by Sidney Bell
They met at the elevator to head upstairs, bullshitting as they went. They’d been friends since his first day at Security Division, and they worked well together. Once on the twenty-first floor, they entered Henniton’s personal reception area, a large alcove lined with small couches and low tables that gleamed from the attentions of some devoted janitor. Financial magazines were posed on a wooden rack in the corner, and an older woman sat typing behind a big desk. The night shift guys filled them in then took off, and Mario entered Henniton’s office quietly.
With Mario inside, Brogan took up his position at the door. The basic gist of their protocol was that the primary—Mario today—would shadow Henniton. As backup, Brogan’s duty was to ensure that nothing interfered with Mario’s ability to keep bullets away from the client. He made sure the car wasn’t tampered with, that their route was safe, that points of egress remained open, and he reviewed anyone who wanted access to Henniton in order to weed out trouble.
When the elevator dinged again, Brogan got ready to clear whoever stepped out, only to freeze in place when the doors opened.
The man who emerged was absolutely, excruciatingly exquisite.
For three entire seconds, Brogan couldn’t breathe. If the stranger had pulled a weapon, he’d have had the hit no problem because Brogan was standing there staring like a complete fucking idiot, barely able to keep his mouth from dropping open in full advertisement of his own stupidity.
The stranger was in his early to mid-twenties, whippet-lean and graceful in a brutally tailored dark blue suit with a sharp vest and nearly obscene trousers that made his legs look ten miles long. Night-dark hair had been slicked into a conservative style and provided sharp contrast against pale, creamy skin. He had aristocratic features—high cheekbones, a slim, straight nose, a hard jaw and slashing brows that give him a somber, intent air—but his mouth, by contrast, was sweet, almost delicate.
Brogan’s brain finally woke up, and he took a second glance at the stranger, this time searching for signs that he was a threat. He carried a brown leather briefcase in one hand, staring down while he thumbed the buttons on a smartphone with the other. There were no bulges in his clothing to suggest he was carrying, and there was nothing overtly menacing about him.
The receptionist paused in her typing to say, “Good morning, Mr. Ford.”
“Suze,” he said politely, looking up.
His eyes were big, black, and shrewd.
His gaze traveled to Brogan, cool to the point of disdain, and then he walked past him without hesitating.
Brogan fumbled to find his tongue. “Sir, if you could wait a moment.”
“I’m on the list,” Ford said without stopping.
“Yeah,” Brogan said, turning to follow gracelessly. He recognized the name from the conversation with Timmerson, and the fact that the receptionist knew him was verification of his identity, although Brogan still needed to give Mario a heads up. He was just a few seconds behind, though, and those trousers were as perfectly cut in the rear as they were in the front. Frankly, Ford had an ass that made Brogan’s mouth go dry all over again, because fuck—
Ford entered Henniton’s office without knocking.
And Brogan stood there like a stupid bastard and let him.
“Everything clear?” Mario’s voice sounded through his earpiece, the question vague enough, fortunately, that support wouldn’t realize that Brogan fucked up.
“Uh, clear,” he said, activating his mic.
“Copy.”
It took him a good five seconds to recover.
“He is on the list, if that makes you feel better,” the receptionist—Suze, apparently—said, hints of a smile curving her lips. “He’s Mr. Henniton’s executive assistant.”
“Yeah,” Brogan managed. He gave her a flustered shrug. “He’s not gonna try to shoot Henniton, then.”
“Less likely than most,” she replied, the hint of a smile becoming a full grin. “And don’t be too embarrassed. More than a few of the women have had that same reaction.”
“Great,” he said, shaking his head. Now he’d broken protocol and outed himself in the same thirty seconds. An auspicious start to the day.
Brogan sat back down and Suze resumed her typing, the click-click of her fingers on the keyboard disappearing into the background. He studied the hall, determined not to mess up again, angry with himself for mishandling a simple thing. Verifying identity and telling Mario that Ford was here, that was all he’d had to do.
Brogan had never been that guy. He didn’t think with his cock, didn’t let himself get distracted. He wasn’t married to the rules or anything—he could improvise with the best of them, even preferred it at times—but he was a professional, for crying out loud. His brain had never stopped functioning just because something gorgeous walked by, and he’d be damned if he’d let it now.
Another issue was that Brogan wasn’t out at work. His family and a couple friends, Mario included, knew he was gay, and he didn’t live in the closet. He pulled at gay bars when he wanted to and he didn’t do a damn thing to conceal who he was beyond keeping his mouth shut on the topic around his colleagues. It was one of the few things that Brogan actively disliked about his job—a hyper-masculine field like security wasn’t even close to abandoning old-school bigotries about orientation, and while he doubted he’d be in danger if he were outed, he really didn’t want the hassle.
All in all, he wasn’t pleased with himself for how he’d reacted.
He had his game face on by the time lunch rolled around and he got his first look at Joel Henniton in person. The guy was six and a half feet of brawn with shoulders that could put a freight train in its place, and hands like mallets. He made Brogan feel small—something he wasn’t used to—and towered over Ford, who was, unfortunately, every bit as impossibly beautiful as he’d been the first time he walked past.
As Timmerson had predicted, Henniton didn’t deign to notice Brogan.
Brogan held the elevator doors for the others, ensuring that he and Mario stood in front for the ride down, and he ignored the quick once-over of concern that Mario threw his way.
Henniton said, “I don’t like Neeley for this. He’s disloyal. He’ll turn on us as quickly as he’ll turn on them.”
“It’ll be free market information in less than six hours,” Ford replied. “If we don’t go with Neeley, we’ll lose our head start while we search for another source.”
Brogan listened with half an ear. Most of his attention was on his radio, where he’d hear about any trouble that might meet them beyond the elevator doors when they got to the lobby. Henniton considered Ford’s words then said, “Okay. Call him.”
“All right. Now, about facilities management. We need a new director. I’m not working with that idiot anymore.” Ford’s voice was pleasantly deep—not that Brogan cared—but his words were astringent.
“You put up with him for longer than I expected,” Henniton said. Given what he’d heard about Henniton, Brogan half expected fireworks. The tone didn’t seem to offend the man, though. If anything, he sounded amused. “Fire him, then. Although I’d like to point out that I’m supposed to be the cutthroat one, Embry.”
“Thank you,” Ford said.
The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor, but Mario told the woman waiting there to catch the next one.
When they were on their way again, Ford said, “We should promote Kensing to the position.”
“Which one is he?”
“She is the one who argued for the new plumbing system in buildings ten through sixteen last year.”
“That cost a fortune, didn’t it?” Henniton mused.
“$26,755.” Ford rattled off the figure like recalling numbers from a year ago was nothing.
“Too much,” Henniton said.
“Not compared to the fortune it would have cost us if we hadn’t do
ne it. The great flood of last winter, remember?”
“Oh, that. God, what a nightmare,” Henniton said. He heaved a melodramatic sigh.
“She’s my choice, and she’ll leave if we try an outside hire. Promote her.”
“Fine,” Henniton said.
Ford made a satisfied noise and typed something into his smartphone.
It appeared Joel Henniton allowed his executive assistant—someone who didn’t look old enough to rent a car—to dictate a surprising number of his business decisions. At least Ford seemed viciously competent so far.
The elevator doors opened on the ground floor and Brogan and Mario exited into the busy lobby first, surveying the area as Henniton stepped out behind them. The atrium rose several stories high and people on upper floors could look over the railings all the way to the lobby. The south wall, where the main doors were set, was entirely glass-fronted, letting plenty of gray January overcast in, and the lush greenery, mahogany reception desk and leather couches extended a quiet elegance to visitors.
Gorgeous, but a security nightmare. Too many lines of sight, too much space and cover. Brogan’s skin crawled.
“I’ll be back at one,” Henniton told Ford. “And don’t forget, we’ve got the evening meeting tonight.”
Brogan, in the midst of sweeping his gaze around the lobby, caught the quiet nod Ford gave Henniton.
Then Henniton was striding away, Mario at his side, and Brogan only got one last glimpse of dark, cool eyes and a lovely, unsmiling mouth before Ford vanished into the crush of people bustling through the lobby.
Stop looking at him, asshole, Brogan told himself. And get focused before you get yourself killed.
Don’t miss BAD JUDGMENT by Sidney Bell.
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Copyright © 2016 by Miriam Macrae
Author Note
There’s a long, problematic history of linking BDSM and trauma in popular culture. Dominants especially are often portrayed as aggressive, violent alpha-types who’ve had traumatic childhoods, which is frequently used to romanticize and excuse abusive behavior in the scene. For that reason, it was very important to me that Sullivan be a positive, healthy example of a dominant, someone who needs kink to be sexually fulfilled, but is also a decent, healthy, and normal guy who cares deeply about the wellbeing of his partner. Hopefully this last point is obvious, but when practiced correctly, BDSM is neither a cause nor a cure for trauma, and it should never be used to disguise manipulation, coercion, or abuse.
Acknowledgments
Oh, boy. Lots of folks to thank. First, my primary beta readers—to Connie Peckman for being the person who disliked Tobias in my first, deeply flawed draft and said so, repeatedly and fervently, so I knew things needed to change. And to Sasha Gore, who liked this book even in its first, deeply flawed draft and said so, repeatedly and fervently, so I knew there was something worth salvaging. To my other betas as well, of course: Damon Talabock, Dylan Perkins, and Jill Robinson. You guys never fail to point out all the ways I’m sucking, and that’s the best thing ever, really, no matter how it sounds.
Secondly, a massive thank-you to Shirleen Robinson, who not only made the book better, but also gave me excellent materials that’ll help me make future books with characters of color stronger. Particularly amazing was that article by Roxane Gay about ambition in the African-American community, because it led me to Hunger, and that book is the best thing I’ve read this year. Also, Writing in the Margins is amazing, and anyone who wants to write about marginalized characters should know about that website. Finally, while they don’t know I exist, the lovely, wonderful, excellent people who run the Tumblr blog Writing with Color helped my life enormously. They do important, incredibly beneficial work.
Special thanks to Dave Macrae for crucial security research yet again, because Ghost wasn’t in nearly enough trouble until we talked, and a big finish can never have too much trouble. And super mondo thanks to Deborah Nemeth, Anne Scott, and Carina Press, because without you guys, this book seriously would’ve been a hot mess of ick, and it definitely would’ve had less dirty talk.
About the Author
Sidney Bell lives in scraggly Southern Colorado with her amazingly supportive husband. She received her MFA degree in Creative Writing, considered aiming for the Great American Novel, and then promptly started writing fanfiction instead. More realistic grownups eventually convinced her to try writing something more fiscally responsible, though, which is how we ended up here. When she’s not writing, she’s playing violent video games, yelling at the television during hockey games, or supporting her local library by turning books in late. Visit her online at www.sidneybell.com.
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Check out BAD JUDGMENT
Embry Ford was a quiet, ordinary guy—until tragedy ripped his life apart. Now he’s living under the radar, desperate to hide his identity and determined to learn the truth behind what happened.
As a bodyguard to a shadowy arms dealer, Brogan Smith knows distractions can kill as easily as a bullet. But when he sets his eyes on his client’s sexy assistant, Brogan can’t get him out of his mind.
Embry was sure nothing but vengeance would satisfy him—until Brogan offered him something far more tempting. Now Embry must choose: punish the people who nearly destroyed him or fight for a future with the man who has become his entire world.
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ISBN-13: 9781488080678
Hard Line
Copyright © 2018 by Miriam Macrae
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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