 by Helen Hardt.jpg)
Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 72156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
In prison, they called him Savage.
Falcon Bellamy spent years locked up for a crime he didn’t commit, which shattered his dream of serving his country as a Navy SEAL. When he's granted early parole to help with a family emergency, he’s determined to reclaim his life. The last thing Falcon wants or needs is a relationship, but when he meets his beautiful parole officer, he knows he's in trouble.
Savannah Gallo is supposed to keep Falcon on the straight and narrow, but she can’t help getting drawn into his brooding darkness and intensity. Her gorgeous parolee is off-limits, but their chemistry proves too explosive to ignore. Between the sheets they can escape the secrets they’re both keeping—secrets that spell danger for them and those they love.
But secrets never stay hidden forever, and when theirs collide, the fallout could be devastating.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
FALCON
The place is a dive.
Funny.
Before, I’d never have considered entering such a bar, but now?
Now, I’m different.
I’ve seen how the other half lives.
I’ve been part of the other half.
And this dive? It called to me, so I went in.
The bar stools are covered in red vinyl, and the one I choose has a couple of rips in it. Seems appropriate. It’s early—only eight p.m.—so there’s no crowd yet, if there ever is one. Maybe these old bars on the edge of towns don’t do much business. Not that I’d know.
A neon Old Milwaukee sign hangs on the wall behind the bar, above the shelves of bottles with names I don’t recognize. Probably all rotgut.
I’m not used to rotgut, but nearly a decade has passed since I’ve tasted alcohol that wasn’t fermented in a toilet tank, so I’m pretty sure the well brands here will taste like fucking Pappy’s.
No one else sits at the bar, but the barkeep on duty—a middle aged woman who seems intent on wiping lowball glasses—doesn’t seem in any hurry to offer me a libation.
I clear my throat. “Ma’am?”
“Be with you in a minute,” she says, her voice low and raspy. A smoker, no doubt.
A couple tables are occupied with young men wearing T-shirts and orange vests. Construction workers, probably, just getting off duty. In the background, headbanger music plays softly over the intercom. Ironic. An old juke sits in one corner, but it’s not lit. Probably just for show. The tables and the bar are crafted from some kind of dark wood. The bar itself is full of scratches and needs revarnishing.
“What’ll it be?” the barkeep finally says to me.
“Bourbon. Neat.”
“You got it. Brand?”
“The shittiest you’ve got.”
She laughs, and it sounds kind of like a frog croaking. “Been that kind of day, huh?”
I look down at the scratched surface of the bar. “You don’t even know.”
She turns, grabs a bottle without a label, and pours a shot into a lowball glass.
“Better make it a double,” I say.
“You got it.”
She adds another fingerful and slides the glass to me, along with a napkin that says “Ruthie’s Roadies” on it.
“You Ruthie?” I ask.
Another low laugh. “Hell, no. I’m Iris. We get these napkins at a discount. Buy up leftover stock from other places.”
“Ah. Got it.” I pick up the glass. Take a sniff. Whew! Harsh stuff. A little woodsy, a touch of caramel, and a whole lot of battery acid.
“What’s your name, cowboy?” Iris asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “Do I look like a cowboy to you?”
She eyes the tats on my knuckles. My shaggy dark hair that nearly touches my shoulders. My black stubble. “Not so much. What are you, then?”
“Not sure.” I shoot the bourbon, letting it crawl down my throat in a slow burn. I slide the glass back to her. “One more.”
She nods, pours me a refill, and hands it back. “You going to tell me your name?”
I hold up my glass, swirl the light brown liquid in the glass, the way I used to swirl wine. I used to appreciate fine wine. My mother taught me about wine when I was sixteen years old. She loves the stuff, used to have it shipped from Napa Valley, Burgundy, Tuscany—you name it—to our Summer Creek, Texas ranch. I enjoyed the stuff, and not just because I was only sixteen and it was a thrill to drink. No. I enjoyed the nuances, the colors and aromas, the flavor as it trickled over my tongue and then the finish as I swallowed. Mom said I had the same knack for wine that she did. We talked about going to Europe on a wine tour once I finished college. We’d planned to do it after graduation and before I joined the Navy with my best friend, Leif.
None of that happened, of course.
It couldn’t.
I polish off the second drink and exhale. “It’s Falcon.”
“Say what?”
“You asked my name. It’s Falcon.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“Nope. I’d show you my driver’s license, except I have to get a new one.”
Iris frowns. “No driver’s license? Good thing I didn’t ID you. How’d you get here?”
“Cab.”
“Yeah? What have you been doin’?”
I push the glass toward her, motioning for another. “Time.”
1
SAVANNAH
“Who picked this place?” I ask Gert.
It’s our monthly ladies’ night, and somehow we ended up at this dive with no name somewhere between San Antonio and Summer Creek. It’s picking up now. When we got here ten minutes ago, only a few guys sat at a table and one guy at the bar.
Not that I’m here to meet guys. That’s not what ladies’ night is about. Gert, Jordan, Ashley, and I decided back in college that we wouldn’t lose touch like so many college besties do. Since we all live in the same area, we’ve kept up the monthly tradition of ladies’ night for six years now. Sure, we’ve missed a few months here and there, but for the most part we’ve been good about keeping the date.