THE CRAZY GOOD SERIES - Rachel Robinson Page 0,264

newly established Ridge Contracting, which just so happens to be a very legal business. As long as you have wise, discreet people backing you and helping run operations, everything stays on the up and up. Ridge Contracting is comprised of men with all of the above mentioned characteristics and more, because the men are exactly like me. Most of them are former SEALs, hungry for a life they left behind, yearning for the same rush that comes from no other workplace. I’m happy to offer them the opportunity to taste that familiar adrenaline rush. Although it’s fairly new, the success rate of my company is unparalleled. I can work from anywhere. It’s a blessing and a curse.

Currently, I’m in my NYC apartment among the clouds and smog of a city too busy to stop and acknowledge it. I prefer NYC over my other residences because I can blend into the background, hidden by the influx of life. Lainey frequents NYC on business, which also makes this apartment one of my favorites. I can stalk her. Well, not crazy, asshole stalk, just keep tabs on her every once in a while—remind myself of what used to before I worked my life away. With my knowledge of technology, I could do far more than keep tabs on her, so that fact helps me sleep at night. I miss companionship, my old life, but most of all, I miss Lainey.

I keep the TV on. It’s always muted, only there to shine light into my dark apartment. It masks my sense of loneliness. All I have to do is glance up and see familiar faces smiling on a popular sitcom, or even the overacted gestures of a reality star to give me a dose of humanity. Not that I can be proud of what society has lumbered to, but that it’s what most people find normal. I don’t need to hear their voices. Human features are enough for me.

“Don’t trust him,” I say, smirking at the television. The actress will undoubtedly end up heartbroken with more baggage than any decent man wants. She doesn’t realize it. They never do.

I tap on my keyboard while chewing the end of the plastic spout of my water bottle. It dangles from my mouth like a dog with a bone. It’s not water. Taking a pull of liquid, I glance at one of the three computer monitors when it pings an alert. “Oh, fun,” I growl around the bottle spout. A new job. Saving information to an encrypted hard drive, I formulate a plan. Not all jobs require the same tactics. If Ridge Contracting is hired, then one thing is for sure: secrecy is key and the target is a high profile bastard. I’ve always killed bad guys. My job isn’t much different in that way. Now there’s no media backlash or mountains of paperwork. I reply to the message, letting them know I have what they need.

I take a long pull out of the spout hanging from my mouth while looking at the TV again, and whisper, “I told you so.” Shaking my head at the obvious conflict. No one gets happily ever afters anymore, I think. Not even the bastards on TV. I had mine back when I was a good, upstanding man. Unfortunately, it didn’t last forever. And it tasted so sweet while it was mine. All I have now is memories of Lainey Rosemont: her head thrown back in laughter, her straight, white, mischievous smile moments before she takes me into her mouth, the way she worries her lip when she reads her emails, the smell of her hair after she showers, the way her eyes become soulful and clear when she whispers, “I love you, Cody Ridge.” I swallow down the lump that forms at that last memory. I can’t blame her. No, Lainey is not to be blamed for our ill-fated love story. The blame lies squarely on my own shoulders. Absentmindedly, I reach down and rub the deep, jagged scars on my ankles and wince at the nightmare they force to the forefront of my mind.

“The motherfuckers are hiding over there. I know it,” Steve growls, sweat pouring down his face, marring the black face paint swiped on his forehead. The terrain is a huge, hot jungle. Humidity was born here and I think I may fucking die. Intel told us where the fuckers would be. Bad weather, which wasn’t anticipated, rained on that fucking parade. Literally. Now we’re off target