Dirty Love (Forbidden Bodyguards #3) Read online

  Contents

  Dirty Love

  Copyright

  About This Book

  foreword

  dedication

  part one: dirty whispers

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  part two: dirty

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  part three: dirty secrets

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  part four: dirty deeds

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  part five: dirty love

  39

  40

  41

  epilogue

  DIRTY

  LOVE

  Wilson and Tabitha

  a standalone romance in

  The Forbidden Bodyguards series

  by

  Ainsley Booth

  www.ainsleybooth.com

  —copyright—

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright 2017 Ainsley Booth

  Warning: This is just the start. This doesn't end well. And it's going to get much worse before it ever gets better.

  Sound familiar? Welcome to the next story in The Horus Group…

  Wilson:

  Tabitha Leyton is a mess, but now she’s my mess.

  To the rest of the world, she’s a superstar.

  Secretly, she's a witness to depravity and a train wreck waiting to happen.

  But I can’t get her out of my head. And for one angry, secret night, we have each other in every imaginable way.

  The whole time, I know she’s off-limits.

  So in the morning, I’ll walk away. Officially.

  —foreword—

  This is a standalone novel set in the Forbidden Bodyguards series. If you’ve read Hate F*@k, this book begins in the middle of that story, but extends far past it.

  Some relationships are…complicated.

  As always, all characters and events are fictional. And fucked up.

  Any similarities to any real life people or events are entirely coincidental.

  ~ Ainsley

  www.ainsleybooth.com

  —dedication—

  For everyone who’s ever felt alone.

  DIRTY LOVE

  part one

  dirty whispers

  —one—

  Wilson

  present day

  Baltimore

  February

  I’m driving my beater truck that’s just for nights like tonight, but I still park a few blocks from the warehouse.

  Some guys might think that’s foolish. They can’t run as fast as I can. They don’t fight as dirty as I do.

  And they don’t know what it’s like to be trapped.

  I’m never going to be trapped again.

  I always know where my out is, even if it means I have to run like the wind for a few blocks to get to the car—but it won’t be boxed in down an alley.

  I check my phone before I head inside. She has a concert in San Francisco tonight. Won’t go on stage for another thirty minutes.

  Which means I have nearly three hours to beat the living shit out of anyone idiotic enough to try and take my money.

  Then I’ll want to make sure she gets back to her hotel safely. Not that I can do anything from the other side of the country, but this is the deal we’ve settled on.

  For now.

  My gut twists.

  That’s fine. I’ll use that impotent rage in the ring.

  Ring. That’s a civilized term. Inside this warehouse there’s just a concrete floor, crowded with people. And the two assholes in the center of the swarm pound on each other until one of them drops to the ground or begs for mercy.

  Unlike some, I grant it if they ask.

  Not because I’m soft. I’m not. I’m black inside, and I believe more than most that violence has its place. But I’m no longer a ghost, a secret shadow gliding through society. I have a business now, and partners, and doing the right thing makes sense for more than one reason.

  Work, yes.

  And now Tabitha as well.

  Although when it comes to the woman I love, doing the right thing means doing a lot of wrong things first. She struggled with that at first, because she’s innocent to the true darkness in the world. For all that she’s done and experienced, she—like ninety-nine percent of the population—has no idea of what churns beneath the surface.

  Her resistance didn’t stop me. I’ve carefully been sliding domino pieces into place so when she’s ready, when she’s safe, I can push the first one and watch the chain reaction free her from her bonds.

  Free her for the taking.

  And until that point, I’ll fight.

  For Tabitha.

  For justice, of a sort.

  And sometimes, just because it feels fucking good to smash my fist into things.

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!” The chanting crowd echoes what’s inside me as I make my way inside. I catch the eye of the organizer and give him a brusque nod.

  Yeah, I’m here. Bring on all challengers.

  But first there’s another pair of contenders in the ring. I unzip my hoodie and roll my neck, my shoulders. Bounce on my toes and start to move through some range of motion shit as I watch them move around each other.

  They’re both too cautious. The big guy will probably win. Everything else being equal, that’s usually the way it goes. Might makes right.

  The smaller guy is fast, though. If he got over his fear, he’d be worth putting money on.

  If.

  But that’s the thing. What might happen if you get your shit together doesn’t help you here, in the now, with some big guy’s fist barrelling toward your jaw.

  Sorry, bud. Not your night.

  As the winner collects his earnings, I’m introduced. My fighting name is Nix, and it means absolutely nothing to me, like any of the other personas I put on to get a job done.

  I’m Gough—pronounced Goff—when I’m impersonating an FBI agent.

  Branch when I’m on the dark web.

  Even Wilson Carter isn’t a real name, but I made a choice six years ago. A choice to step into the light, to work with Mack Evans and now his half-brother Jason, and be a real person—as much as possible for someone like me.

  And Wilson is as close to my real identity as I’m ever going to get.

  Plus there’s the fact Tabitha whispers that name when she comes. That would imprint it on my skin even if time and normalcy hadn’t already done most of the work for her.

  Tabitha.

  Fucking hell.

  I summon the rage that always simmers right beneath the surface and step forward, into the ring.

  Bring it on, bastards.

  —two—

  Tabitha

  San Francisco

  Tonight’s show was great. Long, though, with two extra encores, and I’m wiped. There’s a girl backstage who’s been shooting me looks, like she’d like to help me burn off some of this excess energy.

  I think of him. Of how long it’s been. Months since we last touched, since he’s been inside me. Since we fucked, over and over again.

  Since he imprinted himself on my
skin and inside my soul.

  A little black, bitter mark.

  Nothing romantic about it.

  But it’s changed me, because I should want this girl. On her knees, between my legs. Her cute little pink tongue flicking at my clit, and an evil little part of my soul whispers it would be within the bounds of what he’d allow. She wouldn’t fuck me. I wouldn’t fuck her. Just a little taste.

  But there’s that mark. I’m his, for better or for worse.

  And when I bump into her, and she spontaneously hugs me, there’s no leap of hunger inside me. No shift into primal sex mode. I don’t want her, not really. I want to not be so fucking lonely it hurts, but I don’t want her. I don’t want a stranger.

  I want him.

  I want the darkness, I want the demands. I want him again, like I had until I pushed him away. Hard and commanding and ruthless.

  And unexpectedly principled.

  That part was seriously inconvenient.

  The girl is still lingering next to me. I brush my fingertips over her cheek. “You want me to introduce you to someone in the band, honey?”

  She blushes, then looks up at me from under the world’s longest, thickest eyelashes. “I really wanted to meet you.”

  Oh, sweet pea. No you don’t. “I’m tired,” I whisper. “But I bet Frankie would love to show you around.”

  She shrugs. Maybe she’s only into girls.

  Too bad for her. I’m taken, and by more than one man, although only one matters.

  One night, and he stole my soul.

  A few months, and he took my heart, too.

  I always thought I was safe from something as mundane as love, that my heart was broken beyond repair. And in the end, I wasn’t wrong. I’m as dysfunctional as they come.

  And still he wants me.

  “What are you thinking about?” The girl slides back into my bubble, presses against me, and now I’m starting to get annoyed.

  “What’s your name?”

  She gives me a little smile. “Whatever you want it to be.”

  I roll my eyes. “I want it to be ‘Yes, please, introduce me to Frankie. Or Ginger.’”

  “Okay, I get the hint. Can’t blame a girl for trying, right?”

  I kiss her cheek. “Not at all. And another time, you’d be exactly my type.” Another time, another year.

  “Ginger…maybe.”

  “Good choice. She likes to party.” I link my fingers through hers and wave at my back up singer.

  It isn't a rule that everyone on my tour has to be depraved, but normal folks don't stick around.

  “Tell you what, honey. If you and Ginger hit it off, I’ll watch.”

  —three—

  Wilson

  Washington, D.C.

  I park in the alley behind the Tabard Inn and grab the bag of ice from the passenger seat as I do a quick check on my video feed of Tabitha. She’s back at the hotel and there’s a party in her suite, as usual.

  Fuck, the ice is cold as hell. But I’m not going to get its numbing help again for a few hours, so I take a minute and pretend my knuckles don’t hurt like a motherfucker.

  That third guy had a jaw of granite. Still took him down, of course.

  I take them all down.

  Nix. Thirty-two wins. Zero loses. A legend in the underground circuit, even though he only makes an appearance a few times a year.

  Not my fault I’ve got real shit to do the rest of the time.

  There’s no real parking back here in the alley, but Mack Evans owns the building I’m in front of, a few doors down from the legendary Dupont Circle watering hole. A place where people come to have important conversations. Close to international embassies and offices of lobbyists. Fixers, too, like The Horus Group.

  Jason Evans, Cole Parker, Tag Browning and me. Wilson Carter. Funded at first by Jason’s half-brother, Mack, a New York billionaire, and now…well, we’re doing okay on our own, because we’re the best at what we do. Crisis management, security.

  Fighting like pit bulls, figuratively and literally.

  And that’s why I’m here tonight.

  We have it on good authority there will be a meeting here tomorrow night. A popular white nationalist leader, Spencer Rook, will be holding court—that’s not a secret. He’s blogged about it and is practically taunting the media to come and cover him drinking whiskey and spouting bullshit in the same wingback chairs senators and lobbyists relax in.

  But in a private room upstairs, there will be another meeting. One he’ll either duck into after he holds court, or maybe be a part of beforehand.

  A shadowy international organization—that at one point hired our firm before we told them to fuck right off—has an interest in Rook. They’ll be using him, or working with him, to make plans.

  We need to know what those plans will be.

  My job tonight is to get in and out of every private meeting space in the building and leave it bugged in an undetectable way.

  I have everything I need stashed in the pockets of my leather jacket. Micro transmitters, filament sound recorders, impossibly small fish-eye cameras. I fucking love tech. Wiring a space used to be complicated. Now I can do it in as much time as it takes to fake a sneeze and tap my hand against the wall.

  Inside, I move like a man looking for someone. A date, maybe, or more likely a business acquaintance. I want everyone who sees me to recognize my movements as ordinary and forgettable. I want to be seen and forgotten. The mind’s ability to erase ordinary data is my biggest advantage. Even men who know me will see me approach Deacon Webb at the bar and have a drink with him, and assume we’re old friends catching up.

  Operating inside expectations is an excellent way to disguise unexpected behavior.

  Friends isn’t exactly how I’d describe my relationship with the secret service agent. Acquaintances with a shared mission at times is more like it. But nobody knows that. More to the point, nobody cares.

  “You’re back in town,” I say, sliding on to the barstool next to him.

  He gives me a sideways glance. “I’ve been recalled from the Los Angeles office. The service is going to have to bloat up for six months, remember?”

  I make a face and he laughs. I hate politics. “Is it an election year?”

  “Fuck off.” He grins and waves over the bartender. “You here to meet someone?”

  “Just finished a meeting,” I lie. “I’ve got time for a drink.”

  I met Deacon at the CIA. He wasn’t there long. The Secret Service detail is more his speed, and he doesn’t know most of the levels on which I operated. He’s not dense—not at all. He knew me first as Branch, but accepts my new Wilson identity with ease. Nobody does that without some context. But he’s a genuinely good guy, driven by a noble sense of purpose.

  We offered Deacon a job when we started up. He just laughed. He likes Homeland Security, although he’s never been a fan of the presidential security part of the role. Financial crimes are his specialty.

  “How long do you think you’ll be around?” I take a long, slow sip of a top-shelf vodka. I’d gotten used to having him in the L.A. office. It had been helpful for my purposes.

  “Just up until the election.” His jaw flexes and I run down the list of candidates declared for both political parties that might need Secret Service protection at this point. I hate politics—that doesn’t mean I don’t follow them closely. His reaction and the timeline point to one strong possibility.

  Deacon’s going to be on the security detail for billionaire Victor Best.

  Fucking hell. This is better than him being in the financial crimes office. I take another slow sip.

  “Spit it out,” Deacon growls under his breath.

  “He’s got interesting friends.” Friends I’ve investigated. Friends I’ve set up and taken down.

  “We’re aware.”

  “Isn’t he going to be deposed in the Gerome Lively case?” Sex crimes, human trafficking, kidnapping…the list of crimes that Lively’s going t
o be pinned with is lengthy. Cole and Hailey had a lot to do with nailing that bastard to the wall.

  “Not if his lawyers have anything to say about it.” Deacon’s voice is tight, clipped. “Nothing changes our responsibility to keep him safe as a potential candidate for the highest office in the land.”

  “Nice speech. That detail starting soon?”

  He slugs back the rest of the amber liquid in his glass. “Immediately.”

  This complicates things. All of a sudden, PRISM takes a back seat to another plan I’ve already set in motion.

  I hadn’t counted on the Secret Service.

  He watches me for a second, then changes the subject. “Haven’t seen you in L.A. recently.”

  Tabitha’s been on tour. “Work has kept me here.”

  “Do we have you to thank for some of the recent flags coming out credit unions in the south east?”

  Yes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Good, because meddling in a federal investigation is a bad idea.”

  I snort. “Without hackers helping you behind the scenes, you’d be hamstrung by laws that lag twenty years behind technology.”

  “We’ll nominate you for a congressional Medal of Honor, then.”

  “That would be awkward. I wouldn’t be able to attend the ceremony.”

  “Still have a restraining order that keeps you off the Hill?”

  I laugh. “Just allergic to the spotlight.”

  “Your partners aren’t.”

  No, they’d really turned around on that front. I don’t mind at all. That’s convenient cover for me. But I’m not joining them as social crusaders. “Feel free to arrange some commendation for them on my behalf.”