Page 1 of Relinquish

Chapter One

Lola

As I adjust the straps of my purse and gym bag on my shoulder, the warm September sun beats down in its last stab at summer. The traffic buzz keeps a steady, stop-and-go pace, and my chest heaves from the trek up the stairs.

I switch the coffee mug to my left hand and swipe the brand-new ID through the magnetic strip as a slight wheeze emits from my lips. I should have skipped that last breadstick or ran an extra mile on the treadmill this morning.

If I have time during lunch break, I’ll hit the gym. I’ve never worked around so many good-looking men. They make me feel pudgy and out of shape. Granted, my last job was at a coffee shop on campus in college. Most of those guys looked like they’d hopped out of bed wearing the same clothes they’d been in for three days.

Not that I’m looking for a boyfriend, because I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate some eye candy. And Lord have mercy, Truman Security could shoot their own swimsuit calendar with Cade Hughes as Mr. January. The man is hot with a capital ‘H.’

Unfortunately, his looks far exceeded his charming personality, and I’ve had enough macho, domineering men in my life. But, when a girl is looking and not sampling, the man doesn’t need a personality.

The ID scanner buzzes and flashes ‘ACCESS DENIED’ in bright red letters.

What in the hell? My heart skips a beat. I’ve only been here a week. What could I have done to get fired? One interaction after another races through my mind. I’ve not had any unpleasant exchanges with anyone. Well, except for Cade. Not that I’ve spoken to him, but he’s made it clear he doesn’t want me here.

Yes, I’m young and maybe a little underqualified, but Mr. Truman knew my history and hired me anyway. It’s his company, so he can do whatever he wants, and Mr. Hot and Cranky can take his opinion and shove it up his ass.

“Damn it.” I clench my teeth together and tap the toe of my shoe on the cement. Could my father have gotten to Mr. Truman? The man needs a hobby besides fretting over me. Maybe I should get him skeins of yarn for Christmas.

I squint at the scanner. Shit. Upside down. Wonderful. I roll my eyes, flip the card over, and re-scan it. Please, don’t let anyone be behind me. The light flashes green, and I yank the handle, opening the door. Not a good way to prove I’m capable of working for a security company when I can’t even get the fucking door open.

When I have one foot inside the threshold, a loud screeching interrupts the steady thump-thump of the traffic. The squealing is followed by the clunk of metal striking a softer object. Don’t look. You don’t want to know. I brace my shoulders and spin on my heel.

An elderly woman lies halfway on the sidewalk with her legs in the street and packages scattered around her. Oh. My. God. A late-model, dark sedan is stopped behind her with a cracked headlight–one section of the clear plastic is hanging in front of the bumper. I clutch my throat, where my heartbeat thuds against my fingertips.

The driver, a large man wearing a tracksuit with the zipper partially undone, swings his door shut and rushes around the front of the car toward the injured pedestrian.

Please, let the lady be okay. I toss my gym bag and purse inside the foyer, drop my half-consumed caramel mocha latte into the trashcan, and run down the steps. The staccato clicking of my Christian Louboutin stilettos reverberates off the pavement.

Several drivers and pedestrians stop to survey the damage while the operator bellows into his cell phone. His face almost matches his attire, and his angry tone carries through the intersection.

As I descend the last step, a slender individual wearing a hoodie, baggy jeans, and showing an ample amount of plaid boxer shorts grabs one of the woman’s packages.

“Put that down,” someone commands from the depths of the crowd of spectators. The face of the speaker is indistinguishable from the rest of the mob.

The saggy pant wearing individual looks at the crowd while grabbing the woman’s purse. His hood slips, revealing the face of a boy in his late teens with a nose ring and patchy facial hair. The injured woman struggles to sit up and leans against the bumper of the mangled car while shaking her head and yanking on the strap of her handbag.

What an asshole. She’s injured, and he’s trying to steal her purse. “Stop!”

“What?” His nose scrunches and deep lines etch his forehead.

Did he seriously think he was going to get away with this? I glance down. Stilettos and a pencil skirt. Shit. Way to go. Vanity will always bite you in the ass.

The crowd continues to grow, but no one steps forward to intervene. There are able-bodied men within striking distance, and none of them do a thing. Of course, they don’t. I calculate the space between myself and the perpetrator.

The boy picks up another package as the woman holds her head with one hand and clenches her purse in the other. He glances to his right and jerks another bag off the pavement. I sneak toward him while trying not to draw attention to myself.

When I’m within a foot of him, I seize his left arm and pull it behind his back. The bags drop to the ground. “Hey!”

“I said, ‘Stop.’” I hitch my skirt above my knees and swipe my stocking-covered leg in front of him, knocking him to the street.

The overweight driver snaps his phone closed. “Lady, what’re you doing?”

I frown as I press my knee into the kid’s back to keep him secure to the ground. What am I doing? What does it look like I’m doing?

“Get off him!” Someone shouts as several other bystanders grumble.

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