Bang: B-Squad Book Two

C
opyright
© 2016 by Avery Flynn

Editor: Kimberly Kincaid

Cover Design: Avery Flynn

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

“
D
rama is very
important in life: You have to come on with a bang.”

- Julia Child

b
ang
¹

baNG/

verb

1
. strike or put down (something) forcefully and noisily, typically in anger or in order to attract attention.

w
ww.averyflynn.com
/books

T
here are so
many people who help take a book from idea to reality. Trust me, no author does it alone…we’re too distracted looking at hot dude pictures on the internet—for research purposes, of course. :) A huge thanks going out to Kimberly Kincaid. She edited this book and by doing so didn’t just save my bacon, she saved my whole pig. I owe you girl. To Robin Covington, thank you for always having the answers to my random questions. As always, hugs and kisses going out to the entire Flynn family who love me even when I’m on deadline. Trust me, there is no greater love than that. And for the Flynnbots—even the ones who hated Tamara after Brazen—y’all make my life more fun.

xoxo,

Avery

I
f someone had told
Tamara Post a month ago that she'd be in one of Fort Worth's most exclusive members-only clubs sipping champagne at her ex-husband's Taz's engagement party, she would have laughed in that person's face. If they'd have said she'd be working as the office manager at B-Squad Security and Investigations—which her ex-husband's fiancée, Bianca Sutherland, owned—and loving it, she would have punched them square in the nose. Ex-beauty queens and former soon-to-be trophy wives didn't roll that way.

It was funny how life turned out.

Settling in on the velvet-covered settee in the Corsair Club's private party room, she contemplated getting another glass of wine from the open bar.

"Looking for one of these?" The man belonging to the deep bass voice held out a glass of her favorite chardonnay.

Whereas everyone else in the room was dressed in designer suits and glittering cocktail dresses, the tall, dark and handsome man in front of her was in pressed Wranglers, cowboy boots and a crisp white dress shirt. If he'd had a tie or a sports coat on at one time, he'd ditched them a while ago, judging by how his shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up his corded forearms. Not that she noticed that, or had scoped out the way his broad shoulders filled the shirt to perfection, or was tempted to ask him to turn around so she could confirm that his ass looked as good in those jeans as she imagined.

Men were no longer on her to-do list. But wine? Yeah, that she could do.

"Thank you." She took the glass and drank a sip.

The man sat down beside her, his brawny frame taking up most of the bench she wasn't already parked on. One of his jeans-clad legs brushed against her bare knee and, for the first time in months, a wave of warm desire had her clenching her thighs together.

Unable to figure out how to inch away to allow for space between them without being obvious about it, she crossed her legs. The move made her emerald-green skirt slide up her thigh a bit more than she was comfortable with under the circumstances. Still, giving him a glimpse of skin was less...unsettling...than actually touching him.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced." He held out his hand. "I'm Isaac Camacho."

She knew that name, and now she'd have a face to go with it every time she entered in expense reports. "You work with B-Squad."

He nodded. "On a come-and-go basis as a freelancer."

"Why's that?" From the number of B-Squad clients she'd had to turn away in the past month, Tamara knew the team could use another member.

"I've been told I don't play well with others."

His grin did something funny to her stomach.

"Now that really is too bad. It's important to play nice—mostly." It came out before she could stop it. Damn it. She didn't flirt. Not anymore. Men had been her drug of choice for too long and she'd sworn off of them.

He leaned in close. "Look, I don't want to make a scene but we need to get out of here. Now."

Her heart fluttered. She mentally rolled her eyes at herself. What could she say? Old habits died hard—even when they were oh-so-bad for her. "Why's that?"

His full lips flattened into a grim line. "There's a bounty hunter making his way through the front of the restaurant now. He's got papers on you."

Her heart stopped before kicking back on and revving into overdrive.

She had to get out of here and warn Essie.

But first she had to get rid of the guy who could be on the cover of Texas Hotties Monthly.

"That's about the worst pickup line I've ever heard in my life." She meant it to come out as dismissive, but her voice shook too much to be convincing.

"Unless you want to head back to Idaho and have to reveal to a judge exactly where Essie is so her shitbag of a cult leader father can grab her and sell her off to the highest bidder, then I suggest you get your pretty little ass up and follow me."

Her heart caught in her throat. How did he know?

She glanced around. Everyone was smiling and laughing just as they should be at an engagement party. After all the trouble she'd caused when she'd arrived and tried to extort a million dollars out of Taz, the last thing she wanted was to make any more trouble for him or the rest of the B-Squad—and that would be exactly what would happen if they got busted for knowingly harboring a fugitive. She couldn't do that to Taz, Bianca and the rest of the team.

"Why are you helping me?" She searched Isaac's face for an answer, but there were ancient languages she could decipher easier.

"I owe the team one, and I don't want a bounty hunter messing up Taz and Bianca's engagement party, because that's exactly what will happen. You know there's no way these people will let you get clapped in handcuffs and taken out of here without a fight." He shot her a flirtatious grin and stood up. "Anyway, I'm a sucker for sexy blondes who behave badly."

Glancing back at the tinted window wall separating the Corsair Club's front restaurant from the back party rooms, she could see a man in a baseball cap and jeans marching his way straight toward them.

She stood up. "Okay. How do we get out of here?"

"Just follow me, darling." He tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow. "I'll always lead you true."

Now that she highly doubted.

Isaac Camacho shouldn't be noticing how good Tamara smelled.

One, it was weird. He was, after all, hustling through the club's hectic kitchen with one super-sexy, kinda bitchy blonde—his favorite kind—for parts unknown. He should be noticing her ass under that swishy green skirt, not something lame like the fact that she smelled like peach tea spiked with bourbon.

Two, they were dodging steaming pots and hot plates because ugly-as-roadkill bounty hunter Archie Wolczyk was hot on their heels. Even if his former life as a Recon Marine hadn't taught him the importance of survival, his stint in the county jail should have been more than enough to get an important lesson through even his thick skull: Being locked up in the pokey wasn't his style.

So instead of getting distracted by her perfume, he needed to get them both out of here before he ended up separated from the love of his life—women, all of them—for whatever stretch of jail time the judge decided aiding and abetting a fugitive deserved.

"Left." He pressed his palm against the small of her back, noting that his hand spanned almost the entirety of her waist, and guided her past the walk-in fridge and toward the employee break room.

She followed directions but shot him a quick glare over her shoulder.

Prickly little ice queen, wasn't she?

As they hurried through the break room, he ignored the surprised faces of the staff members swapping out street shoes for clogs, but gave a quick wink to the sous chef who'd given him the after-hours all-access kitchen tour a few weeks ago. Stephanie? Stacy? Selena? Sarah. That was it. Then almost as fast as he and Tamara had rushed into the break room, they were out the reinforced steel door and into the fenced-in part of the parking lot. It stank of cooking grease and rotting food from the nearby pair of Dumpsters that had been broiling in the Texas heat for the past few days. He peeked over the privacy fence, scanning the lot for the bounty hunter's backup. He spotted a couple getting out of a sedan, a valet sneaking a smoke, and a stray cat with one ear slinking between the cars.

Nothing of consequence stood between them and his truck, which was combat parked just outside the gate, ready as always for a quick getaway. He unlocked the doors with his key fob and opened the passenger door, then held out his hand to help Tamara up onto the running board. She was tall, but his oversized tires—perfect for off-roading—were no joke.

"No way." She took a step back, as if she could still escape.

It was cute.

"We don't have time for me to sweet-talk you, darlin', so let me put it this way. You either get that fine ass of yours in the truck or I'll expend the itty bitty amount of energy it would take for me to pick you up and flop you down in there."

The start of a snarl curled up one side of her mouth and she took another step back. "Look, I appreciate you giving me the heads up about the bounty hunter, but I don't know you and there's no way in hell I'm getting in your truck."

So, plan B it was.

"Okay." He held up his hands in surrender. "You've got an excellent point there."

The tension yanking her shoulders closer to her ears than they should be ebbed and her shoulders inched down a bit. That's when he scooped her up in his arms, pivoted, and dumped her into the passenger seat all before she'd even gotten a chance to let out a yelp.

"Why you—"

"Heavy-handed asshole?" He grabbed the seatbelt and dragged it down across her chest. "Giant prick?" He clicked it into place, resisting the urge to let his fingers linger on the sliver of silky skin between the top of her skirt and the bottom of her shirt that had become exposed when she'd twisted in his arms. "Handsome devil?" He flashed his patent-pending, panty-melting grin. "Big, strapping stud who can protect you?"

She didn't even flutter her long lashes. "Jerk."

"It's more succinct, I'll give you that." He shut the door and circled the front of the truck, walking a little more bowlegged than normal.

This was wrong. He should
not
have a hard-on while being a Good Samaritan. Even for him, that was pretty low. She was Taz's ex-wife. She tried to extort a million dollars from him and nearly blew his relationship with Bianca straight to Timbuktu. She had Wolczyk on her ass and a teenager who she'd technically kidnapped hidden away somewhere. And on top of all that, she wasn't the least bit friendly or accommodating.

Fuck. His dick was just getting harder.

He opened the driver's side door and got behind the wheel. Tamara faced straight ahead and had her arms crossed under her impressive rack. While he was questioning his ethics, his cock was questioning his sanity because normally he would be all over her. As it was, he grit his teeth, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled into traffic.

A few months ago when Taz asked him to do some background on his ex-wife who was pretending to be his current wife, Isaac had figured it was an easy job. He'd been right and wrong. He'd turned up the arrest warrants, the information about her dead sister's ex-husband, Jarrod Fane, and the well-armed militia-like cult he ran and Tamara's allegation that the bastard had been willing to sell his only child off to one of his followers to consolidate his power base. What he hadn't discovered was where she lived, where her money was, or where she'd hidden her niece, Essie, after she'd grabbed the sixteen year old and hightailed it out of Idaho. That burned. He was a good investigator. Damn good. And she'd given him the slip. Shit. She still was and she was sitting right next to him.

He wasn't giving up though.

"How's the security at your house?" he asked, slowing down for a yellow light.

"Fort Knox."

Just that. Nothing else. He'd eaten Popsicles that had been warmer.

"That good?" Not likely. She had access to all of the B-Squad tech but that didn't mean she knew how to use it. According to Google, her talent in the eight gazillion beauty competitions she'd won had been baton twirling not setting up security systems.

"You know who's after me?" she asked, not even a nervous wobble in her voice.

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded. "Jarrod Fane. Age thirty-six. Second-generation leader of the Crest Society, with a two-hundred strong compound of armed followers and fellow nut jobs outside of Redfin, Idaho."

Oh, the arrest warrants on her came from the county judge presiding over the nasty custody case involving Essie, but there were only a few people in that area not under Fane's thumb. He was frat boy pretty, smooth and as dictatorial as any tyrant in a third world country.

If Isaac's recitation shook her, she didn't show it.

Her breathing remained as steady as her hands, folded in her lap. "Then you know I wouldn't leave a damn thing to chance."

"How did Wolczyk find you at the party?"

"Who?"

"The bounty hunter. His name's Archie Wolczyk."

"How do you know him?"

"Fort Worth isn't
that
big of a city. If the great state of Texas gives someone a security or investigative license and you're in the general area, I know who you are." The light turned and he merged into traffic. "So how did Wolczyk find you?"

Her cheeks turned pink. "I don't know."

So she could get ruffled—especially when it turned out she didn't know something. He tucked that bit of information away for later when he could think about what else got her all excited and bothered.

"Could he be at your house?" It's exactly where he'd be after flushing out his quarry into the open. He'd set up watch and wait for the target to scurry back to home base before taking off for the great wide open.

"No." She shook her head—firm, decisive, back in control. "I'm working at B-Squad under my name, but neither my house or my car has any link to me. Lash worked up the security system. He's the only one who knows where I live."

He breathed easier. He and Loud Mouth Lash, the B-Squad's resident security expert and sniper extraordinaire, had served together in the Marines. The man knew his shit. The house just might be Fort Knox worthy. However, there was always a way to find someone, a paper trail that would lead to the front door.

"Your name's not on the water bill? The cable? With your cell phone?"

"Nope."

So, somehow Wolczyk had gotten the jump on her connection to B-Squad. It wouldn't have been a main player, but the Devil's Dip Gym on the main floor was still active. One of those guys could have slipped. A trainer? Janitor? Guy who'd whacked off to her one too many times in the gym's cold showers? Maybe he’d followed her home one night. Maybe she’d let something slip about a neighbor.

Isaac didn't know, but he'd find out and then that little loose-lipped motherfucker would be out on his ass.

"I'll check the house out later."

Her blue eyes went wide. "
You'll
check it out?"