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  Copyright © 2019 by Kristen Ashley

  ISBN: 9781731342874

  Cover Art by:

  PixelMischief

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

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

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Contents

  FREE

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Enjoy an Excerpt of The Hookup

  Discover the Other Titles in the Chaos Series

  About the Author

  Books by Kristen Ashley

  Connect with Kristen Ashley

  Who’s the Redhead?

  Rush

  Rush, his dad walking by his side, made his silent way to the two men standing by the edge.

  Hawk was turned at the waist to watch their approach.

  His man, Mo, had binoculars held up to his eyes and they were trained down from where they were on the roof of an office building next door to one of the parking garages at Cherry Creek Shopping Mall.

  “What we got?” Tack, Rush’s father, asked as they arrived at Hawk and Mo and stopped.

  “Take a look,” Hawk replied, and as if he’d given the order, Mo handed his binoculars to Hawk who gave them to Tack.

  Tack took them and trained them where Mo’s gaze had been aimed. It took him a couple of seconds but eventually he honed in.

  “Who’s the redhead?” he asked.

  “Her name’s Rebel Stapleton.”

  Rebel.

  Kickass name.

  Rush turned the way his dad was looking, but even if the garage was lit, he couldn’t see much from their distance through the dark.

  Tack took the binoculars from his eyes and handed them to Rush.

  Rush looked through them and scanned the parking structure.

  “There a reason why it was urgent we show on this roof to watch Harrietta Turnbull talkin’ to some redhead with a kickass name?” Tack asked.

  Rush felt his lips curl up when his dad said what Rush thought . . .

  And then he froze when he saw them.

  Illuminated by the lights in the parking garage, she was in full color, and with the high-powered binoculars, it was like he was standing five feet away.

  She was definitely a redhead, but even if that described the color of her hair, that huge mane of wavy auburn deserved a lot more words to define it.

  She was tall.

  She was built.

  And fuck.

  She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  “Rebel Stapleton’s been makin’ a name for herself in Denver for a few years now,” Hawk answered his dad. “Started with weddings. Parties. But she was ambitious. Took some risks. Did some stuff with bands. Some DJs. Clubs. Bloggers who post to YouTube, mostly fashion shit.”

  Rush could tell his father was losing patience. “What are you talkin’ about, Hawk?”

  “Made some waves with her style. Won a few awards,” Hawk went on like Tack hadn’t spoken. “Small ones. Local and online, but that shit is new and she was on the cutting edge.”

  Rush vaguely noticed Harrietta Turnbull was gesturing wildly.

  But Rebel Stapleton was cool as shit. The expression on her beautiful face was set one step up from bored. Her body language was closed with arms crossed on her chest, torso swayed slightly back.

  While dozens were rushing out of Turnbull’s mouth, he hadn’t noticed Rebel open those full lips once to form a word.

  She had fantastic lips.

  And man, the woman had fucking amazing cheekbones.

  “Now,” Hawk continued, “she’s an executive producer and the exclusive director and cinematographer of all movies made by Luxe Films.”

  At Hawk’s announcement, acid filled his throat.

  Rush dropped the binoculars and sliced his eyes to Hawk.

  “Say what?” he asked.

  Hawk looked to him. “Benito Valenzuela’s new line of porn. He’s goin’ legit. Higher budgets. Better production value. Actual storylines. Actors who can kinda act, not just fuck. Apparently, women are gettin’ their porn groove on but they want love stories attached to their closeups of blowjobs.”

  “We know what Luxe Films is, Hawk,” Tack told him. “You’re tellin’ me that woman is in bed with Valenzuela?”

  “Not literally,” Hawk replied.

  Rush turned his head back to the parking garage, but he didn’t lift the binoculars.

  His thoughts were that Rebel Stapleton working with Valenzuela was a waste.

  But what made him uneasy was just how sick that thought made him after only seeing the woman through a set of binoculars.

  “Her name on the credits appears as Tallulah Monroe,” Hawk kept talking.

  “So she’s not all in,” Tack murmured.

  “She’s not putting her name on porn,” Hawk replied. “But Valenzuela actually has a bona fide payroll for Luxe Films. He’s turning a new leaf. Reporting to the IRS. And her salary is being paid to Tallulah Monroe.”

  “Unravel why that means dick to us,” Tack demanded.

  “Tallulah Monroe with a false social security number, Tack,” Hawk shared and got Rush’s gaze again. “Though I figure the IRS knows what’s goin’ on considering she’s an on-file confidential informant for Lieutenant Hank Nightingale of the Denver Police Department. It’s just Valenzuela who does not know what’s goin’ on.”

  Rush’s eyes cut back to the parking lot and this time he lifted the binoculars.

  He did this still feeling sick.

  But for a different reason.

  He also did this clipping, “Jesus, shit.”

  “Why the fuck does Nightingale have a CI in Valenzuela’s business?” Tack asked. “He’s not on that case. Slim and Mitch are.”

  Turnbull was now in Rebel’s face, finger lifted and jabbing.

  Rebel hadn’t moved a muscle, but she no longer looked one step up from bored.

  She looked like that red hair was not just a product of genetics, and she was about to let loose what it said about her personality.

  “It’s my understanding, this coming from Slim and Mitch, that Hank didn’t have a choice. Either he sent her in, and she reported to the police what she dug up, or she went in on her own and took down Valenzuela by herself,” Hawk answered.

  “Jesus, fuck,” Rush growled, and watched as all Rebel had to do was uncross her arms and lean into Turnbull, her gorgeous face hard with anger, and Turnbull paled and retreated
a step.

  For what it was worth, at least Turnbull thought she was a badass.

  The problem with that was, Benito Valenzuela was a psychopath who had a pastime he exercised to take him away from dealing drugs, producing porn and pimping whores, and that pastime included exploring the various extremes of his pathological misogyny.

  He’d not think Rebel Stapleton was a badass even if she actually was a badass.

  And if he found out she was playing him, and informing on him to the cops, he’d slit her throat.

  But only after he and his boys gang raped her to the point she begged him to bleed her dry.

  Fuck.

  “Hank, Eddie and Jimmy decided that if she was gonna go in, at least she should have the cops at her back however they could be that way,” Hawk finished.

  “What’s her beef with Valenzuela?” Tack asked.

  “I’m not sure her beef is with Valenzuela,” Hawk told him.

  Rush listened closely and watched closer as Rebel Stapleton declared she was done with her conversation with Harrietta Turnbull.

  She did this by simply turning on her boot and walking away.

  And wasn’t that just fantastic?

  She also had a spectacular ass.

  Not to mention a way with dressing like she was a 70’s rock groupie who would catch the eye and become the muse of Jim Morrison himself, wearing low slung jeans, a thick belt, a flowy flowered top and cowboy boots, and she rocked it all.

  Rush lowered the binoculars and looked to Hawk. “Who’s her beef with?”

  Hawk shrugged but his gaze was sharp on Rush’s dad. “My guess? Arthur Lannigan.”

  Rush went solid and felt his father go the same at his side.

  Christ.

  And this just got worse.

  Way fucking worse.

  “Chew?” Tack asked.

  “Chew,” Hawk confirmed. “For Stapleton, Valenzuela will just be icing. From what we got on her, she’s not a big fan of Valenzuela. Even so, she’s all about taking down Lannigan.”

  Rush turned his body fully to Hawk. “Does she know women are droppin’ like flies around Valenzuela and Chew?”

  “She knows at least one woman has lost her life to this mess,” Hawk said, and the way he said it made Rush’s neck get tight.

  “She know Natalie?” Tack guessed.

  Hawk shook his head.

  “Camilla Turnbull?” Rush asked.

  Hawk shook his head.

  His dad lost patience and bit out, “Spill, Hawk, Jesus.”

  “I got a file,” Hawk told him. “I’m givin’ it to you. You read it. Then you get that redhead’s ass out of her porn set director’s chair and back in her bohemian wasteland pad in north Denver. Hank’s troubled. Eddie’s pissed she tied their hands. Jimmy’s considering retirement. They all want her out. She won’t budge. I figure Chaos will have the touch.”

  Yeah.

  Chaos was gonna have the touch.

  Hawk kept talking.

  “I don’t have to tell you that ugly has been gettin’ uglier and uglier. What we haven’t considered is that all this bullshit has been touching the lives and breaking the hearts of people not directly associated with Chaos. And Rebel Stapleton is one of those people. She’s just made of stuff that isn’t gonna let her take it lying down. Mo, get the file,” Hawk ordered his man.

  Mo moved.

  Rush looked back to the parking lot at the spot he’d last seen Rebel.

  “I know you got a lot on your plate. I’d intervene, but you both know why I can’t,” Hawk continued.

  Yeah, they knew.

  Rush looked back to Hawk when he kept speaking.

  “But someone has to get her out. Valenzuela or Lannigan catch on she isn’t who she says she is, she won’t be delivered to Chaos and laid out on your picnic table. She’ll disappear. And she’s not tight with her family in Indiana, but she’s got a brother in Phoenix who will go apeshit something happens to his sis. I’ve seen pictures of that guy, and his partner, and if those two come tearing into Denver, we might not recognize it after they get done. Makin’ matters worse, those boys got ties to a fixer I know who’s currently outta the game. Something happens to a woman that means something to someone that means something to this fixer, she’ll get involved and we’ll miss the old days of dead women turnin’ up on picnic tables with notes stapled to their foreheads. You boys don’t talk Rebel Stapleton down, this shit is gonna split wide open. And this shit is already serious shit. It gets any more serious, they’re gonna have to evacuate the city.”

  Mo showed with a manila folder in his hand.

  He started to hand it off to Tack, but Rush reached in and took it.

  He dipped his chin, flipped open the folder and saw an eight by ten closeup of Rebel’s face.

  She was wearing Ray-Bans and lip gloss. It was black and white, but he knew she had on gloss not only because her lips were shiny but because strands of her hair had been caught on them seeing as it appeared the snap had been taken when she was turning her head while on the move, that phenomenal mane of hair flying out at the back.

  It looked like a goddamned ad for sunglasses.

  Or lip gloss.

  “You got this in hand?” Hawk asked.

  “Yeah, we got this in hand,” Tack answered.

  “Good. We’re out,” Hawk muttered.

  Rush didn’t look up as Tack said, “Later,” and he felt the other men leaving.

  He flicked through the file, seeing a lot of shit typed out that he’d read later.

  He was looking for more pictures.

  He had no idea if it was a second or ten minutes before his father remarked, “My bead, considering your fascination with that file, you intend to take lead.”

  Rush looked at his dad.

  “I need Shy, Joke, Snap, Dutch and Jag.”

  Tack shook his head. “Dutch and Jag are recruits.”

  “I need them.”

  “I promised Keely—”

  “I need them.”

  Tack closed his mouth.

  “They won’t be in danger and they gotta do more than work the store and clean up biker bunny puke to earn their patches.”

  Rush knew Tack saw the truth of this when he nodded shortly and offered, “You want Chill?”

  “I only need six bikes to surround a car.”

  Rush watched the slow smile spread around his dad’s ragged-bottomed goatee.

  Then Tack slapped his son on the shoulder. “Don’t scare her too bad, son.”

  He wouldn’t scare her.

  Not too bad.

  That would fuck with his plans to get her ass in his bed.

  Shallow

  Rebel

  Nine months earlier . . .

  I sat in my car like the officers told me to do, only ungluing my eyes from Diane’s run-down, piece-of-shit house to look at my dash and check the time.

  The first squad car had arrived about nine minutes after I made the call to 911.

  The second squad arrived about sixteen minutes after they went in.

  The 4Runner arrived twenty-one minutes after that.

  Now it was seven minutes after that, a van had arrived, a black Ram truck was pulling up, and one of the first officers who showed, the one who came to my car and told me to stay right where I was before he went into the house, was walking out of the house toward my car.

  I didn’t get out. He told me to stay in.

  I did stop watching him when the dark-haired guy who came out of the 4Runner, who had the body of a linebacker and a way with wearing a pair of jeans that even pierced my terror about whatever was happening with Diane, came out of the house on the same trajectory as the uniformed officer.

  I was so intent on the tall one in jeans that the officer knocked his knuckles on my window before I knew he’d arrived at my car.

  I hit the button to roll it down and looked up at him.

  “I stayed in my car,” I said inanely.

  He gave me a tight smil
e and muttered, “Good, ma’am. Can I ask you to get out of it now, please?”

  I nodded. I did this a lot and fast, then he stepped out of the way as I pushed open my door.

  “You might wanna turn off your car,” he suggested.

  It was winter.

  It was cold.

  I’d kept it running to stay warm.

  I also kept it running just in case someone in this awesome neighborhood felt like coming by and saying hi, even with cops around, and before they did I could peel the hell out of there.

  But there were cops right there, so I reckoned now I was safe.

  I switched it off and straightened out of the car just in time for the linebacker to join us.

  His face was better than his body.

  He was also wearing a very wide, gold wedding band.

  Of course.

  “Ma’am,” he said to me.

  “Uh, hey,” I replied, slamming my door behind me and stepping up on the curb.

  “Got it from here, Leahy,” the linebacker said.

  “Right, Hank,” the officer muttered and loped off.

  The linebacker turned to me.

  His eyes were the color of whisky.

  “You dialed 911?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He jerked his head backwards. “You know the woman who lives in that house?”

  Lives.

  Okay, he said lives.

  Present tense.

  So . . .

  “Yes.” I had a frog in my throat. I cleared it. Nodded again and repeated, “Yes. Diane. Her name is Diane Ragowski. She’s a friend of mine.”

  “Can I ask your name?”

  “I’m Rebel. Rebel Stapleton.”

  He took a step closer to me.

  In a club, I’d take a step back and find some words to remind him he was wearing a wedding band.

  Right there, my heart slammed in my chest and my stomach heaved.

  He’d said lives.

  Lives, lives, lives.

  “I’m sorry, Miz Stapleton, but I have to inform you that your friend has been killed.”

  Has been killed.

  Not, has passed.

  Not, is no longer with us.

  Has been killed.

  Which meant someone did the killing.

  That was when I took a step back, looked to the house, my feet, my car, my phone on the passenger seat, Diane’s house again.

  Then him.