Laws of Attraction Read online

  L

  AWS OF ATTRACTION

  Teach Me Series, Book 4

  RC BOLDT

  Laws of Attraction

  Copyright © 2016 by RC Boldt

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 13: 9781682305577

  Editor: There For You Editing

  Cover design: Wicked By Design

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

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

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products references in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website at www.rcboldtbooks.com.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Other Books

  Acknowledgments

  D

  EDICATION

  Matty,

  A wise person once said, She’s a keeper. You need to marry this one.

  I’m so glad you took his advice and I’m sure he’s looking down on us, laughing his butt off. Because, let’s face it. We’re pretty damn funny.

  Oh, and I still love you more.

  A,

  Never change, babe. Keep marching to the beat of your own drum.

  Even though it’s sometimes [read: often] the reason for my gray hairs.

  You’re my favorite girl in the whole, wide world. I love you, always.

  A

  UTHOR’S NOTE

  Not being acquainted with anyone who was or is a combat pararescueman, I had to do a lot of research in order to attempt to make the details in this book as accurate as possible. Please understand that the minor adjustments I made were done so in effort to allow the story to better flow and I take full responsibility for any flaws in the accuracy.

  As our military embarked on a historical change in 2015, allowing women into the U.S. Special Forces—as the first two women graduated from Army Ranger school—it brought upon the idea for this book. As you read and get better acquainted with Langley Ford, I hope you can also feel pride in the fact that we, as women, have come so far in our achievements.

  I hope that, regardless of your viewpoint on women in combat, you can celebrate the fact that there are courageous women out there who feel compelled to join in fighting for our freedoms, to help those in need, to help those who are unable to fight for themselves.

  There are available documentaries on YouTube that the National Geographic channel had aired a few years ago. It was the first time—ever—that the U.S. Air Force allowed any cameras to shadow these men in the line of duty. The episodes of the documentary are sometimes tough to watch, as you get to see first-hand how often these individuals put their safety and well-being on the line in order to save others. Their motto is something they take to heart and, sadly, far too often they pay the price with their lives.

  These Things We Do, That Others May Live

  www.thatothersmaylive.org

  P

  ROLOGUE

  Langley

  I AM A WORLD-CLASS DUMBASS.

  That’s right, I said it. Langley Ford is a dumb ass. You might ask why? Or how? How did I, Langley Ford, recipient of the Air Force Cross, become such a dumb ass?

  Because of a man.

  No, scratch that. Because of a mother-fucking, backstabbing, traitorous asshole. And because I was stupid enough to let my guard down. Yet, again. You’d think I would have learned my lesson, right? Especially after everything I went through as a kid.

  My sperm donor—I won’t even go so far as to call him my father—ditched us long ago. Before I ever actually exited the womb, believe it or not. Impressive, right? Well, it only gets worse.

  Regina—my “incubator”—had been “too young to be saddled with a baby” so she did the bare minimum to get by. Which meant I was raised by my grandmother until she passed away when I was the ripe old age of two. Then, Regina was responsible for me even though she had the ever-pressing task of finding her next meal ticket—A.K.A. a man—and I tended to get in the way of that. Unless they liked kids … which most did not. One, in particular, liked kids a little too much, if you get my meaning. Luckily, he didn’t enter the picture until I was about fourteen and well-versed in elbows-to-the-ribs and knees-to-the-groin. But, I digress.

  Living with Regina was unbearable, at best, and I continuously felt unwelcome in my own home. I often took solace in the local public library, devouring every book I could get my hands on, staying late because the librarians took pity on me. It was a good thing, though. They gave me my first job when I was ten years old: re-shelving books. I earned my first paycheck—under the table, of course, until I was “of age”.

  In those days, the library was my safe haven after school and until I usually finished re-shelving at about seven o’clock in the evening. I’d stop by the grocery store—because God forbid I eat Regina and her latest sugar daddy’s food—for a loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter, and a bag of apples. Eventually I added a few cans of tuna and fresh veggies to my food list. Oh, you want to know why I’d be eating tuna and fresh veggies while most kids are all about the chicken nuggets and French fries, do you? Well, that answer has two parts.

  One: I eventually discovered books on the U.S. Air Force’s Combat Pararescue Jumpers, or PJs, and was absolutely enthralled. I felt this sense of fierce urgency, like I had to do everything in my power to see if I could become one.

  Two: Mr. Brooks, my U.S. History teacher during my soph
omore year of high school. He made history fun—something that is not an easy feat, I tell you. He steered me toward some of the best, most compelling military biographies and was also one of first individuals who believed in me, believed that I could join the Air Force with the specific goal of making it into the Special Forces.

  He and his wife, who insisted I call her ‘Claire’ instead of Mrs. Brooks, were a saving grace. They welcomed me into their home, and it was there where I actually had my first home-cooked meal, sitting at their table beside their younger daughter, Bethany. It was like something from one of those old TV shows where the mom and dad sat down at the dinner table with their kids and talked about their day. At first, it was extremely awkward, but Claire was one of those women who pulled you from your shell without you realizing it.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. But, Langley, they didn’t allow women in Special Forces fifteen years ago. You’re right … and wrong.

  Mr. Brooks’ brother, Joe, was a “lifer” in the Air Force—joined when he was fresh out of high school and would either die an Airman … or retire one. Whichever came first. He was the one who had the inside information about the Air Force’s plans to initiate the start of an experimental group of women and integrate them into the Special Forces—specifically into Combat Pararescue Jumpers. It would take approximately two to three years to get the program off the ground, but it had been approved. Now, all I had to do was get my ass in gear, train my brain and body, and get accepted into the program.

  There was only one woman out of a total of twenty-six who made it through the nine weeks of Indoctrination, along with the two grueling years of “The Pipeline”, the training necessary to be awarded the coveted title of Combat Pararescue Jumper … or more commonly referred to as PJ. And that woman? She stood proudly beside fifteen men on graduation day.

  I know this because that woman was me.

  I flew high for years—fifteen years—living my dream of helping others in their time of need. I static-line dropped so many times that I lost count, resuscitated many, applied tourniquets, and on occasion, dragged my wounded “brothers” to safety. I worked hard to eliminate my feminine tendencies because I didn’t want that to become the focus. I wanted to be accepted, to be respected, to be one of them.

  Some were begrudgingly respectful; others were resentful. I first found the solace of friendship in my teammate, Lucas Osborne. He became like the brother I never had. Then came my friendship with fellow teammate, Brent Phillips … and eventually more.

  Until the day that letting down my guard, yet again, proved not only regrettable but more painful than anything else I had ever endured.

  It had killed—murdered in cold blood, more aptly—the only thing I had ever truly wanted and loved in my entire life.

  My career as a PJ.

  C

  HAPTER ONE

  Langin’s law: If things were left to chance, they would quite possibly end up better.

  Langley’s take: Things left to chance? That’s my life. Things ending up better? Not so much.

  ~

  Langley

  Fernandina Beach, Florida

  Present Day

  “MUST YOU HAVE A CONSTANT perma-grin? It’s killing my damn soul.” Foster Kavanaugh, her boss, tossed a hard glare in Miller Vaughn’s direction, causing her coworker—and former SEAL—to broaden his grin.

  “Hey, Fos, don’t be raining on his love parade now that he and Tate have been reunited. It’s a million times better than him spending his days in self-pleasure mode all the time.” Kane Windham, Miller’s roommate, shook his head, his southern drawl thick and pronounced. “Y’all have no idea how those damn thin ass walls in our house just about killed my soul.”

  “Never in a million years would I have imagined this would be the typical day-to-day conversation at my job,” muttered Noelle Davis, their office manager.

  Looking on with amusement as the guys went back and forth with their good-natured harassing banter made her recall her days as a PJ, being surrounded by all the shit-talking that often went hand in hand with working around men. Now, however, she was employed by Foster at TriShield Protection, a security consulting firm.

  Upon her exit from the Air Force, she heard about a former SEAL—Foster—who had started his own company and was hiring on former military. Sure, she’d figured it to be a long shot when she’d submitted her résumé because … well, the military was just like high school; rumors spread like wildfire. To say that she had been surprised to get a call from him to set up an interview would’ve been putting it lightly.

  Meeting Foster at the little coffee shop about ten minutes away from Kirtland Air Force Base, she had been upfront about her concern of him flying all the way from Fernandina Beach, Florida to Albuquerque, New Mexico for the interview. Especially since she was convinced he wouldn’t hire her after going over her history. He hadn’t wanted to discuss it over the phone when they’d spoken, had merely accepted her faxed service record from the Air Force and discussed the requirements and duties of the position she was interviewing for.

  She recalled how nervous she had been, sitting across from him, answering his questions and waiting for him to delve into what had ended her career.

  Foster had leaned his thick, muscular forearms on the small wooden table where they sat, his eyes meeting hers directly.

  “You seem like you’re waiting for me to ask you something … uncomfortable, if I’m to go by the tapping of that thumb of yours.” One eyebrow raised pointedly, eyes flickering down to where her hands were casually folded on the tabletop. Or what she’d intended to be casual. Apparently, nothing got past this former SEAL. Still. Hell, she hadn’t even noticed her thumb nervously tapping against her hand.

  Merely offering a nod, she watched as the man leaned forward. His whiskey-colored eyes studied her in an unnerving manner, and made her feel as though he could see right through her.

  Sure, she’d done her research on Foster Kavanaugh—the former SEAL who had received numerous commendations during his time of service—and knew of the final mission which had been his last. The man was intimidating in many ways, his good looks combined with the formidable air about him, his broad, muscular six foot two frame. Foster Kavanaugh had certainly not let himself go soft after leaving the military.

  “You think I didn’t do my homework before flying out here for this face-to-face interview, Ford?”

  He’d leaned back casually in his chair, steepled his fingers, and tapped the tips together. “I’ll admit that I used the opportunity the fly out here since I’m also hopping a plane to meet up with a buddy of mine who’s on quick leave in San Diego. But that’s just luck of the draw.” He’d paused. “I did my homework on you. Just like I did for the others who work for me.”

  His head had tipped to the side. “When I do my homework, I’m thorough, Ford.” With another pause, his eyes had canvassed the coffee shop, gaze flitting over the other patrons as if taking inventory, cataloguing intel, before his attention returned to her.

  “I know how you shoved Lucas Osborne out of the way—took that bullet for him—and can guess that it was because his wife had just given birth to their first child.” He’d leaned in closer, lowered his voice. “I know all about Phillips. And I also know,” he’d paused with a slight raise of his eyebrows, “that word has it he’s balls deep—and has been—in your former Captain’s ass.”

  A dry laugh had erupted from her. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “So tell me this, Ford.” He studied her for a moment. “Did you do anything wrong?”

  She shook her head, mouth pressed thin. “Aside from trusting that bastard? No, I didn’t.”

  With a short nod, his right hand had reached across the small table. “I’d like to welcome you to the TriShield Protection family.”

  Commence the incredible feeling, as though the enormous weight of her past had been lifted off of her shoulders. But, just as she’d let out a tiny sigh of relief, Foster’s
next words made her tense.

  “I should probably warn you of what you’re getting yourself into with this job. It’s a lot more than working together. We’re a close-knit group—a family. It’s kind of a built-in expectation of whoever works for me.”

  She wasn’t sure she was ready to put herself out there again. Wasn’t ready to let anyone in.

  Hell, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready.

  “You’re thinking that’ll be an issue, right?” God, it was unnerving how this man could manage to know her inner thoughts.

  She’d rolled her lips inward before answering. “It might be.”

  He’d merely chuckled softly before focusing his brown eyes on her. “Trust me on this, Ford. We’re the kind of people who get you snared before you even realize it.” Expression sobering, he’d lowered his voice. “I take care of my people, Ford. Understand that. Because I know—I understand—the horrific shit we’ve had to witness, had to endure.”

  And, with those words, the rest, as they say, was history. Because there was a voice deep inside of her that had whispered, Do it, Langley. It’ll be okay this time.

  Upon signing her name to the contract over six months ago, she had officially become a TriShield Protection employee. Within a week and a half, she had moved her meager belongings on a cross country road trip to Fernandina Beach, Florida. She had found a small rental not far from their office. It definitely wasn’t anything to brag about, more of an efficiency-style rental than anything, but it served its purpose.

  She’d gotten an air mattress and a few basic kitchen essentials since she had sold off most of her furniture and kitchen items before leaving New Mexico. Most of it had been crap, anyway, since she’d spent more time deployed than stateside.

  “Ford, darlin’—” Kane’s thick, Texas drawl drew her from her thoughts back to the present, her head jerking up.