Pulled Under: a standalone Walker Security novel

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “My name is Sierra,” she says, but she doesn’t push my hand away.

  “Sierra,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, but since you’re holding yourself up with my arm, are you? How delicate are you?”

  I laugh. Fuck. When was the last time a woman put me in my place and made me laugh? Right. Never. “Sweetheart, as long as it’s you I’m bumping into, I’m on top of the fucking world.”

  “Sierra. Not sweetheart.”

  “If we’re ever naked together, I’ll call you Sierra, and make damn sure you know I’m with you, just you, and one hundred percent me. Until that time, you’re sweetheart. That’s just how it is.”

  I turn away and help my customer. She does the same. We get a small break and she yells, “Hey, you!”

  I frown and look her direction. “You talking to me?”

  “Yes. Because you’re ‘hey you’ until otherwise notified.” She walks toward me and stops a wide lean from touching me. “Until we’re naked, at which time I’ll call you Asher and let you know I’m with you, and just you, one hundred percent. And since that’s not going to happen, because amongst other things, ‘sweetheart’ irritates me so damn much, you stay ‘hey you’ for as long as I endure this hellhole.” She whirls around and gives me her back and a sweet view of her heart-shaped ass. Apparently, ‘sweetheart’ hits a nerve. ‘Hey you’ works for me, as long as she’s talking to me and not Ju-Ju or really, any other fucking guy, because yeah. I want her. I want her in a bad way.

  I pour a shot for the hot chick next in line, while she offers up a view of her breasts hanging out of a low-cut shirt. They’re impressive enough to get the guy right next to her to gawking, but these college kids in this bar don’t get me off. I like a grown ass woman like Sierra, and apparently, Ju-Ju agrees, considering he’s staring at her with a heightened fierceness. The blonde moves on and I turn to Sierra at the same moment that she catches Ju-Ju staring at her. Discomfort radiates off her, and she turns away and walks to the back bar. Good move, sweetheart, I think, but Ju-Ju doesn’t like it. He’s now challenged. He gets up and heads in her direction.

  I walk to the back of the bar and join Sierra. “The creep coming your way is trouble. I am too, for him, not you. Stay close to me and don’t smash me in the head with a cup or bottle.”

  “Are you going to make me want to smash you in the head with something?”

  “Perhaps, but in the process, I’m going to either back him off by being nice to you, or break a bottle over his head for you.”

  “Men like him prey on weakness, which means let me handle him myself. Back off.”

  “He’s not that drunk asshole who grabbed you earlier. He’s a drug dealer and that’s the nicest thing anyone can say about him.”

  “Asher, man,” Ju-Ju says, stepping to the bar. “Who’s the babe?”

  Sierra turns away from me and walks straight to Ju-Ju. “He doesn’t like when you call him babe and it might blow your cover with those girls if you do it that loudly. What do you want to drink?”

  I laugh. I can’t help myself and I don’t try either. I bark it right out and just go with it. I follow that purposeful cackle by joining the two of them and leaning an arm on the bar, arching a brow at Ju-Ju. “Something you want to tell me? Because, man, if you’re gay, that’s cool and all. I support gay rights and to each their own. But for the record, I don’t do cock. I’m a straight tits and ass man.”

  “Then you and I should talk tits and ass later tonight because I can show you plenty.” He glances at Sierra. “Bring her. I like my women hard to get.”

  “I don’t share,” I say. “And you’d be smart to remember that.”

  He smirks. “Sounds like we need to talk quid pro quo. You keep her and I get you.” He looks at Sierra and slides a hundred on the bar like he did to me. “There’s a whole lot more where that came from,” he promises and turns away.

  She looks at me. “I am not touching that. I’m not even picking it up and putting it in the tip jar.”

  “Good decision,” I say, snatching it up and placing it in the jar before I step to her, close without touching her, when all I’d like to do is tunnel my hands in her hair and kiss the fuck out of her. “You’re tough. I like that.”

  “What the hell was that? He’ll trade me for you?”

  “I got this, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

  She studies me for several intense beats. “I need this job,” she says, and there is a hint of desperation to her voice.

  “And you have it,” I say. And she has me, even if she doesn’t want me.

  Yet.

  I’ve already decided that I’m going to do my damn best to make her want me. What I’m not going to let her know is just how badly Ju-Ju’s attention means she needs me.

  Once upon a time, a young girl dreamed of her very own Prince Charming. He would be handsome and debonair in every way. He would sweep her off her feet, and they’d live happily ever after. As she got older, that same girl—me in fact—had career goals and dreams, but she still believed in love. She still believed her Prince Charming would support her dreams and goals while she supported his. They could have it all. And so, it happened. My prince arrived and life was good, until it wasn’t. Until it was bad. So very bad.

  Flash forward to now, and I’m standing in the break room of a bar, waiting for tip money I need just to eat, while Asher talks to the boss about my performance. In other words, did I pass the one-night trial I begged for earlier today? This is my reality, which I would never have believed possible just last year, or even nine months ago when I ran to stay alive. But this is as real as it gets, and that fact punches at me pretty much every moment of every day. I could blame Cinderella for all this. I could analyze the psychological reasons that being raised by a single mother made me take the story too literally. But I’m not a stupid person and I have no excuse for looking at life through Cinderella-colored glasses.

  I’m the one who took the fairy tale too far. I’m good at taking things too far. I want to be perfect and I dive in and grab what is in front of me, and sometimes it backfires. Boy, did it backfire this time or I wouldn’t be here now. I wanted to be the perfect everything. I press my hand to my forehead. “Perfectly stupid,” I murmur, tunneling my fingers through my hair.

  “I hope you’re not talking about me.”

  At the sound of Asher’s voice, I whirl around to find him leaning on the doorway, and the bright lights do nothing to disprove his rock star, bad boy hotness. I fold my arms in front of me. “I would never call anyone stupid.”

  “But you just did,” he says, his eyes, which I now know to be a bright grass-green, are fixed on me too intently for comfort. “I heard you say—”

  “Why were you listening?” I ask, my fisted hands settling on my hips.

  “It’s my experience that when someone speaks, they want to be heard.”

  “I was talking to myself. I wanted me to hear.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes,” I say, silently adding, too late. I heard the warnings in my head too late.

  He arches a brow, those full lips of his, lips that I shouldn’t notice, hinting at a smile. “Do you always talk to yourself?”

  “Yes, actually,” I say. “I do. Can we move on?”

  “Yes, but for the record, no one is perfect, sweetheart. Take it from the guy who not only made an ass of himself when he met you, but also spent too many years of his life trying to be perfect and failing.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “You think being here makes you a failure?”

  He’s here. If say yes, I’ve called him a failure, and I have no idea what his history is any more than he does mine. “No,” I say. “Being without a job is a failure. Do I get to keep this one?”

  “Yes. You do.”

  Relief washes over me. “Thank you. When do I come back?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “And tonight’s ti
ps? How much did we make?” I manage to sound quite matter-of-fact when I don’t feel matter-of-fact at all.

  His eyes narrow ever so slightly, intelligence in their depths, and I have the feeling that he sees my desperation. He doesn’t push though. He simply pushes off the doorframe and, reaching behind him, produces an envelope, the colorful tattoo sleeves covering both of his arms on display, random images creating a collage: a jaguar, a ship anchor, an ace card, just to notice a few. I don’t care for tattoos. I don’t care for this place, and he’s a part of this place but, the art is beautiful, he’s beautiful, and I’m in an ugly mess that—

  “You gonna take it or are you just going to stare at it, sweetheart?”

  My gaze jerks to his, and he arches a brow. “What?”

  “You’re staring at the envelope like you think it will bite.”

  We both know he’s not talking about the envelope any more than I was looking at the envelope, but I go with it. “Because you’re holding it like bait for a fish and I’m the fish. I don’t like that and for the record—I might bite.”

  He moves to close the distance between us, with this loose-legged swagger that I have no doubt is meant to mask cool calculation. I’ve given him the excuse he wanted to step within a lean of me. Too close, so close that scent of his reminds me of a winter wonderland of spice. It’s an assessment I’d come to hours ago, in one of the many up close and personal moments I’d shared with him tonight. The most personal moments I’ve shared with anyone in nine months.

  “It’s all yours,” he says, handing it to me.

  I reach for it, careful not to touch him. I already know the jolt that delivers. “How much cash?”

  “A grand even.”

  My eyes go wide, chin lifting to search his face. “A grand. We made two grand tonight?”

  He studies me for several beats, seeming to weigh his reply before he says, “You made a grand.”

  It’s an odd way of replying, but I let it go. Maybe he took more than fifty percent, but I’m not going to complain. I need this money. I unzip my purse at my hip and stick the envelope inside, because pulling up my shirt to get to my money belt isn’t exactly opportune right now. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I say, stepping around him, and hurrying toward the door.

  “This isn’t your kind of place,” he says.

  I pause for a moment at the doorway without turning, a million replies fighting for my tongue in my head, but I settle on a simple reply. “It is now.”

  With that, I turn into the narrow hallway and walk the short distance to the exit, and push the bar to open the steel door, stepping into a dark alleyway, compliments of a burned-out light. I don’t need to be seen with lights on anyway. I don’t need to be memorable. I hurry forward, and I’ve barely taken two steps when the feeling of being watched washes over me. I speed up to a near-run, thinking of the thieves who might wait for a bartender or waitress to get off work to steal their tips. Thinking of that creep Ju-Ju. Thinking of the death threat I believe to be real or I wouldn’t have run.

  I reach into my purse and remove my bottle of mace. I place my finger on the button, and round a corner, but it’s dark and empty except for me, some random trash blowing around, and the footsteps behind me. What if they found me? What if he found me? I can’t die. I don’t want to die. I dart around another corner and flatten myself inside a wide archway to a building entrance. Those footsteps follow, stop in front of me, and a huge man faces me. I spray the mace.

  “Holy fuck, Sierra.”

  Oh God. I’ve just sprayed Asher.

  Asher rotates and flattens himself against the wall next to me. Instinctively, I follow, stepping in front of him. His eyes are shut, and even in the shadows of the dimly lit, deserted street, I can see the pain etched in his face. “Asher, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I was alone and—”

  “Stay away from the fumes,” he orders, his voice a deep rasp, and his eyes are watering to the point that it looks like he’s crying, when he’s not. “They fan outward,” he adds.

  “I’m fine,” I say, not sure how he’s worried about me right now.

  “You’re not fine.”

  I have the mace in my hand and I hastily shove it back into my purse and zip it. “What can I do?” I ask looking left and right, down rows of concrete, old buildings shuttered for the night or just plain vacant, but there is no one in this area this time of night. “There’s no one to help,” I say. “I don’t know what to do. How do I help?”

  “You don’t,” he says, huffing out a breath and blinking several times before he gives up opening his eyes. “It—will—pass.”

  “How do you know? What if—?”

  “I know.” He squats down, pressing his hands on his knees, lowering his chin to his chest. “It’s passing.”

  I squat, but I’m already too off-balance as it is, clearly or I wouldn’t have sprayed him, and I just give in and settle on my knees. “Asher—”

  “It’s passing,” he breathes out again, but as he sucks air in, it’s with a horrid wheezing sound.

  “It’s not passing,” I say urgently. “You can’t breathe.”

  “Give me a few minutes,” he says gruffly, lifting his head and actually opening his eyes. “It doesn’t affect me like other people.”

  I blanch. “What? How would you know that? Do you make a habit of sneaking up on women and getting maced?” The accusation is out before I can stop it, that part of me just trying to survive going on defense. I regret it instantly, but it’s too late. He reacts before I can retract my words.

  “Jesus, Sierra. I was going to walk you the fuck home.” He stands up and leans on the wall, his head resting against the hard surface.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, scrambling to my feet, fighting the urge to touch him, when his clothes are contaminated and I shouldn’t be touching him anyway. “I’m jumpy on these streets back here and we just met. But you don’t deserve that and I shouldn’t have said it.”

  His phone rings, and somehow he actually reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, but when he looks at the screen, he makes a frustrated sound. He lifts his head and looks at me, the whites of his eyes burned red. “My vision is shit right now,” he says, holding it out to me, the glow of a streetlight illuminating the pain in his handsome face. “Who is it?” he asked.

  I glance at the caller ID. “It says… ‘Dickhead’.’”

  He apparently likes whoever Dickhead is, or feels obligated to talk to this person, because he answers the call immediately. “Blake,” he bites out. “You’re on speaker.”

  “Why do you sound like you have a stick up your ass?” Blake asks. “And why the fuck am I on speaker?”

  “Before you say anything else,” Asher warns. “Sierra, from the bar, is with me.”

  “Make me understand,” Blake says. “Why am I on speaker with Sierra from the bar?”

  “I got maced,” Asher says, his voice gravelly. “I don’t want the residue on my phone.”

  “Fuck.” Blake curses dramatically. “What happened? Who the hell maced you?”

  “Me,” I say. “But I didn’t know it was him.”

  Blake is silent two beats and then barks out laughter. “Holy fuck. Way to be a smooth operator, Ash. Holy fucking hell. How bad is it?”

  “Tear gas,” Ash replies as if that answers the question, his voice not as gravely now.

  “Ah well, hell, man,” Blake says, “You’re good, right? Luke told me your boys were hit with that shit in training so many times it’s now like drinking a cheap shot of tequila. It burns hard and fast, and then you beg for more.” I can’t help it. I have to ask. “Who is Luke and what training?” I ask, but I’m ignored.

  Asher responds with a pained laugh as he lowers his chin to his chest again. “Yeah, man. I’m smelling daisies right now and doing it without a water supply.”

  “You gotta find some water to at least rinse your eyes,” Blake says, bypassing my question for admittedly, and obviously, more impo
rtant matters. “I can’t get a car and clothes to you for at least thirty minutes.”

  “I’m not going in a public place with the residue all over me,” Asher says. “Send a pick up. I’ll ride in the back and I’ll wait right here.”

  “Where is here?” Blake asks.

  “I live in this shithole of a neighborhood,” I interject despite the many reasons I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, but I have to help. I did this to Asher.

  Asher lifts his chin and looks at me, a chill in his stare that wasn’t there before my accusation despite my spraying him with mace. There is also surprise, and thankfully far less pain than even minutes ago. “I’m two blocks away,” I say, doubling down on my offer, and my apology.

  “Problem solved,” Blake says for him. “I need your address, Sierra.”

  “I have to buzz you up when you get there,” I say before dictating the street and apartment number.

  “Got it,” Blake says. “I’ll make sure you get clothes, Ash. Sierra. He’s more valuable than you know. Try not to kill him before I get there, will ya?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He disconnects.

  And I immediately try to make peace. “Asher—”

  “You sure you want me in your apartment?” he asks, speaking almost normally now. “I might be a stalker who makes a habit of attacking women on the street.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m very edgy for reasons that have nothing to do with you.”

  “I’m standing right here, sweetheart. I’m pretty sure it has at least something to do with me.”

  “It really doesn’t,” I say. “But like I said, I’m—”

  “Don’t apologize again,” he says firmly. “But when the time is right. Say my name, Sierra, like I just did yours. Now more than ever, I’m going to want to know you really do know it’s me you’re with.”

  I cut my gaze, afraid this man who is a stranger will see more than anyone has in years now that I’m honest with myself. Afraid that comment already infers that he does. Afraid of the intimacy he infers, as much as I crave it, when I cannot. It’s wrong. It’s unfair to him. It’s dangerous to him. Because I still have a Prince Charming who I now know is really The Beast.