Anything for Her

by Lola StVil

  Copyright © 2018 by Lola StVil

  All rights reserved.

  Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is dedicated to:

  My advanced romance readers group.

  Thank you for sticking with me.

  He’s begging for mercy, calling out to a God who doesn’t give a shit. When I dig my blade deeper into his thigh, he finds a whole new kind of pain. He pees on himself. He wants me to stop—no, he needs me to stop. But I need to know where he’s hiding the Cortez family, the innocent people he helped kidnap in exchange for a hefty ransom. And since I’m the one with the weapon, my needs get met first. The stench of rust, blood, and piss fill the warehouse. It’s a special fragrance that I’ve become used to in my line of work.

  “Logan, your cell is going off,” my partner says. Normally Miller won’t say my real name in front of the loser we’re tormenting but he knows this guy won’t make it through the night, so it won’t really matter if he knows my name or not.

  “I’m busy,” I reply as I dig the blade in even farther. The asshole kidnapper, known as Slim D, begins to cry even louder than before.

  “It’s not your regular cell that’s going off. It’s the white one.”

  That can’t be. The white cell I carry hasn’t rung in two years. No one has that number but her. And she’d never call me. She hates me. And I’m trying to hate her. Every muscle in my body tenses up. It feels like someone is sitting on my fucking chest.

  She’d never call me unless...

  I march down the dark hallway; I can still hear Slim crying. I enter the small room that houses all our equipment. Getting the right materials to pull off a job like this isn’t easy in Mexico. But our contact made it happen. We placed all the equipment in this part of the warehouse and take turns trying to get info out of Slim.

  I walk towards my jacket. It’s laid out on the table, and sure enough, there’s a bright blue light coming from the pocket with the white cell phone: the cell phone that should not be ringing. Fuck me. My goddamn heart has moved into my throat. I pick up the white cell. “Shay?” I ask.

  There’s silence. It’s thick. Heavy. Relentless. I press my ear even closer to the phone. That’s when I hear it: her breathing. It’s choppy and uneven. I hear it and I know right away, she’s scared. Shay doesn’t get scared. She’s tough, always has been. But right now, she’s fucking terrified.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “This was a mistake, Logan. I shouldn’t have called.”

  “Too late. Where are you?” I demand.

  “New York City.”

  “I’m on my way.” I hang up, pick up the bigger blade on the table next to me, and head back to Slim D. “I don’t have time to play around anymore, so we are going to have to go right to the main event. I will tell you what; I’m in a good mood, so I will let you choose which of your balls I cut off. So what do you want to be known as from now on, ‘Righty’ or ‘Lefty’?” I ask as I place the blade against his groin. It only takes a few seconds for him to give us the family’s exact location.

  “Hey, I gotta take off. You got this?” I ask.

  “Yeah, we’re good. Everything okay?” Miller asks.

  “No. I gotta go check on my ex,” I reply bitterly.

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “You could say that: the last time I saw her, it was on our wedding day and she was in my best friend’s bed…”

  ***

  The flight from Mexico City to New York is over five hours, that’s way too fucking long to think about her. And it’s definitely too much time for me to sit and worry about her. But I don’t really have a choice in the matter. The truth is Shay is never too far from my mind. I had to learn to live with that.

  After our break up, I tried to get her off my mind completely. I drank, fucked, and fought my way up and down New York City. It didn’t work. In the end, the only thing that helped was taking an “off the books” freelance gig for the US government. I gave up SWAT and replaced a guy who broke his leg on an assignment in Columbia. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but I took on others, and soon, two years had passed and I had barely gone back home. A fact my family reminds me of every time we talk.

  Anika Shay Reed

  She never used her given name; she only went by her middle name. She would tell me why later on but when we first met she was tight-lipped about that and pretty much everything else. Given what I told my partner Miller, he probably thinks she’s a grade A bitch. Actually, Shay is the kindest, most giving and loving woman I know. And that dark turn she took at the end of our relationship was in large part my fault.

  I met her three years ago, back in NYC. Back then I worked, fucked, and slept. In that order…

  Three years ago…(Logan)

  It hasn’t been long since we buried my little sister, Rose. She died of leukemia and left a gaping hole in all our lives. Needless to say, it’s a tough time for my family. My four brothers and I try to make the best out of a shitty situation. We do whatever we need to do to make sure our parents are okay. We are all dealing with death in our own ways. And for me, that means work, work, and more work.

  I’ve just come off what was supposed to be a twelve-hour shift but ended up being over twenty-four hours long thanks to some asshole that thought it would be a good idea to hold his wife and their three kids hostage. He lost his mind when she told him she was going to leave him. He barricaded himself in there and threatened to kill everyone, including himself, if we didn’t get him a chopper to fly him out of the city.

  Idiot.

  That’s what happens when you watch a lot of bullshit TV. There was nowhere for him to go. There was no way he’d get the chopper he asked for. And even if he did, it would have been our guys flying it. It was clear this guy had no idea what he was doing and that only made him more dangerous.

  In the end, we got the piece of shit but not before he shot his wife in the chest. He tried to put a bullet in his head but when it came down to it, he was too much of a fucking coward to go through with it. When everything was said and done, the kids lived but the wife was taken into surgery and it didn’t look good.

  I’m tired as fuck as I make my way out of the precinct. I don’t care what happens from here on out, I am heading to bed and sleeping for the next ten hours. There is nothing in the world—not even the lure of pussy—that can keep me from getting some damn sleep.

  Once outside the building, I find myself staring at a woman standing across the street. She has frazzled hair and chews on her nails. She’s somewhere in her late forties. She keeps looking at the precinct as if she’s readying herself for a showdown.

  Her name is Martha Tucker. She’s in an abusive relationship with her boyfriend. Once a week, she comes to the station to file a police report. But she never has enough courage to actually walk into the station and file. This has been going on for over six months now. Numerous people have gone out to talk to Martha but no one has been able to get her to actually walk inside and file a complaint. She once crossed the street over to our side of the block, but in the end, Martha just couldn’t do it.

  We all feel really bad for Martha. There’s a counseling center not far from here, and we’ve called them a number of times. They send out counselors to talk to Martha but in the end, she just won’t do it. Some of the guys from the station call Martha “Old faithful” because they can count on her to always show up. It’s spring now but back when it was cold, we’d bring her coffee and talk to her. Man, I
hate knowing she’s out there trying so hard to get help.

  If it were up to me, I’d make her file the damn papers, but women in her state need to be handled with care. I can’t just make her do something she doesn’t feel ready to do, and it’s illegal as fuck. You can’t force someone to file charges and then force them to testify if they swear nothing is wrong. But I’ve seen her bruises and I know that asshole is beating the hell out of her.

  I’ve tried getting her help, and sometimes I’ll get a call from one of the guys, telling me Martha looks particularly upset that day. I’ll drop what I’m doing and go over to her. We’ll sit in the doorway of the empty gift shop, I’ll hand her coffee and play her a piece of jazz music on my phone and in a matter of seconds, she’ll guess who wrote it and when it was recorded. She loves jazz, like I do. She is a wealth of jazz history. And when I play something for her, it’s like she’s taken away to another place, another time in her life.

  On one hand I love seeing the light return to her eyes while I play her a piece of music. But on the other hand, it’s all bullshit because what she really needs help with is getting her sad ass boyfriend locked up. But she won’t let me do that. So while I like knowing she’s better because I sat with her, it frustrates the fuck out of me that I can’t do any more than that.

  If my sister was still alive and some guy had that kind of hold on her, they’d never find his fucking body. Martha looks up and sees me. She nods towards me. I don’t think she requires medical care, but I cross the street and get closer to make sure.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” I call out as I draw closer. She gives me a girly smile. Her lips are split. She sees me note her bruised mouth and lowers her head. I walk over to the coffee shop two doors down; get her some napkins and a cup of coffee. I walk back out and hand it to her. “I guess Donald didn’t get that raise at work,” I say.

  “Yeah, he got passed over,” she says.

  “Martha…”

  “He doesn’t mean the stuff he does, you know?” she says softly. My heart fucking breaks for her. I can’t tell you how many times I just wanted to go over to her house and beat the shit out of him. But that’s only a temporary fix. She’d just go right back to him.

  “I’m okay,” she lies.

  “I don’t feel good about you staying here alone.”

  “Well you can’t stay here with me,” she says.

  “And why not?”

  “You’re over six feet tall, with long blond hair, devilish blue-gray eyes, and your body is built like a goddamn monument to muscles. If you stand near me, you’ll put a target on my back for all these crazy horny women who want to bone you. No thanks. I need you to stay ten feet away,” she jokes.

  “Well, I can’t. I happen to like you and your crazy ass. So I’m gonna stay with you.”

  “You look like hell.”

  “A minute ago I was sexy,” I remind her.

  “Well you’re hot as hell even when you’re tired. Go home, handsome.”

  “You want me to drop you off somewhere, like the shelter on Fortieth?” I ask.

  “Nice try. Go, get some rest,” she says with a sad smile. Fuck, every time I talk to her, I get closer to driving by her place and just kicking that asshole to death.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks for the coffee. Next time, tequila.”

  “You got it,” I reply as I walk to my car. I take out my cell and place two calls. The first one is to my younger brother, Wyatt. He’s a homicide detective working at a precinct about twenty minutes away from mine.

  “Hey, I need a favor…can you drive by Martha’s house to see if her asshole boyfriend is there and if he’s drinking? I don’t want her coming home to that shit tonight…I would do it myself but I’m coming off a crazy fucking shift…What?...Yeah, just drive by or send a patrol car…Okay, thanks…”

  I place my second call just before I start my car. I wait for the prompt on the phone and when I get an actual person, I go off.

  “Hey, you guys need to figure this shit out…yes it’s officer Hunter, again. You guys went to school for this shit…you’re supposed to be able to reach Martha and get her to file a complaint. I don’t give a shit what you have to do, send someone over there to talk to Martha and get her to file the damn papers…Yes, I know you’ve sent all your best counselors, so now send your worst ones, your newest ones…send the ones who got their degree from the back of a fucking matchbook, I don’t care…just fix this shit because this woman needs your help…I’m not playing, send someone who knows how to talk to people and get some goddamn results…”

  ***

  When my cell goes off I vow to put a knife through whoever dared to wake me. I’m not on call until later, so my cell should not be ringing. I look over at the clock by the bed; it’s six in the morning. Who the fuck gets up at this time unless something or someone is on fire? I was knocked out as soon as I came home last night and my body is pissed at me for forcing it to wake up.

  “Better be good, Jack,” I tell my partner on the phone.

  “You’ll never guess who just walked into the station just now,” he says.

  “I don’t care if it’s Jimmy Hoffa’s ghost, it’s too damn early.”

  “Martha,” he says.

  I jump out of bed, not sure I heard him right. “Martha crossed the street? She came in?”

  “Yup and she’s making a report. They are about to arrest that sick bastard. Thought you’d like to know,” he says.

  “Yeah, but you gotta tell me, who the hell made that happen? A family member, a friend?” I ask.

  “No, some newbie from the counseling center. And get this; she’s only been working there for a week. In fact, she just got her degree.”

  “No shit?! She got there and did in one night what none of those pricks could do in six months? Who the hell is this chick?” I wonder.

  “That’s the other thing. I swear she’s just this side of legal. She’s about five minutes old. Or so I heard, I haven’t met her yet.”

  “Alright, I’m headed down there. I wanna be there when they get Martha’s boyfriend. Son of a bitch never thought she’d do it and she did. Man, whoever this newbie is, I owe her a drink.”

  ***

  On my way to the station, I stop off at my favorite bagel place. It’s the perfect time to go because the crowd has died down, at least until the lunch rush. It’s a small shop with seven tables and a red lunch counter. I swear their coffee is like crack and the bagels are always fresh. I’m on such a damn high from knowing Martha actually walked inside the station; I’m smiling like a fool.

  The TV monitor is turned on overhead, and the news is on. They are reporting on a college professor who is up on charges of assaulting one of his students. As the program plays out, a guy to my left with beady eyes and a trucker hat keeps shaking his head in disgust; apparently he’s on the side of the assailant.

  “Got that guy caught up in jail now for no fucking reason. She probably asked for that shit. Then in the middle of it, changed her mind,” he mumbles loud enough for the whole joint to hear him.

  “Excuse me?” someone standing near the back of the shop says. I didn’t notice her before—she must have already ordered and stepped to the back of the shop when I came in. She leans on the wall with her hands folded across her chest, looking like she’s posing to be a female James Dean. She’s five five, slender, and bathed in attitude. She isn’t wearing a lot of makeup, but she doesn’t need it, not with a face like that.

  She has almond-shaped, warm green eyes with specks of gold. The kind of eyes you could study for years and never understand the depths of their beauty. Her button nose, distinctly feminine jawline, and rosy cheeks make her among the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. But her hair, her wild, jet-black, raven hair, places her far above the rest.

  She’s not wearing anything that would make anyone stand out—jeans and a white tank top—yet, her taut body makes my dick twitch. She reminds me of top-she
lf whiskey. She’s sultry, silky, and I’m betting she’d go down real smooth. But fuck that, whiskey always gets me in trouble…

  “Did you just try to blame the woman for being attacked?” she demands.

  “I’m saying women sometimes do dumb things,” the guy counters, like the true asshole I thought he was when he first opened his mouth.

  “You’re right, sir, we women sometimes do dumb things. For example, the woman who gave birth to you, I’m sure she’s regretting her actions right now,” she concludes. I suppress a smile.

  “Now, now, calm down. You don’t get what I’m saying,” the guy says, raising his hands up in protest.

  “Oh no, I get what you’re saying—I’m fluent in ‘asshole,’ and I minored in ‘guys who never get laid,’ so I understand you very well,” she says.

  “I know how you women are, you wear tight slutty skirts, with your breasts flying all over the place and you want to act all innocent,” he says. I can tell by the way he’s sending his voice my way that he wants me to agree with him.

  “I know your mother dropped you on your head. I’m just wondering if it was on purpose,” she says sincerely.

  “You say another thing about my mother and it won’t be good for you,” he warns her. “Now, I tried to be nice but you are working really hard to get into some shit you gonna regret,” he says as his face turns red.

  “I’m gonna tell you something you probably hear a lot, especially in bed. I’m really not impressed,” she says as she walks up to the counter. The owner hands her the food and she heads out the door.

  “I should beat the shit out of you,” the guy says as she walks by.

  Never gonna happen. Not while I’m here.

  “Looking at what you’re working with, I’m guessing your fist is the only way you can make me scream,” she says as she looks at his groin.