Grab Read online

  Copyright 2016 by Anne Conley

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead are purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover model: Devon Ryan

  Cover photography: Carlos Salazar and Tresal Photography

  Cover designer: Love, Lust, and Lipstick Stains Cover Art

  Editor: Tiffany Fox; Beyond Def

  Formatter: E-Book Builders

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thrity-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  About Anne

  Contact Anne

  Anne's Bookshelf

  For the Reader

  Pierce Securities:

  Craze

  Wire

  Click

  Grab

  Stories of Serendipity:

  Neighborly Complications

  Chef’s Delight

  Dream On

  Hot Mess

  Falling for Him

  Gambling on Love

  My Mistake

  Wrecked

  Saving Charlie

  Four Winds:

  Falling for Heaven

  Falling for Grace

  Falling for Hope

  Falling for Faith

  Falling for Cyn

  Falling for Eternity (Complete Four Winds Box Set)

  Stand Alones:

  Best Laid Plans of Boys and Men

  The Fixer Upper

  Even in the indie world, it truly does take a village to publish a book. I have so many people to thank, it’s impossible to remember them all, and I know I’ll miss somebody, but here goes…

  First off all, my street team is amazing. I have collected a small but fiercely loyal group of men and women who are super quick to offer me words of encouragement, congratulations, and how-to whenever I need them. To the Storyspinner’s Squad thank you. You have become my friends, and I can never have too many of those.

  My beta readers, who read this story in its infancy, especially T-Bird. When I first wrote this, I was full of insecurities, and she helped me find my ‘new normal’ and realize that it was a good story which just needed a little tweaking. My beta team has been invaluable. I don’t think y’all realize how integral your part in my process is, and there are not enough words to thank you all sufficiently.

  To the Indie Author groups on Facebook that I check in with every morning. You guys probably don’t realize how much you help me every day.

  Tiffany, thank you for cleaning up my writing without changing the integrity of it. Thank you for helping me become a better writer, instead of chopping my shit up. And thank you for becoming my friend in the process.

  Deena, thank you for making my books pretty, and making me laugh, and doing everything you do for me.

  For Devon and Carlos, thanks so much for the awesome cover art, and to Samantha for branding it and making an amazing book cover.

  To all the bloggers and reviewers who have spotlighted and reviewed my work, thank you. Without you guys working your butts off for the love of it, indie authors wouldn’t be a thing.

  And finally, to the hub-meister, for making me a huge breakfast every morning, putting up with my mood swings, and basically being my everything. I love you so much it hurts sometimes, even when I don’t say it.

  For my mom.

  I moan and groan about you constantly, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Thank you for instilling a passion for the written word in me at a ridiculously young age. I love you.

  Dust swirled around Jordan, tinging everything orangish tan. He swore when he got home he’d be a different color, but until then, he’d be blowing dusty boogers out his nose every day. He could think of worse things. They were on patrol—supposed to be clearing out a building—but were still working the perimeter.

  Carrying sixty pounds of gear, including their M16s, Jordan followed Hawk as he picked his way through some scrubby undergrowth around the base of the building.

  “Got something,” Hawk called out, and everyone else went on alert. Jordan watched him poke at a canister with the point of his gun.

  “I can get this.” The commander wanted the building cleared, so that’s what they were doing. A kid could have been the one to find this, and it was their duty to clear it, but Jordan had a bad feeling about it. Nobody seemed to share his trepidation, so he tamped it down, shouldered his M16, and got on with the job.

  “Dude, wait for EOD to get here. That’s what they do.”

  “But this one’s simple. I can get this one.”

  “Yeah, famous last words,” Jordan tried to joke, his unease threatening to get the best of him. His subconscious kicked in with a soundtrack at this point, his clue this was a dream, but Jordan couldn’t wake. Instead, the plaintiff cords of Nine Inch Nails slowed everything to a creeping slow motion he was forced to relive.

  As the wires came into view, Jordan helplessly watched them flop around like noodles as they bumped together. Hawk disintegrated just as Jordan reached for him. The fire racing up his arm barely registered as Duke, behind him, started yelling, “I’m hit! I’m hit!”

  Muted popping noises filled Jordan’s ears in time with Trent singing about something he could never have, and the building’s wall collapsed on top of them, stunning Jordan. An intense feeling of claustrophobia claimed him, and he scrabbled at the heavy concrete around him, pushing it off, looking for survivors.

  Thibodeaux, on his first mission, grabbed Jordan, yelling, “Gunfire on your six! On your six!” He yanked Jordan out of the rubble while Jordan screamed that he needed to get his fallen brother.

  “There’s nothing left! Leave him!”

  He couldn’t leave Hawk behind, but Thibodeaux dragged him kicking and screaming out of danger, and he did.

  Jordan woke, gasping ragged breaths, tangled in sheets, a sweaty sheen on his skin.

  “Goddamn,” he muttered. The nightmares had let up a bit, but this one had been bad. His left arm was on fire, and he clenched his fist in an effort to make the pain subside. Throat gritty, as if he’d really been back there, inhaling all of the dust kicked up by the explosion, Jordan stumbled into his kitchenette for a glass of water. He gulped it down greedily, dragged on a pair of pants, and walked out his apartment door. Tossing a lingering glance at the apartment across the hall from him, he knew Mia was asleep. Jordan had heard her t
rudge up the stairs not three hours ago, she had to be exhausted. She always was.

  Ignoring the pimp coming up the stairs, offering him some company, Jordan made it down the stairs and outside into the bracing air. He filled his lungs with the icy air as he sank down onto the steps in front of his shitty apartment house.

  Icy needles dried the sweat on his skin as Jordan watched the morning start in Austin, Texas. For the zillionth time, he thanked his brother Evan for getting him off his parents’ horse ranch in Montana. Horses weren’t his thing—certainly not running a business with them and shoveling horse shit. His mom was disappointed, but Jordan was ready to live his own life, not the one his parents wanted.

  As his thoughts calmed down and stopped racing, a soothing picture of Mia came to the forefront. They were friends, but if he was honest with himself, he’d be all over her if she gave him a sign. He was courting her in his own way. He wanted sex, but not much more, although she wasn’t easy. And he liked that. He imagined her upstairs, asleep on the futon in her apartment, wearing the shorty pajamas he had seen her in.

  Yeah, he’d go over for more torture tonight when she got off work. They were friends. But he’d sure like some benefits.

  But first, he needed to shower off what was left of his nightmare before work.

  Evan was doing brutal upside-down sit ups on the pull up bar in the gym at Pierce Securities while Quinten was beating the blind guy to a pulp on the mat. Jordan inhaled the clean scent of fresh sweat and worked on his grip on the hand weights. Using the weights as a disguise for his disability, he gripped them as tightly as he could, lifting them into a bicep curl in an attempt to move the burn somewhere else. He wondered how long it would be before he could make a fist without some pain.

  Simon’s terse voice came in through the doorway. “Quinten, I need him to be productive today. Quit beating the shit out of him.”

  Quinten was Simon’s brother, and quieter than the rest of the men in the office. He dropped his arms and allowed Zack to hit him once, square in the jaw, which he took with a stoic disposition before growling out, “That’s the only one you’re going to get, asshole.”

  Jordan had been watching those two since he’d arrived. It was a strange dynamic. But then again, Quinten was confusing as hell. He seemed to get along with everyone, except Zack, who taunted him mercilessly because of it. He was Mr. Low Key, except he allowed Zack to push his buttons constantly. A fighter, Quinten was tough as shit, but had sort of taken Zack under his wing in an attempt to teach him some skills for fighting with his newly acquired blindness. But he was smart as fuck. He had a law degree he didn’t use and read shit by authors Jordan couldn’t even pronounce, much less get into. And he made stained glass. Jordan had initially thought he might be gay, but Miriam had laughed when he said something to that effect and assured him Quinten Pierce was straight as they come. Not that he cared; Jordan just couldn’t put his finger on the dude.

  But whatever. He was still cool to work with. If only the boss man, Simon, would give him some better fucking jobs.

  “You working those photos tonight, Jordan?” Simon asked as he settled himself on the edge of the bench press and began doing barbell hip thrusts. Simon was older than the rest of them but was fastidious about the shape in which he kept himself. Of all of them, he was the most likely to wear suits. Jordan could just imagine the crap he got when he was a cop on the force.

  Simon came from money and probably pissed of his parents by becoming a cop. He most likely pissed of his force by wearing the Gucci shit he wore around the office, too. But Simon was the type of guy who didn’t give two fucks what other people thought about him. And Jordan liked that about the man.

  “Yeah,” Jordan said. “So I’ll have the company truck tonight. Can’t be too unobtrusive on my bike.” He itched to ask the question that had been bugging him since he started with the firm. He inhaled deeply through another bicep curl and let his breath out in time with his brother’s rep over on the pull-up bar. “Hey, Sarge, can I get something different? You know I’m used to combat. I can do more than take some pictures.” As soon as he said the words, he regretted them. He sounded like an ungrateful bitch, and as Simon’s eyebrows slammed down over his eyes, his regret deepened. Like he needed to piss off his boss. He hadn’t worked here long enough to buy into the company like his brother had. He was merely an employee who could be fired.

  “Not yet. But I’ll let you know.” Translation: Don’t fuck this one up and maybe. Jordan got it.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

  This job sucks, Jordan thought to himself as he sat outside the cheap motel waiting for the couple to come outside and hopefully kiss so he could grab a picture and get the hell home. He ground his teeth against the chattering, unwilling to start the heater. It wasn’t that cold, but a chill had settled in his bones.

  He’d been here every Wednesday night for two weeks—while Mr. Tucker was supposedly at Bible study—trying to catch him in the act. So far, Jordan had gotten pictures the last two Wednesday nights of him leaving the motel, as well as the woman, but the wife wanted to see them touching, doing something intimate. Like that made it different—cheating was cheating.

  He’d been out of the service for three months and still couldn’t get his head on straight. An IED had exploded and he’d ended up with shrapnel in his hand six months ago due to a stupid mistake. His left hand, no less, but he hadn’t been able to get full use of it back yet, so he’d been discharged. The outfit he’d given his entire adult life to had let him go, effectively abandoning him with a monthly check.

  And now he was working with his big brother in a securities firm, which would be cool, except he was stuck watching cheaters like some damned Peeping Tom. It was ridiculous.

  And he was cold.

  Clenching his weaker hand into a fist reminded him of his injury, and he forced his breath out with a hiss into a cloud of condensed air.

  Mr. Tucker’s motel room door opened and Jordan was in luck; the woman followed him out in nothing but a cheap sheet. Jesus. She must be freezing. Raising the camera to his eyes, he clicked off a few pictures of the two in a post-coital embrace, his hand shaking a bit as he adjusted the lens. Vowing to never marry, he ditched the camera in the seat next to him, disgusted.

  He didn’t see himself ever getting caught in that trap.

  His parents wanted him to find a nice girl and settle down, like his brother, Evan. But he honestly couldn’t imagine that for himself.

  Paige was nice. And she was perfect for Evan, all smart and shit. Evan loved this job; it actually utilized his skills. But Jordan was a combat-trained member of the Marine RECON unit—Special Forces. This shit was something his fucking grandpa could do. In his sleep. While wrangling stray cows.

  He sighed and watched the fucktard get into his car and drive off while the homewrecker went back into the motel, presumably to dress and go home to her own cuckolded husband.

  He didn’t blame Simon for giving him the shit jobs as he started out—while he got his PI license and shit—but it didn’t do a lot to bolster his confidence.

  Starting his car, he turned the heat up full blast and enjoyed the feel of the warmth across his cheeks. Jordan was hungry. He could go for a drink and some Mia tonight, especially now this shitty job was done.

  Mia was his neighbor across the hallway in the piece-of-shit boarding house where he stayed. He could afford more but hadn’t taken the time to look yet. As soon as he’d seen his neighbor, he realized he could settle there for a few months while he got used to a new city. Mia was cute in a ‘totally exhausted all the time’ sort of way. Of mixed heritage, he thought she might be Hispanic, but it wasn’t really anything to make a topic of conversation. She had dark hair which curled at the ends, perfectly plump, pink lips, and the darkest eyes he’d ever seen.

  Not that he was looking. But he’d noticed.

  Jordan didn’t do attachments. Besides, what could he possibly offer a woman? He worked at a job he hate
d, doing shit work nobody else wanted, and his ass was spreading by the minute, despite the joke of a gym at the office. They didn’t even have a leg machine.

  Rubbing his hand over his face, he headed toward home, such as it was. Climbing the stairs to his room, he wasn’t quiet, some part of him hoping Mia would come out and offer him a drink, like she did most nights. They hadn’t done much more than just talk, and once he got so drunk he passed out on her couch.

  Jesus, he could really use a drink. Outside his door, he fumbled for his keys, dropping them once. The landlord didn’t heat the house, depending on the residents to purchase space heaters. Dumb fuck. The entire house was liable to burn to the ground. He was thinking maybe he should just go to bed and forego a drink with Mia, but when she opened her door, he changed his mind. In an instant.

  “Hey there, Jordan. Rough day?”

  He shrugged, turning to face her. She was a hottie but totally tired. Dark circles etched around her eyes made the lines around her mouth more pronounced. “I just hate my job sometimes. That’s all. No biggie.”

  Rueful laughter met his ears. “Who doesn’t? Tequila?” She held up a half-empty bottle they’d started the other night and shook it.

  “Sure, what the hell. But not much. You need to get some sleep.” Closing his door behind him, he took the two steps across the hall to her room.

  “You trying to say I look like ass?” As she stepped aside to let him in, Jordan tried not to brush against her pajama-clad body, nor notice the fact all she wore were shorty shorts and a camisole, all in thin, thread-bare cotton. Nearly see-through. Every curve on display.

  No attachments. But that didn’t mean sex was off the table, as long as she understood the stakes. Or his lack of desire for stakes.

  “No, you look fine, but that set of luggage you’re wearing under your eyes could use some leather oil,” he tried to joke but felt bad immediately when he saw her stricken face. “Hey, wait. I was kidding. Don’t get all mad. How long has it been since you had a day off?” She waited tables every damn day, as far as he could tell.