PROLOGUE
* Spencer *
Every once in a while, life takes a crazy, random array of events and turns them into something wonderful.
Other times, she takes your life, spins you around, throws you in a new direction, and then kicks you in the balls.
I’ve obviously pissed her off. There’s no other explanation for why I’d find myself in this tiny apartment on the outskirts of small town USA, Pelican Bay. With a boss whose brain has been overrun with testosterone after finding what he considers his soulmate. Or the roommate who sees it as her life mission to eat every single thing in my apartment.
The smell of fried chicken permeates the second floor hallway, and increases as I walk past the Johnson’s apartment door.
“Boss, Tabitha will cut off your nuts and serve them to you as supper if you put a camera or GPS in her car.”
Ridge, the owner of Pelican Bay Security and my delusional boss, laughs at my reasonable assessment. I don’t know how he’s survived the growing number of cameras he’s surrounded his girlfriend with as it is. The fact he wants to push it more is scary. Added proof he’s lost his damn mind.
“Tabitha can’t cook to save her life and I like it when she gets angry. Keeps things interesting. If you know what I mean.”
I definitely know what he means and wish I didn’t. “I do not want to hear about your kink.”
It’s Friday night and I’m a young, handsome—if I say so myself—single guy. There are songs written about how my evenings are supposed to look. But as I jiggle my apartment key in the lock, all I want is to get off this phone call, crack open a beer, and sit in front of the television.
This is not exactly the life I’d expected after the military. But three months after I laced up my boots for the last time, Ridge Jefferson knocked on my mother’s front door. He came armed with an offer to join his growing security company on the coast of Maine.
I figured, why not?
With two tours under my belt, I’ve seen shit no twenty-eight-year-old man should. At the time of his offer, a quiet life installing security systems in the northern United States sounded like a dream.
But Pelican Bay is crazy.
I haven’t discovered a hidden camera yet, but I’m sure there has to be at least one television producer living here because this place is the stuff prime time TV is made of. Gangsters and shootings and car chases. I wouldn’t be surprised if something blew up soon.
With a flick of my wrist, the door swings open, and I toss the keys on the table in the open area used as a dining room. I keep my eyes down until the conversation with Ridge is finished. It took a few times, but I’ve learned the hard way I don’t want to see any surprises until I’m ready.
“Spencer,” Ridge continues as I swipe my fingers through my brown hair. It’s longer than normal. Time to find a place to get a haircut. "I will do anything to keep Tabitha safe. Even if it means facing her wrath for a few days. You'll understand when you find someone who creates those same feelings in you."
I respect Ridge like a brother. The man did his time as a Navy SEAL, then returned to his hometown to take care of his family and set up a multimillion dollar security firm, but we couldn't be more different. I already have one woman destroying my life; I have no plans to look for another.
"You'll be the first to know if that ever happens. Until then, it's Frankie and I all the way." With the phone to my ear, I remove my jacket while Ridge guarantees he won’t bother me this weekend. It’s a promise I’ve heard many times. I’m skeptical.
Things have been quiet for a few months, but as the holidays approach, I’m waiting for the bottom to dropout. With the first week of December on the horizon, most people are preparing for the upcoming holidays, but criminals don’t take vacations. Which means I don’t get one, either.
Looking at the speckled white carpet, I step to the right and toss the smartphone on the table. So far, nothing is wrong with my apartment. At least, not in the two-foot radius I’ve seen. It’s a start. With a little prayer, I raise my head to check out the rest of the place.
My luck runs out.
When I left this morning, I had four cushions on the beige couch. Now there are three, the insides of the fourth strewn across the room. A clump of the white, fluffy stuffing material floats down from the ceiling and lands on top of my black boot.
“Frankie!” I holler into the quiet apartment.
There's no answer.
After being here for more than a month, I thought the pillows stood a chance of survival. There's not much left in the apartment she can take out her aggression or boredom or—whatever emotional issue this woman is working through—on.
There’s only one solution.
A beer.
Turning on a heel, I head for the small opening to the kitchen but stop in my tracks. The garbage bag—one I tied intending to drop it off at the dumpster this morning—lies on the linoleum floor, a gaping hole torn through the middle. Much like a soldier at war, the insides are scattered across the floor, like guts left behind from an unknown attacker.
