The Crossroads Duet

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Aly had decided she was better suited for contract work. It was objective and clear-cut, and rarely resulted in abductions. Now she headed up my legal team. Actually, she was my legal team, but had been on maternity leave, taking a few months off to be with Tabby. I was her boss; she could do whatever the fuck she wanted.

  “How do you want your burgers?” Lane called out.

  “Cooked by a real man, not one in some Prada shit!” I yelled back, surreptitiously giving him the finger, to which he responded by mouthing fuck you back to me.

  “Lane, why don’t you let Jake handle the grill?” Bess asked, laughing.

  “Oh yeah, I want to see you behind that hot, smoky grill!” Aly chimed in, turning her grin toward me.

  “Both of you, stop! I’m perfectly capable of grilling,” Lane said in his own defense before turning his attention back to his burgers.

  Aly came over to where I was sitting and drinking beer, and sat on my lap. I rubbed my hand up her leg and let my thumb graze the crease between her thigh and that sweet, sweet pussy of hers.

  “Want to go upstairs for a quickie?” I mumbled into her long red hair. She was wearing this gauzy, see-through white tank, and her hair was all wavy and wild. I wanted to yank it back and fuck her from behind. “Or we could take a quick ride in my new car and stop for a little nooky?” I teased her.

  I’d kept the Hummer for the car seat and dog crap, but I did buy myself a hot date car. It was a fast little Porsche convertible in cherry red—my favorite color, by the way. Lane had tried it out this past week, and wanted one himself. Maybe I’d get him a little present for helping me get to where I was in my business.

  “Al, you hear the big plans?” Lane called out.

  Shit.

  She raised one of her eyebrows. “Um, no. Do tell.”

  Lane paused from flipping the last burger and scowled at me. “Jake, what the hell? Why do I have to be the one?”

  “Because you have a big fucking mouth,” I shot back, frowning back at him.

  “Jake, Maddy can hear you and repeat after you,” Bess said, scolding me.

  Aly poked my arm, definitely not letting this go. “Lane, Jake? Bueller? Anyone? Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Lane shot me a shit-eating grin before he focused on Aly. “You’re sitting on the lap of a mogul, Al. My brother just stroked a deal with the biggest luxury hotel chain in the country to franchise his gyms in every single location. That’s right . . . Fizzle To Go will be in almost every major city soon, so when you travel, you don’t have to miss your gym at home.”

  Her eyes huge, Aly turned in my lap to gape at me. “Babe? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I ran my hand over her cheek. “I needed to make sure it really happened. I still don’t believe it, but it looks like I need you to come back to work and go over the papers and actually hire a legal team. Lane’s guy has been filling in, and I need my main girl back.”

  “Seeing as how I totally took advantage of my maternity leave, I get it.” Aly wrapped her arms tight around me, hugging me in only the way she could. “How did this happen?” she whispered. “It’s like a dream come true!”

  I shrugged. “Well, the baseball team was traveling and didn’t like the hotel facilities after using mine, so they may have suggested to one hotel to check my shit out.”

  “Jake!” Bess yelled at me again.

  “Okay, Bess, I got you. I’m watching my language.”

  “You have a baby now too, so clean up your act.”

  I nodded and went back to my wife, whose ass was rubbing my chubby. “Let’s go celebrate upstairs.”

  She smacked my chest. “Later, after Tabby goes to bed, I’m going to give you a little congrats present, but not now.”

  “Promise?”

  We were interrupted by the dogs barking at a squirrel scampering up a tree, and the puppies going wild trying to climb up right behind it. Whining ensued when they couldn’t catch the damn thing. Then crying followed, which was my cue to grab my baby girl. I knew it wasn’t bad for her to cry for a minute, but not my Tabby.

  “I can get her, babe,” Aly said, hustling behind me.

  “I was just going to bring her to you.”

  She stopped and hooked her hands on her hips. “That’s not it, and you know it. You just can’t stand her crying for an extra second, and you’re the fastest one here.”

  I nuzzled Tabby’s hair as I lifted her, inhaling her awesome baby smell. “Okay, yeah, but so what?”

  “No one is ever going to live up to her softie of a daddy, Jason.”

  I shrugged. “And that’s a bad thing?” I asked, knowing no one was ever going to be good enough for this little girl.

  When I handed Tab over to Aly, she situated the baby’s head under her shirt. Of course, I stood guard to make sure no one saw boobage. My boobs.

  “By the way, I’m not a softie,” I told Aly as I stroked a finger down her cheek. “I’m a bad-ass bodybuilder, Aly-cat, and don’t you forget it.”

  “You’re just like your brother,” James chimed in. “You were all hard until you met a woman, and then you went soft like mush.”

  “Isn’t it time for Cliffie to get a bottle or something?” I said, and shooed him away.

  James just laughed and snagged a wine spritzer or some other girlie drink from the cooler next to me before walking off.

  “You know I’m tough, right?” I asked my wife as I plopped down in the chair next to her, running my hand over Tabitha’s back under Aly’s shirt.

  “Yeah, babe. You’re big and tough on the outside, but neither of us were survivors until we met each other. We’re our own little fairy tale, meant to be together. Beauty and the Beast.”

  Isn’t that the truth? I leaned in to kiss the top of her fiery red hair, trying to get a quick look at those gorgeous tits of hers.

  Maybe later.

  Rachel Blaufeld is a bestselling author of Romantic Suspense, New Adult, Coming-of-Age Romance, and Sports Romance. A recent poll of her readers described her as insightful, generous, articulate, and spunky. Originally a social worker, Rachel creates broken yet redeeming characters. She’s been known to turn up the angst like cranking up the heat in the dead of winter.

  A devout coffee drinker and doughnut eater, Rachel spends way too many hours in local coffee shops, downing the aforementioned goodies while she plots her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end as lusciously as her treats.

  As a side note, Blaufeld, also a long-time blogger and an advocate of woman-run anything, is fearless about sharing her opinion. She captured the ears of stay-at-home and working moms on her blog, BacknGrooveMom, chronicling her adventures in parenting tweens and running a business, often at the same time. To her, work/life/family balance is an urban legend, but she does her best.

  Rachel has also blogged for The Huffington Post and Modern Mom. Most recently, her insights can be found in USA TODAY, where she shares conversations at “In Bed with a Romance Author” and reading recommendations over at “Happy Ever After.”

  Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two beagles. Her obsessions include running, coffee, basketball, icing-filled doughnuts, antiheroes, and mighty fine epilogues.

  When she isn’t writing, she can be found courtside, tweeting about hoops as her son plays, or walking around the house wearing earplugs while her other son, the drummer, bangs away.

  To connect with Rachel, she’s most active in her private reading group, The Electric Readers, where she shares insider information and intimate conversation with her readers:

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  As well as:

  www.rachelblaufeld.com

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  If you liked this book, feel free to leave a review where you bought it or on Goodreads. Send me an e-mail when you do, and I will thank you personally!

  Read more from Rachel
Blaufeld in Electrified, Book One in the Electric Tunnel Series.

  CARSON GRAHAM shifted into fourth gear as he hightailed it away from the club toward his hotel. Why did he keep coming back to Vegas? Who the hell knew. If there was one thing he didn’t have any trouble finding or getting, it was willing women.

  He knew women weren’t really “things.” They were interesting, often complicated creatures, and he both appreciated and respected them. He just happened to like women in his bed who came with no strings. It was the twenty-first century, after all, and there were plenty of women who liked that kind of deal.

  He had never settled down, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start now. At closer to forty years old than thirty-five, he felt the bachelor life suited him just fine. Or maybe it was that he only deserved the single life. His particular circumstances hadn’t exactly set him up for success in the relationship department.

  Picking up a little speed, he changed course and steered toward the mountains, needing more time to clear his head.

  It would be great to be on his motorcycle right now, to be able to lean into the steep and winding curves, but it was back in his garage on the East Coast, grounded—just like his life at the moment. The sports car he’d rented here in Vegas would have to do.

  As he shifted the engine into fifth gear the car jetted forward, allowing the tension to bleed from him with the increased RPMs. He was trying to drive away from the pull as fast as he could; the pull coming from an insanely gorgeous stripper he was lusting after in a big way.

  There was something magnetic about Sienna Flower, dragging him in deeper and deeper. More than her sleek, toned body and her sensual moves when she wrapped herself around the pole, there was a draw deeper than the physical. Carson wasn’t a hard-up kind of guy. He never got like this over a woman. Ever.

  Growing up without a mom, he was fairly certain there was nothing lasting about “love.” If a mother could actually up and leave her child without any notice, like his did, there was no such thing as forever. His dad had done the best he could to be everything to Carson, but the fact remained: When a six-year-old’s mother left and never came back, that fucked with a kid.

  It fucked with a grown man too. As a result, Carson never considered love an option.

  Lust, a few cocktails, dinner out, and then a good roll in Egyptian cotton sheets—that was Carson’s modus operandi. He definitely didn’t have any delusions of long-term love.

  In reality, his thoughts on the subject of love didn’t really matter. His lifestyle and career didn’t allow for love; at least, that was what he told himself. After joining the FBI, he traveled all the time, leaving at a moment’s notice on any number of classified assignments. He was wise enough to know the FBI lifestyle didn’t lend itself to successful relationships, so he never pursued them. If he were honest with himself, he might admit maybe that was why he originally chose to take the FBI job, but who wanted to look that closely at their own motives?

  He certainly couldn’t be hunting down a suspect in a different time zone while pretending to be at a sales conference in Orlando when he called home in the wee hours of the night . . . or morning, depending on where he was.

  Eventually all the lies, fibs, or whatever you wanted to call them caught up in a field agent’s relationship. As a man who avoided conflict in his personal life for fear of being deserted, he knew the lying would eat away at him.

  After cracking a high-profile missing person’s case at the FBI a few years ago, Carson had struck out on his own. Going solo, he built his own firm, still traveling and having a grand fucking time doing what he did best, which was remaining uninterested in a long-term relationship. Now he was an independent private investigator, making his own rules, and it suited him just fine. His reputation followed him and he took the cases he wanted—except for this current bitch of a case—which allowed him to have a good time living life.

  To most people, he introduced himself as a bounty hunter or some shit like that. No need to have every Tom, Dick, and Harry asking him to take this or that heartbreaking case. Carson worked, traveled, and enjoyed the finer things life offered. He liked getting paid too much to take on pro-bono cases.

  Although his recent case was starting to feel like one . . . that and a big, annoying crock of shit.

  A vibration in his pocket partially dragged him out of his funk. Holding the wheel steady with his knee, Carson pulled the phone out of his pocket and hit IGNORE. Speak of the devil who got him involved in this crap. His best friend, Alex. He should have answered; the guy’s family had practically raised him. He owed him that but he wasn’t in the mood, since it was Alex’s fault that he’d taken this damned case.

  Guilt overtook him as he traveled the long, dark desert road, and Carson dialed his friend back.

  “Hey man, what’s up?” He focused on the open road ahead of him, the mountains bleeding into the skyline, the moon lighting his way.

  “Not much. Just checking in. Making sure my oldest friend is still alive and causing trouble wherever he may be at the moment.”

  “Yeah, yeah. All good here. Kicking around out west, trying to solve that shit case you sent me. Taking a much-needed break in Vegas as we speak.” He pushed his speed a little more, feeling the car purr.

  “Way to make me jealous. I’m stuck at home watching the baby while my wife is out on a girls’ night out, and you’re probably on your way to getting laid. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “Nah, Alex. You go be with your baby and let your wife have a good time. You’re not missing anything. Except for a few strippers.” He laughed out loud.

  A small chuckle came from the other end. “I’m gonna get you for that one. Have some fun for me, will ya? Keep me updated on the case. I know I can’t be much help, but if you need anything, let me know.”

  Carson chuckled. “I wish you could help with the case. It’s turning into one hell of an adventure. I’m trying my best to help out your relative’s friends, but for the first time I just don’t know. Hell, listen to me rambling like I’m a spoiled bitch. Forget it, man. Go love your baby.”

  “Okay, but stay in touch, Carson. Don’t go MIA so often.”

  “I hear ya.”

  As he disconnected, he thought about Alex’s comment. Going MIA, doing his own thing, was part of who he was.

  His current personal life lined up with his new career perfectly. He had a few women around the country who knew the 411 when it came to him. Lavish times with no commitment; that was how he rolled. Period.

  Now here he was, rushing back to Vegas every weekend. Why? What the hell was the draw? Carson sighed because he knew damn well.

  Sienna Flower, adult entertainer with moves that would ignite a dead man, and eyes like a virgin, making him feel like a young kid all over again.

  Christ, he had a problem.

  The case he was currently working was burning him up and playing with his mind, besides displacing him to the West Coast. Although the job was lining his bank account—even at his lowest rate—it was taking much longer than he expected. He needed it to be over.

  Am I losing my touch already?

  He sighed and turned the car back toward the Strip while something nagged at his gut over this assignment. There was something odd, some piece of the puzzle missing, which was why the case was taking longer than expected.

  What was wrong with him that he couldn’t find it? What was he missing?

  It was a first for him, and he didn’t like it. Not. One. Fucking. Bit. Which was why he found himself running off to Sin City every weekend.

  He needed to let off steam, and where better to do so than Las Vegas? It was an occupational hazard of his . . . letting loose. Going back to his FBI days, Carson always needed a little fun, a tiny walk on the wild side to let go of the stress of the job. Otherwise, he lived and breathed his cases, working late into the night to solve them.

  He needed a good time to release the pressure, which he currently was finding at the Ele
ctric Tunnel, but the pressure only mounted more after visiting the club. What originally started out as a method to clear his head and make way for him to solve the case, was clouding his judgment even more.

  Sienna Flower had happened . . . that was what.

  His latest client—or clients, since it was a married couple—was able to pay him. Yeah, they were making good on his rates, but their friends raised the funds, not them. They were willing to keep transferring money to him, yet he didn’t like the eerie feeling that had begun to dog him. They were lying to him. Withholding information, at the very least.

  For the first time ever, Carson was considering giving up the case. The only thing that stopped him was the worry that nagged him over the missing person he was hunting down.

  Shit, I’m going soft.

  He was turning into an emotional cream puff, which was a bigger occupational hazard than having a grand time in Vegas.

  Originally, he’d needed a respite from the bone-deep worry that something was terribly wrong with the case, so he started heading to Sin City for the weekends. Now, his gut was messed up from the case and his head was fucked up from a stripper.

  The family who had hired him was pretty certain their missing relative had fled out west or thereabouts. Why were they so convinced of that theory? Carson had been stuck scouring small towns for the last month and a half. He didn’t like small towns with strange people all up in each other’s business. Almost as little as he liked the case.

  He was starting to need his weekly adventure to Vegas by Tuesday of each week. It was a place where he could disappear and enjoy himself for forty-eight hours. After all, he was still a man with baser needs.

  The problem all began when he went to check out the infamous Sienna Flower the first night he got to Vegas. He hadn’t been able to tear himself away from her image, nor enjoy himself at all since that night. He couldn’t figure it out. He’d had many women over the years—gorgeous, seductive, exotic women when he was traveling—and now he was stuck on some Vegas showgirl. No, not a showgirl. Exotic dancer.