by Alexx Andria
Irreversible
The Hitman & The Heiress
Alexx Andria
Contents
Copyright
Newsletter sign up
A Note From Alexx
Irreversible Back Cover Blurb
Acknowledgments
1. DEX
2. BREE
3. DEX
4. BREE
5. DEX
6. BREE
7. DEX
8. BREE
9. DEX
10. BREE
11. DEX
12. BREE
13. DEX
14. BREE
15. DEX
16. BREE
17. DEX
18. BREE
19. DEX
20. BREE
21. DEX
22. BREE
23. DEX
24. BREE
25. DEX
26. BREE
27. DEX
28. BREE
29. DEX
30. BREE
31. DEX
One Year Later…
Also by Alexx Andria
About the Author
BONUS NOVEL
Caged Back Cover Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Copyright
IRREVERSIBLE
By Alexx Andria
© 2017 Alexx Andria. All rights reserved.
Cover by KIM VAN METER
No part of this NOVEL may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to an actual person is purely coincidental.
The following NOVEL is approximately 44,000 words and an original work of fiction by Alexx Andria.
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A Note From Alexx
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for purchasing Irreversible.
Wow! I know I say this each time but this book really captured my heart. Darkly funny, inappropriate and heart-wrenching with real emotion, it’s such a satisfying ride.
I challenge you to find another couple more engaging than Dex and Bree.
For a limited time, you get to enjoy two books in one! Please enjoy Caged, another bad boy hero that has a soft spot in my heart.
I love hearing from readers so please check out my social media and say hi!
You can find me here:
Facebook: facebook.com/alexx.andria.796
Twitter: @alexxandria2772
Instagram: author_alexxandria
Website: www.authoralexxandria.com
Email: [email protected]
Irreversible Back Cover Blurb
it should’ve been simple. do the job, get paid.
but i couldn’t pull the trigger. now we’re both on the run and the clock is ticking.
Don’t confuse me with a good man. My business is killing people and business is good.
I’m a selfish prick, always looking out for No. 1.
That is, until I saw her.
Breezy Grace, all long legs, geeky awkwardness, and an heiress to a billionaire fortune.
Something in me growled, MINE.
I should’ve finished the job but I was obsessed with the nerdy virgin in a way that spun me in circles.
I’ll never be good enough for her but that doesn’t stop me from tasting, touching, needing, owning…
Once I know she’s safe, I’ll walk away.
Until then…I’m going to ruin her.
Warning: This is a bad boy romance, with no cheating, and a gut-wrenching HEA. It is over-the-top sexy with all the dirty sweetness you’ve come to expect from an Alexx Andria read.
Acknowledgments
I’m blessed with an amazing support system within my friends, family and writing connections. With a career that’s mostly solitary, I am so grateful for the people who make up my posse.
Major shout out to old friendships, new connections and to everyone sharing their good vibes — I don’t know what I would do without you!
1
DEX
My finger had been on the trigger, resting with purpose, my eye sharp.
It would've been an easy shot.
She was a creature of habit and liked her vanilla chai tea latte from the tiny coffee shop on 34th street. She usually spent a good hour enjoying her tea while reading a book, soaking up the sunshine on the patio. Then, when she was finished, she took her camera and went searching for interesting things to photograph.
Currently, she wasn’t on assignment, which gave her time to be idle.
And apparently, idle time for her meant over-priced teas and reading historical romance novels, the kind with Fabio on the cover. Bodice-rippers, I guess that’s what they’re called.
And she didn’t read on a Kindle —she actually packed around a tattered, used copy of the book that she probably picked up at a thrift store. I could tell she liked the feel of an actual book in her hand. A throwback to when books were more than bits and bytes on a machine.
I could relate. I liked to read.
When I had time.
When I was a kid, reading had been my escape from my chaotic, shitastic childhood.
So, yeah, I got it.
But big deal. Lots of people read. Plenty of my targets had probably been readers.
Hadn’t mattered before.
But with her...it suddenly had mattered.
My moral ambiguity evaporated in an instant, leaving me with a distressing case of conscience.
Why?
Why her?
It could’ve been so simple.
Bam! Gone.
Mission completed.
Payment wired to my off-shore account.
Beer in my hand by evening.
But fuck no, that's not what happened.
I skewed my gaze to the knocked out woman slumped in the passenger seat, her dark hair falling over her delicate features, her mouth slack, her fingers curled slightly.
Fuck, I couldn’t explain it.
I'd just tanked everything for this chick.
Why?
Maybe I was losing my mind.
Yeah, that was it. Too many assignments. Too many souls ripped from their bodies at the end of my bullet.
Maybe this was God's way of saying, “Hey fucker, time to pay up.”
Men like me didn't have the option of going anywhere but down when we kicked it. I didn't expect nor hope for miracles.
I did my job, got paid
, and moved on.
I didn’t have attachments, no family I’d ever claim, and found my pleasure in the simple things: cold beer, good pizza, and a fine-ass woman on the nights my hand just wouldn’t do.
Until her.
Breezy Grace.
The minute I saw her, something growled MINE.
My finger had stilled on the trigger.
Something reached inside my gut and yanked hard.
Holy fuck, I'd never felt anything so raw, so visceral.
From high ground, I watched her through my crosshairs, a silent threat, the Grim Reaper in jeans and a T-shirt, a ball cap turned backward.
The muscles in my forearms clenched, as if working against my brain, refusing to follow through.
My finger lifted from the trigger as I tracked her through the busy street.
Her long, dark hair, pulled into a messy pony tail seemed an afterthought. Her jeans had holes — not because it was fashionable — but because she couldn't care less about appearances. She liked to blend in, to move through the crowds without drawing attention.
The dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose nearly swallowed her face.
She wasn't a beauty. Eyes too big, mouth too small...like one of those dolls with exaggerated features and too much eye-liner.
But there was something...something about her that I couldn't shake.
She disappeared from view and I lowered my rifle.
I'd lost my shot.
And I knew.
There was no way I was going to kill her.
No matter what I was being paid — no matter the reason.
I never asked questions. I didn’t know why her file had ended up in my hands and before this moment, I’d never cared.
The person on the other end of my crosshairs was just a job.
Hell, a bullet had knocked my Jiminy Cricket off my shoulder long ago so an abundance of scruples had never been a problem.
Thank you, U.S. government.
And yes, that was truth sprinkled with just enough sarcasm to give it flavor.
Until her.
Breezy. What the hell kind of name was that?
That was a hippie, flower-child name.
But Breezy Grace was her legal name — I’d checked.
A photographer who spent most of her time shooting landscapes and wild animals for magazines I’d never heard of, which judging by her beater car and her worn clothing, didn’t pay much more than an intern’s salary.
And in New York, that was practically impossible to make work.
I wondered if it would floor her to know that the bounty on her head was more than she’d ever see in a year. Or two?
That begged the question...why?
What had little Miss Breezy done to deserve the bullet with her name on it?
Why did I care?
I didn’t, I tried to tell myself.
So why hadn’t I pulled the trigger?
I didn’t have a ready answer.
But I did have one legit fact: if I didn't do it...someone else would.
My peers, if you could call them that, wouldn’t hesitate to scoop up that bounty for a relatively easy day of work.
I sat back on my haunches. Damn, was I actually thinking what I was thinking?
Just walk away.
Forget it.
Return the half sitting in your bank account and wash your hands of whatever mystery Miss Breezy was at the epicenter of.
Sound advice.
But I knew I wasn’t going to do that.
I knew it as well as I knew my name.
I just didn’t know why.
...In hindsight...my decision was just as fucked as it remained in the present tense.
I allowed my gaze to drift to the passenger sprawled like a lanky baby giraffe — all legs and arms — across from me.
Yeah, it’s exactly what it looked like: I fucking drugged and kidnapped the woman to save her life.
Why? We already covered that — how the fuck should I know? Did a person losing their mind, actually know when their hinges snapped?
Something tells me, no.
Maybe it was karma coming to collect on my ass for taking all those lives.
Maybe it was the cost of fighting a politician’s war when I’d been too young to understand what giving the government a blank check meant to my life.
Fuck it, what did it matter, anyway?
The deed was done.
And now...I had to deal with the fall-out.
2
BREE
My head ached and my mouth tasted like a gnome had crapped in it.
I fought past the sticky cobwebs clinging to my thoughts, making simple motor function difficult.
I tried to rub my nose against the unfamiliar smells but I ended up just haphazardly sliding my hand across my face as if I’d suddenly forgotten where my nose was in relation to my face.
Was I having a stroke?
No, I could feel my toes.
Or maybe being able to feel my extremities wasn’t a reliable method to determine whether or not I was stroking out.
One eye opened blearily against the dim sunlight filtering in from a hazed window covered partially by faded drapes.
What the....Definitely not in Kansas, anymore, Toto.
“Take this for the headache.”A voice said, startling the bejesus out of me.
I swung my gaze toward the sound. A man, tall and lean, yet stacked with muscle, stood with a glass of water in one hand and a white pill in the other.
The ball cap perched on his head seemed out of place with the hard look in his green eyes.
“What...who...”
“This first,” he gestured “questions after.”
His brusque tone was a slap against my sluggish brain as I struggled to process.
Had I been kidnapped? Was that possible? How? I mean, I know that happened but only to other people. Like people who won the lottery out of millions or people who managed to find both Park Place and Boardwalk on the McDonald’s Monopoly game.
People who ended up on the six o’clock news.
Not me.
I realized the man was still standing there. My head was hurting pretty bad.
“Did you hit me?” I asked, a bit fearful of the answer as he dropped the aspirin in my hand (God, I hoped it was aspirin) and accepted the water glass.
“I don’t hit women.”
“Well, that’s a relief. How’d I get here?”
“I drugged you.”
The aspirin skidded to a stop in my esophagus. “Excuse me?” I squeaked, choking against the sudden burn in my throat. I gulped at the water to push it down until I could sputter, “You drugged me?” Then horror replaced my indignation as I gasped, “Did you just drug me again?”
“Calm down. It was aspirin,” he answered as if I were being ridiculous and shrill for no reason.
Hellllooo, you kidnapped me! Pardon me while I freak the fuck out.
“To run the risk of sounding like every kidnap victim ever...I think you’ve got the wrong girl.”
Wry humor, sarcasm, it was pretty much my only defense in life. I was terribly uncoordinated, not a people person, and the ultimate definition of socially awkward.
So...when faced with an impossibly dangerous situation, where it seemed likely I was about to die, smart-assery was my only weapon.
Yeah, I was probably, no, totally, dying.
I’d say, at least he was cute, but I wasn’t quite ready to embrace a full-blown case of Stockholm Syndrome and, well, being around cute guys wasn’t exactly my forte, much less cute, would-be killers, so I wouldn’t allow myself to even think it.
“I guess the next question would naturally be...why?” I managed, wiping my mouth when I dribbled a little water down my chin. I swallowed, wincing a little. “Not that I’m not, kind of, um, flattered but...why me?”
He held my stare as if he were really trying to figure out how to answer me. I wasn’t sure if his pause was insulting or not.
I knew I wasn’t conventionally gorgeous but I didn’t curdle milk either.
“I wish I knew,” he finally grumbled as he gestured for me to follow. “We need to talk. Now.”
Not to be difficult in the face of potential death but I wasn’t in the habit of trotting after someone just because they snapped their fingers.
Already mentioned, not a people person.
But seeing as Mr. Hot Kidnapper had already walked away, he totally missed my incredulous expression so I slowly climbed from the bed and — after the world stopped spinning — I followed him into the small living room.
First of all, where the hell were we?
Worn plaid sofa with uncomfortable cushions, scratched up wooden rails, and chintzy knick knacks perched on the mantle of the cold fireplace — someone had terrible decorating style.
I barely had time to sink into one of the ugly chairs when he threw me another truth bomb.
“I was hired to kill you.”
I gulped and shook my head, not quite sure I’d heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, what?”
