The Book
Shield
Can Jackson ensure the safety of his loved ones when the darkest elements of LA's underbelly seek retribution?
Oliver knows the clock is ticking on his dream of winning the Stanley Cup. After fourteen years playing for New York, he’s beyond frustrated to leave friends behind when traded to the LA Storm. As a widower and father of two girls, he’s facing the twilight of his career, and, worst of all, he’s lonely. Making friends is easy enough, but he craves someone to hold him at night. When Jackson, equal parts grumpy chaos and charm, lands in his life, friendship turns to lust, and love isn’t far behind. He finds himself drawn to Jackson, and as their relationship deepens, they become each other’s haven amidst the chaos of their lives. However, danger from Jackson's work threatens their peaceful world, challenging their relationship and forcing love to take a backseat to survival.
After bringing down a notable money launderer, Jackson's small team receives orders to delve deeper into the world of organized crime in Hollywood. His early success quickly spirals into an overwhelming web of criminal intrigue. In this new, uncharted territory, he feels increasingly isolated, both personally and professionally. The more issues he uncovers, the less he seems to close. Meeting Oliver shakes his world even more, especially when he accidentally falls for the widower and father of two little girls. A few nights of fun is one thing, but deeper feelings and kids are something he is not at all prepared for. Yet, despite his reluctance, he becomes deeply attached to the little family who has embraced him with so much love. Now, he just has to shield them from the dangers that have followed him to their doorstep.
This opposites attract romance features a single dad hockey player grappling with personal loss, a grumpy detective entangled in the complexities of organized crime, and a love story that happens despite the odds.
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RJ Scott
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VL Locey
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Excerpt
I parked my Ducati in a small lot next to the clinic, the familiar sounds of the neighborhood enveloping me as I dismounted. The laughter of children as they played on the sidewalks, the distant buzz of traffic, and the occasional shouts from windows were more real to me than the place I’d grown up in affluent Dallas suburbs where money was king. I could do some good here.
As I walked into the clinic, I immediately felt at home. There was a warmth and bustle to the place, volunteers chatting, trying to make a difference, kids crying, parents in groups. I waved to Lazlo on reception. He’d changed the color of his hair again—now blue from green—and he grinned at me.
“Yo, Cowboy,” he called.
I headed that way. “Hey Laz, is Joe in?”
Lazlo frowned, leaned closer, and lowered his voice. “He gone all do-not-disturb, not seeing patients, and he’s losing his shit with everyone who knocks on his door.”
That didn’t sound good. Joe was former military, a medic, and the guy who ran this place on nothing but fluff and buttons. He was ruthless at recruiting volunteer doctors and nurses, an expert at guilting big pharma to donate, rough and ready, and dragging this entire community to good health one case at a time. But he was also a gentle giant, loved people as much as they loved him, and losing his shit didn’t sound like him at all. Maybe it was a money thing? I could help with that. I saved money every year for my girls, a trust fund that would see them happy and settled with a good start, but after that and my sole luxury—the Ducati—everything else I gave away.
Not that anyone knew, and they never would.
“Had a couple of referrals for you,” Lazlo said, slapping some files down. “Why don’t you take them, and this…” He placed a coffee next to it, “… see if you can cheer Joe up.”
Referrals were about moms with breast cancer, the same cruel disease that had taken Melissa, or those newly diagnosed with diabetes in fact, any families who struggled where Lazlo thought I could help I picked up the files, headed through the door to the consultation rooms, passing walls adorned with handmade posters and kids’ art, and finally through the last door, marked staff only, with my key card
I knocked on the door, juggling paperwork and the coffee, using my elbow on the handle, and tumbling inside with a grin on my face, all ready to cheer Mr. Grumpy up.
Only to find him at the wrong end of a gun, bleeding from a head wound, and barely able to move.
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