even more enchanting. And to the side of Elias, paying no mind to my best friend and his new bride, or the other men in the photo, is me. My gaze locked entirely onto her and nothing else. My lips are set in a tense line, and my brows are furrowed.
I remember thinking how completely stunning she looked at that moment. In fact it plays over in my mind religiously. That day was the most carefree she had been since that night at Doc’s when she fell back into my grasp. She is phenomenal at masking her emotions and letting everyone else think she’s the happiest person they’ve ever known. She’s always there for everyone else. A great employee her coworkers can count on, an even better friend–but the side I see is different. She harbors so much rage and resentment, and she’s hell bent on taking it all out on me.
Pushing off the counter, I snatch the picture from the refrigerator and slide it inside my jacket then make my way over to her living room. The shower is still running, the sound echoing across the open space and steam steadily billows out of the crack in the bathroom door. After coming up here, I waited around in the hallway until I knew she would be in the shower or bed before coming in.
I’ve riled her up enough tonight. Tomorrow is a new day.
Stopping at her plush sofa, I drop onto the chaise lounge and make myself comfortable. Leaning my head against the back of the couch, I stare up at the ceiling and contemplate my next move. How I’m going to get her to let go and trust me. This back and forth has gone on long enough.
