Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
With a hefty criminal record tarnishing his name, Laken Howell never anticipated spending the night with a beautiful, talented stranger only hours after leaving prison.
Nicole Reed was everything he’d dreamed of coming home to during his ten-year stint in a maximum security penitentiary.
She’s down-to-earth, funny, and according to Laken’s newly drafted employment contract he had yet to view, in need of protection.
They crossed the line before they knew he was hired to protect her, so what happens when one too many secrets means the only person threatening the upcoming music starlet’s happiness is the man paid to shadow her every move?Protecting Nicole is a standalone bodyguard/singer romance. Check author's website for TWs.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
LAKEN
“Sign here.”
A clear plastic zip-pressed bag slides to the side of the counter before a pen follows its fumble. Inside the bag are possessions I haven’t seen for over nine years. A watch with a sentimental worth that will forever exceed its value, a money clip with a few crinkled bills, and a wallet that appears flatter than it did years ago.
I discover why when the officer preparing me for release says, “Your driver’s license expired during incarceration, so they will organize a new one through the BOP system.”
“BOP?” I ask, a little overwhelmed.
My release from federal prison is occurring as swiftly as my incarceration. The past month has been a blur of release prep meetings, two in-depth parole hearings, and multiple one-on-one prayer sessions with the prison chaplain.
I’m not a preaching man. I was merely willing to do anything necessary for a reduced sentence. Three years might not seem like much to the average man, but to me, it is more than I could have hoped for.
Not looking up, the officer replies, “Board of parole. You have a meeting with your parole officer tomorrow morning. Details are in here.” He slides a second baggie across the counter dividing us. It is thicker than the first and full of paperwork. “If you don’t want to return here by the p.m., don’t be late for your first check-in.” Finally, he looks up. “I don’t want to see you back here.”
Nothing but honesty rings true in my tone when I gabber out, “I have no interest in returning.”
He pffts me like he hears that line every day, before nudging his salt-and-pepper afro to my release form that states what items were in my possession when I handed myself in to authorities. “Unless something is missing, you’re free to go once that’s signed.”
“It all appears in order,” I mumble, more to myself than the prison officer with “Riley” marked on his uniform.
After scribbling my name across the slip I’ve been working toward for the past nine years, I stuff my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans and my bill clip in the front before securing my watch on my wrist. Its fit is as snug as my jeans since I've spent almost a decade working out and have gained significant muscle in my calves and thighs.
I had nothing else to occupy my time, so I kept my head as low as my percentage of body fat. Being incarcerated with mass murderers, rapists, pedophiles, and drug lords meant even if I didn’t want to play the part of a criminal, I had to look it, or I would have left prison in a body bag instead of the ride arranged by the parole office board when they granted my early release.
“Eleven a.m., Howell,” Officer Riley reminds me in a snide tone as I make my way to the double exit doors. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
Hot, sticky heat hits me in the face when I push through the paned glass doors. Summer ended a few weeks back, but Florida never seems to get the memo.
After relishing the warmth of the late afternoon sun on my face, I drop my chin and scan the guarded grounds. The officers walking the jail's external walls are armed like the ones manning the yard from above, but since I’m wearing jeans and a ripped white T-shirt instead of a federally issued jumpsuit, they don’t pay me any attention.
Well, that is until my name is shouted across the grounds in an egotistical jock-running-onto-the-field way.
“Laaaa-keeen Hooowwwelll.”
Even with a low-hanging cap hiding his eyes, and his stubble the thickest I’ve seen it, there’s no mistaking the face of the man catcalling my name. His visits were sporadic over the past twelve months, and his care packages nonexistent six months prior, but before a possibility of early probation was sniffed at, his visits were bi-monthly.
Noting the surprise on my face, Knox slaps his hand into mine before using his sweaty grip to pull me in for a man hug. “Did you seriously think I’d let the parole board reintroduce you to society?” With his free hand, he whacks my back until the nerves in my stomach rattle free. “How the fuck have you been, Laken? Feels like forever since we’ve caught up.”