by Bijou Hunter
Live Wire
Bijou Hunter
Copyright © 2015 Bijou Hunter
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
*****
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For more information about this book and author visit:
http://www.bijouhunterbooks.com
Cover Design
Illustrator: Miranda Koryluk
Photographer: Mayer George
Source: Shuttershock
Dedication
Freckles, Tigger, Pooh, and Roo, I love you more than words can express
Mustang Sally, you deserve only the best in life
Candy Girl Miranda, meeting you was a blessing I hope I never stop earning
Thanks to my badass beta readers: Saucy Sarah & Jazzy Jaimie
Big hugs to Naughty Nicole for all the work she does
Book Summary
My name is Brad, and I'm falling for someone I shouldn't. No doubt Saskia's beautiful with the red hair and dark eyes of a vixen. When she smiles at me, I'm lost in animalistic heat. Why haven't I made her mine yet?
The object of my desire is a stone cold killer. Well a retired killer anyway. She meets my heat with her own, yet I fear her heart can never truly thaw enough to love me.
When an old threat resurfaces, Saskia enters my world. I was once a rising star in Hollywood, but violence forced me into the role of a recluse. In all these years, no woman ever tempted me out of my solitude. Not until the mysterious and all too complicated Saskia.
Screw it! I've lived my life too safe for too damn long. The alluring ice princess brings out my inner alpha, and I plan to claim the woman I need.
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Epilogue
Epilogue
About Bijou
1
~ Brad ~
The Past Rears Its Ugly Head
The decorative white gift box rests in the middle of the king sized bed. I stand in the small hallway at the entrance of the hotel suite and stare at the present left for me. I can see the name "Evan Motley" printed on the nametag. I shiver at the sight of my character's name from the short-lived and rather popular TV show I starred in over a decade ago. Trouble has returned for me.
I remain stuck in my spot. My cell hums in my hand, but I don't answer. All I can see, hear, and feel is the package on the bed. I stare at the wet, red spot under the package as its contents leak.
I'd convinced myself the demon worshipping cult was gone. Or they no longer cared about me. I honestly believed I'd hidden for long enough. All my lies feel childish now. Of course, they waited for me to resurface, and now they left a gift.
My mother enters the room, pushing past me while complaining about Houston traffic. We've remained locked away in the distant suburbs for so long that the city feel foreign to us now. Much like the painful fear in my chest, I'd forgotten how the real world works. The package on the bed brings everything back to me.
"What the...?" Mom says, pausing a foot from the bed.
Our financial manager, and mom's live-in partner going on twenty years, enters the room next. Nell gasps at the sight on the bed.
"This could be a good thing," she says without thinking.
Always ready to say something positive, Nell can't finish because nothing good can come out of whatever is bleeding all over my pristine hotel comforter.
The police arrive quickly while I sit in Mom and Nell's hotel room. One officer after another asks me questions, but I don't know the answers. The detectives who arrive an hour later straight out ask if the bloody gift is a publicity stunt to promote my new autobiography. They clearly believe I'm a Hollywood idiot pulling a ploy to increase buzz about my tell-all.
I learn later the box is filled with a human heart. The police suddenly take me seriously. Not that I care what they think. The authorities have proven useless in the past.
When two cultists abducted me from a Hollywood party, the police blew off my disappearance. They told reporters I was off partying, and my mom/manager was too protective.
Unable to separate my character from reality, the cultists believed I was the half-breed son of a demon. They intended to sacrifice me and bring forth their demon god. One of them even went so far as to carve arcane symbols into my back. All while I bled and suffered, I waited for the police to arrive.
When reality caught up with me, I chose to save myself. In the process of gaining my freedom, I took the life of the male cultist. The police didn't find me, even after I used the cultist's phone. Instead, a nice old couple took me into their home and finally found me help. Hell, even when the police stumbled upon the woman cultist injured by the side of the road, they failed to get information from her. She hung herself in her cell without telling them a single thing.
Now in Houston, I realize we're on our own again. Looking at Mom and Nell, they've hidden away with me at our ranch for over a decade. We've lived safely until I decided to write a book about what happened those years ago. An author named Marx Hearton emailed me for over a year before I agreed to meet him. His persistence paid off when I agreed to work on the book. My long time therapist even thought the process might be cathartic.
"We need to hire someone," I tell Mom when the police leave us alone in her room. "I walked into that room without even fucking checking. I've forgotten how to be afraid. Someone could have been waiting for me, and I was standing there like an idiot."
"I'll ask around," Nell mumbles, and I see genuine fear in her hazel eyes.
I stare into my mother's soft gray eyes. She's a strong woman, and I rely on her too much. We've been in this place before. A decade ago, I left Hollywood and my new career. We bought the ranch and kept to ourselves. Soon the world forgot about me. After a few years, I returned to writing songs for country musicians. I used a pseudonym, wanting to remain hidden from the world and the leftover cultists.
No longer hidden, I need a way to end the threat. Ten years and they're still waiting.
"I heard of a security firm capable of handling a situation like this one," Mom says, and I instantly think of the neighbors gossiping about a recent high profile case. "I don't know if they'll take the job, but I can track down their info."
"No," Nell whispers. "That firm is full of killers."
"Those are just rumors."
"Why take the chance?"
"Because the rumors might be true," Mom says, giving me a steely gaze.
Nell says nothing, fearing the solution is worse than the problem. Mom and I understand though. The cultists don't play by anyone's rules. They don't fear the law or society. They think a demon is on their side. How can the law argue with such insanity?
When faced with a group unwilling to follow society's laws, we need a weapon just as prepared to step over the line. Ramsey Security promises to be just such a weapon.
2
~ Saskia ~
All I Need is Comfort
Wealth feeds weakness. Hoarders buy too many things. Substance addicts snort, shoot up, or swallow their fortune. Wealth makes weak people feel strong. Losing wealth can make the powerful fall to their knees.
These are the reasons I only want comfort. My money goes to keep a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and clothes on my back. My only indulgences are weapons and security systems. These keep me safe, and safety makes me comfortable.
I've visited many wealthy homes in my life. Most are cold, meant more to impress than to comfort. Brad Sloane's home is big, yet homey. A man's house says more about him than his car or clothes. If he rests his head in a sterile home, he'll likely provide no warmth to those around him.
All I know about Sloane is what I find on Google including plenty of pictures of him from his time on a hit paranormal show. He possessed a boyish grin and floppy blond hair back then. I can see why women drooled over the twenty-year-old, but he isn't my type. Scrawny men overcompensate, and I already have enough trouble with them trying to put me in my place.
In the elite Houston circles, Ramsey Security is the go-to agency for wealthy people with tough problems. Despite his dark skin and large size, Rafael Ramsey is the name and face people trust. He's the one who set up this meet and greet at Brad Sloane's house.
Far from downtown Houston, the ten-acre ranch is obscured from the road by high fences and thick brush. Through a security gate, we drive down a quiet tree lined path until reaching the large Craftsman-style house.
Exiting my compact SUV, I walk to where Rafael waits. He sizes up the location, checks his phone, and finally we walk to the front porch. A dark haired woman answers the door and identifies herself as Nell Bano. I know she lives in the house along with Brad, his mother Ruth, and their two German Shepherds.
Nell leads us inside the home, down a cozy hallway to a warmly decorated great room. I try not to flinch when one of the dogs rushes at me. Knowing I don't like animals, Rafael steps casually between the dog and me.
Entering the room, Ruth Sloane's weathered face is hard, yet I'm struck by the excitement in her gray eyes. Running her hands through the brown and gray hair hanging loosely around her face, she sits in a chair and gestures for us to do the same. Rafael pets one of the dogs and does the small talk.
Catching sight of Brad lingering at the doorway, I realize he's bigger than in the Google pictures. I guess a decade can broaden a man's shoulders and chest.
"If you hire us," Rafael says after the small talk is over, "we think Saskia would be the best day-to-day security option for you. If a male operator like myself trails you, these targets would immediately assume we're security. Unlike a normal security team, we don't want to scare them away. Our goal is to make them feel safe enough to come out of hiding so we can hand them over to the authorities."
"Hey," Ruth announces, waving her hand around, "I say if you get a shot, take it and save the taxpayers' money. I know I will."
Ruth pats at her hip, and I hear one of her rings tapping against the gun hidden under her shirt. Nell stands nearby, showing me nothing. I suspect these women spent many years on guard for the day when Brad's stalkers returned.
"She's small," Ruth says, focusing on me. "I don't mean to be a gruff bitch, but your friend looks like she only weighs eighty pounds soaking wet."
"Actually one ten dry," I reply calmly. "I've been an operator for over a decade and dealt with targets far more deadly than those now stalking your family."
"That's all good and well, but you're still small."
"Yes, but I carry a very large arsenal, ma'am."
Ruth smiles at me. "Alright then but call me Ruth."
Glancing over her shoulder at the shadowed Brad at the doorway, she gets the nod of approval from her son.
"You're hired. What do you need from us?"
"A room for Saskia. We’ll also need a schedule of your upcoming appearances along with a list of approved people allowed on the property. For public appearances, we'll bring in more security operators. For the day-to-day, Saskia will suffice. Other members of our team will also monitor the area."
"The community already has security that drives by every hour."
"And the targets likely know the drive-by schedule by heart at this point."
I appreciate Rafael's ability to do the business chat. If I were in charge, I'd tell them to back off and let me do my job. I'd also promise to kill whoever needed killing. Rafael's smarter at living around these normal people though, which is why he's the head of the company while I'm the muscle.
3
~ Brad ~
Stuck in my Head
Saskia isn't what I expect when picturing specialized security. Rafael is more my idea of a bodyguard, but he leaves the petite redhead behind. I feel foolish hiding in the hallway, but I hate new people and being on display. I've gone years without feeling so childish. Therapy convinced me that I'd conquered the past. Unfortunately, ignoring the past isn't an option anymore.
Mom and Nell stand in the kitchen, whispering heatedly. When I enter the room, they never pause with their disagreement.
"These people have no references," Nell whispers. "What is their training? Do they have any credentials? At least with the other agency, we knew they were retired police."
"Ramsey handled the Darla Birmingham problem. They got rid of Elsa Taylor's violent ex-husband. You know the rumors about them being retired mercenaries. I'd say assassins trump retired cops."
"Having killers in our home is your solution?"
"Better than your solution to run away and hide."
Knowing Mom and Nell won't stop until someone stops them, I ask, "Does my opinion matter?"
"Of course," Mom says, but she's only focused on Nell.
"I don't like men," I mutter, hitting a nerve I know they'll both respond to immediately. "I'd rather have a tiny woman in my house than a burly man."
These women raised me with love and care, but they're very aware of the lack of masculine role models in my life. Deep inside, Mom wonders if I'd be healthier now if I had a dad growing up. If only I had a father to roughhouse with me as a kid, I’d have shrugged off the abduction and torture.
As silly as I know her fears are, I don't mind using them against her when necessary. Right now with evil fuckers threatening my life and family, I'd use any trick to get the professionally scary people to stand between me and the threat. Despite her size and beauty, Saskia is terrifying.
Before she disappeared into the bedroom to unpack, we met briefly. Her gaze sized me up, dissecting my every weakness before dismissing me as unworthy. I'd never felt more pathetic.
Saskia might not be warm and cuddly to have around the house, but logic dictates she's dangerous. In her line of work, she's faced bigger opponents. Somehow, she won. I found her as fascinating as I did scary.
"If one of the freaks breaks onto this property, a retired cop will think about laws," I say when they remain silent. "Do you really think Saskia will care about following procedures?"
"I bet she cheats in fights," Mom mutters, grinning at me. "I want someone sneaky and ruthless."
Nell balls her hands into fists and shoves them into her jean pockets. Nell grew up with a cop father and thinks the police are the answer to problems. If someone steals my car, I agree with her. When freaks want to sacrifice me to their demon god, I'll happily hire the people with the biggest guns and fewest morals.
Leaving them to whisper, I walk through the house to the back room where Saskia is staying.
Despite my size, I'm a rather quiet man. I occasionally scare the shit out of Nell when I appear behind her. Peering into the spare room where Saskia unpacks, I wonder if she's good enough to hear me. I don't get my answer because she doesn't react to my standing at the doorway, yet I sense she still knows I'm there. Either way, I watch her quietly for a few minutes.
Her thick red hair hangs loosely down the back of her blue and white striped shirt. I take in the sight of this petite woman and try to
imagine her taking down anyone, let alone a full-grown man. Too fascinated by her size, I don't notice she's turned and is now watching me too.
"I wanted to see if you need anything?" I ask, once I'm aware I've been caught being an idiot.
"I'm fine. Thank you," she says, strapping a gun holster to the loop on her jeans. "Are you frightened? Would you like me to make a sweep of the property?"
Narrowing my eyes at her, I wonder if she's always this rude to people. Based on how she narrows her eyes at me, I suspect she's amused by my irritation.
"Thank you for your concern."
"It's my job."
We study one another, and I wait for Saskia to insult me again.
She smiles slowly. "Is there something else you wanted?"
"Besides being friendly. No, I guess there wasn't."
Saskia watches me leave, and I feel her gaze long after I know she can't see me.
I walk into the living room, feel restless, and end up on the front porch. Why do I care if she thinks I'm pathetic? Her job is to protect me. I should expect her pity, yet I'm angry at myself for not standing up to her. Yeah, how would that have worked? Would pumping a few hundred pounds in the weight room impress her?
"I'm an idiot," I mutter, watching Marx's car pulling down the road.
I'd like to say he's my friend. He knows many of my secrets, even things I've never told Mom or Nell. Though he thinks otherwise, Marx doesn't know them all. Somehow, we're close yet not friends.
"What kind of badass did you end up with? Is he huge?" Marx asks, stepping onto the porch.
"It's a she."
"A girl?" he asks like a horny teenager. "Think she's a killer?"
I frown hard at him. "Keep your voice down."
"Why?" he says, smiling. "Think she'll kill me?"
Remembering Saskia's cold eyes, I doubt she'll need to kill an excitable dweeb like Marx. A cutting comment followed by her stare, and he'll simply wet his pants. While my jeans remained dry in her presence, I'm still kicking myself for lacking the balls to stay in the room and force a conversation.
