by Tiffani Lynn
Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Twisted Page Inc.. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Brotherhood Protectors remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Twisted Page Inc., or their affiliates or licensors.
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Rescuing Reya
A Brotherhood Protectors Novella
Tiffani Lynn
Contents
Untitled
Acknowledgments
1. Reya
2. Reya
3. Elias
4. Reya
5. Elias
6. Reya
7. Elias
8. Reya
9. Elias
10. Reya
The End
Rescuing Reya
Cover Design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Editor: Twin Tweaks Editing
Dedication
This is for all those people who loved and lost but were strong enough to open their hearts again. May you find every happiness you ever hoped for.
Acknowledgments
As always, my first thanks goes out to my husband and amazing daughters. Making you guys proud is what I strive for. Love you always.
Elle James, thank you so much for the invitation to join Brotherhood Protectors. I love these stories and feel honored to be part of your World. You are a wonderful inspiration as a business woman, a mother, a writer and now a friend.
To my TLC Crew… Dilly Dilly and What you find is what you find. I love you guys and cherish the memories we have together even if the teasing is relentless.
Wolfpack… For you guys I will continue to wear some kickass pant suits. Be prepared for full awesomeness.
A huge amount of appreciation goes out to every reader who has read my books and reached out to tell me that you enjoyed them. Your support means so much and each text, email, social media post or verbal compliment warms my heart in a way I can’t explain.
1
Reya
If I’d known today was going to be the last one like it, I never would’ve taken it all for granted. Sometimes, though, it’s better you don’t see what’s coming.
The wind tosses little wisps of my hair around my face while my sunglasses protect my eyes as Alex hits the throttle. Every Sunday, for as long as we’ve been together, we’re on his bike riding down all the back roads this part of Florida has to offer. During these moments I always feel so young and free with my arms wrapped tight around his middle. Today is no different until he pulls off the road behind an old run-down gas station and kills the engine.
“Why are we stopping? This place is kinda creepy.” We never pull off at these kinds of places.
“We’re being followed,” he says as he climbs off the bike. “I’m hoping they keep going. I tried to lose them around the last bend in the road. I didn’t see them when we pulled in.”
“Followed by whom?” I ask, wondering what he’s talking about.
“I’m in a little trouble, honey,” he says, like using that little term of endearment at the end will make it better.
Alex’s nervous pacing and the sudden sweat above his brow tells me he’s freaked out. This isn’t some little thing; whatever it is, it’s bad.
“What kind of trouble?”
“I have video footage that I shouldn’t have. I did it for the right reasons, though.”
What the hell kind of footage would have us being followed? This sounds like the plot of some movie. “Well, get rid of it. I don’t care what it is, if you’re in trouble, dump it.”
“I can’t. I’ve got proof that these dudes from Detroit are selling people here in Tampa.”
“What?” My eyes bulge out of my head. “Human trafficking? Oh my God! Alex…”
“Listen, I’m going to make it right. We aren’t out on our normal Sunday ride. We’re meeting a guy right outside of Gainesville in 30 minutes to turn over the evidence. He’s with the FBI and he’ll know what to do with it. Just in case something happens, though, I want you to know that I love you, more than anything.”
“But—” I’m ready to ask a thousand questions and he knows me well enough to know it’s going to happen.
He leans in close and brushes his lips across mine lingering there long enough to say, “Not now. If we make it out of here I’ll tell you everything. We have to go. These guys are in a black van so we have to make sure we lose them completely before we get to Donovan. Once we’re on the bike, hold on tight.” He kisses me hard and fast one last time.
Fear like I’ve never known courses through me as I climb on behind him on to his Harley-Davidson Street Glide. Usually I love this bike, but right now it feels like a death trap. If we’re running from someone, I want a vehicle that’s more like a tank to protect us. We’re right out in the open on this thing.
As I lower the helmet onto my head and wrap my body around his, I think about all that is Alex. I’ve been in love with him since freshman year of college when he charmed me right out of my biology notes. He was born with a charisma that few people have and he used it to his full advantage when he was trying to get my attention. I fought it for a while, but eventually gave in. The day I graduated with my BSN he asked me to marry him and we got married the following year with all the hoopla a huge wedding is expected to have. That was two years ago.
Alex has always been the life of the party and the man everyone seems to know and love. We can’t ever go to dinner or a movie without him having to stop and talk to several people. What I don’t understand is how he could get wrapped up in something as sinister as this. Sure, he’s turning evidence over to the FBI, but how did he end up with it in the first place?
Now I wish I’d been around more. I’ve been working six days a week for the last three months. I’m a hospice nurse and we’ve been short-staffed. Nursing in general is difficult. Six days a week dealing with dying patients and their families wears on me, so by the time I get home I don’t have a lot left over. I thought in a couple months, once we get all the new people hired and trained, I could take a week off so Alex and I could go somewhere and reconnect, to catch up on everything and start working on making a family again. But now I realize I should have tuned in sooner.
A few minutes back into our ride, Alex starts whipping in and out of traffic and passing people every chance he gets. He’s driving like a maniac. He peels off down a back road that we rarely travel and hits the throttle again. I grip his middle tighter and pray as hard as I can that we walk away from this.
He looks back over his shoulder and cusses loudly before passing two cars and speeding up. We’re going around a bend when Alex crosses the double yellow line to pass the car in front of us and I glance up, ready to cuss him out, when I see the semi coming straight at us. He swerves and heads off the road. The last sound I hear is the blaring of the truck’s horn and my own scream as we drive straight into a tree and my world goes black.
2
Reya
One year later…
Stumbling out of the bathroom I make a zigzag pattern across the room. I think it’s safe to say I’ve had too much to drink. If I didn’t know it before I went in there, I do now. After almost falling in the toilet, soaking my shirt while washing my hands, and then crashing into a poor woman on the way out, I have no illusions about my intoxicated status.
It’s the anniversary of the accident and I can’t seem to hide from the ghosts flying around in my head. Even after a year it all feels like yesterday and I can’t live with any of the memories of Alex or the aftermath. Drinking seemed like
a good way to shut those things down for the night.
With a heavy sigh I plop back down on my barstool and tap the bar top. The bartender, whose name is Bud, or so he tells me, plants both hands on the edge of the bar and leans down to make close eye contact. “Lady, you don’t need anything else to drink.”
“I’m not driving. I’m staying across the street. Shouldn’t matter how much I drink if I’m not driving.”
“I don’t need ya dyin’ of alcohol poisonin’ after I served it all to you.”
“I know when to cut this off. I promise. This time, though, I want a shot of your best whiskey. In fact, serve one up to these guys too.” I gesture to the line of three rough-looking men who appear to live on these stools night after night. “This one’s on me,” I yell to the guys, and they all cheer. Bud shakes his head but lines up the shot glasses to fill them with the amber liquid.
“Wait for me to do it, boys, okay?” I shout at them over the noise of the jukebox. They all look at me like I’ve lost my mind. “This is the important part,” I inform them.
Then I shuffle over to the jukebox and fish a wadded-up dollar bill out of my pocket and do my best to flatten it out. When the jukebox won’t take it, my frustration mounts and I bang my head on the machine. I need to get this song on now. It’s the song that goes with the shot. This is how he always did this shot.
“Hey, hey, hey, lady, cut that out. You break it and Bud won’t replace it. We’ll be stuck listening to Big John tell stories about the good ole days,” says a male voice with a heavy southern accent.
I lift my head and do my best to focus on the guy scolding me. Where’d he come from? He doesn’t look like the other locals. First of all, he’s younger, closer to my age. He’s also wearing a worn white cowboy hat and has a day’s worth of blond stubble. He’s a few inches taller than I am, which puts him right under six foot, I bet. His face has a rugged quality that I’d only associate with tough men, but it’s still handsome enough that I have to fight the drunken instinct to touch his cheeks.
“I have to play this song. It’s important, but it won’t take my money,” I tell him, noticing a bit of a slur at the end of most of my words. Shit.
“Lady, I’ll put money in there and get your song pulled up if you agree not to bang your pretty little head on it again.”
I nod a little and shove the dollar at him. Mr. Cowboy shakes his head and says, “No ma’am. I’ve got this. You tell me your song and head back to the bar.”
“Bob Seger, ‘Roll Me Away’.”
“Seger?” His eyebrows rise and his head tilts a little. “No, Miranda Lambert or Carrie Underwood?” He teases like he doesn’t believe me. Normally, I’d find this funny, but not this time. It’s important to me to get it right for Alex. “Nope, just the Seger,” I tell him sadly and return to the bar.
The shots are still sitting there waiting so I tell the boys on the stools to grab one each and then I hold the shot up high like Alex always did and say loudly, “Here’s to you and here’s to me. If we should ever disagree, fuck you and here’s to me!” I lift mine higher and declare, “This one’s for Alex!”
“Ma’am, ain’t no Alex in here,” Bud tells me with a lifted brow before we can toss them back. Everyone pauses, seeming to want to know what I’m going to say.
“No,” I reply, and pound my chest with my fist directly over my heart. “He’s in here. Now, let me get back to this.” I put the shot glass to my lips and turn it upside down, letting the liquid burn a path down my throat to my stomach.
The guys with the shots lift them toward me and then throw them back. My eyes close so I can picture my Alex, with his alluring charisma, doing what I just did, probably a hundred times in the years we were together. I stay that way until the first notes of the song float out of the speakers, then I turn and move to the dance floor and slide into my own private world, one where I’m on the back of Alex’s bike before I worked too many hours and he met the wrong people. Before my whole world imploded. The music takes me away and I’m singing at the top of my lungs and dancing the awkward dance of sad, drunken women all over the world.
When the song finally fades out, I open my eyes to find everyone in the place looking at me. This would normally embarrass me, but not tonight. Drunk, sad, lonely and done reminiscing, I drag myself back to the bar and slap a hundred-dollar bill up there for Bud and shuffle out of the building.
Bud calls to me as I go, “This is too much, honey!”
I wave my hand in the air at him and keep going. When I step outside into the cold Montana night I blink a few times at the shock of it. Damn, it’s freezing up here. I’ve never been to this part of the country so I had no idea what it was going to be like. I glance at the old neon sign across the street that says Martha Ann’s Motel and begin my short trek back to my room.
On the whole walk over I contemplate all that’s going on. How did my life end up such a mess? Alex was my glue and the minute he became a bunch of pieces on the side of the road, so did my life.
I dig down in my pocket and pull out the old-school metal key on the plastic diamond-shaped keyring. Then I drag my drunk ass to the door marked number three. Earlier in the evening I picked this place because I knew no one would be looking for me here. In fact, if I had to guess, no one has ever looked here for anyone. This place is a total dump. It was probably built in the 1950’s and never updated. I’m certain the furniture and mattress were installed right after it was built. I lean my head against the door and take a deep breath. It may take me a minute to focus enough to get the key in the hole the right way, but I’m ready to try.
As I fight with the key and the lock, I realize it probably wasn’t smart to get this drunk when I should be watching my back. The battle continues for a few minutes until I finally give up. My shoulders sag in defeat and I’m ready to go to the office for help when I hear Mr. Cowboy’s voice way too close behind me. My brain is too foggy to be startled.
“Doll, looks like you need some help.”
Great, this is so humiliating; he’s either here to laugh at my stupid inebriated state or kill me. It didn’t dawn on me until just now that he could be one of the assholes making my life a living hell. I doubt it, since the guys I’m dealing with are from Detroit, not some cow pasture in the middle of nowhere, but by getting drunk I left myself vulnerable. What an idiot. I’m so tired of dealing with all of this, especially since I didn’t do anything to deserve it. I survived, that’s my transgression.
“If you’re here to kill me, please get it over with. I’m tired of running.”
“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but if you’re in danger, hanging out here in the open, so drunk you can barely stand, is a shitty way to stay safe.” He grips my shoulders and turns me toward him, searching my face, for what, I don’t know. The blue in his eyes is the only thing I can seem to focus on. It’s the prettiest icy blue I’ve ever seen and I swear he can see straight through to my soul, to all the heartache, worry and anger I’ve got stored up in there.
Turning around he glances in all directions, never taking his hands off my shoulders. He pauses on something at the back of the lot, but I don’t look over to see what it is. I study his profile. The column of his throat is thick, his Adam’s apple slightly visible. His shoulders are broad and thick like he lifts heavy weights frequently, and although it’s covered, his chest is thick. If I felt it I’d probably find amazing pecs under his flannel shirt. I can’t seem to help myself when I reach up and run my hands from the tops of his shoulders down his arms and back across his chest. Everything feels exactly like I expected and I sigh.
When he glances back to me his eyebrows are drawn together and I realize I never got permission to touch him and that was probably wrong. This is why I don’t drink very often. Besides getting sentimental, I also get touchy-feely. He turns back to the parking lot and I go back to studying him.
“Give me the key, doll.” His eyes never leave their point of interest in the
parking lot as he wraps his fingers around the key in my hand and moves me to the side a little. Quickly, he opens the door and shuffles us inside. He leads me to stand in front of the big window facing the parking lot and before my alcohol soaked brain can comprehend what he’s doing his lips meet mine and his arms wrap me up and hold me tight. The kiss is strong but his lips are soft and I melt a little, realizing it’s been a year since I was kissed or held this way. It’s so nice. Super nice. Beyond the word nice.
Abruptly he yanks the curtain closed and moves me to the bed. “Sit. You’ve got someone watching you out there. I wanted them to think we’ll be busy for a bit. I need to make a call.” He dials and holds the phone up to his ear and then asks me, “You running from the law or someone else?”
“Someone else, I guess. Dudes from Detroit.”
“You kill someone or hurt a kid?”
“What?” What is this guy going on about? Me, kill someone? Never.
“Did you kill someone or hurt a kid?” he says a little slower and a little louder.
“Hell, no! Why’d you ask that?” I notice the slur again and it seems to be back worse than last time.
He shifts his focus back to the call. “Swede, it’s Elias Covington, I need your help.”
“Shitty motel on route 89. Got a girl here running from some trouble and it’s found her. Yup, waiting in the parking lot. My piece is in the car so I’ve got nothin’. Room three.” He pauses, listening. “Yup, we’ll be here.” Then he disconnects and stares at me.
