Page 59 of Temptation On Ice

I hiss in pain as he nails the one I hurt last night. It’s been fine most of today, but it's still sore to the touch, and I had to be careful not to overwork it. Getting hit by a six-foot-four giant with bricks for hands is not a comfortable experience.

“You fucker.” I gasp on a strangled breath.

“Oh, shit, sorry, man. I forgot.” He raises his hands and leans away like that’ll make it better.

I stand rubbing my shoulder and make my way back to my stall. It’s about time I figure out how to fix things, anyway. I won't see Tucker for a few days with this road trip, but I need to make the most of that time to ensure he even wants to see me when I’m back.

Twenty-four

Tucker

My four-thirty training group is late.

All four clients.

This is highly unusual for a mid-session group that’s been to the facility before, so it’s not like they’re all lost, and I didn’t receive any calls canceling. Well, I turned my phone to silent mode yesterday and haven’t turned it back on due to the amount of random calls, texts, and notifications that were coming in, so I should probably check it now. I pull my phone out and see a few messages from the clients.

Tricia with Bronson the malamute: Can’t get into your driveway, there’s security, and we don't have clearance? Can you let us in?

Dan with Roxy the Doxie: Hey, Tucker, there’s an issue on the road to your house. It’s backed up for some reason. Think we’re going to be late.

I click through the messages from the other two clients and see similar themes. What the actual hell is going on down there? Security? I didn’t ask for any kind of security. Would Sheriff Cooper have assigned some off-duty officers to guard my driveway for me? Nah, he would’ve told me and then sent the bill my way. He’s not an altruistic guy, especially when the county would have to foot the bill otherwise.

“Hey, Rowan, I’m headed to see what’s going on down at the road. The clients say there’s some issue that’s keeping them from getting onto the property.”

Rowan’s head snaps up from where he’s working with Atlas. “I’ll come with you. The mess with the reporters has me on edge, and I don't like knowing people have been inviting themselves onto the property.”

“Suit yourself,” I say, heading for the truck with Lux on my heels.

We climb in, the dogs hopping in the bed at Rowan’s command, and trundle down the dirt lane to the main road, where I see a sleek black Cadillac Escalade blocking the exit. As we approach, it pulls away enough for a car to get through, but I stop far enough back to give myself options. I don’t like my road being blocked by some random vehicle with unknown motives. It idles in my driveway. The dark-tinted windows keep me from seeing the occupants or knowing how many there are.

“You carrying?” I ask quietly.

“Always,” Rowan answers. “You?” he asks.

“Yup.”

We open our doors at the same time, cautiously exiting and keeping the truck between us and the Escalade. The doors of the Escalade open, and two men in tight black T-shirts and cargo pants step out, looking like military operators in their ball caps and dark sunglasses. They're even open carrying their pistols on their hips in holsters like cosplay tactical cowboys. They walk toward us, the one in front with a beard puffing his chest out as he holds his hand up and waves.

“Mr. Covington, I’m Rob Costelleto. This is Derrick Smith. We’re with Prime Security. Mr. Montenegro hired us to keep unwanted parties from entering your property until interest dies down and people stop attempting to trespass.” He’s direct and to the point, like I should be so thrilled to have him blocking the way to my house with his fancy SUV and his expensive clothing from some social media brand that fanboys who never served but like to dress up and pretend they're in some overly patriotic club wear to feel cool.

I hate these kinds of macho guys, all muscled up, high on their own potential, but couldn’t do anything with it other than find a private gig that lets them play-act rather than going into a job that puts their asses on the line daily. I look over at Rowan as his hand moves away from his hip, and his shoulders relax. We exchange annoyed looks as we walk toward the private security guys. Rowan’s shaking his head, and I know he’s thinking the same thing.

Posers.

“Why are you blocking my fucking driveway?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re keeping paying clients from my place of work and costing me time, money, and business.”

“Mr. Montenegro said no unauthorized persons should access the premises,” Rob says.

Oh, bless his heart. He’s clearly not used to being questioned and not smart enough to employ critical thinking skills while on the job.

“Don't you think I’d be the one to provide you with a list of authorized people if there needed to be such a thing, and all of my clients who have appointments would be on that list?” I ask, gesturing at the four cars pulled to the side of the road next to my driveway.

Rob and Derrick look over at the vehicles, where my clients wave, the dogs in the idling cars barking their heads off. The men look at each other, clearly trying to process this new information.

“Mr. Montenegro didn't give us instructions about any clients. He just said to keep out unwanted people,” Derrick, the bigger, beefier guy, says. He’s probably made up of more protein shakes than common sense, but I can forgive him for that. He’s pretty and works hard for his physique at the very least. I digress.

No looking at the private security boys like they're meat, Tucker.