by A. C. Bextor
Paul and Dallace—I can’t thank you enough for always grounding me to you when I start to lose focus on what’s most important. Family first.
Dana Hook—Thank you for sticking by me with writer prompts, cover input, and whatever off-hand nonsensical questions I asked along the way. There were so many. I love our friendship. Not you exactly, but our friendship. Tee hee.
Joanne Thompson—Gas can. Fuel. Matches. A big pile of written pages that left me pissed off and confused. Thank you so much for sorting my story and encouraging me to finish. And it’s already been clearly established that you’ve called dibs on Mac-Daddy.
Karen Hrdlicka—Thank you for fixing my script over and over (no exaggeration). I appreciate your encouragement and patience.
Ashleigh Hoodkiller—My five second moral compass. ‘Cause that’s how long it took to talk you around Bextor writing book centered with marital cheating. Thank you for hanging in the twenty months as I wrote Mason and Katie and doing your best to curve my twisted thoughts.
Melissa Bookslayer—Unedited. Raw. Rough. Whatever that first draft was—you were insistent about its fixes. I hope I did all your reading and rereading justice. Thank you so much for all your help!
A.C. Craves the Angst Reader Group—All your patience, encouragement, and support is invaluable. Even if I’m not writing, I’m always reading. I love and appreciate hearing of all the books you’re so excited about. Your posts, comments and messages mean so much! Thank you for being the center of my writing path.
Edited By: Karen Hrdlicka—Barren Acres Editing
Cover Art: Margreet Asslebergs—Rebel Edit and Design
Proofread by: Joanne Thompson
Formatting By: Stacey Ryan Blake —Champagne Book Design
Hotel Room—Calum Scott
Let Her Go (Acoustic)—Passenger
Barely Alive—Jompson Brothers
Frail Love—Cloves
Between The Lines—Sara Bareilles
Let Me Go—Prime Circle
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Releasing early Summer 2018
Keeping Happy Ever After
Jaxson Joseph Cole is the devil personified.
Tall. Dark. Handsome. I crave a man as cliché as God could create.
At twenty-six-years-old, he’s every little girl’s fantasy and every grown woman’s desire. He’s determined, stubborn, and incorrigible. He’s also the first boy I ever loved.
With my big sister’s wedding only a few days away, the entirety of our family is fitted together inside a luxurious resort in the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.
I’ll be forced to brave his presence. I’ll be made to endure his torture. I’ll be obligated to keep my distance.
He wants me. I want him.
There’s just one small obstacle standing in my way.
Jaxson Joseph Cole scares me to death.
Lights of Peril
Holding On
The Way Home
Toxic
Devil’s Despair
Ace’s Redemption
Hayden’s Verse
Travis’s Stand
The Vengence Duet
Dirty
Truth
A Mafia Duet
Empires and Kings
Saints and Savages
Saint’s Justice MC
Angels and Demons
Kept
Kept
Sneak Peek of Keeping 6 by Freya Barker
Keeping 6
By Freya Barker
Rock Point Series, Book # 1
Copyright © 2016 Freya Barker
ISBN: 978-1-988733-11-1
PROLOGUE
Two years ago…
Kerry
DAMN!
I swear, these days any time I even look at a cup of coffee, I need to pee. It was probably not a good idea to snag that latte at the Starbucks on my way to the airport, since they’re about to start boarding and my bladder is making itself known.
Again.
One of the many, many pitfalls of entering my middle years. Gravity is another such annoyance, and one that, despite the promises that yoga is supposed to keep me high and tight, has my tits and ass plummeting to earth. I could add to that the abject horror I felt when I found a few strands of gray hair last month, but I promised myself I would eradicate them from memory as I carefully plucked them, root and all, from my scalp.
Bliss! The bathroom is empty and I shuffle into the accessible stall with my carry-on. I’ll only be gone for a weekend, but since it’s Vegas, my checked bag wouldn’t have been enough. I swear I packed my entire closet, wanting to be prepared for any occasion. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere by myself since Greg and I got married, and I’m giddy at the prospect. I’ve certainly not been anywhere of my choosing. I’ve been looking forward to Las Vegas with Kimeo and the girls.
Poor Kim has been stressed to the gills and really needs this break. Her quiet life had been turned upside down when her boss was killed right under her nose. Murder, shady land deals, mineral rights, and a very handsome, dark, and dangerous investigator, who has caught my girl’s eye, make for more excitement than she could’ve imagined.
I flush as I vaguely hear someone come in and take a stall on the opposite end, just as a barely distinguishable voice garbles from a speaker somewhere, announcing what I think is a final boarding call for flight 5620 to Las Vegas. I hurry to wash my hands at the sink, and barely have time to register the figure coming up behind me before I feel a crushing blow to my head and the world fades away.
* * *
I’m not sure where I am.
My hands and feet are hogtied and I’m on a concrete floor in a dark, damp space.
Thankfully, I’m alone. The man who was looming over me the first time I opened my eyes is not here. It’s hard to think when your head is throbbing from the knock it sustained, but from what I could glean from his questions, he’s looking for Kim. I safely assumed he’s not intending to send her flowers.
No way in hell I was going to point him to her. I didn’t hesitate to inform him of that fact, but I didn’t quite expect the first, swift kick that knocked the wind right out of me. By the time his fist connected with my jaw, and turned out my lights once again, I welcomed the dark. I’d been questioned, kicked, and pounded on for what felt like hours but was likely minutes, however, as I sank into oblivion, I did so with the smug satisfaction that I kept my silence. More brawn than brains I’m afraid, since I’m not sure how much more of these beatings I can withstand.
It may have been hours, or days. I’m not quite sure. At some point, I must have relieved myself because the strong smell of urine burns in my nostrils. After a futile struggle against the bindings around my wrists and ankles, I close my eyes, exhausted and hurting.
I wonder if anyone’s missing me.
The hard slide of a metal latch has my eyes fly wide. The door swings open, almost blinding me with the bright light from beyond. All I see is a massive dark shadow standing in the doorway, starkly contrasted against the glow.
He’s back.
Damian
It had taken us too long to track the maroon Ford Edge. All fucking night this guy has had his hands on the woman, and I have serious doubts we’ll find her alive.
The building is quiet when we make our approach, but the car is parked around the back. A witness reported the man carrying a woman he called his wife in his arms to the dark red car, yesterday. They should still be inside. Durango PD is standing back, reluctantly agreeing for my team to head in first to get the lay of the land. They’ll provide backup if needed.
The creaking of the rusty door, beside the loading dock, echoes into the empty space beyond as one of my team pushes his way through. Surely we’ve been made; the sound is loud enough to wake the dead. A hallway on the far side, underneath a storage loft above, is illuminated. Without the need for words, my team makes its way ove
r, hugging the walls as we go. One of my guys darts across the lit doorway to the other side, giving us a better bead on what might be waiting for us.
The hallway is empty, but a door at the end is slightly ajar. I only see darkness beyond, but can hear movement: a rustling of clothes and a small gasp. Hard to tell for sure, but it sounds like the noise a woman might make. When we get to the door, I manage to catch a glimpse through the crack by the hinges. A woman is visible in the light from the doorway; her body drooped awkwardly, as the barely visible man beyond holds her up with an arm around her waist and a large hunting knife to her throat. With hand signals, I relay the suspect and victim’s whereabouts to my team, and indicate for one of them to wait for my sign.
“FBI! Come out with your hands raised,” I yell through the crack, and as I’d hoped, the suspect turns toward the sound, keeping the woman in front of him. The quarter turn is enough to expose more of his body to one of my guys, who is ducked low and crouches around the open edge of the door. I give a small nod and almost instantly the sharp sound of a gunshot pierces the air.
The suspect goes down instantly, but so does the victim, and I shove open the door and rush to their sides. A knife lies useless in the open palm of the man we’ve been looking for, and I remove it, before turning my eyes to the woman.
Long, blonde, tangled hair is draped over her face, turning pink where it drags through a small puddle of blood collecting underneath her. Her gasp is a welcome sound when I turn her body over.
Wide gray eyes, the color of morning mist, stare up into mine. Just for a moment I find myself sinking in those clear pools, the promise of passion at their depths, but when I see the trickle of blood running down the side of her neck, I shake myself free. The suspect’s knife left a sizable gash. Her face is bruised and swollen, and from the tight way she holds her body, I suspect the rest of her is as well.
“Kerry?” I prompt her, earning me a small nod. “I’m Special Agent Damian Gomez. Hang tight, we’ve got an ambulance on the way.”
* * *
I’d sent an agent to pick up Kerry’s husband, Greg Belfour, from Cortez, and he had been less than complimentary about the victim’s husband. Said he was a dick.
I get my first clue when I walked into the victim’s hospital room and caught him complaining to his wife that he was missing an important meeting. Like her ending up in the hospital was an inconvenience to him. Miserable bastard. Fine fucking husband he makes. He’s done nothing but complain since, treating his wife with misogynistic disdain when he discovered they would both need to stay in an FBI safe house until our investigation is finalized. He should count his lucky stars; underneath the bumps and discolorations, and despite her slightly haggard appearance, Kerry Belfour is a beautiful, and apparently, quite resilient woman.
“Would you stop blaming yourself? You have no responsibility in this,” Kerry tells her friend, Kim, who apparently hasn’t stopped apologizing since getting on the phone. Normally we don’t allow contact with the outside world when we have witnesses in protective custody, but I made an exception this time, giving Kerry my cell phone. A small favor since I happen to know Kim’s boyfriend, with whom I’ve had a few professional encounters. The owner of the security company he works for and I go way back.
I’m fast regretting it; Greg appears unable to keep his mouth shut in the background, as the women try to maintain some normalcy in their lives by making plans around Kerry’s bookstore. Some shit about missing his bowling league night or something. Selfish prick. I have no idea what a woman like that sees in a guy like him. But then I generally have no idea around women. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been surrounded by women, one way or another, all my life. They’re still a complete mystery to me.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s just pissed he’s missing his weekly bowling league. He’ll have to get over it,” she says, dismissing her husband with a wave of her hand, which only seems to fire him up.
“That’s enough,” I interject, holding out my hand for my phone.
“My handler tells me I have to hang up.”
I lift my eyebrow at her snide tone as she signs off and returns my cell.
“Mostly I wanted your husband to shut up.” I ignore the loud protest from the man in question as I keep my eyes on Kerry’s expressive face. Right now she has a small smile teasing her lips, hinting at her amusement, but in the next second her face smoothes out into a blank mask as she turns to face Greg. He takes that as an invitation to go into a long dissatisfied ramble about shit I don’t want to hear about, but apparently Kerry does, because she stands there taking the trash he spouts without blinking. She’s proven herself strong and unyielding during her captivity, and again during my interview with her, but seems pliant and submissive with that tool.
I’ll never understand women.
Without even bothering to say goodbye, I lift my chin at the agent in charge of their safety, and leave the couple to their fucked-up marriage.
Good fucking luck to them.
CHAPTER 1
Damian
“YOU?”
My head whips around at the sound of a woman’s voice.
It’s been a long-ass morning already with meetings I would’ve loved to have avoided. Since being put in charge of the Durango field office, it seems I spend more time in meetings than working in the field. I swear each week there are new task forces put together, and I can barely keep up. I stepped out of the office for a much-needed break to find that the coffee shop around the corner had a sign plastered on the door stating they were closed due to a family emergency. Desperate for my caffeine fix, I kept walking and bumped into Kerry’s Korner: Books & Brew. Something about the name is familiar. I push the door, which opens with the ring of a bell, when I hear her voice.
She’s pretty. The woman behind the counter looks like a seventies flower child, with wild, dirty blonde hair, some kind of flowy top leaving her collarbones and a goodly amount of cleavage exposed, and a pixie face. Something about her is familiar, and it appears she knows me, too. Fuck if I can’t place her.
“Got me at a disadvantage, sweets,” I tell her with a shrug.
“You’re FBI,” she says, propping her hands on her nicely rounded hips. “I remember you.”
I look at her a little closer. Not a hardship, there’s a lot to check out. Those pale gray eyes trigger a memory. “You’re Kimeo’s girl,” I say, remembering the case a few years ago when I first saw her for the briefest of moments. A case long since put to rest, but not before this woman was snatched and roughed up before we got to her. We’d been called in by Gus Flemming, a friend of mine who owns an investigation and security company in Cedar Tree. Kimeo, the wife of one of Gus’s guys, found herself in the middle of shady land deals and this woman, her best friend, had been kidnapped to ensure her silence. I may not have remembered her name until I saw her standing behind the counter of Kerry’s Korner, but I sure as hell remember her. I also remember the wedding ring on her finger, which is why I didn’t bother looking twice at the time.
The hands resting on her hips no longer sport that wedding ring, just a large knuckle ring on the middle finger of her left hand as a sort of fuck you to the world. I bet she flips that bird easily, judging by the attitude she throws off. I like it.
“Kerry,” she says, almost as a challenge.
“Right. You look better now,” I tell her, making her snort loudly.
“No shit. I’d just been used as a punching bag when you found me and shoved me into the back of a van without a word.” Yup, most definitely a challenge. She doesn’t like me much, I deduct from the slightly distasteful look on her face.
“Was a little preoccupied with my investigation. Sorry if I didn’t take the time to make nice.” Fuck me, I sound like a dick. Something about her attitude grates on me, especially when she rolls her eyes dramatically before placing her hands on the counter in front of her and leaning over.
“Damian. Right?” She doesn’t wait for my confirmat
ion before she continues, “Well, Damian, what brings you to my bookstore?”
“Coffee. Straight up,” I tell her without blinking. She turns her back without a word and starts fiddling with the expensive-looking machine on the sideboard, and I take the opportunity to check out her backside. “Double shot?” she asks over her shoulder, catching me ogling.
“Good guess.” I smile at her, which only earns me another eye roll. Attitude in spades, this one. As much as it irritates me, it somehow turns me on, too.
She’s late thirties, maybe forty, if I had to venture a guess from the lines around her eyes. She obviously laughs a lot—something I wouldn’t mind hearing. I have a feeling with that slightly raspy voice of hers, her laugh will sound even sexier. She’s not wearing a stitch of makeup from what I can tell and seems totally at ease in her skin. Not usually the kind of woman I find myself drawn to, but this one has an appeal all her own. Most women I end up with are well put together: stacked, sweet, and sultry. Just the way I like them. This one, though? This one is like the fucking girl next door. Fresh-faced, with a hippy vibe, barely enough tit to fill my hands, but an ass that should be framed, it’s that lush. Always considered myself a boob man, until I just got an eyeful of her backside.
While she doctors the elaborate coffee machine, I take the time to check out her shop. An older building, it has an old-fashioned facade with shallow bay windows, displaying an assortment of books, framing the door. Old wood floors that have been left bare to the wear and tear of foot traffic, resulting in a well-worn look more suited to an old saloon. Rows of rugged bookcases, jutting out from the back wall, with chalkboard display signs indicating the different genres. The counter is on one side in front of the window and on the opposite side, in front of the second bay window, is a small seating arrangement with an old, brown leather couch and two club chairs around a small, round coffee table. On the counter is a large, round, glass cake stand with pastries.
