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  COOPER

  CONSTRUCTION

  SERIES

  BOOKS 1-3

  By Jen Davis

  Cooper Construction Series: Books 1-3

  Copyright © 2019 by Jen Davis.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: September 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-767-0

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-767-4

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  BRICK

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  KANE

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  ROBBY

  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

  Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chapter TWENTY-NINE

  Chapter THIRTY

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brick

  Brick slammed his fist into the side of Pete’s head, knocking the sniveling junkie into a heap on the floor.

  “I’ll get the money for you. I swear. Please, God.” Pete climbed to his knees, his dark hands laced together like he was praying. But prayer couldn’t help him now. Brick had a job to do.

  With an unforgiving backhand, he laid Pete flat. The guy lay, unmoving, on the filthy carpet of his cheap-ass apartment, surrounded by cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and the carcass of a giant cockroach.

  They always thought if they could fake unconsciousness, the beating would stop. They were wrong.

  “Get up.” He sounded bored. “If I have to come down there, it’s going to get worse for you.” He didn’t have to try to be intimidating anymore. Being a big motherfucker had its perks. No one wanted to fight a guy over six feet tall, carrying the kind of muscles you’d see on a pro-wrestler. Even worse for the punks who got in his way, he’d lost his soul a lifetime ago.

  He wouldn’t think twice about crushing Pete’s body or spirit. He wouldn’t kill him—not yet, not while the piece of shit owed Sucre money—but he’d make him wish he were dead. The years Brick spent cultivating his status as a legend in this neighborhood guaranteed one thing: everyone knew if he paid you a visit, there was no escape from the punishment you were due.

  “I’m getting up, man.” Pete groaned as he climbed to his feet, clutching his head.

  He delivered a hard punch to the guy’s stomach. Pete’s breath left his body with a pained exhale.

  “The money was due yesterday, Pete.” A powerful right hook followed next. Blood dribbled from the corner of the gaunt man’s mouth. And now he was crying, for fuck’s sake.

  “I’ll do anything, Brick,” Pete blubbered. “You want a blow job? I’ll suck your dick, man.”

  He wrinkled his nose. This was always the worst part.

  Panic flaring in his eyes, Pete held out his hands. “No. No. You want a girl? Yeah, you do. I’ve got a daughter. She—”

  His fist shut down the offer more effectively than words ever could. He welcomed the sting in his knuckles as he knocked out a couple of the guy’s teeth in the process. Pete clawed at his own neck, wheezing as he choked.

  The little girl with light brown skin and braids, whom Pete had shoved into the bathroom when he got here, couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Sick bastard.

  He didn’t hurt kids. Ever. It was the only line he refused to cross. Nobody knew it, and they never would. The second he revealed a weakness for anything, someone would use it against him. He learned that lesson the hard way. It paid not to care about much of anything—or anyone—which wasn’t too hard, since nobody gave a shit about him, either.

  The unmistakable scent of piss wafted to his nose, though it was a miracle he could smell anything over the stench of rotting garbage overflowing from the can near the kitchen sink. At least Pete hadn’t shit himself.

  “You’ll deliver Sucre’s money tomorrow. With interest. Or I’m going to have to come back here.” He wrapped his hand around Pete’s jaw and squeezed. “You don’t want me to come back here.”

  Pete shook his head, but he only moved a fraction of an inch in the vise of Brick’s fingers.

  Satisfied he’d made his point, he dropped Pete to the floor and turned his back on the pathetic excuse for a man left crying in a soggy heap. Despite his warning, he knew how all of this would end. Pete didn’t have the money today, and he wouldn’t have it tomorrow.

  So, Brick would return in less than twenty-four hours to do this all again. Tomorrow it would be worse. Tomorrow, he’d
leave Pete nursing broken bones. The next night, he’d leave Pete dead on the floor. There would be no deals, no pardons. None of Pete’s prayers would make a difference. God didn’t listen to prayers in this neighborhood, and even if He did, the Savior himself couldn’t stop what Pete had coming to him.

  The smell outside the tenement apartment wasn’t much better than inside. It still stank of piss, although it was fainter and cut with the heartier scents coming from the dumpsters, and a whiff of marijuana. In one deep breath, anyone could pick up the stench of his world.

  A dozen guys stood on the blacktop between the buildings, most of them smoking or shooting the shit. One ran a dark cloth over his Glock, as though he expected to see his reflection in the damn thing. But he shoved his weapon into the waistband of his jeans when he saw Brick coming.

  The crowd parted as he made his way to his second-hand half-ton Chevy pick-up truck.

  The reason you build a hard-core reputation is for moments like this. Where everyone’s eyes turn away as you walk past. Where no one dares lift a hand against you because they know you would cut it off.

  Even the scariest fuckers kept their distance. Because he was the thing that went bump in the night.

  He held his stony expression as he cranked the engine and drove to his apartment. He rarely had to fake the Boogeyman routine these days…except when it involved kids. This life had scooped out whatever humanity he’d been born with a long time ago.

  Still, he sighed when he made it inside his apartment and locked the door. His little one-bedroom wasn’t much bigger than Pete’s place, but it was clean. And it was his.

  Nothing about the apartment made it special. A drab, grey paint shadowed the walls, barely a shade darker than the low-grade, bristly carpet. Threadbare fabric covered the couch cushions—green—or it had been, before age leeched all the color away years ago. The sofa could seat two, but he wasn’t even sure why he had it. He always sat in the recliner when he was home, and he didn’t invite company. Home was the only place he could relax his guard, or at least stop looking over his shoulder.

  No photos. No decorations. Nothing anyone could use to get to know him or use against him. He didn’t even own a TV. The only nods to the life he once had hid beneath the false bottom of a drawer in his nightstand. Even if someone ever found the broken toy race car, they wouldn’t know why it mattered to him—he wasn’t sure himself. The picture of him with his grandmother couldn’t cause trouble, either. Sucre worked tirelessly, exploiting that weakness for all it was worth. But he kept them hidden. The last tiny vestiges of his humanity.

  Bone tired, he shuffled to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. As he dried his skin with a hand towel, frayed and ragged from years of use, he avoided the mirror over the sink.

  He didn’t need his reflection to tell him what an ugly bastard he was. A face only a mother could love.

  Too bad his mother was dead. His father too. Sucre had seen to it. And now he worked for the son-of-a-bitch loan shark and drug dealer who ran Atlanta’s underbelly. He was the number one enforcer in a stable of muscle growing larger and more brutal every day.

  He used to dream of getting out, but he didn’t dream anymore. All dreaming ever did was leave you hurt and disappointed. He bashed heads, he earned his money, and he squirreled it away so one day he’d have enough to move his grandmother far out of Sucre’s reach. Then, his very last known weakness would be off the table, and God have mercy on any man who tried to control him again.

  Because Brick would have none.

  ***

  Liv

  Liv shivered against the chill seeping into her bones as she surveyed the packed interior of the plane. About two dozen people lined the edges, their gear strapped on, ready as they’d ever be to jump into the great beyond.

  The guy across from her, a ginger, probably in his thirties, gripped his crossed arms so tightly, he had to be hurting himself. She wasn’t sure if seeing her own fear reflected in another person’s face made things better or worse. The guy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and the decidedly undignified squeak he made answered her question.

  It was worse. Definitely worse.

  Unsticking her dry tongue from the roof of her mouth, she forced a deep breath and pushed her gaze away from Mr. Squeaky. The expression on the forty-something African American woman beside him told a very different story. Her brown eyes gleamed with anticipation, but otherwise, her face looked as serene as a summer’s day. Then she winked.

  “You look like you’re about to puke, kiddo.” Carol nudged her with her foot. “You’ve got to stop thinking so hard. You’re borrowing trouble. Live in the moment.”

  Sage advice from a woman who knew better than most how to live for the now. Carol was her best friend, her rock. And the reason she stood ten thousand feet off the ground, strapped to a stranger, and putting her life in his hands. Liv only knew two things about her jump-partner: his name was Louie, and he said he’d been jumping out of planes almost every day for the past eight years. Either Louie was completely certifiable or proof skydiving wasn’t as suicidal as her hindbrain insisted.

  Or maybe it was a bit of both.

  Louie’s barrel chest rumbled behind her with a whoop she felt more than heard as the door opened. He’d warned her before they took off how loud it would be, but the words couldn’t have prepared her. The wind roared like the gates of hell had opened wide.

  Still, Carol’s smile never wavered.

  Not even as she and her partner moved toward the exit. Not even as she stepped out into the nothing and disappeared from sight.

  Carol could do anything.

  She’d survived breast cancer, not once, but twice. Her wisdom, her laughter, and her generosity of spirit kept Liv sane through her own battle with the Big-C. Through every chemo session. Through every moment of pain, of nausea, of despair, Carol was there, showing her it wasn’t enough just to survive. They both deserved to live.

  This jump celebrated their victory. The golden ticket. Remission.

  No more days and nights kneeling in front of the toilet, heaving, even when she had nothing left to throw up. No more losing the thick blonde hair that reminded her of her mom. And no more weakness.

  Liv was strong now, or at least getting there, and she was done playing it safe. What good had it ever done her? Every choice she’d ever made for her life, she’d based on what she thought she was supposed to do, and when the possibility of death came calling, she had virtually nothing to show for it. Her boyfriend dumped her, she had no friends to turn to, and she’d never really done anything.

  If she wanted a different kind of future, she had to leave the mistakes of her past behind. So what if she didn’t know how? Fear had no place in this new reality. And if she couldn’t trust herself to make the kind of choices to change her life, at least now she had a friend who could push her in the right direction.

  Carol’s face flashed before her eyes as Louie prodded her toward the open door.

  Live for the moment.

  The sky in front of her beckoned clear and blue and stretched out into forever.

  She took a deep breath, stepped out of the plane, and flew.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brick

  The lukewarm spray of the shower did shit to ease the tightness in Brick’s shoulders, but it served well enough to help the soap erase the grime of the city from his skin. He washed his body in quick, efficient movements, then used the bar of Dial to lather the top of his head. He kept his dark hair too short to bother with shampoo. Hair long enough for someone to grab created a liability.

  His internal clock warned him to move faster. Xander expected the crew at the site by six-thirty, and the foreman was one of the few people in this world he didn’t want to disappoint. They weren’t tight or anything, but the man gave him a chance to be something other than a thug every day.

  It felt good to build something rather than destroy it.

  He threw on clothes, then made a final ch
eck of his tiny apartment. Windows, secure. Hidden weapons, in place. Money? Nestled safely in the fat, hollow legs of his coffee table.

  No one he knew would have the balls to break into his home, but he didn’t take any chances. Only a few more thousand dollars and he’d finally have enough to get out of Sucre’s trap.

  He pulled up to the site next to a Cooper Construction pickup with minutes to spare. Their latest gig had them building a three-bedroom house in the suburbs.

  It was the closest he would ever get to a place like this, but it didn’t matter. One day, a family would live here. Kids would make happy memories and shit, and he’d have something to do with it. It was good work. Clean work. And on this job, he could pretend to be a regular guy instead of the bone-crusher who made crackheads like Pete piss their pants. No one seemed scared of him here. A welcome change from the other side of his life.

  “Brick.”

  Xander's assistant, Robby, wasn't even cautious around him. On the street, a skinny guy like him would be running away from Brick, not toward him. The kid looked downright happy to see him when he stepped up with his clipboard in his hand.

  “Did you hear? The house we wrapped up in Dunwoody last month is going to be a model home. I knew the place looked amazing. You guys did some great work. I was just telling Xander—”

  Robby prattled on, barely taking a breath. How he’d become the assistant’s favorite person to gossip with, he’d never fucking know.

  “—you know what I mean?”

  He really didn’t, but he nodded anyway. “Who am I working with today, kid?”

  Robby startled a little at his voice before glancing down at his clipboard. “You're with Kane and Will.”

  He checked over his shoulder and saw both the guys in question already headed his way. When he looked back, the tips of Robby's ears and his cheeks were turning pink. He followed the assistant’s gaze to Matt and Cyrus, the last two members of the five-man crew, strapping on their hardhats and tool belts near the curb.

  Robby averted his eyes back to the papers on his clipboard. “I'm, uh, going to go give Xander a call and let him know you guys are getting underway.” The kid almost tripped over his feet, scrambling to get away.