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  Colton

  Special Forces Book 1

  By

  USA Today and Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author KB Winters

  Copyright © 2017 BookBoyfriends Publishing

  Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Contents

  Colton Special Forces Book 1

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  Chapter One: Karena

  Chapter Two: Colton

  Chapter Three: Colton

  Chapter Four: Karena

  Chapter Five: Karena

  Chapter Six: Colton

  Chapter Seven: Karena

  Chapter Eight: Colton

  Chapter Nine: Karena

  Chapter Ten: Colton

  Chapter Eleven: Karena

  Chapter Twelve: Colton

  Chapter Thirteen: Karena

  Chapter Fourteen: Karena

  Chapter Fifteen: Colton

  Chapter Sixteen: Karena

  Chapter Seventeen: Karena

  Chapter Eighteen: Colton

  Chapter Nineteen: Karena

  Chapter Twenty: Colton

  Chapter Twenty-One: Karena

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Karena

  Epilogue

  Free Book Offer!

  More From KB Winters

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter One: Karena

  It was one of those I-hate-my-life-where-did-I-go-wrong-why-God-why kind of days.

  “Karena, Mrs. Pratchett is looking for you,” Mary, the personal shopping department manager, snapped, swooping in from out of nowhere as I was busy pulling shoes to go with another client’s evening gown. “She needs another size. Now!”

  I sighed, holding back the urge to ask Mary if her arms were broken. We’d worked together for three years and had never had issue with each other until she got promoted and became my direct supervisor. Six months had already passed, and she had yet to come down from a pretty severe power trip.

  “Tell Mrs. Pratchett that I’ll be with her as soon as I can,” I huffed under my breath, pulling a shoe box out from the bottom of a heavy stack. I glanced over my shoulder to find Mary staring down at me, with a bewildered expression, as if I’d just asked her to do the chicken dance in the middle of Time Square. “I’ll be right there,” I corrected, sighing as soon as Mary rushed off.

  I straightened and braced the shoe box on my hip, long enough to pull back the lid and make sure I had the right shoes. I couldn’t afford a mistake. I blew out an exhausted poof of air, blowing my side swept bangs off of my face. I was sweating through my dress shields, thanks to a morning spent running around like a hamster in one of those plastic balls. I’d zipped back and forth across Beckham’s, loaded down with obscene amounts of couture and high end designer duds all morning. It was all a day’s work in my ever-so-glamorous life as a personal shopper to Seattle’s most elite society women. Or, the rich bitch brigade, as I frequently referred to them. Only in my head, of course.

  After confirming I had the right shoes, I raced out of the storage room and wove through the store, back to the private fitting rooms. Beckham’s was a large store, almost on par with most department stores, and had several different fitting rooms sprinkled throughout the polished space, but only one was reserved for personal shopping clients.

  The personal shopping department was a mini boutique inside the posh store and served as both my safe haven—and the scene of some of my worst nightmares. Often times, the expansive, cream colored room, with four booths and large, plush furniture, was peaceful and calm even when the rest of the store was a raging disaster, but on days like today, it was its own little slice of hell. We were filled to capacity thanks to a scheduling error, and a last minute walk-in client, and I was the only personal shopper on duty. Well, other than Mary, but I had a better shot at winning the lottery, than convincing her to get her hands dirty anymore.

  “Ms. Shaw?” I tapped lightly on the door for booth three where I’d set up the elderly Ms. Shaw, a petite woman, with a weekly shopping allowance that was bigger than my net salary for the year. She was nice enough, but very slow, and required more assistance than most of my other clients.

  “Yes, dear?” Her soft voice filtered through the slatted door.

  “I have your shoes. Should I leave them out here for you?” I pinched my eyes closed, praying she’d say yes, so I could attend to Mrs. Pratchett before Mary could chew my ass again.

  “That’s fine dear, and then, I need this skirt hemmed, can you make an appointment for me with Sophia? Tomorrow would be preferable as I’ll be nearby.”

  I sighed quietly, but plastered a smile on my face. “Of course. The shoes are here to your left. I’ll go make that appointment.” I stalked away from the door, knowing Sophia, the in-house seamstress, was booked solid for the next three weeks, but for a client like Ms. Shaw, we’d have to find a slot. I cringed just imagining the look on Sophia’s face.

  I didn’t have long to think about it though, before I was up to my armpits in Mrs. Pratchett’s demands. She was another long standing client, but about as friendly as the crocodiles the majority of her handbags and shoes were made of. Within minutes, she had me racing all over the store, putting together look after look for some last minute charity dinner she’d be attending. She blabbed on and on about the dinner as I presented her options, and while I put on my best mask of interest, it was probably painfully obvious that I didn’t give a shit.

  Somehow, I managed to get all clients out the door, their shopping totes weighted down with thousands of dollars’ worth of beautiful clothing, and retired to my favorite leather chair in the employee lounge for a quick break. As I slumped into the chair, I took—what felt like—the first full breath I’d had all day. I rolled my head back on the chair and started massaging my temples with the pads of my thumbs.

  “This can’t be good. It’s only two o’clock,” a familiar voice trilled over to me.

  I opened one eye and found myself staring up into the face of Becca Sherman, my best friend, and fellow soldier in the personal shopping trenches. “Thank God you’re here…”

  “That bad, huh?” Becca wrinkled her nose.

  I grunted and closed my eye again, giving myself permission to wallow for another minute before going back out. “Let me set the stage for you, Ms. Shaw trying on evening gowns, Mrs. Pratchett with an emergency charity thing, rendering her with even less patience than usual, a new client that gave new meaning to the word indecisive, and then, the cherry on top of my shitty-day-sundae, Ms. Keller burst in, on an urgent quest for a new scarf. I mean, really? A scarf? Just pick one! I’m pretty sure she’s off her meds again too. It was…” I couldn’t even think of the right words to describe it.

  Becca giggled as she came around and sat in the chair kitty-corner to mine. “I’m so glad I came to join the party,” she said, still smiling.


  A hollow laugh billowed from my lips. “If it helps, I’m glad you’re here.”

  She laughed. “Well, obviously! You’re completely lost without me.”

  I opened my eyes and straightened in my chair. “All right, all right, Miss Thing. I have five minutes before Mary hunts me down, so tell me what’s going on. I haven’t seen you in a few days.” Becca only worked part time at Beckham’s, her full time gig was as a cocktail waitress on a swanky ship that did a nightly waterfront cruise off the banks of downtown Seattle. We texted nearly every day but over the past few weeks, she’d been a little off the grid. With Becca, that usually meant one thing…her douche bag boyfriend, Keith was causing trouble at home.

  Becca looked past my shoulder for a moment, and my heart twisted, wondering what he’d done this time. “Just busy with work,” she replied, bringing her bright blue eyes back to mine.

  I didn’t believe her. Not for a minute.

  She pushed her straight blonde hair out of her face and tucked a strand behind her ear. “It’s all good, Karena, don’t look at me like that.”

  I sighed and mentally dropped the issue. If she wasn’t ready to talk about it, there was no point in pushing it. I’d learned that lesson the hard way over the past few years. When pushed too far, Becca would become even more reclusive, and the last thing I wanted to do was send her running when I knew she needed me.

  She’d been with Keith, her high school sweetheart, for five years, but in the past couple of years, he’d changed and become more aggressive and angry. Becca always made excuses for him, blaming it on family situations, or work stress that came with his high pressure, corporate gig. I’d been telling her to leave him since the beginning of our friendship, or at least, since we’d bonded enough as friends for me to give her my honest opinion of her boyfriend and had seen more displays of his controlling and mean spirited tendencies, but Becca loved him and hadn’t given up hope that the version of him that she’d fallen for, wasn’t still in there somewhere.

  “What about you?” Becca asked, shifting the conversation away from herself. “Anything fun?”

  I shook my head. “Not especially. I’ve worked two fifty-five hour weeks and by the time I hit the gym, and make it home, I kinda turn into a Netflix zombie until I fall asleep. Doesn’t leave a lot of room for adventure.”

  “I’m sorry.” Becca frowned, but quickly brightened, to add, “At least the paycheck should be pretty sweet!”

  I laughed. “God, I hope so. Last month was brutal—I was starting to contemplate selling a kidney or something.”

  Becca laughed at my joke, not knowing that there was a hint of truth to it. Living alone, in a one-bedroom apartment, in downtown Seattle was more expensive than most people would expect. I worked full time at Beckham’s, but was paid a fairly low hourly rate, leaving most of my living expenses dependent on my commission checks, which, if graphed out, looked like an out of control roller coaster.

  I sighed. “Seriously, I’m starting to wonder if I need to start looking for a second job. Not that I really have time…”

  Becca shrugged. “You could always interview to come work on the cruise.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know how much tip money I’d make considering I’d be plastered head to toe in Dramamine patches to make sure I didn’t throw up on a passenger. That’s not exactly what I’d call a sexy look.”

  Becca threw her head back and laughed. “Oh my God, I’d pay you just to watch!”

  “Thanks for your support.” I tried to give her a wounded look, but couldn’t help laughing along. Becca was infectious and always had a way of lifting my mood. It made her a great co-worker and friend, especially when sometimes it felt like she was the only stable thing in my life.

  Becca dabbed at the corner of her eyes when her laughter subsided. “Okay, if cruising isn’t for you, then what? Where have you thought about applying?”

  “I haven’t really. I mean, you know, it’s not going to be easy, because I don’t have my diploma…” I whispered the tail end like a secret even though we were the only ones in the room.

  Becca gave me a thoughtful nod. We hadn’t known each other in high school, but I’d come to trust her enough to share that part of my life story with her. She knew that thanks to a beyond shitty home life during my high school years, I’d dropped out and had never gone back to get my diploma. Not being a high school graduate kept most opportunities out of my reach. The only reason I’d been able to get my job at Beckham’s was because I had a friend of a friend offer to put in a good word for me. I knew it was only because of her glowing recommendation that the hiring manager had overlooked my lack of an education.

  In reality, I’d dropped out towards the end of my junior year, so I probably wasn’t missing that much, considering most high school seniors spend their time goofing off and skipping classes, but there wasn’t a way to explain all that on a job application or resume. I was grateful to have my job, and to have worked my way to a higher ranking position within the company, but it also made me feel boxed in, as though it were my only opportunity, often causing me to lose sight of the fact that just because it was the first place that had been willing to take a chance on me, didn’t mean it would be the last one.

  And if my paychecks kept dwindling, I was going to need to find that next opportunity sooner rather than later.

  “You can’t let all that hold you back, Karena. You’re talented, smart, and you’re amazing with customers. And believe me, if you can deal with these ladies, you can deal with anyone,” Becca said, offering me a warm smile.

  “Thanks Becs. I know I’ll figure something out. Maybe I just need to find a sugar daddy! That would solve all of my issues!”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Okay, I don’t think you’re quite there yet,” Becca said, standing from her chair. She was wearing a black pencil skirt, a jewel toned blue top, and a black blazer. She had the body of a model and everything she wore always made her look like she’d just stepped off the runway. She made enough as a cocktail waitress that she didn’t need to work a second job, and had long ago confessed that the only reason she kept working at Beckham’s was for the generous employee discount.

  She caught me staring at her and flashed a self-conscious smile. “What? Does this not work?” She asked, looking down at her outfit. “I was worried about the blue. Jewel tones were kind of last season…”

  “You look perfect, Becs. You always look perfect,” I interrupted, rolling my eyes playfully at her.

  Her smile brightened. “Thanks. Now, come on, let’s go wrack up some commission cash! Whoever gets the most by the end of the shift buys the first round at Lucky Strike on Friday.”

  I grinned at her proposition, having nearly forgotten about our upcoming girl’s night. Once a month, we gathered up a dozen friends and had a ladies bowling night at Seattle hot spot, Lucky Strike, a 21 and over, bowling alley that was more like a dance club. Every party had bowling lanes, and actually played, but there were drinks galore, loud, pumping music, and bar food. Becca and I had started the tradition a couple years back, with other girls who worked at Beckham’s. Over the years, people came and went, and currently was a mix of old employees and current ones. It didn’t really matter who showed up, it was always the highlight of my month.

  “You’re on!” I exclaimed, following her back to the personal shopping fitting room.

  Chapter Two: Colton

  “Hawk?” Colonel Reeves exclaimed, startled when he looked up from his clipboard and found me perched on the edge of his desk. “What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you at the BBQ with everyone else?”

  I pushed away from the desk to stand at attention at his entrance. “Apologies for the intrusion, Colonel, but I had something I wanted to discuss with you. Do you have a few minutes?”

  He nodded and then waved a hand for me to take a seat. I sat down and waited for him to round his desk and settle into his own chair, before continuing. “Thank you, Sir.”

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nbsp; “Well, make it fast, son. There’s a plate of ribs down there with my name on them.” His voice was gruff, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Colonel Reeves and I had always gotten along, which was the reason why I’d sought him out for a private meeting less than an hour after touching down on US soil for the first time in six months.

  “Yes, sir.” I leaned forward and braced my elbows on my knees. “I wanted to talk to you about a rumor I heard. One of the guys coming in, he mentioned that there was going to be a Captain slot available within the unit. Any truth to that?”

  Reeves chuckled, an echoing belly laugh. “Hawk, I should’ve known. Only you would chase me down in the middle of a homecoming BBQ, to ask about a promotion, instead of chowing down on wings and drinking beer with your squadron. Isn’t your family down there? Girlfriend?” He waved his hand towards the door, gesturing towards the open bay that had been turned into the headquarters for the welcome home BBQ, organized by the families of all the returning troops. It was a mess of tearful reunions, and celebrating, that gave way to a BBQ that lasted half the night. I’d slipped away as soon as we’d been dismissed, and sought out the Colonel for the chance at having a conversation that had been brewing in my mind for weeks.

  I nodded in reply to Reeve’s question. “My parents are here—you know my father.”

  Reeves smiled. “That I do. One of the best Generals I know.”

  “I know.” I leaned back in my chair. What I didn’t tell Reeves, was that my father would be even more eager for the answer to my question than I was. He’d been pushing for me to get promoted to Captain before I turned 28, which was only a few months away. He’d been 28 when he received his promotion, and saw no reason why we shouldn’t follow the same trajectory with our military careers. A bar that he’d set impossibly high. But I was determined to do my best to chase after the prints his boots had left behind. His efforts to get me up the ladder had only intensified after his retirement a few years ago. My mother suggested he take up fishing or golf, but he wouldn’t have it. I was his favorite project.