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As far as cheating on her, he’d been smart enough not to do it in Yachats where they both knew practically everyone, but after they’d divorced, people told her they’d seen him with other women in several of the small towns that dotted the Oregon coastline.
As for the final straw—he’d hit Saylor exactly one time. But that physical abuse put him in a whole other category.
She didn’t hesitate to call Razor that day as she held her one- and two-year-old girls on each arm and ran from the house. She knew two things. One, he wouldn’t strike her when she was carrying the babies, and two, the woman who lived next door and spent all her time sitting near her picture window, watching both the ocean and the neighborhood happenings, would call the cops in a heartbeat if she saw the bastard come after Saylor.
“I’m on my way to you, and I’m putting you on speaker,” she’d said to Razor, stuffing her cell phone inside her bra so he could hear anything that might happen.
Razor didn’t ask any questions. He was smart enough to stay silent so her ex wouldn’t know she was on the phone with him.
She’d lived with her brother for the six months it took for the divorce to be finalized, and then another year after that, until she was finally ready to let go of her fear and start living again.
The fact that Razor bought her and the girls a duplex two doors down from his—where their mother would also live—had made the decision to regain her independence much easier.
It had taken her that much time to feel like herself again, and she vowed never to go back to the dark place her marriage had left her in.
She shook her head, willing the bad memories to skedaddle like she and her sweet girls were about to do. She looked over her shoulder one more time, but the hotter-than-shit guy wasn’t there.
—:—
Monk walked back inside the house, but couldn’t take his eyes off the pretty woman down on the beach. She had to be related to Razor; she looked just like him.
She had long dark hair and the crisp, angular facial features her brother had. From where he stood, her skin looked like porcelain. Not pale, just flawless. Her body looked lean in the one-piece black bathing suit she wore, but she had the kind of breasts Monk loved. Not too big, not too small.
She looked up at him more than once, and as tempted as he was to walk down to the beach and meet her, that wasn’t why he was in Yachats, Oregon.
His job was to protect Ava McNamara from the sons of bitches who’d kidnapped her twin sister and two of their friends, and who the team believed wanted Ava dead. If it became necessary, he’d lay his lif
e on the line to protect her, without hesitation.
That’s what he’d been trained to do, and it was the only kind of life he’d ever wanted. To protect the innocent and kill the bad guys, like the ones who’d killed his sister, right before her eighteenth birthday.
Monk was eleven at the time, skinny, scrawny, and unable to protect her from the men who came in to rob their house but found her instead. They’d raped her first and then shot her.
He’d been shot too, but unlike her, he’d lived. He made a vow that day to dedicate his life to protecting those unable to protect themselves, and he’d lived it every day since.
Monk didn’t remember a whole lot about the years immediately following his sister’s death, other than that vow. His mother told him that he didn’t talk for close to two years, and even when he started again, he said as little as possible. Now, it wasn’t something he thought about; he spoke when he had something to say; otherwise, he didn’t.
A WEEK before he retired from active duty with the Marine Corps, his commander at the time arranged for him to meet Doc Butler, K19’s original founder. They’d had dinner, and by its end, Monk knew what he’d be doing once his retirement was official. He was headed straight to the farm, as it was known, where he’d undergo training to become a CIA agent.
In that role, he’d gone undercover more times than he could count. During one of his assignments, his mother died. It was the only thing he hated about the job he did. The mission came first, no matter what.
Working for Doc’s company was different, though. K19’s policies weren’t as strict as the company’s. If someone needed time off, they got it. Monk hadn’t yet, but he appreciated it when he saw the other men and women he worked with take time for their families.
HE WENT DOWNSTAIRS to finish the workout he’d started earlier, and when he heard Razor and Ava come inside a little while later, he went upstairs to check in.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked when he met them in the kitchen.
“Not at all. I was about to make eggs and toast if you’d like to join us.”
Monk walked over and opened the refrigerator, pulling things out and setting them on the counter. Plain eggs and toast didn’t really appeal to him.
“I could make omelets if you’d like,” he offered.
“You cook?” Razor asked.
Monk nodded. “I spent a year undercover as a private chef.”
“I can’t cook for shit,” said Razor, turning to Ava. “Do you think you could manage an omelet, or would you prefer to stick with plain eggs?”
