Virgin for the Woodsman Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  Quickies with Eddie

  Saved by the Woodsman

  American Bad Boy Teaser

  Lauren

  Mack

  Virgin for the Woodsman

  Eddie Cleveland

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  36. Epilogue

  About the Author

  Quickies with Eddie

  Saved by the Woodsman

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Quickies with Eddie

  American Bad Boy Teaser

  1. Lauren

  2. Lauren

  3. Lauren

  4. Lauren

  5. Mack

  6. Mack

  Copyright © 2017 by Eddie Cleveland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  Cole

  Sitting in my darkened car, between lamp posts, I watch him slip out his front door from half a block away. He pulls one knee up to his chest, then the other. He shrugs his shoulders toward his tousled hair a couple of times and then puts his earbuds in before running out of sight.

  He does this every night. I’ve been watching.

  Waiting.

  The handle of my Glock 26 is warm. It’s been in my hand for almost an hour now, my body heat has transferred to the cool steel. I get out of my car and tuck it into my waistband. A quick look in each direction shows me that this sleepy little subdivision is clear.

  I refuse to run. Each step that I take toward his house is measured. Like a man out for an evening stroll. Nothing to see here, folks. Nobody important to remember.

  Walking up the driveway, I reach his front door and turn the handle, walking inside without hesitation. He always keeps it unlocked on these nightly jogs. I’ve kept tabs.

  My footsteps sound like thunder, echoing off the sparsely decorated walls. Not that the art hanging from them is cheap. Nope, Mommy and Daddy have provided only the best for their baby boy. I guess when you’re a Senator’s son, that is one of the perks.

  Only the best. Until the best bores you.

  My mouth tugs downward as a vivid memory of her face washes over me. Now isn’t the time for sentimentality, I remind myself, pushing the emotions down into a lead ball buried in my gut. There is only one thing I have time for right now: revenge.

  I cut my tour short and make my way upstairs two at a time. Squinting, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I can’t go turning on lights, warning him or his neighbors that I’m here. Nothing is going to screw this up. I’m taking care of this tonight.

  The details of his bedroom are easy to make out, even in the dark. Stepping inside makes a flurry of images from the video shuffle through my mind. The same nightstand with the same lamp perched upon it sits beside his bed. Even the comforter on the bed is the same.

  Rage boils the blood in my veins and I grit my teeth together.

  I hear the front door open. He’s home. He’s panting. The noise makes another flash of the video pop up in my mind. I push it down with the others. I force it all from my mind.

  Tilting my head, I listen to him fill a glass with water downstairs. It clinks as he sets it down on the counter. His feet stomp heavily on the stairs as he races up here. I pull out my gun and aim the lengthened barrel due to the octane K45 silencer I’ve attached to it, to keep nosy neighbors at bay.

  I’m ready.

  I take shallow, steady breaths and hold the Glock up at the ready, but he goes into the bathroom instead. Water sprays into the tub and the distinctive squeal of the shower curtain fasteners scraping across the metal bar lets me know he’s stepped inside to rinse off.

  Lowering my gun, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and wait.

  Her blue eyes watch me in my memory. Her slightly crooked smile squeezes my heart.

  When I got back from my military deployment overseas, that smile and those eyes had already been taken from me. Used up and thrown away by him. Now, I’ll never get her back.

  My mind snaps back into the present as I hear the shower turn off. Again, I lift my gun with a steady, experienced hand and wait.

  The switch on the wall snaps as the light overhead floods my vision, but I quickly blink away the spots blurring my vision and he comes into focus.

  My target.

  “Fuck! Jesus, who are you? Oh, my God, don’t shoot,” he holds up his hands and drops his towel. I’m tempted to shoot his wilted pecker clean off. Instead, I rush him. The fucking coward doesn’t even try to move. They say when you’re facing danger there are two responses, fight or flight. They forget about the most common one: freeze.
/>   “Get down on your fucking knees,” I bark out the order but he stands like a deer in the headlights. A swift crack of my gun across his cheek seems to do wonders for his listening ability. He sinks down and starts to cry.

  Poor baby.

  “Why? Why is this happening? Who are you?” He sobs, his hands are trembling by the sides of his head.

  “Don’t worry about who I am,” I snarl, pulling my phone free from my pocket as I keep my gun level to his head.

  I open the phone and press play. I can’t look at the screen. I’ve already seen it. My stomach twists into a knot as I hear his moans over the cell’s speaker, “Remember her?” I jam the phone against his nose and his eyes go wide.

  “Man, it’s not what you think. She didn’t even mean anything to me, it was just one night. We were both drunk! It was just a mistake,” he blurts out his words as tears flow over his cheeks.

  “Well she meant the world to me, you fucking prick! I’m going to make sure it’s a mistake you never make again.”

  I push the muzzle into his temple and he twists away, wincing. Trying to escape the fate I’ve decided for him. Cramming the phone back into my jeans, I grab his hair and dig the tip of the gun into his flesh.

  “I’m so sorry, okay? I’m sorry,” he blubbers.

  “You can stick your sorry in a sack, bud. Sorry don’t change a fucking thing.”

  BANG!

  Fragments of shattered bone, brains and a streak of blood hit the wall as his naked body slumps over on the floor. I quickly step over him, carefully avoiding the pool of blood pouring from the gushing hole in his skull, and race down the stairs.

  Even with a silencer, the distinctive sound of a gun being fired is easy to identify. It’s not like a movie where it practically whispers a tiny ‘pew-pew’ like a schoolgirl pointing her finger and thumb during recess. I don’t know if his neighbors heard the noise over their television shows, and I’m not about to stand around and find out.

  I hurry out the front door and try not to run as I retreat to my car. I’m all ready to go. I’ll need to toss the gun, of course, and stop to change my clothes somewhere. I’ll need to make sure none of that fucker’s blood splattered on my skin.

  I turn the keys in the ignition and drive away. I’ve already got the car packed and my passport in the glovebox. Stay calm. Stay cool. You still need to get past border patrol, I remind myself. Taking a deep breath, relief washes over me as I realize that piece of shit is dead.

  Now I just need to get to Canada and I’ll be free.

  2

  Abbie

  “Just look at all those woods down there! All those mountains! That bastard is hiding out there somewhere. And we’re gonna find him,” Mr. White yells over the tiny plane’s engine.

  For something so small, it sure makes a lot of noise. I nervously cling to the armrests of my uncomfortable seat, it’s only one of eight in the entire cabin. I’ve never seen a plane where you could lean over and have a conversation with the pilot if you felt like it. But then again, until today, I’d only ever seen airplanes on television. The commercials of smiling, gorgeous flight attendants serving people in luxury lounge chairs is very similar to the two jumbo jets we took to connect here, but a far cry from the reality of this flight.

  The turbulence of flying over the mountain range has been terrifying. It’s not hard to imagine your fiery death when the plane rattles so hard you’re left wondering if the wings are going to stay attached. However, apparently, I’m the only one worried. From the placid look on the bored attendant’s face, I can see this is all normal.

  And the only thing getting Mr. White worked up is the idea of tracking down and capturing our target, Cole McAllister. I meet his pale blue eyes, brought back to life with the idea of tracking down a known killer. He’s so animated, so boisterous, you’d never guess that he’s almost fifty years old. Right now, I can almost see the whispers of the handsome man he must have been long before age chipped away at him. The ghost of his youth hovers around his wispy, white hair as this private investigation case reinvigorates his soul. I honestly don’t even think it’s the million dollar payday he stands to cash in on that’s got him so excited. The idea of tracking down a murderer in the Yukon wilderness like some kind of episode of Man Hunter has him buzzing like a kid who ate too much sugar.

  “I’m sure with your expertise we will find him, Mr. White,” I answer with a smile.

  The truth is, I have no idea if we’ll catch Cole or not. I have no experience with tracking people or any of this. With the sheltered existence that I’ve lived so far, I barely have any experience with life. The thought brings me back to my mother. Back to the hours I spent sitting on the side of her bed, watching cancer steal her beauty, then her words, then her mind. Until, it finally stole her from me forever. As a single mother, it was just her and me growing up. Over the course of my life she had to be a mom and a dad to me. A mentor and a friend. I lost everything the day she finally passed away.

  I swallow hard to push away my sadness and my ears squeak. The pressure in the cabin is changing as we begin to descend on the Canadian Yukon. I fight back the tears that are always just under the surface, threatening to spring up, like a never ending geyser of mourning, every time I think of Mama.

  “I told you, call me Cecil. We could be tracking this perp for quite some time, you don’t need to be so formal.”

  I nod, “Cecil,” I repeat, but it doesn’t feel right. I was raised to call my elders by their last names, and that goes double for my employers.

  I look past Mr. White’s unnerving icy stare, I mean, Cecil’s icy stare, and glance out the window at the sprawling woods below. They look much larger and much more intimidating than when we were just in the planning phase of this operation. Luckily, there have been rumors from locals that Cole has been spotted getting supplies from time to time in Whitehorse. I would think that means he’s not living too far inside the perimeter of that forest. It can’t be easy to haul goods through there under the best of conditions.

  “You sure you’re ready for this? This is the big time. You don’t know how lucky you are. For a newbie like you to assist me on a big case like this,” Cecil sounds off on his favorite speech. He’s told me this before. Many times. I know he’s right, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying to listen to.

  “Of course I am,” I give him a tight-lipped smile and go back to staring out the window as he blathers on about how I’ve been handed the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver platter.

  I get it. I’m young. I’m inexperienced. This isn’t news to me.

  Two years ago, if you told me I’d be doing this, I would’ve choked on my Chai latte laughing. Back then, I was in the thick of my political science degree at Midwestern State University. Life was predictable, stable and safe. Just how I liked it. I had a five-year plan. Hell, I had a ten-year plan and it was all unfolding exactly how I envisioned.

  Mom couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes when I would tell her about my comparative politics courses and my plans to someday work in government. She would always say, “As long as you think you’ll be happy pushing paper, I guess.” It never bothered me. Not until she was dying and I dropped out of university to tend to her. As the cancer spread, her pleas began. She dropped the passive-aggressive acceptance of my career choice and began campaigning for me to live my life. To spend my youth living an adventure. To learn about life outside of the confines of a classroom. To explore many paths so I could find the right one. I still remember her frail hand holding mine and her oxygen machine whirring louder than her weak voice, but she still persisted. She still begged me to explore. To let myself be wild. She was convinced that I would never know myself until I was really challenged by life.

  “You can’t go changing the world until you know who you truly are,” she pleaded her case, “and you’ll never learn who you are from a textbook.”

  A month after I spread her ashes off a cliff she told me that her and her friends
spent summers jumping from into the lake below, I was standing in Cecil’s office asking for a job. Never in a million years did I expect to have the luck of landing a position as his assistant on such a huge case. But life has a way of tearing up all your plans of what you expect to happen and throwing it up in the air like confetti at a wedding.

  So, here I am. Nervous. Unsure of myself. But here. And for that, I know Mama would be proud.

  “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. White. I mean Cecil,” I quickly correct myself before he has another chance to. “I won’t let you down,” I meet his pale blue eyes and he stops me mid-sentence.

  “I know you won’t, Abbie. You’re a good girl, I can see that. When I catch this guy, I’m gonna make you famous. Just the news coverage alone will be phenomenal. And the camera is going to love a pretty face like yours,” his gaze travels over my mouth slowly and then keeps sliding down my body, slithering over me like a snake until I wrap my arms over my chest and turn away.

  The overhead speaker system crackles as the pilot’s voice fills the cabin, “We’ll begin our descent here, folks. We should be touching down at the Whitehorse airport in no more than twenty minutes,” he formally announces, as if he couldn’t just yell it over his shoulder at us.

  “Perfect,” Cecil claps his hands together and I jump. He hunches over the plane window and watches as the landscape below appears to come up and meet us.

  I drift deep into my own thoughts. I hope this isn’t all a mistake. I want to be brave. I want to experience adventures like my mother pleaded with me to do. I just can’t quiet the uncertainty. That tiny but powerful voice that whispers persistently in my ear, telling me that I’m in way over my head.

  3

  Abbie

  “You’re telling me that you’ve never seen this guy in here?” Cecil holds up a picture of our target to a stranger in the store.

  It’s not like any store I’ve ever seen. Not that Whitehorse has a wide array to choose from, with a scattering of restaurants and bars on one road, this Trading Post is the closest thing to a supply shop we could find. With fourteen-dollar jars of peanut butter piled on a shelf right next to shotgun shells, it’s not exactly a conventional grocery or hunting shop.