Hostile Territory (Blackbridge Security 1)

With the flick of his wrist, a huge black truck roars to life. I resist the urge to cover my ears as the grumble echoes off the concrete surrounding us.

“You know what they say about guys in big trucks—”

The words die on my lips when he turns and glares at me. “Do you want to walk home?”

“I’d take a fucking cab, jerk. Just like I did to get here.” After all the stairs I took out of my own building, I never want to walk more than a few feet for the rest of my life.

He sweeps his hand in the direction of the guarded exit ramp. “Move your sweet little ass then.”

Sweet little ass?

Before I can ask him if he’s paying me a compliment, he climbs in his truck, honking the horn when I don’t immediately follow. I jump like I’ve been hit with an electric pulse.

“Fucking jerk,” I mumble as I open the door and nearly break my neck trying to get inside.

He doesn’t laugh at me for having that reaction to the horn or my shoddy attempt to climb in his jacked-up truck like a normal person would. He’s too intense, too reserved for that kind of stuff, I guess.

What happened to the boy with the quick smile?

I click my seatbelt in place and stare out the window. Of course he was never smiling my way back in high school, so why should things be any different now?

“I see you still have a filthy mouth.”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out just how filthy it can get?” I say before I even think about who I’m talking to. My cheeks heat, and I know I’ll beat myself up later for it. If he wasn’t so infuriating, I’d have better control over my stupid mouth.

Thankfully, he doesn’t tease me about the slipup. Putting the truck in drive, he rolls toward the gate that automatically opens when he draws closer. His truck is dark, functional, and surprisingly clean. There isn’t a speck of dust on the dash or an empty fast food bag to be seen. There’s nothing in here that even hints at his personality or what he’s been up to since we last saw each other.

I have more than a million questions about him, his life since the divorce, and his job.

But I can’t ask any of those. We were never friends in the past, and we sure as hell aren’t friends now. We drive in silence, and the questions just keep piling up.

Has he had any contact with Dani?

Does he keep track of her?

Does he care what she’s been doing the last couple of years?

Does he want to rescue her from her money troubles? He doesn’t seem to be hurting for cash these days.

I want to confess how scared I am, how my hands are literally shaking with the lack of information about what’s going on with my best friend. He said there are no threats to me that his friend found, but how can he be sure?

When I squeeze my eyes closed, all I can see are the distorted images of the EMTs rushing past my peephole with that man on the stretcher. I don’t even know if the man they took out of there was the same guy she was dating.

Feeling his eyes on me at the red light, I look up and glance in his direction, but Deacon is staring out the front windshield. It makes me wonder if I’m losing my damn mind, but then the stark brightness of his eyes makes everything else fade away.

Were his eyes always so blue and mesmerizing? Was his jaw, now covered in thick, dark stubble, always so strong and defined? Surely not. The man I remember was a jerk, an asshole to the ultimate extreme, making me cringe every time I saw him. From our interaction earlier, he’s still a huge jerk, but so long as this guy keeps his snide comments to himself and the snarky comebacks at bay, I can admit just how damn handsome he is.

The masculine jaw in question clenches when his eyes dart in my direction. He’s not impressed with catching me watching him, but he keeps his mouth closed as the light turns green.

I’m an absolute fool for even noticing how good-looking he is. My best friend is missing, could possibly be hurt, and here I am wondering what his stupid hands would feel like on my skin.

Heaven help me. I’ve lost my damn mind.Chapter 7Deacon

Anna’s condo is only six miles from the office, eleven minutes in traffic to make it there, yet it seems like a decade has passed before we pull up outside the overpriced building.

For a man whose job is to literally keep an eye on people, to track people down, I’m hit with the knowledge that I didn’t know where my ex-wife was living until Wren pulled the information online. When I said I wasn’t looking back eight years ago after getting divorced, I meant it. It wasn’t an immediate break, of course. I was too weak for that, but last I knew she was living back with her parents, planning her wedding to some mogul that her elitist parents approved of. Hell, she was wearing his damn ring that day in court if I recall correctly.