Proof (Targes Executive Protection Book 1)

It had to be a terrible dream because there was no way it was happening all over again.

Me.

In a bed.

A bed that wasn’t mine.

And a killer headache.

Only this time it was a different kind of headache. One I’d brought upon myself. Thankfully, there was no Cass in this version of the dream. I opened my eyes to clear the dream from my mind only to find that my eyes were already open. I was staring at the ceiling, but it wasn’t a normal ceiling. It had several heavy-duty wood beams running from one end of the room to the other. Above the beams were what looked like polished logs lying side by side.

“Shit,” I said as I abruptly sat up. My head spun and my stomach churned as bile crept up the back of my throat. I managed to swallow it back down and remained very still until the nausea eased a bit. I used the time to slowly look around the room.

The room was rustic but not the charming kind of rustic that people paid good money for so they could pretend to be getting off the grid for a while but not really.

Here, rustic meant rustic.

There were few furnishings besides the bed I was sitting on. A simple table next to the bed, a small dresser that looked like it had stepped out of the seventies, and a couple of mismatched chairs in front of a small iron stove with a stack of wood next to it. No TV, no radio, no curtains. There were two doorways in the room but neither had actual doors on them.

“What the hell?” I murmured.

Where was my gun? My phone? The table that passed for a nightstand was bare except for a tall bottle of water and two aspirin. On the floor next to the bed was a trash can, but based on its placement I figured it was substituting as a vomit can.

My vomit can.

As I reached for the water and greedily swallowed it down, I tried to remember what had happened before everything had gone dark.

I’d been with Cass. He’d been kissing me deeply, slowly, his tongue gently stroking mine. He’d been holding me against the wall, and I’d been a willing prisoner as he’d shown me what a real kiss felt like.

I’d wanted, no, I’d needed more. I hadn’t cared about the past or the future. I hadn’t been afraid. I hadn’t wanted him to stop.

Which was exactly what he’d done.

He’d said he was sorry, and I’d begged him not to stop.

I’d begged him.

His response had been to release me. My body had been screaming in protest at what it was being denied, and I’d been so humiliated that I’d left that room like it had been burning down around me.

Then I’d been speeding down an unknown road in Cass’s beloved car, the city looming in the distance. I’d had only one destination in mind.

By the time I’d strode into Tank’s, I’d known what I was going to do and I’d looked forward to it. I’d slapped all the money I had in my pocket down on the bar and had grabbed the first bottle of alcohol I could find. I hadn’t protested in the least when Tank had insisted on taking my car keys. I’d already been scanning the decent-sized crowd of men for the guy I’d wanted.

He’d been easy to find. He’d been holding court on the far side of the room. On his lap, he’d had a small, blond twink who hadn’t looked anywhere near old enough to be in a bar, let alone a place like Tank’s. The guy with the greasy, stringy ponytail and biker-style beard and mustache had been crudely fondling the kid. I’d never been fucked by the biker wannabe, at least as far as I knew anyway, because he’d always been on the wrong side of the line between good rough fucking and bad rough fucking.

I’d ordered the twink to move. My demand had caught the biker off guard enough that he’d released the kid who’d scrambled off his lap and disappeared into the crowd. I straddled the biker’s lap and wrapped my arms around his neck.

My intent had been to kiss him, but my mouth had bypassed his all on its own and brushed up against his ear instead. A few whispered words, some heavy grinding against his hard-on, and several drags of alcohol, and it was done.

He was mine.

My own hard-on had been long gone by the time I’d reached the club. I’d hoped dry humping biker guy would have relit that fire inside of me that Cass could ignite with just words, but there’d been nothing.

No spark.

No erection.

No pleasure.

A small part of me had wanted to get up and leave. To walk out of that club and never return. But I’d needed a different kind of escape that only liquor and the ugly, rough, foul-smelling, ponytailed biker could give me.

I couldn’t remember much after that. There’d been a lot of strange hands grabbing different parts of my body and biker guy had tried to force me to kiss him, but I’d simply used the bottle in my hand as a shield. We’d been moving after that and then everything got hazy. There’d been catcalls and words of encouragement, but they hadn’t been aimed at me. I’d been pelleted with ugly names and promises of how good it would feel when this guy fucked me and the other guy shot his load down my mouth. By then I’d already started to leave my body so I could float through that delicious cloud of quiet.

Whatever had happened after that only came to me in bits and pieces.

The smell of rotting garbage, cool air against my ass, warm liquor sliding down my throat.

God, what the hell had I done?

I rubbed my face with my hands. I didn’t feel any crusted semen around my mouth, my ass didn’t hurt, and there wasn’t any spunk inside of me, so either I’d been clear-headed enough to clean myself up or…

Or someone else had done it for me. I automatically looked down and saw that I was wearing a pair of sweats and a loose-fitting T-shirt. I didn’t have any underwear on, and my hair was damp.

Had my brother cleaned me up when I’d gotten home? If so, why wasn’t I in my room?

Get your ass out of bed and find out why, you asshole.

The voice was the same one that had tried to tell me to walk out of Tank’s the second I’d handed free use of my body over to biker guy.

This time I listened. It took a while to get my aching body moving. It felt like I’d been run over by a semi. Every muscle burned; every bone ached.

I stumbled to the nearest window and saw nothing but green.

Everywhere.

Pine trees.

Pine trees weren’t something one saw a lot of in Los Angeles.

“Where the fuck am I?” I breathed. I went to look through the first open doorway and saw that it was a small bathroom. I made use of the toilet and then went to check out the second doorway.

I was greeted with a small landing attached to a wooden staircase. Even with a handrail, I wasn’t sure I’d make it down the steps in one piece.

Since I didn’t have a lot of options… or any, really, I began my descent. I really wanted my gun because I had a bad feeling about what—or rather, who—I’d find on the lower floor. I told myself over and over that it would be my brother who greeted me and then explained what the hell had happened and where the fuck we were.

The first floor of what I assumed was a cabin was just as barren as the bedroom. Even though I didn’t have my gun, I cleared each room slowly as if I were armed.

Unlike my house, the cabin didn’t really have any rooms. To my left was an open living space with more mismatched and very outdated furniture. I didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about it because my only concern was seeing if the space was empty or not.

It was.

There was a door in front of me that led outside but when I tried to open it, it wouldn’t budge. It had a deadbolt lock on it that required a key to unlock it. I swallowed down my fear that I was locked in the cabin and looked to my right. I was greeted with a long but narrow dining room. The table filled most of the space. It was made from the same kind of wood as the stairs. At the end of the room was a wide opening leading to what looked like a kitchen. Based on the layout that I’d already seen, it was a good bet that it was the last room in the place.

I tried to listen for any sound that would confirm I wasn’t alone, but there was nothing. I wasn’t sure if I was happy or sad about that. Being ditched at the cabin with nowhere to go was one thing, but being in the cabin with the person I suspected had brought me there was another.

God, I was being ridiculous. I wasn’t in some slasher flick, and I wasn’t some dumb teenager who hid themself in the darkest room which also happened to have dozens of sharp pointy objects and no way out. I was a cop, damn it.

Correction.

I’d been a cop.

My inner voice told me to stop stalling and move my ass.

His back was to me when I stepped into the kitchen. He was sitting at a small table. It looked like he was reading. All I needed was a heavy object and I’d be out of there.

“There’s coffee,” Cass said.

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of his voice. Of course the asshole would hear me. I took a quick look around the kitchen but didn’t see my gun or phone. I didn’t see anything except for the coffee pot and an empty mug sitting in front of it.

“The sugar’s already in the mug,” Cass continued. “Two teaspoons,” he added. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t appear wary that I was standing behind him and had access to a hot coffee pot that could double as a weapon.

He also didn’t seem concerned about the wide-open door on the far side of the room.

“What is this?” I asked as I gave Cass a wide berth and moved so I could see him from the front. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His feet were bare.

They were sexy.

Who the hell thought feet were sexy, and how could someone even have sexy feet?

Easy answer.

Apparently, I thought they were sexy, and Cass’s genes had made sure every part of his body screamed sex on a stick.

A stack of files sat in the middle of the table. There was a banker’s box on the floor with more files.

“What is this?” I repeated. “Where are we?”

“You’re a cop, JJ. Figure it out.”

“God, Cass, you are such a fucking⁠—”

“Get your coffee before you get started on… whatever,” Cass said with a little wave of his hand.

I found myself heading for the coffee pot before I even realized I shouldn’t be following any of his orders. The need for caffeine won out. I went to the coffee and filled my mug, which did indeed have what looked like two sugars—I froze as a startling realization hit me. “How do you know how I take my coffee, Cass?” I asked as I continued to stare at the mug.

“Fill the cup and come sit,” Cass said. He sounded tired. Again, my body began following the order without thinking. It took me a painfully long time to go to the table. I glanced at the open door again.

“It’s open because I’m claustrophobic,” Cass stated without looking at me. “You’re free to go if you want, but I’m not going to follow you this time, JJ.”

“Where are my things?” I asked even as I dismissed the door and slowly sat down in the chair across from Cass. “My gun, my phone?”

I believed Cass when he said he wouldn’t follow me. I’d already put enough pieces together to know I was in a wooded area in a higher elevation, which meant I was likely in the mountains far outside the city. It was late spring but that didn’t mean it was warm wherever the hell we were, and judging by the light outside, the sun was going down. That meant cooler temperatures. There probably wouldn’t be any people in the immediate vicinity either, so sure, I could leave, but I’d be wandering in the woods at night without proper clothing. Chances were that I’d be dead in a matter of days if some wild animal didn’t get me first. Whatever was happening was clearly a setup.

“They’re safe,” Cass responded.

I shook my head because the word games were driving me crazy. “Fuck, Cass, just tell me what’s happening! Where are we and why did you bring me here? Where’s Sully? And how the fuck do you know how I take my coffee? We’ve never had coffee together,” I snapped.

Cass flinched for the briefest of moments. He had yet to look at me. When he did lift his eyes, I could honestly say I didn’t recognize them. During the few encounters we’d had in the past couple of weeks, I’d seen a variety of emotions when he’d looked at me, but this time it was different.

He looked so… worn out.

Beaten.

Broken.

I glanced over my shoulder at the open door behind me. He was claustrophobic. Since when? The answer struck me quick and hard.

Prison.

Being in a prison cell for long periods of time would do that.

“This,” Cass said as he motioned to the files in front of him, “is a case we are going to work together.”

“What?” I asked in disbelief. “What case?”

“Our case,” he responded. “All these files represent every piece of evidence the cops had against me when I was put on trial plus some stuff that was never disclosed. You and I are going to stay in this cabin and go through every shred of it. You get to play cop and lawyer, JJ. You get to find the proof in these files that I did what you and everyone in this city, this country, believe I did.”

“I don’t need to look through the evidence because⁠—”

“Because you read the papers, watched the news clips about my trial,” Cass interjected. “Tell me something. If you’d been assigned to investigate this case, would you have relied on the press to get to the truth of what happened? Would you condemn a man to spend the rest of his life in a cage, stripped of every right and freedom, based on what someone else told you happened?”

“No,” I automatically responded because Cass knew it was the only answer a cop—an honest one—would say.

“So find the truth, JJ. Prove it was me beyond a reasonable doubt and I’ll go to the nearest police station and confess to committing the crimes I’m accused of. They’ll toss me back in a cell faster than you can blink.”

I shook my head, but no words came out. The idea of finding concrete proof, which I knew I would if all the evidence really was there, against Cass wasn’t a relief. I hated the idea of him being cuffed and put behind bars, even though that was where he belonged.

Fuck.

I needed to think like a cop and not like someone who’d shared a couple of hot kisses with some guy who’d only been in my life for a few years when I’d been a kid and the occasional holiday whenever he’d been on leave from the Marines.

“Do I get to question you?” I asked.

“Yep. Just like I get to question you. Find me guilty, JJ, but do it the right way. Prove it was me that night.”

“I don’t remember that night,” I barked in frustration. “Everyone knows that. I don’t remember anything that happened weeks, months before that night.”

“Most victims don’t remember traumatic events.”

“It’s not because of trauma, you dick. My brain⁠—”

“May or may not be damaged in the way you think it is,” Cass easily cut in. “I’ve read the news stories, too, JJ—the ones that said you had no memory of what happened because of brain damage—but I’m not going to come to any conclusions until I prove it to myself. I’m not taking someone else’s word for it.”

“What if I say no?” I asked even though I already knew I wouldn’t… couldn’t. I was desperate to fill in the gaps of a time I had no memory of.

“Then we go back to the city. I’m a free man so I’ll go wherever the hell I want, and you, well, you’ll probably go back to trying to prove to your brother that you’re perfectly fine and then you’ll go to some club, drink however much alcohol it takes to start shutting your brain down, and then let any and every guy fuck you so you don’t have to think at all.”

My stomach dropped out at his words. He couldn’t know about any of that. Except he did, which meant…

“You were there. At Tank’s. Last night or the one before.” Humiliation buried itself beneath my skin until it felt like a living thing trying to escape my body in some other way.

Please, God, let me be wrong.

“It was last night,” Cass responded. “And yes, JJ, I was there. I saw everything.”