Ace in the Hole (City Meets Country Book 4) Read online




  Ace in the Hole

  By Mysti Parker & MJ Post

  *****

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Mysti Parker on Kindle Direct Publishing

  Ace in the Hole

  City Meets Country #4

  Copyright © 2018 Mysti Parker & MJ Post

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, shame on you. Every time a book is stolen, a kitten dies somewhere in the world. You don't want to kill a kitten, do you? Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and/or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only and not an implied endorsement. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

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  Chapter One

  Ace Montgomery sat in front of his iPad, sweating bullets. He sipped a fresh cup of decaf, but even the lack of a stimulant didn't calm his racing pulse. Should this interview go well, he'd be on his way to parts unknown, to the concrete jungle of New York City. For all the times he'd been punched, kicked, bit, shot and stabbed, a simple Skype interview and a potential move should have been a piece of cake. But he'd never used Skype, and he'd never lived anywhere but Kentucky. He'd traveled some, enjoyed Chicago’s skyline and San Diego’s beaches, but how was a good old country boy supposed to feel at home in a city like that?

  He cleared his throat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It wouldn't do for Miss Kingston to see his fear. His cousin Harper had told him the lady needed a security guard for her bar, and if Ace knew anything, it was security. He reminded himself of that, in hopes it would garner him a little more confidence.

  The clock ticked from 11:29 to 11:30. Showtime. All he had to do was press the video call button on Skype. Lena, his cousin Jaxon's fiancée, was in advertising and had convinced him to implement more mobile technology for his private security business. She’d done good things for Jaxon’s air tour business, so he thought it couldn’t hurt. Security these days required some high-tech gear to match what criminals were using. He’d already invested in surveillance equipment but syncing it all to mobile apps and such took a big learning curve.

  Things may have been slow going, but it sure as hell beat working in the drug enforcement branch of the state police. This new job could turn things around for him.

  That is, if he could figure out where the damn video call button was.

  The clock now read 11:31. Great, already late. He scanned his Skype window, clicked on her name – Sailor Kingston - and the faceless white profile picture. That didn't do it. Finally, he spied a camera-like icon and clicked on it. A black screen popped up, with a musical doop, doop, doop, do-do-doop! He picked up his coffee and sipped it.

  A face popped up on the screen. It held the impatient frown of a woman with blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Ace froze. She might already be pissed at him, but this woman was ...wow. How would he describe her? Stunning? Gorgeous? A supermodel? She had perfect hair and makeup. Her black onyx and white pearl earrings and necklace matched her dress - a sleeveless one that looked like something a first lady might wear. Definition: Way out of his league.

  His coffee slipped from his hand. The mug hit the floor, but not before spilling its contents on his jeans and shirt, where it soaked through and scalded his skin. He pinched the shirt fabric, pulling it out and in quickly in an attempt to cool the burn. Damn, now he realized he should have worn a tie and jacket instead of a simple dress shirt.

  "....a bad time, we can reschedule." The woman's voice brought him to attention. This had to be Miss Kingston's lawyer or a personal assistant or something.

  "No, ma'am, not a bad time. Just spilled some coffee on myself." Good lord, he sounded like a brainless idiot.

  She didn't smile. In fact, she didn't show any emotion, except for glancing at a gold watch on her wrist as though she had better things to do. "Well then, I suppose we can get this interview started. I'm Sailor Kingston."

  He sat there blinking at the screen for a moment. This was the Miss Kingston? "Ace Montgomery."

  "Thank you for your interest in this position." She shuffled through some papers. "I don't know exactly what Harper may have told you about it, but your resume is impressive enough. It says here you worked for the Kentucky State Police for five years. May I ask what prompted you to leave?"

  A scene flashed through his mind - a bare, swinging lightbulb, matted blonde hair...

  He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. "I... needed something different. You can only serve so many speeding tickets before things get boring."

  "So then you went into private security. Tell me about that."

  "Yes, I work for various clients. I train security staff, do private investigating, and occasional bodyguard work for visiting celebrities and politicians."

  Miss Kingston nodded and tapped a perfectly red-polished nail on her chin as she scanned the resume. "I see. Have you ever worked in a lounge before?"

  "Do you mean a bar?"

  She glanced up, with what might have been a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Yes, a bar. The Hole is a bar and lounge with a limited food menu. It's an upscale establishment in Brooklyn."

  Ace scratched at the back of his neck and smiled. "Upscale, maybe. But sounds like you've got a rowdy crowd of city folk in there."

  Her shoulders lifted and lowered with a nonchalant shrug. "That's why I'm looking for someone to provide better security. I'm not sure why my establishment is attracting such a boisterous crowd, but it is, despite my best efforts."

  "What would you call your best efforts?" He'd become the interviewer now. Shoot, if he was about to pull up roots and move his redneck ass to the big city, he wanted to be sure about what he was getting himself into.

  "I have a couple of bouncers on staff, but they aren't doing their jobs."

  "How so?"

  She fiddled with her necklace and let out a sigh, then looked past her computer screen as though making sure no one was listening in. The change in the light's angle revealed dark circles under her eyes and sunken cheeks that suggested she wasn't eating enough. Beneath all the put-togetherness she tried to portray, was a weary woman at the end of her rope.

  She returned her attention to the screen and met his gaze. Her eyes were
a beautiful shade of blue, but full of seriousness. "They won't check IDs half the time, they stare at their phones instead of watching the patrons to stop fights before they begin. Even when a fight does break out, sometimes I have to make them intervene."

  "Why not fire them and hire better bouncers?"

  "I've tried that. The big Manhattan nightclubs keep luring them away. Less work and more pay."

  "Can't you offer them more?"

  "No, I can't compete with those big establishments. My money's tied up in several properties, so...it's not feasible at this time."

  Ace sat back in his seat, fingers drumming his thighs. "Let me guess - you inherited a bunch of money and property, but also all the taxes and liens that came along with it. Now you're in over your head. How do you expect me to help you with all that?"

  She sat up even straighter than before, if that was even possible, and stared him down. "I don't expect you to help me with all that. I just want you to clean up my bar. Do you think you can manage that, or do I need to look elsewhere?"

  "I'm not cheap."

  "I'm aware of that. Can you handle rowdy drunks or not?" She'd taken back the reins of this interview. He had to admire her for that.

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm an expert sharpshooter, trained in close combat, with black belts in Krav Maga and Taekwondo. As a state trooper, I took down armed suspects on numerous occasions, many of whom were high as the Empire State building at the time. I think I can handle some drunks."

  She tilted her head to one side, arching one sculpted brow. "I thought you said all you did was write speeding tickets."

  "No, ma'am, I said I was tired of writing speeding tickets."

  "Well then, how soon can you get to New York?"

  "As soon as my Indian Chief can get me there."

  Those baby blues of hers widened. "Your what?"

  "You'll see."

  She shrugged. Her face went back to stone-cold business lady. "I don't care how you get here, but you better be worth the expense."

  "I'll be worth it and then some, ma'am."

  After he'd printed off some paperwork, he packed his bags and loaded them up on his motorcycle. No wife, no kids, no pets - nothing but an old farmhouse that wouldn't miss him for a few months. That's how he liked it. But damn, he had a feeling once he got to know Sailor Kingston, it might be awful hard to come back home.

  Chapter Two

  Mr. Montgomery certainly looked tough, Sailor Kingston thought, and his curt law enforcement Q & A style made a nice contrast with the rugged country-boy exterior. She briefly imagined him in a cowboy hat, tight jeans with a big buckle on a leather belt, and rattlesnake-skin boots. In Brooklyn. Riiiiight. He wasn’t a cowboy; he was a security man, and yet underneath the professional exterior, he was probably a mixed-up marshmallow like his cousin, Harper.

  As she snapped her laptop shut, Sailor managed to block out the drunken bellowing that penetrated her office door from the barroom. The stink of smoke – since The Hole was now a city-licensed smoking-allowed establishment – was harder to ignore. Both her parents had smoked like factory stacks, but she didn’t care for those things, unlike some of her college girlfriends who had smoked to avoid eating so they could keep fitting into skintight outfits and balancing their skeletal forms atop $1500 Jimmy Choos. None of those girlfriends were in her life anymore. Her parents were gone since their two-engine plane went down. Her sister was in Australia as an anthropologist pretending to care about aborigines. No one was in her life anymore.

  She told herself that her bouncer, Axl, was there to deal with the noisy bellowing. Axl was tall and had tattooed arms. Those were plusses for barroom brawling, weren’t they?

  A blast of music entered her office as her cocktail waitress Gabby burst in, and subsided as the door clicked shut. Gabby was holding her phone, an older model LG, which was still lit with a text message. Her face was wet. Had Ugly Ike, the one-eyed ex-firefighter, splattered beer in her face again? If so, Ugly Ike was due to be thrown out once more, assuming she could get Axl to stir himself to do it. But no, those were tears. Tears were uglier than Ugly Ike. There should be no crying at work; in fact, as she saw it, there should be no crying.

  No one named Kingston ever cried or complained. After all, her mother said, that doesn’t really help, does it? When you’re done crying, the problem is the same. Mother Kingston’s motto was, “Solutions not sadness.” She also said, “Brush away your bad feelings; they are unworthy of someone of your stature.”

  Gabby wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “Sailor, I have a family emergency.”

  Yeah, right, Sailor thought. With her lip piercing and leather vest, she was the type who’d get a call to bail her bullying boyfriend out of jail. #GetAGripOnYourLifeGirl. “It’s busy. I need you.”

  “I know.”

  “Tips will be better.”

  “I’d rather stay, Sailor. But it’s an emergency. I have to go. I’m just letting you know.”

  What would it take to strengthen the young woman’s commitment to her job? “Gabby, you know I’d like to pay you extra, but I already pay a better salary than other bars in the area.”

  “It’s not money, Sailor!” Gabby wiped her eyes again, waved her phone. “It’s an emergency, I told you. I’m going. You won’t fire me, right?”

  “No, I won’t fire you. I really can’t, can I? I mean, you know what to say, playing the family emergency card.”

  Gabby pounded her thighs with her fists. “C’mon, Sailor. Shit! It’s serious.”

  Sailor reached into the open safe on the floor behind her, sorted a twenty and a fifty from the loose cash there. She stuffed it in Gabby’s hand. “Go take care of the emergency. Here’s a little extra if you need it. Okay? Give me a call later and let me know you’re okay.”

  Gabby snorted. “Yeah, okay. Okay, thanks, Sailor.” She turned on her heel to leave and left the door open.

  Sailor slammed the safe shut, then tied on a waitress apron. She’d be doing Gabby’s job tonight – again – and would have to stay late to do the books. At least The Hole was making money, for now. She headed out into the brouhaha that was her place of business.

  In the barroom she found Pippi, the bartender, whose silk shirt was open in the front to reveal a red bra and breasts tattooed with one broken heart apiece. There also was Axl, the bouncer, a towering lean man with too many buttons undone to expose his pale soft chest, and his sleeves torn away to show off heavily tattooed arms. Both were leaning on the bar engrossed in the messages on their phone screens. Axl was just setting down a shot glass. He’d long claimed he only drank club soda from those, and Sailor hadn’t been able to find evidence otherwise, but it was still annoying.

  The brightly painted walls in the interior of The Hole were stained with beer and food spills that sponge and soap would not get out. The crazy geometry, like the giant projecting corbel of pipes hanging over the stage and the triangular skylight over the ladies’ room, were a nice match with the shiny chrome and red vinyl barstools ringing the circular bar, but did too little to erase the atmosphere created by raucous laughter and shouted profanities.

  Ugly Ike occupied one side of the circular central bar area on his own. He smelled, and he spilled his drinks on others with aplomb. A knot of bikers was hanging out at two tables near the jukebox. Sailor’s twice-a-week guitarist, the wispy-bearded Amsterdam transplant, Pieter, had already finished his set and was having a burger at a table near the stage. There was a couple drinking on another side of the bar, a rangy muscular man with shiny boots and a sour-faced woman in an unseasonable sweater, a black skirt, and, naturally, shiny boots that were an absurd shade of lavender. Next to them, two businessmen in shirt sleeves and loosened ties kept scanning the room for potential dangers. A few more patrons were less noticeable: jittery-looking couples on dates, two biker women with tall-boys, an old man who had achieved stuporous slumber with his head tilted back.

  Sailor moved from table to table and took a few orders. Rum Collins,
Russian River Blind Pig IPA – that was moving pretty well, based on her POS system – two vodka and Cokes, “whatever you got on tap that’s cheap,” a hot dog with five different condiments, a bag of potato chips. She was going to mark up the chips, since they were a brand rarely seen in Brooklyn, and people were curious about them.

  She gave the orders to Pippi, and added, “You want to close a couple of buttons, please?”

  “I’m too sore from the new ink,” Pippi answered.

  “Then put on a sweatshirt, okay?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Look – this place isn’t about showing off your tits – or your tats. Look it up in the employee manual.”

  Pippi smirked as she filled a mug with draft. “It has too many typos in it.”

  Sailor’s neck flushed hot – something her late mother had used to complain about that she had unluckily inherited. Sailor turned her body, felt her ankle twist as one of her feet did not follow suit. Her heel was caught in a hole in the floor – the hole made by the steak knife a drunk had dropped while trying to slash another drunk the week before. The tray with the mug wobbled as she regained her balance, and beer sloshed out and splattered the sour-faced woman in the stupid outfit.

  “The hell?” the woman demanded. “Watch what you’re doing, you clumsy twit!”

  “I’m sorry,” Sailor said.

  “Sorry, huh? Sorry about my cashmere sweater?”

  “Yeah, I bought her that,” said the tall man, whose shiny boots had a red and orange fire pattern on the side. #ThatsTackyDude

  Sailor’s neck burned as she blurted, “Looks more like a cotton-polyester blend.” Whoops. #Don’tBitchAtBitches #TheyBitchBack

  “Goddamn it,” the man barked.

  “Where’s the manager?” the woman demanded. “Get me a manager right now.”

  “I’m the owner,” Sailor admitted. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I’ll help out with getting the sweater cleaned.”