Bulletproof Read online

  BULLETPROOF

  Copyright © 2020 by Samatha Harris.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: JANUARY 2020

  www.samathaharrisbooks.com

  Cover: T.E. Black Designs

  Editing: Maria Vickers

  Formatting: Maria Vickers

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the content is a model.

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, Colbie Kay. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without premising from Maria Vickers.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 ( http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/ ). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights and livelihood is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Jake

  2. Ash

  3. Jake

  4. Ash

  5. Jake

  6. Ash

  7. Jake

  8. Ash

  9. Jake

  10. Ash

  11. Jake

  12. Ash

  13. Jake

  14. Ash

  15. Jake

  16. Ash

  17. Jake

  18. Ash

  19. Jake

  20. Ash

  21. Jake

  22. Ash

  23. Jake

  24. Ash

  25. Jake

  26. Ash

  27. Jake

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other books by Samatha Harris

  To Jeff because you said please

  My bag hit the warped wood floor with a thud. It was well after ten, and the old farmhouse was bathed in darkness. The angry storm that had followed me all the way from New York had swallowed the moon, and with it, the only light this far out of town.

  I fumbled along the wall, feeling around for the light switch inside the front door and stubbing my toe on an umbrella stand which sent it crashing to the floor. “Fuck!”

  Finally, my fingers reached a switch, and dim light flooded the entryway.

  Everything looked exactly the same. Same faded wallpaper, same old threadbare carpets worn thin from years of traffic headed to and from the kitchen, same rickety banister leading the way up the sagging staircase. Nothing had changed, and yet, everything felt completely different.

  It had been years since I’d set foot inside the place. Time had stood still here since Gran passed, while the world around it moved on. The house that had once been filled with life and love was nothing more than a petrified carcass, sitting abandoned at the edge of town.

  As I followed the path to the kitchen, a sizzle followed by a loud pop sounded behind me as darkness swallowed me once again. I sighed. The house still mourned her loss as much as the rest of us, and sadness hung in the humid, musty air. The soul of this old place had died with her.

  The kitchen had been the heart of this house, but when I flipped on the light, it stood cold and lifeless. Even though it still smelled of the same of fresh herbs and honeysuckle that grew outside the window, it felt…empty.

  The old cast-iron skillet hung as it always did on the wall beside the stove. It had been there for so long that the paint on the wall around it had faded, leaving behind an outline to mark its place when in use.

  Her favorite oven mitts, the ones with the little daisies on them, hung on the hook above it, singed at the tips from when I set them a little too close to the burner as a kid.

  Memories filled every crack and corner of this place, leaving me with no way to escape them. Swallowing, my chest tightened as the recollections flooded in from a life I’d long forgotten.

  Mom sent me here to Gran’s for two weeks every summer when I was little, and for that small stretch of time, I was free. A boy playing in the dirt, scraping my knees, and running the property from sun-up until Gran rang the dinner bell.

  In that old house, and in that sleepy mountain town, my name held no expectations, no pressure, no legacy to live up to, just a little boy with dirt-smudged cheeks and skin tinted pink from the hot summer sun.

  The wind kicked up and that telltale squeak of the old porch swing pierced the silence as it swayed back and forth on rusted chains that were probably older than me. Any time of day, when Gran wasn’t in the kitchen, she would be out there on that swing, shelling peas and surveying her property like a queen ruling over her kingdom. But with her gone, I was now the king.

  Those old chains squeaked again. I fucking hated peas. Always had, always would, but I would eat the foul things, pod and all, every day for the rest of my goddamn life if only I could see her out there again, humming to herself as she worked.

  After ten hours in the car, my eyes were dry, my legs were cramped and restless. I smelled like stale coffee and beef jerky. It had rained the entire trip. Ten hours of farmland and podunk towns blurred into shades of green and gray through my windshield as I put more and more distance between me and the city I’d called home for most of my life.

  Exhausted, I needed a shower and a bed, but first a drink. Not a drop of booze had passed the threshold of Gran’s house in decades, except for maybe a dusty old bottle of cooking sherry. On my way through town, I didn’t see a liquor store, which left me with no choice but to seek refuge at the local watering hole.

  Turning on my heel, I locked up and jogged down the front steps, the wood creaking underfoot. The luxury rental car I’d driven sat in the muddy driveway, reminding me of everything I’d come to escape. I by-passed the rain-soaked sedan and headed straight for the barn where Gran’s old Ford pickup sat half-covered under a fraying tarp.

  Climbing up into the cab, I flipped down the visor. My lips curled as the keys fell into my lap. Some things never changed. I turned the ignition, and the old truck roared to life, shaking the entire cab as the engine sputtered to life.

  * * *

  The truck rumbled into one of the many vacant spots in front of a bar I’d passed earlier on my way into town. The sign above the door was nearly impossible to read. The was paint chipped, the wood warped and cracked, and the letters were barely visible through the downpour.

  I laughed when I was finally able to make out the words of the dimly lit sign: Rock Bottom Bar and Grill. There at the bottom of an enormous rock face carved into the side of the mountain at the edge of town, I’d finally hit rock bottom.

  Rain beat down hard against the roof, and the wipers thumped out a hypnotic beat as my phone vibrated on the bench seat beside me. Without glancing at the screen, I turned it off and tossed it onto the dash. Carefully, I propped my elbows up on the steering wheel and ran a hand down my face. The same person had been calling non-stop for the past three hundred miles, her voice demanding I come home in every voicemail she left, but that would be tomorrow’s problem.

  A neon sign flickered in the window, bathing the cab of the truck in an eerie blue light. I took a deep breath and killed the engine before darting for the front door. As I reached for the handle, the door swung open, nearly colliding with my head. A short man with a red goatee and thinning blond hair glared at me from the doorway. “Watch it,” he snapped.

  I stepped aside. His beady eyes fixed in a glower as he trudged past me, and I squinted, noticing thick black lines scrawled across his forehead: Dipshit. Before I could think any more of it, the man grunted and disappeared into the storm.

  Inside, it was pretty much what you’d expect of a dive bar. Hardwood floors that were scuffed and chipped from years of boots and chairs scraping against the finish. Mismatched tables were set up in no particular order on one side of the wood-paneled room. A pool table that had probably been assembled sometime during the Nixon administration, sat abandoned in the back with a seventies-style jukebox sitting silently in the corner.

  The place was old and more than a little run-down, but it was clean. Not a speck of dust could be found on the windowsills or a stray napkin littering the floor. It may have been a dump, but clearly, someone took pride in it.

  A flash of color caught my eye, and I shifted to get a better look. A mural ran the entire length of the wall to my left. Cold muted blues mixed with bright yellows and orange in an abstract depiction of the Blue Ridge Mountains which surrounded the sleepy water-logged town. It was exceptional, if not a little out of place in the dingy little bar.

  Heading for one of the many vacant stools, I glanced around the nearly empty bar. Three guys, who’d seen the better part of their sixties some time ago, sat quietly nursing their beers. The resemblance between them was uncanny, like aging triplets. Same hat, same boots, same slump to their shoulders, even t
he same graying beard resting on their equally round beer guts. Their flannel shirts were the only way to tell them apart. One red, one blue, and one yellow that I wasn’t entirely sure hadn’t been white at some point.

  I pulled out a barstool between red and possible white flannel and took a seat. The chipped surface smelled of wood cleaner with a hint of lemon. I scanned the bar in search of someone who at least appeared to work there but came up short.

  I’d nearly decided to serve myself when the saloon doors toward the back swung open. A woman pushed through with a phone tucked between her left ear and shoulder, her dark hair piled high in a mess of unruly curls, a red bandana wrapped around her head and tied in the front. Her lips were painted a rich, deep red that made them appear impossibly full even when set in a thin irritated line. A tiny thing, nothing but soft curves and delicate features, reminding me of a vintage Vargas pin-up come to life.

  She stopped in front of blue flannel, took the empty pint glass in front of him, and replaced it with a clean full one, the phone still clutched tightly to her ear. “Lay off it, Tommy. I need it Thursday,” she said as she repeated the process with red flannel.

  When she reached me, she raised an eyebrow and held up a long delicate finger before moving on to the next flannel-covered old man.

  “Well, how about I call that pretty little wife of yours? What’s her name? Karen? How about I tell her your so-called volunteer work at the church is really you playin’ poker in the back and starin’ at my ass.”

  I snorted. She paused, quirking one dark eyebrow again and rested a hand on her hip, tapping her fingernails that were painted the same deep red color as the lips that were tilted into a smirk.

  I shifted on my barstool and reached for a menu wedged between two napkin holders, unable to keep from smiling in response.

  “Well, bless your heart,” she cooed, her voice melting into a smooth southern drawl. “I’ll see you Wednesday? Thank you, darlin’.”

  I shook my head in awe of her ability to adapt so easily, from hard as stone to sugary sweet in less than two seconds. My mother had the same gift of manipulation and condescension, only she called it southern charm.

  She hung up and set the phone beside the cash register against the back wall, heading in my direction with a little extra bounce in her step, no doubt from having gotten her way with the mysterious Tommy.

  She tilted her head to the side, toying with her bottom lip as her fierce blue eyes sized me up. I frowned as she reached behind the bar and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the well. She flipped over a rocks glass and filled it a quarter of the way with amber liquid, sliding it across the bar to me with a careful flick of her fingers.

  Frowning, I glanced down at the drink. “How do you know I didn’t want a beer?”

  “Instinct.” She shrugged. “A guy like you who comes in here this late has got some trouble, and somethin’ tells me a beer ain’t gonna cut it. Besides, I don’t carry that imported stuff you city boys prefer.” She smirked in my direction, heading back down the bar and disappearing through the saloon doors.

  I reached for the glass and took a sip, allowing the cheap whiskey to burn its way down my throat. My eyes focused in on the mountain landscape painted on the wall reflected in the mirror behind the bar. I swiveled around on my barstool to get a better look. The colors were striking. I could almost feel the warmth of the sun rising over the cool blue of the mountains. It wasn’t a masterpiece, the brush strokes were sloppy, the composition a little off, but it evoked the feeling of complete peace in me. So much so that the tension began to ease from my muscles as I lost myself within the landscape.

  It was the first time I’d felt anything except numb in months. No wonder I’d finally snapped and bolted with one goal in mind, to get the fuck out of Manhattan.

  The details were a little hazy, but I remembered sitting in that boardroom, listening to a marketing pitch for a new steak house chain, and something inside me broke. The room began closing in on me. The knot in my tie grew tighter and tighter with every tick of the clock. Voices were distorted and slow, and my vision blurred, the edges fading to black.

  I’d loosened my tie from the chokehold it had on my throat, stood up in the middle of the presentation, buttoned my jacket, and calmly walked out the door without a word.

  The saloon doors creaked open and closed with a slap, bringing me back to the present. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed the raven-haired bombshell leaning against the bar with a beautiful, albeit curious, expression.

  Leaning forward, she folded her arms on top of the bar and flicked her chin toward the mural. “Nice huh?” she asked.

  “It’s incredible.” As the words left my mouth, I couldn’t be sure I was still talking about the painting. Her lips slowly curled at the edges, amusement dancing in her clear blue eyes.

  “Is the artist local?”

  “It’s possible.” She ducked her head, wiping absently at the bar with a rag.

  “Don’t let her fool you.” I tore my eyes away from her at the sound of a deep rusty voice. “She damn sure paints a purty picture,” red flannel drawled, pointing a gnarled finger in her direction.

  “You did that?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t act so surprised.”

  The sass in her voice paired with the endless curves and those bright red lips had my complete attention. “You’re very talented,” I said, taking a sip from my glass, my eyes locked on her.

  She didn’t respond, simply went about wiping down the already spotless bar.

  I glanced back at the painting with new appreciation. I could almost picture her with brush in hand and paint-splattered across her pale skin, her teeth sinking deep into her lip as she worked the brush in long strokes. I let myself live the fantasy in my head for a moment longer before turning back to face her. I held out my hand across the bar. “I’m—” I hesitated, “Jake.”

  Her lips puckered for a moment before spreading into a smile that lit her from within. She took my hand, her tiny fingers almost completely eclipsed in my large calloused hand. Her skin was soft, her grip firm and confident. “Ash,” she said. I grinned and tightened my hold on her fingers before reluctantly letting go.

  The sound of barstools scraping against the floor broke through the spell her voice had cast on me. I took another sip from my drink as the three flannel-clad patrons rose from their seats. Each of them took a bill from their wallets, set it down on the bar with a nod, and headed for the door.

  “See ya, Sam.” She smiled, waving good-bye to the old men

  The flannels grumbled various forms of good-bye as they marched out single file.

  I frowned as the door closed behind the last flannel-clad old man. “Are they related?” I asked, nodding in the direction they’d disappeared.

  Ash scoffed, “No.”

  “They look alike.”

  She shrugged. “Live in a town this small for long enough, and you’ll start to look that way too.” My face twisted with disgust, and she laughed. “Relax, pretty boy. Not like you’ll be sticking around that long.”

  I exhaled. Smooth. Real smooth. Dropping my head, I chuckled at my stupidity. “So, I guess I won’t be changing my name to Sam?”

  She smiled, reaching for the empty beer glasses sitting on the bar. “Why would you do that?”

  I froze with my glass paused halfway to my lips. “Three guys named Sam. I figured it was a thing.”

  “Their names aren’t Sam.”

  My head snapped up. “What?”

  “The one in blue is Steve, he was the foreman at the lumber yard until he retired last year. Al, the one in red, drove a truck for forty-five years before they took his license on a count of cataracts, and the whitish one, that’s Marty.”

  “So, why did you call them Sam?”