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Pulled Under

Past Lisa Renee Jones

Walker Security Volume 2

A Tall, Night, and Mortiferous spinoff

Copyright © 2017

Volume 2 of the WALKER SECURITY serial:

Book i: Deep Nether

Book 2: Pulled Under

Book 3: Falling Under

A spinoff of the TALL, DARK, AND DEADLY series which includes:

Book one: Hot Secrets

Book 2: Dangerous Secrets

Book iii: Beneath the Secrets

Full length, loosely connected prelude: Secrets Exposed

Tabular array of Contents

Titlepage

Pulled Under Playlist

Chapter 1

Chapter Ii

Affiliate Three

Chapter Four

Affiliate Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Vii

Chapter Viii

Chapter Ix

Chapter Ten

Chapter 11

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter 14

Chapter Xv

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Affiliate Ninteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-Ane

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Xx-Four

Affiliate Twenty-5

Chapter Twenty-6

Chapter Xx-7

Chapter Xx-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Affiliate Thirty-I

Chapter Xxx-Ii

Affiliate Xxx-Three

Chapter 30-Four

Affiliate Thirty-Five

Chapter 30-Half dozen

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter 30-Nine

Epilogue

Hi Readers

Dirty Rich One Night Stand Extract

Murder Notes Excerpt

Too By Lisa Renee Jones

About

PLAYLIST

Back in Blackness past Air conditioning/DC

Light It Up by Luke Bryan

Impossible by James Arthur

What Lovers Do by Maroon 5

Y'all Actually Got Me by Van Halen

Look What You Made Me Exercise by Taylor Swift

Tin can I Be Him by James Arthur

Unforgettable by Thomas Rhett

Losing Sleep by Chris Young

Chapter ONE

Asher

Leather. Tattoos. Wine. Whiskey. Music. Women.

I left a world filled with those things 10 years agone, and did then tattooed, fucked in the caput, and with a vow to never return. And yet hither I am, behind the bar of one of New York Urban center'south dive bars, Ac/DC's Back in Black blasting through the speakers, handing a dude with long pilus, tats, and more than eyeliner on than the blonde chick with him, a beer. He grabs the bottle, tips me a whole two-fucking-dollars, and leaves. His chick however, does not. She lingers a few beats, casts me a glance with her sleeping accommodation eyes, the kind filled with an invitation that says: Get me naked in the back room correct at present. As far every bit I'yard concerned, any chick banging a dude with eyeliner isn't getting a piece of this.

I motion her onward. She glowers and turns away, attaching her arm to that of eyeliner dude's, leaving me with only 1 question: How the fuck a chick who gets off on that guy, gets off on me? I mean yeah, sure, I'yard inked, and my blond pilus is on the long side, but those are holdovers from deep comprehend special ops. And the only damn make-upward I article of clothing is the kind I've kissed off some hot chick'southward mouth correct before I kiss her everywhere beyond also.

I toss the coin into the tip jar for whatsoever poor soul that own't me who needs two bucks to help them survive New York City. I'grand non that guy, literally or figuratively, nor am I a victim or a fool, all of which I can thank the hard lessons this shitty lifestyle taught me. Though at the moment information technology's not quite every bit shitty, because ane of the staff's female members is dancing on top of the bar a piffling to my right, in shorts that barely cover her fine ass. Only and then, a fine ass is non why I'grand hither, whatsoever more the music. I'm hither to give a female parent and father the justice they deserve over a girl gone too presently, forth with three other look-a-like immature women, all dead after visiting confined like this. All dead after doing some cocktail of a drug that no ane else seems to be dying from.

My motivation to requite the parents peace, and catch what might be a serial killer, is the but reason I let my boss talk me into this hellhole in the starting time place. I scan the dimly lit area, surveying the bars left and right that frame the warehouse-style room, both with neon blue skulls over the peak that match the one backside me. In between them are double doors that lead to the phase and seating, which are shut now, set to open soon.

2 young guys cease in front of the bar, snickering as they order drinks with dirty names, amused in a way I hope like hell I was never amused past such things. I pour the mixtures and slide glasses in front of them. "Ii buttery nipples," I say, leaning forward, to shout over the music, and add, "Come up back when you have the real affair and the drinks are on me."

They curse at me and this time I don't fifty-fifty get two dollars for a tip. In a highly appropriate moment, the music shifts to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Carbohydrate on Me," and at present I actually am tickled. I bark out laughter, while my gaze catches on the entryway to the lower level of the two-level building, and my target, the guy my team at Walker Security believes is the guy nosotros're later, walks in the door. "Ju-Ju," he calls himself, a nickname for drug dealer in his listen, and in mine: stupid fucking idiot, and perchance, a killer. In which example, I'd like to nickname him "Dead," just the law says I'll just have to call him "Arrested," instead. In times similar these, I miss those Navy SEAL days, when I dealt with shitheads like him in jungles, deserts, and dark caves, and was even ordered to do so.

Ju-Ju gives me a two-finger moving ridge, his one-tat sleeve accented with black jeans and a white T-shirt not so unlike what I'm wearing. I chose my get-upwards to blend with the crowd and I'd bet my new BMW that the same applies to him. He'southward stupid, but he's non dumb, and anyone who doesn't understand that stupid is a mentality, and impaired is only plain dumb, is lucky. They haven't met someone like Ju-Ju. I have, too many times.

I pour him what I already know to exist his usual: whiskey Sour, a short cascade, and enough of lemon. It would be a unproblematic drinkable if not for the high-end whiskey he favors, combined with the short cascade that tells me he needs a level head and he won't waste material an expensive whiskey. That level caput he maintains is about that stupid business of selling drugs. He motions to the women with him to sit down on a dearest seat, and heads in my direction.

I serve a customer, and by the time I'm washed, he'south standing in front of me, slapping a hundred on the bar. "For you," he says, shoving the nib in my direction before sipping his drink, and doing so a piffling as well properly to match his spiky black hair and tattooed-upwardly cervix. This isn't where he'south from. It's where he burrows.

I take hold of the bill and shove it into the tip jar. He frowns. "That'due south

for you lot."

"Customs tip jar," I say.

"No i else is on duty."

"New guy is starting this night."

He leans closer. "Let's talk after the bar closes. Meet me."

"Sorry, human. Unless y'all get a whole lot prettier, which is doubtful, yous aren't my type."

He laughs. "You're a funny human being. I'g going help you make some cash. Take a break earlier the society closes. We'll talk." He motions backside me. "Bring something the girls will similar." He slides another hundred on the bar. "The extra is a gift, not a tip. Keep it." He walks abroad.

Bingo.

I'm in.

And the begetter of Lily Waters might but become the justice the law haven't delivered. The human deserves that justice, and so some. His kid was eighteen and on her way to Yale when she died, poisoned on a night friends say she just wanted to watch a ring play at a like order. Which was the same story for every girl now dead and buried, all with the same drug in their systems, laced with poisonous substance. A drug that I've adamant that only Ju-Ju sells, and since he's favoring this club at present, I'thou favoring this club now.

Aiming to satisfy his women where I doubt he tin, I make ii chocolate martinis in betwixt filling three orders before I deliver the drinks to Ju-Ju and his "girls." I don't expect at them. I barely wait at him. I'thousand hard to go similar that. I turn away from them, which is when I observe Riley, the grumpy quondam ex-rocker who runs this place, standing behind my bar with some new dancer chick adjacent to him. She's brunette, with long hair, a slender frame, and big breasts. I'yard guessing I'll round the bar to discover short shorts, and an ass that will brand me stand at attention. Hey. I deserve it. I've just broken through with Ju-Ju.

I close the altitude between me and them, and join the duo on the other side of the counter. As soon as I'm there, I'1000 filling an order. The minute it'south washed, Riley points to the adult female. "Train Sierra. I got shit to do." He leaves me with the woman, who is non wearing short shorts, but faded, snug jeans that are well-nigh every bit cock-worthy, despite the absenteeism of naked skin.

I'm virtually to question her uniform pick when the music cuts out, a sign that the oversupply is about to be allowed into the auditorium, where a dance flooring is set up on weekend nights. A big portion of the bar traffic will before long move there, at least temporarily, offering a sabbatical and a take a chance to monitor Ju-Ju with more ease. The dancer currently on superlative of the bar jumps down and heads in that management, where she will take the stage with several others, or and then I'chiliad told, and entertain the oversupply before the ring starts playing. I give the new woman a once over, and decide she really is ten shades of hotness, and fuck me, my kind of hotness, which is why I happily dole out my advice and "training."

"You lot'll get meliorate tips with your ass hanging out," I say.

"And so you'd better become modify and hop the hell on summit of the bar," she says, her voice a raspy, southern sexiness that has my cock saluting. "The music is jump to start once again soon," she adds, "and I can't expect for the testify—the one you lot'll be putting on—while I watch."

My lips bend. "My shows are individual."

"So are mine."

I arch a brow. "Isn't that going to make information technology hard for yous to practise your job?"

"Y'all seem to be doing just fine without your donkey hanging out."

"Some asses simply wait skilful no affair what they're covered in," I comment dryly.

Now she arches a brow. "Are you saying mine doesn't?"

"Plough around and I'll give you my expert opinion."

"Never."

"Challenge accepted," I say, surprising myself by how damn much I mean those words. I want this adult female, and since I don't do relationships, it doesn't even matter that she's of this world. I won't be part of it for long.

"You relish defeat," she replies. "I get information technology. Some people are similar that."

"Hey!" someone shouts as a rush of people swarm the bar. "Over hither!"

"Yeah, hey!"

"Over here!"

"Hang tight, sweetheart," I say to my new trainee, who I might just school in more than her wardrobe. "We really practise need to address the fact that you're wearing too many apparel." I rotate to the bar to be bombarded with another half-dozen demands, which tell me the side bars are airtight to push traffic. It's a strategy meant to continue people near the dance floor where they stay thirsty and beverage more. A rush of even more than customers has me looking left to discover that the new dancer chick is filling orders, and is clearly not the new dancer chick, but my new bartender.

She'southward also now standing next to me, reaching across me to jab an olive with a toothpick, pausing to expect at me. "I can handle this rush if you want to climb on top and perform." Acrimony lights her optics, and hey, I get it. She's pissed at my assumption that she's the entertainment. I deserve her wrath, merely holy fuck, bring it on and let me osculation it all better. "Private shows merely, remember?"

"Chicken," she laughs, but doesn't wait for a reply as she moves downwards the bar and drops that olive in a martini she easily to a woman.

I reluctantly give my attention to my next customer instead of her, plowing through three orders before a familiar, pretty brunette, a look-a-like to the iv victims, steps in front end of me. "White Russian," she says, playing the undercover role of patron for the 3rd night in a row, when she's really one of Walker'south own, and a badass ex-FBI amanuensis to kick. "Make it weak like you," she adds.

"Yous're starting to tell lame jokes like Blake," I say. Blake being both her married man and ane of the founding brothers of Walker Security. "Poor you and me," I add.

"If I sounded like Blake," she replies, "I'd say brand information technology fucking weak like you."

"That'due south more like it," I say, considering Blake is ane fuck-happy motherfucker, pouring her drink sans the alcohol.

I slide her drinkable across the bar. She tosses down greenbacks and picks up the glass, testing the pure cream for flavor earlier smacking her lips together. "Nothing like a virgin Russian to get a daughter hot," she murmurs, before amending with, "a fucking virgin Russian. Let's hope it's our lucky night." And with that, she turns away and heads in Ju-Ju'south general direction, hoping tonight is the night that she gets his attending rather than another sweet young thing that tin can't protect herself.

Keeping an middle on her and Ju-Ju, I make full another social club while she sits down at a table lone and crosses her bare legs, exposed in a short brim. Nearly instantly, several men circle her and holy hell, I don't know how Blake stays sane in these situations. He's exterior in a van watching, torturing himself right this very minute, which is a good thing since a rush of people encase the bar waiting for service.

I glance left to check on Sierra and detect some big bald dude reaching over the bar and grabbing her hair. "Fuck," I murmur, launching myself that direction as Sierra proves she's not an easy victim by slamming a steel mixing bullpen against the jerk's head. He cocks his arm to dial her and I am there in fourth dimension to catch his hand. "Permit her become," I demand, but my grip has already delivered the desired issue. He releases her hair, and at the same moment Big Bruno, the bouncer who favors this side of the bar, grabs him from behind, pulling him away from us. My hands go to Sierra's shoulders, turning her to confront me. "You okay?"

Her chin is on her breast. "Yep," she breathes out. "Yep. Fine." But she doesn't look at me.

"Sierra—"

"I'thousand fine," she insists, but when her gaze lifts for but a moment, there is vulnerability in her pale blue stare, a hint of a by trauma that she quickly blinks away while firming her chin and calculation, "Give thanks y'all for grabbing that bastard. I mean that. Sincerely. However, you're all the same the asshole who assumed I was a dancer because I have boobs and a amend ass than y'all." And with that bravado clearly meant to hibernate the vulnerability she dared to prove me, she steps firmly astern and twists out of my accomplish. Sierra immediately attends to another customer simply I watch her, ignori

ng the shouts in my direction, trying to effigy out why I can't look away from her. I mean, yeah, certain. She has hugger-mugger, heavy baggage of some sort, simply then, so do nigh people. The difference between them and her is that I usually don't ask questions unless the person has become my duty. It's safer that way.

Obviously, she'due south not my duty, but I have this gut feeling that despite her obvious ability to protect herself, she'd exist better off if she were. I ignored a feeling like this once and someone died. Since I learned my lesson, I don't ignore feelings similar this. Ever. Which means that Sierra just inherited her ain personal protector. I have a feeling I might be taking a lashing when she finds out. But my gut also tells me that I'm going to savour the hell out of it.

CHAPTER Ii

Asher

Houston, we accept a problem.

Fuckhead Ju-Ju has eyes on Sierra and watches her all damn night while I watch him and keep her close, "accidentally" creating opportunities to join her in her personal space. She steps toward me to grab a bottle of alcohol, and I motility in her direction. The infinitesimal we gently collide, I have an alibi to touch her. I catch her arm and turn her into me, making sure we expect all kinds of intimate. Making sure Ju-Ju thinks she's mine, when she'south not. Yet.

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