Blind Luck (The Technicians Series Book 3) Read online

  Blind Luck

  The Blind Love Series

  OLIVIA GAINES

  Davonshire House Publishing

  PO Box 9716

  Augusta, GA 30916

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely a coincidence.

  © 2019 Olivia Gaines, Cheryl Aaron Corbin

  Copy Editor: Teri Thompson Blackwell

  Cover: Corbin Media

  Olivia Gaines Make Up and Photograph by Latasla Gardner Photography

  ASIN: B0763BK8DP

  ISBN-13: 978-1979734585

  ISBN-10: 1979734585

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address, Davonshire House Publishing, PO Box 9716, Augusta, GA 30916.

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 10 9 8

  First Davonshire House Publishing April 2019

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to all the readers who need to sit down and escape from the day to day hustle of living. I invite to turn the page and sit down in the possibility of hope. It springs eternal. This book is for you.

  .

  “Easy reading is damn hard writing.”

  - Nathaniel Hawthorne

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To all the fans, friends and supporters of the dream as well as the Facebook community of writers who keep me focused, inspired and moving forward.

  Write On!

  Also by Olivia Gaines

  THE SLICE OF LIFE SERIES

  The Perfect Man

  Friends with Benefits

  A Letter to My Mother

  The Basement of Mr. McGee

  A New Mommy for Christmas

  The Slivers of Love Series

  The Cost to Play

  Thursday in Savannah

  Girl's Weekend

  Beneath the Well of Dawn

  Santa’s Big Helper

  The Davonshire Series

  Courting Guinevere

  Loving Words

  Vanity's Pleasure

  The Blakemore Files

  Being Mrs. Blakemore

  Shopping with Mrs. Blakemore

  Dancing with Mr. Blakemore

  Cruising with the Blakemores

  Dinner with the Blakemores

  Loving the Czar

  The Value of a Man Series

  My Mail Order Wife

  A Weekend with the Cromwell’s

  Other Novellas

  North to Alaska

  The Brute & The Blogger

  A Better Night in Vegas

  Other Books

  A Menu for Loving

  Turning the Page

  The Zelda Dairies

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - Dammit...

  Chapter Two – What in the hell

  Chapter Three – My Name is Brody

  Chapter Five – On the Road Again

  Chapter Six – Call me Millie

  Chapter Seven – Wait, what...Hell No!

  Chapter Eight – Do you...Not Really.

  Chapter Nine – For this...I am thankful.

  Chapter Ten – Hmm...Waffles, is that what you call this?

  Epilogue – You want me to do what?

  Walking the Dawg

  Chapter One – Gone Now, Git

  A Hero For Hire

  Chapter One - A Dumb Idea

  Chapter Two- Oh Hell No, Hero!

  Chapter Three- Rings, Roses, and Romance

  About the Author

  Chapter One - Dammit...

  His leg throbbed like a son of a bitch and the oatmeal Judy had given him for breakfast was gone. His stomach ached as if he’d been punched in it with a large hammer, making the internal bag of goop processor feel as if someone had drained the sack of all its juices. Even his bile craved a thing or two to digest. He could taste the bitterness of an empty stomach in his mouth reminding him of the gnawing hunger for food.

  Hunger can make a man do dumb things, and he was about to do the dumbest – have a meal at 3 am in the morning in a Waffle House off a lone stretch of interstate in the middle of nowhere Missouri. A single yellow sign stood out against the black sky. The ebony letters, half faded from spending too much time in the mid-day sun, making the trademark sign of the Southern fried food establishment spell Waf le Ho se, if read from left to right, since the other letters in the name had washed-out. He didn’t care. A hot cup of coffee, a bowl of grits, and maybe a couple of crisp strips of bacon would tide him over until his next stop on the way home, but tonight he would take the chance to sooth his belly.

  Mr. Yield maneuvered his Ford F-150 to the exit ramp, making the left, and driving across the interstate bridge, pulling reluctantly into the parking lot. Only three cars remained in the half-empty asphalt car park. One, he assumed, belonged to the night manager, the other to the waitress who was going to have entirely too much attitude for this time of the morning, and the third to a solitary, lonely customer.

  “Dammit,” he mumbled as his phone began to vibrate. A call at 3 am is never right for him or the person on the other end. Grumbling and cursing under his breath, he answer the phone.

  “Yield,” he said into the line. He knew it was Beauty Kurtzwilde just from the ring tone of the William Tell Overture and he didn’t want to talk to her.

  “Good morning; where are you?” She asked in a hurried tone.

  “Waffle House, just outside of St. Louis,” Yield mumbled, adjusting the aching leg with the haphazardly sewn up bullet hole courtesy of Mr. Stop. He planned to go back once he healed and kick that fucker in his nuts for shooting him although it was a clear shot, through and through. Now, to go along with the aching in his leg, he had to deal with the shit of hearing Beauty put an ache in his ear. Sighing, he waited for the normal pushy voice on the other end to bark orders at him.

  “Did you retrieve the package from Caleb Morrow’s widow?”

  “Yep, burned it,” he lied. Judy, the widow of Caleb Morrow didn’t have the package, or at least that’s what Mr. Stop had told him. He believed the technician sent to take care of Morrow although the woman struck him as being a little on the left side of shady. Mr. Stop was going to have his hands full with the woman and child. Yield saw no reason to out the man to Beauty on his change in life situation, especially since he’d done him a solid and only shot him in the leg versus killing him. Yield still planned to put his size 12 boot in his man bags when he saw Mr. Stop again, just to make himself feel better about his current circumstance.

  Beauty asked, “are you ready for another?”

  “Another what?”

  “A young man by the name of Luther Pennington has taken a watch that belongs to his grandfather,” Beauty said. “He lives nearby in Wentzville. Are you close to that location?”

  Yield looked at his GPS. He actually sat in the parking lot of the Waffle House in Wentzville. The thought of getting a hotel room for the night boded well with him, which would give him a chance to put the leg up while he slept. The dull throb from Stop digging the bullet out of his muscle and sewing him back up hurt like a moferker.

  “I’ll look into,” he told her. “Send a photo.”

  “No bloodshed if you can help it. The contract only requires the return of the item,” Beauty said. “The originator wants help for the grandson, not death.”

  “Duly noted,” Yield mumbled, ending the call. In a few moments, an image of the young man would come through on his cell and, in the mo
rning, he would begin his skip trace. At this moment, his belly demanded a couple of those crisp strips of bacon, a hot cup of black coffee, and a bowl of grits with cheddar cheese on top.

  He cut the engine of the truck and climbed out slowly, ensuring he had his piece in his jacket pocket along with a new knife. The one he’d used to cut Stop had fallen in the snow. The blade didn’t mean enough to him to go back and look for it. In his line of work, he had plenty of knives, guns, and surveillance equipment to last him a lifetime. Killing wasn’t his specialty. Finding things that people had taken and returning them to the rightful owner was his job. He was good at it and lucky like that. Moving slowly towards the old building, dull on the outside which match the washed out signage, the bell on the glass door jangled when he opened it and stepped inside to the warmth of the heated road side slop house and inhaled the grease-filled air.

  “Morning,” a pretty young woman called from behind the counter. Large brown eyes focused on his face. He knew the scar emblazoned across his left eye and down his cheek was a turn off to a lot of women. Others found it to be a turn on as if the scar gave him an edgy look which made him seem suspect. However, her eyes went from his face to the man at the end of the far counter, seated in a corner with his head down.

  Yield turned slowly, looking at the man who sat silently, his right leg bouncing up and down like a junkie in need of a fix. He knew that angst. The shaky fella was in need of a injection and probably intended to try and rob the place. Dammit.

  “Coffee, black and hot. Bacon and a bowl of grits with some cheese on top,” he said, dragging the leg a bit as he went to find a seat facing the door. Wanting the last booth in the row of three, he went to sit but found the position occupied by a small, sleeping, little person. Yield frowned at seeing the boy, adding more of a menacing look to his appearance.

  “Sorry about that,” the waitress said. Her nametag said Millicent. “Chad is asleep down there. Babysitters are so hard to come by nowadays. My friend won’t watch him while I work, and the late shift ain’t got many customers. It works out.”

  He said nothing. His eyes went from the shifty character to the child. A moment of envy went through him as he thought about Stop being at the raggedy homemade house with Judy and the kid. A family. He wanted a family, but it would be just his dumb luck to marry a crazy bitch that liked to fight all the time then fuck him for the rest of the night before waking up the next morning and cussing him up the scar on his face and down his back making a new groove into his skin. The last crazy woman he enjoyed fucking all night gave him the ugly scar across his face.

  The not so fond memory was interrupted by a ping from his pocket indicating Beauty had sent the photo for his next assignment. Noises around him ensued as the greasy joint prepared his order. He just wanted a plate of goddamn food, a bed, and when his leg healed, a willing woman under his well-managed thrusts to make him feel as if he were the Roman god of lust incarnate.

  “Pull one bacon,” the waitress yelled as a man, big around the middle, waddled from the back. The swinging door complained of his girth as he walked over to the fridge. Grubby hands reach for the handle to pull out three strips of bacon.

  “Hey, wash your hands before you touch my food,” Yield said aloud.

  “The heat from the grill will kill any germs,” the cook grumbled.

  “Either way, I would rather not have the germs from your ass on my meal,” Yield said, looking down at the photo.

  This was the part of the job he hated most. The images people sent of the targets were usually pics before the subject went bad. A good-looking kid with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an award-winning smile looked back at him from the screen of his phone. Yield was fairly certain the kid didn’t look like this now. If he were using hard drugs, more than likely, he would look more like the kid at the end of the counter. Used up.

  “Here’s your coffee, Mister,” the young woman said, sitting the cup down. “Let me get your grits. I made them myself. Just a little bit of milk, a bit of sugar, and heavy cream. Makes them grits really smooth when you stir’em up.”

  He watched her firm backside, young supple skin, and pert breasts as she leaned over the table to place the bowl in front of him. Her lips moved slowly so he could understand her words. He’s scaring me.

  Yield mouthed back, call the cops.

  She pressed her lips together, shaking her head no. Her eyes went to the child then back to him. There was a story in that glance that he had no time to hear nor care about. He just wanted his food.

  Yield turned down his lip in a frown. He didn’t understand what Ms. Pretty Perky Tits was trying to tell him and really didn’t give a shit. His leg hurt. He wanted his grits and that bacteria bacon the shit stain on life was cooking under the heavy metal press on the grill. Shrugging and reaching for the bowl, his attempt to blow her off didn’t work.

  Two loaded spoonful bites into his grits, Yield knew without a reasonable doubt, they were by far the best tasting boiled grounds of corn he’d ever eaten in his life. For that reason alone, he took a little more interest in what she was trying to say to him. Craning his neck, he looked over his shoulder into the seat to see the sleeping child. The child was the key to the message she was trying to convey to his uninterested, and semi-bored expressionless face.

  “Dammit,” he mumbled out loud.

  The shaky fellow looked up at him, with blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. Cursing under his breath, it was just his blind luck that the skip trace he’d been sent to retrieve just happened to be eating breakfast in the same hole in the wall as him.

  “Fuck it, I’m finishing my meal first,” Yield said licking his lips when the bacon arrived. The wide body cook, waddled his way behind the counter to the end of the seating in the small establishment to confront the latest skip trace. The cook’s voice cracked with tension as he dressed the customer.

  “Luther, pay up or get out,” the cook told the boy.

  “Jake, you know I’m good for it,” Luther, the shaky man, said.

  “Your Grandpa is good for it. You aren’t good for nuthin’,” the cook said, feeling proud that he could lord this over the downfallen young man.

  Yield hated bullies. Especially when it came to those less fortunate than others. Life had kicked the young man hard in the teeth, and this ass wipe of a short order cook wasn’t helping. Damn near growling, Yield looked at the young, troubled man.

  “Luther,” he said aloud. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t got no money,” the twitchy young man called back.

  “I’ll buy anything you have in your pockets that’s worth a twenty so you can get yourself a meal,” Yield said to the young man.

  “All I have is this watch, and I can’t sell it for no twenty damned bucks,” Luther called back.

  “What do you want for it?”

  “A hundred! A hundred dollars,” Luther said, feeling proud for upping the ante enough to get a meal and score a couple of good hits of dope.

  “Deal,” Yield said. “Hand the watch to Millicent over here, who will bring it to me and carry back the hundred. Easy transaction. You get a meal, the cook is happy, I get a watch, and Millicent earns a nice tip.”

  A shaky Luther gawked at him. The once healthy teeth as shown on the photo on his phone were now black from smoking meth. The smooth, well-cared-for skin in the picture had faded into the currently pockmarked flesh, chronicled with bad choices which left the face full of sores.

  “No funny stuff out of you, Mister,” Luther challenged.

  “I’m not going to move, which is why sweet Millicent is going to bring you over this bill,” he said, taking a crisp note from his wallet. “You hand her the watch, she hands you the bill, and everyone is good.”

  “What if I keep the watch and your bill then kick your ass?” Luther asked, feeling bold.

  “Then your Grandfather is going to be really pissed at me when I return that watch to him and put a bullet in you,” Yield growled out.
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  Millicent jumped, the cook dropped the spatula, and Luther’s eyes grew wide. Yield loved this portion of the job. He called it the ‘come to Jesus’ moment.

  “Yep, your Grandpa sent me to get his watch back,” Yield said. “Normally, I would kick your ass and take back the stolen property because that’s what I enjoy doing. But this morning, I’m tired. My leg hurts, and I’m sleepy plus a bit pissed off. However, Millicent here has made me feel kindly towards you after eating this bowl of yumminess. So, do all of us a favor, take the damned money, give me the fucking watch, and for God’s sake, eat some food!”

  He handed Millicent the bill, which she accepted with shaking hands. Hesitantly she moved down the walkway behind the counter to Luther, who pulled the watch from his pocket. Tears filled Luther’s eyes as he handed it to the young waitress, who put it in her pocket then gave him the bill.

  “Come to me, Millicent,” Yield said, holding a strip of bacon in his hand. “Cook, make the man a steak with a side of eggs and put it on my tab.”

  She reached his booth and passed him the watch. He stared at the inanimate object. The old man wanted it back, more than likely as the last straw to take one more thing from the kid. It wasn’t his business. His job was to get back the watch, which he had.

  “Thanks,” he said to Millicent, sliding the watch into his pocket.

  Her eyes went to the child.

  “Are you going to be in town for a while?” she asked, wanting to ask him for help that he didn’t fucking feel like giving.

  “Nope,” he replied. The way the hope drained from her face said it all. The kid’s father was an asshole. A local cop, maybe? It was the god damned creamy, nearly mouth orgasmic grits which made him ask the next stupid question. “Whaddya need?”

  He couldn’t believe he’d said the words.

  “A ride home would be nice for my kid and me,” she said. “You can have the couch to sleep on tonight if you want. It’s lumpy, but it sure beats you staying in the local motel. It’s safer, too.”