Cajun Protection Read online

  Cajun Protection by Whiskey Starr

  Cajun Protection

  Wild Bounty

  Book One

  by Whiskey Starr

  © Copyright March 2015 JK Publishing, Inc.

  ISBN#978-1-310-20352-7

  All cover art and logo © Copyright March 2015 by JK Publishing, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by Jess Buffett

  Published by JK Publishing, Inc.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales are entirely coincidental.

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  Dedication

  This is dedicated to two amazing editors who helped me when I needed it the most! Thank you so much Caroline and Michelle.

  To my mom, who is always willing to listen when I just need someone talk to. I always know she is there for me. Love you, Momma!

  To my husband, without you my life would be like a black and white movie, sweet, but always needing something more. Thank you for bringing color and fun into my life and helping me with various research projects. You’re the reason I am the crazy kinky person I am today.

  And last, but never least, to my readers, and friends. You are the reason I write every day. And yes, Jen, I am adding you to this dedication because I told you I would one day. So smile chicky and eat another fry for me. 

  Hope you all enjoy this book,

  ~Whiskey~

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Books by Whiskey Starr

  Excerpt from Tempted by Darkness

  Excerpt from Beat to Their Heart

  JK Publishing Inc.

  Chapter One

  Zoey

  “I hate him, I hate you, and I hate everyone.” I hate crying, but in the shower no one can see me. As I sit on the small tile floor of the shower, the hot water meshes with the scolding tears running down my face. It is my comfort zone, my safe haven. I can cry, scream, shout all I want, and it will always just be me. My own personal space to let my emotions run free. The stupid fucked up ass is going to pay this time. It is all his fault I feel like this. No matter how hard I wash, or how many times I go to therapy, I can never get clean. He didn’t do as much as what he wanted to, but the fact is, he still said it. Now I have the stupid cops asking about his whereabouts at least once a week. His stalking took a whole new turn when he killed my poor cat, Penny, claiming I would be next and he would enjoy fucking my dead corpse.

  Deciding my skin, no matter what I do, will not get clean enough. No amount of scrubbing will help. My skin is pink from the hot water and my vigorous cleaning. Stepping out, I grab a purple towel hanging on the rack and wipe myself down. I try to wrap it around my body, but the damn manufacturer never makes them big enough, at least my boobs are covered, but half my side isn’t. Fuck it. Dropping the towel, I walk into my room and determine today is the day I get a gun. Well maybe.

  But right now, I need to head to work. Currently my job is a teller at the local county bank. It doesn’t even have a proper name, just County Bank. It pays the bills for my crummy apartment. Looking into my closet it’s gonna be another black base day with flares of color. Being a woman with more curves than not, I find if I have a black base of clothes, I can add necklaces, scarves, or anything bright and fun to my outfit to make it work. Plus, they always say black makes people look slimmer. Personally, I think skinny bitches say to make real women feel better. Am I bitter about my size? No, not at all! I mean I am a healthy size sixteen, with bountiful breasts and a bubble butt, but at least I can say my tits are mine and not man-made. I never really have any issues with what I eat. I like food, real food. Nothing is better than cheesy lasagna or a big juicy steak with potatoes. Sure, I can eat a salad and normally do for lunch when I know I am having a larger dinner. Through all my curvy thoughts, I think back to those who made fun of me, or used it as an excuse to not date me. It’s their loss.

  I pull on my stretchy black dress, high boots, and bright blue necklace with matching belt, I fix my hair and what little make-up I wear. Breakfast today is a simple Pop-Tart and half a cup of juice. I hate the mornings when I let Andrew get to me. But he skipped bail and now they were on the hunt, at least that’s what they said. Looking at the clock, I realize I don’t have much time. Grabbing my coat and purse, I run down the stairs of my apartment before jumping into my small Toyota Echo, my little bubble on wheels. It’s small and roomy, just like me. I giggle at the small thought and head to work.

  Spotting an empty spot near the back, I pull in then grab my bag after I find the key to let myself in the back. Misty, our manager, is already here and the all-clear signal is set. Putting my key into the door, I quickly enter and l
ock it behind me as I hear her playing with papers.

  “Hey, Zoey. Give me a minute to finish in here and I will help you open everything up.” I nod and sit my purse under my workstation before turning on the computer. Knowing she will be a little longer than five minutes, I go ahead and make the coffee for us, and for the older customers who come in. Setting out a few cookies, I make sure everything is presentable and all the papers and flyers are in place. As I head back to my station, Misty is walking toward me.

  “Ready?” I nod and soon the two of us are entering in the two-person combination to the main safe, and the night drop safe. Pulling out all the bags, we lock it up before writing the bag numbers down that we collected. Both of us sign off and she walks them back to my station where I put them into my small safe to count as I grab my drawer from the back. Doing a quick count and entering in the numbers on my computer, I start counting the bags and printing receipts for each business. Today we only had eight, so it is fairly quick. And just like that, we are ready to start the day. I have the morning shift, while Debbie and April close up at night. We all rotate weekends so at some point we have to work a weekend, it’s not a bad job, just a very quiet and sometimes slow one.

  Then again not much happens in Bostwick, Louisiana. Next to the bayou, we have all walks of life that come to visit the bank and town. But I wasn’t born here. Nope, I was brought to the great state by my dad who took a job out here after my momma left us for a rodeo rider. It still ate at me that I didn’t have a momma growing up, but I try not to dwell on it too much, I at least had my gran, and that was more than most.

  Living with Gran had its fun moments, but afternoon naps sucked, and eventually she relented me having to take them as long as I stayed inside and read, or watched a movie. Plus Gran had some neighbors close by who would watch me when my dad had to work. They were nice to me, but I can still remember them talking about me and my mother, and hoping I didn’t turn out like her. Other comments came in hushed whispers in church, but Gran would try to get me to focus and ignore them all. It wasn’t until after high school that Gran suffered from a stroke and didn’t wake. I used what little money I had, and some of the money she left me to get a car and an apartment. That’s how I got the job at the bank, the owner knew Gran and offered me one as long as I was willing to work in the morning.

  As for Gran’s house, dad and I never had the heart to sell it, so it still sits in the big field on the west side of town. Since dad no longer lives in Bostwick, he asked if I wanted to move into it, but the place was just too big, and it wouldn’t feel right without Gran. Her sweet smelled of fresh baked bread still lingers every time I go to dust and need a break from everything, it’s like coming home. My own secret haven. I would love to one day move in with my own family, well, at least that’s what I tell myself. Lost in my little world, I look at the clock and realize I have been daydreaming for far too long and it is time to start the day.

  Wolf

  “I don’t see why we can’t just go huntin’ this fucker. He’s a piece of shit and needs to be taken off the streets. Plus there is a hefty sum on this head.” I hate creating detailed game plans, unlike, Hawk, who loves them and wants them done for each case. I know in the end it will be to our advantage to do this, especially with a stalker, so yeah, I relent.

  “I see that, Wolf, but don’t ya know we can’t go running through the bayou without knowing where he went to. He can be gator food, but I don’t think he is. He is smart, I give him that.” I nod as I drink my bitter coffee. God, I hate it when Hawk makes it, or even when I make it. Neither of us can figure out this new high tech coffee machine. It is something Snake and Gunner bought, but they are on vacation right now. The four of us make up Wild Bounty, the best bounty hunters in the state of Louisiana, hell, anywhere else too if you ask me. The thought gets me looking around the room and I see the small plaque sitting on the wall that houses our business permit. I wish we could take it down, damn thing had our real names written on it. Hawk’s name isn’t that bad, Remy DeBlanc, a hell of a lot better than mine, Beauregard LaRue. We gained our nicknames when we were little kids running around in the swamp behind my house.

  I had great parents, always attentive, and willing to help anyone out. Half the time my cousins would come over and we would have giant crawfish boils. It was the best time growing up on the bayou, knowing what you catch—you eat. But my mom had a soft spot for those who needed a little extra attention, which was Hawk. She doted on him when she could. I don’t remember how many times she found ways to make Hawk feel at home. From a pair of old shoes or with just and extra sandwich. And being that my mom was half Natchez Indian, she gave nicknames to pair with our animal spirits. They fit all our time on the swamp. Hawk had sharp eyes and was always aware of his surrounding, and me, I was a silent predator, and extremely protective of family. It is rather funny those names stuck even when we left home to join the Marine Corp.

  My dad was pretty awesome too, but he worked as fisherman, catching shrimp, crayfish, and when we got tags, gators too. It was a hard job, but dad said it put food on the table, and kept him grounded. Hell, he even helped during football season and coached the team at our local high school. Still does when he’s not out on his boat. Shit, makes me remember I need to go see him.

  My momma, passed just three years ago from a rattlesnake bite, it makes my heart hurt when I think about her. She was always so careful, but when she went to check her garden, she bent to pick up a pot and the damn thing was hiding under it, it caught her right in the neck. No one was home, and the dogs were locked in the back, and by the time she made it to the hospital driving herself, she fell into a coma and just didn’t wake. It was something I wished I could have been home for, maybe I would’ve been able to help her. But she was proud of me, and Hawk for protecting and serving our country.

  We got out two years ago, and that’s when we opened shop with Gunner and Snake, who we met in the Corp. Gunner, Trent Trudeau, and Snake, Jeramiah Mayeux, became our employees, more or less. The four of us served together, and lucky for me, Gunner and Snake grew up only a few counties over from us, making Wild Bounty one of the top bounty hunter agencies today.

  Hawk snaps me out of my little daydream, which brings us back to some sick bastard who is stalking a young woman and even skinned her cat. Wish I could say I’m shocked, but hell, in this type of work, we see it all.

  “Fine, who’s the chick?” I ask.

  “It’s Zoey Thornburg, some sort of teller at County Bank in Bostwick.” I know the place, it’s small that’s for sure, but to have a stalking case there is a bit unusual.

  “Okay, maybe we should pay her a visit and see what she can tell us about this Andrew Zamora,” I say before I chug the rest of the coffee. Man, this cup had coffee grounds in it? Grinding my teeth on the residual items in my mouth, I get up and find a water bottle.

  “We can, but I have to warn you, she has been questioned by police several times, and out there they tend to think she led him on. It’s not a good situation for her,” I hear Hawk state while he picks up and washes his cup out before grabbing a bottle of water too. I know about small towns like this, and it is one thing I hate about them. If you have someone who is local and has been for years, they get the priority treatment versus the person who is considered a transplant. The more I look at the case, and sure the bounty is a nice sum, but knowing this dipshit will be off the street is better.

  “I still say we talk to her, and tell her like it is,” I suggest.

  “‘Kay, let’s head on out, it’s a good forty-five minute drive to her house, but I think she is at work. So let’s get some food and hit a few places the fucker has been known to hang out and then hit her up.”

  “Works for me.” I grab my bag that holds all my tools, and anything I might need for any case before jumping into my Ford F150 and we speed down the road to Bostwick.

  The drive is pretty steady and I love days like this. An open winding road in the middle of nowhere, onl
y thing out here are gators, snakes, and other critters that wouldn’t mind eating whatever falls into its waters.

  They have a saying in the bayou, ‘What goes into the bayou, doesn’t always come out of the bayou.’

  We make it to the small sleepy town of Bostwick in record time, well, because I like to hit the gas pedal and feel the rumble of the truck. The only other thing I enjoy more is my boat, which we use for work and play. It is great for fishing crawfish, or shrimp for gumbo or jambalaya when I have the time to make it.

  “This it?” I ask Hawk.

  “Seems to be.”

  “Shit, I can piss longer than it will take to drive through this town.” And I can, the damn road couldn’t be a mile long with the town.

  “This is the main road in town, the rest is pretty spread out. Let’s start at the bar.” Long Shots sits between two large oak trees, and various cars and bikes litter the parking lot. As soon as I pull in the smell of food hits me, making my stomach growl. Maybe eating here will be good too.

  I reach for the heavy wood door and push my way inside. The music is playing some soothing Jazz, which is probably normal this time of day. Several people stop and look around at us. It isn’t like they can avoid the way we look. We both are about six-two to six-three. We also tend to work out a lot, but I will say, it’s because of the leather covering our bodies and the dominant look we both have about us. It isn’t anything we can do about it, it is what it is. In our line of work, it comes in handy. Most men don’t fight me or Hawk, so them not getting hurt doesn’t bother us much, nor our insurance.