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Table of Contents
An Excerpt from Lethal Lies
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Copyright Page
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This one is for my editor, Michele Bidelspach, who finds a way with each book to bring out the good stuff, probably by writing “more emotion here” three billion times during edits. Thank you for the hard work and insights! I’m a much better writer because I have the good fortune to work with you, and I’m very thankful you’re in my life.
Acknowledgments
I’m delighted we are writing a spin-off series for those Sin Brothers, and I hope readers enjoy this new band of lost and wounded men. This series found a wonderful home with Grand Central Forever, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to work with so many wonderful, talented, and hardworking people.
Thanks to Michele Bidelspach, Beth de Guzman, Amy Pierpont, Leah Hultenschmidt, Jodi Rosoff, Michelle Cashman, Elizabeth Turner, and Kallie Shimek from Grand Central Forever for the hard work, and thanks to Dianna Stirpe for the awesome copy edits.
A big thank you to my agent, Caitlin Blasdell, who does an amazing job across the board. Thanks also to Liza Dawson and the Dawson gang for the hard work and support.
Thanks to Jillian Stein, Minga Portillo, Marquina Lliev, Rebecca’s Rebels, Writerspace, and Fresh Fiction for getting the word out about the books.
Thanks also to my constant support system: Gail and Jim English, Debbie and Travis Smith, Stephanie and Don West, Brandie and Mike Chapman, Jessica and Jonah Namson, and Kathy and Herb Zanetti.
Finally, thank you to Big Tone for being Big Tone. I love you. Also, thanks to Gabe and Karlina for being such great kids. I love you both!
Prologue
Twenty years ago
Ryker never figured he’d find sunshine in hell. He looked up at the shining ball in the too-blue sky. How could it be warm and sunny here? At twelve years old, after spending most of his life in a series of orphanages with a few foster homes thrown in, he knew hell was more of an abstract idea than an actual place.
Some people just ended up there and stayed.
Sure, some of the foster homes had been nice, but he’d been ripped out of those quickly. He’d escaped from the other ones and ended up back in orphanages.
But this place. Oh, this place was something special. Whatever he’d done in a past life to deserve this must’ve been really bad. A dark need to fight back, to hurt the adults running his life, slithered inside him, and it wasn’t the first time, so he probably deserved hell.
But something told him the younger kid fighting the three bullies on the edge of the dirt field didn’t deserve this beat down. Or maybe Ryker was just tired of the wrong guys winning every time. North Carolina sun shone down, pretty but not strong, illuminating the scene as the new kid fought hard and fast. And dirty.
“It’s time to step in,” Heath said, picking a scab on his chin, his wiry body on full alert.
“He’s giving a good fight, and those guys need to know he won’t roll over if we’re not around,” Ryker said, his own hands clenching into fists. “We can’t always cover his back.”
The second Heath had caught sight of the little guy—another wounded animal for him to save—he’d tried to jump into the fray. Ryker had stopped him with a hand on his arm, promising to save the kid when it was time, trying to see the entire picture at once. His heart raced and the injustice of it all clawed through him, but he had to tamp down raw emotions to survive.
It was a lesson he’d learned early and Heath had yet to figure out.
Ryker and Heath had been best friends for the six months they’d spent in the boys home, facing off against too many bullies to count—kids and adults both. Ryker had been at the home for a month when Heath arrived. The kid instantly tried to save a lost kitten he’d found on the outskirts of the ranch. Seeing Heath take a beating for hiding the kitten made Ryker approach him the next day. He’d never approached anybody, but Heath had needed a friend. Maybe Ryker had, too.
Having Heath at his back kept him from going crazy, and he had to adapt and think things through for them both, so they didn’t run on emotion and totally screw up. “Let the kid get in one more good shot.”
The new kid—a gangly, dark-haired boy—bit into the neck of one of his older attackers, an asshole named Larry. Larry and his buddies were around sixteen and ruled the boys home when the jerk of an owner wasn’t telling everyone what to do. They’d be kicked out soon to go be adults.
The kid dug in, slashing deep with his teeth.
“Jesus.” Ryker ran forward and yanked the kid away from the bully. If the kid hurt anybody bad enough to need stitches, Ned Cobb, the owner of the boys home, would beat him to death. Stitches cost money.
Blood poured down Larry’s cheek, and he slapped a hand to it. “You’re gonna die for that, prick.”
Ryker got into his face. Even though he was four years younger, they were the same height, and Ryker filled out his shirt better. Fury threatened to eat him whole. “Leave him alone.”
Larry snarled. “You taking on another pet, shit-for-brains?”
Ryker stepped closer, and his hands closed into fists. In a couple of seconds, he wouldn’t be able to control his temper, so he let it show in his bluish green eyes. “I really wanna hurt you, Larry.”
Sometimes the truth just worked.
Larry blinked twice and then backed away. “You are so not worth my time.” He turned and headed for the older kids dormitory, and his lackeys followed.
“Denver? You okay?” Ryker asked the kid, noting a bruised lip and swelling black eye. He tried to make his voice gentle, but he really didn’t know how.
The kid pivoted and faced him squarely, his shoulders bunched.
Ryker held up a hand. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Too many people had clearly already hurt the boy, and his tortured eyes probably didn’t give the whole story. A part of Ryker, the part he didn’t like, wanted to walk away and not look back. Not take responsibility for one more person. Not care about one more person since their chances of surviving stunk. He could barely keep Heath from going off the deep end. What if he couldn’t help both Heath and Denver? What if he wasn’t smart enough or lost his own temper and things went to shit?
The kid whimpered, barely, and it was that sound that gave Ryker no choice.
Ryker straightened. Heath was right. This kid needed help. They could protect him in a way nobody had ever protected Ryker before he’d met Heath. “I broke into the main office and read your file after you got here yesterday.” The kid had been abandoned in Denver as an infant and then had been claimed by a so-called uncle who had problems with booze and anger. However, considering the asshole hadn’t even known Denver’s real name, if he’d had one, there was some doubt there. That was how Denver earned his name, which seemed to fit him anyway. “Your life has sucked so far.”
The boy drew back and then snorted.
Ryker grinned. “Your file says you don’t really talk.” The file didn’t say why Denver didn’t talk, and Ryker wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Denver didn’t answer.
Fair enough. Talking just got kids hit, anyway. Ryker jerked his head toward their dorm. If they could get Denver there, he could take care of the cut bleeding dow
n his chin. “It’s gonna be okay. Oh, it’s gonna suck for a while, and that’s the truth. But in the end, I promise it’ll be okay.” He’d save this kid when he and Heath made a break for it. From day one, Ryker was all in or all out, and he didn’t know how to be another way. If he gave Denver his friendship, his loyalty, it was forever. Heath had been Ryker’s only friend, and if Heath needed to save this kid, then so did Ryker.
A car roared up the dirt driveway.
Ryker’s gut clenched as he noticed it was the sheriff’s dusty brown car.
“Shit,” Heath muttered, kicking the dirt. He pushed back his dirty hair. “We don’t have time to run.”
“No.” Ryker settled his stance, his knees wobbling. The owner of the boys home and the sheriff were brothers, which explained why they both liked to hit so much. “Denver? If the sheriff gets out and starts swinging, get behind me, okay?” The kid had already taken one beating, and the sheriff was known to use his nightstick on rib cages.
Denver didn’t answer.
The car came to a stop, and Sheriff Cobb jumped out. The sheriff was in his midtwenties with way-too-light blond hair and blue eyes colder than a glacier. Probably. Ryker hadn’t ever seen a glacier, but it was the coldest thing he could imagine.
The passenger door opened. “Dr. Daniels,” Ryker said, watching the woman carefully, his sides cramping. The urge to run away was overwhelming, but he kept his body visually relaxed. “Here for more tests, ma’am?” He’d been impolite to her once by refusing to take one more damn written test after a long day, and the sheriff had made sure he couldn’t walk for about a week without puking up blood. Ned Cobb had watched the beat down with a smile on his face, interjecting only once to remind his brother not to break anything because medical doctors kept records.
The woman stepped out, her fancy designer dress looking as out of place in the dismal home’s terrain as a wild peacock would. She smoothed her long dark hair, and her bright red lips pursed. “Ryker. You’ve grown three inches, and it’s been only a few months.”
Her voice purred in a way that made him shuffle his feet. It was like she was seeing him differently somehow, and he didn’t understand his reaction, but he knew he didn’t like it.
Why was she always making Heath and him take written and physical tests? She paid no attention to the other kids at the home.
Then her gaze, a dark blue one, turned to Denver. “I’m here to welcome Denver to the boys home as well as study him a little. Denver, your file says you have a case of selective mutism.”
Ah shit. Another test subject? Why them? Ryker glanced at the kid, who’d sidled closer to him. The kid had good instincts to be wary of the calculating woman. “What’s that?” Ryker asked.
“He doesn’t talk,” Heath whispered.
Ryker bit his tongue. No shit. But they had to hide their brains around the lady who had them take so many tests. Why, he didn’t know. But his instincts were usually good, too.
“I can make him talk,” Sheriff Cobb said, striding around the car and flexing his chest muscles.
Denver swallowed audibly.
“Oh, Elton, that won’t be necessary,” Sylvia Daniels said, clasping her hands together. “I’m sure I can get Denver to speak. Right, boy?”
Ryker eyed the gun at the sheriff’s hip.
Sheriff Cobb’s lips peeled back. “Try it, kid. Please.”
Ryker didn’t answer, but he met the cop’s stare evenly. Cobb was just another bully in a world full of them, and someday they were gonna meet on even ground.
When that day came, only one of them would walk away.
Ryker glanced at Heath and then at Denver. His chest heated and cooled. The only way they’d survive this was if he remained calm and used his head, never letting his temper take over. When he stopped thinking, he was as bad as the sheriff, and now with Heath and Denver counting on him, he had more to lose than Sheriff Cobb did. That had to count for something, right?
Chapter
1
Present day
Zara Remington brushed a stray tendril of her thick hair back from her face before checking on the lasagna. The cheese bubbled up through the noodles while the scent of the garlic bread in the oven warmer filled the country-style kitchen. Perfect. She shut the oven door and glanced at the clock. Five minutes.
He’d be there in five minutes.
It had been weeks since she’d seen him, and her body was ready and primed for a tussle. Just a tussle. Shaking herself, she repeated the mantra she’d coined since meeting him two months ago: Temporary. They were temporary and just for fun. This was her reward for working so hard: a walk on the wild side. Even if she was the type to settle down and devote herself to one man, it wouldn’t be this one.
Ryker Jones kept one foot out the door, even while naked in her bed doing things to her that were illegal in the Southern states. Good damn thing she lived in Cisco. Wyoming didn’t care what folks did behind closed doors. Thank God.
She hummed and eyed the red high heels waiting by the entry to the living room. They probably wouldn’t last on her feet for long, but she’d greet him wearing them. While she still wore the black pencil skirt and gray silk shirt she’d donned for work, upon reading his text that he was back in town, she’d rushed to change into a scarlet bra and G-string set that matched the shoes before putting her clothes back into place.
If she was living out a fantasy, he should get one, too. The guy didn’t have to know she’d worn granny-style Spanx panties and a thin cotton bra all day.
A roar of motorcycle pipes echoed down her quiet street. Tingles exploded in her abdomen. Hurrying for the shoes, she bit back a wince upon slipping her feet in. The little kitten heels she’d worn to work had been much more comfortable.
A minute passed and the pipes silenced.
She drew air in through her nose, counted to five, and exhaled. Calm down. Geez. She really needed to relax. The sharp rap on her front door sent her system into overdrive again.
Straightening her shoulders, she tried to balance in the heels as she passed her comfortable sofa set, the shoes clicking on the polished hardwood floor. She had to wipe her hands down her skirt before twisting the nob and opening the door. “Ryker,” she breathed.
He didn’t smile. Instead, his bluish green eyes darkened as his gaze raked her from head to toe…and back up. “I’ve missed you.” The low rumble of his voice, just as dangerous as the motorcycle pipes, licked right where his gaze had been.
She nodded, her throat closing. He was every vision of a badass bad boy she’d ever fantasized about. His thick black hair curled over the collar of a battered leather jacket that covered a broad, well-muscled chest. Long legs, encased in faded jeans, led to motorcycle boots. His face had been shaped with strong lines and powerful strokes, and a shadow lined his cut jaw. But those eyes. Greenish blue and fierce, they changed shades with his mood.
As she watched, those odd eyes narrowed. “What the fuck?”
She self-consciously fingered the slash of a bruise across her right cheekbone. Cover-up had concealed it well enough all day, but leave it to Ryker to notice. He didn’t miss anything. God, that intrigued her. His vision was oddly sharp, and once he’d mentioned hearing an argument several doors down. She hadn’t heard a thing. “It’s nothing.” She stepped back to allow him entrance. “I have a lasagna cooking.”
He moved into her, heat and his scent of forest and leather brushing across her skin. One knuckle gently ran across the bruise. “Who hit you?” The tone held an edge of something dark.
She shut the door and moved away from his touch. “What? Who says somebody hit me?” Turning on the heels and barely keeping from landing on her butt, she walked toward the kitchen, remembering to sway her hips before making it past the couch. “I have to get dinner out or it’ll burn.” She kept several frozen dishes ready to go, not knowing when he’d be back in town. The domestication worked well for them both, and she liked cooking for him. Enjoyed taking care of him like that
…for this brief affair, or whatever it was. “I hope you haven’t eaten.”
“You know I haven’t.” He stopped inside the kitchen. “Zara.”
She gave an involuntary shiver from his low tone and drew the lasagna from the oven and bread from the warmer before turning around to see him lounging against the doorjamb. “Isn’t this when you pour wine?” Her heart fluttered at seeing the contrast between her pretty butter yellow cabinets and the deadly rebel calmly watching her. “I have the beer you like.”
“You always have the beer I like.” He didn’t move a muscle, and this time a warning threaded through his words in a tone like gravel crumbling in a crusher. “I asked you a question.”
She forced a smile and carried the dishes to the breakfast nook, which she’d already set with her favorite Apple-patterned dinnerware and bright aqua linens. “And I asked you one.” Trying to ignore the tension vibrating from him, she grasped a lighter for the candles.
A hand on her arm spun her around. She hadn’t heard him move. How did he do that?
He leaned in. “Then I’ll answer yours. I know what a woman looks like who’s been hit. I know by the color and slant of that bruise how much force was used, how tall the guy was, and which hand he used. What I don’t know…is the name of the fucker. Yet.”
“How do you know all of that?” she whispered.
He lifted his head, withdrawing. “I just do.”
There it was. He’d share his body and nothing else with her. She didn’t even know where he lived when he wasn’t on a case. From day one he’d been clear that this wasn’t forever, that he wasn’t interested in a future. Neither was she. He was her first purely physical affair, and that’s why he could mind his own business. “Bully for you.” She shoved past him for the wine waiting on the counter and twisted in the corkscrew with a little more force than was necessary. Why was he changing the game on her?
“Are you seeing somebody else?”