Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
He’s still as bulky and muscular as he was back when we met, still has the military crew cut, but there’s something about him that’s more distinguished than how he looked the night we met. His sleeve tattoo that makes him look like he has a robotic arm is still as mesmerizing in person as it was when he used it for leverage against that stall while he fucked me.
Over time, he’s gotten a salt-and-peppery five-o’clock shadow that’s so attractive.
Someone clears their throat in the room, and that’s when I turn to the group of his team sitting at the large table. All their eyes are on me. Mike Bravo has grown exponentially over the years and gotten Trav the money to pay for this lavish mansion.
I’m not convinced it’s all aboveboard, but anytime we’ve crossed paths, anytime he’s been involved, he’s walked away scot-free. Because of who he is or who he knows, I’m not sure. I’m constantly told not to worry about what Travis West does or doesn’t do. Kind of hard when he keeps interfering with my job, but I let it go because I’m ordered to.
“Who let you in here?” Trav barks, and I suppress a smile.
“Your guard dog,” I quip. “We need to talk.”
“What am I in trouble for now?”
I glare at him, and he relents. He hands off the meeting to Domino and gestures for me to walk down the hall.
When he pulls me into his office, behind the desk sitting on Trav’s chair is a dog. The German shepherd’s tongue is hanging out of its mouth, and it looks like it’s smiling.
“Princess, out,” Trav says.
The dog doesn’t move.
“You … have a dog?” I ask because Trav doesn’t seem like the type of guy to have one.
“She’s not mine. Princess Smooshy Face, out.”
This time, the dog does obey him, and I have to laugh. “Princess Smooshy Face? Really?”
Trav closes the door when the dog runs out into the hall. “She belongs to Iris, and he taught her to only obey commands if you use her entire name.”
“I barely know Iris, but from what I do know of him, that checks out.”
Trav steps into my space. “So, why are you here? It has to be serious for you to come to me for once.”
And yep. Here’s the part I’ve been dreading the whole way here. I have spent years trying to keep my distance from Travis West.
He’s obnoxious, he’s cocky, he drives me crazy, and now I have to ask him for a favor.
He’s going to hold this over my head for all of eternity.
I take a deep breath and blurt, “I need your help.”
And then? The fucker unleashes the most Trav-like smirk I’ve ever seen.
Yeah, brilliant idea coming here, Dylan.
Chapter Four
Trav
I must do a terrible job of trying to contain my excitement because Dylan slumps and turns to leave.
“I knew it was a mistake coming here.”
“It wasn’t.” I put my hand on the door so he can’t open it, blocking him in between my hard body and the flat surface. “Mm, what does this position remind you of?”
“You’re an ass,” he bites and then mutters, “Damn it,” like he hates that I can still get under his skin.
“From memory, that night was all about your ass.”
“It’s only been about a year since you brought that up.”
“I’ve barely seen you these last twelve months. I’m starting to think you might not actually like me.”
“I don’t.”
I lean in and whisper, “Then why haven’t you moved?”
Teasing Dylan is fun. It always has been. I know I should probably stop if I actually want him to start respecting me, but it’s been seven years since we first met, and he has hated me ever since he arrested me and I kinda, sorta, wasted his time by letting the ATF find his score and take credit for the bust.
Hey, it’s not my fault different law enforcement agencies don’t communicate. But okay, even I will admit it was a shitty move on my behalf, but I really needed to get paid back then. The first two years for Mike Bravo had us in the red until we started getting larger contracts.
Dylan slips out from under me and takes a seat at my desk. “I’m in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” I sit opposite him.
“Well, I’m coming to you for help, so I think that says a lot.”
“Or you could be using it as an excuse to see me. I’ve missed you too.”
“Yep. Regretting this. But no. My boss tried to kill me today. Fun times.”
I ignore the twist in my gut—that protective instinct that pumps through my veins—and remain professional. “Damn. Talk about a bad workday.” Okay, professional by my standards.
Dylan scoffs. “You can say that again.”
“Go above his head. Report it.”
“Thank you so much for that simple solution,” he deadpans. “How did I not come up with that?”