Lieutenant

by Lesli Richardson

  Oh, and she finally officially confirmed she’d be running for governor at the end of Taylor’s second term.

  It gave the local NBC affiliate the political scoop of a lifetime. Especially considering that, only months earlier, Evans had barely survived a plane crash and shipwrecking that literally killed half the Southeast’s governors and lieutenant governors, cruelly and forcibly shuffling the political hierarchy in those states forever.

  Also, considering it was a given Evans would run for governor at the end of Taylor’s second term, because term limits meant he couldn’t run again, it was still a scoop because she officially announced it there first.

  Fuck me.

  Yeah, I guess I deserved it.

  I sent Dad’s calls immediately after to voice mail and deleted the messages without listening to them because I knew he was blasting me, too.

  I’d provided one more disappointment in a lifetime of them, I suppose.

  Due to a lot of groveling on my part, I’m Evans’ first sit-down interview early this Wednesday morning in Tampa, following her landslide victory last night. She killed it, too, a fifty-five point victory that will rightfully shake both major parties to their foundations before pundits finish processing all the numbers. Independents such as Taylor and Evans can no longer be dismissed as lucky flukes. She and Taylor both have won incredible victories, especially considering they’re Independents.

  Not that the idiots in either major party will take heed. They’ll wring their hands and revert to the same ole bullshit in four years.

  I’ve interviewed Evans’ father several times during my career. Benchley Evans is a former Florida state senator and a state GOP political bigwig. The man is a ball-buster, and I was supposedly on his side, politically.

  I can tell his daughter didn’t fall far from the same tree. If my balls aren’t crushed by the end of this interview, it’ll be a miracle.

  Her friend and Florida’s current governor, Owen Taylor, is equally difficult to interview, although that’s mostly my fault because of how I bungled my interview with him. Said interview which had followed on the heels of a school shooting shortly before he won election to his first term.

  I do take a little satisfaction in the fact that my former producer ended up having to move to Brazil and manage soccer game coverage because not a single damn network in the States would touch him once they learned what happened.

  And Draymond Garcia, Evans’ chief of staff, is every bit as much of a bastard as Carter Wilson.

  Garcia allowed me this interview under strict conditions, obliquely reminding me of the journalistic ratfuck they subjected me to four years earlier. He also hinted I would only get this one chance to make a halfway decent impression with the woman and return to their good graces, or my network would all but lose our press credentials with this administration for the next eight years.

  In other words, they were done putting up with our shit.

  Again, I cannot blame them in the slightest. After eleven years stuck in this thermonuclear circus of a network, I’m just about done putting up with our network’s shit myself. Not that I can publicly admit that to anyone.

  If I didn’t need the goddamned job so fucking much, I’d leave.

  Unfortunately, I have a contract that says I’m stuck here for at least another two years, unless they fire me or decide to let me go early. The list of fireable offenses is a very short one, but also one that would guarantee I’d either end up in jail on the back side of events, or unemployable by any other network.

  There’s not a snowball’s chance on the sun that they’ll willingly release me from my contract early. I have the highest-rated show on their network.

  If I choose to leave before my contract’s up, I can do that, sure. Problem is, I have a non-compete clause that means until my contract’s term expires, I won’t be able to get an on-camera network job anywhere in the US, unless it’s for the Golf Channel or Animal Planet or something. Or, I’d have to take an anchor position at some little tiny local backwater independent TV station for a fraction of the pay.

  Before I came to work at FNB, my previous agent died. The agency I ended up hiring for my first contract negotiation with FNB was competent. But the agent who’d repped me left and went independent before I was due for renewal. Since I was repped by the agency, I let them assign me someone else to negotiate the renewal.

  How was I to know there’d be a difference in representation?

  Guess I got cocky, but I was in the middle of covering a series of contentious midterm elections at the time and honestly didn’t want to focus on contract negotiations. By the time I realized what I’d signed, it was too late.

  I drag my mind back to the present. I’m aware of Garcia positioned off to the side, out of the shot but in my peripheral vision. As he watches us he stands with his feet shoulder wide, arms crossed, and a stony look on his face that could easily be him channeling Carter Wilson. I know there’s a connection between the men, something about Garcia’s older brother having served in the Army with Wilson, but I haven’t had time to research that tie yet.

  It’s on my to-do list. I want as much deep background on Garcia as I can get, in case there’s anything I can use to help me suck up to him, or possibly strong-arm him, either way.

  At this point, I don’t care.

  “Ms. Evans,” I say, “you’ve already stated you would continue down the same path regarding education reform as your predecessor, Governor Taylor. That you will be enacting more programs to help improve graduation rates…”

  I sense her relax somewhat during our interview as she realizes I’m not going for a gotcha.

  I’m no idiot. I want these people to like me. I’m not happy with this network, but if I can drag them kicking and screaming toward more centrist political views, even a little, I know our numbers will climb once more. That’s why I’m going out of my way to present the incoming governor in as positive a light as possible, finding points that even most hard right-wingers can agree on with liberals, like education, infrastructure, and emergency preparedness.

  Right now, we’re hemorrhaging viewers, especially in swing-state Florida. If the tallies from this election—which resulted in wins for a record number of Independent and third-party lawmakers not just across the Sunshine State but throughout the country—don’t shake up the network, then nothing will. Especially when looked at from the perspective that more voters than ever are either registering with smaller political parties, or switching from D or R to I. So much so that, here in Florida, there is now a large and vocal non-partisan grassroots movement to end the state’s closed primary system. They have a good chance of getting a ballot referendum passed and adding it to our state’s constitution.

  Yes, I said “our.” Because I’m a native son of this batcrap crazy peninsula, which makes it even more imperative to me personally that I don’t piss off this fledgling administration before they take office.

  Now if the network will actually let me do my damn job, instead of trying to force me into bullshit tabloid territory, I might have a chance to redeem their brand if I can get enough of the other anchors on my side. I’m not the only one tired of their bullshit, but I’m also not the only one with a non-compete clause.

  We’re all on a sinking ship. Unless I can get everyone to start bailing with me, we’re all going to drown.

  * * * *

  Dignity, Diligence, and Desire, the Determination Trilogy by Lesli Richardson, a standalone spin-off set in the world of the Governor Trilogy, is now available.

  http://tymberdalton.com/books/series-info/determination-trilogy/

  Preview: Bleacke's Geek (Bleacke Shifters 1)

  The following preview is from Bleacke’s Geek (Bleacke Shifters, Book 1) by Lesli Richardson.

  Description

  When girl meets geek, the fur’s gonna fly.

  Dewi Bleacke is a no-nonsense Prime Alpha wolf. As head Enforcer of the Targhee pack, she’s in charge of Florida. Her assignment is
to kill a dirtbag who sold his daughter. She doesn’t expect to find her handsome, albeit geeky, soulmate in the process.

  Dr. Heathcliff McKenzie Ethelbert lives a quiet, boring life. A professor at USF, he has no girlfriend, no car, and is a devout vegetarian. So when a mysterious woman with mocha eyes literally drags him out of his booth and then proceeds to have her way with him, it’s not his average night out. When she follows their sexy interlude by abducting him after killing a man, he suspects life has just taken a drastically odd turn.

  Now Dewi, her partner Beck, and her surrogate father Badger, have to educate her new “grazer” mate on the ways of the Targhee wolves. “Ken” does his best to fit in. But an old killer lurks in the shadows—the wolf who murdered Dewi’s parents. Can she keep Ken safe, or will her mate prove to everyone that he’s a lot more than just Dewi Bleacke’s geek?

  * * * *

  Chapter One

  The parking lot of a crowded neighborhood sports pub in north Tampa, not too far from the University of South Florida, on a steamy, early June Saturday night.

  Nothing unusual about that.

  Leaning against her car, she patted her hip. Through her black, double-breasted oilskin coat she felt the comforting weight and profile of the nine millimeter in its holster. The coat, a man’s style that she’d had custom-tailored to better fit her, hung midway down her calves, the back split up to her ass, allowing her unimpeded mobility. Tonight she wore black jeans and an oversized black, button-up shirt, with a black tank top on under that, along with her black leather motorcycle boots.

  Admittedly clichéd, but it hid blood well, if necessary.

  Pushing away from her black Saleen S281, she strode toward the pub. Two college-aged guys standing outside the front door went slack-jawed and silent as they stared at her approach. She didn’t need her special abilities to know what they thought as they watched her stalk across the wet parking lot. Coat billowing behind her, combined with steam rising from the tarmac, a smooth, silent gait that made it seem as if she floated, and a kick-ass car.

  She could practically hear their erections rising.

  Frat Boy One shifted position a little so he could crane his neck to look around her and get a better view of her ride.

  “You walk within ten feet of it,” she muttered, just loudly enough that they could hear as she passed them, “and I’ll rip your balls off and have them deep-fried as my appetizer.”

  Both men immediately took a step out of her way, giving her a wide berth as she entered the pub.

  As she’d expected, no one inside noticed her entrance. It was a busy Saturday night. The waitresses looked frazzled, while the puck drop of the Bolts-Blackhawks playoff game on TV held most of the patrons’ attention.

  Her intended mark sat in a far corner booth, with his back to the door while he shot the shit with three of his scumbag human friends.

  Good. He’s not expecting it. Stupid fuck. How could you sell your fifteen-year-old daughter to a drug dealer and not expect retribution from pack elders?

  It boggled her mind.

  She preferred to not take him down inside the main dining room, especially since there were a few kids in the pub. At least not kill him in the open. Maybe if he got up to take a leak, then she could do it back in the bathroom.

  One of the harried waitresses noticed her and waved her hand around the dining room. “Sit anywhere you want, hon. We’ll be right with you.”

  She nodded. Crossing the dining room away from her mark, she slid onto an empty stool at the bar where she could see him. Jonathan “Jay-Jay” Peckingham, Junior.

  Peckerhead would be a better name for him.

  He sat totally oblivious to her presence. Laughing with his friends, he stuffed his face full of fried cheese sticks, totally unaware he was consuming his last meal.

  Good. That means he’ll be there for a while if they’re only on the appetizers.

  She ordered fried mushrooms and water and waited for her chance. While she watched, her mark and his friends killed a pitcher of beer and immediately ordered a refill.

  The hockey game didn’t interest her despite her love of the sport. Not tonight. Not even when the Bolts managed to score two back-to-back power play goals midway through the first period. She kept her focus on the men, although it would appear to anyone else that her attention was fixed on the TV across the bar.

  Unfortunately, the call of nature strikes even pack Enforcers.

  I can check out the back, at least.

  When the bartender walked past her seat at the bar, she left a twenty by her plate, reached out to touch his arm, and said, “I’ll be right back. Little girls’ room. Keep the change. Don’t give away my seat.”

  He smiled, as much from the nearly fifteen dollar tip she left him as from the silent command she sent him to forget her face.

  On her walk through the pub, she considered her options on how to best take out Peckingham with as little risk as possible to the other patrons. Deep in thought, the unexpected scent slammed into her as if she’d been sucker punched, stopping her in her tracks.

  No. Oh, hell no. Not tonight!

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to force her feet to move. Even when a waitress struggled to scooch past her, she didn’t step aside.

  Forward, she commanded her feet.

  She opened her eyes and scanned the room. Of their own volition, her feet turned her away from the back hallway where the bathrooms lay and to the left, into the other side of the pub’s dining room.

  Please let him be married. Taken. Fuck, let him be gay!

  She had to take down Peckingham tonight. Those were her orders from the tippy-top of the Targhee pack food chain. Not that she needed orders, in this case. She was happy to take the fucker out. But considering an edict from the pack’s Alpha had been issued, if she didn’t, her hide could, literally, be on the line. Not that she had any intention of not following through with the edict.

  In fact, she’d enjoy it. He was a dirtbag. She refused to allow another child to be put in harm’s way by not taking the fucker out.

  But if she didn’t take care of claiming her mate now she wouldn’t be able to focus on her job.

  Threading her way through the tables, she rounded a room divider where two more rows of booths and several tables were located. She came upon a slightly geeky-looking man sitting alone in a booth. He sat hunched over a laptop with his back to her, a stack of papers haphazardly sitting on the far side of a basket of fried mushrooms.

  Well, at least we have that in common. That’s a start.

  She stepped up to the table and stared down at him, waiting. Mr. Mystery Geek finally looked up when he noticed her standing there. No rings on his left hand, and what looked like a college class ring on his right. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that didn’t hide his sweet, brown eyes. He kept his brown hair neatly styled, and his cheeks clean-shaven. Maybe one-eighty-five soaking wet, if he was lucky. She couldn’t tell how tall he was, but judging from his torso length he likely stood a few inches taller than her.

  Thank the Goddess for that, at least.

  When she didn’t speak, he nervously said, “Um, may I help you?”

  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Fuck.

  Mate.

  She had to claim him. Now. Otherwise, even if she didn’t get herself killed trying to take out Peckerhead because she was distracted thinking about this guy, she would drive herself nearly mad trying to track him down again if the crowd bolted and cleared the pub.

  Decisions, decisions.

  “Are you married?” she softly asked after she opened her eyes again.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She fought the urge to bare her canines at him and take him right there. Her tongue flicked over the point of her right one as she felt the pleasant ache of it wanting to slide out. “I asked if you’re married.”

  Looking obviously puzzled, he shook his head.

  “Girlfriend?”r />
  “No.”

  “Gay?”

  That apparently motivated him to righteous indignation. “Look, just because I’m an academic and single doesn’t mean I’m gay!”

  She spotted his computer bag in the other seat. She grabbed it, scooped up his papers and slid them into it, then shut the lid on his laptop and dumped it in, too. When he tried to protest, she nailed him with her eyes and held a finger to her lips.

  “Silence.”

  His eyes widened as he clearly heard and understood her silent command. Looking shocked, he slowly nodded.

  Even more proof that he was meant to be her mate. They had an instant connection without her even laying a finger on him.

  She dropped two twenties onto the table to take care of his order and anything else he might have coming from the kitchen. Then she slung his bag over her shoulder and grabbed his arm. When she pulled him out of his seat, it was like peeling fresh, wet newspaper off a windshield. No resistance whatsoever.

  She looked up at him. She’d guessed right. At least he’s taller than me. Not quite six feet tall, though.

  Jesus, Badger’s going to laugh his ass off.

  Stifling her aggravated moan, as well as her desire to claim him right there in the middle of the crowded dining room, she kept her fingers clamped around his wrist and led him toward the back. She had to have him.

  Right now.

  * * * *

  This can’t be happening. When he’d felt the woman’s presence by his table and looked up into her beautiful large, mocha-colored eyes, he wondered if she was pissed at him for taking her usual spot or something. She stood there just staring at him. A walking ball of intensity, heat shimmers seemed to radiate off her.