Whistleblower (PALADIN Book 1)

I am spoiled rotten at The Residences—the luxury apartment that Callen set up for me when I first relocated. It’s meant to be temporary—until I can find a house—but the real estate market here is a nightmare, and I’m in no rush to leave.

My apartment is on the forty-second floor. The entire back wall of the living room is a giant window, overlooking the cityscape of high rises as far as the eye can see. Yes, the elevator ride up feels like the beginning of the Tower of Terror ride at Disney World, but once you’re no longer accelerating at, what seems like, eighty miles an hour, the view from up here is peaceful and astonishing.

I feel like I’m on top of the world—above it all. Safe from it all. The monsters can’t get me up here.

The apartment itself is tiny. Barely over 800-square-feet, it’s a vast difference from my 3,000-square-foot, two-story back in California. But who needs that much space when it’s just me? I like this apartment, it suits me well and I’m treated to all the amenities here. I even have weekly housekeeping, not that I leave them much to do.

Using my key fob, I unlock the electronically activated door. I step out of my flats in the entry and appreciate the feel of the cool wood floors against my feet. After hanging up my purse, I make my way to the kitchen to put a kettle of water on. My guilty pleasure is instant, decaf coffee with Kahlua and Hershey’s syrup and tonight is the night for indulgences.

I try to ignore the image in my head of Linc’s wounded expression when I insisted on not attending tonight’s outing. I’m sure the doctor will be there, so he should be thoroughly entertained. Judging by the animalistic noises I heard coming out of that office, they—clearly—know how to have a good time.

I’m good with being alone… A sweet, decaf coffee paired with a deliciously trashy book has been my routine for months now. There are far worse ways to spend an evening.

The kettle is whistling before I notice the open beer bottle on my kitchen counter. It’s dripping with condensation and a small puddle of water surrounds it. Odd. I open my fridge door as my heart begins to pound. Did I miss something? Checking my fridge, I confirm my discomfort. I don’t have beer… Because I don’t drink beer.

Someone was in my apartment.

My heart rate rises to the pace of a hummingbird’s wings. Breathing in deeply through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, I attempt to ease the panic.

Stay calm.

You are so fucking paranoid.

You have housekeeping, remember?

Rushing to the coat hooks by the entryway, I retrieve my cell phone from my purse and call the apartment building’s service line.

“Good evening, this is Georgie.”

“Hi Georgie,” I begin, forcing myself to speak slowly and clearly. “My name is Eden Abbott. I’m in apartment four-two-eight-nine. I’m calling to check in on the housekeeping schedule this week. Were there any changes? I’m scheduled for Monday afternoons between one and three o’clock but I believe someone’s been in my apartment today.”

Please, please say there was a swap. My heart is beating so hard, it’s impossible to focus on anything else. Georgie asks me to wait one moment as he rustles through papers.

“Ma’am, you’re still scheduled for Monday. I don’t have any logs for forty-two eighty-nine today.” Georgie’s tone is lackadaisical. He clearly doesn’t understand how important this conversation is to me.

“Were there any maintenance checks today?” I continue almost pleadingly. “I believe I saw an email about fire and carbon monoxide alarm checks.”

“Uh,” Georgie says, loudly clicking a computer mouse. “Those are supposed to start next week, but it’s possible maintenance got started early. We have a couple of guys out for the holiday next week.”

Phew. Okay, good. “Georgie, one of the maintenance workers left a beer dripping on my kitchen island counter. All due respect, I’d appreciate it if they’d take their belongings with them.”

“Jesus, ma’am. I am so sorry. I’ll fill out a report. They shouldn’t be drinking on the job.”

“Oh no, please don’t bother. No need to get anyone in trouble, I was just a little startled is all. Thank you for clarifying. Have a good evening.”

“You as well, ma’am.”

My heart rate finally calms. Never in my life have I been more appreciative of rebellious, sloppy apartment maintenance workers. I dump the beer down the drain and rinse the bottle before dropping it down the apartment’s built-in recycling shoot.

Fully dressed in pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt, I fix my coffee treat and head to the bedroom. I’d rather read under the covers tonight, and my current contemporary romance novel is already bookmarked on a sexy page and waiting for me on my bedroom nightstand.

Pretend with Me is one of my prized possessions because it’s signed by the author. I drove out of my way to San Francisco in the hellish traffic to a local bookstore when I learned Adler Haley was in town. Actually, I believe it’s Adler Lewis now. I remember her explaining there was some confusion with her publisher over changing her name on the cover. People were getting confused after she took her husband’s last name, but from the sounds of it, she told her publisher to shove it and make the change. She was proud to be a Lewis. I smile at the memory, she had such a big personality for such a petite little thing.

I try to conjure up an image of a suitable male main character in my mind. Adler’s book describes him as tall, dark, and handsome. He’s intelligent, bookish, and definitely a brunette with dark eyes, but for some reason, all I can picture are Linc’s light blue eyes, his thick muscular forearms, and his broad, sculpted shoulders that are always easy to make out through all his thin dress shirts.

Fine. It was a pretty intense crush. It’s going to take a little extra time to get over it—

Holy shit.

I nearly choke on my spit when I pull back my duvet cover. The coffee in my mug sloshes over the rim. It’s not quite hot enough to burn me, but it makes a mess—down my forearm, onto my clean white sheets, right onto the red envelope lying underneath the covers.

My heart rate accelerates out of control again as I set my mug down like a zombie and confront the reality in front of me.

It wasn’t maintenance.

The envelope is unmarked, but the note inside is unmistakable—

Eden, we need to talk.

Visit Hanesville.

– Porky

It was a stupid nickname. On my first day at Empress, when I met the CEO, Pierre Corky, I couldn’t help but think what a funny name it was. I had to rehearse our introduction about a hundred times to keep myself from giggling like a loon. When it finally came time to shake his hand, I’d given myself the yips. I accidentally called him, “Mr. Porky.” He thought it was so funny, he insisted everyone at the office start calling him Porky.

Pierre and I used to laugh a lot. We genuinely enjoyed each other’s company… Until I ruined him and put him behind bars for 25 to life.

He’s in prison, so how the hell is he drinking beer in my apartment and stuffing notes between my sheets? I wish I had my timer. Five minutes is all I need to allow the shaking nerves to overwhelm my body. I’d collapse to the floor and cry because I am so fucking tired of living in fear.

But I’ve got no timer and no time to spare. I allow my rational brain to take over, walking me through the logistics.

I’ve been home for forty minutes at least. The apartment is small. I’m staring across the bed into my walk-through closet and it’s impossible to conceal yourself on either side of the built-ins. I used the bathroom when I got home and saw there was no one in the glass walk-in shower. My bed is on a solid frame. Even the windows have electric blinds, no drapes. There is nowhere to hide. And if someone was waiting for me, they would have presented themselves by now. Whoever was here is long gone.

I’d call the police but I’m not sure what to say. I needed a team of three lawyers to explain the NDAs I agreed to. The public information is that Empress violated basically every single state and federal law, against digital privacy, possible. The whole truth is far more harrowing and I was given a gag order to never share that narrative—not even to local authorities. It’s above their pay grade.

I can’t go to just anyone with this. I need Callen. If the FBI can’t protect me, who can?

After mopping up the spilled coffee as best I can, I hurry to my closet to get dressed. It doesn’t matter what I wear, I just need something that won’t make me look so out of place at an upscale martini bar lounge. I need to do my best to blend in…

I have no idea who might be watching me.

Martinis is a swanky-looking lounge. The mood lights are vibrant colors and the entire place is covered in a smoky haze, but it doesn’t smell offensive. No… It smells like someone is running a Hookah machine in the vents for ambiance. Presently, the entire place smells like cherries, mandarin oranges, and warm vanilla. It’s the perfect place for a girls’ night, which explains why when I spot the PALADIN team in an enormous curved booth in the back corner, it looks like Cricket is having the most fun. She’s sandwiched in the middle of the booth with cards fanned in one of her hands, and cash wadded up in her other fist. She’s arguing with one of the Agent Smiths.

“Bambi!” she shouts as I near the table, spotting me first.

Linc, who is sitting at the edge of the booth, whips his head around so fast, there’s no masking his surprise. He not-so-subtly eyes me up and down before his brooding stare locks on my face. His brows knit in confusion.

“Hello everyone.” I flash a sheepish smile.

“Feeling better?” Linc asks with a flattened tone.

“A bit,” I say, quickly remembering my earlier excuse. “Where’s Callen?”

To my utter surprise, Linc rolls his eyes. “Of course,” he mutters, his agitation unmistakable. What the hell is that about? Linc points to the bar where Callen is attempting to flag down a waitress. I don’t have time for Linc’s sudden attitude, so I turn on my heel and make a beeline for the bar.

I tap Callen on the shoulder. When he turns to face me, I see he’s on the phone. “Hey,” he mouths distractedly. “You came.”

“Yes, um—can we talk in private? Something strange happened tonight. I need to know if Pierre Corky is out of prison, but I don’t want to go poking around by myself. Are you able to—”

Callen holds his finger up, interrupting me as he tries to focus on his phone call. His eyes grow wide. “Bring him to the compound,” he hisses into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He looks at me and shoots me an overcompensating smile, again, while looking for the bartender. He doesn’t have time for me right now, but who else do I have?

“Callen, did you hear what I said? I think I was followed from California. I think I’m being watched.”

“Watched?” he parrots, almost incoherently.

I blow out a deep breath, my patience growing thin. Just listen. For God’s sake, someone please take me fucking seriously. “I think Pierre Corky—”

The bartender suddenly appears in front of us.

“How ya doing, partner?” she asks Callen while she winks at me. Her low auburn ponytail is swept to the side and her teeth are very white, but those are the only distinct features I can make out of hers in the dimly lit lounge.

“I have to go. Keep my tab open for everyone in that corner, okay?”

“Really?” she asks in shock.

Callen’s groans. “How bad is it?”

“Honestly?” the bartender asks, glancing over his shoulder. “You don’t want to know. You may need to take out a second mortgage.”

He snorts. “Buy them whatever they want.” Then he turns his attention to me. “Can you sign for me? It’s the company card. Give this angel a thirty percent tip of the total. I have to run—emergency.”

He’s already dialing another number on his phone.

“Callen, wait. Please just one minute—”

But he doesn’t hear me as he hustles away toward the back of the lounge. Now, I officially feel stranded. I don’t want to go home. Callen is no help. I could get a hotel room for the evening, but whoever could break into my apartment could probably find me at a hotel. Fuck. Alone again… I forgot how much this sucks—

“Fisherman’s Paradise is pretty good.”

A large hand presses against the small of my back. Linc hunches over me from behind and taps the top line of the drink menu in front of me. He whispers in my ear, “But you’re so little it’ll probably knock you on your ass.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about martinis, because quite frankly, Linc touching me still makes my head go fuzzy, and my knees all but liquefy.

“I’m not little.” Five foot four is a reasonable height.

He snorts. “Oh yes, Bambi. Yes, you are.” I spin around and I’m suddenly in Linc’s arms. His hands rest around my hips and his voice goes low and rumbly. “I could scoop you up, hoist you over my shoulder, and carry you right out of here like it was nothing… Maybe I should.”

I scowl at him, and yet, I lean forward, resting my hands on his forearms which are exposed. In fact, his arms—all the way up to his protruding bicep—are visible for once. I’m used to seeing him in long sleeves. I fight the temptation to trail my finger over the muscular curves of his arms. I think about Kryptonite and how helpless Superman could feel at times. Absolutely powerless in the presence of your weakness.

Linc circles his thumbs around my hip bone. “Is this okay?”

Yes, don’t you dare stop touching me. “You’re calling me Bambi now, too?”

The whites of his teeth flash against the dark hue of the lounge as he smiles. “It’s just because of your beautiful, big brown eyes.”

I scoff, knowing that is not the reason Cricket dubbed me Bambi.

“Are you drunk?”

His thumbs freeze in place and I immediately miss the soothing circles. “Why would you say that?”

“You’re being so…flirty.”

“Two Fishermans,” Linc says over my shoulder to the bartender before he grabs my hand and drags me to a small booth on the opposite side of the lounge from the crowd. “Sit,” he demands. I slide into the booth and Linc follows, blocking me in with his large frame. Even sitting, he towers over me. Every time I’m alone with Linc I feel like I’m suspended between arousal and fear—the most confusing combination of nerves and hopeful anticipation. Wet from lust, but absolutely dry with anxiety. I still haven’t decided if I like it.

“I understand why you ran the other night, but I promise you, Eden, I’m not—”

“You don’t owe me explanations, Linc.”

“I do…because I still…” His brows cinch, and he pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s uncomfortable.

“Do you want to try a lie?” I offer. For some reason, it’s easier for us to tell each other how we’re not feeling, than how we are.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I want to tell you the truth, which is I like you and I don’t want you to be afraid of me. How can I show you that there’s more to me? I’m trying. I…listen, I thought leaving you that book would show you how I feel about you, but nothing—not even an acknowledgment. Then, we kiss, and you run. Maybe I should let it go, but I can’t sleep wondering what the hell is going through your head. How are you feeling, and why?”

“How am I feeling?”

Burying my face in my hands, I let all the pressure in my head swell and I feel dangerously close to exploding. Images flash through my head: the beer bottle, the letter, useless Callen, Porky’s laughter, and the visual of the doctor’s legs hooked over Linc’s shoulders.

“Linc, I don’t have time for this, tonight. I just came here because I need Callen’s help, but he left.”

Linc reaches across me and yanks on a little metal chain dangling from the tabletop lamp. Both of our faces are illuminated and he studies my expression intently.

“You’re scared. What’s wrong?”

“I…”

There’s no one who could protect me like Linc. But what the hell am I allowed to tell him? Explaining how Porky might be stalking me would require telling him what I know about Empress, and why I’m hiding it. The truth ruined my entire life, and I don’t know if I want to keep telling it. It’s not fair. I did the right thing. But why me? Why my burden? I’ll never get used to this—stalking, threats, harassment, and worst of all…shame. My neck is sore from constantly looking over my shoulder. I work in a compound crawling with FBI agents with the highest security clearances and their guard dog hitmen.

And I still don’t feel safe.

“Scooch!” I growl at Linc. Naturally, he looks confused, so I shoo him with my fingers to further my point. He hesitates for a moment, looking wounded, his normally blue eyes are almost light gray against the black of his polo shirt. But I don’t have time to dwell on how stupidly handsome this man is. I’m about to cry, and I want to be alone. “Let me out!” I shriek, and this time he immediately stands.

I take a few paces toward the bathroom before I double back, my hysteric emotions getting the best of me. “And as for the book… I went looking for you to thank you, but you were busy fucking Doctor Hartley. So, I apologize if I’m confused on how I feel.”

I hurry away before the tears begin to fall.