Oath of Valor (Personal Protectors Book 3) Read online

  “I’m not one bit surprised he started helping trainees with their weapons and hand-to-hand combat.”

  “Me either.” Brice grinned. “It’s the perfect job for him.”

  “Of course, it is. That man knows how to handle a gun, so why not show other people how to, right?”

  “Yeah, except he still won’t show me,” Brice grumbled.

  I snorted. “He’s too busy letting you handle his other weapon.”

  “Shut the hell up.” Brice laughed as he smacked my arm.

  “Hey! I haven’t gotten laid in months. I have to live vicariously through you since my sex life has taken a complete nosedive. So, please give me some details for my spank bank.”

  “Ew, no. I will not have you jacking off to visuals of my boyfriend!”

  “You’re such a buzzkill,” I grumbled, even though I was completely joking.

  “Deal with it,” Brice retorted. “Just because you tell me all about your sexcapades doesn’t mean I have to tell you about mine. Why don’t you tell me some more about your job, instead?”

  I sighed and leaned back against the couch cushion before I launched into my job tasks. Between my recovery and physical therapy to build back up the muscle in my arm, I had been out of work for a few months now. It was only by a pure stroke of luck that I’d overheard one of the ladies in Patient Access discussing the job opening in the switchboard department. Due to my many odd jobs over the years, I’d had a few years’ experience working customer service under my belt, so I asked for the information and applied for the job. The department must’ve been desperate to fill the position since they’d hired me, but it was a job and a position I gladly accepted.

  I was thankful that Larry had offered for me to stay until I was on my feet, an offer that I wasn’t in a position to refuse, but I was itching to get the hell out of there. It wasn’t that living with him was an issue; hell, the man was hardly home. Though, Brice did mention once that he’d seen Larry more in the last few months than he had in the last five years. But it was… awkward. It wasn’t my home. Hell, I didn’t even feel like a guest there, just someone who was taking up space and being a burden. Not to mention that any time Larry was home, the sight of him reminded me of that evening we spent together. Yup. It was time to get the hell out of there.

  My arm felt a little stiff, so I stretched it over my head, doing a small exercise the therapist had shown me as I launched into more details of my new job. It wasn’t only answering phones. No, I actually had to do a hell of a lot. When I’d originally applied, I’d scanned the job description. I’d originally thought that I’d be working in a call center wearing a headset and transferring calls all day, so I assumed it’d be a piece of cake. Maybe one of the easiest jobs I’d ever have. Imagine my surprise when I learned I’d be alone in an office surrounded by multiple phones and alarm panels.

  Oh yeah. Easy job my ass. My mind was swimming with information by the time my first day of training was over. Emergency codes, phone extensions, protocols and procedures. It was almost way too much. I’d left there with a stack of paperwork and a shit ton of anxiety. I began to wonder if maybe I needed to look for something else. Something that didn’t seem so freaking complicated. I didn’t do complicated. Which was why I did hook-ups instead of relationships. Mindless sex was less complex—with the exception of Larry. So if I didn’t want complications when it came to men, why in the hell would I subject myself to them when it came to my job?

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that looking for another job would prolong my stay at Casa De La Awkward—AKA, Larry’s house. I needed to keep that job and save some money so I could get out of there.

  Maybe I’d wind up really enjoying my job, and once I got the hang of it, it’d probably be much easier than I’d originally thought. Besides, ninety percent of my job did entail answering the phone. What’s the worst that could happen doing that?

  Chapter 2

  “It’s not temptation when it’s two feet in front of your face; it’s a fucking punishment.”

  Larry

  “Armstrong, get in here!” my superior’s voice bellowed from his office.

  I stood up from where I was seated behind my desk, my body protesting the move. I’d finished my latest assignment the night before, which resulted in more than just a couple of bloody knuckles. I was getting too fucking old for this shit; not that that I’d ever tell my boss that. And besides, even though I relied a lot on my gun, nothing beat a good, old-fashioned fight.

  “You rang?” I drawled as I stepped into his office.

  I hated being at the actual building and preferred to be out in the field. The mundane paperwork that came with every assignment I finished was the most boring, and daunting, part of my job. Yet another reason why I preferred a fight. Shooting someone resulted in more fucking paperwork. It was challenging to adapt to a new place while donning a different persona, a challenge I thrived on. But the movies and television shows didn’t show the boring tasks that working in the FBI entailed. Anyone who actually enjoyed doing the paperwork was a twisted individual I stayed away from.

  “Shut the door,” Malcom, my boss ordered. He was the only man who I’d ever listened to, and even that was rare. He had been in the field longer than I had, and hadn’t moved up in the ranks on his smarts and ass kissing. No, he was cunning and lethal. He was someone I highly respected and saw a lot of myself in.

  “How did debriefing go with the Rollins case?” he asked, his eyes shrewd under his bushy eyebrows.

  “Fine. Same as always,” I replied coolly.

  Malcom barked out a laugh. “Liar. You’re so full of shit, Armstrong.”

  I shrugged and settled back into the chair I was sitting on. “You weren’t considered one of the best profilers for nothing, Malcom.”

  “We’ve been over this before, Armstrong. You have to get evaluated. It’s protocol.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This isn’t some fucking greenhorn who can’t handle the pressures of being undercover, Malcolm. This is me we’re talking about.”

  “Right, the chameleon.”

  I raised my eyebrow at the use of the nickname. When I’d first heard it, I had thought it was the dumbest thing ever. But the longer it was used, the more I warmed to it until it stuck. The name was the truth. I was a chameleon. The ease of which I could slip into my new role intimidated, and sometimes, scared some of the other people who worked at the Bureau. Especially if I had to make a stop into the office while on an assignment. That didn’t happen often since I didn’t want anything to compromise my cover. But, sometimes it was inevitable. And whenever I’d pop in, it was so much easier to stay in character than try to transition back to myself. A person’s psyche could only take so much before it fucked them up completely—a lesson I’d had to learn firsthand.

  But did I feel bad for keeping my coworkers on edge? Definitely not. Scaring the fuck out of them meant I could avoid awkward conversations and invites to shit I’d have to turn down. I was better off alone. Especially if I was going to continue going undercover and getting involved in sick and twisted shit. That last one had nearly done me in.

  “But,” Malcom piped up, bringing me out of my musings, “this was a difficult case, even for you. You need to go visit the therapist. Don’t make me pull rank, Armstrong.”

  “This case was no more difficult than the others,” I lied swiftly.

  “Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter, Larry. I read the damn case file. I saw your notes. You need to get evaluated. And if you don’t…”

  “Is that a threat, Malcom?” I asked sharply, allowing my emotions to peek through my usual calm exterior.

  Malcom seemed unfazed by my tone. After all, we’d worked together for years, so he was used to me by this point.

  “Me? Threaten you?” he scoffed before leaning on his desk with his fingers laced together. “Larry, you were deep with that cult. You watched animal sacrifices go down. You watched them kidnap a person to sacrifice
to their god or whatever it was. And I’m sure you saw, and heard, more sick shit than you wrote down since you like to skimp on the details. You need to go see the therapist about that case..”

  “So, what? As you can see, I’m perfectly fine,” I said, spreading my hands for emphasis.

  “You’re a sick and twisted individual, and every one of us here knows that.”

  I smirked at him. “And yet, you keep giving me the most twisted assignments you have.”

  “Because you’re so good at them. Go get checked out, Larry.”

  “No can do, Malcolm. Not when there are more bad guys to catch.”

  “You’re wanting me to show my hand, aren’t you?”

  I stifled a sigh and squashed the urge to rub the back of my neck, or bang my head on his desk. It was the same argument almost every single time I came off a case. He demanded I go see the Bureau’s shrink so the character I’d played didn’t fuck with my head, and I’d argue that I was perfectly fine and didn’t need to do anything but get my next assignment.

  “Are you going to waste any more of our time with a lecture, or are you going to hand me my next assignment so I can get on with it?”

  Malcolm stared at me, and I matched him glare for glare. It was a game we’d played a lot, and I always won. He was a smart man, a cunning man, and he knew I wouldn’t back down. They’d have to drag me kicking and screaming to a shrink before I willingly took that walk to their office. And yes, I said their. Considering I barely spoke to my coworkers, and couldn’t care less about anything but my assignments, I had no fucking clue if the shrink was a man or a woman.

  Truth be told, I was exhausted. Not only physically, but mentally as well. Being the chameleon was draining work, but because I was so good at it, I was given the hardest and most dangerous cases. Over the years I’d dealt with psychopaths, serial killers, drug lords, prostitution rings, and a plethora of other things. No matter how fucked up the case, I never turned it down. And let me tell you, after working for the FBI for fifteen years, I’d seen a lot of crazy shit. Things that would make your worst nightmare seem like pleasant dreams.

  I’d barely taken time off to recharge my batteries and rest up, when I probably should have. My longest break was when my son, Brice, had been put in the hospital, and even then I didn’t leave straight away. As much as I should have, I’d allowed my job to become my main priority, and I wrapped up my case before going to the hospital. By then he’d already been in a coma, woken up, and was almost ready to be released. But seeing my son in the hospital, covered in faded bruises with his leg in a cast, had me feeling a rage I’d never experienced before.

  Anger was an emotion that I had no problem expressing. In my line of work, dealing with the shit I did on a daily basis, anger was almost expected. How else could I handle all the fucked-up shit I saw and act like a bad-ass? But knowing someone intentionally hurt my son sent my rage off the charts.

  On the drive to the hospital I’d had to talk myself out of kicking Carter’s ass. I’d hired him to protect my son from any harm, and he’d failed. Not only had my son been hurt, but so was the only person I actually considered my friend, Rusty. But then I had to remind myself that it wasn’t Carter’s fault. He hadn’t landed Brice, Brice’s friend, Elliot, and Rusty in the hospital. No, it’d been another sick fuck that had done it, and had Carter not put a bullet in his skull, I would’ve gladly done it, myself—paperwork be damned.

  I should’ve felt bad realizing my son could’ve died, and I would’ve missed it. I should’ve dropped everything, assignment or not, and rushed to the hospital to see for myself that he would be okay. And yet, I didn’t. Why? Because, to be honest, I barely knew Brice. I didn’t know what to say to him when I’d arrived. I wasn’t sure what to even fucking do. I worked so much that I’d missed watching him grow up, and now that he was an adult, I wasn’t sure how to relate to him or even be a father.

  My distance with Brice was one hundred percent my fault. And I owned up to it. While he was in the hospital, I agreed to try and work on my relationship with him. I could see the hurt on his face when he talked to me about it, and that he didn’t forgive me—just yet. Not that I expected him to, but I was trying. I went home a little more. Made attempts to text him, or at least keep in touch. That was something, right? Considering I used to communicate only with Carter, some communication with Brice was better than none at all.

  But, there was another reason I didn’t want to go home. At my house was temptation. It didn’t come in the form of food, a drink, or a drug. No, it was wrapped in a six-foot package with dark hair, a trim goatee, and mischievous hazel eyes. Fuck my job and the ability to retain fine details. And fuck me for not being drunk enough to forget the one night—that one mistake—that we’d spent together.

  Granted, it had been my idea for him to stay with me for his recovery, but god damn. He had no family and even I wasn’t that callus, but I didn’t realize he’d be so fucking enticing. I thought I’d be able to handle being around him. He was going to be laid up and in recovery, so it’d be easy enough, right? Wrong. Seeing him laid up, made me only want to lay him. And more times than I wanted to admit, I found myself jacking off in the bathroom thinking of how he took me to pound city the one night we spent together.

  That’s when I decided I needed to stay gone as much as possible, and I was relieved when Brice had agreed to help out with Elliot as much as he could. I figured that’d only be for a few months, tops. But a few turned into five, and then Elliot found himself homeless and unemployed, and I couldn’t just kick his ass out on the street. So I’d agreed to let him stay until he was on his feet. Fuck, I needed to take notes from The Grinch, but my heart needed to shrink three sizes, not grow.

  Even though I was drained, I wasn’t going to go home, not even for a few days. Nope. I needed my new assignment. Whenever Malcolm finally got off his high horse and fucking gave it to me.

  “My next assignment?” I asked again with an arched brow.

  Malcolm smirked at me. “You made me pull rank, Armstrong. I warned you not to make me do that.”

  I scoffed at his words. “What does that even mean? Are you putting me on desk duty?” I joked. He knew how much I’d loathe that.

  “Better,” he replied, and the only way I could describe his grin was shit-eating.

  “What are you doing?”

  Malcolm reached into his desk and pulled out a piece of paper. It already had something typed on it. I watched as he quickly signed a line and added a date before handing it over to me.

  “Congratulations, Larry. You’re officially on vacation.”

  “What?” I bellowed as I stared at him in disbelief before glancing at the paper.

  “It’s been a long time coming, anyway. Your refusal to get debriefed was the push I needed. I don’t want to see your ass for the next three weeks, starting today. Do you understand me?”

  “B-but,” I stuttered. “I don’t need, or want, a fucking vacation. I want my next god damn assignment.”

  Malcolm shrugged. “And I want an employee who cooperates, but clearly we can’t always get what we want. Your vacation is effective immediately. Get out of my office.”

  I gaped at Malcolm in hopes that he was joking, but clearly he wasn’t. His face told me not to fuck with him, or even try to fight it. Whether I wanted to be or not, I was on a fucking vacation. Which meant I was about to be home with Elliot for the next three god damn weeks. Fuck me.

  Chapter 3

  “Thank you for calling Mount Pillar Hospital. This is Elliot, how may I direct your call?”

  “I need to speak to the pediatrician who’s taking calls for emergencies.”

  “What’s your emergency?

  “My son ate cat shit, and I need to know what to do about it.”

  “Please hold.”

  Elliot

  “What do you mean you’re on vacation?” I asked stupidly as I stared at Larry.

  “Exactly that,” he grumbled as he popped the
top on his beer. “I’m on a vacation.”

  “Y-you don’t take vacations!” I sputtered.

  Larry shrugged and took a swig of his beer. “I do now.”

  “Why?”

  The question came out ruder than I intended, causing me to wince. But it was true. Larry was a freaking workaholic. Hell, he missed out on watching his own kid grow up because work had been his main priority.

  “Why not?” was all he said—answering my question with one of his own.

  “Uh, because you’re never here. So why take a vacation now?” I chewed on my bottom lip for a minute. “Unless, you’re going somewhere?”

  Larry attempted to smirk at me, but all he succeeded in doing was look menacing. “Don’t get too excited. Only place I’m going is to different rooms of this house.”

  The disappointment I felt must’ve been easy to read on my face based on the knowing look he shot me. Shit. I felt like an ass. I was a guest in his house, after all. And he was nice enough to allow me to stay until I got back on my feet. But being around him was hard. And not in a good way. No, it was extremely freaking difficult. For numerous reasons.