Flawed, page 1
Flawed
The Billion Heirs
Book 2
Helen Hardt
Vanessa Vale
Flawed by Helen Hardt and Vanessa Vale
Copyright © 2022 by Bridger Media and Helen Hardt, LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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 both authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
Cover design: Bridger Media
Cover graphic: Deposit Photos: SimpleLine, Scrudje, 4solidwork.gmail.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
A Note From Helen
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Also By Helen Hardt
Also By Vanessa Vale
About Helen Hardt
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The bad boy brother. The by-the-books detective. A random meeting that’ll change their lives.
* * *
Miles Bridger would rather be home in New York than stuck on a Montana ranch with his newfound half brothers, thanks to his deadbeat dad’s will. Miles now works with bulls and hay bales instead of custom bikes. He keeps his sense of humor about the whole thing…until a dead body surfaces on the ranch and he and his brothers are thrown headfirst into a murder investigation.
* * *
Sadie Hopkins plays by the rules in her job as detective, so she’s only too happy to turn a little naughty during a bachelorette party dare. Heat flares between Sadie and the gorgeous blond man she approaches, but when a high-profile case crosses her desk the next day, she’s in for a surprise. The man from the bar is none other than Miles Bridger…and he’s a murder suspect.
* * *
Despite this revelation, Miles and Sadie’s chemistry sizzles. But the flawed Miles doesn’t do relationships, and Sadie’s past crashes into the present with a surprising discovery that could spell danger for both of them.
Prologue
MILES
* * *
“Decide to come up for air?” I smile when Austin and Carly finally grace us with their presence at the dinner table.
Carly’s cheeks are flushed pink, and Austin’s hair is a tousled mass of brown. Yeah, they both look just fucked. Make that just fucked on steroids. They’ve been in Austin’s room since he and Carly came back this morning.
“Actually, I was sleeping.” Carly blushes further.
Right.
“You don’t owe them any explanation.” Austin gives her a pussy-whipped smile.
“As you know,” she continues, “I didn’t get any sleep last night because I was tending to your colt.”
“Which we appreciate.” Chance reaches for the platter in the middle of the table. The dishes are set out family style in brown clay serving platters. Salsa, chopped onion and cilantro, seasoned rice, and black beans. “I didn’t see either of you come out for lunch so I assume you’re starving. Louisa made chicken flautas.”
“Who? Your cook?” Carly settles in with Chance on one side, Austin on the other.
I’m across from her.
“The housekeeper,” Chance corrects. “She keeps this entire place running.”
I introduced myself to the older woman when she placed my clean laundry on my bed. I’m not used to anyone taking care of me.
“Looks great.” Austin takes the platter from Chance. “I love Mexican food.”
“Yeah. Me too. The spicier the better.” The robust scent of chiles has my mouth watering. I grab my cold Mexican beer, squeeze the lime wedge into the bottle, and take a long drink. Good stuff.
I’m about to take the platter from Austin when the doorbell rings.
The housekeeper—Louisa—comes in a minute later. She’s in her late fifties with salt and pepper hair. She’s in jeans and a green top, and a gentle smile tugs at her mouth. “It’s Detective Peterson from the Bayfield sheriff’s office. He wants to speak to all three of you.”
Chance sets down his fork with a sigh. “In the middle of dinner?”
“Says it’s important.”
“I guess that’s my cue.” Austin rises and kisses Carly’s cheek as Louisa leaves the room. “Be right back, sweetheart.”
I have no choice but to follow my brothers out of the dining room and to the doorway, leaving my beer and grub behind. This isn’t wholly unexpected. A dead body was just found on our property, after all. But it’s dinnertime.
The detective is a few years older than we are. Solemn looking, with bloodshot gray eyes. He wears scuffed brown cowboy boots, dark denims, and a striped button down. He’s armed with a handgun strapped at his waist. I don’t recall seeing him as part of the crew dealing with retrieving the dead body.
“Hey, Mark,” Chance says.
He knows everyone in town. In comparison to his relationship with the mayor, Chance seems neutral toward the guy.
“Chance.” The man tips his head. “You two must be Austin and Miles.”
Austin holds out his hand. “Austin Bridger.”
“Detective Mark Peterson. I’m investigating the murder that took place on your land.”
“Murder?” I cock my head and withdraw the hand Peterson hasn’t yet shaken. “I didn’t realize it was official.”
“We’re still waiting on the autopsy,” Peterson says, “but we treat all dead bodies in situations like this as homicide until we can rule it out. That means the three of you—along with your deceased father—are prime suspects.”
“Suspects? Now wait a damned minute.” Austin closes the distance between himself and the detective. “Miles and I weren’t even in the state when that guy met his maker.”
“That has yet to be determined,” Peterson replies.
I didn’t see the body, but from what I heard from those who did, it had been in rough shape. He’d been there a while, stuck beneath the deep water of the creek until we broke up the dam and it receded.
“Doesn’t matter,” the detective continues. “As of right now, I’m ordering the three of you not to leave town until you hear otherwise. You need to be on hand for questioning. I hear you were in Seattle recently. Don’t leave again.”
Invisible insects bite at the back of my neck. Is this guy for real? “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I say. “We were the ones out there breaking up that dam. Would we have done that if we knew we were going to unearth a guy we murdered? If not for us, he’d still be out there.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time.” Peterson sucks at his teeth and tucks a thumb into his belt. “I wouldn’t put anything past Jonathan Bridger’s progeny. I admit, learning he has two additional sons makes my job a lot easier. All I have to do is drive to this ranch to find the criminals.”
Yeah. He’s making it pretty fucking clear where this is going. I’m no small-town boy. I’m from New York, and I can smell a dirty cop a mile away. At least one who likes to cut corners and not follow the evidence.
“You know shit about us,” I mutter, my hands curling into fists.
Peterson shrugs. “Don’t have to.”
I see red. The guy’s already pinned this mess on us. “You fucking son of a—”
I lunge, but Chance pulls me back.
“Easy, Miles,” he says by my ear. “I don’t know what you’re used to in New York, but you can’t manhandle cops around here.”
Austin steps toward the detective, blocking me from him. “My brother’s right. This is insane. You know Miles and I had nothing to with this. Our only crime is that we were sired by Jonathan Bridger. And Chance? The big lug wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You sure about that?”
A vein in Chance’s temple throbs, but he says nothing.
“Why the fuck would he kill someone on his own land?” I ask.
Peterson shifts his gaze from Chance to me. “You have enough of it. Lots of places to hide a body.”
I break free of Chance’s grasp, but instead of flying at Peterson and rearranging his face, I stomp past him and out to the garage next to the main house where my classic Harley Softail waits for me. I bought it from the classifieds in the local paper the other day. It’s in rough shape, but I know a good thing when I see it. Some TLC and she’ll be incredible, just like all my other projects.
If I don’t get the hell out of here, I’m not sure what I’ll do. So much for a beer and some delicious flautas. I can’t sit at that table and pretend Peterson’s not going to fuck us all over. One thing’s for sure. I will not go down for the murder of some poor SOB who somehow washed downstream onto Bridger land.
Peterson is out for blood. Bridger blood. He’s got the look, and I’m feeling that slimy sensation, like lizards are scrambling beneath my skin.
He’s definitely dirty, and he wants to take down Jonathan Bridger. Unlike the mayor, where his beef was personal, this is different. Worse. Since our dad’s six feet under, Peterson will settle for us instead. I’ve seen it in New York, but I didn’t expect to encounter it in Bayfield, Montana.
I crank the engine, listen to the lusty growling of the chrome pipes, kick the bike into gear, and scream out into the evening. I thought my time in Montana was going to be easy. Simple. Boring.
Fuck, was I wrong.
1
MILES
* * *
I cut the engine and sigh. Damn, that was a good ride, better here than back home. I yank off my helmet and push my hair back. There’s nothing better than straddling a motorcycle and riding the open road.
Here, there’s nothing but open road. Fucking perfect. It’s the best way to clear my head of all the shit going down lately. Not just my asshole father or the stupid rules of his will, but also all the hard labor on the ranch—which I never imagined I’d do in a million years, or for a billion dollars.
The murder, too. Yeah, murder, per the pain-in-the-ass detective Peterson.
I left all of that behind at Bridger Ranch.
I climb off my new ride outside of a roadside bar and give it another once over. Yeah, it needs work, but this is what I do. What I live and breathe. Custom builds. All my jobs start off looking like this. Dented. Rusted. Worn. But I see past all that and focus on what it can become.
Not can. Will.
The engine is good. All it needs is a little attention. A little babying. A little love. I’ll make this motorcycle I found in the bargain bin section of the local paper purr for me, the same way I work a woman.
The sun crawls toward the purple mountains in the distance, but it won’t set for another hour or two. I stop just inside the door of the bar. The parking lot is full, so it’s popular. The high-top tables and booths skirting both walls are occupied, but the dance floor is empty. Neon signs on the wood-paneled walls give the room a glow of reds and blues. I make my way to the bar and settle on a stool.
The bartender comes over and takes my order, a beer on tap and a burger with fries. I missed the Mexican dinner at the house because of that asshole detective, so I’m hungry. I savor the cool bite of my drink as I wait for the food and then spin around to look over the crowd. This place is about an hour from Bayfield, so I don’t see a familiar face. Not that I expect to recognize anyone.
I’ve been in the state for two weeks. Not long enough to make friends. I’m just happy to no longer find my brothers a pain in my ass.
I know Carly, Austin’s woman. Lexie, the ranch’s vet, and most of the ranch staff. Unfortunately, I know Carly’s dad, the town mayor, who is a pain in the ass. More for Austin than myself, although the man has a pretty big beef with our father that he’s carried on to the next generation. Seems to be an unwritten law around here. The sons of Jonathan Bridger are somehow responsible for their father’s sins.
Carly herself has helped her dad simmer his shit down, but I doubt we’ll be getting a holiday card from him this year. Or ever.
I’ll put in my year at Bridger Ranch like the will says, get my billion, and get the hell out of Dodge. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy taking out my new ride. At least until it gets cold, which I expect will be sooner than I want.
The music through the hidden speakers changes, and a bunch of screams and hollers have me swiveling on my stool. A group of ladies, clearly having a good time, are partying around two high-tops farther down the bar. They’re dressed to go out, which in Montana means jeans, flirty skirts, or dresses with cowboy boots. No stilettos or sequins like I’d see in New York City. No black leather. Hell, I’m the only one wearing that.
One woman has a tiara on her head and a white feathered boa around her neck. A beauty-pageant-style sash is slung over her shoulder and it reads “Soon to be Mrs.”
My gaze isn’t snagged on the lead bachelorette, but another woman in the group. Why? Because she has her dark eyes on me. I’m not sure she even hears the twang of the country music or sees the dancing and arm waving of her friends. All her attention is squarely on me.
Yeah, me.
I raise my brow because if she wants to stare, I don’t mind staring right back. She’s not hard on the eyes. Far from it. I’d even call her fucking gorgeous. She wears a black tiered miniskirt that flares and hits halfway to her knees. Her top is a plain T-shirt with a deep V that does amazing things to her tits. She’s taller than average, and she has meat on her bones. Thick and curvy. A lush body a guy can grip and hang on to. My fingers itch to learn every inch of her.
I’m single, but I’m not a monk. I know when a woman is interested. I can flirt, but I don’t like games. Don’t like circling. The dance between a man and a woman. I want chemistry. A connection. With those two things, flirting isn’t necessary.
With this woman, there’s fucking chemistry. I can tell she feels it too because she’s now heading my way. The corner of her full mouth turns up as she sways toward me. I don’t look away, not even when the bartender sets my burger on the bar.
Tonight is getting better and better. A good ride on a motorcycle and maybe—most likely—a good ride with a hot woman.
“Hi,” she says.
Her voice is deep and husky. Up close, her dark hair is almost black and brushes her shoulders. It’s straight and sleek, shiny like the chrome on my custom bikes. She wears makeup, but only a little. She doesn’t need fake eyelashes or weird shit done to her eyebrows. She’s natural looking, but not like she just came off a weeklong camping trip.
Clearly a woman who wants to look pretty for herself. Not to try to snare a man.
“Hi.” I set my feet on the floor and spread my legs so she stands within mine.
She takes the opportunity to step in closer, and I set a hand on her waist. Yeah, all soft curves.
Her lips are full and covered in shiny gloss. Fucking kissable.
She smiles. “I’m Sadie, and I wonder if you can do me a favor.”
Hmm… A favor? If it involves those more-than-a-handful tits or any other square inch of her, I’m happy to help.
“Sure.”
There is no other answer.
“I’m here with a bachelorette party, which I’m sure is pretty obvious.” She thumbs over her shoulder toward the ladies who are making more noise than the rest of the patrons combined.
I offer a nod.
The music changes again and a few people move to the dance floor.
“Part of the fun is to do a dare,” she continues.
“A dare?”
She shakes her head, her sleek hair moving like a waterfall over her shoulder. I can’t resist brushing the strands back. Yeah, silky soft.
I watch her throat work as she swallows.
“Yeah, I’ve got to give my panties to a guy.”
My eyes meet hers. My dick jerks against my jeans, and I can’t help but smile.
“I’ll take your panties, sweetheart, but how will they know the dare’s been done? I doubt you’re going to take them off right here for others to see.”
I glance around and then back to her.
Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. Embarrassed now? She was brave enough to come up to a stranger and ask for a favor that involves her panties.
