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Thor (The Black Hornets MC)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
Willow is no joke. She’s the only woman who can keep me on my toes.
Thor is the fifth book in the Black Hornets MC Series.
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I pushed into my apartment and dropped my things. My keys. My wallet. My laptop bag. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, feeling the latching mechanism click into place. I’d listened to that sound for years, shift after shift at the FBI. Coming in late and closing my eyes while I slowly inched the door closed with my back. My butt. My head. Nights where I leaned my forehead into the cold wood and sighed. Nights where my ass slid to the floor as tears dripped down my face.
Despite the sadness, my job at the FBI was so much more exciting than some dumbass company.
I just wanted to relax. After chasing two different viruses through my company’s security system all damn day, what I wanted was a stiff drink. A rum and Coke but holding the Coke. A whiskey cocktail, but with none of the cocktail elements. I turned around and flipped the lock on the door. I pressed my hands into the wood, like I had so many times before. Over the years, that door and I became best friends. It had soaked up tears and sorrows. Anger and frustrations.
Even fear, when that mob boss had found me.
“Nice to see you, Miss Willow.”
Every time I walked into my apartment, I heard his voice. Every time I turned around and looked at my couch, I saw him sitting there. In his tailored suit, leather loafers, and his hair slicked back. He had been shining his gun, stuffing it with bullets. When he rose those black eyes to me, I froze in my spot.
“Your response should be, ‘What are you doing here?’” Sleek asked.
“And if I don’t ask that question?”
As I turned around and stared at the spot on the couch he sat on, a chill worked its way down my spine. I’d never gotten rid of it. Never traded it out for another. But, I sure as hell never sat on that cushion, either. Every piece of training that had ever been required of me fled my mind. I was trained in basic self-defense. Basic tactical knowledge. Enough to defend my post if someone ever barged into my office at the FBI. I wasn’t trained in one-on-one combat. I wasn’t trained in keeping my cool. I wasn’t trained in learning how to stomach my fight-or-flight responses.
I worked in fucking cyber-crime. I wasn’t a damn field agent.
Sleek held his gun out to me, leveling it with my forehead. He didn’t say a word. Merely answered me with his actions. If I didn’t ask the question, he’d kill me. And I wasn’t ready to die that day.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Sleek grinned. “The answer’s simple, Miss Willow. You’ve found something of great importance I’d like you to forget.”
“You mean your digital trail you attempted to encrypt with regard to your money laundering scheme?”
The mob boss slowly stood to his feet as he cocked his gun.
“Something like that,” he said flatly.
That was the day my life changed. The day that mob boss got into my apartment and waited for me to get home, I knew I’d never be able to go back to the FBI. I remembered the smell of his breath after he walked toward me. I still remembered the feel of his gun as he pressed it against my temple. I still remembered my legs shaking and feeling like jello as he backed me up, pressing me against my wooden apartment door.
The same door that had held up my body for years up until that point.
On days like this, when I chased around viruses and practically fell asleep from the boredom, I reminded myself of that moment. Of the moment when I knew I’d never feel safe again. Sure, the FBI was exciting. And yes, helping some Fortune 500 company protect their infrastructure was boring as hell. But it paid more than the FBI. Came with great benefits regarding health as well as a decent 401(k) plan. It was better for my health. Better for my sanity.
Better for my safety.
I leaned back against the door, looking for something sturdy to lean on. I wanted a drink, but the memories rushed over me too quickly. My legs felt weak again. I slid down the door as my head fell against it. My ass hit the floor in front of my apartment door, and I sighed, trying to pull myself away from the image. Away from the memory. Away from the one source of all my nightmares for the past two years.
“He’s not here. He’s not here. He’s not here,” I whispered to myself.
I was pulled from my thoughts by my phone ringing inside my laptop bag. I opened my eyes, unaware that tears had been brewing until they slipped down my cheeks. I really needed a new place to live. My hand reached out and I unclipped my bag, then stuffed my hand down into it. I rummaged around until my fingers fell upon my ringing phone, and one last deep breath pulled me from the last of my visions.