Handled: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World) Read online

  Handled

  An Everyday Heroes World Novel

  Heather Slade

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Ali

  2. Cope

  3. Ali

  4. Cope

  5. Ali

  6. Cope

  7. Ali

  8. Cope

  9. Ali

  10. Cope

  11. Ali

  12. Cope

  13. Ali

  14. Cope

  15. Ali

  16. Cope

  17. Ali

  18. Cope

  19. Ali

  20. Cope

  21. Ali

  22. Ali

  23. Ali

  24. Cope

  25. Ali

  26. Cope

  Epilogue

  Want more?

  Bucked

  KB Worlds

  About the Author

  Also by Heather Slade

  ALSO WRITTEN BY K. BROMBERG

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  © 2020 KB WORLDS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  Published by KB Worlds LLC.

  Cover Design by: Heather Slade

  Cover Image by: Reggie Deanching / R+M Photos

  Published in the United States of America

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to the Everyday Heroes World!

  I’m so excited you’ve picked up this book! Handled is a book based on the world I created in my USA Today bestselling Everyday Heroes Series. While I may be finished writing this series (for now), various authors have signed on to keep them going. They will be bringing you all-new stories in the world you know while allowing you to revisit the characters you love.

  This book is entirely the work of the author who wrote it. While I allowed them to use the world I created and may have assisted in some of the plotting, I took no part in the writing or editing of the story. All praise can be directed their way.

  I truly hope you enjoy Handled. If you’re interested in finding more authors who have written in the KB Worlds, you can visit www.kbworlds.com.

  Thank you for supporting the writers in this project and me.

  Happy Reading,

  K. Bromberg

  Prologue

  Cope

  I took a deep breath, making sure there were no holes in the story I was about to tell. I had to sell it and sell it good because the people I was lying to were trained to recognize even the most minute mistruths.

  If I failed to convince any one of them, the house of cards I’d carefully built would come tumbling down.

  “You better be fucking sure you can protect me, Cope,” the agent I’d handled since the beginning of both our careers said last night when I told him his arrest was scheduled for this morning.

  “You’ve trusted me this far, don’t blow it now by panicking.”

  “I’ll be the one locked up in a cell like a goddamn sitting duck.”

  “Just keep your mouth shut and let me handle it like I always do. If you don’t, every risk we’ve taken in the last seven years will be for nothing.” I didn’t need to add that if he talked, I’d fucking kill him.

  One

  Ali

  “The view from here is spectacular,” said the doorman who delivered my bags to the luxurious corner loft that would be mine to live in, rent-free, for the next six months. “You can see all the way to the United States Capitol.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I muttered, refusing to look to the floor-to-ceiling windows where he stood. The apartment, with its high ceilings, exposed brick, and gourmet kitchen, was the nicest I’d ever seen, let alone lived in.

  “Want your bags in here?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I followed him into one of the two bedrooms and saw it had an en suite bath to die for, with a huge jetted tub plus a shower I could hold a party in—once I knew anyone in DC.

  “Is there anything else I can assist with?”

  “Not for now, thanks.” I took the twenty I’d set aside out of my pocket and handed it to him.

  “Press one if you change your mind,” he said, pointing to an intercom just inside the front door. “Oh, and if you’re hungry, there’s a café in the building across the street that has great food.”

  Once he was gone, I took off my jacket, threw it on one of the chairs in the open-concept space, pulled my laptop out of my bag, and set it on the kitchen bar.

  I stretched my muscles, achy from a day of travel, and looked longingly at the high-end stationary bike sitting within a foot of the windows. Sadly, my debilitating fear of heights would prevent me from venturing too close.

  When the doorman mentioned the café, I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. If I didn’t soon, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to get the work done that I needed to tonight.

  I left my swanky apartment and got into the waiting elevator. With my acrophobia, taking it down was terrifying, but I didn’t have the energy to walk down thirty flights of stairs, no matter how much I needed the exercise.

  I pressed the button for the lobby, held on tightly to the side rail, and closed my eyes. The sinking feeling in my stomach made me consider that maybe I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.

  By the time I walked from the bank of elevators and out the front door, my hunger pains had returned. I opened the door to the café and approached the counter at the same time a man came in through another entrance.

  He was staring at his phone and didn’t notice I was there before him. He looked up at the menu board.

  “I’ll have a gyro salad. Thanks, Lindsey.”

  “We’re running behind. It’ll be about ten minutes, if that’s okay.”

  I cleared my throat, which he didn’t notice, in the same way he paid no attention to the woman behind the counter.

  If I weren’t angry-hungry, I would’ve let the whole thing go, but I was, and that, combined with the café running behind, pissed me the hell off. “Excuse me, but I was here first.”

  No response. In fact, no reaction. He turned his back and leaned against the display case, something I was sure the employees who had to clean it didn’t appreciate.

  I said it again, only louder.

  When the man—the very handsome man with dark brown hair and eyes I could see were green—turned around and looked straight at me, I nearly gasped. Standing less than a foot from me was Sumner Copeland, whose photos I’d studied, and yet I hadn’t recognized him when he first walked in.

  “What did you say?”

  “I…um…said I was here first.”

  He shrugged and went back to his phone.

  “He gets lost in his own world,” said the woman he’d called Lindsey. “What can I get you?”

  I couldn’t think straight; I couldn’t even focus on the menu. If I weren’t starving, I’d walk out. “I’ll have the gyro salad also.”

  “Anything else?” she asked, punching my order into the computer.

&
nbsp; “Hey, Linds, we’re all out of gyro. That last order was it for today.”

  I hadn’t formed my own opinion about Sumner Copeland—until now. The muscle-bound jerk was an asshole.

  “What was that? Did you just call me an asshole?”

  Had I said it out loud? I looked at Lindsey, who was trying not to laugh, so I must have. I wasn’t going to lie, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to apologize. “Yep. I sure did.”

  He put his phone in his pocket. “Why?”

  “First, I was here before you. Second, I wanted the gyro salad, which I could’ve had if you hadn’t butted in front of me and taken the last order.”

  He pointed up at the menu. “They have lots of other things. The cobb salad is good.”

  “I don’t want a cobb salad.”

  “Let her have the gyro,” I heard Lindsey say.

  “What? No! That’s ridiculous.”

  “Tell you what,” she offered. “Order anything you want. It’ll be on the house, and if you come back tomorrow, I’ll save you some gyro.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but this isn’t your fault,” I said, glaring up at the man next to me. How the hell tall was he? His dossier said six-something. His muscular chest looked to be at least three feet wide. I couldn’t help but continue my perusal down his body. The sleeves of his collared shirt were tight around his chiseled arms, and the pair of faded jeans he wore hugged his thighs.

  “The menu is up there,” he said, pointing.

  “What?”

  He pointed again at the board and then at Lindsey. “You’re keeping her waiting.”

  “You know what? Forget it. I lost my appetite.” I walked toward the same door I came in, but stopped and thanked the woman behind the counter. “I’ll come back another time.”

  She smiled and waved. “Have a good one, girl.”

  Two

  Cope

  “Cope,” said Lindsey in a tone of voice that sounded like my mother. “That wasn’t nice.”

  I watched the little spitfire use the crosswalk and go inside the building across the way. Her brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail that swayed in time with her ass as she walked.

  She had on clothes that looked more like she should be working out—I hated it when women wore yoga pants and training tanks as everyday clothing—but the ensemble accentuated her fit body in a way that it wouldn’t have flattered one less athletic.

  Even though she was mad as hell—over a salad, who does that—she was gorgeous. I could only imagine how pretty she’d be if she smiled, not something I’d likely ever see since I doubted I’d run into her again in a city with a population closing in on a million.

  Thirty-five years ago, when my father, the senior Senator from the State of Louisiana, with a record of being the second-most conservative member of congress, arrived in the district, the population was half what it was now.

  I was still waiting on my salad when I saw her come back out of the building a few minutes later, this time, dressed in a pair of jeans and a blouse. She walked in the opposite direction, toward the pub down the way. The food wasn’t as good as what they served at the café, and they certainly didn’t have a gyro salad.

  “Here you go,” said Lindsey, looking in the same direction I was. “You should be ashamed of yourself. She was here before you.”

  I ate here at least once every day and didn’t want to piss off the woman who almost always took my order. “Tell you what, the next time she comes in, I’ll pay for her order.”

  My phone chimed with a message from my mother, and I groaned. What was wrong with me? How in the hell had I forgotten that today was Sunday and I was having dinner with my parents? I walked out, leaving the to-go container sitting on the counter.

  “You’re late, Sumner,” my mother said when I walked into the kitchen and kissed her cheek.

  “Is he here?”

  “They’re in your father’s study.”

  “Ah, there he is,” said my father, motioning me closer. “Ed, this is my son, Sumner. Son, you know Director Fisk.”

  “Sumner, it’s a pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “From my father, no doubt.” I shook the hand of the man who was three rungs above my boss, and hoped that asking my father to arrange a meeting between me and the new director of the CIA wouldn’t blow up in my face.

  “Actually, no. I understand you were the person who took down Irish Warrick.”

  “There was a team, sir.”

  My father clapped me on the back. “What did I tell you, Ed?”

  “Dad…”

  “Look,” said Fisk. “They call you Cope, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The trial gets underway tomorrow. I’m assuming that’s why you asked for this meeting.”

  My father cleared his throat. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll see how dinner is coming along.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

  I took a deep breath, knowing that what I was about to do could end my career, but worse, if it didn’t work, it could cost the lives of CIA agents around the world.

  After dinner, I walked the director to his car. When I came back, my father was waiting on the porch. “Dad, I—”

  “Come with me,” he said, leading me back into his study. “Have a seat, and tell me what the hell that was all about.”

  My father was the sitting chair of the United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, the whole reason he’d been able to get me an audience with Fisk.

  “I can’t talk to you about this, Dad.”

  He sat down in the chair behind his desk, turned, and looked out the window.

  Three

  Ali

  I tossed the container that held the rest of my half-eaten burger into the trash, not even sure why I’d brought it back to the apartment.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my bag when I heard it ringing.

  “Hey, Jessica. I was just getting ready to call you.”

  “Are you settled?” asked my boss as of yesterday.

  “This apartment is incredible.”

  “More importantly, ideally located.”

  “Right.”

  “You ready for tomorrow?”

  “I’m about to take another look at my notes.”

  “Give me a call when it wraps up, and try to get some rest.”

  The alarm on the bedside table went off at five, jarring me awake. I was still on West Coast time, which meant, for me, it was two. I got up and padded my way into the kitchen, wishing I’d figured out how to use the coffee maker before I went to sleep. It was far too complicated this early in the morning.

  I walked as close to the windows as I could get without having a panic attack and stood on my tiptoes to see if the café across the way was open. Lights were on; that was promising.

  Before I could make up my mind whether to get dressed and go down to grab a cup of coffee—which would entail taking the elevator—or attempt to figure out the machine that looked like it would take a barista’s degree to use, a light in the apartment directly across from mine came on.

  It had the same floor-to-ceiling windows and an exercise bike sitting in the same location as the one in this apartment. Although bike was too simplistic to describe this thing. Like the coffeemaker, operating it would take a degree in fitness training.

  When I saw someone walking toward it, I jumped back. Oh my God. It was Sumner Copeland. He was shirtless—and hot as fuck.

  I rested against the exposed brick wall, wishing I could take another peek, but knowing I couldn’t risk him seeing me. Since I couldn’t stare at him, I went back to the kitchen and stared longingly at the coffee machine. It would be easier, and hopefully quicker, to tackle it than to go across the street to buy a cup, so I searched up an instruction video. Fifteen minutes later, I was rewarded with the best coffee I’d had in my life; it better be, since according to the website, the thing cost thousands.

  The elevator ride to the parking garage
didn’t make me as queasy as it had the day before; there was a chance I’d be used to it within a few days. After all, I had figured out how to use the fancy coffee machine. As my mother always said, I could do anything I set my mind to, I just had to want it badly enough. Who knew? Maybe tomorrow I’d overcome my fear of heights enough to check out the exercise bike.

  I looked at my reflection in the polished glass of the elevator, trying to determine if I’d gone overboard in my decision to wear a conservative suit, or if I should’ve gone more casual. I shrugged. Too late to change my mind now.

  My older-model car looked pathetic in my designated spot between two BMWs, but this morning, I was thankful the apartment came with a paid space. It would be insanely expensive to keep a car in DC otherwise, and right now, I needed it.

  It would be at least an hour to get to the United States Eastern District Court of Virginia, longer if traffic was bad. Taking a car service would’ve probably cost more than the coffee maker, and by the time I figured out how to get there via public transportation, the opening arguments in the trial I’d been assigned to cover would be over.