Tabby
Tabby Williams was once an outgoing all-American girl, but when a conniving bastard broke her heart, she was left in shambles. Heartbroken, she vowed to never rush into a relationship again. But when she meets a handsome new city councilman with a troubled past, she realizes some promises are meant to be broken.
Patrick
When Patrick McCaffery meets a young and desirable Tabby Williams, he finds out that he’s not the only one with secrets in the closet. A handsome, up-and-coming city councilman with a questionable past, Patrick has ambitious plans to clean up his city. But with a girl that’s every bit as mysterious as he is at his side, he finds himself biting off more than he can chew.
Chapter One
Patrick
I was lying on my right side, my shoulder dislocated from when I crashed into the hard, unforgiving vinyl tile, gunfire going off all around me. I should have been panicking, or at least worried about getting shot, despite my low profile. I should have been thinking about my shoulder, and if I'd broken or torn something on top of dislocating it. I should have. But I wasn't.
Instead, those were far from my mind. My focus was centered about four feet in front of me, as Melinda Pressman approached me, murder in her eyes and insanity written on her features. She was as beautiful as she was pissed off. And she was very, very beautiful.
"Fuck it, I'll still get my prize," she said, a long knife in her hand. It looked wickedly sharp and glittered in the fluorescent lights overhead. I was torn between looking at the knife and looking at her face, both of which were filled with deadly intent. She stepped closer, a growl rising in her chest. It was paralyzingly hypnotic, and I found it difficult to move. "That bitch Tabby can't have you ever again."
Her words were like a splash of cold water. At the mention of Tabby's name, I knew what I had to do. With my arms tied to the chair behind my back, I couldn't use them to defend myself. At the same time, the wide base of the office chair that they'd used didn't allow me to rotate my body in any meaningful way. Besides, the same rope that tied my wrists to the chair also looped around my waist.
However, they'd made one mistake when they tied me up. My legs free, a grave mistake. Perhaps they only had one piece of rope to tie me with, or perhaps Melinda Pressman had some other sort of plan in mind when she originally had me tied to the chair. In either case, I wasn't going to let the opportunity pass me by.
As soon as Melinda came closer, she started to kneel, intent on my junk. When she came in range, I kicked out with my left leg, wishing I'd landed on my left side, since my right leg is my stronger leg. Either way, I had to kick as hard as I could and hope that I caught her off guard.
In all of my training with Mark, we'd worked kicks from a variety of angles and situations. After watching my footwork and style, he had me focus mostly on what he called Thai-style kicks. It was one of these that I unleashed now, bringing my legs up to my chest like I was defending myself before shooting out with my left foot, aiming for the bottom of her kneecap with the flat of my shoe. She was leading with her right leg, which was helpful since it was at a slightly downward relative angle to where I was lying, making the kick easier.
I'd never kicked a woman before in my life before that point other than light sparring with Sophie. She and I had kicked each other plenty of times, but it was always with light force and wearing shin guards. She was five months pregnant at the time, and I was just learning what to do. There was no purpose to unleash a full power kick on a pregnant woman, even with shin pads on.
That kick against Melinda however was the first time I'd actually kicked out at a woman in anger and with the intent to hurt her. Considering the so-called ladies I'd grown up with in the orphanage system and living in The Playground, that was a pretty good run of nonviolence.
I was lucky that Melinda wasn't a trained fighter. Her weapon of choice was her sexuality, which while being much more esoteric, meant she didn't know what to expect. As it was, I connected with the inside of her knee, not hard enough to damage it, but enough to knock her to the ground. Her knife, which was clenched in her right fist, clattered on the tile but was still in her grip. Gunfire rattled around us, and I knew that the counter I'd fallen behind wouldn't stop heavy caliber bullets. I was just grateful that nobody had decided to start aiming low. Melinda looked surprised as she fell, her brown eyes widening in shock more than pain, before her lip twisted in a grimace of hate.