PROLOGUE
* Spencer *
Every once in a while, life takes a crazy, random array of events and turns them into something wonderful.
Other times, she takes your life, spins you around, throws you in a new direction, and then kicks you in the balls.
I’ve obviously pissed her off. There’s no other explanation for why I’d find myself in this tiny apartment on the outskirts of small town USA, Pelican Bay. With a boss whose brain has been overrun with testosterone after finding what he considers his soulmate. Or the roommate who sees it as her life mission to eat every single thing in my apartment.
The smell of fried chicken permeates the second floor hallway, and increases as I walk past the Johnson’s apartment door.
“Boss, Tabitha will cut off your nuts and serve them to you as supper if you put a camera or GPS in her car.”
Ridge, the owner of Pelican Bay Security and my delusional boss, laughs at my reasonable assessment. I don’t know how he’s survived the growing number of cameras he’s surrounded his girlfriend with as it is. The fact he wants to push it more is scary. Added proof he’s lost his damn mind.
“Tabitha can’t cook to save her life and I like it when she gets angry. Keeps things interesting. If you know what I mean.”
I definitely know what he means and wish I didn’t. “I do not want to hear about your kink.”
It’s Friday night and I’m a young, handsome—if I say so myself—single guy. There are songs written about how my evenings are supposed to look. But as I jiggle my apartment key in the lock, all I want is to get off this phone call, crack open a beer, and sit in front of the television.
This is not exactly the life I’d expected after the military. But three months after I laced up my boots for the last time, Ridge Jefferson knocked on my mother’s front door. He came armed with an offer to join his growing security company on the coast of Maine.
I figured, why not?
With two tours under my belt, I’ve seen shit no twenty-eight-year-old man should. At the time of his offer, a quiet life installing security systems in the northern United States sounded like a dream.
But Pelican Bay is crazy.
I haven’t discovered a hidden camera yet, but I’m sure there has to be at least one television producer living here because this place is the stuff prime time TV is made of. Gangsters and shootings and car chases. I wouldn’t be surprised if something blew up soon.
With a flick of my wrist, the door swings open, and I toss the keys on the table in the open area used as a dining room. I keep my eyes down until the conversation with Ridge is finished. It took a few times, but I’ve learned the hard way I don’t want to see any surprises until I’m ready.
“Spencer,” Ridge continues as I swipe my fingers through my brown hair. It’s longer than normal. Time to find a place to get a haircut. "I will do anything to keep Tabitha safe. Even if it means facing her wrath for a few days. You'll understand when you find someone who creates those same feelings in you."
I respect Ridge like a brother. The man did his time as a Navy SEAL, then returned to his hometown to take care of his family and set up a multimillion dollar security firm, but we couldn't be more different. I already have one woman destroying my life; I have no plans to look for another.
"You'll be the first to know if that ever happens. Until then, it's Frankie and I all the way." With the phone to my ear, I remove my jacket while Ridge guarantees he won’t bother me this weekend. It’s a promise I’ve heard many times. I’m skeptical.
Things have been quiet for a few months, but as the holidays approach, I’m waiting for the bottom to dropout. With the first week of December on the horizon, most people are preparing for the upcoming holidays, but criminals don’t take vacations. Which means I don’t get one, either.
Looking at the speckled white carpet, I step to the right and toss the smartphone on the table. So far, nothing is wrong with my apartment. At least, not in the two-foot radius I’ve seen. It’s a start. With a little prayer, I raise my head to check out the rest of the place.
My luck runs out.
When I left this morning, I had four cushions on the beige couch. Now there are three, the insides of the fourth strewn across the room. A clump of the white, fluffy stuffing material floats down from the ceiling and lands on top of my black boot.
“Frankie!” I holler into the quiet apartment.
There's no answer.
After being here for more than a month, I thought the pillows stood a chance of survival. There's not much left in the apartment she can take out her aggression or boredom or—whatever emotional issue this woman is working through—on.
There’s only one solution.
A beer.
Turning on a heel, I head for the small opening to the kitchen but stop in my tracks. The garbage bag—one I tied intending to drop it off at the dumpster this morning—lies on the linoleum floor, a gaping hole torn through the middle. Much like a soldier at war, the insides are scattered across the floor, like guts left behind from an unknown attacker.
Except I know the enemy.
I’m sharing a bed with her.
It takes me two steps to make it over the line of brown sludge trailed in circles over the linoleum floor, its actual identity still unknown. I open the refrigerator door, and right there in the front shelf, six ice-cold longneck beers sit, looking like salvation. Three months ago, the six pack would’ve gotten me through the weekend, but now I’m going to need to restock tomorrow.
Even though I have two hands and two beers sound better than one, I decline the second. The lid comes off the dark brown glass bottle with a quick twist and I take a long swig. With another drink, I decide it’s time to deal with…this.
I clear the torn garbage bag with another large step and head down the hallway, reasonably free of debris and puke like you’d expect from someone who obviously ate the insides of a garbage bag today.
Somehow, the bedroom door is partially closed. I open it slowly, not ready to see what’s on the other side. I peek in and adjust my stance, scanning the room and using the same training taught by the military. It’s not needed. With a sigh of relief, I open the door the rest of the way and see the cause of all this destruction. She’s laid out peacefully, her head on the pillows at the top of my bed.
Stretched out on her back with one paw in the air, Frankie sleeps, completely passed out. It takes a lot of energy to destroy the house the way she does every day.
"Frankie," I yell, and this time, she jerks. Falling to her side, her dark brown, almost black tail waves, snapping back and forth with her excitement. "Were you a bad dog today?"
She sits on the bed and tries to look sullen, almost like she understands what I'm saying. My lips frown, but it’s impossible to stay upset, even if what was once a cute, tiny puppy four weeks ago has now blossomed into a large monster. Frankie bounces off the bed, her paws stretched out in front of her like Superman. She leaps to the floor and jumps on my legs.
I bend down and pick her up, letting her give me kisses on the side of my cheek, her tongue leaving a wet streak. It’s the least she can do after what happened in the living room.
When I agreed to take home the puppy from a litter of seven found during a bachelor party with Kenny Jacobson, I thought the task of raising a puppy would be easy. When we were living together in a small cabin, there was nothing to get the puppies in trouble. Plus, they were hungry. Now, with proper care and food, she’s turned into my own mutated version of Frankenstein.
I've always said women are trouble, and I should've guessed adopting a female dog would only confirm the belief.
"What am I going to do with you?"
She doesn't answer with words or barks, but continues to lick me on my cheek and in my ear.
"Uh-huh right, all right. We'll go back to the pet store." She’s chewed her way through the entire toy aisle. From cute pink bunnies to a small replica rubber tire, nothing makes it more than a day or two, but I have to keep trying.