Aidan Read online

  AIDAN

  Ridge City Recruits Book 1

  Mazzy King

  MZK Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 by Mazzy King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by DesignRans.

  Proofread by Jenny Hanson.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Coming Soon

  1

  Aidan Kelly

  I lower the last beam onto the pile for tomorrow and straighten, the ache in my back easing as I stretch. The lowering summer sun kicked my ass today, but now it sinks into the horizon, promising nice, quiet evenings of backyard grilling, kids riding bikes, and cold beers on the front porch.

  If you have a normal life, that is.

  I mop off my face with the bottom of my T-shirt as I wave goodbye to the crew and head for my car. I’ll have just enough time to get home and take a quick shower before the rest of my day starts—my twice-weekly, three-hour comp class at Ridge City Community College and then, a meeting for the Program.

  Earlier this summer my pal Tommy O’Brien told me in very vague words about some job he had going with Ridge City PD and told me to come to “a meeting” with him to check it out. Initially, I balked. I got arrested after a fight eight years ago when I was eighteen. I did a couple months in county jail, not a long time, but the case and those months have haunted me ever since. No one wants to hire an ex-con, especially for a violent crime—even though it was truly self-defense. The guy I got into it with was some bastard in a parking garage, who hit my mom’s car, then started harassing and threatening her when she demanded his info. He swung first when I went to confront him, but being that he was an established, well-off adult and I was a poor kid on food stamps, it wasn’t hard for his lawyers to turn everything around on me.

  Since then, I, like most ex-cons, avoid the cops like the plague. Until Tommy talked me into going to the meeting. I’ve known him since we were kids, and he knows about my past. He told me I had nothing to worry about.

  That was hilarious—a bitter ex-con turned construction worker, just trying to get enough credits to maybe transfer to the university and maybe get a degree, with nothing to worry about walking into a roomful of cops.

  They ended up making me an offer I couldn’t refuse: join their “program” as a recruit and help them infiltrate the many seedy crime rings in the city and get my record…expunged.

  My past would cease to exist…allowing me to have a fresh start.

  I said yes without a second thought.

  That was two months ago. I’ve trained with them most days out of the week since then, but I haven’t actually done any real work yet. But tonight, I have a meeting with one of the seasoned undercover patrol guys—some dude named Gunner Hansen.

  Apparently, he has something for me.

  Finally.

  Anticipating the assignment has me totally distracted as I sit in class tonight. All I have is a meeting location and time, and nothing else. I’m usually sort of into my composition class, for a couple of reasons. First, I’ve discovered I actually enjoy writing, and I look forward to the start of each class, which is thirty minutes of uninterrupted journaling or free-writing time before we start the lesson.

  The second reason?

  My teacher is amazingly beautiful.

  Stella Smythe can’t be older than twenty-five and has been a teacher here for not quite two years. She’s got a couple of degrees including an MFA from a big-name, out-of-state university, and I’m not sure why she’s slumming it here when she could be a professor at Ridge City University. Still, her gorgeous, heart-shaped face, flowing, glossy black hair, and stunning green eyes make the long class twice a week totally worth it.

  And, oh yeah, the credits.

  I glance up from my laptop now, my gaze traveling over to where Stella sits at a table at the front of the room, reading glasses propped on her nose as she types away on her own laptop. I can’t know for certain what she’s writing, but I like to think she uses the time to journal too.

  I’m already distracted and looking at her distracts me even more.

  Tonight she’s wearing tight jeans, a white tank top, and some kind of floral-printed kimono-like thing on top of it. It’s shapeless but flowy, allowing me glimpses of her narrow waist, rounded hips, and generous butt.

  Am I “hot for teacher”? Yeah. I definitely am.

  I’ve talked to her a few times over the course of the semester. She’s always friendly, but she’s always friendly to everyone. Sometimes I catch her studying me in a way that makes me think she might find me attractive too but crossing the teacher-student line seems like a questionable idea.

  Still, it wouldn’t be the first time I thought about it. Fantasized about it. About her. And I can’t deny how much I want her.

  Jesus. I don’t sound like a stalker at all… Focus on your work, man.

  With difficulty, I return my gaze to my keyboard with a sigh.

  At the end of class, I toss my notebook and laptop into my backpack. My mind is already focused on what’s coming next—meeting with Gunner Hansen and finding out what they want me to do. I’m so caught up in double-checking the location of where he told me to meet him, I don’t notice a small shape approaching me until I smell a whiff of her perfume.

  “Aidan?”

  Her voice is sweet and a little raspy. I slowly lift my eyes to find Stella a couple feet away, smiling tentatively at me.

  “Hey, Ms. Smythe,” I say, clearing my throat and feeling eternally grateful I had time to shower before class.

  She tilts her head at that, full, pink lips curving up on one side. She’s told the class—and me—several times it’s okay to call her Stella, and even though I suspect we’re around the same age or she might even be younger, I can’t bring myself to call her Stella yet. She’s still my teacher.

  She doesn’t remark on it, though. Instead she says, “I wondered if you had a couple of minutes to discuss your essay assignment from last week.”

  Shit. I glance at my watch. I have twelve minutes to make a ten-minute drive to meet with Hansen. “Um, would you mind emailing me? I’ll make whatever corrections you need—”

  “I thought it was fantastic,” she says. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I think you’ve got something publication-worthy, actually.”

  I blink, momentarily caught off guard. “Wait…what?”

  The essay assignment from last week was a five-page paper about a single event that changed the course of our life. Naturally, I wrote about my conviction—the events preceding it, the events of the trial, and the aftermath and how it’s extended into my adult life. I ended up writing eight pages.

  I felt a little weird about basically admitting to my teacher—and also a woman I’m interested in—that I’m an ex-con, but it’s part of my life. Part of my history. And no matter whether or not it gets expunged from my official records, I can’t expunge it from my life.

  Stella nods, a beautiful smile spreading across her face. Now that I’m closer to her, I can spot a light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. They’re adorable.

  “I can see you’re in a hurry, so why don’t you stop by during my office hours tomorrow evening?” she says.

  “Oh, uh…” I glance at my watch again. Dammit! A rare opportunity to get some one-on-one time with this woman, a
nd of course, I have to go. “Yeah. What time are they, again?”

  “Five to nine.”

  I nod. “I’ll be there.”

  Stella gives me another smile. “Great. Um, have a great night, Aidan.”

  God, I love it when she says my name.

  “See you tomorrow,” I tell her, then head toward the door.

  Halfway out, I glance over my shoulder and catch her still watching me. She gives me a little wave, and I return it.

  It might be my imagination, but I swear her cheeks turn pink.

  2

  Stella Smythe

  The next night, as I work at my desk in my little office, I keep glancing at the clock. Then the door. Then the clock.

  When’s he coming?

  It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. But I can’t help the enormous crush I have on Aidan Kelly. My student.

  Huge yikes…

  I know from his records he’s older than me by a year. I also know now, according to his captivating essay, that he’s an ex-con. If he’s telling everything like it really happened, he got a super unfair shake in the legal system, being a poor kid from a blue-collar neighborhood going up against some Richie-rich with all the resources at his disposal. He was standing up for his mom, but he never stood a chance.

  I don’t judge him by his past actions. Hell, if he did that more recently, I wouldn’t judge him. But from his essay, I can tell he’s a man who wants more and better from life, who wants to rise above the “ex-con” stamp on his back. His essay touched my heart, and I think it’s something the world needs to see.

  Around eight, there’s a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I call, my heart suddenly beating fast, trying to keep up with the nerves fluttering in my belly.

  Aidan walks through my door, and the nerves intensify, making me hate myself a little for feeling them.

  He’s got almost a foot of height on me, and he’s broad-shouldered and golden-skinned, probably from his construction work. It’s hard not to picture him in a hard hat with no shirt on, and even though all I’ve seen of his body are his tattooed arms, it doesn’t take a genius to surmise he’s got washboard abs and well-developed pecs under that shirt.

  God, could you stop? I scold myself.

  He gives me a little smile. “Evening, Ms. Smythe.”

  Why does he have to be so gorgeous?

  His golden-brown hair is a little damp, like he jumped out of the shower right before coming here, and his face looks smooth and freshly shaved. He’s got plump lips that make me wonder if they’re as soft as they look.

  I usually insist on my students calling me Stella, but secretly, I love it when Aidan calls me Ms. Smythe. I can’t help but wonder what my first name would sound like coming from him, in his deep, velvety voice.

  Maybe you should go get laid for the first time in two years and stop lusting after your student! my mind shouts at me. It has been a long time for me, but I don’t want just anyone. I want him.

  But now, I need to be his teacher.

  “Hi, Aidan,” I say, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “Have a seat. Thanks for coming in.”

  “No problem. I tried to get here earlier, but…” He trails off and shrugs, glancing down.

  “It’s fine,” I reply. I reach into my desk drawer and pull out the printed copy of his essay. “So, like I was saying last night, I think your essay is fantastic. I based the assignment on a contest a literary publication I follow is holding—the themes are the same. I was hoping some of my students would produce work I could enter for them. And you did.”

  He blinks. “Just me?”

  “Just you. That’s not to say that other essays weren’t good. They were. But yours…” I shake my head, searching for the right word. “It was stirring. It touched me.”

  His gaze locks onto mine. “It did?”

  His voice is a little quieter. A little deeper.

  I nod. “Very much so.”

  He folds his hands together and leans forward. “So what happens next?”

  I’m mesmerized by those hands. They’re large and strong, a little scarred up on the back from hard manual labor. My gaze follows the veins on them, down his forearms, and up to where his tanned biceps strain against the sleeves of his T-shirt. His arms are covered in tattoos, and up close, I can see how artful they are, how beautifully drawn and shaded.

  Aidan clears his throat, and with horror, I realize I’ve been checking him out.

  “Um,” I say quickly, “we’ll do a few rounds of edits on it, and then I can submit it for you by the deadline next month. I’ve already done a first round of edits.” I push the document toward him with a slightly trembling hand.

  At the same time he reaches to take it, and our fingers brush.

  I always thought the old “he touched me, and it felt like a jolt of electricity” thing was just a saying in romance novels. But a blaze of heat snaps between us, and neither of us hurries to pull our hands away.

  “If—if you can complete the first round in a few days and get it back to me, that’d be great,” I say softly.

  He licks his lips slowly. “Ms. Smythe—”

  A loud buzzing noise sounds from his pocket, and we both flinch a little.

  He draws his hand back to retrieve his phone and frowns at the screen. Then he sighs and scratches his chin. “I, uh, have to get going. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I…have this new job. At night. I’m on call.”

  On call? I’m curious, but I decide not to ask. “Sure, no problem. Just let me know if you need help with the edits.” I stand, and he does the same. “I guess I could get going too. You were my last appointment.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he says immediately. “It’s dark out. Not super safe.”

  I blink in surprise. “Well—sure. That’d be really nice of you.” I reach for my laptop bag and quickly tuck my computer inside then sling it over my shoulder. Aidan opens the door and steps back.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” I say hastily, turning back to grab a folder containing my other class’s papers to grade. When I turn around, the folder flies out of my hand. “Shit.”

  “I got it.”

  We both bend down to gather the papers in the tiny space, and when I glance up, he’s looking at me. Our faces are only a few inches apart.

  “Here you go,” he says softly, holding out a stack of papers he gathered.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, taking them and tucking them into the folder.

  When we stand, my chest brushes his. It feels like the temperature in the office has just catapulted up about fifteen degrees.

  He walks me out, staying close to my side but not touching me. We don’t speak, but my face is still hot. I haven’t been with anybody in a couple years and don’t really date, but I know when a guy’s interested, and the look on Aidan’s face told me in no uncertain terms…he’s into me too.

  “This is me,” I say, gesturing toward a dented silver sedan.

  “I’ll get the door for you.” He reaches around me and opens the driver-side door. I lean forward to put my things in the passenger seat. When I turn around, Aidan’s only a few inches away again, one arm draped over the roof, one over the open door.

  I gaze up into his face, wishing he wasn’t my student. Wishing this was some other scenario.

  Wishing he would kiss me.

  His eyes, dark in the dim light of the parking lot, slide down my face until they rest on my lips, lingering there for a long moment.

  “Get home safe,” he says finally, taking a step back.

  I draw in a breath. “You too. And have a good night at work.”

  He flashes a brief smile at that, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, before he blinks it away. I turn to climb into my car.

  “Good night, Aidan,” I say.

  “Good night…Stella.”

  I turn to look at him. He gives me another smile, this one slow and sexy, and it definitely reaches his eyes this time.

 
3

  Aidan

  “All right,” a tough-looking dude with more tattoos than me and a hard look in his eyes says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s see what we got.”

  I fold my arms, tilting my head. “You got the cream of the fucking crop, is what you got.”

  He glares at me. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  The guy, who I only know as Runty—though he’s bigger than me—leans down to swipe one of the two black nylon duffel bags I brought in and set down on the concrete floor. He yanks the zipper open and peers inside at the array of goods—two Uzis, three AK-47s, half a dozen Glocks of various sizes, and a few S&W revolvers. None of them have serial numbers, after the seller—Gray, my boss—had the crew painstakingly file them off.

  He checks out a few of the guns, then takes the bag into a back office of the warehouse we’re meeting in to have his boss check them out. When he comes back out, it’s with a large tan envelope I know is full of money.

  In fact, it better be full of fifty thousand dollars.

  Runty flicks his head at me as he walks toward me. He pushes the envelope into my hands. “Here. Boss says he’s going to be wanting another delivery soon. Next week.”

  I set my jaw. “You know, my boss makes a point of speaking to the people he does business with. Not sending his lackeys out to run his messages.”

  It’s a ballsy thing to say. Runty narrows his eyes and clenches his fists.

  “How precious,” he sneers. “But my boss is a bit more discerning. He’ll speak to you when he wants to, if he wants to. Not a second before. You or your boss don’t like it? Shove it up your asses.” He leans into my face, jabbing a finger at my nose. “But I bet you won’t. You know why? Because you want to keep getting paid. Now fuck off.”