Rough Edge: Elliot Security Series, #1

By Evie Mitchell

"You're my sweetest regret..."
Ten years ago, I left behind the woman I loved.
My biggest regret.
The ache I can't escape.
Now Jetta Oliver needs protection - the kind that only I can offer. Every step of my life has brought me to this moment, and I'm prepared to do whatever is necessary to protect the woman I love.
Even if that means the ultimate sacrifice.
If you love over the top Aussie alphas, sultry summer nights, and happily ever afters, Rough Edge is the book you're looking for.

Trigger warning: This book contains some violence and references to drug use.
Note: This book was previously published under a former pen name. It has been rewritten and updated before release.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thunder Thighs Publishing
• Release date: Nov 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201572129

Book preview

1

Jetta

I t’s Courtney Oliver!

As the line in the coffee shop shuffled forward, I kept an ear on the frantic conversation behind me, my shoulders tensing as I waited for the inevitable to occur.

Where? A voice urgently hissed back to the first. I could imagine it, two woman, both growing in excitement, phones no doubt beginning to be pointed in my direction.

I'm too tired for this shit today.

I caught the eye of Joe, the barista. Nice guy, tattooed, tall, always with a smile and a laugh, he owned Tall, Dark and Handsome my favourite coffee shop. He glanced down the line catching my grimace, obviously having heard the girls behind me.

Help me.

There! In the black shirt! The voices behind me grew louder as their excitement increased.

The line shuffled closer to the front, the few people in the coffee store beginning to glance my way.

Desperation made me antsy as the guy ahead of me tossed up between a latte and a flat white.

Uh, newsflash, mate. It’s all coffee!

No. Freaking. Way. How can you tell?

Duh. She’s got that wrist tattoo! Though she’s definitely put-on weight.

Ah crap.

I resisted the urge to cover my art. The wrist tattoo had been a spur of the moment impulse my sister and I had made during a week in Vegas last year. A small, yet incredible phoenix about to take flight. In the fire trail that followed it were music notes, which made up a world famous song.

It was a distinctive tattoo in a visible spot.

Stupid.

Go over! I want a selfie!

Mr. Flat White had finally decided, allowing me to step up to the front of the line. Joe glanced at the girls, before looking straight back at me, his eye twitching slightly.

Hi, Delores. How was the nursing home last night?

I smiled gratefully. Joe knew some of my background and was willing to cover when something like this happened.

And something like this nearly always happened.

Hi Joe. Shift was great, thanks. Just the usual.

He nodded, taking my keep-cup, and handing it off to his girlfriend who worked the machine. The girls behind me watched in disappointed silence as I loitered by the magazine rack, waiting for my mocha.

Thanks, Winnie. I grinned at the short brunette behind the coffee machine, pressing the cover to the lip of y cup.

No trouble, Delores. See you tomorrow. She winked, a co-conspirator in this charade.

Outside I slipped on my sunglasses, squinting against the mid-summer glare. I fell in with the crowd on the street, sipping my coffee and enjoying the mild morning as I wandered my way back to my apartment. Summer in Canberra had to be one of my favourite seasons. Cool mornings and warm days, perfect for sitting on my terrace with a guitar and a notebook composing the day away.

A poster advertising a magazine caught my eye, pausing my wander. The latest tabloid had a picture of my sister arm-in-arm with her latest conquest. The caption read Courtney Oliver – Her Secret Shame!

God, do you just like to punish me or have I done something wrong in a past life? Cause I really don't have time for this nonsense.

I sighed, pulling out my phone to call my sister. She answered after one ring.

Finally! My sister’s voice squealed down the line. I’ve been calling your loft for hours. Have you seen the papers? Can you imagine? Me! Bad in bed? That motherfucker didn't even make it to third base.

I continued the short stroll to my apartment, making sympathetic listening sounds as she ranted and raved.

I lived in an average area of town. The mortgage was decent and I liked the acoustics.

When Courtney had moved out—uprooting to Sydney, which had a better club scene, and more flights to international destinations—I’d stayed in Canberra. I’d sold the two-bedroom apartment we'd shared and moved into a loft apartment in an older area of the city. It was within walking distance of the city centre, but near a park which offered quieter living.

I loved this little loft apartment with its scuffed and scarred wooden flooring and thick brick walls.

I’d purchased the loft for its wide windows and sunny balcony, definitely not its interior. The small U-shaped kitchen held a gas cooktop and small oven but little else, space being at a premium.

Recording gear and instruments dominated the space; microphones and mixers, amplifiers and audio equipment, my mother’s grand piano, my father's guitars, a keyboard, some ukuleles, a few drums and bongos, a saxophone, and a violin.

Bright, cheerful and filled with everything I needed and not a thing more, my little apartment was spotless, barring a few music sheets heaped on the grand piano. Everything had to be in its place. It was one way I could bring control to my life.

If Dad was alive this never would have happened!

I sighed, Courtney’s tirade showing no signs of ceasing.

Rock stars of the highest calibre, my parents had lived the superstar cliché. Crazy parties, screaming matches, boozy nights out, brawls, destroyed hotel rooms. They had epitomised the rock-and-roll lifestyle. Had they been alive, I'd no doubt they would still be gracing the front page of gossip rags and dominating social media.

Mmm, I murmured, non-committal. Experience had taught that sympathetic sounds worked best in kind of these situations.

Courtney surprised me by abruptly changing topic.

Anyway, enough about those shitheads. Let’s talk my birthday. I’m thinking 1940s burlesque. All feathers and glittering bodice. You’re totally coming. I’m getting Manny to plan it. You know how fabulous he is at planning this shit, she chattered while I kicked off my sandals and padded over to the small recording area. I hit loudspeaker on my cell, shuffling through the music sheets and scribbled notes as Courtney continued to gossip.

When are you flying in?

For your birthday? I pulled one of the sheets free frowning as I read the jotted melody.

Not bad. That could work.

Next Tuesday. I set the sheet aside, making a mental note to record it before I went to Sydney. Though I thought I’d drive. I know it’s a short flight, but it’s only three hours to drive and I need my car. I’m looking at staying a week or more, depending on what Paul says about the latest stuff I’ve got for him. I said, referring to our pseudo-uncle who also happened to be the owner of Australia's biggest record label.

God. As if Paul would turn you down. Courtney scoffed, her derision dripping down the phone line. After Dad and Mum? He practically owes us.

More like owns us.

I looked to the picture that sat on my desk, our parents staring back out at me, their joyous spark captured perfectly. I felt the familiar creep of grief, the dark cloud that constantly hovered overhead.

I cleared my throat, turning back to my music.

Look Ney-ney, I need to head off. I’ve got some work to do, and I still need to go and visit Mum and Dad.

There was silence from the other end of the line. I could feel her displeasure through the speaker.

Huh-oh.

I told you not to remind me. Her voice was cold enough to give me frost bite.

I sat down, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. Ney-ney, I—

No! I don’t want to talk about this! You’ve completely ruined my birthday buzz. God, Jet. Why do you always do this?

The phone went dead before I could apologise.

I considered calling back for all of five seconds, then pushed the phone away, heaving a sigh.

You'd think after ten years she'd be ready to process their death.

I looked back at their picture, the familiar stab of grief and frustration hitting settling in my chest.

Ten years ago today we'd lost them. I spent every year remembering. Courtney spent every year trying to forget.

I turned to my piano, my fingers itching to compose. With a deliberate breath in, I closed my eyes, giving myself over to the music, finding freedom from responsibility, from memory, from pain in the song.

2

Jetta

Flowers overflowed while mourners sat around sobbing and reminiscing as if they had personally known my parents. The gathered were a mix of rockers, jazz musicians, and, strangely, a violinist, most holding instruments in one hand and alcohol in the other.

I despised this. Even after ten years, people still remembered. Still invaded on my mourning, acting as if they had lost a beloved member of their own family.

And sure, my parents had probably meant something to them—but instead of fading the angst seemed to increase each year, bringing more and more mourners, and allowing me less time to grieve.

A rock-and-roll heavy-weight, my father had featured in Rolling Stones magazines, sold out stadiums and sung in front of royalty. Every man and his dog knew Jimmy Oliver, the legendary rocker.

Meanwhile, my mother had been a solo artist, her voice smoky, soulful, pure. A brilliant success in her own right, some of my earliest memories were of her rubbing shoulders with Madonna and Sting.

They’d met at a party, love at first sight, or so I'd been told. Inseparable, they’d fallen hard and fast, their whirlwind love affair a legend among the rock scene.

They'd toured together, changing their dates specifically to be together, unable to spend even a night aware. A year later, I’d been born, Courtney following five years later. They’d continued to tour following our arrival, but at a less frantic pace. Never settling so much as slowing down.

For a while it had been the four of us and Dad's band, our own little world contained within the walls of tour buses and private planes. My fondest memories were of sing-alongs as we moved from venue to venue, Dad on his guitar, Mum playing whichever instrument was within reach.

It hadn’t been easy. Dad had a drug habit he’d never been able to beat, while Mum had needed alcohol to function. Instead of bringing out the best in each other, they’d been trapped in a toxic spiral. But their music benefitted from the chaos of their relationship and they stayed together because, according to Dad, We fucking love each other.

As much as I hated the intrusion of the mourning crowd, I couldn't help but appreciate that people still remembered them. Still felt strongly enough to want to be here, at their grave.

I snapped a shot of the mourners and text it to my honorary uncles, knowing they'd appreciate the love being shown towards my parents.

While Mum was a one-woman-show, Dad’s band had been made-up of his bassist, Paul, Anthony, the drummer, and Marco, their rhythm guitarist. These guys were my family, as much a part of me as Courtney or my parents. While there'd been fighting, drugs, alcohol, and lots of dark nights, there’d also been love, laughter and adventure over the years before their death.

Few things remained constant, but love had always been one.

I headed to their tomb, placing my usual offering on the steps of the closed mausoleum. Roses for my mother; a single lily for Dad. While Mum had always been about flash and tradition, he’d reached for the unique things in life. The things that were beautiful but not necessarily obvious.

I sat down amongst the groupies and silently filled my parents in on the past year. They’d have been so proud of Courtney. The princess of pop held a talent few could match, and, knowing them, they’d have gotten a kick out of her diva antics.

I just hope you'd have been as proud of me.

I closed my eyes, fighting memories of their final day.

I'd just turned eighteen. We’d been planning Courtney’s birthday shindig. At the last moment she’d demanded to have it at a theme park. As the mega-rich parents of a twelve-nearly-thirteen-year-old, mine hadn’t seen anything wrong with attempting to hire the damn place out for a whole day.

They’d driven off to try to talk to the park manager. Dad had been high, Mum more than slightly drunk. They’d rolled down an embankment, hit a tree and died at the site.

People had offered to take Ney-ney. But I’d stood firm, demanding she stay with me. I’d done what I could for her, ensuring she had a loving home and a good education.

At sixteen, Uncle Paul—who’d morphed from bass player to extremely successful agent—had discovered her singing ability. He’d transformed her from poor little orphan into sultry pop princess, her face gracing the front of magazines and newspapers all over the world. MTV and TMZ showed near constant segments on her life, loves and breakdowns, of which there were, unfortunately, many.

It'd been hard raising a sister when I'd barely been more than a child myself. We’d had a rocky relationship but we’d made it through and were close. Sure, she could act like a brat sometimes, but Courtney was also loving, funny and caring. She was my little sister and I loved her beyond all reason.

Saying a silent goodbye, I pushed up, dusting my hands on my jeans, taking one last look at their final resting place before heading back to my car.

As I walked, someone began singing my Dad’s hit, My Baby. Tears burned the back of my eyes as I walked past, the lyrics engrazed on my heart. It had been his love song to me after I’d been born.

"You came into my life,

So innocent and small,

You moved my heart with your eyes,

Broke it with your tiny call.

I’ll look after you my baby,

I’ll be your daddy today,

I’ll hold you in my arms, my baby,

Forever you will stay."

Grief often hit me for the most mundane of reasons. Sometimes I’d hear a laugh that sounded like my mum’s and look over expecting to see her smiling face. Or I’d smell someone wearing Dad’s cologne and look for him, finding nothing but a retreating back.

Often in the middle of the night, I’d lie awake thinking about them on that road. Dad had died in hospital, Mum at the scene of the crash. I’d think about them, scared, hurt, probably hysterical. I’d feel overwhelming guilt that they had been alone when they’d gone.

While I’d been about to make love to a guy.

Paxton Elliot.

God.

I shook my head, determined to throw off that particular memory as I reached my car. I pulled the door, tossing my small handbag in.

A hand grabbed my arm, halting me. I started and lurched, spinning to confront a man in a black suit.

Cliché was the word that sprang to mind. Tall, broad, and wearing black, solid black, he was built like a brick shithouse. The ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe he gave off, coupled with his serious as fuck expression freaked me out. My immediate thought was hot but scary as hell.

Miss Oliver. It wasn’t a question.

I jerked my head back and bumped into my car.

No. You’ve got the wrong person.

Years of dodging the paparazzi and stalkers had taught me to be calm in any situation. I ignored the panicked beat of my heart.

Miss Oliver, he repeated. You need to come with me.

I shook my head, offering him a little smile. Not me, sorry.

He reached out and twisted my wrist around, displaying the phoenix tattoo. Let’s go.

He began dragging me away from my car, heading for an SUV parked nearby. I'd watched enough true crime to know just how bad an idea getting in that car was.

Fuck. No. Not today, motherfucker.

I screamed, struggling against the Suit, his hands holding me tight. The deadhead rockers watched not one of them bothering to even take a video of my kidnapping.

I’m being kidnapped, you motherfuckers! I screamed as I hit, clawed, and kicked at the Suit. He easily overpowered me, shaking off my efforts and wrapping me in a death grip. You motherfucking motherfuckers! Help me!

My heels dug into the ground, kicking up the dirt, my body twisting this way and that as I tried to bite him, kick his nuts, anything to get away.

As he tried to transfer me into the SUV, I seized my change, bitting down on his arm, squealing as he tossed me inside, cursing as he slid in behind me

Let's go.

I scrambled to a seat, finding myself squished between Suit One and an identically dressed Suit Two. Both were broad, built, and wearing what I assumed was expensive shit based on how the fabric felt as it brushed against my bare arms.

Calm, Jetta. Think. You need to think.

Fuck calm! I've seen Taken! And unlike Kim, I don't have Liam Neeson on speed-dial ready to stage a rescue. Fuck!

I kicked out, scrambling to climb over the centre console, heaving my arm back, readying to hit the driver in the face. Without any effort my body was heaved back, my torso whipped around to face Suit Two.

You want me to hurt you? He yelled, a fleck of spittle hitting my cheek. I got a Taser and a tranq. You sit quiet, you sit still—I don’t have to go there. You start this shit up, you get it. Your decision.

His fingers dug into my shoulders as he held me in place. Hard lines cut across his skin, emphasising his displeasure, carrying the weight of it on his skin. His cheeks were flushed red with anger, a small bubble of spittle caught on the crease at the edge of his lips.

Just sit back. We're not here to hurt you, Suit One reassured me softly.

I nodded, and turned to face the window, sitting quietly.

Breath, Jetta. You'll get another chance. Take note. Be watchful.

To keep the volcano of panicked fear under control, I made mental notes of street signs, filing my captors’ appearances away for the police later.

I tried not to think about what it meant that they didn't hide their faces or where they were taking me.

My emotions threatened to overwhelm me as we drove on and on, the afternoon light beginning to lengthen. As we crossed state lines, my panic reached near hysterical levels. Keeping my eyes on the road, very aware of the two men beside me. Suit Two kept tapping his leg and fidgeting. He seemed frustrated, annoyed. Suit One remained still. Occasionally his head would turn, look at me, then turn back. His eyes were blank, his body still.

Where are we—

A hand caught my cheek. I fell back against Suit One, pain bloomed over my cheek. I raised a hand and pressed it to the burning slap.

I said silence.

Suit One shifted me off him, and helped me settle in. His eyes met mine. They appeared to be trying to communicate with me.

I dropped my gaze and pressed my hands into my knees, closing my eyes to deep breathe.

Be calm. Be calm. Be calm.

I’d read that if a kidnapper lets you see their face, it means you’re likely to be dead. These guys didn’t seem like some psycho fans wanting to meet an Oliver. Or trying to ransom me. No.

These were professionals.

And I had no idea what they wanted.

3

Jetta

We drove for close to two hours before pulling off the highway and down some winding side roads until we finally reached what looked like a fancy country club. The car glided down the long drive way, past manicured lawns and sweeping Jacaranda trees towards a giant white house.

The car followed the circular drive, pulling up to the front of the residence, and Suit One got out, assisting me with a surprisingly gentle hand.

The doors to the house opened as if on cue, and he guided me up the stairs with a firm hand to my back. I tilted my head back, taking in the mix of marble and white brick and the double bay windows on every floor. There were multiple balconies, all with French doors and floaty curtains but absent of people and their prying eyes.

This is creepy as fuck.

Suit Two fell into step on my other side, and I was once again the meat in a Suit sandwich. A woman, dressed in a little black-and-white maid's outfit that I honestly thought people only wore in movies, held the door open for us. She didn’t make eye contact as we passed.

No help there.

We headed down a hall toward the centre of the house, our footsteps loud in the hushed quiet. Rooms flanked either side of the great hallway, but we were moving too quickly for me to take in anything but a brief impression of more marble, plush rugs, lush furniture, and what I assumed was expensive art.

Even in my panicked state I could appreciate that while the outside was beautiful, the people who owned this place were terrible at interior design. The whole thing came off as pretentious and overdone.

Seriously. You have this much money and don't bother to hire a decorator? Who exactly am I dealing with here?

I recognised this train of thought for what it was – an attempt to disassociate myself from the terror of the moment.

A door at the end of the corridor opened and another maid, walked out. She shuffled past us as we entered, her eyes also downcast, and then the door closed, sealing me in.

Across the room a man sat behind a massive wood and leather desk, his gaze focussed on me.

Jetta. Welcome. He talked like I knew him, gesturing at me to come closer. Take a seat. Water? Coffee? Something to eat?

I perched on a leather chair and shook my head, confusion and fear putting my fight and flight responses on alert.

No, thank you. If ever there was a time for niceties, it was this moment.

Ah. Well, let’s get started shall we? He stood and I made note of his height finding him to be much shorter than I'd anticipated at maybe only a smidge over five feet. He had a small amount of greying hair but a decent body which he dressed in an immaculately pressed grey suit, the silk blend shimmering a little in the dim light. I'd have assumed mafia or mob boss if the image hadn't been ruined by his undignified attempt at fighting male-pattern baldness. He looked more like someone’s accountant, or a middle-aged uncle than a crime lord.

Is this about taxes?

As he considered me, I glanced around the room taking in the wood and dark, heavy colours. The walls and shelves were lined with dead animal heads, signed baseball gloves, basketballs, footballs from NFL, AFL, and rugby, books that looked like first editions, two world globes—one of which may have been a liquor bar—and framed pictures of him shaking hands with various celebrities.

Is that my dad? I nodded to the picture hanging on the wall behind his desk. He twisted, reaching out to remove it from its hook.

I have one with your mother in my Sydney office. Beside it hangs the picture of me with your sister. I would like to have one with you, but… His voice trailed off as he handed me the picture. You're not that famous, are you?

My blood turned to ice while goosebumps rose on my skin, the hair on my back lifting as he watched me, a tiny smile touching his lips.

He looks like a lion playing with a mouse.

I didn’t answer him, determined to brazen this out.

My name is Simon Esso. The way he said it indicated that I should recognise his name. I didn't. I'd never heard of him or whatever this place