Keegan (Wounded Hero Book 1)

by Marysol James

She blinked at him. “Ummm. I can be. I’m owed days off from Meredith and I have no catering work lined up yet. Why?”

  “Because me and Kelly are takin’ Janie up to Open Skies for the weekend. We have separate cabins booked and I was hopin’ that you’d join us. Horseback ridin’ and hikin’ in the Rockies and Kelly says that it’s some of the best food that she’s ever had in her life.”

  “Uhhhh. That’s not too… fast? Like – going away with your sister and niece?”

  “I ain’t proposin’ marriage, sugar.” He gave her a grin. “I’m just invitin’ you for a relaxin’ weekend away in an incredible spot.”

  Trish recalled how she’d felt that night at Nick and Mia’s wedding up at Open Skies Ranch, when she’d stood outside for those fleeing moments of peace and calm before that asshole had hissed at her from the darkness. She’d stood there staring up at the endless blanket of stars and she’d just breathed. It had been a powerful moment for her, a few seconds of reflection and respite, a mini-oasis of feeling safe in her own life. That had been shattered by that guy recognizing her as Thalia Flame, of course, and she hadn’t had that feeling again since that night at Open Skies.

  She wanted to feel that way again, she suddenly knew. She wanted to feel small under the sky and the mountains, while feeling strangely strong and centered at the same time.

  And she wanted to be with Keegan when she felt that way. She wanted to let him see the best of her, at last.

  “I’d love to,” she responded quietly. “Thank you.”

  “So it’s a date. Our fourth.”

  “Fourth?” she asked.

  “Mmm-hmmm. Coffee at the bakery, dinner and dancin’, bakin’ tonight… the weekend will be the fourth date, no?”

  “Yes,” Trish murmured, flushing a bit as she remembered how desperately she’d moaned and clutched at his shoulders on the kitchen floor, imagined doing it all again in a cozy cabin bed. “Fourth.”

  “Know what I do on the fourth date, darlin’?”

  She flushed deeper, hoping and praying that she did know, but somehow unable to say a word. She shook her head.

  Keegan grinned at her, his silver eyes bright in his hard, handsome face. He leaned closer to her and Trish’s body responded helplessly, at his mercy already. He kissed her slowly, lazily, just tracing her lips with his tongue, then he pulled back and whispered in her ear:

  “On the fourth date, I make my world-famous cinnamon rolls.”

  She giggled. “Really?”

  “And serve ‘em in bed with pipin’ hot coffee.”

  “Ohhhh,” she breathed. “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Did I mention that I make ‘em with lots of gooey icin’?” he asked casually. “They’re just drippin’ with the stuff.”

  “Uh-huh,” she somehow managed to say. “And – what do you do with it? The gooey, drippy icing?”

  “Same thing that I did with the honey tonight, baby.” His grin widened as he took in the glazed lust in her purple eyes, knew that she was reliving that shaking orgasm in his kitchen. “And that’s just the warm-up. There’s much, much more to come after that.”

  “There is?”

  “There is,” he said, and he heard the promise and longing in his own words. “If that’s OK with you.”

  “Oh yeah, honey cake.” Her voice was husky and that shining smile was radiant. “Hell, yeah.”

  He lay down and pulled her with him as he went. Gently, he tucked her against his side and smiled when she rested her blonde head on his tattooed chest. She was sleepy now, as soft and sweet as a kitten, but Keegan wasn’t fooled: the spirited little hell-cat was sated and curled up ready to nod off, but she’d be back looking for more.

  And when she was, Keegan would be ready to take her and tame her, over and over again, until she cried and begged. Until she shuddered and came on his cock, her delicious curves writhing and twisting under his hands, his lips, his body. Until she was dazed and dozy in satisfied exhaustion as she fell asleep warm and languid in his arms, just like she was doing now.

  Until she was totally his.

  Chapter 11

  One week later

  Trish rushed down the hallway from her bedroom, hair still dripping wet from the shower, tugging her robe around her as she ran. The doorbell had been going ceaselessly for well over a minute and she’d cut her shower short to answer it. Meredith was at her older son Alan’s house for a birthday brunch and Trish was home alone.

  “Coming!” she hollered at the door. She banged her knee on one of the crazy-expensive hall tables and stumbled a bit. “Shit! Coming!”

  She reached the door, glanced wildly at herself in the mirror. Yep, she was as big of a mess as she’d imagined, hair straggling and soaking over her cheap terrycloth bathrobe, her face a drop-dead-sexy tomato-red from the heat of the shower and then the mad hurry to the door.

  Oh hell, who cares? You looking to impress the delivery guy bringing your new work uniform?

  She gave her hair a cursory little fluff – it didn’t make any difference but Trish felt better somehow – and opened the door.

  “Good morning!” Trish said cheerily.

  The man standing there blinked a bit at the wreck in front of him. “Erm… hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Ummm… I have a registered letter for…” He glanced down. “Trish Montgomery.”

  “A letter?”

  “Yes. A letter.”

  “Not a box?”

  “No. Definitely not a box.”

  “Well… I’m expecting a box. I’m not expecting a letter.”

  “Are you Trish Montgomery?”

  “I am.”

  He held the letter up so she could see the name. “It’s for you. A letter, not a box.”

  “Ah. OK.” She shrugged. “A letter it is.”

  “I’ll need to see some ID, ma’am.”

  “Of course.” She shivered a bit at the chill and tightened the belt around her. “Could you just wait a moment?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  She shut the door and left him standing on the porch – she’d watched too many damn episodes of CSI and Law and Order to let a strange man into the house, after all – and retrieved her purse from her bedroom. After presenting her driver’s license and signing for the delivery, she shut the door against the fierce autumn wind and opened the large envelope as she walked to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee.

  She’d barely taken four steps when she saw the smaller white envelope within the manilla one – a small white envelope with the name ‘Thalia’ written on it in black pen, and a dragon logo in the left corner.

  Trish froze, her heart racing.

  A registered letter this time? What the fuck?

  Her fingers trembling, she opened the envelope and winced when she saw the instructions:

  $1200. SATURDAY AT NOON. THE BEAN CAFE.

  Trish stared at the meeting time in horror: Noon on Saturday? She and Keegan were supposed to be at Open Skies Ranch by noon that day and anyway, what the actual hell was going on here? Bulldog had never before sent the blackmail demand by registered post; never before set the drop-off time for a few days later. It was always delivered by hand to her personal space, and she never had more than hour to get her ass and the cash to the meet-up spot. Part of the thrill for Dragon was her knowing that his personal henchman was right outside her door, and he loved the panic of her having to run around like mad to get the money to him in time. It meant dropping plans and leaving work and running red lights – and he liked all of that control from all the way from L.A. just fine, she knew.

  But this? Having the demand signed for with a courier and this two-day heads-up? Why? What the fuck game was he playing now?

  As she stared at the letter and absentmindedly sipped her cooling coffee, it came to Trish that this was the game: changing things up so dramatically and without warning was doing her head in in a whole new way. She’d become so accustomed to the blackmail being carried out a certain w
ay, it had become normal.

  And that meant that the blackmail had become routine. Predictable.

  Boring.

  If there was one thing that Dragon Decker despised, it was being boring. He lived for being wildly unpredictable and keeping everyone around him off-balance. It was the form of power that he enjoyed the most – manipulation and maneuvering. It was all about control and he knew that by changing things up so completely, he’d startled her, scared her, shaken her.

  He was reminding her all the way from California that nothing about what was going on was normal and she’d better not settle or relax, because he was in charge and he’d stir shit up just because he could.

  He was the king and held all the cards – and she was just a pawn in his game.

  Goddammit. I was so looking forward to going to Open Skies.

  Tears filled her eyes and she wiped them away impatiently. No time to feel sorry for herself, she had to get ready to lie to Keegan about why she was canceling on him with forty-eight hours’ notice, and letting Kelly and Janie down too. She’d simply say that a catering gig had come up after all and she wasn’t in the financial position to turn it down. Keegan would be disappointed, but hey. It wasn’t like he’d be all alone up in Clarity. He’d still have a great weekend with his sister and niece.

  With a sigh of defeat, Trish picked up her cell and went to her contacts to find Keegan – and suddenly found herself scrolling back up to the contact marked ‘Jenny’. There was no Jenny, naturally, but she’d been unable to face seeing Bulldog’s name on her phone screen and she’d thought that the names ‘leering asshole lapdog’ or ‘blackmailing fucker’ were a bit awkward to explain if someone ever glanced at her phone book.

  Trish stared at ‘Jenny’s’ number now, unblinking and barely breathing. She’d had Bulldog’s burner phone number for ages now, but she’d only ever used the contact information once, when she’d gotten caught in traffic from a bad car accident on the way to a cash drop-off. He’d been utterly unsympathetic of course, and in the end she’d parked her car in a side alley and taken to her feet. She’d run about twenty blocks and shown up twelve minutes late. That had cost her an additional five hundred bucks the next time.

  But what if – what if… what if she called him and begged for him to change the meeting time? Like really begged, begged like her life depended on it? She knew that he liked that. She also knew that in those moments, he liked refusing her what she was begging for.

  But what if she offered to compensate him for the ‘inconvenience’ of changing the time? She had just under three thousand dollars hidden away in her closet – she’d sold her last bunch of jewelry online to get a bit of a cushion – and she’d give him a nice chunk of it if he’d give her the weekend with Keegan.

  She’d give him anything.

  Her heart pounding hard enough for the blood to roar in her ears, Trish tapped on the ‘Jenny’ phone number then damn near panicked and hung up when she heard the ringing on the other end. She squared her shoulders, sucked in a deep breath.

  The worst that he can say is no. Right?

  “Thalia.” That oily, slimy voice oozed into her ear and instinctively, she moved the phone away a few inches. His voice like a loathsome creature about to crawl out of the receiver, something physical and disgusting, and she needed some distance between herself and it. “You got Dragon’s instructions courtesy of a delivery this morning, I know.”

  “Yes,” she said then cleared her throat to make the word stronger. “Yes.”

  “So if you got them and you can still read, why the fuck are you calling me?”

  “Because –” She shut her eyes and summoned all her guts and grit. “Because I was wondering if you’d please let me bring you the money on Monday. Monday morning, first thing, if you want.”

  Bulldog paused. She knew that his silence was a dangerous, silken thing and she braced herself for whatever was going to happen next.

  “Monday?” he repeated quietly and she tensed up even more. “Monday?”

  “Yes,” Trish said. “I – I have a problem with Saturday…”

  “I don’t give a shit about your problems,” Bulldog said. “Your problems are about as interesting to me as watching fucking paint dry.”

  “I – I know that.” She tried to sound understanding rather than challenging. “I appreciate that.”

  “So?” He exhaled sharply and she knew that even though it was barely ten a.m., he was smoking what was probably his twentieth cigarette of the day. “So what the hell?”

  “It’s just – I – I don’t –”

  “Jesus fuck, you dumb slut. Can you make words? Is your mouth good for anything except blow jobs?”

  “Y – yes.” She gulped. “I’m sorry.”

  “Now what is the goddamn issue? You don’t have the money?”

  “Yes. I mean no.”

  He sighed. “Which is it, whore?”

  “I don’t have the money.” For some insane reason, Trish crossed her fingers behind her back, as if he could see her through the phone and see the lie. “I’m – I’m a bit short.”

  “Huh,” he said sounding surprised despite himself. “That’s a first for you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. We had to – all the staff had to buy new uniforms this month.”

  “What?”

  “The catering company changed the dress code, and now we all have to wear white blouses with the company logo on them instead of plain ones of our own. It – the cost set me back. I had to buy three.”

  “That’s bullshit, huh?” he said. “Making you pay for your own uniform when they’re the ones who changed everything?”

  “Well…” She shifted from foot to foot, unnerved at his sympathy. “Ummm… I guess so…”

  “You don’t guess shit, bitch,” he lashed at her and she automatically shut her eyes and cringed, as if his words were a physical blow. “Are you the boss? Huh?”

  Her heart sank: she knew exactly where this was going and it had zero to do with the uniforms. She also knew that she’d just walked smack into his trap.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “No,” she said louder. “I’m not the boss.”

  “You seem to be forgetting that lately. First calling and demanding that I change the time that I get Dragon’s money because his time doesn’t fucking work for you. Then you bitch about your catering gig being such an expensive hassle. There are some people who’d kill for a paycheck and you’re complaining? You? The ungrateful cheap slut whose CV is so jam-packed with impressive-as-all-hell career moves? You’re nothing but a bunch of walking holes and you’re acting like you’re better than being a fucking waitress?”

  She stayed silent. There was nothing to be said.

  “So?” he snapped.

  “I – yes. I’m sorry. You’re right. I – I should be grateful.”

  “For what?”

  “For having a job at all.” She forced out the next words, knowing that they were non-negotiable. “And for you being so flexible and forgiving about my stupidity. I should have the money for you to give to Mr. Decker, and it’s my fault that I don’t.”

  “Damn right.” He exhaled again and Trish silently wished a long, drawn-out death of lung cancer on this monster. “So. What will you do to make up for the pain in the ass of making us wait until Monday?”

  Her heart leapt. Was there a chance that he’d hold off a few days?

  “I’ll get paid this weekend,” she said. “I’ll have a bit extra…”

  “Fifteen hundred. The Bean Café on Monday at ten.”

  She almost sagged to the floor in relief that she’d still have a bit of a money cushion tucked away in her box, even after the extra. The weekend was all taken care of in terms of the cabin and food, and Keegan was driving, and Meredith’s kitchen was bursting with food for that day and tomorrow. And Trish would actually get paid on Sunday, cash-in-hand from Meredith, and she’d immediately put most of it aside.


  Maybe she’d finally be able to get a bit ahead of the game.

  “OK,” she said, making herself sound pathetically grateful. “Thank you… thank you so much. I know that I don’t deserve it –”

  “Damn right you don’t.”

  The weirdly dead air at the other end told her that he’d disconnected. She looked at her cell, saw that he was indeed gone. She set the phone down on the kitchen table, then sank to the chair as her knees gave away as she fully realized what she’d just done.

  She’d straight-up lied to the man who held her whole new life in his hands by proxy – literally. She’d put herself at risk and set herself back – and for what?

  For a weekend with Keegan, Kelly and Janie.

  Am I fucking nuts?

  Or did I just do the most sane thing that I’ve done in forever?

  **

  Paul Villiers threw his cell on the bed and stared out the hotel window at the bustling city street below. Christ, he hated Denver, with its fresh air and frozen streets and fucking never-ending mountains. He wanted so much to be back in sunny, golden, sexy L.A., with its beaches and sultry nights and palm trees.

  But Callum ‘Dragon’ Decker had spoken and it was Paul’s job to listen and jump – and if Callum wanted Paul there to antagonize and terrorize Thalia Flame in person, here in this fucking freezing hell hole that the bitch now called home, then that’s what he’d do. He had a living to earn, just like everyone else.

  On the surface, it made no real sense for things to be done this way. The stupid whore was coughing up maybe $2500, every couple of months – and Paul’s research had shown that most of that came from selling her stuff online, all those name brand things and expensive trappings of her former high-flying life, because no way her shitty little catering job covered that, though babysitting the old woman earned her a pretty decent chunk of change. Still, it was only twenty-five hundred or so that she was handing over and Paul’s food, hotel and travel bills came in way higher than that every month. By having Paul out here making Thalia’s life a misery, Callum was actually losing money.

  But money wasn’t the point; there was something else going on far below the surface and that something was that Callum was obsessed with Thalia. Like, obsessed to the point that his whole damn life was about punishing her, making her paranoid and jumpy. Making her pay for walking away from Callum and her life in porn and L.A.