by Freya Barker
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek
Also By Freya Barker
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Life & Limb
Copyright © 2020 Freya Barker
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in used critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses as permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, mentioning in the subject line:
"Reproduction Request” at the address below:
[email protected]
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any event, occurrence, or incident is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created and thought up from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN: 9781988733500
Cover Design: Margreet Asselbergs
Cover Image: JW Photography
Cover Models: Katy Mccain & Josh Bitterman
Editing: Karen Hrdlicka
Proofreading: Joanne Thompson
Chapter One
Dimas
“Have a safe flight.”
Her meticulously made-up face shows disappointment at my words. The pouty lips and batting eyelashess; childish on the thirty-something heiress I’d been assigned to for the past few weeks.
“You could still come with me,” she purrs, pressing her tits against me.
Fucking hell.
I knew it had been a mistake to go there with a client—or rather, the daughter of a client—but it had been her last night in town. Not an excuse; certainly not one that will fly with my brother, who happens to be my boss as well. He wouldn’t give the first shit that she’d been coming on to me for two weeks and I’d resisted her overtures, only to give in to them last night.
What can I say? She’s a good-looking woman, and I’m a guy who just came off a month-long assignment in South America with a bunch of crusty archeologists wanting protection on their dig. Not much action to be had in the middle of the Amazon, amid the ruins of some ancient settlement.
I’d barely had a shower and a good night’s sleep when I got back and Yanis, my brother, had me signed up for this protection detail.
Mercedes Rockton, daughter of Texas oil magnate, Bruce Rockton, had been in town preparing for an exhibit at a local gallery displaying her art. Although, to call her sculptures art requires a stretch of the imagination I do not possess. The unrecognizable blobs of clay, decorated with painted pink polka dots or purple feathers, looked more like a kindergarten craft project gone awry. Yet, last night at the opening, I heard comments like primitive realism and brilliantly insightful to describe the mess, only confirming people are nuts.
She was still on a high from what I guess was a successful evening, when I finally took her up on the reiterated invitation. Thank God I had the presence of mind to double-wrap, even though I never even took off my pants.
Still a big mistake…on so many levels. Yanis will surely rip me a new one if he finds out, which is why I’m trying not to piss her off, otherwise, she’ll run to Daddy and the shit will hit the fan.
“Mercedes, like I explained last night, and again this morning, I’m flattered, but my work doesn’t allow for involvement of any kind.” To my great relief, the boarding call for her flight sounds over the public address system. “You should be on your way. Your detail in Dallas will be waiting for you.”
Ten minutes later, I’m in my truck on the way to the office.
The company, PASS—stands for Protection And Security Services—is located in a building not too far from the Grand Junction airport, in an industrial area. When I take the turnoff to the office, I notice a ton of emergency vehicles parked outside a warehouse just up the street from us. Driving by, I spot the Mesa County coroner’s van with the back doors open. That doesn’t look good.
I’m not a fan of some of the local cops and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. The only one in our office who has a decent relationship with them is Bree Graves, who generally functions as our liaison with law enforcement. So instead of stopping to find out what’s up, I continue driving to the office to find out from her what’s going on.
“Morning,” Lena, our office manager, greets me from behind the front desk when I walk in. “Did you hear?”
“The police presence?” I’m sure that’s what she’s referring to. “I saw, but I don’t know what’s going on. Noticed the coroner was there, though.”
“They found a body in that vacant warehouse with the for lease sign up for the past three months. That’s all I know.”
“More than I knew,” I tell her. “Is Yanis in?”
“Should be shortly. He had an early morning meeting with a new client.”
“Thanks.” I rap my knuckles on the desk and move down the hallway to the offices.
My first stop is the small kitchen to grab a much-needed coffee, before heading into the large office Bree, Jake, and I share. Radar, our tech specialist, has a separate space for all his computers and electronic gadgetry. Yanis has the other office and there’s a large conference room as well. At the end of the hallway is a locker room, with showers and bathroom, and an exit to the three-bay garage at the back of the building where our surveillance vehicles are parked out of sight.
“Get the oil princess on her flight?” Jake asks when I walk in.
Jake Hutchinson is my brother from another mother and he basically grew up with us. We both enlisted at eighteen and served together on the same unit. I may have mentioned the woman’s persistent pursuit.
I avoid looking at him when I respond.
“Yup, got her off okay.” I wince at the unintended double entendre. Something that does not go unnoticed by Jake, who snorts.
“Tell me you didn’t,” Bree, sitting at her desk just down from Jake, scolds.
“Okay. I didn’t.” I doubt my denial will go very far, so I abruptly change the topic. “What do you know about this body found down the street? What have you heard?”
“Called in around eight this morning. Anonymously. Cops had to wait for the property manager to get there with a key. Found him right inside the bay door.”
“Him?”
“That’s about as far as the information flow goes at this time, other than he was in boxer shorts and his face was pulp.”
“Hookup gone wrong?”
“In an empty warehouse?” Jake comments.
“People have kinks,” Bree suggests with a shrug, eliciting raised eyebrows from both Jake and me. “Well, they do,” she adds defensively.
“Is that a fact?” Yanis’ voice sounds behi
nd me, and Bree’s eyes fly over my shoulder, as a deep flush colors her cheeks.
I feel for her and turn to my brother. “Got a minute?”
He drags his eyes from Bree and nods at me.
“Sure, come in.”
I spend the next twenty minutes debriefing my most recent assignment, not including the ten minutes of insanity just inside her hotel room last night. I have to work hard at keeping a straight face when Yanis gives me one of his penetrating stares.
“I’ll need a written report by the end of the day for the client,” he finally says.
“No problem.”
When I get up to head back to my desk, he stops me.
“Don’t forget, we’re running front of the house security for the Gavin Jenkins’ concert at the amphitheater tonight. We’re all on the hook for this one.”
Only a few times a year, big name stars drop into Grand Junction for a show or concert, but when it happens, regular venue security is usually not sufficient, so we’re called in. It’s no one’s favorite assignment, but it’s been a nice sideline that pays well and has kept us afloat in years when things were tight. They no longer are, not since landing a major account with a film production company last year put us firmly on the map. Problem is, we’re just about the only game in town with enough manpower to handle jobs like this, even if we need to call in every operative on file.
Over the day, Bree was able to gather odds and ends of information. By the time we were getting ready to head out to the amphitheater, we’d learned the dead guy had been in his thirties or forties, and had received a solid beating. No clothes or other identifying items were found, oddly enough, so it would depend on the post mortem and forensics to get some clarity there. In the meantime, we had a uniformed officer show up asking if any of us had seen anything, which none of us had.
“I’ve gotta stop at the shelter and give Rosie her backstage passes.”
“Rosie likes country?”
I’m surprised; she doesn’t look like a country girl to me. Rosie, Jake’s wife, is four months pregnant. A feisty redhead, she’s always struck me as more of a classic rock chick.
Jake turns to me with an eyebrow raised. “Rosie doesn’t like country, per se,” he grumbles. “Rosie likes fucking Gavin Jenkins.”
I don’t even try holding back the chuckle. My friend has been royally fucked since Rosie came into his life. Ruthless operative turned hopeless pussy when it comes to his sweetheart of a woman. It’s been fun torturing him this past year or so, but I have to admit, with the news a couple of months ago he and his wife are expecting, I felt a pang of envy.
Rosie’s already waiting outside when we pull into the parking lot of the shelter. Beside her a woman I haven’t seen before.
A fucking Amazon. Tall—at least taller than Rosie, which really isn’t saying much—built like the proverbial brick shithouse, with long sleek dark hair. She looks like Xena: Warrior Princess.
“Who is—” I don’t even get a chance to finish my question before Jake snaps.
“Willa, and she’s Rosie’s new friend and employee, so don’t even fucking go there.”
I immediately raise my hands defensively.
“Just looking. No touching.”
Willa
I about shit my pants when Rosie said she’d be able to get us backstage passes.
I fucking love Gavin Jenkins, and not just in an abstract, platonic kind of way. Hell no, I could climb that man like the tree he is.
When Rosie’s husband drives up with the highly anticipated passes, I’m about to jump out of my skin. Jake gets out of the SUV and my eyes are focused on his hand holding an envelope, which is why I initially miss the second man getting out on the other side.
Jake plants a hot one on his wife, something I’m learning he does every chance he gets, when I hear a deep voice behind him.
“Don’t hold back on our account.”
I look up, and up, to meet a pair of green, amused eyes. The man has to be at least six three, towering easily over the rest of us. Talk about a tree, he’s built like one. A gorgeous one. Dirty blond hair and slightly russet beard, with a bright, open smile aimed at me.
Christ have mercy. Look at those damn shoulders.
Gavin Jenkins forgotten for the moment, I focus on the size of the hand he holds out.
“Dimas Mazur, I work with Jake.”
Damn, even his name is sexy as all get out. It takes me a second but I finally shake his hand, mumbling my name.
“Wilhelmina Smith.”
“Dimi,” Jake growls a warning I don’t understand.
With a little squeeze of my hand he’s still holding in his, he let’s go with a rumbled chuckle that sounds really good.
“Hey, Rosie, looking radiant as always.”
“Dimi.” She grins at him like the two are sharing a private joke, which doesn’t seem to make Jake any happier.
“We’ve gotta go,” Jake announces curtly before turning to Rosie with a softer tone. “Drive to the back parking lot. One of us is going to be at the stage entrance. We’ll let you in from there. I don’t want you to deal with crowds in your condition.”
“Jake, I’ll be fine,” she protests.
“You will,” he returns. “Since you’ll be going in through the stage entrance.”
I smile. You’d think I’d be annoyed at the blatant me-Tarzan-you-Jane display, but one look at Jake and everyone can see the man adores his wife. Can’t say I’ve ever been on the receiving end of such devotion, but from the soft look on Rosie’s face, I can imagine what it might feel like.
Glancing away when they kiss—again—I catch Dimas grinning at me.
“You get used to it,” he assures me and I snort.
This place is crazy.
As instructed, we came in the stage entrance where a woman wearing the same ‘security’ shirt Jake and his buddy had on, let us through.
The seats are great, right up front, close enough for Rosie to catch a sweaty bandana Gavin flings into the audience toward the end of the show. I snicker when she can’t stop saying, “Oh my gosh,” for the remainder of the concert.
I’m pretty sure I’m deaf by the time the screaming dims a little and the same woman who let us in—Rosie calls her Bree—comes to get us from our seats to take us backstage.
There’s a crowd in the hallway outside the dressing rooms. Mostly women dressed in a shitload less than Rosie and I are wearing, which is basically jeans and a shirt. I’ve never been one to play dress-up, and I’ve learned Rosie isn’t either.
My idea of dressing up is wearing a pair of black or dark-wash jeans with boots and a top a few steps up from a T-shirt. I rarely wear jewelry or makeup. I did when I was a teen and back in college, but since enlisting at twenty-four—right after receiving my master’s degree in social work—I haven’t bothered.
Most of my eight years, spent as a clinical social worker in the armed forces, I was stationed in Germany at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. There was little time to fuss over appearance even if I cared, and I didn’t. Never picked it up again, not even when I got back Stateside five years ago.
People can take me as I am or don’t let the door hit them in the ass on the way out. That wasn’t always easy working at the VA hospital in town, where office-appropriate attire was required, which is why one of the things that makes working at the South Avenue Shelter so great is the casual atmosphere. Much more my speed.
I got the job two months ago, when the shelter officially opened its doors, and haven’t looked back. The place is great, the facilities are amazing, I work with really nice people, and my boss is awesome. In the very short time I’ve been here, Rosie has become a good friend.
I hear her little squeal when we’re finally guided into the dressing room, where a very sweaty, and mostly annoyed looking Gavin Jenkins is doling out signatures on everything, including a couple of boobs and an ass. There are some things you can’t unsee, no matter how hard you try.
Up clo
se the star is fast losing some of his shine, and I find myself more interested in the man standing behind him. His arms crossed over his impressive chest, Dimas Mazur keeps a close eye on overenthusiastic fans who can’t keep their hands to themselves.
His face is stern, but when he spots me, he breaks out in a big smile, throwing me a jaunty wink.
I almost forget to have Gavin Jenkins sign my backstage pass.
Chapter Two
Willa
“Looking a bit rough.”
I look up from my desk to see Ron Midwood hanging against my doorway. Ron is the shelter’s intake coordinator. A nice guy, probably a few years younger than my thirty-nine, but not by a whole lot. He asked me out a couple of times and I’ve declined. Mostly because I’m not interested in anything other than maybe someone to warm my bed on occasion, and it doesn’t seem like a smart idea to have that someone be a guy you work with every day.
“I know. My ears are still ringing from that concert Rosie and I went to two days ago, and I haven’t been able to sleep properly.”
“Don’t look at me for sympathy; anyone volunteering to listen to Gavin Jenkins for an entire evening deserves whatever’s coming to them.”
I grin. Ron is pretty outspoken, one of the things I really like about him.
“Whatever. I went to support Rosie,” I lie. I totally went to ogle the guy, even if I don’t much care for his music, but instead of lying awake these past nights fantasizing about the country singer, it was the security guy who turned out to be front and center in my imagination.
