Wrong Place, Right Time

  ALSO BY ELLE CASEY

  ROMANCE

  By Degrees

  Rebel Wheels (3-book series)

  Just One Night (romantic serial)

  Just One Week (romantic serial)

  Love in New York (3-book series)

  Shine Not Burn (2-book series), also available as an Audiobook

  Bourbon Street Boys (3-book series), also available as an Audiobook

  Desperate Measures

  Mismatched

  ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  All the Glory: How Jason Bradley Went from Hero to Zero in Ten Seconds Flat

  Don’t Make Me Beautiful

  Wrecked (2-book series; Book 1 also available as an audiobook)

  PARANORMAL

  Duality (2-book series)

  Dreampath (short story, The Telepath Chronicles)

  Monkey Business (short story, Blood Iris 2012: A Dark Fantasy Anthology)

  Pocket Full of Sunshine (short story & screenplay)

  SCIENCE FICTION

  Drifters’ Alliance (ongoing series)

  Winner Takes All (short story prequel to Drifters’

  Alliance, Dark Beyond the Stars Anthology)

  CONTEMPORARY URBAN FANTASY

  War of the Fae (10-book series)

  *Book 1, The Changelings, is a free ebook at most retailers*

  Ten Things You Should Know About Dragons (short story, The Dragon Chronicles)

  My Vampire Summer

  Aces High

  DYSTOPIAN

  Apocalypsis (4-book series)

  To keep up to date with Elle’s latest releases, please visit www.ElleCasey.com

  To get an email when Elle’s next book is released, sign up here:

  http://bit.ly/ellecaseynews

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Elle Casey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503936546

  ISBN-10: 1503936546

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  For Emilie, who brought me into the fold. Thanks for sharing this adventure with me!

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  I close my eyes and inhale deeply after shutting the front door to my house. The sounds of my two girls talking a mile a minute and my son shouting in happiness come through the oak that separates the inside of the house from the front porch, as they go down the steps and head out to their father’s waiting vehicle.

  Hallelujah . . . Miles, my ex, finally followed through on his promise to pick up our children and have them for the weekend, and I plan on taking full advantage of this little mini-vacation. Just one more deep breath in and out, and I’ll finally be able to relax; I will be able to temporarily forget the fact that his parting comment—whispered to me so the kids wouldn’t hear—was that he’d be bringing them back early Sunday, because he has a baseball game to go to.

  God forbid he bring his children to one of these events he likes to treat himself to. Bastard. He gets baseball games and nightclubs, dinners out with grown-ups and sex. I get hours and hours of Animal Planet—the one television channel all three of my children can agree is awesome—and the occasional superhero comic. I try not to be bitter about the fact that he has a life and I don’t, but I’m not very successful.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, taking another deep breath in and letting it out slowly. I will not let the world intrude on my solitude, on my hard-won peace and quiet. I will finally get some of that me-time I keep reading about on all those mommy blogs.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Me-time! Me-time! Me-time! I want some of that me-time, dammit! I think I know how the Incredible Hulk feels in the moments before he busts out of his pants. A person can only take so much. My jeans are already feeling a little tighter.

  I’m afraid that one of these days, I’m going to Hulk-out. I’m going to puff up with rage, turn green, and rip all my clothes off . . . and then I’m going to run around the house raging like a rabid beast, breaking glasses and plates, ripping down curtains, and punching holes in the walls. I smile at the carnage I’m picturing in my mind. God, that would be so, so satisfying. The only reason I don’t indulge in the fantasy is because I’d be the only one around to clean everything up when I was done going all beast-mode on my house, and I already have enough on my plate.

  Someone is texting me, and I can guess who it probably is without even looking at the screen. There are two likely candidates: my boss and my sister. If it’s my boss, he can forget whatever it is he’s bothering me about; I’ve already worked enough overtime this week to last me a month. And if it’s my sister, well, she can wait too. I need some wine before I talk to her. Lately most of her conversations involve stories that make my hair turn gray, and I’m only thirty-two. I really don’t need any more gray hair than I already have.

  My sister started this new job a couple of months ago, and while it makes her really happy, it makes me kind of crazy. I thought she had a pretty good life before, so I didn’t see the need for the big change. I still don’t, actually. After she graduated from college, she moved back down south to be near me and the kids, and started up a business right away as a wedding photographer. She was single and childless, and had the perfect life, or so it seemed to me.

  She’s super talented, and even though the economy took a dive and she said it really affected her business, she was still making it. Still living the single life in her own place, making schedules that weren’t dictated by anyone else, taking baths without worrying about what might be happening downstairs.

  When I take a bath while my kids are home, it’s more panic-inducing than relaxing. All I can think about is what might be happening on the other side of the door, like my kids acciden
tally drinking poison, my son ripping doll heads off, my daughters terrorizing their pet gerbil by dressing it in Barbie clothes. Oy.

  Yep, my sister May had it all; and then, for some crazy reason she has yet to explain to my satisfaction, she decided it wasn’t enough. She went off the range. She met this guy, Ozzie, some former military grunt, shut her business down, joined his security firm, and started acting all commando. She actually has biceps now and says things like “eyes-on” and “charlie foxtrot” and God knows what else. Whenever she starts with that nonsense, I just tune it out.

  Anyway, I don’t know why she needed such a drastic change, but apparently, according to her, she did. Under the surface, she’s the same May I grew up with, but that’s where the girl I knew ends. Outwardly, she’s more confident. She seems more . . . grown-up. But at the same time, she’s younger too. She walks with a spring in her step. She’s always smiling. She’s sillier than ever, and she claims to be in love with a guy she hardly knows.

  Ugh. Sometimes I want to slap her and wake her up to what’s really going on. Chemicals. Lust. It’s powerful stuff, I get it, but I mean, come on . . . I live in the real world, where you can fall in love with a guy over a period of years, build a life with him, and still have him walk out on you. Love at first sight? Nope. Doesn’t happen. It’s not real. It’s an illusion cooked up by too many misguided chick flicks and not enough real-world pain.

  It’s not that I’m jealous or don’t want my sister to be happy; I’m just worried about the day she’ll come crashing down to reality and realize she’s been living in a fantasy world of her own creation, because I’m not sure either of us is prepared for that kind of devastation.

  She is happy, though—for now, anyway. So I’m not saying anything negative to her about this love affair of hers. I’m not going to be the big jerk who’s trying to ruin everything. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from worrying. Not only is she risking her heart in this whole deal, she’s also risking her life with this new job. And guess who’ll be the one picking up the pieces when it all falls apart? Yeah. That’ll be me.

  She’s working with the security company her boyfriend owns as their surveillance expert—not that she had any kind of experience whatsoever prior to being hired—and now she photographs bad guys for a living. My sweet little sister, a former straight-A student who still wears her hair in a headband and espadrilles on her feet, is hanging out in the very worst neighborhoods of New Orleans, dodging bullets. As if I needed that kind of stress in my life.

  I take another deep breath in and out, trying to calm my blood pressure. Relax, Jenny. This is just another day to get through without Hulking-out on someone. You can do this.

  I turn around and shuffle in my ratty slippers down the hall and around the corner to the kitchen. From the fridge I pull a half bottle of Chardonnay and pour myself a generous glass. It’s only four o’clock, but one time zone away it’s five, so I’m getting started. Who cares that these are calories I most definitely do not need? It’s not like I’m going to be out dating anytime soon. Dating requires free time, and I have precious little of that.

  My phone buzzes again. I swig my wine like it’s an ice-cold beer and remove my phone from my pocket as I wince. Damn, that wine is going down hard. Probably shouldn’t have Big-Gulped it. I let out a little burp as I take a look at my screen. There are four texts waiting for me.

  May: I need to talk to u. Call me.

  May: Are u there? Are the kids gone yet? Are u drinking wine yet?

  May: Don’t get tipsy! I need to talk to u.

  May: Are u avoiding me? I know u can hear my texts. Ur phone’s either beeping or buzzing, bitch. Don’t play.

  I shake my head and take another sip of my wine, this portion a little smaller than the one before. I’m totally Zen all of sudden.

  It’s this weird thing that happens between my sister and me; when she’s in panic mode, it instantly chills me out. Because I’m her big sister, my automatic response to her being in crisis is to woman-up, to be protective, to take care of things, and to make sure the entire world isn’t going to fall apart right along with her. I crumble to pieces after, when the danger has passed, where no one can see me.

  It’s the role I’ve played for her all our lives. When we were younger and the crap hit the fan at home with our parents, I was always there, stroking her hair and telling her it was going to be fine while she cried and moaned about how terrible our lives were. I had my own breakdowns later, when no one was around to witness them. I never wanted my sister to suffer on my account. It’s like Big Sister Code or something to take the hits.

  It’s when she’s being completely calm and delivering horrible news that I lose my shit. Case in point: when she first met Ozzie, she called me to tell me the story. She kept trying to casually slip in details about how somebody was shooting at her in a biker bar, and how bits of splintered wood flew up into her face and cut her. I can’t be cool when I’m hearing stories like that, especially when I think my little sister is not reacting appropriately. She hasn’t told me any more nutty tales lately, but I don’t believe she’s not getting into trouble. It’s just that now she has a boyfriend she can confide in, so she hides stuff from me that she knows I’ll disapprove of. That’s my theory, anyway.

  I like Ozzie well enough, but the minute he stepped into her life, her entire world was turned upside down and inside out, so I don’t exactly trust him. Maybe her life was a little boring before. Fine. I get it. But there’s a difference between being bored and having a death wish. Her days are a little too exciting for my taste with this new job. I feel like I always have to worry about her now, because she’s not worrying about herself enough. She’s too gaga over Ozzie and his whole team—the Bourbon Street Boys private security firm—to think clearly. I get that her man is hot and he’s one of the good guys, but come on . . . Bullets?

  I sigh, realizing that for at least the next thirty minutes I’m probably not going to be able to enjoy my peaceful weekend as I’d hoped; no meaningful phone conversation between my sister and me ever lasts less than a half hour. I put the wineglass down, lift the phone up closer to my face, and type out a text with my thumbs.

  Me: Please tell me there are no bullets involved.

  May: No bullets, but I need ur help.

  Me: Romance advice?

  The mean-sister in me is hoping her relationship is on the rocks. Maybe if she weren’t under Ozzie’s thrall, I’d be able to talk some sense into her, convince her that wedding photography is a much safer and more practical career than security surveillance.

  May: No. Computer expertise.

  Ugh. So disappointed. That’s the last thing I want to talk about right now. I just ended a fifty-hour week of straight-up coding. No, thank you.

  Me: Forget it. I’m off the clock.

  My phone rings, and my sister’s name comes up on the screen.

  I battle with myself; do I want to come to her rescue again, or do I want to get into the bathtub and forget all this nonsense for a little while?

  A text beeps and a tiny message pops up.

  May: Answer ur phone.

  Mutiny rises up in me. I put my cell down on the counter, grab the bottle of wine and my glass, and walk down the hall. I will have my bath, I will have my relaxing weekend, and I will not be doing any computer work for anyone, because if I have to look at another string of code in the next forty-eight hours, I am going to run away, join a cult, change my name to Feather, and marry a man three times my age with a beard down to his belly button who wears only hemp. His name will be Free. Short for Freedom, of course.

  At the bottom of the staircase, as my foot is lifting into the air to begin the climb toward my bliss—otherwise known as a bathtub with bubbles and wine—my phone beeps again in the kitchen. I stand on one leg like a damn flamingo, battling my conscience once again. Bath or sister? Bath or sister?

  The mutinous mean-girl in me wants to ignore her, but the single mom who’s been rescued by May mo
re times than she can count pauses. May did, after all, move into my house a year ago, while I escaped to our family cabin and got my shit together after Miles left me. And she’d do it again in a heartbeat if I needed her to, because that’s the kind of sister she is. Maybe I can just answer her questions over the phone.

  I walk quickly back to the kitchen and grab my cell off the counter. Another text is waiting for me along with a photo of my sister. Her eyes are crossed and she’s looking as pitiful as she knows how.

  May: Pretty please?

  Knife through the heart. She totally knows how to play me. I push the buttons that will connect me to my sister’s phone and put the cell to my ear.

  She picks up on the second ring. “Thank you so much, Jenny. I really appreciate it. I need your help.”

  “Yeah,” I say dryly, “I got that.”

  “You know I wouldn’t bother you on your me-time weekend if it weren’t really important.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. What is it? Make it quick and make it snappy, sister. I have a date with something hot and slippery upstairs.”

  “Uh . . . ew. What is it? A dildo? That’s kind of gross that you’re sharing that with me.”

  “No! Gah! Not a dildo! It’s my bubble bath, fool!” My face is flaming hot. As if I’d tell her that. Now I know she’s mental. “What do you need? Come on, I’m on the clock here. I have only forty-two hours left.” I look at my watch and hate the fact that I’m wishing my kids could be gone longer. Worst. Mother. Ever. I will not be winning any Mom of the Year awards anytime soon.

  “Ummm . . . errr—”

  I cut May off. “No, ma’am. Huh-uh. There is no ummm and there is no errr; there’s just you telling me what you need really quickly, me giving you my answer, and then me hanging up and getting into the bathtub.”

  “Wow. What did Miles do?”

  I want to strangle the phone just thinking about it. I’m not mad at May; I’m just hating myself all over again for marrying that man in the first place. The only thing that keeps me from indulging in complete self-flagellation is the fact that he gave me three adorable babies. Miles wasn’t a complete mistake, but he was close.