by Jesse Joren
MASTERFUL 3
Jesse Joren
Copyright © 2016 Jesse Joren
All rights reserved. No part of this book excerpt may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author. Brief quotations for critical articles and reviews are excepted.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, etc. are either created by the author or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real-life persons, situations, etc. is purely coincidental.
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OCTOBER 10
Prologue
Buckhead was supposed to be one of the safest parts of Atlanta. So why was a gun pointed at me?
Its owner was thin and thirtyish, and his nervous grip on the large handgun told me he wasn't used to handling weapons. He looked ready to puke, or fire at anything that moved. Maybe both.
The faces of the dozen or so people around me mirrored my shock. None of us came into this coffee shop expecting anything worse than an overpriced latte.
"On the floor!" he screamed, jerking the gun at a pudgy guy in a gray Walking Dead sweatshirt. "You hear me, bitch-tits? Down!"
Everyone scrambled for the floor. Wasn't that the first rule of a hostage situation? Cooperate and live?
Instead, I froze in place. It wasn't the first time my instincts were all wrong.
Fifteen seconds later, everyone had dropped except for me and a dark-haired guy sitting a couple of tables away. He was unmoving and alert, watching the would-be criminal with a steady gaze.
"I said hit the floor, asshole!" The gunman's voice rose to a scream, cracking in mid-sentence. His watery brown eyes swiveled my way. "You too," he mumbled as his gaze dropped to my legs.
My thigh-high, black leather boots had attracted a lot of attention during the short walk from the Buckhead Ritz Carlton. Or maybe it was my soft and clinging black dress, riding high enough to show plenty of leg in spite of the tall boots.
A confetti of thoughts whirled through my mind. One question rose above them all.
What would Hex do?
There it was again. That feeling of someone ice-picking me right in the heart. Twenty-eight damn days and not a whisper from him. He'd turned my life upside-down and then disappeared.
So what would he do? Probably give that little smirk of his and then hand this guy his head. But Hex was gone.
Maybe you need to start saving yourself. Think, Eva.
The gunman swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes flickered between my face and my boots. A sudden throb of instinct rushed to my head, strong enough to make me dizzy.
Just like that, I had this guy's number.
The old Eva would have realized the truth but not acted on it. Overthinking was her trademark. Only this morning, pulling on this over-the-top outfit, I had vowed that it was time for Eva 2.0. She who hesitates is lost.
Without letting myself think, I closed the distance between us in three long strides. When he tried to re-aim at me, I drew back and slapped him hard across his narrow face.
The sound was like a rifle shot. A half-scream, half-whimper medley rose up from the floor-facers.
"I have a better idea," I told him. "You get on the floor, bitch."
Chapter One
Another gasp rose around us. The gunman stared at me before he began to sputter like a defective tea kettle.
"You-you can't talk to me like that! I'm in c-charge here. You have to do what I say. Get on the f-floor!"
Instead I slapped his other cheek even harder. Now he had matching marks on both sides, smeary red exclamation points against his pasty complexion.
Something moved in my peripheral vision. The guy at the table was standing up, not making a sound.
Oh God. Please don't screw this up. I don't need a hero.
I kept my eyes fixed on the gunman. Some deep instinct warned me that if I blinked, even for a second, things would go from bad to worse. Like maybe the fatal kind of worse.
Even though he was taller than me, I managed to look down my nose. Like he was dirt under my feet. Like something stank, and it was him.
Come to think of it, he wasn't exactly a deodorant ad.
"Put that down!" I snapped, and he flinched before lowering the gun. "Who are you to speak to me?"
For a moment he tried to stare me down. I glared back, channeling all the contempt I could muster. Hope soared through me when he looked down.
Don't get cocky. He still has a gun.
"I'm Peter," he muttered. "Who are you?"
"Address me as ma'am," I said. "Are you deaf? Get on the floor at my feet, where you belong."
There was a tense moment that seemed to go on forever. Surely this guy, even as screwed up as he was, could see how scared I was. I should have stuck to the script and cooperated, but now –
Kiss your ass good-bye. What a waste, after all that work to tone it up.
Then to my utter relief and amazement, Peter crumpled to the floor with awkward, crab-like movements. When the gun clunked on the tile, I used the toe of my boot to kick it away.
Some lingering shred of common sense warned me not to stay too close to him. As I stepped away, he grabbed my ankle in both hands. I caught my balance, expecting to be dragged to the floor.
Instead he began to kiss my boots.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am," he mumbled around slurpy sounds of adoration. "I deserve to be punished."
A wild laugh tried to leave my throat. Could this day get any more weird?
"Maybe I can take over from here," a voice suggested behind me. "If that's okay with you. Ma'am."
It was the guy from the other table, standing behind me with a serious expression and the hint of a smile around his eyes. Wordlessly I nodded and disengaged my foot.
In one quick move he was cuffing Peter, the world's worst criminal, with his own belt. Customers were getting to their feet, brushing floor grit from their clothes. It was hard to tell who was getting stranger looks, me or the would-be robber.
"Are you all right?" the guy asked me. "You look pale."
"I'm always pale. Are you a cop?"
"No, but maybe they'll feel safe to come in now. I'm Del."
As if on cue, the door banged open as several officers swarmed through the glass doors, guns drawn.
"Nobody move!" one of them bellowed.
"Thank God," Del said as he yanked one last knot in the belt. "The police."
--
Half an hour later, the cops had interviewed everyone about the coffee shop fiasco. Peter was cuffed and contained at a back table while statements were taken. One by one the customers were released back to the street.
Del and I were finishing up our stories when one of the cops sauntered up to our table.
"Looks like you got a fan club, honey," he said to me.
"What?"
"Some of them folks we already talked to went out and chatted up the reporters. They all wanna talk to the Lady in Leather."
He looked torn between amusement and disgust. I wasn't conflicted at all, just one hundred percent horrified.
"Please tell me you're making that up."
"Swear to God. FOX 5 is calling you the Vigilante Vixen."
He paused and gave me a critical stare.
"You know that was a dumbass move to challenge that guy, right? He could have shot every one of you."
My face flamed as I heard Del snicker under his breath.
"I'm not talking to any reporters," I insisted, hoping to change the subject.
"Then you better be pretty quick," the cop said with a
shrug, "because they're lined up outside with cameras rolling."
Just then two other officers pulled Peter from the table in the back and began to lead him outside. He looked tired and disheveled, as if the reality of what he'd done was sinking in.
The little group paused by the door, stopping close to where I was sitting. Peter twisted around until he was looking at me, worship shining in his moist eyes.
"Can I call you when I'm out?" His voice quivered with hope.
Pity surged through me. Probably that was the wrong emotion for a guy who had stuck a gun in my face, but he seemed more frail and screwed up than dangerous. This one stupid mistake was going to cost him plenty.
I gave him the only gift I could.
"Shut up, filth," I snarled. "You do what the fuck I say, not the other way around."
The cops goggled at me as they began to move him out. "Holy shit," one of them said. "She seemed so sweet when I talked to her."
Peter's other escort was a well-built officer named Perry. He had taken my statement professionally but punctuated with a lot of eye contact. Now he gave me a wink.
"Yeah, what a little doll," Perry said. "I was thinking about asking her out even before she showed that fiery side." The words hung in the air as he waited for my reaction.
Pretending not to hear seemed safest. I was turning away when Peter caught my eye and gave me a shy smile. He was dazed and starry-eyed as they hustled him to the waiting patrol car.
"I'll wait for you, ma'am," he called as they folded him into the backseat of the cruiser. "Thank you for showing me my place."
At least someone was having a good day.
Chapter Two
The coffee shop was still closed and waiting for a regional manager to arrive before it could re-open. Del and I were the only ones left besides a couple of baristas behind the counter, but they were too busy texting to pay us any attention.
"Not to sound like an echo," he said, "but do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"
In my life full of bone-headed moves, I had to admit that this one was way up there. That tingling, Spidey-sense instinct had simply been too strong to ignore.
I'd spent so much time wrapped in the BDSM world that it was hard to miss such clear signals. The guy had all the earmarks of being an extreme submissive, possibly also what was known as a painslut. His fascination with my leather boots, right in the middle of committing a robbery, was a dead giveaway.
And how did I know? I was a sub myself, my knees going weak at the idea of being sexually dominated. Unlike Peter, verbal humiliation wasn't my thing. I also didn't vent my frustrations by robbing coffee shops.
Not yet. Give it another month or so without Hex.
Part of me had known what Peter was and how to distract him, but that was all inside my head. To anyone else it probably seemed like I was a crazy bitch with a death wish who didn't mind dragging others down with her.
"It may look that way," I said, "but it was a really strong hunch. I need to get out of here without making the news. Any ideas?"
I could almost see myself reflected in his green-gold eyes as he looked me over: a short, curvy girl in a daring dominatrix leather dress, complete with thigh boots. A long, sleek ponytail, pale skin and dramatic cat-eye makeup finished the look.
"You're not exactly low key," he said, not sounding like that was a bad thing. "I've got a raincoat over there that will cover you up. Maybe we can sneak out the back door together."
"That might work," I said, grateful that he would help.
The cops, on the other hand, seemed to find the whole thing amusing. None of them, including the swaggering Officer Perry, had offered to shuffle me past the reporters.
Del handed me a charcoal gray trench coat that swamped me to below my calves when I put it on. The faint, sexy smell that clung to it was both delicious and disturbing.
My fingers felt shaky as I pulled my hair out of the ponytail and let it fall around my shoulders. Hopefully it would help conceal my face.
"How's that?" I asked. "No more Vigilante Vixen?"
"No more vigilante," he agreed, "but I wouldn't take bets on the vixen part. Let's give this a shot."
I grabbed my purse as we headed for the back of the shop, presumably toward the service entrance. As we moved past the counter, we heard the unmistakable clicks of a phone camera.
Both of us whipped around. The male barista really went to town, snapping and grinning.
"These are gonna be worth a bundle," he crowed. "Right up close with the Lady in Leather."
Del advanced on the counter.
"Give me the phone," he ordered.
"Private property," the barista sneered, hiding it in the pocket of his paisley apron. "I'm reporting the news as I saw it."
"Erase every picture on it," Del said, "or the news you'll be reporting is that I kicked your ass."
He was turned away from me, so I couldn't see his face. Whatever the baristas saw in his expression made them both back up.
"Get rid of them, Wade," the girl urged, giving Del a frightened look. "Just do it."
After a reluctant moment Wade did as he was told, muttering as he gave the phone a few angry stabs. Then he pointed at the screen.
"See, no more snaps," he said in a sullen tone. "Happy now?"
"Thrilled." Del turned to me, his eyes gleaming as if he was enjoying a private joke. "Ready?"
We went through a back storage room and emerged into a narrow alley. A nearby yell startled us both.
"There she goes!"
The shout attracted a small crowd of reporters and cameramen. They drew together in a loose pack as they charged around the corner of the building.
"The green Jeep is mine," Del said as we ran for it. "Passenger side's open."
Adrenaline gave me the jolt I needed to scramble into the high seat, heels and all. I slammed and locked the door as reporting crews and general gawkers surrounded us.
"Get down. Cover your face," Del ordered.
I took a dive into the seat and buried my face against it as the crowd shouted questions. A high-powered video light illuminated us as the cameras rolled.
"How did you save fifty people from an Uzi-wielding terrorist?"
"Will you visit him in prison?"
"Is this a publicity stunt?"
"How much do you charge?"
Del gunned the engine and yanked the Jeep into a squealing turn, nearly hitting a cameraman. A second later we fishtailed out of the alley and roared up Peachtree Street.
I struggled upright, my hair falling in my face. "They were worse than Peter. How much do I charge? What kind of question is that?"
"Yeah," Del agreed. "Anyone can see that you slap people around just for the hell of it."
"Listen," I began, "I don’t know what you think you just saw, but I'm not—"
His quiet grin made me stop, then laugh. It was all so damn ridiculous.
"Now that you're not so serious," he said, "where should I take you? Where's your car? Back where we came from?"
"I just walked there," I said. "Can you drop me at the Ritz?"
"Sure," he said. "So you're visiting. Did you just come to the big city to raise some hell?"
I looked down in mock shame, as if he'd caught me red-handed. It gave me a moment to study him from under my lashes.
By any standards, Del was hot. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair, and those amazing eyes. His lips suggested he knew a thing or two about kissing, and obviously he had no trouble assisting a damsel in distress.
Who knows what makes chemistry happen? But it was there, a tiny spark waiting to be fanned to life.
The surreal events of the past couple hours had pushed everything else away. Now pain woke up inside of me, nibbling at my heart with sharp rat teeth.
Hex was gone, but I was still his. I wasn't even close to being ready for anyone else. Maybe I never would be.
He's gone. At least try to give someone else a chance.
That spark wit
h Del tried to become a flame, but it had no chance. I took a deep breath.
"That's me, nothing but trouble. Thanks for the ride, Del."
Chapter Three
The Buckhead Ritz was bustling when Del parked near the valet area. Today was Sunday, so it was a well-managed zoo of weekenders leaving and business travelers arriving.
"Are you sure you don't want me to walk you up?" he asked. "A reporter might jump out of a potted plant."
"I'll sic Peter on them," I promised.
When I started to shrug out of his coat, he stopped me with a shake of his head. He was smiling.
"Keep it for now," he said. "You're still pretty hard to miss in that outfit."
His arm brushed mine as he reached past me and into the glove compartment. Again I felt that tingle of attraction trying to start.
He handed me a plain white business card. Dellan Cross, it read, along with an address in New Orleans.
"Send it to me," he said. "Hell, maybe I'll even find out your name from the return label."
That made me laugh as I tucked the card into my purse. "Eva Bright. I'll make sure it comes back to you without reporter blood all over it."
His eyes met mine, sexy and subtle. In other circumstances they might have been irresistible. Too well I remembered a silvery gaze that had already stolen my heart, even if he didn't seem to want it anymore.
"Thank you, Del," was all I trusted myself to say.
"See you around, Vixen. Call me if you ever need a friend."
--
The lobby of the Ritz had started to feel like home after only a month. I loved the marble floors and paneled walls, the crystal chandelier that caught every ray of light. Desiree, my favorite desk manager, waved as I headed toward the private elevator.
If you want to get over Hex, you need to live somewhere else.
The problem was my salary. Even adjusted for my new promotion at work, it was hard to find a place to live without a roommate. I had loved my shabby little apartment, but thanks to Hex it was now rented.
I wasn't going to throw myself on my best friend, even though she'd already asked me to live with her. A little more time would help me find the right place.
