Calculated Risk Read online

  Table of Contents

  Calculated Risk

  Other Books in the Blackbridge Security Series

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Social Media Links

  OTHER BOOKS FROM MARIE JAMES

  Calculated Risk

  A Blackbridge Security Novel

  Marie James

  Other Books in the Blackbridge Security Series

  Hostile Territory

  Shot in the Dark

  Contingency Plan

  Truth Be Told

  Calculated Risk

  Heroic Measures

  Sleight of Hand

  Copyright

  Calculated Risk: A Blackbridge Security Novel

  Copyright © 2021 Marie James

  Editing by Marie James Betas & Ms. K Edits

  EBooks are not transferrable. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Credit: Najla with Qamber Designs and Media

  Synopsis

  As the fixer for Blackbridge Security, Quinten Lake is the man that comes in and cleans up after people make stupid decisions.

  Which means he didn’t want to be the one teaching lustful women gun safety.

  There were guys on the team better suited for the task.

  Get in and get out, that’s his motto, something he lives by not only at work but also in his personal life.

  And he could be doing just that if it weren’t for the internet.

  But if #BlackbridgeSpecial weren’t trending online, he would’ve never met Hayden Prescott.

  He wouldn’t be wondering why she won’t make eye contact with him.

  He’s supposed to teach her the skills to protect herself, but his ego is encouraging him to be her means of protection.

  She isn’t impressed, and he’s left wondering if she’ll ever open her eyes and finally see him.

  Chapter 1

  Quinten

  “How many?” I ask before Wren hands me the list.

  “Fourteen,” the Blackbridge IT specialist responds as he digs through a stack of paper on his messy desk.

  “There are only seven lanes,” I remind him.

  “I know,” he says with a shrug, but I highly doubt the computer guy has even stepped foot inside of a gun range. “They’ll double up. You can learn as much from observing as you can doing a task, and before you make fun of me for not being very proficient in firearms, that goes for nearly everything in life.”

  I look down at the list when he hands it to me, but I don’t really spend much time going over details. There’s no way to determine just by a list of names which of these women are in it for the wrong reason.

  The goal is to teach women gun safety and how to shoot properly. The problem is, Wren used our company website like a thirst trap for horny women, drawing in over three hundred women for this six-week long class.

  “I’ve picked the women that I felt needed the most help. The online bots I set up flagged those with 911 calls, repeated hospital visits, and women getting restraining orders. That sort of thing.”

  The simple list in my hand gives none of that information, and I’m actually grateful it doesn’t.

  I’m the crisis management consultant for Blackbridge Security—the fixer if you will. As such, I do a lot of work with politicians and people in the spotlight when they mess up or have some sort of scandal brewing that could have dire consequences for their public image, which in turn has the ability to ruin their livelihoods.

  As the in-house fixer, the less I know about these women, the better. I’m tasked with gun safety, not digging deeper into their lives and eradicating the issue that caused them to need the class in the first place. When I see a problem that I think has a fairly easy solution, I normally steamroll whoever is in the way to fix it. I’m very proficient at my job.

  And that begs the question of how I’ve been the not-so-lucky one to end up teaching this class instead of our weapons expert, Kit Riggs.

  “So, like all domestic assaults?” I ask him, because how can I look down at a list of women, knowing they need help and not want to intervene?

  “There are a couple in there, but one has a violent brother getting out of prison soon. One woman was in a gang, and they haven’t taken too kindly to her leaving that life. A couple more work night shift and have problems on their walks home after work. Three have had recent break-ins, one was even a home invasion. I picked the ones that flagged as needing us the most for this first class.”

  “First class? This isn’t the only class?”

  A scoffing sound comes from the corner of the room, but I don’t look in that direction. I’m surprised Wren’s African Grey parrot is just now making his presence known. The bird has a foul mouth and an attitude problem.

  “Deacon mentioned having more than one to meet the need.”

  I could choke my boss, but being out of a job on a Tuesday morning isn’t on my to-do list.

  “And none of the other guys offered to help?”

  “You’re on your own with this one,” Wren says as he spins away from me and begins typing quickly on his computer.

  Knowing when I’m being dismissed, I turn to leave, bowing up and hitching the front of my body toward Puff Daddy.

  The bird stands to his full height, wings spread as his head bounces up and down. “Come at me, bro!”

  I shake my head as I open the office door to leave, laughing when I hear a squawked, “Pussy.”

  Like the bird is a human, Wren begins to argue with the thing. Luckily, I can close the door and not have to listen to them.

  “New job?” Kit asks as I cross the breakroom area and head toward the coffee machine.

  I narrow my eyes at him. He should be the one holding this damn list, not me.

  “And why exactly couldn’t you do this?” I wave the paper before placing it on the counter.

  “I have other jobs coming up that conflict with the class schedule.”

  “How convenient,” I mutter as I pop a dark roast pod into the single cup coffee machine.

  “You really are irritated with this, aren’t you?”

  I grunt in response without tu
rning back to face him.

  “You’re going to have the undivided attention of over a dozen women. What man doesn’t want that?”

  “Me.”

  He chuckles.

  “This is a job better suited for Brooks,” I tell him, and this isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned it either.

  “Brooks would probably end up in an orgy,” my boss says as he walks right into the middle of our conversation.

  “There’s an orgy?” the man in question asks as he trails behind.

  “See?” Kit says as he points to the most charming man we have on the team. “He’d never get any work done.”

  I look at Deacon as I lift the cup of black coffee to my lips, wondering if he’d consider a change for this class.

  “Ignacio is a great instructor,” I say, praising our language expert. “What if there’s someone that speaks a different language?”

  “All students in this current class speak English,” Deacon says. “And Alex has baseball practice on Thursday evenings.”

  I can’t argue with Ignacio spending time with his son. Hell, a couple months ago, he didn’t even know he had a son. He’s spending as much time as he can with the thirteen-year-old kid to make up for all of that lost time.

  “I know you don’t want to do this,” Deacon continues. “And that’s why you’re perfect for the job.”

  I honestly feel like a sullen child not getting his way, but not only would throwing a tantrum not change anything, I’d never stoop so low.

  “Jude is great with weapons as well,” I hedge, but great is probably an overstatement.

  My best friend, Jude Morris, is Blackbridge’s in-house medic, science expert, and biological warfare expert. He could easily disarm a bomb, but I doubt he could hit a target from ten yards.

  “If he shoots like he throws a baseball, then he’s more of a hindrance than helpful,” Brooks says with a wry grin.

  I hold back the laugh at remembering the black eye he sported for a week last year after Jude smacked him in the face while playing ball at the park. He complained more about the bruising than I ever will about taking on this six-week class. The man is vain to the bone. Granted, the jobs he takes use his handsomeness as a weapon, but even when he’s not working, he doesn’t know how to turn it off.

  “Jude isn’t comfortable in large groups,” Deacon says, making it sound like my friend is antisocial, when in fact, he really just doesn’t like people. It’s a completely relatable trait to have, in my opinion. “But the class isn’t until tomorrow, and we have work to do today. Quinten, let’s go over that case you just wrapped up.”

  I snatch the list of names off the counter and follow my boss back to his office, tossing a middle finger over my shoulder when the guys start to laugh.

  Chapter 2

  Hayden

  “What are you doing?”

  I don’t startle at the sound of my best friend, Parker’s voice when she opens my front door. I saw her pull up in the driveway, and she has a key. I also don’t acknowledge her. This day has been coming for two weeks, and with each hour it drew closer, the more I hate the idea of it.

  “You aren’t even ready,” she hisses. “We talked about this, Hayden.”

  I continue to use the sponge I’ve cut to fit in the tracks of my windows, frowning when the stupid thing just pushes the dirt to the end rather than actually cleaning it.

  “Hayden,” she groans. “Go get ready. We’re going to be late.”

  “I decided I don’t want to go.”

  “Do you realize how exclusive it is to get into this class?”

  I do, actually, because she’s been more excited than me to go.

  The class she’s referring to is a six-session course that teaches gun safety and shooting. I used to hate guns, and I’m only now considering the use of one for protection. Coming home to a kicked in door and a trashed house will make a person change their stance on a few things.

  “It’s for your safety,” she urges. “Put the cleaning shit down and let’s go.”

  Safe.

  What a concept. I was never worried about my safety before. Like most women, I took precautions when they were needed. I don’t walk alone at night. I very seldomly go to bars or clubs, and when I do it’s always with a friend. I don’t leave drinks unattended or meet strangers off of dating apps.

  A couple of weeks ago I was safe.

  Then I fell victim to a burglary. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel completely safe again. It doesn’t matter that I changed the locks and situated my furniture where I would be alerted if someone tried to sneak in.

  I still can’t sleep in total darkness. I still take quick showers in place of the long, relaxing ones I used to take because I’m terrified of getting caught off guard. Hell, I’ve been washing my hair in the kitchen sink because I’m terrified of getting caught completely naked with soap in my eyes. I peek out of my windows each time I hear a noise, wondering if today is going to be the day they come back and take more than my damn television.

  My privacy was invaded, my sanctuary violated. My skin crawls just thinking about it, and I have to drop the sponge and rub at the goosebumps forming on my arms.

  “I don’t think this is the right solution,” I mutter as I turn to face her. I hate the look of sympathy in her eyes.

  “You wanted to do this.”

  “You wanted me to do this,” I clarify. “I simply mentioned taking a self-defense class.”

  I roll my eyes as I pick up the sponge and the bottle of cleaner I was using and carry them back to the kitchen.

  “This is a self-defense class,” she argues. “Wouldn’t you rather shoot than have to grapple with some guy three times your size?”

  I spin around and glare at her.

  Her hands go up beside her ears. “That wasn’t a jab at how small you are, but physics is a real thing, Hayden. Even a skilled hundred-pound fighter would have trouble wrestling with a two-hundred-pound man. Is that what you’re wearing?”

  I look down at the blouse and slacks I’m still wearing from work.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, let’s go. If you do well in class, I’ll take you for dinner after.”

  Knowing I won’t be able to get out of it, I grumble as I grab my purse. Parker doesn’t complain once as I spend the next minute locking the two deadbolts on my front door, and she only groans once when I realize I didn’t leave the front porch light on, and I have to unlock it again to turn it on.

  “This is going to be a lot of fun,” Parker says with a wide grin as we drive to the gun range. “I showed you the pictures online, right?”

  “More than once,” I mutter as I watch the city rush by through the passenger window.

  “These guys are so hot. The guy teaching the class has a beard and tattoos. He’s so sexy.”

  I would feel like she’s more interested in flirting during class than supporting me, but I know that she’s worried about me. I haven’t taken the burglary well at all.

  “Just type in hashtag Blackbridge Special on your phone and you can see for yourself,” she urges.

  I oblige her because it’s easier than arguing. I turn the phone to face her. “This guy?”

  “Hot, right?”

  “This guy is your type, not mine.”

  “That would mean something if you had a type.”

  I ignore the jab.

  “Look at the other guys. All of their pictures are on their website, but I’m calling dibs on the instructor.”

  “Dibs?” I mutter as I swipe through the images on the phone. I’d never tell her, but all the guys are good looking in their own way. The images are like a damned photo gallery for hot models rather than a security firm. It makes me wonder if clients let them slide with half-assed work just because they’re handsome. “Dibs is for kids fighting over a game system controller, not for claiming a man you’ve never met before.”

  “Are you saying you want dibs on the instructor?”

  I look up at
her. “What? No. I’m not interested in any of them.”

  Plus, the guy showcased on the website as tonight’s instructor is massive. Yeah, he’s got sexy tattoos and a glorious beard, but he also looks to be more than twice my size. He looks dangerous and angry, and that doesn’t appeal to me one bit.

  Parker is wrong about not having a type. I do have a type, sort of. Although my dating life has been limited, more so in the last couple of years, I’ve always ended up in relationships with clean-cut professionals. Other than the short-lived crush I had on David Beckham years ago, rugged, tattooed men never really turned my head. This guy, Quinten Lake, looks like someone I would run from, not flirt with.

  “Do you have everything you need?” Parker asks, making me realize I was staring at his picture on my phone for longer than I’d like to admit.

  “Need? What the hell do I need? You set this up, not me.”

  “Just your driver’s license. Calm down. This is supposed to be empowering, not a punishment.”

  I take a deep breath as I climb out of her car. Nerves make my fingers tremble as I wait for her at the front of the car. Maybe the graphic designer on the website photoshopped him to look meaner than he actually is. I mean, wouldn’t it draw in more customers if the guy teaching the class looked like a serious badass?

  The guy at the front counter of the business looks nothing like the man on the website, I observe as Parker signs us in.

  “Just through there, ladies,” the clerk says, pointing to a door off to the side.

  Several pairs of expectant eyes look up at us when we enter, and with the way they handled the marketing on their website, I’m not surprised to find nothing but women in the room. The surly guy is missing as we take our seats and wait for the class to start.

  I’m calming down, feeling a little more comfortable that we’re in a classroom setting rather than in a concrete room with guns lying all around.

  Parker, being the social person that she is, starts a conversation with the woman on her right, and before long they’re both snickering about how hot these guys are. All conversation comes to a halt when the door opens and a man walks in.

  If anything, the graphic designer played down this guy’s size. He’s massive, his build beyond imposing. His jet-black hair is cut short, but still somehow styled nicely. His dark beard is nearly long enough to brush his t-shirt as he walks up to the front of the classroom while looking down at a piece of paper in his hands.