Chapter 1
RYDER
Splat.
“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 reads Stephen Ward and Associates and 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.
Then, I was assigned to a high-power businesswoman whose ex-husband was threatening to kill her. I caught him in the process of setting fire to her office building while she was inside. He’s currently sitting in prison.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been a bodyguard, but if this means I’m freed from desk jail, then I’m in.
“Yeah.” He pinches his glasses and slips them off. A look crosses his face that makes me feel like I’m missing something.
TJ peeks his head in the doorway. He eyes me, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
What the hell is going on?
Tracker hired TJ a few years ago. He was quiet and wore a permanent scowl. Since then, he and I have become partners. His deep furrow hasn’t gone anywhere, but his grunts and grumbles are a little clearer these days.
“Do you want me to sit in?” he asks with a smirk as if something amusing is happening.
Most of our cases are a group effort, but personal protection is usually solo unless the job requires additional agents.
“What’s going on?” I cross my arms and then immediately drop them when a ring of fire tears through my shoulder. “You,” I point at Tracker, “are letting me off desk duty. And you!” I turn toward TJ, “have that dumbass look on your face like you’ve jacked with something.”
Tracker stands. “Our client is waiting. TJ, you’ll be backup, so you can sit in. But before we agree to this, I need to ensure we have all the details.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, knowing that there’s one thing that pisses Tracker off, it’s incomplete information. Lives depend on clear-cut facts.
He eyes me. “I need you to put your superpower to work and tell me if they’re giving us everything.”
He thinks they might be lying. Interesting.
My eyebrow perks, and he points a finger at me.
“You’re still grounded.”
“But you said this is my case.”
“This is your case,” TJ snickers, and I punch his shoulder.
“It is,” Track cuts in. “I’m not worried about the kid or his agent. It’s his manager. He’s wound a little tight.” Tracker doesn’t play games.
“So what? You want me to blink once for true, twice for lying bastards? Or maybe a nose scratch. Ooooorrr, I could—”
He leans back in his chair. “All right, smartass. I’ve told them this remains completely confidential. Go wring out your shirt, and let’s get in there.”
“You know, I can’t be grounded forever.”
His hazel eyes bore into mine, and I recall the feeling of being pressed to his chest as he carried me. I swallow the memory along with the faint tickle in my throat.
“Did you bring your bike this morning?”
I drop my head to the side because what Tracker doesn’t need to know is that I really thought about it. I miss my motorcycle.
“Better not have. You’ll earn full privileges back when you’re healed. Completely.”
I turn away, withholding a smart response.
“And when I’m done being pissed.”
I smile, pushing into the bathroom. Tracker is the only man who’s ever looked out for me. His intention and concern are good, but the man is seriously getting on my last nerve.
I set my backpack on the counter and dig to the very bottom, where I find a plain gray T-shirt. I press it to my nose and inhale. Whatever. It’ll have to do.
I pull my soiled shirt off, careful not to disturb my bandage. My shoulder might be healed if I rested it, but idleness makes me twitch.
I run my fingers over the tape, making sure it’s secure. The last thing I need is blood seeping through. Tracker might never cut me loose again.
I slip the cleaner shirt on and tuck the rogue wisps of hair back into my braid.
When I pull the door open, I find TJ waiting for me with that same smug look.
“You’re going to love this one.”
I glare at him. For some reason, it feels like I’m being kept in the dark on purpose.
“I can handle a kid, TJ.”
The thirty-year-old punk laughs.
“What the hell is so damn funny?”
He laughs some more. “You sure did piss him off this time.”
“I was doing my job.”
“Huh. He clearly begs to differ. And given what you’ll be doing, I think it’s pretty clear how he feels about it.”
I pinch the back of his arm.
He laughs. “Ry, if that’s all you’ve got. . . ” He strolls down the hall.
“You want to take this to the parking lot?” I follow on his heels.
“Sorry, we’ve got a meeting, and you have an assignment. Maybe later.”
I clench my jaw, contemplating grabbing him by the collar and making “later” now.
“Nobody is going to the parking lot.” Tracker holds up a hand, catching us before TJ opens the conference room door.
“The agent is a friend.” His voice is soft. “I’ve helped him out in the past. It’s why they’re here.” His eyes flick between mine, almost apologetically.
“What is happening with this case?” I ask, trying to make sense of this whole morning and their clear avoidance.
“You tell me.” He clears his throat and scratches his nose with his index finger as if to signal that someone is lying.
I scoff. “You suck. Like I’d ever be that obvious.”
“Let’s go.” Tracker steps around us and opens the door.
We enter the bright room with a faux wooden table that seats eight. Large windows run along one wall, covered by sheer curtains providing light and privacy.
Three men sit at the far end of the table. Tracker said there was a kid, an agent, and his manager.
TJ slides in behind me. “Biiiiiggggg trouble.”
I elbow him in the gut, trying to decipher what I’m seeing across the room from us.
Tracker shakes hands and introduces us to Rob.
The agent is a short man with slicked-back hair wearing an expensive suit.
The tall man next to him is likely in his forties, with graying brown hair and a fake smile that tells me he’s not happy to be here.
He’s Greg, the General Manager for the. . .Miami Stingrays.
Oh, shhiiiitttt.
I glare at TJ as he grins like a giddy schoolgirl. I want to punch it off his stupid face, but it’ll have to wait.
Next is. . .the kid, who’s not a kid at all but very much a man. Cole Matthews, I note, because everyone else clearly knows who he is—one of the Stingrays’s players.
He’s tall, with dark brown hair and insanely bright blue eyes. He’s a good three or four inches taller than Tracker, so I’d guess six-four or five, and every inch of him screams athlete.
He reaches to shake Tracker’s hand, and I observe the firm grip. When my gaze travels upward, his eyes lock with mine, and there’s the slightest tilt to his lips.
I release a long, slow breath, hoping to ease the giant ball of anxiety growing inside me because. . .I believe this man is my assignment.
Tracker introduces TJ and me as his associates as we take seats opposite each other. A good decision on TJ’s part. One more smart comment, and I’m not sure I’d be able to keep from jamming my fingers up his nose.
I rest back in my chair, hoping they’ll get on with it so I understand what I’m doing and why this man needs protection.
“So, you’re here to discuss our services.
” Tracker opens his folder and shuffles some papers.
“It appears, Cole, you’ve been dealing with some death threats.
” Tracker glances at him over the top of his glasses.
“I believe Rob sent me the latest, which was tacked to your tire after they repeatedly punctured it.”
I watch Cole. He sits tall, his arms resting on the table, his fingers linked together.
“Yes, sir. At first, they were just typical threats in Rob’s email, but now they’re coming in the mail, and the last was left on my car.”
“Players are threatened all the time. Ex-girlfriends, obsessed or angry fans, people thinking they’ll get paid. . . ” Greg, the GM adds. “We just started the season, and Cole doesn’t have time for this distraction.”
I watch Cole as his GM makes it clear his only concern is the season ahead.
Rob leans forward. “Steve—”
“You can call me Tracker.” Track clarifies, leaning back in his chair.
Rob nods. “We need to be sure that Cole is safe. This could be nothing. Just some kids messing around, but I don’t like it. I’ve seen a lot of threats, but these are different. They’re persistent and seem to be getting more personal.”
“Do you have any idea who would want to hurt you?” His eyes are set on Cole. “Former players, teammates, girlfriends you’ve pissed off, fans that seem to be a little too invested?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve racked my brain, trying to think who could be doing this, but I’ve got nothing. There’s bad blood with my aunt and uncle, but this isn’t them.”
“Did your dad have any enemies that would be targeting you in his absence?”
Cole’s face falls with Tracker’s direct question. It’s clear I’ve got a lot of research to do, and on top of that list is finding out who his dad was.
“No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Have you noticed anyone following you or coincidentally showing up where you are? Do you have any friends that are a little. . .off?”
Cole shakes his head again.
“Look.” Greg holds up his hand. “We’re here for twenty-four-hour protection.
Security has been tightened at the practice facility, and he’ll have detailed protection during games.
We need to be sure he’s making it back and forth without any issues.
We have a season to tackle. Cole doesn’t have time to be worried about some crazed fan. ”
Ummm. Did this man just say twenty-four-hour protection?
I very slowly turn to look at the only man I trust sitting next to me. Tracker ignores me. TJ, on the other hand, is hiding his grin by pretending to scratch his beard.
These people need a larger agency that can rotate agents on and off the clock, but something tells me Tracker won’t suggest that. He said he knew Cole’s agent, and that’s why they’re here.
“I understand,” Track’s tone is edging toward irritation, but he has no idea what’s happening inside me at the moment.
My body temperature climbs as every muscle winds so tightly they ache.
“We need to make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with before Ryder takes over.”
The sound of my name tacked onto the end of that sentence has my internal security system sounding all alarms.
Has Tracker lost his ever-loving mind?
He knows the anxiety this kind of forced proximity will cause me. What is he doing?
My heart breaks into a jog.
“Hold on.” A hand jets out with an extended finger—Greg’s. “Her? She’s going to ensure his safety?”
I don’t move as Tracker physically expands beside me.
I’m not sure what he’s thinking or why he’s putting me on this case. I’ll get to the bottom of that insanity in a minute. Greg, the ass, just said the wrong damn thing, and right now, I’ll watch Tracker school this fool.