Brotherhood Protectors: Tempting Montana (Kindle Worlds Novella) (The Martin Family Book 4)

by Parker Kincade

  “My family is fine. They, and the status of the renovation, are not for you to worry about. Both are my responsibility. I’m the one who’ll decide how I spend my time, not you. Now, are we gonna keep dancing or are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Brandon’s gaze darted around the room, looking everywhere but at him. “I’m not sure yet. I just got a call from a…” Brandon hesitated, making Booker’s spidy sense go on high alert. “A friend.” Brandon leaned forward, resting his forearms against his thighs. He glanced back at Booker. “Look, it might be nothing. Until I know for sure, I’d like you to stick around.”

  “Is it Nat?”

  Natalie Cordova was an honorary member of their group and the only one of them still active military, although no one knew who she actually worked for or what she actually did. She and Brandon were … close. Friends and fuck buddies for years, but as far as Booker knew, that’s as far as it went.

  Brandon shook his head. “No. As far as I know, she’s fi—” The ding signaling a text drew Brandon’s attention. As Brandon glanced at the screen, the new sense of urgency surrounding the guy had all eyes turning their way.

  “Fuck. Time to go.”

  “Startin’ to get pissed off at all the mystery, ’mano.”

  The door to the waiting room flew open and Ketcher waltzed through.

  “Three minutes,” Brandon muttered and surged to his feet.

  Booker followed suit, gaze on Ketcher as a cheesy-ass grin split the man’s bruised mug.

  “Regan’s fine. Better than fine. She’s perfect. A few bumps and bruises, but nothing…” Ketcher’s voice cracked. “Nothing permanent.”

  Cheers and oorah’s filled the room, followed by back slaps and a round of man hugs.

  Booker’s knees wobbled in relief. He knew the pain of losing someone he loved. He crossed himself, touched his fingers to his lips, and then pointed them toward the heavens with a silent prayer of gratitude that his friend would be spared the same heartache.

  While he was at it he offered up another prayer, hoping the Big Guy wouldn’t fault him for hedging his bets.

  After all, he only had one minute left and had no idea what waited for him when the time ran out.

  #

  Booker followed Brandon away from the joyous atmosphere of the waiting room, an undeniable sense of foreboding increasing with every step. Clearly the lack of sleep was making him punchy, so he shoved the worry aside. Whatever his friend needed, Booker had his back. No question.

  When they reached the epicenter of the ER, Brandon slowed. “Room 8?” he asked as they approached a nurse’s station.

  A nurse pointed them in the right direction, and in less than a minute they stood outside a floor-to-ceiling sliding door made of glass and chrome.

  Brandon glanced at the number over the doorway. “This is it.”

  The guy sounded almost … apologetic. And since Booker didn’t know what “it” was, he said, “Do you want me to stay out here until you determine whether you’ll need me to hang around or not?”

  “You’ll want to hang around.” He clapped a hand on Booker’s shoulder, squeezing once before letting go.

  Seriously, what the hell? The guy was weirding him out.

  Brandon went through the door first. Booker hung back in the doorway, prepared to guard against any unwanted interruptions while his buddy assessed the situation.

  Bright fluorescents illuminated the room. Machines and wires ran from every inch of the wall behind the hospital bed. Rolling carts filled with medical supplies occupied the left side of the room. A sink and cabinets on the right.

  A nurse appeared to be cleaning a wound on the crown of a woman’s head. Although the nurse’s arm obscured the woman’s profile, Booker knew she was a woman from the delicate curve of her back and the brief glimpse he got of a small, round breast as the nurse shifted position.

  Brandon kneeled in front of her. They spoke in tones too low for him to understand, but there was something distinctly familiar about the girl. The subtle tilt to her head as Brandon spoke. The quiet lilt of her response.

  “All finished,” the nurse said and straightened. “The doctor will be in after he reviews the X-rays they took when you got here.” When she stepped away from her patient Booker’s heart stopped pumping.

  The first thing he thought was maybe he’d gotten hit harder than he realized, because no way was he seeing what he thought he was seeing. His mind must be playing tricks on him. The woman sitting on the edge of the bed … it couldn’t be.

  He blinked hard. Refocused.

  And for the second time in his life, the world tilted on its axis.

  “Ellie.” The name caught in his throat, its syllables rusted from lack of use.

  She turned and fuck, her beauty sucker-punched him. Booker drank in her image like a man starved. And wasn’t he? For twelve years he’d been denied those dark chocolate eyes. Her delicate nose and perfect lips.

  Her eyes widened and she bolted to her feet. “Brandon, what…?” Her expression morphed from surprised to decidedly panicked. “W-why is he here?”

  “Is there a problem?” the nurse asked, her gaze darting between the occupants of the room.

  “We’re fine.” Tacking on a smile that no doubt melted panties, Brandon said, “Could you give us a minute?”

  The nurse’s stance softened. She looked to her patient for confirmation. At Ellie’s stilted nod, the nurse slipped out of the room, but not before shooting Brandon an inviting smile.

  Whatever. The guy could score on his own time. Booker slid the door shut, using those precious seconds to get his head straight. It wasn’t enough. Wasn’t near enough. He turned and stepped deeper into the room.

  “What the holy hell is going on here?”

  Ellie backed up a step; her hand flying to her throat as though she expected Booker would try to strangle her.

  And he might. He just fucking might.

  Her gaze darted between the two of them, finally settling on Brandon. “That’s what I’d like to know. Why is he here?” Her volume and shoulders grew in strength. “And why do you both look like you’ve been in some kind of accident?”

  “He’s here because I asked him to come. We can’t get into the rest of…”

  Booker tuned out, not giving two shits what kind of explanation Brandon had to offer. Right now, he was more interested in the girl.

  Head-to-toe and back, he studied her, still not convinced his brain wasn’t playing tricks on him. She looked different. Thin. Too thin. Hair was shorter. Short enough to leave the delicate line of her neck exposed. What was that color? Mahogany? There was probably some fancy name for the shade that looked red one minute, purple the next, depending on the light. A plain white tank hugged breasts that were smaller than he remembered, but no less perfect. Faded denim rode low on her hips and covered the legs he could still feel wrapped around his waist.

  Son of a bitch.

  Booker’s lungs went on lockdown as heat rose in his chest. Years’ worth of the emotional sludge he’d worked hard to repress oozed to the surface and brought his temper along for the ride.

  He’d had a shitty fucking day. Sure, they’d saved Regan and she was going to be okay—big win—but in the process he’d gotten his head bashed with the stock end of a rifle, earning himself one hell of a headache. He was running on virtually no sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Now, his best friend had deliberately deceived him. And was that a bruise forming on the side of Ellie’s face?

  Christ.

  It was Booker’s final straw. He marched forward, clamped a hand around Brandon’s arm and spun the guy to face him. Booker knew what he was about to do was a terrible idea, but in that moment no force on earth could’ve stopped him. Consequences be damned, Booker hauled off and punched his friend on the jaw.

  Brandon stumbled sideways, catching himself on the edge of the counter with a curse.

  Ellie—his Ellie—cried out with alarm and stepped
between them. “Stop! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Brandon straightened and moved his jaw back and forth, apparently checking for damage. Eyes blazing, Brandon jabbed a finger in his direction. “Considering the circumstances, I’m gonna let you have that one.”

  Let him, his ass. If he wanted to dish out another hit, he’d damn well serve it up. And Brandon would take it because goddamn.

  But first, Booker wanted answers and he wanted them now.“Motherfucker,” Booker ground out. “You didn’t think it was need-to-know that your situation was my fucking wife?”

  Fuck answers. Booker hit him again.

  Chapter Two

  This was the worst day of Elizabeth King’s life. Considering the perpetual shit storm of her existence, that was saying something.

  She’d overslept and in her rush, left the house without her wallet. In her sprint from the front door to the car, the courier who delivered her weekly envelope from work had delayed her even more. On the way to an important job interview her car had overheated, the engine puffing smoke like an old-school locomotive. When she called from the side of the road to reschedule the interview, she’d been informed the job she desperately wanted had been filled and didn’t she get the voicemail about the cancellation?

  No. No, she hadn’t.

  It had taken her thirty minutes to walk to the nearest gas station—barefoot, because no way was she making the trek in heels—where she purchased a gallon of water with change she’d found in the console of the car. Another hour to walk back, fill the radiator, and proceed with her long list of overdue errands. By the time she’d arrived home, the better part of the afternoon had been gone.

  As if she hadn’t dealt with enough, she discovered—too late—there was a burglar in her house. Thank goodness he hadn’t done worse, but the man had roughed her up enough to warrant the trip to the ER … where she now stood with the ex-husband she hadn’t seen or heard from in twelve years and who looked one pinkie twitch away from going in for round three with Brandon.

  Worst. Day. Ever.

  Brandon recovered quickly from the second punch, but his vile curse still echoed in her ears. The tension in the air made Ellie wish she could disappear. Or at least go back to before she called Brandon so she could make a different choice in her bid to not be alone. Maybe call Brandon’s younger brother Alec, instead. She wasn’t close with him, but Alec was cool. He definitely wouldn’t have shown up carting two-hundred-plus pounds of her emotional baggage along with him.

  Brandon spit into the trashcan, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You about done, bro? I’m sure Ellie has better things to do than watch you act like an asshole.”

  “Oh, fuck you, ’mano. You had that coming, and you damn well know it.”

  A stare down commenced, the two men locked in some sort of silent communication Ellie didn’t understand, before Booker’s amber gaze landed squarely on her.

  Sweet mercy that was some stare. Thousands of butterflies took flight inside her stomach. Ellie searched her ex-husband’s face for something, anything familiar to reassure her, but came up empty. This wasn’t the young man she’d married. This man was a hardened warrior, cold and fierce and unyielding. He looked almost sinister in black cargo pants—BDU’s she thought they were called—and combat boots. A black T-shirt strained against broad shoulders and massive chest. His thick, ropy arms were crossed, drawing her attention to the ink that dotted his biceps.

  Her body responded to Booker’s blatant masculinity with a warm, tingling sensation low in her belly.

  Oh, why did he still have to be so devastatingly handsome?

  The angry cut above his eye did nothing to detract from the honeyed tone of his skin. The onyx hair and matching shadow that darkened his cheeks. The ink. The muscles.

  No, this wasn’t the boy she’d known. Booker was a man—fully grown and intimidating.

  Booker cleared his throat, making her realize she’d been openly ogling him. “Who put that mark on your face? I want a name.”

  His voice was different, too. Rough. Low and full of gravel. The demand was classic Booker, though. Always the champion.

  Ellie diverted her eyes.

  It started on her first day of seventh grade. Ellie’s dad had left for parts unknown the summer before, never to be seen again. Her mom, saying they needed a fresh start, moved them from Houston to a less-than-desirable area of Austin. The grungy one room apartment they had lived in smelled like stale smoke and gym socks, but it was cheap and the building was close to the small accounting office where her mom answered phones during the day, as well as the restaurant she served drinks in every night of the week.

  On Ellie’s first day at the new school a group of boys singled her out in the courtyard during lunch. They told her she was pretty. They surrounded her, crowded her into a shadowed corner, despite her protests. When she tried to push past them one of the boys grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close against his scrawny, adolescent body. He was going to kiss her, he’d warned. They were all going to kiss her. He threatened to hurt her if she told.

  The boy never got the chance to follow through—with the kiss or the threat. Two older, bigger boys came to her rescue. Booker was the taller of her rescuers and had the most beautiful skin Ellie had ever seen. Booker had given her a reassuring smile before he snagged her aggressor by the back of the neck and threw him to the ground. The boy paled as he tried to protect his face from Booker’s fist, to no avail. When blood gushed from the kid’s broken nose, Booker leaned down and issued a similar threat about what happened to tattletales.

  Brandon effectively dispersed the rest of the group with nothing more than a growl and a glare.

  From that day forward, Booker and Brandon had been her friends. Her champions. They were always there, laughing with her, hanging with her, looking out for her. It wasn’t until high school that Booker had shown an interest in looking at her.

  Ellie’s heart broke all over again with the memory. They had loved each other once. In another lifetime. Yet there he was. Ready to play savior, regardless of his personal feelings for her—which he made clear the day he’d walked out on their marriage.

  Ellie hadn’t expected to see him again, but now that he was in front of her … she would give anything to see even a smidgen of the possessive warmth that used to fill his gaze when he looked at her. A tiny glimmer in recognition of the life they’d almost shared.

  Ellie shook the childish notion from her head.

  You’re pathetic.

  Booker had left and never looked back. He hadn’t even called when he received the divorce papers. He hadn’t fought for her because she’d given him exactly what he’d wanted. An out.

  A profound sadness clawed around in her chest, tearing up old scars, leaving them raw and bloody.

  Booker wasn’t there out of concern for her. He was there because Brandon tricked him into tagging along. And he’d stay because it had never been in his wheelhouse to walk away from someone in trouble. Even if that someone was his ex-wife.

  Ellie rubbed at the pain in her temple. “I can’t give you a name, because I don’t know.”

  She should’ve called the police instead of calling Brandon. As soon as she saw a doctor and got the okay to leave, she’d go to the police station and file a report. Then, she’d find a hotel, because she wasn’t going back to her place tonight.

  Ellie touched Brandon’s arm, hoping he didn’t notice how her fingers shook. “Thank you for coming, but you both should go be with your friends. The doctor will be here any minute to fix me up. I’ll be okay.”

  Brandon’s boots didn’t budge. He eyed Booker with obvious disappointment. “Yeah. One of us should go.” Brandon kept his gaze on Booker as he spoke. “But I’m not budging until I know what happened to land you in here.”

  Booker folded his arms and settled into his stance. “If you think I’m leaving this room before I get some answers, you’re sadly mistaken.” To her, he added, “
You’re not getting off that easy.”

  The familiar words shivered down her spine.

  You’re not getting off that easy. Don’t you dare, Ellie. Not until I say. Not until—

  Booker jerked her arm, gently, but enough to bring her attention back to him. “Who hurt you?” he demanded, his fingers firm and unyielding against her flesh.

  And just like that, newer memories surfaced. In her heart, she knew Booker would never harm her. With the feel of the intruder’s brutal hands being the more recent, Ellie reacted to the sensation of the grip, not to the man doing the gripping. She tugged against his hold, fighting back panic. Her face and lungs burned as she twisted her arm at an odd angle. Pain assaulted her already injured shoulder. “Let go of me.”

  Instantly, she was free. She stumbled back a step and sucked in air.

  This is worse than a nightmare.

  Booker’s palms were raised as if to say, I don’t want any trouble. My hands are right here, unthreatening and un-touching. While his expression said, what the actual hell?

  Ellie had the sudden urge to stomp her foot and scream. At the stranger who’d broken into her home. At Booker for pretending to care. At her mom for … no. Not going there. Not yet. She needed to keep it together. She could fall apart later, when she was alone. Not in front of him.

  She tucked an invisible piece of hair behind her ear, a gesture left over from when she wore her hair long instead of the current pixie cut. She slipped her thumb under the delicate chain around her neck and followed it down to the square locket dangling just above the neckline of her shirt. Her mother’s locket. It was all Ellie had left of her.

  She warmed the jewelry between her fingers. She would get through this. It was just another bump in her pitted-out gravel road.

  Blinking back tears, Ellie took a fortifying breath and let the story unfold. “Someone broke into my house this afternoon. I wasn’t home at first. I don’t know how long…” The strength left her legs and she sank onto the edge of the bed. “He was in the house when I got home.”