Stripped, page 1
Dedication
For Shannon Richard, my fellow romance author, wine lover, dog obsessive, and Chris Hemsworth enthusiast. There are a million reasons why we’re friends and I couldn’t have made it through this book without you. I love your face!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Announcement to Schooled An Excerpt from Schooled
About the Author
By Tara Wyatt
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Detective Sawyer Matthews stood stiffly at attention as sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. Thunder rumbled in the distance, pulsing through the still, thick Atlanta air. On either side of him, Detectives Jack Ward and Amelia Perez stood, unmoving. How Amelia was even standing upright, Sawyer had no idea. He’d spent the past week numbing himself with alcohol and punishing workouts, trying to forget the fact that his best friend was gone.
Murdered, in cold blood.
Behind him, row after row of uniformed police officers, all in dress blues identical to his own, filed in silently, filling up the cemetery lawn. Black-clad and heat-wilted civilians filed in too, lining the far-right side of the roped-off area, dropping into the white plastic seats. From somewhere off to the side, harp music began playing. Fucking harp music. God, Ryan would’ve hated that. A surge of anger pushed through Sawyer, and he flexed his sweaty hands in his white cotton gloves. A bead of sweat rolled down over his temple, and he knew his short hair was soaked beneath his hat. He clenched his jaw, just needing to get through this, and then he could shower and go get good and drunk with Jack and Amelia.
Another rumble of thunder blended with the harp, giving the music an ominous feel, and Sawyer swallowed thickly. No way was he going to cry. That was for later, when he was alone. Only ever when he was alone. Like yesterday morning, in the shower, when the tiniest memory of Ryan had snuck up on him: the two of them eating pizza, drinking beer and watching football. They’d been roommates at the Academy over ten years ago, and had been best friends ever since. Knowing he’d never talk to Ryan again, never hear him laugh or get a stupid text from him, he’d completely lost it. Sitting on the tile floor of his shower, he’d sobbed and sobbed as water pelted him. As he’d wished harder than he’d ever wished for anything in his life that it wasn’t true. But for seven mornings in a row now, he’d woken up in a world where Ryan was gone.
Sawyer had gone through a shitty divorce two years ago. Before he and his wife split up, he thought he’d had his entire life figured out, but it turned out he’d been grasping at smoke, trying to hold something insubstantial in his hand. He’d wanted it to be something it wasn’t. With the end of his marriage, he’d been forced to call everything he’d thought he’d known about himself, about life, about women and relationships, into question. But as hard as that had been—hell, still was sometimes—losing Ryan was, without hyperbole, a million times worse. He felt like a robot just going through the motions every day, trying to pass as human. Eat food. Drink water. Respond when people talked to him. Exercise. Watch TV. Sleep. Exist, somehow, despite the haze of grief shrouding him.
The honor guard assigned to Ryan’s flag-draped casket began escorting it up the makeshift aisle between the uniformed officers and the civilians, leading it toward the open grave at the front. The harp music changed to “Ave Maria,” and Amelia let out a tiny, shuddering gasp. She’d dated Ryan for over a year and she’d loved him just as much as Sawyer had, and he wished he could break formation and pull her into his arms. Not that she’d want that. She’d probably shove him away and tell him to get his fucking hands off her.
The casket came to a stop beside the grave where it would forever lie. A breeze kicked up around them, ruffling the red and white stripes of the flag, the leaves of the trees above them rustling softly. Amelia quietly cleared her throat, and when Sawyer glanced over at her, she blinked, sending two tears cascading down her cheeks. He forced himself to take a deep breath, fighting back the crushing wave of angry despair threatening to swallow him.
From his seat at the front, their team’s leader, Captain DeMarcus Hill, stood and made his way to the wooden podium. Back at the church, both the chief of police and Ryan’s father had given eulogies in between the seemingly endless prayers and hymns.
“A hero. A son. A friend. A brother, to his family, and to his Atlanta Police family,” he said, his deep voice booming over the lawn. “Detective Ryan Walker was all of those things and more. His bravery in the face of danger is a shining example of the courage, dedication and sacrifice required of police officers, every single day. Today, we honor Detective Walker, not only because of how he died, but because of how he lived.”
Amelia wobbled slightly beside him and he glanced over, meeting her eyes. She gave him the tiniest of nods, assuring him she was okay. DeMarcus continued, listing Ryan’s accomplishments, telling a funny story about his first day as a HEAT detective, praising him as an outstanding community member and police officer. After a moment of silence, he stepped away from the podium, and the chirp of a police radio echoed through the air.
“Whiskey-nine-twenty?” The dispatcher’s voice came through the speakers, using Ryan’s on-duty call sign. “Whiskey-nine-twenty, are you by the radio?” Silence filled the air, and a sharp ache radiated through Sawyer’s chest. “Dispatch to whiskey-nine-twenty. Please come in.” Lightning flickered in the sky, and Sawyer had to remind himself to breathe. It felt like shards of glass were digging into his lungs, but he needed oxygen if he didn’t want to pass out. His chest constricted and he clamped his teeth together, refusing to let that wave of pain crest over him, knowing he’d drown in it.
The radio chirped again. “Mark whiskey-nine-twenty out of service.” A final chirp. “Whiskey-nine-twenty, Detective Ryan Walker, badge number nine-nine-six-one, is out of service. End of watch. Rest in peace.”
Amelia’s face crumpled, but she kept her rigid stance, not flinching at the first volley of gunfire from the twenty-one-gun salute. Sawyer glanced at Jack beside him, and he could practically see the anger vibrating off him, his jaw and shoulders tight, his expression grim. The honor guard began folding the flag.
The four of them had been a team. But now one of them was being lowered into the ground as “Taps” played and Ryan’s mother cried silently in the front row, shoulders shaking as she clutched the folded flag from Ryan’s casket. Thunder rumbled through the air and a light rain began to fall, dripping off the brim of Sawyer’s police cap. As he watched the casket disappear into the soft earth, anger beat hotly through his veins.
He would get the bastard responsible for Ryan’s death. He would bring Ernesto Hernandez down, if it was the last thing he did.
Chapter One
Unbe-fucking-lievable.
Brooke Simmons stomped into the lobby bar of the St. Regis Atlanta, humiliation and anger simmering through her. Ignoring the confused stares of the handful of patrons sitting scattered at tables, she headed to the long wooden bar at the back of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the faux-wood tiles. She rubbed at the scrape on her cheek, blood rushing to her already heated face. Squaring her shoulders, she focused on her destination, refusing to hang her head in shame. After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong, except date the wrong guy.
Again. For like the eleventy-billionth time.
Forever alone. Might as well get it tattooed across her forehead. Save everyone the goddamn trouble.
She slammed her clutch down on the bar as she came to a halt, peering at the bottles of liquor lining the backlit shelves. Bingo. A small smile tugged at her lips. Nothing like a little payback.
The bartender saw her and ambled over, shooting her a smile. “What can I getcha?”
“I’ll take a double of the Macallan there,” she said, tipping her chin at the bottle on the top shelf.
He nodded and started to reach for the twelve-year-old malt.
“No. Not that one. The thirty.”
The bartender’s arm paused midair. His eyes roved over her, taking in her disheveled hair, the scrape on her cheek, the torn strap of her lavender dress. Thankfully he couldn’t see the drops of blood on her skirt since she was visible only from the waist up.
“This is a hundred dollars an ounce. You sure?” he asked, studying her warily.
“Yep. Just charge it to my room. 614, last name is Karlsson.” Let that fucker Peter pay for her drink. Asshole.
He studied her for another second before shrugging and grabbing the bottle. As he poured her drink, she settled herself in one of the red leather chairs lining the bar, toying with her clutch as she looked around. She could still feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins, her heart galloping in her chest.
Only one other person sat at the bar, a man in his early-to-midthirties a few seats down from her. He didn’t look at her, his attention on one of the flat-screen TVs above the bar. She only meant to give him a quick glance, taking stock of her surroundings, but her eyes lingered on him. Short, light brown hair, stubble coating his strong jaw. He was muscular and broad, his black T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. His big hand was curled around his glass.
It was a nice hand. Strong and masculine.
She huffed out a breath and rolled her eyes at herself. She never learned, obviously. The bartender set her drink down in front of her and she took a healthy sip. The scotch was velvety on her tongue, earthy and smooth with hints of fruit and oak. She swallowed and it warmed her from the inside out. She wasn’t an expert scotch drinker by any means, but she could tell this was quality shit. She took another sip, rolling her shoulders and trying to shake off the horrible night she’d had.
With a flick of her wrist, she checked her watch. Just after eleven thirty.
“Hey, can you turn it to the Braves?” she asked the bartender, pointing at the TVs. “They’re in San Diego. Game should still be on.”
“Don’t bother. They’re down by four.” The deep voice had come from the man sitting a few seats away. He glanced at her and then returned his attention to the TV.
“And how would you know?” she shot back, her temper frayed at the edges thanks to the night she’d had.
He held up his phone and wiggled it at her without actually looking at her.
She frowned. “They could come back. This is September baseball,” she said, and that time he did look at her. His eyes were blue, almost startlingly so. Little lines fanned out around his eyes. His skin was tanned, but he didn’t look like the tanning bed, waxed balls type. There was something rugged about him. The slightly weathered skin, the jaw scruff, the big hands. The simple T-shirt, jeans and boots. Like a dude in a truck commercial or something. Normally she went for the preppy types with lean bodies and expensive suits. This guy was completely the opposite, but she had to admit that he was attractive. There was something appealingly simple in his ruggedness. As though he was a man, and she was a woman, and things didn’t need to be more complicated than that.
She met his eyes again, and he quirked an eyebrow. He’d caught her checking him out, and while she might’ve blushed in other circumstances, getting caught checking out a good-looking man in a bar was far from the worst thing that had happened to her tonight. After a second, he looked away and didn’t say anything, returning his attention to his drink, frowning slightly as he looked at it.
Fine. Whatever. Broody McSexypants clearly wanted to be left alone.
The bartender flipped one of the TVs to the Braves game and she settled in, sipping her drink as she tried to shut her brain off with liquor and the soothing rhythm of a baseball game. She felt her clutch vibrate and she fished her phone out.
Dani: Are you ok?? I will stab whoever you need.
She sighed and finished the rest of her very expensive drink. It was a simple question on the surface, but complicated the further you peeled it back. An onion of a question, her grandpa would’ve called it, if he were still here.
Was she okay? In a lot of ways, yeah. She was okay. She was healthy. Had a job she enjoyed, and was up for a promotion. She had a nice apartment and lots of friends. But beneath all that, she was lonely. And although she was trying to do something about that—God, she was trying—nothing ever worked out. On top of that, things had only been getting worse lately. Bad date after bad date after bad date, until her love life felt like some terrible sitcom. And if this was how things went when she was still relatively young—thirty was far from over the hill—attractive, with a good job, she didn’t want to think about what the future held.
But underneath all of that, even below the loneliness, was the fear that she was going to end up alone. Her parents were dead, and so was her grandfather. Nan was her only remaining family, and she was ninety. Once Nan was gone, Brooke would be completely and totally alone on the planet. She had friends, but having friends wasn’t the same as having someone to come home to every day. Having someone who cared if she came home each day.
So, given all of that, why did she keep picking these losers? What was it about her that seemed to make her a magnet for these guys? Guys who lied, who didn’t have their shit together, who were just plain weird?
Mentally, trying to shore up her battered confidence, Brooke ticked through her attributes. Pretty. Fit. Smart. Funny. Good job. All-around decent person. She gave a tiny nod, trying to convince herself that the fault was definitely with the men, and not with her. And screw them for making her doubt herself.
She texted Dani back.
I’m fine. Please enjoy the rest of the wedding. Sorry about causing a scene.
The man a few seats away got up and headed for the bathroom. Jesus, he was tall. At least six-foot-four, maybe even bigger, and his T-shirt strained against his muscles as he reached into his pocket for his phone. She found herself appreciating the hell out of his ass as he walked past, the way his jeans clung to the muscles. Very nice.
Granted, given her dating instincts lately, he was probably obsessed with his mother. Or he was a pervert. Or an overgrown man-child. Or married.
The word married bounced around her skull, and a fresh wave of humiliation crashed into her. She signaled to the bartender for another drink, again charging it to that asshole Peter’s room. Pushing it all away, she returned her attention to the game. The Braves hit a two-run homer, closing the deficit in the score to two.
“What happened to your dress?” The man had returned and was now standing a few feet away from her, his bright blue eyes narrowed with concern. “Are you okay? Do you need help?” His deep voice was quiet, yet intense.
Something softened in her chest at his sincerity. “No, I don’t need help. I’m fine.”
He didn’t answer, his gaze sweeping slowly up and down her body. Heat flushed over her skin under that icy hot stare. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Long story.” She glanced at his left hand. No ring. No ring tan. At least that was something.
He squinted at her for a second, and then sat down closer to her than before, so that only one seat was separating them. The bartender set another drink in front of him, and he leaned back, one arm thrown over the back of his seat. His eyes did another slow sweep up and down her body.
“There’s blood on your skirt.”
His deep voice sent a little shiver through her. “Don’t worry, it’s not mine.”
“Whose is it?”
“Doesn’t matter. He deserved it.”
At that, he frowned, his brow furrowing. “Did someone try to hurt you?” There was an edge to his voice, an intensity that had her toes curling in her stilettos. It did nothing to dissipate the adrenaline still floating through her system.
“No. It’s . . .” She shook her head slowly. “Just a bad night.”
“Mmm.” He nodded and sipped his drink. Just then, the Braves scored another run, bringing the score within one.
“Told you they’d come back.”
He sighed and glanced up at the TV, and something shifted in his eyes. He looked almost . . . sad. As though he were remembering something. She blinked, and the sadness was gone, replaced with that impassive, masculine confidence that seemed to pour off him.
She watched his hand as he lifted his drink to his mouth and took a sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. The cords in his forearm bunched and flexed as he moved, and her stomach did a slow turn.
“So, what happened?” he asked, his eyes still on the TV.
“You’re nosy.” She wasn’t sure if she found it appealing or annoying. Maybe a little of both.
“Sometimes.” He turned to face her, one eyebrow quirked. His blue eyes held hers, and just for a second, she felt pinned under the weight of his gaze. A sensation she couldn’t even name exploded through her. It was lust, and need, and desire, and an appealing kind of vulnerability, all rolled into one. As though he wasn’t just looking at her, but seeing her in some fundamental way.
