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Authors: Harper Sloan
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Maddox’s chest and hope for a miracle.
Axel
You have got to be fucking kidding me. What are the odds, after this long? Isabelle fucking West. I am still at a loss over this new intel. My goddamn Izzy is Greg’s friend who needs help? No, that’s not right. She isn’t mine anymore. She stopped being mine when she couldn’t wait for me, couldn’t hold on for just a few months. She stopped being mine the day I finally found her—married to another fucking man.
Fuck! How is it possible that the Isabelle I knew all those years ago is the same woman Greg gave me the rundown on yesterday. He described a scared, innocent, and very broken woman. The Izzy I knew would never let a person break her spirit. Hell, in the three years she was my girl, even I had a hard time keeping that spirit from overtaking me. She was so full of life and happiness. No fucking way this is the same girl.
When Greg called me yesterday to have a chat, he explained that his girl was in trouble. And not the kind of trouble a girl needs to be in. I didn’t have the time yesterday to sit down and get the details, being in the middle of moving across the country and setting up shop with Greg; things are insane. I had finally handed over the West Coast operations of Corps Security just a few days ago, quickly jumping in my truck and heading east. I had bought my house quickly and we had just signed the lease on the new office space. Now all that is left is getting set up with Greg and becoming familiar with his case load. There is an endless backlog of people requesting consultations for investigative work. Luckily it hasn’t taken much to convince Locke, Beck, and Coop to pick up and start over in Georgia with me.
During our quick meeting yesterday, he filled me in on the very hazy issue. He had a good friend escaping a bad marriage. How bad, I don’t yet know. She has been living here for about two years and during the last six months has been having a back and forth battle for divorce. The bastard doesn’t want to let go. Greg said that it hasn’t been a big issue until yesterday when she got a fucked-up picture in the mail. He explained it to me. The ex sounds like one sick fuck and enough of a threat for me to tell him to set something up.
He didn’t tell me her whole name; he called her Iz. I remember snorting humorlessly at the name yesterday. But yesterday, the last thing I thought was that Iz could possibly be one and the same, Isabelle West.
I’ve known Greg for close to a decade now. I still remember a few years ago when he called up, telling us he had to run to North Carolina and be some white fucking knight. I don’t remember the details, even though I wish to fuck I did. I just remember him going radio silent for almost a month after.
He has always talked about his two girls here in Georgia. The guys and I have been giving him a hard time for a while now about handing over his nuts since he liked hanging with pussy so much. He has always spoken about these two chicks like they are fucking queens, goddamn Mother fucking Teresas. I honestly don’t think I have ever heard him say a negative thing about either one of them.
Such bullshit. This little scrap of female is blocking the club owner’s office door like she would take out any threat that tried to get through her to try and reach Isabelle. Where the hell is the small sprite Greg said radiated glee like a fucking fairy?
“FUCK!” I roared. “Get out of my goddamn way, woman.” How does this tiny, one-woman circus think she is going to fucking keep me from breaking that door into splinters? I look over at Coop and Beck; they seem just as confused as I am about this whole standoff. Jesus, I am getting in that damn office, even if I have to physically remove this woman from my path. I’m tired of playing nice. I might not have a mother, but even I know to respect women; this one though would try the patience of a fucking saint.
Just when I am about to pick her up and
Axel
You have got to be fucking kidding me. What are the odds, after this long? Isabelle fucking West. I am still at a loss over this new intel. My goddamn Izzy is Greg’s friend who needs help? No, that’s not right. She isn’t mine anymore. She stopped being mine when she couldn’t wait for me, couldn’t hold on for just a few months. She stopped being mine the day I finally found her—married to another fucking man.
Fuck! How is it possible that the Isabelle I knew all those years ago is the same woman Greg gave me the rundown on yesterday. He described a scared, innocent, and very broken woman. The Izzy I knew would never let a person break her spirit. Hell, in the three years she was my girl, even I had a hard time keeping that spirit from overtaking me. She was so full of life and happiness. No fucking way this is the same girl.
When Greg called me yesterday to have a chat, he explained that his girl was in trouble. And not the kind of trouble a girl needs to be in. I didn’t have the time yesterday to sit down and get the details, being in the middle of moving across the country and setting up shop with Greg; things are insane. I had finally handed over the West Coast operations of Corps Security just a few days ago, quickly jumping in my truck and heading east. I had bought my house quickly and we had just signed the lease on the new office space. Now all that is left is getting set up with Greg and becoming familiar with his case load. There is an endless backlog of people requesting consultations for investigative work. Luckily it hasn’t taken much to convince Locke, Beck, and Coop to pick up and start over in Georgia with me.
During our quick meeting yesterday, he filled me in on the very hazy issue. He had a good friend escaping a bad marriage. How bad, I don’t yet know. She has been living here for about two years and during the last six months has been having a back and forth battle for divorce. The bastard doesn’t want to let go. Greg said that it hasn’t been a big issue until yesterday when she got a fucked-up picture in the mail. He explained it to me. The ex sounds like one sick fuck and enough of a threat for me to tell him to set something up.
He didn’t tell me her whole name; he called her Iz. I remember snorting humorlessly at the name yesterday. But yesterday, the last thing I thought was that Iz could possibly be one and the same, Isabelle West.
I’ve known Greg for close to a decade now. I still remember a few years ago when he called up, telling us he had to run to North Carolina and be some white fucking knight. I don’t remember the details, even though I wish to fuck I did. I just remember him going radio silent for almost a month after.
He has always talked about his two girls here in Georgia. The guys and I have been giving him a hard time for a while now about handing over his nuts since he liked hanging with pussy so much. He has always spoken about these two chicks like they are fucking queens, goddamn Mother fucking Teresas. I honestly don’t think I have ever heard him say a negative thing about either one of them.
Such bullshit. This little scrap of female is blocking the club owner’s office door like she would take out any threat that tried to get through her to try and reach Isabelle. Where the hell is the small sprite Greg said radiated glee like a fucking fairy?
“FUCK!” I roared. “Get out of my goddamn way, woman.” How does this tiny, one-woman circus think she is going to fucking keep me from breaking that door into splinters? I look over at Coop and Beck; they seem just as confused as I am about this whole standoff. Jesus, I am getting in that damn office, even if I have to physically remove this woman from my path. I’m tired of playing nice. I might not have a mother, but even I know to respect women; this one though would try the patience of a fucking saint.
Just when I am about to pick her up and
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