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He is blond, tattooed, and dangerous. She’s as beautiful as she is mysterious and could be his destruction… Asher will face a woman seeking vengeance, whose past is a little too similar to his to feel right. Or maybe it’s a little too similar to be anything but right. But he’ll have to keep her alive to find out, despite her best efforts to put herself in harm’s way at every chance.
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Leather. Tattoos. Wine. Whiskey. Music. Women.
I left a world filled with those things ten years ago, and did so tattooed, fucked in the head, and with a vow to never return. And yet here I am, behind the bar of one of New York City’s dive bars, AC/DC’s Back in Black blasting through the speakers, handing a dude with long hair, tats, and more eyeliner on than the blonde chick with him, a beer. He grabs the bottle, tips me a whole two-fucking-dollars, and leaves. His chick however, does not. She lingers a few beats, casts me a glance with her bedroom eyes, the kind filled with an invitation that says: Get me naked in the back room right now. As far as I’m concerned, any chick banging a dude with eyeliner isn’t getting a piece of this.
I motion her onward. She glowers and turns away, attaching her arm to that of eyeliner dude’s, leaving me with only one question: How the fuck a chick who gets off on that guy, gets off on me? I mean yeah, sure, I’m inked, and my blond hair is on the long side, but those are holdovers from deep cover special ops. And the only damn make-up I wear is the kind I’ve kissed off some hot chick’s mouth right before I kiss her everywhere beyond as well.
I toss the money into the tip jar for whatever poor soul that ain’t me who needs two bucks to help them survive New York City. I’m not that guy, literally or figuratively, nor am I a victim or a fool, all of which I can thank the hard lessons this shitty lifestyle taught me. Though at the moment it’s not quite as shitty, considering one of the staff’s female members is dancing on top of the bar a little to my right, in shorts that barely cover her fine ass. But then, a fine ass is not why I’m here, any more than the music. I’m here to give a mother and father the justice they deserve over a daughter gone too soon, along with three other look-a-like young women, all dead after visiting bars like this. All dead after doing some cocktail of a drug that no one else seems to be dying from.
My motivation to give the parents peace, and catch what might be a serial killer, is the only reason I let my boss talk me into this hellhole in the first place. I scan the dimly lit area, surveying the bars left and right that frame the warehouse-style room, both with neon blue skulls over the top that match the one behind me. In between them are double doors that lead to the stage and seating, which are shut now, set to open soon.
Two young guys stop in front of the bar, snickering as they order drinks with dirty names, amused in a way I hope like hell I was never amused by such things. I pour the mixtures and slide glasses in front of them. “Two buttery nipples,” I say, leaning forward, to shout over the music, and add, “Come back when you have the real thing and the drinks are on me.”
Two young guys stop in front of the bar, snickering as they order drinks with dirty names, amused in a way I hope like hell I was never amused by such things. I pour the mixtures and slide glasses in front of them. “Two buttery nipples,” I say, leaning forward, to shout over the music, and add, “Come back when you have the real thing and the drinks are on me.”
They curse at me and this time I don’t even get two dollars for a tip. In a highly appropriate moment, the music shifts to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and now I actually am amused. I bark out laughter, while my gaze catches on the entryway to the lower level of the two-level building, and my target, the guy my team at Walker Security believes is the guy we’re after, walks in the door. “Ju-Ju,” he calls himself, a nickname for drug dealer in his mind, and in mine: stupid fucking idiot, and perhaps, a killer. In which case, I’d like to nickname him “Dead,” but the law says I’ll just have to call him “Arrested,” instead. In times like these, I miss those Navy SEAL days, when I dealt with shitheads like him in jungles, deserts, and dark caves, and was even ordered to do so.