“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me!”
I watch my coffee drip down the front of my white shirt. I lift my face to the sky, inhaling to fill my lungs with patience.
I slam my truck door extra hard with my good arm as if it’ll make me feel better. Really, I’d just like to punch something. This is precisely what I get for trying to dress nicely today, and why I shouldn’t have given a single shit like usual.
A new client has an appointment this morning, and I look like I just participated in a coffee-guzzling contest.
Ugh!
My hand rounds into a fist where my dark roast should be, now energizing the asphalt. I rip my backpack from the ground, trying to pull myself together before I enter.
I tug open the glass door that readsStephen Ward and Associatesand step into the brick building that is my base—my grounding point. The place that gives me a reason to get up in the morning.
Candace, our receptionist, waves as she speaks into her headset. Her eyes grow wide, and she grimaces as she scribbles notes on a pad.
I bypass my desk for the bathroom. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a somewhat clean T-shirt in my bag. Otherwise, my coffee-stained look will have to do.
Just as I reach for the bathroom door, Tracker’s voice barrels into me from behind.
“Ryder, I need a minute.”
I grunt, turning on my heel and heading back toward his office.
He’s already seated behind his desk, slipping his glasses on. He’ll ask about my shoulder and then remind me I’m on desk duty for the foreseeable future.
Steven Ward, a.k.a Tracker, is more than my boss. He’s my mentor, my friend. Tracker and his wife, Hope, took me in as a young teen, and I tried every ounce of their love and patience. He’s taught me everything I know and never walked away when I gave him every reason to.
“What’s up?” I say, mustering confidence, as if it will prove I’m ready for a new assignment.
His gaze lifts from the papers scattered around his desk, and he peers at me over the rim of his glasses. His graying, dark hair is cut close but long enough to sweep to the side. A smirk creeps across his face as he leans back in his chair, crossing his muscular, sparsely tattooed arms over his chest.
“Did you get any in your mouth?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s what I get for trying to look professional. I’ve learned my lesson.”
He smiles. “I appreciate the effort. Now,” his face turns serious. “How’s your shoulder?”
I drop my head to the side. “Fine.”
“That’s what you said two weeks ago.”
I shrug, and it tugs against my sore skin. “It was fine then also.”
He huffs a laugh, one hand sliding over his scruff. “I’m giving you the assignment waiting in the conference room.”
“What? I thought TJ had this one.” I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, and ignore the burn it ignites.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his biceps stretching his shirt sleeves. “I think this case will be good for you. Your shoulder shouldn’t be an issue, which will give it time to heal.”
“So, I’m not grounded anymore?” Being sentenced to my desk was like some kind of slow, stationary torture.
“Oh, your ass is still grounded.”
I frown. “This is personal protection?”
Ward and Associates provides protection, investigative, and security services—at least, that’s what our sign says. Most of our cases are undercover, working to extract victims from inconceivable situations, with assistance from government agencies when it’s necessary.
But this is where I started. I know how to guard people at risk and those vulnerable to harm. My first case was the son of a politician. The man had high-level connections and contacted Tracker to ensure the kid’s safety through the election. I took him to school, picked him up, and watched over him during extracurriculars. It was a piece of cake.
