Notice

  Notice

  Copyright © 2017 K. Webster

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: ellie at Love N. Books

  Editor: PREMA Editing

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Warning

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Books by K Webster

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To the intense man who noticed me, claimed me, and never let go.

  I love you, Matt.

  My past has not defined me, destroyed me, deterred me; it has only strengthened me.

  —Steve Maraboli.

  Warning:

  Notice is an edgy, dark, and unusual romance. Extreme sexual themes and violence in certain scenes, which could trigger emotional distress, are found in this story. If you are sensitive to dark themes, then this story is not for you. If you aren’t into super obsessive stalkers, then this story is not for you.

  February 24th, 1990

  Eyes on the target.

  Always.

  I don’t have to watch my back because Bull has it.

  Always.

  Sniper and spotter.

  Two best friends since the seventh grade.

  “Target is heavily secured. On my command,” Gunny says in my earpiece.

  I blink but don’t move from my position. I’m ready to put the 7.26 by 51 mm bullet in the skull of the Crown Prince’s most trusted advisor, Ahmed Hakim. A man whose ties with Saddam Hussein are so thick you’d need a chainsaw to cut through them. My target is enemy number two under Hussein. A traitor to the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. On the United States’ and my own personal radar.

  But the fucker is always hiding behind a wall of men. Armed and dangerous men. Five times over the past week, I’ve had eyes on the coward but have been told to stand down. The shot has to hit and eliminate the desired target. Injuring him would be considered a failure. Hakim has to die.

  “That motherfucker hides behind the big guy every time. If we had the time, we could take out both. No sweat off my goddamn brow,” Bull murmurs. He chews on his gum but wisely remains quiet. The constant sound of his chewing is what helps keep me grounded. I can focus because of its consistent smack—a little trick we learned at the academy we both attended in high school. A year after graduation, and we still work better as a team than apart.

  Smack. Smack. Smack.

  I’m in position and have been for the past four and a half hours, long before people arrived for the ceremony where the Crown Prince is speaking. I’ve already established a good shooting position. Flat on my belly with my rifle pointed downrange at my target, I’m sighted in and ready to fire.

  Smack. Smack. Smack.

  A cool breeze skitters across the back of my neck. Sweat is trickling down the side of my temple, but I don’t dare move. Instead, I’m calculating the wind not just up here from my position on the top of an abandoned building, but also where my target is. The wind causes the black hair of a teen girl sitting on one of the chairs to slip from her hijab and blow in the wind. She’s not just any girl—she’s the sixteen-year-old daughter of the Crown Prince. Despite Hakim being a pussy who hides behind the security, his eyes never leave the Crown Prince’s daughter. Adara. Pretty, young, vulnerable. Hakim clearly cares for her, and that’s saying something for the selfish prick.

  Click.

  I make an adjustment to the windage turret.

  “Elevation?” Bull questions as if I’d forget. I never forget.

  I double check the elevation turret, but it’s where it needs to be. Bull doesn’t require an answer. He knows how we work. When I’m in position, I don’t speak. I don’t move. I hardly fucking breathe. Any movement could affect my shot. I’m the best goddamned sniper the Marine Corp has for a reason.

  Smack. Smack. Smack.

  The wind dies down, and I ignore the ache in my thighs. I have to piss but I’d just as soon take a leak in my pants before I moved. From my position on my belly with my legs spread apart to absorb the recoil of my shot, I always become uncomfortable.

  And yet, I still don’t move.

  Smack. Smack. Smack.

  My thighs tingle and my shoulders ache, but I tune it out.

  Focus.

  Smack. Smack. Smack.

  “Ceremony begins at thirteen hundred hours,” Gunny reminds us all. “Nobody blinks until I say they can.” The dig is at me. Gunny hates that I came straight from the academy and earned myself a Lance Corporal position despite being eighteen. I’ve since been promoted to an E-5 Sergeant at the young age of nineteen. I’m disciplined, hard-working, and an extremely skilled sniper thanks to Dad’s insistence I attend military school at Hargrave Military Academy since I was thirteen. Gunny can kiss my ass.

  My hold is firm on the pistol grip but my thumb is loose. Another drop of sweat rolls down my forehead and my heart does a patter as it nears my eyebrow.

  “Bull.” My word is yet a whisper, but he hears.

  Carefully, my best friend takes his finger and wipes the sweat away, so it doesn’t slide into my eye. He does it gently and makes sure not to touch my scope. Then, he’s back to staring at our target through his binoculars.

  I blink several times and run my mind through every position of my body. I make sure my rifle isn’t canted. My cheek is rested against the butt stock and my eye stares down the scope to Hakim.

  Gunny grunts through the speaker. “Stand down, boys. We’re not going to get the shot. Hakim knows he’s being targeted.”

  Irritation flits through me.

  He always gives up when I know I can take the shot.

  I can kill Hakim.

  Gunny just needs to let me do it my way.

  My way goes against the morals and ethics of most normal men. I’m not normal. I haven’t been normal since I put a bullet through a quail when I was nine years old. As soon as the shot finished echoing through the woods and I had her body tossed in my bag, I’d heard a squawk.

  I had killed a mother.

  One tiny offspring hollered for food in a nearby nest. I knew. Deep down I knew I’d shot that baby’s mother. Something inside of me—despite my fat
her’s cold upbringing—warmed and softened. I broke for that baby bird.

  But I could fix it.

  I could care for that bird.

  I’d gathered the tiny thing into my small fist and stroked its head with my thumb on my gloved hand. It squawked and squawked. And for the first time in ages, I grinned.

  “You hear me, Corporal?” Gunny barks.

  I blink away my past and focus on my present.

  My target.

  My goal.

  What’s right in front of me.

  “I can make the shot. Give me a chance,” I murmur, my heart thumping steadily in my chest.

  He utters out a string of curse words before conceding. “I’m giving you four minutes, Corporal.”

  My eyes are on Hakim, my target, but when he glances over at Adara, my heart rate quickens when she beams at him. Her smile is shy but wide. For him. A smile only a woman gives to her lover. Sixteen and fifty-seven. That math sucks.

  You dirty dog, Hakim.

  That smile proves my research was correct. While Gunny and the team were collecting intel on Hakim, I was doing my own recon. In our short amount of time, I learned a lot about little Adara. I’d suspected she and Hakim had some sort of romantic interest going on.

  Click.

  Adjust.

  My sights have moved slightly to accommodate my target. A target that is clear. Easy.

  Focus.

  Smack. Smack. Smack.

  “Stand down, Corp—”

  Despite the suppressor on my rifle, the crack echoes off the buildings around me the moment I pull the trigger.

  Don’t breathe.

  Bull doesn’t dare engage, even though I’ve gone against direct orders.

  I blink once and watch the girl crumple to her knees clutching her chest. Wait? Chest? Shoulder. She should be clutching her shoulder. Turning off my mind, I focus on her lover. Hakim. He roars as he breaks free from the cover of his men to be near Adara. The moment I see his fat head, I take my shot.

  Crack.

  “Fuuuuuck,” Bull hisses from beside me. Gunny is screaming in my earpiece but he’s being ignored for the time being.

  Hakim falls on top of the girl’s unmoving body with a deadly head wound, causing blood to rush from his skull. Target eliminated.

  “You fucking killed the girl,” Bull gripes, but he’s already gathering our shit so we can bolt. I’m still in position to make sure Hakim doesn’t move despite the gaping hole in his head.

  “Hawk!”

  I blink away my daze and lift my stiffened body from my position.

  Fuck.

  RPG.

  I see it a second before it whizzes past me.

  The explosion is deafening.

  The pain is excruciating.

  My short life ends before it even began.

  Present Day

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “You look busy, Letty,” Mr. Collins interrupts in a gruff tone. “I’ll just pop in and see if Grayson wants to grab lunch.”

  Violet.

  My perfectly manicured fingers, which were typing away on the keyboard, pause as I lift my gaze to the old man. His beady eyes flit over my silky white blouse to where my full breasts are barely encased in the buttoned-up shirt, slightly jiggling with movement. I purposefully still my body and bring my fingertips to my slender neck to touch the string of pearls my mother gave me long ago to distract him. The action hides my breasts from the leering old man, and he drags his gaze back to my face.

  I stiffen but force a polite smile to my lips. “Actually, he’s in a very important meeting,” I lie to him as I stand. “I’ll have him get back to you later, sir.”

  He seems mildly irritated, but I flash him a winning smile that’s more convincing than the first one. “You’re his favorite client, you know,” I tell him in a conspiratorial whisper. “I know he’d much rather be downing sushi and sake with you than having to hash out the purchase of that Japanese hotel from Mr. Adachi. Those two have spent so much time discussing it. I’ll be glad when they decide on a price, so that Mr. Maxwell can handle his less complicated business.” I make a simple motion of my hand to gesture at him.

  His white brows furrow together and he rounds his shoulders, as if the motions will make him taller. More formidable. Powerful. But at five foot ten, I tower over the much-shorter man, especially in my spiked heels that easily put me over six feet. With a huff, he shoots an unnerved glare at Grayson Maxwell’s door. “Tell him we can go out for celebratory drinks later in the week. I’ll accept his offer on my resort. Make sure he gets the message right away.”

  He storms off, and my false smile morphs into a genuine and triumphant one. With my chin lifted in the air, I strut over to the coffee machine in the kitchen. Mr. Maxwell likes his coffee a certain way. Two spoonsful of sugar and one scoop of creamer. And I don’t forget the sprinkle of cinnamon. I even squat slightly so I can eyeball how much sugar is rounded on the spoon before dumping it into the steaming liquid and then stirring.

  The run-in with Mr. Collins only solidifies what I already know. I’m damn good at my job. After six years, I’m the best employee Maxwell Subsidiaries has. Not long ago I was just a fraction of my current self. A sliver of what could be. Back when Vaughn pulled my strings. Long before I cut loose from him and danced in my own show called life.

  The earlier smile fades at the thought of my ex-boyfriend, Vaughn. A dangerous man. Toxic and vile. I’d fallen hard for a man who tainted me in every way possible. It takes hindsight to realize how deep in his dirty world I’d sunk.

  I’m jolted from terrorizing memories of Vaughn when I hear male voices behind me.

  “This is the break room,” Clint from HR says. “We hardly ever come in here. Our assistants make our coffee. You’ll be assigned an assistant as well.”

  I jerk my head to see the new associate, a handsome male, taking in my appearance with a slight hunger in his eyes.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Truman,” Clint tells him with a chuckle. “This is the owner’s assistant, Letty.”

  Violet.

  “Will she be my assistant as well?” Mr. Truman questions, hope flickering in his weasel eyes.

  I suppress a shudder and force a smile as I clutch the steaming mug of coffee. If he keeps staring at me like he’s undressing me with his eyes, I might have to accidentally dump this hot cup down the front of his slacks.

  “No, she belongs to Mr. Maxwell.”

  My heart ceases to beat at Clint’s choice of words. You belong to me. Vaughn’s favorite saying still haunts me seven years later. This time, the shudder ripples down my spine and the coffee sloshes in the mug, stinging my hand when it splashes over.

  Turning away from the pompous pricks, who are now laughing at my clumsiness, I snag a paper towel and clean the coffee spill from my flesh. It takes everything in me to keep my lips pressed in a firm line to avoid saying anything. Under my breath, though, I mutter, “I belong to no one.”

  When I reach Mr. Maxwell’s door, I visibly straighten my back and affix the same warm smile I’d used earlier for Mr. Collins before stepping into my boss’s office. Just like always, his scent hits me first. Strong. Rugged. Spicy. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy inhaling his unique smell.

  I swallow down my silliness and focus on not spilling any more hot liquid on my hand. Walking in stilettos while carrying coffee sometimes proves to be a challenge. Thankfully, it’s one I’ve mostly mastered.

  The office is masculine and overlooks the city. Grayson Maxwell sits in his desk chair with his back turned to the door. I can see the top of his messy espresso-colored hair but every other part of him is hidden by his chair.

  “Mr. Maxwell,” I say, a nervous wobble to my voice. I’m not sure why I get tongue-tied around this man. After six years, you’d think I’d be immune to how handsome he is and not act like a teenage girl every time. “I brought you some coffee.”

  I’m just approaching his desk when he says in a warm tone, “Thank yo
u.”

  My surprise catches me off guard, and I struggle with what to say. However, a genuine smile graces my lips, and I feel my cheeks heat. “You’re welcome, sir. I mean out of all the years I’ve worked here, I don’t think you’ve ever thanked me.” I let out a small, nervous laugh.

  “You’re an asset,” he says, his voice firm.

  This time, it’s my neck that’s on fire. I fidget with my pearls as I set the coffee down on his desk.

  “That’s so nice of you to say, sir. While I have your attention,” I start, my voice wobbling slightly. “Mr. Collins—”

  “Mr. Collins,” he says with a chuckle. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  I begin to speak when he swivels around in his chair, his phone pressed to his ear. Mr. Maxwell exudes power and strength. The solid muscles in his shoulders and upper arms stretch the suit fabric to its limit. He’s hot as hell—all chiseled jaw, scarred eyebrow, icy blue eyes, just-fucked hair, and scruffy five o’clock shadow. His full lips keep moving as he speaks—lips I’ve often fantasized about. An air of arrogance surrounds him. And, my God, does he smell good. He continues talking to who I now realize is Mr. Collins, and not me. I stumble back, horrified. I thought he was actually speaking to me.

  But then I remember that Grayson Maxwell doesn’t speak to me. Hell, he doesn’t even look at me. Just waves me away, as if me bringing him his obligatory ten o’clock coffee is a nuisance.

  Well, fuck him and fuck his stupid scheduled coffee.

  I storm away from his desk and can’t help but slam the door shut. The sound has several other employees jerking their shocked gazes to me. I give them a scathing glare before smoothing out my hair.

  I’ve had enough.

  Nobody here appreciates a damn thing I do. And I do everything. Hell, Mr. Maxwell wouldn’t be closing on one of his most annoying clients yet if it weren’t for my interfering. All it took was a little reverse psychology to have Mr. Collins begging to sell his resort.

  I did that.

  Not Grayson Maxwell.

  Me.

  Seven years ago, I could barely look at myself in the mirror. Much less waltz around a corporate office with my chin held high and confident in what I was doing. During the first year after Vaughn, I struggled to find myself. The job I landed at Maxwell was the beginning of that change. I evolved from the broken woman I was into someone strong and capable. I’ve put in my time. I have experience. This entire office runs like a well-oiled machine because I see to it that it does.