Preservation: NCA Security, #2

By Breanna Riley

Who do you turn to when there's no one left?

Isla traded one cage for another when the FBI freed her from servitude under a deranged drug lord. Now, she has to inform for them to earn that freedom. When Derrick hires her on the spot with no ID or verifiable background, she didn't think it would put her newfound freedom in jeopardy. The tall, tattooed bartender's stormy eyes and rough hands haunt her every waking moment, becoming more of a distraction to her goals of independence.

Derrick really only has two things going for him in his life: his chosen family, and his bar. When the heart-stoppingly beautiful Isla asks for a job, he knows the girl 18 years his junior has an innocent disposition that can't do well in the bar environment. He can't stop himself when he feels an instant connection. The captivation spurs on his need to help, and their explosive chemistry leaves his dreams consumed with her.

Neither of them understood how much danger lurked in the dark, but both of them will suffer the consequences when the enemy is underestimated.

Guarunteed HEA, 18+. This book has dark themes and subjects, please check my website for a full list of trigger warnings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Breanna Riley
• Release date: Jun 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201644222

Breanna Riley

Breanna Riley is a millennial mom of four boys, and personal assistant to six overbearing cats. She and her husband raise their kids in the Portland, Oregon area, where Breanna has spent her whole life. A breakout author, Breanna has been a romance enthusiast since before it was appropriate. She picked up writing during the Covid pandemic and hasn’t been able to stop since.

Book preview

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Prologue

Isla didn’t know when her dad, Louie, would come back, but she didn’t want to dawdle on her tasks and discover the consequences. At twenty-four, she had been with him constantly since age fourteen, when her mom fell off of the face of the earth and the rabbit hole of addiction. 

In her dad’s run down RV, they had traveled from place to place doing odd jobs. Sometimes they would pick berries for weeks, then move the RV outside of a construction zone with her dad doing day labor, where men twice Isla’s age would stare lasciviously. They landed in Central Oregon under the thumb of Raymond Walker. Her father parked the RV for the last time on Ray’s pot farm, and there it stayed for eight long years, where Isla finished out her adolescence. 

At 5′5, she was average height and had a narrow waist with full hips and breasts. Her weight fluctuated based on the available food. Sometimes her clothes were snug, others they hung off of her like sheets in the wind. It bothered her because she spent copious amounts of time and effort downplaying her body, desperate to avoid any attention. 

Isla’s naturally honey blonde hair often bleached in the sun, and her skin bronzed to a delicious color spring through fall. Freckles covered her from her head to the tips of her toes, as her mother had complained once as she combed lice out of her honey strands, mistaking yet another freckle on her scalp for a nit. 

Her beauty didn’t save her, though. Isla was a prisoner, if not by name but by situation. With no formal education, identification, or a way out on the horizon, Isla remained at Raymond Walker’s mercy, in a business sense. His own little ‘step-n-fetch it’ as her dad liked to say. Ray liked to call her the Cold Office Bitch, because Louie wouldn’t let him whore her out like the other girls at the compound, and she refused to sleep with him willingly. She would rather cut off her own arm.

 Instead, she did his laundry and all his office work. She helped in the greenhouse during harvests. She kept a tally of money on hand, helped package drugs, cleaned his bathroom, cooked, and helped clean up the girls who got a particularly nasty john. 

Isla kept meticulous records for Ray in all of his business dealings, including, but not limited to: prostitutes, slave labor for his farm, drug sales and production, money laundering through vacation rentals, and miscellaneous human trafficking. She knew all the ins and outs, having spent copious amounts of time developing his record keeping system. She learned how to keep paper trails for Ray so his money was always exactly where he expected it. 

Nothing less than perfect was acceptable to Ray, and if anything was out of place, Isla got beaten or denied food. She always complied, because, while the beatings hurt, the ever present threat of being forced to be one of Ray’s prostitutes hung over her like a dark cloud. 

The late sweltering, late summer air made focusing on her task of inventorying the new ‘product’ impossible. The methamphetamine had come in today. She sat counting and weighing baggies of the disgusting stuff until her eyes were blurry. A knock on the door stopped her, and she turned from the table she worked at to see Terri peeking in. 

A ‘woman of the night’, Ray brought Terri to parties at the vacation rentals for tourists to have some fun with. Locals came to the farm to have their needs met, but it wasn’t as frequent. Terri had dishwater blonde hair, smudged eyeliner per usual, and cigarette smoke trailed behind her. 

Hey, got any idea when Ray and the guys will get back? Terri asked tersely. 

Looking up from the table, Isla could see her obvious agitation. Her eyes were wild, and she shifted from foot to foot nervously. She looked over her shoulder outside a few times. Isla furrowed her brows in response. Why, what’s wrong? I have no idea. He said they’d be gone awhile. My dad told me not to wait up. 

″...Because we have cars coming up the drive. A lot of ’em." 

Get in here. Isla motioned for Terri to enter the small prefab building Ray used as his office and storage facility. Poking her head outside, she could see the long plumes of dust as the vehicles pummeled down the half mile long stretch of forest service road serving as a driveway. Overhead, she heard a chopper in the distance. Fear gripped her stomach, and she slammed the door shut, locked it, and sank to the floor. 

It’s the cops. Eyes wide, Isla put her hand over her mouth. Her life was about to change significantly.

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Chapter One

Derrick Anderson stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, vacantly aware of the sunlight streaming into his room. Early fall in Central Oregon meant cool nights, but also the occasional blistering day that made you want to strip and jump into a local lake on a whim. His comfortable, simple home was plenty for him. It served his purpose.

He had a habit of picking up stray people as roommates—his last being Jordan Burns, a woman he considered a niece. Derrick was excellent at offering a lending hand to people in need and was known for it. He could fix your lawn mower, give you a ride to the store, or refill your propane tanks during his trips to Bend. Need a couch? Call Derrick. Need a job? Call Derrick. 

His house had been quiet lately, though, and no one had needed him in a while. His mother tried to convince him needed a dog; Derrick knew he needed something dependent on him like he needed another hole in his head.

When he first moved to Tilly, Jordan’s father, Wes, had taken him under his wing at his small-engine repair shop. Derrick worked there until he had enough money to open his bar, Anderson’s. From the shop, he had watched Jordan and her little sister, Charlotte, grow from gap-toothed schoolgirls with broken bike chains to grown women with grown-woman problems. Unlike their physiques, his affection for them never changed. They were beautiful, bright young women, and, though bar patrons had often commented on Jordan’s petite, sculpted figure, he could only look at her with the love of a family member.

Jordan had moved her things out a month ago to live with her fiancé, Nicolai Levin. Derrick liked Nic; they got along easily and had a mutual respect for each other. Nic ran a security firm and adored the ground Jordan walked on. He couldn’t have been happier; life had dealt Jordan a shitty hand the last decade, and she deserved the care he gave her now. 

Nic had spent the last two months spoiling Jordan, buying her everything from new purses and jewelry, to trying to buy her a new car. Jordan, usually frugal, put her foot down for that one. Now Derrick’s house was empty again, waiting for the next straggler in need of a spare room to pop up. He had grown used to being people’s rock, the man always available to help. He  didn’t mind, but it got lonely at times. 

He never had trouble finding a woman to spend some time or even a few nights with, and, at forty-two, he knew he still had it. Simpering school girls pointed him out, groups of women a decade his senior would whisper when he served them, and bombshells half his age were always inviting him back to their airbnbs. Sometimes, he humored them. A man had his needs, after all. His time in the Navy had taught him to keep in peak physical form, and he could usually keep up with the most wanton of women.

Exercise and sex helped him with his stress and composure, which stayed rock-solid at most times in his life. Rarely did Derrick lose his cool, and, when he did, it centered on something or someone he loved. He didn’t see the point in fighting, especially since he spent so much of his time breaking up altercations between inebriated bar patrons.

He turned over in his bed and sat, swinging his legs to the floor. Despite his vigorous exercise and conditioning, his joints ached when he woke in the morning. Years of working on ship engines, and small engines at Wes’ shop, had killed his back. Boxing in the Navy had left him with some fingers that wouldn’t bend right, and his wrists hurt when it rained. 

The smell of jasmine and vanilla wafted in  his direction as he moved the bedding; memories from the night before came back, and he rubbed his neck. The curvy tourist, Leah, was a good time. He could still remember how great it was to watch her ass bounce as he took her from behind. Regardless, she was a tourist, and he would probably never see her again. He was okay with that; it had happened countless times. He hadn’t had a serious relationship since he left the Navy.

Looking at his phone, he swore when he saw two p.m. had come and gone already. He’d acclimated to not getting to bed till six a.m., because it took him until five most nights to get the bar closed. Being a business owner had its downs, for sure. He had been considering taking on someone more reliable to help manage, but hadn’t found the time yet. After Jordan’s run-in with a bullet six weeks ago, he would be short a server for the winter. 

Padding into the bathroom, he stripped off his boxers for a quick shower, relaxing under the spray. He had few outlets for relaxation these days, apart from working out. He had spent a lot of time the last two decades traveling the world, collecting tattoos like you would stamps in a book. One artist in Amsterdam had also given him a nose ring when he lost a bet. He kept it when he realized it upped his sex appeal. Leaving the bathroom, he mentally swore at the purple rings under his eyes in the mirror. He couldn’t keep doing these late nights much longer.

As he dried off, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He went out to get it and was surprised to see his cook on the caller ID. Hey, Eddie. What’s up? 

Derrick, did you know you had a beer delivery coming today? 

Fuck. No. I thought it was tomorrow. Do they need me now or can they wait a few minutes? Derrick pulled a well-worn pair of jeans and a clean white undershirt on as he talked to Eddie. Eddie had no management experience and had no idea how to deal with vendors, despite being competent at his job. A parolee, the short, stout man didn’t do great with the public. He stayed under strict instructions not to leave the kitchen unless an emergency came up. 

Yeah, he said he needed a few signatures and something about a check? 

Okay, stall for five minutes. I’ll be right there. 

Looking at the empty coffee maker forlornly, Derrick grabbed his wallet and keys off his kitchen counter and jogged to his truck while stuffing his arms into a blue button up. Hitting the gas, he made record time to his bar to start his sixth straight day of fourteen hour shifts. God, I need a fucking vacation.

 He had been toying with the idea of Bali or Spain as his next destination, whenever he could get out of the bar. The idea of laying in the tropical sun with a half naked woman draped over him was far too appealing to ignore.

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Chapter Two

Isla looked around the motel room in awe. The cheap, stale-smelling motel room may be in a two-stoplight town, but she didn’t care. It was hers . She hadn’t had unlimited access to a shower in over ten years and, even at twenty-four, had never had or slept on a queen-sized bed.

Like a giddy schoolgirl, she spun around and flopped onto the mattress on her back, arms and legs splayed like a starfish. The twelve room, single story motel was mostly used by truck drivers pulling long-haul  or tourists who needed somewhere to sleep for the night. To Isla, it meant freedom. 

She sat as Natasha, her social worker, walked in laden with bags. Legs for miles and long brown hair, Natasha had taken Isla under her wing when she was brought into the FBI. 

Natasha took her shopping in Bend before returning to Tilly, where Isla would stay for the time being. A small town, Tilly’s population barely tipped 2000. In remote Central Oregon, north of Lakeview and east of Summer Lake, the high, arid climate made it popular with campers, hikers, rock climbers, and fossil junkies alike. The charming, small town had a tight-knit community, but, over the years, it had appealed to Isla broadly.   

She unloaded her new clothes, shoes, underwear and bras, backpack, and all new hygiene products into the dresser and vanity by the bathroom. The crown jewels of her new possessions, a new Chromebook and cell phone, she placed on the small dining table. They seemed trivial to most people, but Isla had never owned either. A whiz at Office Suite, she knew her way around a computer and smartphone well, but they had never been hers. 

Everything she ever had came from her father or Raymond Walker, and she never truly owned any of it. They could give and take as they pleased, and, more often than not, they took. Gifts were always conditional. People and things could be bought, sold, traded, abused, and destroyed at the will of other people. It was easier on her heart not to care.

 Natasha looked up from the dresser where she took things out of the bag. She pulled out a bag of laundry detergent pods. There’s a washer and dryer on site here, but you’ll want these. Using the packets from the vending machine can get expensive. Oh! That reminds me, here. Pulling out a long tube from her pocket, she set a ten-dollar roll of quarters on the dresser next to it. Laundry money. 

Isla teared up. Thanks. I’ve never had unlimited access to clean laundry before. That’s…humanizing. That she likely would never have to wear dirty underwear again, or go without a winter coat when the central Oregon high desert dipped below twenty-five degrees at night on the regular, had been more than her heart could process at once. 

"You can take as many hot showers as you want. I’ve got you set up for an interview in town. Go check it out. And this," she pulled a packet of papers from her purse is the information for the GED program I told you about. You can do this, Isla. I’m so excited to see how you do. Natasha’s warm smile made her truly feel cared about for the first time since her mother died. Natasha, only twelve years older, had stepped into a big sister role for Isla. In the last six weeks, she had transitioned from a captive adolescent to an adult living independently for the first time. Her mind had caught up all the way.

"I’ve loaded my number into your new cell. I’m giving you a sheet with all the local resources if you want them. The church here does free meals three days a week, and there’s a clothes closet if you need more. Anette, the woman who runs it, is an absolute gem—so don’t feel self-conscious about talking with her. The motel manager has assured me the mail you have coming should have no issue getting here, so, once the birth certificate and social security card we ordered come in, we can get you an ID or driver’s license, whatever you prefer. Don’t be a stranger. I respond to texts at all hours, okay?"

With a tearful nod, Isla launched herself into Natasha's arms. I am so grateful to you, Natasha. I don’t know how I would have managed without you. Natasha gave her a tight squeeze. They assigned her to Isla when she was released from FBI custody. The Bureau had kept her for days for questioning in a holding cell in Bend. In agreement for help to get set up with a life of freedom, she cooperated with them fully. She had sat with agents over the two days for eight hours straight. They went over the computers, cell phones, and paper records taken from the compound, and the agent in charge told her they would likely need more information later. Until then, Isla needed to get her life figured out. 

"I paid for the room for a month. Let me know what you want from there. We can pay for more time in the motel room or an apartment. The Bureau will pay for half your rent for a year after you get a job, so I’m hoping you’re going to have more options soon. Text me if you need anything."

I will, I promise. 

Isla was on her own for the first time in her life.

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Chapter Three

After getting the beer vendor settled, Derrick deep cleaned the bathrooms, inventoried the liquor, scheduled a plumber for the clogged grease trap he had installed when he bought the building, and lastly settled a couple catering requests. Catering may be the wrong word, but Derrick didn’t know what else to call it. 

Locals would call, and Derrick would bring his extra-long barrel barbecue for burgers, brats, chicken, and corn, plus provide beer and alcohol. There were only a handful of places to eat in Tilly, so, while he had no problem keeping customers, it was nice to remind people they had food too, not just liquor and draft beers. 

  Sitting with a hot cup of coffee and a sandwich before the dinner rush started, he had just taken a few bites when the front door swung open. A girl walked in; he guessed eighteen or twenty from what he could see in the shadowy entry. Wearing white sneakers, high-waisted jeans, and a yellow knit cardigan over a white t-shirt, she hesitated in the dark entry. Had Tilly gotten a busload of college kids again?

As she stepped closer, he put his sandwich down and nearly choked on the bite he chewed on. She moved into the light, and he could more