Chapter One
The fuck is wrong with me? I’m anxious as hell, leaning against my truck, waiting for my child bride to exit the prison gates. Jesus, even thinking of her as a child bride turns my fucking gut. That day was never meant to end the way it did, with her locked up in prison.
The whine of the oversized gates opening draws my attention as the large metal barriers slowly start rolling open.
Fuck. How did things end up like this?
The job was meant to be simple. Well, as fucking simple as it can be when you’re dealing with the sick cunts in the skin trade. There’s always a chance that things will go south, but it’s a risk we are willing to take if we can save as many of the innocent girls being sold to sick motherfuckers around the world as we can.
I was the fucking ruse this time, posing as a spoilt rich boy whose father purchased him a fucking virgin. The auction was done online, and finalizing the transaction happened a week later when I walked into that church and met Carlos Rodríguez, and his daughter Cara, only sixteen at the time, duressed to be my fucking wife.
I was only nineteen myself, but fuck, I’d been with the Diamond Crew for a while by that time, and had spent life on the streets for a number of years before that, so I knew how to bury my fear deep and only show the world a hard exterior. It’s how I learned how to survive the cruelty of adults that thought their needs, their desires, meant more than a child’s consent.
The large metal gates come to a clanging stop, the tall wire fencing built right up to them like a cage rattles as a gate further in opens.
Shit. How can one chick make me so fucking nervous?
The Cara Rodríguez I met when she was sixteen was a contradiction. Her features were everything soft, from her satin smooth cheeks and large doe eyes, and how fucking soft and plump her lips looked. And fuck, they felt it too, something which fucking pisses me off.
Not the fact that her lips were soft, but how it was nice kissing them.
Like what the fuck? She was sixteen. And while there are only three years between us, I was still classed as an adult that day, so I should never have liked how her lips felt against mine.
It was torture enough having to fake that I was excited about consummating the marriage, and fuck, even having to slap her ass felt so fucking wrong.
So why was she a contradiction?
Because as sweet as she looked with her long silky dark hair, big eyes, and those fucking kissable lips, she had the fire of a warrior princess inside her. A warrior princess who saw an opportunity to take matters into her own hands, and fucking killed her dad in front of everyone, including the cops.
Now, here I am, three years later despite the fact she refused to see me the entire time she was locked up. I kept trying for the first six months, but I eventually gave up. I turned my attention to helping our crew, while our Aussie associate, Baz Marx, worked tirelessly to get Cara’s murder sentence reduced to manslaughter, and get her released early.
Yeah, we had to pay off a judge, a couple of cops, and even the prison warden to remove the murders Cara committed while inside, but we couldn’t leave her in there when we were meant to save her.
A group of women start walking down the caged tunnel, and I hear some excited gasps around me from others who are waiting for their loved ones to be released.
I stand taller, pushing off my truck and rolling my shoulders back as I watch the women get closer to the exit.
I’m not even sure if Cara will recognize me. She wasn’t present during the closed hearing last week where the judge ordered her to be released into my care as part of her parole terms. I’ve seen her though. Well, a picture of her. A prison headshot. I’ve studied it daily for the last few months, conjuring scenarios in my head as to where the innocent-looking girl that I met three years ago went, because staring back at me is a woman. A hard woman. A woman who, like me, has learned how to survive.
A couple of prison guards move to the wire gate at the end of the cage and unlock it, pushing it open where the first woman steps out toward her freedom.
There are some squeals from a few cars down, and then they run into each other’s arms and hug.
I ignore the commotion and focus on the gate, watching as woman after woman steps out, but none are my wife.
Where the fuck is she?
Frowning, I take a few steps forward to get a better view into the cage and see a tall figure strutting down the path as she talks to a female prison guard. The closer they get I can see a cigarette being shared between them, before they hug each other.
The moment Cara Rodríguez steps out of the cage and into the parking lot, my lungs fucking forget how to function. That definitely is not a child. That is a woman, curvy in all the right places, holding herself tall and proud and so fucking full of confidence, the same confidence I got a brief glimpse of at our wedding.
She glances around the lot, her body stiffening when her dark gaze lands on me, and she takes one last drag of her smoke, before dropping it to the gravel, and using the toe of her shoe to stub it out.
Jesus, where did she even get those clothes? She went to juvie in a fucking wedding dress, and walks out of prison in booted heels, skintight leather looking pants, and a fucking cheetah print cropped tank.
If I thought Cara needed saving from prison, I’m getting the feeling that I was very fucking wrong.
Her heels click as she walks over to me, one foot in front of the other, her hips swaying in a way that reminds me of catwalk models doing their strut.
Fuck. Do they teach them that in prison?
“Who did you fuck up the ass to swindle this?” she asks, coming to a stop in front of me.
I’m speechless for a moment as I take her in. She’s still there, that innocence from the child she once was. But either she’s covering it up to appear stronger, or, she’s been hardened in such a way that even though you can see signs of the nineteen-year-old in her features, her soul is ten years older.
Given the teardrop tattoo under her eye, something I know she got after committing murder while in prison, I’d say that I’m looking at the latter.
“Don’t I get a thank you? You’re free now.”
She scoffs. “Hardly. I’m going from one prison to another.”
“Living with me won’t be like a prison.” I snap, feeling the sting of her insult.
Her dark brows hitch. “I’m still your wife. That sounds like a prison to me.”
She brushes past me, moving to the passenger door, getting in.
Fuck. She could be more grateful. I get that this isn’t the best situation, but we’ve worked on getting her released for the entire time she was locked up, and this is what I get.
Rounding the truck, I climb in and start up the engine, acutely aware of her presence in the cabin. My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel, my eyes trained straight ahead, not really seeing anything as her pissy attitude digs its claws into me.
Calm the fuck down, man.
She doesn’t understand.
She thinks I bought her from an online black-market auction and married her underage.
Well yes, that is what happened, but she doesn’t know that the marriage was a ruse to protect her. She doesn’t know that we were there to save her.
She doesn’t know me. She only knows the persona I was in that day as I performed the ruse.
Shifting next to me, Cara stretches her legs out, placing them on the dash of my truck, and my fucking blood boils.
“Get your fucking feet off the dash.”
The low growl that comes from me causes her to shift a little, but her feet remain in place.
Slowly, I release the wheel and turn in my seat, glaring at her.
“I won’t ask fucking twice, Cara. Get your feet off the dash.”
A sinister smirk slowly spreads her lips, drawing my eyes to them and how fucking plump they still are.
“Too late. You already did.”
“What?” I snap in confusion as I drag my gaze from her lips to her eyes that appear more gray than usual.
“You said you won’t ask twice, but you already did. You asked the first time, and then right after you said you won’t ask twice. So you did.” She smirks. “Ask twice.”
My lips part to argue with her, but she has a fucking point which I don’t want to admit, so I lurch forward, grabbing her ankles and pull her feet down off my dash.
“Hey! Don’t touch me!” She hisses, her fists balled like she is preparing to throw a punch.
I chuckle. “You’re my wife. It’s my right.”
You fucking idiot. What sort of moronic caveman comment was that?
“Yeah? Well, I’m not opposed to becoming a widow. I hope you know how to sleep with one eye open.” She shoves me back, her small hands stronger than they look.
I chuckle. She’s kind of funny.
Even so, I’m not dumb enough not to take her threat seriously. I could always tell her the truth about that day. Explain to her why she’s still my wife when the whole thing was a ruse, but this way seems more fun.
Let her be fucking scared of me.
What do I care?
As soon as the twelve months are up and we can file for a divorce, assuming I can keep her out of trouble from violating the terms of her parole, then she can walk the fuck away, and I can turn my focus back on saving more innocent children.
Turning my sights to the road, I pull out of the prison parking lot and turn the radio up to fill the cabin with music as we make the two-hour drive back to Santa Cruz.
She stays quiet for the trip, sitting mostly tense for the first half, but then relaxing back into the seat for the second half, putting her window down and letting her fingers dance in the wind as she dangles her hand out the window.
The more time that passes, the more I settle back to my old thoughts about wanting to help her, instead of slapping her for being such an ungrateful bitch. I need to remind myself that she’s out of the loop with the details of that day. That she has been in survival mode for years and isn’t going to trust anyone anytime soon.
As I slow the truck to suit the speed for inner Santa Cruz, Cara sits taller in her seat, looking out at our surroundings. I have no idea where she’s originally from. Definitely California since we were tracking the movements of her father across the state for a while before the auction even took place. Though I get the feeling by how curious she is, that she isn’t from Santa Cruz.
I look around, trying to see it through her eyes, and if she didn’t know where she was, she does now by the Santa Cruz Warriors banner outside their office.
“Have you ever been to Santa Cruz before?” I ask, my words instantly making her stiffen.
“No.”
“The beaches are nice. The wharf is cool. Some good places to eat. There’s a deck that the sea lions lounge around on. The summer tourists love that.”
I can see in my periphery, Cara turning from the window to look at me.
“Are we going to go for strolls on the beach, hand in hand, before going to the wharf where you’ll hand feed me and look longingly into my eyes?” She makes a gagging noise before continuing. “If you think I’m going to be your well-behaved wife and bend to your will, then you better think again.”
I know I shouldn’t say it. I know it’ll just make things worse. But I can’t stop the words from falling from my lips.
“Oh, you’ll be bending to my will alright.”
“Un-fucking-likely!” she yells, and I shoot her a smirk.
“We’ll see.”
“You won’t live long enough to try.” She threatens and I chuckle.
“Again. We’ll see.”
“Ugh. You’re impossible.” She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and sinking back into the seat.
I can’t argue about that. I am being impossible, just to annoy her.
On the other side of town, I scan the front entrance of the adult entertainment club, Dirty Diamonds, as we approach, noticing it’s quiet out on the street.
The club is open but doesn’t get busy until night when most members have finished their nine to five, which gives us time to focus on the real business we do.
“That place there,” I point as I slow the truck, “That’s where you will work.”
Her eyes scan the place before her head whips in my direction.
“I’m not fucking stripping for anyone!” Her declaration is loud in the cabin, and I smirk as we idle past the club.
“You won’t be stripping there,” I tell her, catching her mortified expression.
“I won’t be a whore either!” she yells again and I nod.
“Good thing that’s not a fucking brothel then.”
“Then… what will I be doing there?”
I speed up now that we’re past the club, turning the corner to take the street toward the waterfront, and my little beach shack.
“The books,” I say, noticing her glance back out the windows as the buildings turn to houses.
“The books? Like, bookkeeping?” she asks, turning back to me, and I nod. “But I don’t know anything about bookkeeping.”
“That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”
She falls silent, so I sneak a glance at her to find those dark brows hitched again.
“What?”
“You’ll teach me?” She scoffs. “Is it not enough that I have to stay under the same roof as you, but have to endure you at work as well?”
“Tough gig, I know, but I think you can handle it.”
She huffs again, and I bite back my smirk. I can see she wants to rile me up. She wants to make me mad, and it’s annoying her that I’m not biting this time.
As the ocean comes into view, out of the corner of my eye I see Cara sit taller in the seat. I love this place and my little patch of paradise. It’s nothing grand. The complete opposite in fact, but it’s mine, and it’s right across from the water.
At the end of the street, I turn onto my road, and a couple of houses in, I turn into my small driveway.
My shack is small. One bedroom, one bathroom, a living room and kitchen. The laundry is out the back in the small courtyard, but that’s the extent of my humble abode.
“Couldn’t decide what color to paint it?” Cara remarks as she takes in the fa?ade of my house. Her new home.
I smirk, knowing she’s referring to the three different paint colors.
The timber cladding that surrounds my bedroom is a mint green, while the cladding that wraps around the front living area is yellow. The white trim is the only thing that ties it altogether, and the aqua front door is a statement piece.
No one but me has to like it, and since I do, I don’t really care.
“It’s unique.” I comment and she fake laughs.
“You’ve got that right.”
I try not to let her dig at my cozy shack annoy me, and climb out of my truck, hearing her do the same.
Opening the door to my home, I turn back to invite her in, but find her at the sidewalk, staring over the road to the mix of rocky banks and sandy beaches that stretch along this part of Santa Cruz.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say, coming up behind her, and she nods.
“There’s something freeing about the ocean, so open and as far as you can see.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Well, now you get to look at it every day,” I remind her, and she turns to look over her shoulder at me. “Sometimes, I sit out here for hours staring at its beauty.” I gesture to the chairs behind me that sit under the living room window, and her eyes follow, spotting them. “There’s also a great view from my bed.”
Her face falls, and she turns back to the ocean.
“What about my bed? Is there a view from my room?”
“Sure there is. It’s the same view I get, since my bedroom is your bedroom.”
“What!” She spins on her heel, but I’m already making my way back to my door, stepping into my house.
“You can’t be serious?” she asks in a panic, stepping inside as well, and for a moment, she falls quiet as her eyes scan the small space.
“I’m very serious. You’re meant to be my wife. Your parole officer said he might do spontaneous home visits to make sure you are abiding by your parole terms. And since my home only has one bedroom, I don’t see where else you’re gonna sleep.”
Her mouth drops open before she storms through my little shack, going into my bedroom, and coming out the second door that leads to the only bathroom in the house. Then she steps into the kitchen, doing a spin before joining me back in the living room.
“This is it?” she asks, shocked, and I nod. “But there isn’t even a laundry room.”
“It’s outside.” I point to the back door, “in the little courtyard.”
“No.” She all but whispers, her face falling, her hard exterior vanishing for a beat before she puts her mask back into place.
“Yes. I’m sorry it’s not a palace for you, but with time, I’m sure you’ll come to love it as much as I do.”
Shaking her head, she glares at me. “I’m not sharing a bed with you. I would rather die.”
Rolling my eyes at her dramatics, I shrug. “Suit yourself. Enjoy the couch.”
Tossing my keys on the bar top bench that divides the living room and kitchen, I reach back and pull my shirt off, draping it over the barstool.
“What are you doing?” Cara asks, and I try not to react to the slight edge of fear in her tone.
“It’s hot, and I’m in my house.” I shrug, turning my back on her and going to the fridge to grab a beer. “Want a drink?”
“No.” She huffs, and I shrug, opening the bottle and drinking it down as I walk back into the living room.
Her dark gaze is on me, traveling over my bare torso, and when she notices that I’ve caught her checking me out, she quickly turns her back to me.
It’s weird having her in my space. It’s not like I haven’t had women here before, but Cara is different. As small as she is, she seems to dwarf my living space by her presence alone.
“So what’s it going to be?” I ask coming up behind her and she stiffens, moving quickly across the room so she can keep her eye on me. “You gonna sleep in our marital bed?”
“Sure. Once I’ve gutted you and buried the body.”
Throwing my head back laughing, she just glares at me and waits for my response.
“Okay, Killer. If you say so.” I tease before pointing to the bedroom.
“Inside the closet are some clothes for you. I had Alice and Sasha from the club go shopping for you. They got you some toiletries as well, but if there’s anything you need, we can pick it up later after we’ve been to the club.”
“We’re going to the club?” she asks, looking a little worried.
“Yes, but only to grab a few things so I can show you the basics of your job, because tomorrow, you start working there.”