BEAUTY AND THE BADGE Read online

  Table of Contents

  Beauty and the Badge

  Copyright

  Also by Ella Fox

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  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.

  Text copyright © 2019 Ella Fox

  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.

  Published by Boom Factory Publishing LLC.

  Cover design by Sara Eirew

  Interior Design by Christina Smith

  ALSO BY ELLA FOX

  ____________________________________

  The Retake Duet

  On The Way Down

  On The Way Back

  The Cruz Brothers

  I Don’t

  I Want

  I Need

  The Hart Family

  Broken Hart

  Shattered Hart

  Loving Hart

  Unbroken Hart

  Missing Hart

  Finding Hart

  The Renegade Saints (Rockstar Romance)

  Picture Perfect

  Twist of Fate

  Between Us

  Something to Believe In

  The Catch Series

  Catch My Fall

  Catch and Release

  Standalone Books

  Consequences of Deception

  All That’s Left to Hold Onto

  Strictly Temporary

  Disrupt

  Novellas

  Sin’s Temptation

  Sweet Like Candy

  Amber’s Allure

  Out of Formation

  Until Mallory

  Until Twyla

  Rated Ex

  The Love Under the Lights Series (co-written with Rochelle Paige)

  Gage

  Vaughn

  DEDICATION

  This book is for my mom and my grandmother.

  They cultivated my love of reading, because they led by example. I grew up knowing that getting lost in the pages of a book was magic, and I’ve carried that with me every day.

  First, there was the wonderful world of Dr. Seuss, then came Nancy Drew, followed by Sweet Valley High and, one summer, the entire Agatha Christie catalogue. Then, when I started borrowing Harlequins from my mom and Danielle Steel books from my grandmother, I got hooked on romance. I learned to dream, and that brought me here.

  Although I miss my grandmother terribly, I know she’s thrilled that I started putting the stories in my head on paper.

  I hope there are books in heaven. If there are and you read this, say hi to Bert and Mither for me, Grama. I miss you guys.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ____________________________________

  ASHLEY

  “ASHLEY!”

  My body jerks at the sound. The person bellowing my name is my boss, Hadley Halls, which means it may as well have been accompanied by the snap of a whip.

  Pushing back from my desk, I hurry into her office. While the outer office area where I sit is decorated in shades of dark gray, Hadley’s office is painted black. It’s like an ultra-luxe magazine spread come to life, and if anything is out of place, she’ll let you know. All of the trim and crown molding is stark white, there’s an enormous crystal chandelier in the center of the room, and her acrylic desk is eight-feet long. The space is neither welcoming nor warm—especially since she keeps the temperature at sixty-five degrees year round. I bet Cruella de Vil would feel right at home.

  As I near Hadley’s desk, I’m hit with the cloying scent of her custom-blended perfume, which signals she’s getting ready to leave. Shooting a furtive glance at the clock, I note that it’s just after one. For one brief, beautiful second, I wonder if she’ll let me go home early. Then reality knocks on my head like I’m George McFly, and I remember that Hadley would never be so generous.

  “Jesus, are you part turtle?” she snaps, her expression one of pure disdain. “It took you long enough to get in here.”

  If it took me more than fifteen seconds to get from my desk to her office, I’d be stunned. Hadley’s style of management has my jump and run reflexes on high alert.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, hating that I have to apologize when I’ve done nothing wrong.

  “You’re always sorry,” Hadley snipes, her tone haughty.

  Beneath the pin-straight line of her jet-black bangs, her dark eyes are narrowed in a way that make me feel as if I’m under a microscope. She’s a lot like a vampire. The only difference between her and a creature of the night is that she runs on a steady diet of forced apologies as opposed to blood.

  “I’ve got somewhere to be. Get my bag ready.”

  I nod, always complacent, and head for her coat closet. After retrieving her Louis Vuitton Neverfull tote, I return to her desk and begin to gather the items she takes with her. Two cell phones, one iPad, her Apple pencil, and a traditional notebook along with four pens all go into the bag. Once it’s packed, I set it on the right edge of her desk, making sure to align it just so. Hadley has a thing about objects being crooked. Stepping back, I look at her and smile blandly. “Is there anything else I can do before you go?”

  The look she gives me is so razor-sharp that I know whatever she’s about to say will be either rude or insulting, and quite likely both. “A quick look at my Instagram post from two Thursdays ago shows you’ve missed responding to several comments today. I need you to stop lazing about and step it up. My followers need me to respond. Don’t you realize that if my status falls, you’ll be out of a job?”

  It would be impossible to forget, since she reminds me of that very thing a minimum of a half-dozen times each day. “I’m sorry. I was busy responding to all the comments from yesterday’s post about mix-and-match wardrobe essentials and—”

  “Too many excuses,” she interrupts, her tone harsh. Rising, she walks around her desk. “You’ll stay half an hour later today to make up for it.”

  Her glacial stare dares me to argue. There are so many words on the tip of my tongue, but as always, I swallow them down, nod to indicate my acquiescence, and keep my mouth shut, because arguing with her is an exercise in futility. Hadley doles out criticisms and put-downs like they’re candy. She can find fault in everyone but herself, which means being told she’s mistaken is anathema to her.

  The victorious expression on her heavily Botoxed face as she picks up her bag makes my stomach roil. I’ve only ever actively disliked one other person this much. I don’t like the feeling.

  Hadley doesn’t say anything else, because she’s already gotten her digs in for the day. Slinging her bag over
her shoulder, she stalks from the office like a model working the catwalk. The silence left in her wake is welcome but also not, because it gives my brain time to ruminate on all the reasons I’m unhappy with my job.

  If her three million followers ever discovered what a vicious person she is, they’d be shocked. The soft-voiced woman who teaches people how to organize their lives while also guiding them in the ways of classic style is a carefully crafted façade. Hadley is a barracuda with the ability to fake being a pleasant human being. Worse, she gets the bulk of her ideas from other influencers.

  Sadly, most of the people she steals from are well aware of what she’s done, but they’re all afraid to say anything about it. Instead, they kiss her ass in the hopes they’ll get some of her audience. I find it disheartening that someone so shallow, egotistical, and cruel has risen to the top, but as my grandmother used to say some people absolutely have to have someone to follow. My grandfather would then point out that weakness and gullibility were things dictators preyed on to take power. There’s truth in both statements.

  With a heavy sigh, I return to my desk. Tapping my iPad Pro, I pull up the post she gave me grief about. Scrolling down, I clench my jaw to hold back a scream. She’s making me stay late for missing three comments.

  After responding—which takes me less than a minute—I pick up my phone and bring up the manifestation app I bought a few weeks ago. There, I silently repeat the series of affirmations I’ve been focusing on since I started using the app:

  I trust that better things are coming.

  I believe that change is on its way.

  I allow the universe to guide me toward the life I’m meant to live.

  After quietly repeating each one of the affirmations seven times, I shut the app, let out a long breath, and say, “Hey, universe? It’s me, Ashley. Just wanted to say it’d be awesome if we could pick up the pace on this ‘creating a new life’ thing. Pretty sure if things don’t change soon, my brain is going to explode.”

  _______________

  THE SCENT OF strong, rich coffee that always lingers in the air of Coleman’s Convenience Mart greets me as I step through the door. Lifting my hand, I wave at Rob, who is standing behind the counter. He’s the closest thing I have to a cousin, and he’s also my landlord.

  Rob raises his chin and smiles in greeting. “Hey, Ash. Good news: I finally heard back from the appliance repair shop. They’ll be here Friday at nine to fix your washer. I know Hateful Hadley won’t let you come in late, so I’ve got you covered. I’ll let them in and oversee the repair.”

  I shoot him a thankful grin on my way to the drink station at the end of the counter. Plucking the largest available cup, I slide it beneath the hot chocolate dispenser.

  “I don’t tell you enough how much I love your face,” I tell Rob as the sweet chocolate I almost always end my day with begins to fill the cup. “I’d love to take the morning off and deal with the repair myself, but Hadley’s being such a bitc—”

  I stop and then give myself a mental pat on the back for not getting the derogatory descriptive I’d intended to use all the way out. The manifestation app and the books I’ve been reading for the last two months make it clear that maintaining a positive attitude is essential if I’m going to live the life of my dreams. And according to all the guided meditations on YouTube, the reading, and the online journaling I’m doing, it’s becoming more and more obvious that life isn’t here in Los Angeles.

  The underlying message found in all my manifestation and visualization exercises are definitely having an effect on the way I think. I understand I need to minimize negative thoughts, focus on positive things that will create more energy around me, and gather the courage to make life-changing decisions. I know where I want to go, but taking that leap of faith scares me.

  “You gotta leave that job,” Rob grumbles. “At your age, I was grabbing life by the throat. I know my choices aren’t for everyone, but those years were some of the best times of my life. You’re so damn tired that you don’t even have the energy to go out on the weekends. Life is passing you by and for what? To have some uppity bitch spend her days cracking the whip on you? Give that woman the finger, clear out your desk tomorrow, and let Karen place you in a job. The employment agency she works for is listing new gigs every day.”

  Now that my grandfather is gone, Rob and his girlfriend Karen are all that remains of my family. While I appreciate their care and concern more than I can say, I can’t imagine quitting my current job without having something better lined up.

  Still, I’m cognizant of the fact that Rob has a point. Life is passing me by, and my job is like an albatross around my neck, but I have excellent benefits. With finding a full-time position with insurance getting harder by the day, I think of it as a trade-off. After watching my grandfather go through more than half of his retirement savings to pay for all the “extra” costs of his cancer treatment, I don’t feel as though I can turn my back on the full-coverage package I have.

  Watching him die was nearly unbearable, and knowing he was scared of losing everything was gut-wrenching. When it came time for hospice care, one of the last lucid things he said to me was that he was glad he wasn’t dying poor. He’d said it in a darkly humorous way, but the underlying message had hit me hard. That the strong, incredible man who worked hard and took care of everyone wound up spending the final year of his life worried he wouldn’t have enough money to get through haunts me.

  Forcing those painful memories away, I put a plastic lid on my hot chocolate and blow out a long breath. “I’m trapped until the right thing comes along. I keep submitting my resume, but you know how the job market is here.”

  In LA, there’s always someone right behind you who is willing—desperate, even—to do your job for less money. Frowning, I pick up the hot chocolate and head toward the register. Along the way, I stop and pick up a pack of peanut butter cups, which turns my frown upside down. I can’t help it—my body is a temple primarily built on chocolate. There’s a very good chance that if someone were to tap me like a keg, chocolate syrup would flow out freely.

  Rob makes a clucking sound with his tongue when I slide two one-dollar bills across the counter. “I really wish you’d just take the stuff,” he says.

  “The day you raise my rent by about sixty-five dollars a month, I’ll stop giving you two dollars a day,” I answer.

  “Never gonna happen,” he says as he rings up the purchase and opens the register.

  “Which is why I’ll continue paying.”

  Rob snickers. “You’re as stubborn as Uncle Lou was,” he teases.

  A grin spreads across my face. That’s a compliment and he darn well knows it. We’ve had some version of this same conversation a lot over the last year. Rob’s my biggest cheerleader and my rock. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

  I’m well aware that Rob could rent out my apartment for twice what I pay, but he doesn’t because we’re family, albeit not by blood. Because his dad and my grandfather were best friends, he’s been a staple in my life from the beginning.

  Sadly, they’re both gone now—Uncle Charlie to a heart attack almost four years ago, my grandfather to cancer last year—but Rob and I are family. Always. In addition to renting to me at a below-market rate, Rob and his girlfriend Karen have a habit of inviting me over for dinner two or three nights a week. They’ve been a blessing to me in every way that matters. Hell will freeze over before I stop paying for what I buy in the store each day.

  The sound of a door chime announcing a new arrival tells me it’s time to be on my way.

  “All right, I’m off for a fun night of binge-watching Lucif—“

  The look on Rob’s face alerts me to the fact that something is very, very wrong. I automatically turn toward the door and then immediately wish I hadn’t. Two men wearing black hoodies pulled up over black baseball caps and black bandanas covering their faces from the eyes down are holding guns. One is pointed at me, the other at Rob. I have approxim
ately two seconds to take all of that in before the man closest to me grabs me by the arm, spins me around so that I’m facing Rob, and puts his gun to my head. The peanut butter cups and hot chocolate I was holding drop to the ground, but I barely feel the piping hot liquid that splashes against my legs.

  “Open the register and the fucking safe under the counter and give us all your cash or you and this bitch are gonna die!” the man not holding a gun to my head thunders.

  No. No. Oh hell no.

  There’s a gun to my head, and the other guy waving the weapon in Rob’s face is not coming across as being cool or collected. This is so, so, so bad. I don’t know what it says about me that one of the first things my stupid brain does is conjure up a memory of my grandmother joking about how important it is to make sure to have on clean underwear when leaving the house, since you never can tell where the day will take you. I know I showered this morning so all my clothes are clean, but still, for a second, I panic that my underwear may not be.

  “Stay calm, man,” Rob says in a subdued tone, his gaze flicking between me and the man with the gun trained on him. “You can have the money. I’m not going to put up a fight.”

  “Then fuckin’ hurry!” the guy with the gun at the side of my head bellows.

  It feels like four thousand years pass while Rob empties the register, opens the safe, and hands all the money over to the guy with the pistol aimed at him, but in reality, it probably happens in under two minutes. Sweat is pouring down my back and my heart rate is more jacked up than the last time I went to Zumba.

  After Rob has all the money on the counter, the guy holding the gun to my head tells him to count it. “Five hundred and twenty-nine dollars, plus the change from the drawer,” he says.

  The robbers start cursing.

  “It’s bullshit that you’ve only got five hundred fuckin’ dollars on hand,” the guy at the register snarls. “What the fuck, man! Where’s all the money?”

  “I went to the bank earlier,” Rob answers.