by Lane Hart
ALL IN
Raising the Stakes
By Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2015 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by Wendy Ely and D.B. West
Cover by vocaldesign
https://www.fiverr.com/vocaldesign
Photo ©canstockphoto.com
WARNING: THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES 18+ ONLY AND CONTAINS EXPLICIT SEX SCENES (M/M, M/F/M and M/F) AND ADULT LANGUAGE!
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Prologue
Police Officer Tyler Evans
I hated working third shift, and not just because I'd rather be asleep. The night shift is when more crimes occur, and it's also the time during which the most heinous acts of violence go down.
At three a.m. on November first, we were on our way to a call where someone reportedly heard a woman's "screams of agony" coming from their neighbor's house. As a fresh out of the academy rookie, I was riding along with a veteran, Dean Simmons, who was showing me the ropes.
"My money's on this being a domestic violence dispute where the man is drunk and the woman pissed him off in some stupid ass way," he said to me as he sped with lights and sirens blaring through the otherwise dark, empty streets of a quiet neighborhood.
The police radio crackled, breaking into our conversation, alerting that a male at nineteen sixty-six Church Street, the address we were in transit to, just placed an emergency call into nine-one-one. He frantically told the operator that a female in her twenties is in labor and something’s wrong. An ambulance has been dispatched.
"Well, hell," Simmons muttered, shifting the car into park just after we pulled up to the curb in front of the house. It’s fairly clear that since it’s a medical emergency and not a crime in progress, we’re no longer needed. "Let's go notify them that help is on the way."
From the outside the house looked just like every other one-story home in this cookie cutter, middle class neighborhood. The front door was already standing open when we walked up to it. A lean, wide-eyed man held open the glass storm door to let us in before we even knocked.
"I-I don't know what to do! She can't push the baby out, and she...oh God, she's in so much pain!" he stammered.
"The ambulance is on the way and should be here any minute," Simmons assured the man, before he led us to the basement stairs. Wait a second, the basement? The three deadbolt locks on the outer door were the first red flag my mind registered, telling me that something unusual was definitely going on. Then we climbed down the creaking wooden stairs, and I realized that "basement" was a generous term for the place we'd just entered. In fact, dungeon would've been much more appropriate for the cold, mostly empty, cement bunker.
"You-you can arrest me after you help her," the man tells us as he nervously yanks fistfuls of his unruly beard.
I'm sure my expression probably mirrors the same slack-jawed confusion as Simmons. We both glance curiously around the windowless, mildew scented room, bare except for a pile of blankets on the floor, bookcase full of books, small television sitting on a crate, and a boombox plugged into the wall.
"Arrest you?" Simmons asks the man. The piercing wails of agony interrupt, preventing further conversation. Every last blonde hair on both of my arms instantly stands at attention.
Then I see exactly what he was referring to.
Holy fuck.
Underneath the pile of blankets is a woman. My feet carried me a few steps closer until I could see the thick metal chain bolted to the floor where he'd recently had her tethered like a goddamn dog!
The woman's hair, a shade of red, is fanned out on a pillow, soaking wet with sweat. Her small body is curled up on her side in a fetal position as she continues to scream. When she shifts to her other side, writhing in pain, my eyes are drawn to the dark blood stains saturating the white Sheets. Suddenly, I feel the world tilt. This would be the absolute worst time to pass out.
Honestly, though, other than hitting the floor, I have no fucking idea what to do. Simmons seems just as out of his depth as he stands stock still. I figure I can at least try to talk to the woman, assure her that the paramedics are in route.
"Ma'am, help is on the way and will be here any minute. Just hang on, okay?" I tell her, kneeling down beside where she lays on a mattress on the fucking concrete floor.
Her pale face is drawn tight in pain, but she manages to give me a slight head nod.
"What's your name?"
"Kelly," the man responds for her from where he kneels on the other side of her mattress. "Kelly Albright."
The name immediately sounds familiar. As pain stricken as it is, so does her face. I look up at Simmons with an eyebrow raised in question. The tensing of his jaw tells me that I’m right. This is her. The woman who was reported missing by her family months ago, Since there's been no sign of her, everyone had assumed the worst. Now, here she is, alive but pregnant, trying to deliver what I'm betting is this fucked up bastard's baby. She's obviously been through hell, and now this...
"Your family's been searching for you," I tell her, then glare at the man. His eyes flicker to the stairs and I think he might be considering making a run for it. But when I see a pair of shoes come into view, I realize he’s just looking toward the sound of footsteps. Thank God!
"If it's a…girl…Audrina. If-if it's a…boy…Drew," the woman tells me between gasps. Closing her eyes tight while tears stream down her cheeks, she says, "Tell-tell my sister Katie I forgive him."
The paramedics swoop in with medical bags and a gurney, so Simmons and I jump out of the way. Both of us stand guard in front of the stairway, although escaping seems to be the last thing the man is concerned about. He watches from his place on the floor, kneeling down as close to the woman as he can get without being in the way.
The chain restraint had at least been recently removed from the woman. Her thin ankle still bears the angry, red circular imprint.
I watch the demented man's behavior, trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him for doing something so cruel to another human being. He's acting almost like you'd believe any other expecting father, genuinely concerned for the woman's wellbeing. That much is obvious, even if it’s ironic. The longer the paramedics work the more distraught he becomes. Both of his fists yank on handfuls of his own hair as his sniffles grow louder. It's clear that Kelly's condition is dire, especially when she no longer makes a sound. I have no idea what that means for t
he baby.
After they lift her onto the gurney and start up the stairs toward the ambulance, the man approaches us. He offers up both wrists out in front of him as tears pour down his unshaven face. His head is bowed and his narrow shoulders are slumped.
"I killed her," he sobs. "I killed them both."
His confession snaps Simmons and I both back to reality. I remember that despite the horror and sadness, we have a job to do and proper protocol to follow to make sure this sick fuck spends the rest of his life in prison.
"You're under arrest upon the suspicion and belief that you are responsible for the abduction, kidnapping, and rape of Kelly Albright. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you.” After Simmons finishes reading him his Miranda rights, he locks the cuffs around his wrists and pats him down.
I pray the man is wrong about Kelly's condition for her friends and family's sake. Fate wouldn't be cruel enough to take her away from them after she'd just been found, could it?
Chapter One
Three Years Later…
Katie Albright
Shit, it’s already five o'clock and I’m nowhere near finished prepping for tomorrow's trial! I grab my cell phone from my purse under the desk and send Candice, Drew's babysitter, a text asking if she can stay a little later tonight. I’m still waiting for a response when "he" randomly drops in.
"Working late tonight?" the bastard asks. I know his name, of course, but I prefer substituting it with more colorful ones.
"Joe Cool. I bet you never work late, do you?" I ask without bothering to glance up at him. I know exactly what I would see if I did. Despite having zero artistic ability, I could probably draw a very realistic representation of him from head to toe. He's not a man that you can easily forget - A thick, muscular body, covered by a perfectly fitted suit, floppy, jet-black hair that begs for fingers to comb through it every time it shifts, a face that would make angels weep, and worst of all, those damn cerulean eyes surrounded by long, black lashes. Eyes that put me under some sort of curse every time I look into them. A curse that makes my entire body tingle with wild, hedonistic desires, while simultaneously causing my mind to turn to mush. Despite my best efforts, I can't keep the bastard from starring in my more erotic dreams.
"I prefer to play instead of work when the sun goes down. You should try it sometime." He has a way of making everything sound naughty. Or maybe that's just always the direction of my thoughts when it comes to him.
"My life doesn't allow time for me to go play," I reply. The words come out just as bitter as I feel. I steal a quick glance at the two small picture frames on the edge of my desk, one of me and my sister smiling, our arms around each other, and one of her little red-headed boy that she never got the chance to even hold. I love Drew, I really do, although I still occasionally wake up from nightmares I hope aren't prophetic. But occasionally I miss the normal aspects of single life, like dating and going out with my friends. I could always schedule for Candice to stay with him, but I’d just end up feeling guilty the whole time I’m out.
"Then your life doesn't sound like any fun," he responds. "Come on, Katie Kat, let's go have a drink." Oh my God. Did I actually just shiver from a few smooth words out of his perfect mouth? He's only being friendly, it's not like he meant we would be going on a date. And if any other man called me Katie Kat I'd probably knee him in the nuts, but for some strange reason I let this asshole get away with it. Probably because I know that if I bitch about it, he'd just say it even more. Okay, so maybe I also like to pretend it's a term of endearment and not meant to be offensive. Is there a smug smile on his gorgeous face right now? Is he joking about wanting to get drinks? It's too damn hard to read him.
No, Katie. Don't look at him. Do not look at him! It's a trap. Shoot him down, so he doesn't think you considered going out with him for even an instant.
"Hell no. Not that I would ever go drinking with you, but especially not when I have a shitload of things to do before tomorrow morning," I reply while distracting myself by sorting through my exhibits, putting them in the order in which the witnesses will identify them. Shit! Witnesses. I need to call them and tell them to be here by nine-thirty in the morning.
"Anything I can help you with?" Joe asks. I’m halfway tempted to give in and accept his offer. If it was anyone else, I probably would. But I don't want to owe him anything or have to deal with his smugness.
"Nope, I got it."
From the corner of my eye, I see him move closer, away from the door frame, heading for the guest chair across from my desk. Damn it, I have to get rid of him!
"What are you doing in here, besides annoying the piss out of me while I'm trying to get shit done?" I ask, and then I stupidly raise my eyes to glare at him.
Frick a dick, he’s so hot, he’s scalding my retinas! The only problem is he damn well knows it. He’s an arrogant, cocky bastard, and I can't stand to be in the same room with him.
Mr. Sexy Swagger, also commonly referred to as Superman, is wanted by every single woman in the office…hell, probably in the entire city. Although no one knows for sure, the ladies in his very own personal fan club here at the courthouse all bet he's absolutely amazing in the bedroom. Unfortunately, I have to agree with them. There’s something about the man that just makes him seem so…sinfully delicious.
"Let me help. You've got the assault trial starting tomorrow morning, right? Shouldn't you be working on your opening instead of sorting piles?" His words barely register at first. I'm too busy thinking that no man should look as good as he does slouching in a simple office chair, his long legs spread wide, drawing the eye straight to his crotch. Wearing a navy pinstripe suit, he looks like he just strolled in right off the cover of GQ magazine. Doesn't the jackass know he could make a helluva lot more money modeling than being a state prosecutor? But back to the question at hand.
"How'd you know about my trial?" I ask. He's only been working in the district attorney's office for a few months now, and I didn't know he was that familiar with my court schedule. I definitely preferred dealing with him as an annoying, overzealous criminal defense attorney. It was easier to keep my distance back when he represented creeps and perverts and had an office a few blocks away. But now, every time I turn around, I'm trying to avoid those damn piercing eyes. He just seems to magically pop up everywhere I go; the employee lounge, the law library, and the clerk's office. The man obviously gets off on irritating the fuck out of me.
"Saw it posted on the master trial calendar," he replies with a shrug of his shoulders. His broad and I bet well defined shoulders, underneath his white dress shirt. Of course he knew about my case from the big ass dry erase board outside of the copy room. It's not that he took an interest specifically in me or what I was up to. That thought is absolutely ludicrous.
My cell phone suddenly pings with an incoming message and I almost jump out of my chair. Grabbing it off the desk, I quickly read Candice's message that she can only stay until six tonight because she has plans. Well, hell.
"Fine. Since you insist on staying and bothering me, you can call these witnesses and tell them all to be here by nine-thirty in the morning," I say, handing him the stack of manila files, each containing their contact information and interview notes.
"See, that wasn't so painful, was it?" he asks with a teasing smile, getting to his feet and heading out the door.
I roll my eyes and huff in annoyance since no comeback is forthcoming on the tip of my tongue. No, my tongue is more concerned about whether or not he'd taste as yummy as he looks. Oh, and smells. Can't forget the smell of some expensive sweet and masculine cologne he leaves lingering wherever he goes. It makes my mouth water every single time I get a whiff.
Of all the men in the world, why does it have to be him that gets me all hot and bothered after just a few seconds of being in his general vicinity? I don’t have time
to date, especially not love 'em and leave 'em men like him. Not that he'd ever be interested in a stick-up-the-ass woman like me. He's way out of my league, and even if he wasn't, I'm certain he would run for the hills to get away from any single mother with a three-year-old son.
Shaking my head to extract my thoughts of him, I work on my opening, and then I even start a draft outline of points to make in my closing argument.
I save all my files on the computer and grab my purse, ready to go at a quarter to six. After I turn my office light off, I notice Joe's light is still glowing into the dark hallway. How long does it take to call five people? I start in that direction, and when I’m within ear shot I hear him ask whoever is on the phone if they have any other contact information, then thank the person before hanging up.
"Why are you still here?" I ask from his doorway.
"One of your witnesses has gone MIA," he replies with a sigh.
"Which one?"
"Barbara Donaldson."
"Oh shit!"
"Important one?" Joe asks the obvious.
"Only the most important. She's the victim. She has to be there!" I exclaim, flopping down into one of his chairs with my purse in my lap.
"Okay, calm down. Let me just make a few calls," he says, pulling out his cell phone and pushing some buttons.
"Hey, Tyler. How's the family?" he asks.
I barely refrain from yelling at him to quit the chitchat, we’re running out of time! This is a disaster. Judge Woods would lose his shit if I ask for another continuance.
"Good. Yeah, I'm good," Joe responds into the phone. "Uh-huh. Lacy, well, she's…doing okay considering. You know how that is."
Ah fudge, so he is still seeing Lacy Pierce, not that it's any of my business. The petite blonde is absolutely gorgeous in a way that makes every other woman automatically hate her. Of course she also has to be all sweet and nice, too, making you hate her even more. Okay, maybe I'm the only one who hates her, and only because she knows what this bastard looks like naked.
