4. Vaughn

Chapter 4

Vaughn

" W eren't you supposed to have left by now?" Cynthia's voice drifts from my open office door, always open, because when you're in charge, a closed door is an invitation to be disturbed.

Cynthia is a beta like me, as are all the staff in downtown Ever Safe. She has a desk outside my office, though she rarely uses it. If she's not chatting with the omegas in the bar upstairs, she's observing the bar staff or security like a hawk.

She's forty-five and gave up dyeing her gray hair years before. She also doesn't take shit from anyone.

Including me.

"Sure." I flip through more security candidates that came in over the weekend.

Resume dates don't add up.

Lives cross country and has a tendency to move often. Waste of time training him up to leave in four months.

No. No and no.

"Didn't you have an important meeting?" Cynthia asks.

"Garrison told you to kick my ass out the door, didn't he?" I nudge another resume to the no pile. This one has my instincts saying no, even though, on the surface, everything looks right. Maybe I'd discover what it is in background checks, but do I really want to waste time when I'm already having doubts?

"Something like that."

I give Cynthia a rapid glance. She has her cell phone poking out of the top of her black slacks, nearly concealed by her untucked lilac blouse. That cell phone tells me everything I need to know.

Garrison's patience has finally run out.

He knew I'd ditch the meeting— again —and gave the only person in this building with the ability to move my ass a text to make sure it happened.

Behind her, the soft strums of soft rock drift from the communal bar area where omegas who aren't in heat can meet with other omegas, play pool, board games, have a couple of drinks, or just hang out. The heat suites are further down the back and are completely soundproofed.

On arrival, we give each omega a key to the suite filled with sex toys, a comfortable bed, a corner nest filled with cushions and soft natural fiber throws, along with a refrigerator filled with food and refreshments. They lock the door behind themselves, and it is our jobs to ensure they spend the next four days in a place of safety when they are most vulnerable.

We haven't needed to do a health check on an omega who presses one of the panic buttons we had installed in each room, but I have a feeling Cynthia would bulldoze over anyone to be the first one to ensure they were okay.

I'm in charge here. I'm twenty-six, fit, healthy and work out most days. Yet one hard shove from Cynthia and I'm convinced she'd take me out. Because she isn't just efficient. She's a mamma bear.

"Fine. I'm going." I get up before she can drag me out by my ear. Then I hesitate, snatch up the last resume I set down and hold it up. My instincts aren't what they were, but my problem with this guy is going to bug me until I figure out why I want him nowhere near Ever Safe. "This guy. Would you hire him?"

Her lined forehead wrinkles as she leans in, gives the resume a quick sweep and shakes her head firmly. "Nope. Serial killer eyes."

What?

I squint as I study the picture again. Closer this time. Thin face. Serious brown eyes maybe a little too close to be conventionally handsome. But he looks fine. "No, he doesn't."

"He does." Not an ounce of doubt in her voice. Her thin lips flatten and dark eyes narrow. "The sort of guy a woman would find a reason to leave the room if he entered it."

"His resume looks good."

"So did that boring office worker who turned out to be an ax murderer. Go home ." Message delivered, she stalks out.

Her chair scrapes hardwood floors outside my office as I scrutinize the photo. Maybe Cynthia has a point. Not about the serial killer eyes. There is something a little predatory about his gaze. I nudge his resume firmly into the no pile and rake a hand through my shoulder-length blond hair before bending to grab my bag.

Instinct counts for a lot in my line of work. When the last time you trusted your instincts someone you loved died and another one still carries scars, it's hard not to doubt yourself.

I'm turning my computer off when an email notification pops up. Another job candidate. Perfect excuse to stay even later. I reach for the mouse as I sit back down.

"GO HOME!" Cynthia yells and I nearly fall off the chair, grabbing the edge of the table to save myself.

"My God, woman, are you monitoring my emails?" I yell back.

"No. I have a little camera pointed at your desk," she says calmly. "When you start leaving at a reasonable time, I'll remove it."

She's joking. I know she's joking.

My office is in a windowless room for security purposes. Between my desk, a lockable metal filing cabinet, and the stacks of papers on my desk beside my computer, if there was a camera in here, I'd have seen it. That doesn't stop me from giving my room a probing sweep as I slip my jacket on because if anyone would bug my office, it'd be Cynthia.

"You give more orders than me, you know that, right? It's like you're trying to steal my job or something," I say, pausing at her desk. "And when are you going home?"

There are two main hallways that lead off the entryway. We're on the left side for staff. The right is for omegas to head downstairs to the heat suites or up to the bar if they're here to relax.

"I'll go home when I have these forms finished, and I don't want your job. I want the one above it."

"And that is?"

"Area manager," she says with the gravity of someone declaring they want to run the world.

Area manager would be fine, but there's only one Ever Safe location. Downtown. And we're in it.

"We don't have an area manager." I frown.

"Yet." She gives me a pointed look and goes back to her typing. "The right answer is yet . See you tomorrow."

Chuckling, I say my goodbyes on my way out. There are no keys hanging on the wall behind the entrance hatch. All heat suites are occupied, and we have five members of security to ensure all omegas on site will stay safe. There's no reason to stick around, yet I linger at the front entrance, not eager to go home.

Do I want to sit through a pack meeting with Blaine who barely meets anyone's eyes and subtly retreats if anyone comes within a hair of touching him?

No.

Do I want to feel that same acrid burn of guilt twist my gut because I keep inventing crises so I can avoid meetings, even though I suspect Garrison knows exactly what I'm doing?

Also, no.

But Blaine is not okay, and it's not fair on Garrison that I'm dodging him, the house, and Blaine because I don't know how to fix any of it.

And if Cynthia finds me hanging around, she'll march me to my car and stand there, eyes like a hawk, until I pull my car out of the parking lot. Though probably not before she sticks a tracker on my car to ensure I actually went home.

So I step out into the dark streets and my instincts scream a warning when I clock the black truck with tinted windows on the other side of the road, its engine idling.

"It's nothing. Go home," I mutter, juggling my keys between my fingers.

But I narrow my eyes on that vehicle as I puzzle over what it is about it that's setting off every alarm that I need to check it out.

Is this the usual home avoidance? Or is this something more?

"Everything okay, Vaughn?" John asks.

It takes everything in me to drag my eyes from the black truck to the beta in his mid-thirties with the sharp gray eyes in the Ever Safe security uniform, a dark gray pair of trousers and button-down with a white name badge. As the boss, a uniform isn't a requirement, but most days I still settle for something black or dark gray anyway.

John also has an issue leaving. It's past 9 now, and he was supposed to clock out at 7. I've heard Cynthia chase him out of the building at the end of his shift before. I laughed, never suspecting my time was coming.

"Your shift finished two hours ago," I remind him.

He nods. "Just wanted to do one last walk around."

I lift my brow. "And it took you two hours to do that?"

His expression doesn't change. "It was a slow walk."

Snorting, I shake my head. We all have reasons for being at Ever Safe. I'm not sure what John's story is, but his level of dedication suggests there is one, and it's personal.

Ever Safe is a place free from alphas forever—and that includes the three alphas who own it. So I'm here, not because I'm the best security specialist. It's because I'm a beta in Lucas Security, the best security company in the city, and Rune asked Garrison to recommend the best person for the job.

Since I can't be here all the time, we train security staff off site, and we expect our recruits to pass five stages. Interview, background checks, reference checks, training, and a final interview, this time with Pack Ashe.

John is one of seven betas to have passed all five stages so far.

Seven betas out of the hundred candidates who applied in this round.

With the regular flow of applicants we're seeing, we can afford to be picky. We're paying well, the hours aren't long, but our requirements are exacting.

In a couple of weeks, we should have enough applicants to fully staff both this Ever Safe location and another east of the city. Then it's a waiting game for the next location to go up.

"Something caught your eye?" John shoots the idling black truck across the road a rapid glance.

"Everything's good." I force myself to turn away from the truck, silencing my screaming instincts to flash John a grin. "Just have a lot on my mind."

John bounces his gaze from me to the truck and back again. "Do you need backup?"

I shake my head. "Just a lost tourist."

Probably.

My instincts are jack shit. Whatever this thing is, it isn't anything worth investigating. Just someone lost and pulled over to check their map. That's all.

So why the hell are you lingering?

John scrutinizes me for a beat.

He must have been military once before. A lifetime ago from the edges of his buzz-cut having grown out and the way he holds himself. Stiff. Formal. That and when Garrison finished up our interview, he started to salute.

"Do you need a ride?"

"No. I have somewhere I need to be."

I toss him a cheeky grin. "Or someone to see?"

He returns my gaze steadily and proves, yet again, he's no fool. "No someone. Just home. I couldn't help but overhear Zach say you're always the last to leave, even when you have no reason to stay."

Yeah. There's that.

"Just want to be sure everything is as it should be before I leave for the night. That's all."

So it has nothing to do with the fact you tore into this assignment like a rabid dog, using it as an excuse to dodge the guilt, frustration, and the pain of going home?

"Right." John's expression doesn't change.

The parking lot isn't far. Just a couple minutes away, and we peel apart when we reach it.

He walks toward his green truck, and I head for my black tinted Jeep.

I'm half in as John drives away, and the warning—my instinct, which is probably wrong—refuses to be ignored any longer.

I have to find out what the hell is going on with that black truck.

I get out, start to slam the door shut, and stop.

It's a quiet parking lot, just a small one shared by a handful of businesses. It's late and most businesses are closed for the night, which means no one is around to see me pull my Beretta from my pocket, check I have a bullet in the chamber and tuck it into my pocket.

Shrugging out of my jacket, I toss it in the back seat and slam the door shut.

I cross the road, farther down from the alley than I want to. I'm in my usual uniform of black jeans, dark gray button down, and I'd rather not have anyone connect me to Ever Safe.

I'm not here trying to make a scene.

Until someone cocks a gun and I realize that yeah, maybe I do want to cause a scene after all.

No one is in the truck's front seats. Its windows are tinted but not that tinted, and the engine is still running.

So a tinted truck parked in front of an alley this late at night with its engine running.

No wonder your instincts were screaming a warning. Why the fuck did it take you so long to listen?

Time to do a bit of reconnaissance.

I slow my walk, yank my shirt out of my pants, and pull on my top buttons. A couple pop off, rolling across the ground and under parked vehicles.

I weave a little more with each step. I close my eyes to slits and sing a song I heard in a bar, starting off at a hum and then picking it up second by second.

By the time I hit the mouth of the alley, I'm deep into my role of drunken singer.

Two men in all black combat style fatigues, including steel-toe boots, twist their bodies to face me, though their guns point at a beautiful dark-haired woman in a stained white dress.

She stands with her back to the wall at the bottom of the alley, her stubborn chin lifted. In trouble. The life-threatening kind that kicks my protective urges up a thousand degrees.

The men's guns and clothes suggest they could be professionals, therefore dangerous for the beauty in trouble. I could take them down, but do I want to risk her getting hit with a stray bullet?

No.

There's only one thing to do about that.

I take a wobbly step and face-plant into the ground.