Mine

  Mine

  An Interracial Romantic Suspense

  Kenya Wright

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

  Copyright © 2018 by Kenya Wright

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by ZachEvans Creative LLC.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Act One

  1. Stolen Panties and Naughty Letters

  2. The Dark Side of Beauty

  3. Muscled Ass Memories

  4. Confessions from a Stalker

  5. Love Requires Rules

  6. Semen-splattered Wishes

  7. Stalking 101

  8. A Break in His Armor

  9. Cocaine and the Swell of Cleavage

  Act Two

  10. Walking Through Hell

  11. Trigger Fingers Turned to Broken Fingers

  12. A Douchebag, a Gun, and a Bottle of Whiskey

  13. An Eye-catching Bouquet

  14. Red Flags

  15. Moonlit Kisses

  16. Not Tonight

  17. Immortal Love

  18. The Red Paint Would Symbolize Blood

  19. Cock Tease

  20. Teaching Her A Lesson

  21. Shot to the Heart

  Act Three

  22. No Turning Back

  23. Leave No Rock Unturned

  24. L’excellence

  25. The Nameless Fuck in the Alley

  26. The Bacon Dance

  27. My Pussy

  28. Back to Business

  29. And the Mission Was Death

  30. Mask Off

  Act Four

  31. Adrenaline

  32. Good Help Is Hard to Find

  33. Suicidal U-turn

  34. Damsel in Distress

  35. Life is Circular

  36. Love Always Numbs the Pain

  37. Reunited

  About the Author

  Also by Kenya Wright

  Publish With Us

  Hate leaves

  ugly scars;

  love leaves

  beautiful ones.

  —Mignon McLaughlin

  Prologue

  A Gamble with Death

  Hunter

  Sometimes being a bodyguard provided great luxury.

  Tonight, I’d escorted a client to a casino that was exclusive to the rich. Designer perfume mingled with Cuban cigar smoke. Money stank of dirty hands passing it around over time. Sweat reeked from losers, while wild hope spiced the air.

  My client, Mr. Strickland had been camped out by the roulette table all evening. The Carrillo Cartel would give five million to anyone that delivered Strickland’s head. But that hadn’t stopped Strickland from feeding his addiction.

  This is why I don’t gamble.

  Soul-erosion came from high-end gambling—this dark mixture of greed and fear. The shit that would keep the average alpha hard for a week. The win rested in eternal bias. A mirage of fifty-fifty chances that almost never came. Luck held rank as master. Everyone else participated as slaves. So, when a person won, they burst with excitement, overloaded on adrenaline, and somehow believed in God.

  Yet, the hidden metronome of the casino continued to spin wheels and break hearts.

  “Let’s go!” Strickland placed his bet and rubbed his hands together. Others followed suit. An excited buzz rushed around the table as the wheel spun. All eyes watched the ball race along.

  Strickland had been on a winning streak all night. His style was half mathematical, half intuitive. A pile of plaques lay in front of him, worth more than a million.

  I couldn’t see my partner, Baptiste, but his voice came through on the tiny plug in my ear. Each heavy word rode a thick Creole accent. “We should leave.”

  My other partner, Nakita sounded in the earplug too. “I agree. This is dangerous.”

  I spoke to both of them through the small microphone in my collar. “Okay. We’ll go in ten minutes.”

  Baptiste was thirty years old, born in Haiti, half black and half French. Tall and baldheaded, he caught most people’s attention when he walked by. A talisman hung from his left ear—an evil eye carved into the center of the bone with feathers dangling from the bottom.

  He was superstitious—the type of guy that didn’t make plans on Friday the 13th. He never went straight home after a funeral, certain a bad spirit would follow him back. Once I saw him shoot a man in his leg for opening an umbrella indoors. Apparently, doing that brought bad luck. And true to Baptiste’s word, a bad luck bullet came.

  And then there was my other partner, Nakita.

  At twenty-five, she was the opposite of Baptiste—a foster kid from the rough streets of Moscow. She had pale skin and black hair. Short and curvy, she was an adamant atheist with dreams of overthrowing the Russian government. Loved poetry but hated any other writing. Would never buy a television but sat in the movie theater all day every Saturday.

  When I started my security agency, I hired Nakita and Baptiste first. For five years, they worked for me. After the first year, they fell in love. The second year, they married. The third year, they bought a house with a big yard and their own gun range. By the fourth year, they’d begun talking about kids.

  On the fifth year, Baptiste came to my office.

  “We’re done, after the Strickland job,” he’d said.

  “I knew it would be coming.” I pulled my bottom desk drawer open, grabbed the package, and handed it to him. “Here.”

  It was a small box wrapped in pink and blue stripes.

  Baptiste studied the box. “What’s this?”

  “Don’t open it until your first child is born.” I leaned back in my chair. “And don’t tell me a present for an unborn baby is bad luck. I checked. There are no laws of spirituality being broken.”

  A wide smile spread across his face. Baptiste rarely smiled. Thank God, because it was one of the few things in this world that scared me.

  “Thank you.” Out of nowhere, he rose from his chair, walked around my desk, got to my side, and grabbed me into an uncomfortable hug.

  “Okay.” I nodded, when he let me go. “Hug me again, and I’ll kill you.”

  Baptiste walked back to his chair. “You need love.”

  “I don’t.”

  “And what about your Zola?” He pointed to the center of my shirt.

  One couldn’t see it, but he knew that I wore a little girl’s heart-shaped locket under the shirt. A picture of Zola and me lay inside. She’d given it to me for my birthday. Only ten years old, she figured a fifteen-year-old boy would love it.

  Baptiste asked the question again. “What about Zola?”

  I rose from my desk, already done with the conversation. “She’s my sister.”

  “Only from adoption.”

  “Focus on Strickland.” I handed him the folder. “See you tomorrow.”

  Baptiste took the information. “I can do a mojo bag for Zola and you.”

  “Keep that shit away from me, please.”

  Baptiste laughed. “How can I keep God from you, when you are God?”

  This was our last job. Things would change, and I wondered if I could ever replace two people who I considered family.

  Disrupting my thoughts, Nakita’s voice came through my earplug. “Two guys entered. They’re standing in the doorway. They don’t look like they can afford to play here.”

  I whispered back, “Keep your eyes on them.”

  Nodding, Nakita sipped a drink at the bar, slowly stirred the pink liquid with a straw, and spoke, “They’re heading your way.”

  Without needing to be told, Baptiste left
the blackjack table and strolled our way.

  A minute later, I spotted the men coming from the left. They wore shabby suits and scuffed dress shoes. A scar decorated one of the guy’s necks. A tattoo covered the other’s right hand. They carried square metallic cases. One was blue and the other red.

  I leaned down and whispered in my client’s ear. “Mr. Strickland, we need to leave.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Bad feeling.”

  “Come on, Hunter.” Strickland gestured to his winnings.

  I had no time to fake niceties with him. He didn’t hire me to be his friend. He brought me on to make sure his head remained attached to his body.

  The two men arrived at our table.

  “Let’s go.” I signaled for Strickland to finish up. “Now.”

  The men saw Strickland and exchanged looks.

  My gut twisted.

  No. This is off.

  Quick, I whispered into my tiny, hidden microphone. “Nakita. Baptiste. Get out of here.”

  Strickland gathered up his stacks with a frown. As soon as he rose, I nudged him forward at a faster pace. Concern hit Strickland’s face. “What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t like the energy I was getting from those two guys.”

  “That’s it?” Strickland frowned.

  I pushed him forward. “So, far.”

  “What? I was winning over there.” Strickland stopped. “I don’t pay you to be nervous. I pay you to—”

  An explosion sounded behind us. Not enough to damage the entire building, but I was sure the roulette table was gone as well as the surrounding area. There was a blinding flash of white light and ear-splitting cracks. Strickland and I crashed to the ground.

  I rose and pulled out my gun. “Are you okay?”

  Shaken, he muttered. “Y-yes.”

  “Come on.” I yanked the fat man up and pulled him along.

  Disorder began. A cloud of black smoke now filled the space. People coughed on the scent of burning wood and hair. Others ran. Most screamed. Things slammed. Bells rang. It was hard to see who had survived and what wasn’t destroyed.

  Dazed, Strickland stumbled after me as I kept a hold on his arm and I yelled into the mic. “Baptiste? Nakita?”

  “I’m here,” Baptiste replied.

  Good.

  “Nakita?” I rushed Strickland out the casino. Cold air hit my face. I felt like vomiting. It was the downside of being a bodyguard, having to constantly deal with stomach twisting events. Thank God I pushed through the others that had been fleeing the exit. “Nakita?”

  Seconds later, Baptiste got to my right and sounded out of breath. “Nakita is still not answering. I’m going back.”

  “No.” I handed Strickland off to him. “I’ll go. She would kill me, if something happened to you.”

  Baptiste crossed his fingers and kissed the tips, trying to magnetize good luck. “Go get her.”

  “I will.” I turned around.

  “No, Hunter!” Baptiste screamed. “Not that way.”

  I stopped. “What?”

  “Don’t run under the ladder!”

  “Are you fucking kidding me!? We don’t have time for this!” I turned back and rushed forward, racing right under the ladder. My legs ached. My lungs burned, close to exploding.

  Nakita had to be okay. They’d done the job as a favor to me. There was no way I would not let them grow old and die together. I didn’t have a future when it came to love and family. I’d put my hopes in them. Their kid would be the closest thing to having my own.

  “Nakita!” Yelling into the microphone, I kept up the pace, slamming into people and pushing them out of the way. “Nakita!”

  And then the building exploded.

  And there was no ladder and no Nakita.

  And Strickland survived, but was killed three weeks later by his mistress.

  And no matter how much Baptiste said he forgave me, I knew he didn’t.

  And each day, guilt stacked within my chest like bricks, walling off my heart.

  My mind.

  My soul.

  Wrong things came to my head.

  Regrets bombarded my insides.

  Every day I replayed that moment, wishing I’d never let Strickland go to the casino in the first place. Wishing I hadn’t given Nakita and Baptiste the job. And even more—no matter how absurd it was—I regretted running under the damn ladder too.

  1

  Stolen Panties and Naughty Letters

  Two Months Later

  Hunter

  Something tore me out of my sleep.

  I woke with a jolt, not remembering my dream, but knowing it was a nightmare. Drenched in sweat, my heart slammed like mortar rounds. Adrenaline coursed through my blood, causing me to shake. And in my head, I yelled out the names of gods like I would do as a kid, when I wished one of them would save me.

  Jesus. Allah.

  Overhead the ceiling fan turned, cooling my skin and casting shadows on the walls. I dragged a trembling hand over my face.

  Zeus. Hades.

  Darkness covered most of the room. The sun had set. The moon slipped through the blinds, placing lit bars all over walls. It made the hotel suite look like a jail cell.

  I lay there.

  Imprisoned in my own head.

  Aries. Artemis. Athena.

  Eight hours before, I’d helped Baptiste kill twelve men, throwing them into a pit of fire surrounded by chicken bones, cemetery dirt, holy water and some other crazy shit my friend needed there. For one minute, I thought Baptiste might’ve been trying to resurrect Nakita. Later, he explained that the stuff was to protect the dying men from returning as evil spirits that would haunt us for the rest of our lives.

  Due to that, I went with it.

  One could never be sure of life’s mysteries even if it all sounded ridiculous.

  The dead men had been the top members of the Carrillo Cartel. After thirty days, we wiped out the organization, hunting and finding every person that had a part in the casino bombing. Blood and death. Torture and dread. I watched lives leave eyes. I witnessed last breaths. I heard the final pleadings of too many dying men. While the deaths would never bring back Nakita, I hoped the piles of corpses comforted Baptiste.

  The moment Baptiste cut the last man and blood dripped down his face, he looked at me. “Now, it’s my turn.”

  I wiped my rainbow knife on my pants, cleaning away the blood. “I’m not going to kill you.”

  I left him there.

  What now?

  We were in Jamaica. We’d flown to Montego Bay—the place where Baptiste and Nakita got married. He’d taken the time on the flight the right out his funeral instructions and handed them to me when we landed. And when we buried the love of his life, again he turned to me with the same question.

  “Have you read the instructions?” Baptiste asked.

  I left a rose on Nakita’s grave. “No. I haven’t read them, and I’m not killing you.”

  That was how Baptiste was doing.

  I thought I would deal with Nakita’s death in a reasonable manner. But tonight, sorrow came. Maybe it was Montego Bay, toying with my senses. Baptiste had said that Jamaica was ruled by African ancestral spirits—Ogun, the God of War and Oshun, the Goddess of Love.

  I have to get my head together.

  Naked, I sat up and pushed back sweat-soaked sheets.

  Focus on the pleasures of life, and then think about what to do next.

  There’d been a lot of things I’d planned on doing after our revenge. I’d made a list in my head as I buried bodies and cleaned up fingerprints. For these next weeks, I would take a vacation from my security company.

  First, I had to take a moonlit swim. Since coming to Jamaica, my body ached to move through the cool waves, late at night, and naked. Next, I planned to feast. No meal would cost too much. All rich flavors would be savored. Third, I would wash the delicious food down with a nice glass of whiskey. I’d packed a special bottle. Bought fro
m a private collector’s auction for $60,000, it was Shalmon Scotch. 1922. Only twelve bottles had been made.

  But then a woman would need to warm my bed before the top was twisted. One didn’t sip a bottle of that amount by themselves. And not just any woman would do. I loved legs—long ones. A sweet smell grabbed my attention. A beautiful smile kept it. The conversation had to lure me in. And her frame had to possess seductive curves.

  My cock jerked.

  Swim first. Find someone to fuck later.

  I rose from the bed, grabbed a towel, and felt no need to take a robe since the resort was clothing optional. It was the only way I enjoyed traveling. Sometimes, nudity freed me.

  My phone lay right next to my rainbow knife. The blade was gold. Every color striped the handle. A memory from when I was young played out in my mind.

  “Look, Mommy.” I pointed out the window. “That’s a rainbow.”

  She frowned. “Who cares?”

  “There could be gold there. We could use it.”

  “There’s no gold at the bottom of a rainbow, just death.”

  I paused in the dark suite and breathed. Anytime I thought of Mom, it meant I’d mentally gone too far. Revenge for Nakita’s death had been too personal and hit too hard.