Tuff Enough

by Samantha A. Cole

  Tossing the pen he’d been holding onto his desk, Chase eyed Ian. “You in the mood to go kick some sense into his ass with me?”

  A wide grin spread across the retired SEAL’s face as he stood and clapped his hands once before rubbing them together. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Picking up her handbag, phone, and keys, Chet glanced around, making sure she had everything. With her mother arriving tomorrow, she’d taken the day off, along with the rest of the week. She was so excited to see her mom, but part of her was still feeling frustrated about Tuff. It looked like their friends with benefits arrangement was over earlier than she’d reckoned it would be and not because she’d ended it. Tuff had. Well, at least she assumed he had.

  She hadn’t seen him much during the past three weeks, even though his truck was almost always in the driveway. The night they were supposed to go to the movies, one of his teammates had been killed earlier in the day. He’d come home a wreck and shut her out moments after giving her the news when she’d met him on the front porch. Chet didn’t know exactly what’d happened—she’d searched the internet with what little she knew but couldn’t find any incidents she could connect to Tuff or Blackhawk Security. Whatever had happened, it’d been kept very quiet.

  Ever since then, Tuff had ignored most of her texts and phone calls and rarely answered if she knocked on his door to check on him. The few times he had, she almost hadn’t recognized him. He hadn’t shaved, and his hair had grown out a little. His clothes had been unkempt, his eyes red, and she’d suspected he’d been drinking—a lot. At first, she’d tried to comfort him. When that hadn’t worked, she’d decided to give him a little space. Unfortunately that space now felt like a mile-wide chasm. She knew a few of his friends had stopped by, but, apparently, they’d gotten similar treatment. Tuff wanted to be alone with his alcohol and the takeout deliveries that arrived occasionally. He didn’t even sit out on his back porch anymore.

  She missed him. More than she’d expected. Somewhere along the line, despite her resistance, she’d fallen in love with the man, and now he wanted nothing to do with her.

  Sighing, she grabbed Meat’s leash and attached it to his collar. “Well, boy, if you have any suggestions on how to get through to Mister Thick Skull next door, let me know. In the meantime, whatta you say we hit the dog spa and then the grocery store? I’ll lock the doors, leave the AC cranking for you, and just run in for milk, eggs, and chicken. If anyone is stupid enough to try and steal my truck, then they deserve whatever you do to them.”

  “Woof!” She’d been surprised when Meat had seemed to enjoy his recent bath at a local dog spa. Instead of trying to wrestle him into her tub, she’d decided to take him to the spa where they had ramps for the dogs to walk up into oversized sinks. Chet didn’t have to bend over to bathe him, and the goofball had groaned in ecstasy as she’d massaged the shampoo into his coat then rinsed it off with warm water. He’d then spent the ride home rolling around on an old blanket she’d laid out for him in the back of her SUV.

  Holding the leash tightly in one hand, she opened the door with the other. To her surprise, Meat lunged forward, barking and growling at two strange men standing in front of Tuff’s door, and she was thankful she had a good grip on the nylon strap in her hand as she tried to calm the dog down. “Ruhig.”

  Both men were in their early to midforties, wearing tan cargo pants and black T-shirts, each with a different logo over the left side of their chests. One took two wary steps backward while eyeing the big dog. Like Tuff had been the day he’d met Meat, the man looked like he could react in an instant, vaulting over the bannister. His salt-and-pepper crewcut, toned physique, sharp green eyes, and commanding presence screamed military. While the man didn’t scare her for some reason, Chet knew he probably had his enemies shaking in their boots.

  The other man, however, who’d barely moved a muscle, was intimidating without saying a word. With jet-black hair, piercing, blue eyes, a ridiculously handsome face, and lean, rock-hard muscles from head to toe, he undoubtedly had women falling to their knees in front of him. Instead of altering his stance, he held his position and stared at Meat. He wasn’t challenging the dog but establishing his dominance. Shocked, Chet watched as Meat backed up, his head and now-wagging tail dropping in submission. His barks and growls turned into whines and woofs as he shifted back and forth on his paws.

  Moving slowly, the man opened one of the many pockets on his tan pants and removed a small, clear bag holding what looked like bits of beef jerky. He pulled out a piece. “Sitz.”

  To Chet’s amazement, Meat followed the German command and sat by her side. After making sure the dog was staying in his ordered position, the man tossed the treat so Meat could easily snatch it out of the air without standing again. Two bites, and it was gone. Meat leaned forward, sniffing, probably wishing another piece was on its way.

  Chet stared at the man. “I hope that was organic and not some junk with preservatives in it.”

  His blue eyes sparkled as the corners of his mouth ticked upward. His voice was deep and tinged with amusement when he said, “Since the woman who trains my dogs hands me an invoice every month for some very expensive treats, that cost more than the whole side of beef, I’m going to say it’s organic. And yes, I’m certain she’s not switching it out for junk food. Kat’s very trustworthy.”

  “Kat? Kat Michaelson?”

  “Mm-hmm. Her husband works for me. Even though she trains my dogs, she won’t let me call her an employee. She prefers contract agent. Since the dogs love her, and she makes me money, I let her have her way in that matter.” He extended his hand. “Ian Sawyer.”

  She shook the offered hand, feeling the strength he was keeping in check for her. “Chet Suarez.”

  When she glanced at the other man, he stepped forward and also extended his hand. “Chase Dixon. Nice to meet you.”

  “Um, nice to meet you too. You’re Tuff’s boss, right?”

  “And you must be the woman who he upgraded the security around here for.” He grinned as his gaze did a quick down and up scan of her body before returning to her face. “Now I can see why. He’s got good taste.”

  Her eyes widened a bit, and a blush stole across her face when she realized he was complimenting her. She didn’t get the impression he was flirting with her and trying to make a move on an employee’s woman, more like just stating the fact he found her attractive and there was nothing more to it. But then again, she wasn’t Tuff’s woman. She never had been and didn’t know how to classify herself now that their friendship seemed to have waned as well.

  “He hasn’t exactly been showing his face lately. I hope you’re here to help him. He’s been depressed, I assume about your other agent, and doesn’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Dixon gaze softened. “Thank you, and don’t worry, we’ll take care of Tuff. It comes with the territory in our business, unfortunately.” He tilted his head and eyed Meat. “Is everything else all right around here? Tuff filled me in on what was going on with this big guy. You’re an ACO, right?”

  She glanced down at the dog, whose tongue was lolling out as he stared adoringly at Sawyer. Chet shook her head in awe and amusement. This was the first man who’d ever gotten this kind of response from Meat since she’d rescued him. Sawyer just exuded dominance, and, for some reason, the dog didn’t feel threatened by it.

  “Yes, I am. Things seemed to have quieted down. The other dogs that were recovered from the fight club have been fostered out of state for their protection and for those who’d been taking care of them. There haven’t been any other incidents. I tried to send Meat somewhere safe out of state, two weeks ago, but the woman fostering him said he was very depressed and wouldn’t eat. After a few days, I had to go get him, and now he’s back to normal. I hadn’t planned on being his forever mom, but, apparently, he has a different opinion.” She’d missed the dog something awful and hated sending him away, but she’d tried to do the right thing to
keep him safe. Meat, however, seemed to think his safe place was with Chet.

  Pulling a small card out of his wallet, Dixon handed it to her. “If Tuff’s not around and you need anything, call my office and tell them who you are. I’ll make sure you get any help you need.” He held his hand out for Meat to sniff, and, after a moment, the dog licked it. “My sister fosters pit bulls up in Pennsylvania, and we were raised with a few Staffordshire terriers, so I’ve got a soft spot for them.”

  “Thank you.” She tucked the card in her purse, then jutted her chin toward Tuff’s door. “Good luck with him. Tell him . . . tell him I’m here if he wants to talk.” She was embarrassed that her voice broke on the last few words. Swallowing hard, she looked down at Meat. “You ready to go run our errands, boy?”

  “Woof!”

  The two men grinned and stepped to the side so she could descend the stairs with the dog, who gave Sawyer a final sniff before following her. When she reached her SUV, she glanced back to see both men watching her. Oddly, they didn’t knock on Tuff’s door as she pulled out of the driveway then drove away. She really hoped they could get through to him. Even though he didn’t want a romantic relationship with her, she’d be willing to have a platonic friendship with him. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Chet, and maybe someday you’ll believe it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tuff jolted awake, confused and panicked. That’s what happens when you’re hit in the face with a bucketful of ice water. In an automatic reflex, he reached for his weapon on the night stand next to his bed but came up empty-handed. His bloodshot eyes finally focused and relief then anger coursed through him when he saw his boss and Sawyer grinning down at him. Chase had Tuff’s gun in his hand and placed it back where he’d picked it up from, while the other bastard was holding the now-empty bucket he’d pulled out of the kitchen pantry. “Get your ass up, twatsicle!”

  Rolling to the other side of the king-sized bed where it was a lot dryer—well, at least, less wet—Tuff closed his eyes against the waves of nausea that came over him. His hair, face, and torso were drenched, and he removed his T-shirt, tossing the soaked garment to the floor without caring about the carpet. He laid back down and covered his eyes with his forearm. His head pounded, and his tongue felt thick and dry. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

  “Not happening,” Chase responded in a matter of fact tone. “I’ve given you over two weeks to get your head squared away, but since you’re obviously having a hard time doing that, consider this an intervention. Get up.”

  Tuff growled and refused to follow the barked order. He wasn’t in the military anymore and couldn’t get thrown in the stockade for failing to obey a superior’s command; at the most, he’d get fired or get his ass kicked. Neither was a great option, but both were definitely better than Leavenworth. Maybe if he ignored them they’d go away.

  “Get up, Tuff,” his boss repeated. “We’re heading over to the Trident compound for some training.”

  “Fuck that. I told Irv I’m taking a leave of absence. Now, get—”

  His words were cut off when he was hit in the face with another bucketful of water, this time, sans ice. Sawyer must have used it all from Tuff’s freezer the first time.

  “God fucking damn it!” He bolted from the bed and almost face planted as the room spun. Leaning against his dresser, he bent over with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths and trying to control his nausea, as water dripped from his nose, chin, and hair. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Yeah, twatsicle, we’re fucking kidding you. This was all a silly, high-school prank. You can go back to bed now. Nighty-night.”

  Sarcasm was Ian Sawyer’s middle name, and, right then, Tuff hated the man. Standing upright, he glared at the retired SEAL. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  “Nope, Egghead’s the asshole. How many times do I have to remind you idiots?” He tossed the empty bucket on the soaked bed. “Unless you want it to fucking reek in here, I’d put those sheets and stuff in the dryer. Then get dressed. Your ass is ours for the rest of the day.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Chase shrugged. “Ian was telling me Mistress China has a new, hot-pink whip she’s been using. We’ll just tie you to one of those cross things . . .” He glanced at Sawyer. “Who are they named after again?”

  “St. Andrew.” Standing there, with his arms crossed over his chest, Sawyer was blocking Tuff’s only escape route, unless he chose to dive through a window. The look in the man’s eyes was a combination of anger and understanding. Most of the anger was probably aimed at the situation and not Tuff. Kyle had worked a few contracts with Trident Security, just like Tuff and other BHS operatives had. All the members of both Trident Security teams, and their spouses or significant others, had attended the wakes and funeral, unless they’d been out of town on missions. A few had been able to get back in time for the services, but others were deep undercover and may not even be aware of Kyle’s death yet.

  “A kinky saint?”

  “He was a martyr.”

  “Whatever,” Chase said while shaking his head before returning his attention to Tuff. “Anyway, we’ll just tie you to one of those babies and let the sadistic Domme beat your ass.”

  Shit. Pretty much every contract operative who’d done work for Trident knew the Sawyer brothers and many of their employees were into BDSM. In fact, there was an elite club, The Covenant, in one of four warehouses at the compound. Unless someone was told it was there, they’d never know it. Tuff had been inside it a few times, when it’d been closed, and the rich decor was in direct contrast to the exterior of the commercial-looking building. He didn’t know much about the lifestyle other than everything that happened in the club was supposedly safe, sane, and consensual. It didn’t bother him if people marched to a different drum—to each their own.

  As much as Tuff wanted to tell them both to fucking try getting him on a cross to be whipped, he knew, without a shred of doubt, they’d follow through with the threat. Even though he was about seven or eight years younger than them, he knew they could take him down two against one. That was the one thing that sucked about working with people trained in special ops. They could all fight dirty when they needed or wanted to. While Tuff would get in a few good shots of his own, the two men would eventually have him handcuffed, then drag him out of his house kicking and cussing to the Trident compound. There was no way he was letting Charlotte Roth—aka the sadistic Mistress China—get near him with one of her whips. The petite parole officer was a force to be reckoned with outside the lifestyle, so he could only imagine what she was like inside the club.

  Pulling open two of the dresser drawers, he selected a clean T-shirt, boxer briefs, and a pair of cargo shorts. Might as well take a shower—a real one this time without the fucking ice—before grabbing some coffee. Either way, it was clear he was going with his boss and Sawyer, so he might as well make them wait for him to get ready.

  “By the way, who picked the fucking locks on my front door?” With a regular lock on the doorknob and a deadbolt above it, the only way they could have gotten in was by picking them. He didn’t bother asking how they’d bypassed his security alarm. All they’d had to do for that was tell Gordo to shut it down through her system back at BHS headquarters.

  Silently, but with a smirk, Sawyer pulled a lock-pick set from his back pocket and waved it in the air.

  Striding to the bathroom, Tuff snorted. “Should have fucking known. Jackass.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you fuckers that too? Carter’s the jackass.” T. Carter was a US government spy under a covert agency named Deimos. He was also a good friend of the original six-man Trident team and a Dom at their club. Nice guy but definitely not someone Tuff would ever want to cross. That would be like signing his own death warrant, and as the cliché went, they’d never find his body.

  Tuff shut the door behind him, then reached into the shower and turned on the water, giving it a few moments to heat up as
he stripped out of his cotton shorts and underwear. Leaning against the sink, he stared at his reflection. Saying he looked like crap was a huge understatement. When was the last time he’d taken a shower? A sniff told him it had been far too long. He’d been drinking since he’d gotten home from Miami, trying to scrub the image of Kyle dying in his arms from his mind. It’d been useless because every time he began to sober up, the blood and the dying man’s words came back to him. The only times he’d abstained from alcohol since then were during the wakes and funerals, but as soon as they were over, he’d gotten his drunk back on.

  Stepping into the shower, he let the warm water cascade down his body and prayed it would wash those horrible images down the drain. He’d lost track of time and, honestly, had no idea what day it was. He wondered if Chet was working or not today. Chet. Shit. He knew he’d ignored most of her texts and messages and had seen the pity and hurt in her eyes seconds before he’d closed the door on her a few times. He didn’t want to be pitied but the hurt was his own fault. He should never have gotten involved with her.

  If he’d been on the left side of the asset instead of pulling up the rear, he could’ve been the one hit by the bullet and died on the sidewalk in broad daylight. His job was dangerous and one of the reasons he’d always refused to get too deeply involved with a woman. Who knew when she might get that knock on the door that every spouse, girlfriend, boyfriend, or family member, who had someone in the military or law enforcement, dreaded getting? He couldn’t let Chet go through that, so the best thing to do was to extract himself from her life. Maybe they’d be able to go back to being just friends after a while—he didn’t want to cut her out of his life completely—but it would most likely take a while for her hurt and probable anger at him to subside.

  Damn, he missed her. There’d been several times during his drunken stupors over the past two and a half weeks he’d almost gone and knocked on her door, but he’d always managed to stop himself—except once. Thankfully, she’d been out at the time, and he’d ended up stumbling back into his own unit and falling asleep on the couch. She deserved someone better than him—someone who worked a safe job and didn’t fall apart when one of his coworkers died in the line of duty. Part of him knew that was irrational thinking, considering she was a sworn officer who carried a gun and enforced the state and local laws governing animals for a living. But Tuff went on missions that were far more dangerous than the one Kyle had died on. The fact he’d been killed on a routine detail just reinforced the fact Tuff could be killed just as easily someday. They hadn’t done anything wrong that day—everyone had done their jobs the way they were supposed to. After reviewing all the evidence, Chase, Irv, Sherlock, and the Miami detectives had let him know there was nothing anyone could have done differently. Still, Tuff hadn’t been able to stop replaying the incident over and over in his mind, trying to figure out what they’d missed, what they could’ve done that wouldn’t have resulted in Chaos being killed. But his teammates and bosses were right—they’d done exactly what they were supposed to do—but knowing that still didn’t ease the guilt Tuff felt in his gut.