Calculated Risk (Blackbridge Security 5)

Parker, being the social person that she is, starts a conversation with the woman on her right, and before long they’re both snickering about how hot these guys are. All conversation comes to a halt when the door opens and a man walks in.

If anything, the graphic designer played down this guy’s size. He’s massive, his build beyond imposing. His jet-black hair is cut short, but still somehow styled nicely. His dark beard is nearly long enough to brush his t-shirt as he walks up to the front of the classroom while looking down at a piece of paper in his hands.

When he looks up scanning the room, the contrast of his bright blue eyes makes me feel exposed. I clear my throat, straightening in my seat as his face turns in our direction.

“Welcome,” he grunts to his captive audience. “We’re going to start with roll call, then we have some paperwork to get out of the way before we get started on the class.”

His voice is rough and gravelly, but instead of it making me feel uncomfortable, I find myself a little entranced as he calls out the names on the list.

“Hayden,” Parker says with a nudge to my side.

“Hayden Prescott?” he says, and I can tell by his tone that it isn’t the first time he’s read my name from his list.

“Present!” I snap, raising my hand with awkwardness.

He frowns in my direction before moving his gaze slightly to my right to focus on Parker.

Why all of a sudden do I feel like I should shove her out of her chair and kick her under the table?

“And who are you?” the man all but growls.

Parker preens a little, a vibrant smile spreading across her face. “I’m Parker Maxwell. I’m Hayden’s best friend. It’s nice to meet y—”

“You’re not on my list,” he interrupts.

“I signed in at the front.” Parker’s smile doesn’t fade.

“If you’re not on the list, you can’t join the class. Did you get an email confirmation?”

“I didn’t personally sign up for the class. I’m here with Hayden.”

“This class is only for confirmed attendees.” He keeps his eyes locked on her, both of them not speaking until it becomes so awkward that the other women in the room begin to shift uncomfortably in their seats. “You need to leave so we can get started.”

Now that pretty, practiced smile slides off my friend’s face.

“Let’s just go,” I mutter as I begin to stand from my seat.

“You don’t have to leave, Ms. Prescott,” the man says.

“I’m not staying if she can’t stay.”

He doesn’t say another word as we both stand and make our way out of the room.

I didn’t want to be here in the first place, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t upset to be called out like we were.

“We can just sign up together for the next class,” Parker says as she loops her arm through mine as we leave the building. “Let’s go grab dinner.”

That’s Parker for you—quick to make new plans when others fall through.

“I’m not going to a bar to eat dinner,” I say as we make our way across the parking lot.

Hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I blame the setting sun and the cool evening breeze.

“It’s called a pub, not a bar.”

“And I’d prefer a restaurant that’s not crowded.”

She huffs but quickly agrees. She knows I can just as easily go home and cook and be happier than going out and being around other people.

“Fine,” she says. “But I want sushi.”

Chapter 3

Quinten

“You can suck it!”

“I’m not arguing with you about this,” Wren grumbles as I walk into his office.

“Stupid fucking cat!” Puff Daddy screeches.

I’d say he’s in rare form, throwing a fit while pacing back and forth along one of his perches, but this is just classic behavior for the verbally aggressive bird.

“What’s the problem now?” I ask, not one hundred percent sure I even want to know.

“He’s still pissed about the cat,” Wren mutters, his attention still mostly on the information he’s compiling on his computer.

“You left me here last night!” Puff wails before making a realistic crying noise.

“Because you said you didn’t want to go home,” Wren argues, his voice flat yet irritated.

“The Hilton has free breakfast!”

I laugh at the stupid bird.

“And I have a perfectly good condo. I’m not staying in a hotel because you can’t get along with your brother.”

“Stepbrother!” the bird corrects. “He’s Satan’s best friend!”

“So fucking glad I live alone,” I mutter as I plop down the stack of papers in front of him.

“He’s fine with Whitney, but he hates the cat.”

“Look at my ass!” The bird turns around, waving his little feathery butt in our direction. “It’s flat. Chicks love a full ass.”

“Those grow back?” I ask, pointing to the lack of red tail feathers.

“Takes six to eight weeks,” Wren explains. “He’s just impatient.”