Provocation: NCA Security, #3

prologue

At fifteen, Vivienne wasn’t old enough to understand that her boyfriend was selling her for sex. He’d sworn that sleeping with another man at his instruction would be kinky and mature, which had been enough of a selling point for Viv. Aaron’s greatest pastime was reminding her she wasn’t mature or old enough for him. By pressing that button, she would agree to almost anything.

That’s how she found herself face-down on a couch that smelled like cat piss and stale cigarettes, her Victoria’s Secret PINK underwear around her knees, silent tears streaming down her face as the man she’d met two minutes ago took her from behind, her red ponytail clutched in his hands so hard that she knew he’d come away with half of it when he finally released her.

It wasn’t rape, not really. She’d said yes, hadn’t she? Her tears dampened her shirt, and he laughed maniacally as each one fell, taking pleasure in her pain. She promised herself that day that she would never cry in front of a man again.

When he was done, he gave Aaron a handshake in the front room and handed him an envelope. Through the crack in the door, Vivienne watched him counting money.

Later, she realized it was the first time he’d pimped her; not lent her to a friend as a sexy experiment like he’d led her to believe. She spent the next few months in and out of Aaron’s shitty apartment in North Portland whenever her mother was on a bender. Technically, Viv lived with her grandmother, at least in the eyes of CPS.

Gamma didn’t care if she came home with a black eye after being gone for four weeks. Viv didn’t question gamma’s drinking habits, and, in return, she didn’t ask about what shit Viv got into. It was a symbiotic relationship.

When Aaron sold her for three days straight to a man with a proclivity for torture and cigarette burns, she’d had enough. After sneaking out a window, she managed a few days of freedom before one of his friends found her. Aaron and three of his friends each took their turns raping her until they tired of it. She took a couple of blows to the head, and her brow split open. Some ribs cracked. Her shins were black and blue, and it hurt to stand upright.

It hurt worse being thrown from a moving car, coughing blood up raggedly onto the sidewalk of the North Portland Precinct. A receptionist on a smoke break saw her and ran into the station screaming like a bat out of hell.

Vivienne remembered little from that night, but she remembered the warm embrace of someone very large and strong cradling her into his arms, whispering that she was going to be okay. She remembered the steel eyes that looked at her, stormy and full of rage. When he’d met her gaze, blurry from blood, she recoiled, but he just held her and smoothed her sticky, blood-caked hair while they waited for the EMTs to arrive. Later, a nurse told her he stayed by her side for three days waiting for her to wake up. She never saw him again.

After that night, she was done being under a man’s thumb, and she vowed to never let a man control her again. At seventeen, she got emancipated, got a job, and moved on, refusing to let him win. Only, it turned out that the worst part isn’t outrunning the devil—it’s escaping with a piece of yourself left when you do.

chapter one

Checking her app for the third time in two minutes, Vivienne DuBois swore loudly as her screen showed no

ride requests for over 10 miles. Her rent was due in a few days, and, if she didn’t get a few rides tonight, she’d have to go back to the club. The club where men leered, tried to touch, and assumed they had a right to her body because they’d thrown money at her.

As she fought the urge to chuck the phone into the floorboards, a call lit up her screen. Seeing ANGEL flash across the screen, she groaned internally. She truly didn’t have many friends, so she could hardly take the risk of alienating her. The dancer from the club they both worked at had a rocky relationship with her boyfriend and had often called Viv crying or needing help.

Yeah?

Viv… the groan on the other end of the line put her on edge immediately.

Are you okay?!

Can-can you take me to the hospital?

Yeah, of course. What happened?

Just get here. I’ll live.

Are you at home or at the club?

Home. I’ll wait for you by the curb.

You don’t have—

The curb.

She hung up then, dread coming over her in hot waves. She’d been warning Angel about her boyfriend’s behavior. He’d seemed so nice to everyone else, but to Viv… he felt off. Ten minutes later, she pulled up to the curb of her apartment complex. Viv’s heart dropped as she saw Angel clothed in nothing but leggings and a camisole top. Her wild hair, a far cry from her usually sleek blonde blow out, accentuated the blood streaming from her nose. Fuck.

Throwing the car into park, Viv launched out of the car and sprinted to the passenger side, throwing the door open. What the hell happened this time, Angel?! Her eyes darted around, checking to ensure they were alone. She knew what happened, and she knew she was a bitch for asking.

She bundled her into the seat and sprinted back to the other side, tearing into the street like the hounds of hell were at their heels.

I’m going to filet that man like a fish, she mumbled, merging to get onto the freeway that would take them to the closest hospital.

He… he didn’t mean to, Angel choked out.

Yeah, right, and I didn’t mean to get my bellybutton pierced on my twenty-first birthday. Pulling into the lot, she found a spot in the emergency room parking. I’m coming in with you.

Forty-five minutes later, they sat nestled into a hospital room that reeked of antiseptic. Viv got the chills, and she sat rubbing her arms furiously, trying to make her unease pass. She used her phone to snap a pic of her sneakers against the distinctive flooring of the hospital. Helping out a friend she typed out as she posted to Instagram.

When the doctor came in carrying a clipboard, he looked at Angel, then Viv, then back at his clipboard.

It says here you… ran into a pole? His brows furrowed in concern, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Miss Stephens, we both know that’s not true.

Angel shook her head furiously. It’s what happened.

Viv crossed her arms and stared at the floor. Just tell him the truth, she snapped.

"That is the truth."

You know what, Angel? I’m done. Take a RyderShare home. You’ve got my number if you ever decide to leave this piece of shit. Grabbing her purse, she strode into the afternoon sunshine, dejected and annoyed. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and, by the trajectory of Angel’s behavior, it wouldn’t be the last. She knew the cycle would start anew, that the wolf in sheep’s clothing would come back and woo her with promises of this time being different. But it wasn’t. It never was.

She had few friends, but all the ones she kept had similar stories or experiences. Viv seemed to attract them like bees to honey. She refused to let herself be nailed down to a man who would hit her. And in her mind, they all had the potential. That was the cold hard reality she lived in. She had done just fine for the last decade without two hundred pounds of trash strapped to her back for eternity. She could care for herself and took great pride in that.

The buzz of her phone pulled her out of her seething daydream. She fished it out just as she sat down in her Honda Civic and slammed the door. The text message she’d gotten appeared on the lock screen, and the violent suggestions it contained made her more angry than anything. If she truly wanted this devil off of her back, then it couldn’t sit on the back burner anymore, especially after what she just saw. She was so close to leaving her old life behind, like hell would she let some lunatic snatch that from her.

The police precinct she’d been intending to visit for weeks was between the hospital and the club she would dance at tonight, so she pulled out her lipstick and reapplied it, fluffing her hair and taking deep, cleansing breaths to steady herself for the task at hand. This would take a little finesse and a lot of luck.

Viv swallowed as she walked into the North Portland Police Precinct, her stomach flipping in protest. God, she loathed police stations. The smell always did her in: a combination of floor wax, piss, and cigarette smoke. She dug her nails into her palm for fortitude and walked up to the reception desk.

May I help you? the petite Latina woman chirped. She had a lovely smile and warm brown eyes. Viv gave her best come-hither, cheeky grin, the one that worked on men and women alike.

"Yes. I have the strangest story to tell. I’m hoping you can pull my record for me?"

Oh, I can’t pull criminal records—

"It’s not criminal. They brought me in here—about ten years ago—when I was fifteen. They had beaten me within an inch of my life, and some sweet officer scooped me up and called an ambulance. I was hoping you could give me the report from the assault. It happened to me, after all." Batting her eyelashes, she tried her best to look innocent and coy, but the attempt usually failed. Vivienne was anything but innocent.

The girl behind the counter smiled sympathetically. Let me see what I can do.

Five minutes later, a rotund man with an eighties-style mustache called her back to a desk. Hello, Vivienne DuBois? Come on back here, please. The man pointed to the chair in front of his desk. I should be able to pull this up momentarily for you. Can I see your ID, sweet thing?

Vivienne nodded and handed it over, resisting the urge to cringe. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, which were clad in high-waisted shorts today. She knew men could be driven to distraction with just the right push—one just had to know where the right button was. The man’s mustache twitched as he tried not to look at Viv’s long, ivory legs. She held back a smirk and bit her lip, trying to pretend not to notice, bobbing her foot nervously.

Truth be told, she was holding in the desire to strangle him—she hated being called endearments by old men. Tolerating it at her job was one thing; in public seemed too far. But she needed this info, so she tamped down the desire to blow up at this man.

The printer behind his desk hummed to life, and he pressed a hot sheet of paper into her hands. She scanned it quickly in front of him, finding what she needed within seconds. Gotcha, she whispered victoriously.

Who? the man cocked his head.

The officer who dragged me into the station, she stated simply, stuffing the paper into her backpack. I’m trying to find him.

Hmm, well, you’re going to have a hard time with that. He looked at the copy of the report still on his screen.

Viv wrinkled her nose. Why?

Because he got fired a week after this report was taken.

Well, that throws a monkey wrench into this genius plan of yours, Viv swore internally.

chapter two

B ennet, he barked into his phone, panting as the beads of sweat poured off of him. Late April in Bend had hit-or-miss weather. Either it was warm and pleasant, or icy rain came down in sheets sideways, the type that made you want to crawl back into your bed rather than be outside. Alex preferred to run outdoors, and he aimed for twenty miles a week. Running when the weather was pleasant had been paramount.

Hello, Mr. Bennet. It’s Ted, the Portland office manager?

When NCA had moved their headquarters to Bend from Portland, they’d kept a small office there to run Metro area operations.

Yeah? Alex snapped, feeling harried to be bothered by an office manager. Nic, and now Derrick, had handled a large part of the managerial side of their firm.

Well, sir, this is going to sound odd, but I have a woman who wants to get a hold of you? She’s been in every day this week. I thought I’d pass on the message. She left her number and insisted it was important, but didn’t leave a name. I thought I would call and pass on her number. She said texting was fine.

Just… just text it to me, okay? And in the future, email and text are for everything except emergencies with me. I know Nic prefers the phone, but I don’t. Ever. The sooner employees learned what to expect from him, the better. It made for fewer hurt feelings.

Ted sounded like he wanted to piss his pants. Alex took great pride in his gravelly tone bringing grown men to their knees with fear. Yes sir. Got it. I-I’ll text it right away.

The text flashed on his screen quickly, containing a cell number he didn’t have saved. Deciding Cam could look into it, he opened the text to forward the information. Cameron Castillo, NCA’s tech brains, could dig up information on anyone, legal or not.

Alex: Can you look into this number for me? 971-555-1492

Cam: Yeah, give me ten. Busy.

A picture message popped up from Cam, grinning with his tongue to the camera, next to the sculpted back of a sleeping brunette.

Alex: You fucker. You’re not even out of bed yet? It’s eight a.m.

Cam: Would YOU get out of bed if this was in it with you?

Alex: You’re trash, Castillo. Does she know you took a picture?

Cam: We took worse last night ;)

Alex: Just look up the number, pig

Now that Nic—their third of four partners—had settled down with a wife and baby, Cam had turned into the resident man-whore. When Alex needed to get his dick wet, he went to strippers instead of a genuine relationship. His current favorite, Candy, had happily complied with his requirements. Supplying him with her STD results, she showed up when requested. Candy probably counted as a hooker since he was paying her, but neither had complaints about their arrangement.

In fact, from what he could tell, she enjoyed herself, too. Most women were lucky to walk straight when Alex Bennet was done with them, frequently coming back begging for more. When he grew tired of her, he’d move on—he paid handsomely for the luxury of no complaints, no objections when he finished with them.

Alex completed his run and entered his silent two-bedroom house on the outskirts of Bend. On top of a hill, it lent spectacular views of Mt. Bachelor and the Three Sisters, and he’d paid out the ass for it. The purchase price earned him more bullshit from Cam, who lived in an upscale rental apartment near Nic’s oversized condo. The man could barely commit to a haircut, so purchasing real estate was a step too far for him. Alex didn’t care about Cam’s jabs, though—the view and solitude were worth every penny.

He kicked off his running shoes near the sliding door of the porch, which overlooked the juvenile apple orchard growing on the property. He had almost three acres to himself, not totally secluded but with very private neighbors—just how he liked it. Socializing with anyone made Alex’s skin crawl, since being neighborly was a foreign concept to him.

After he got out of the shower, he made himself a quick breakfast of eggs, fruit salad, turkey sausage, and fried potatoes with peppers. At 6′4 and 265 pounds of mostly muscle, he had to eat a lot to keep up with his workout regimen. At forty, he was the oldest founder of NCA, and he felt every year of it. If he didn’t tape his knee before running, or ice it after a strenuous workout, he would pay for it later in the day. He rarely complained to his friends, though. He refused to let the injury he sustained during his time in the Marines affect his life now.

As he finished his coffee, iced his knee, and responded to work emails, Cam called.

What, finally get the brunette to go home?

Fuck off, she had to work, Cam groaned.

Where, Hooters?

No… the Dutch Bros by my apartment.

"You fucked your barista? At least I pay the women I degrade."

"Excuse me, they’re called Broistas. Get the lingo straight. Do you want to continue insulting me, or would you like the information you asked for?"

Just give it to me. Tossing his dishes and ice pack into the sink for his housekeeper to deal with later, he went to pull on his boots, waiting for Cameron to get his shit together.

Vivienne DuBois, twenty-five. Portland address. She’s got social media that’s pretty public if you’d like to see. It’s… interesting. Find out what she wants. You’re not gonna want to miss out.

Alex narrowed his eyes, even though Cam couldn’t see him. Interesting?

Yeah, thanks. See you soon.

Whatever. I gotta grab breakfast.

"I’ve run five miles, eaten breakfast, responded to emails, and showered. Just what exactly have you done this morning except look up a phone number?"

Mia, the Broista, for one.

Alex hung up. He had a decade on Cam, but that man drove him insane. Before climbing into his Land Rover, he shot off a text to the mystery woman’s number.

Alex: This is Alexander Bennet. What do you need?

971-555-1492: Direct much? Can’t even warm a girl up with a hello?

Alex: I’m always direct. Can I help you?

971-555-1492: My name is Vivienne. I need some help, and I think you can do that.

Alex: You obviously know my company, as you went to our Portland office. Why don’t we set up a consultation? We offer virtual and phone consultations if you aren’t local.

971-555-1492: No, I need to speak to you face to face. It’s personal.

Alex: How do I know you don’t want to shoot me?

971-555-1492: Seriously? We can meet in public. You can pat me down for all I care.

Alex: I’ll meet you at my office, and nowhere else.

971-555-1492: That’s fine. It’s on Broadway, not far.

Alex: Our main office is in Bend, where I live.

971-555-1492: You want me to go to Bend?

Alex: I’m not the one who needs help. Take it or leave it.

971-555-1492: Fine. I can be there in two days. My work can travel.

Alex: I’ll give my receptionist your number, and she can set up the meeting.

971-555-1492: What, can’t you do it yourself?

Alex: Of course I can, it’s just not my job.

By the time he’d made the drive to the office, he was growing more irritated with each passing moment as he and this woman he’d never met volleyed text messages between them. Not even a morning meeting with Nic, Cam, and Derrick pulled his attention away.

Who the fuck are you texting with, Bennet? You look like a schoolgirl doing that. Cam tapped a pen on the table, par the course for the man who never sat still.

Potential client, I think… she reached out to the Portland office.

Nic rolled his eyes, scrubbing a hand down his face. Let’s get started. I didn’t get much sleep last night.

"And how is that my fault? I didn’t stick my dick in Jordan." In slow motion, Nic’s head swiveled to Cameron.

"If you want to keep said dick, you won’t speak about my wife like that again."

Cam pouted. It’s not our problem that you’re sleep deprived because of your sex trophy.

Derrick strolled in. Holy shit, you really want to lose your nuts, don’t you? Derrick, their newest partner, had been managing clients while Nic was on paternity leave, but they still had weekly update meetings. Nic’s wife, Jordan, had given birth to their son, Andy, the month before.

"He’s just grumpy from