Page 1 of Beckett the Bad Boy

CHAPTER ONE

BETH DAYTON

An earth-shattering boom shakes City Hall the moment I sit at my desk. The old building is over a hundred years old, and despite undergoing renovations and upgrades over the decades, I pray it’s not about to collapse on top of me.

Buried beneath centuries-old rubble isnotthe way I want to go.

Especially when I’m just starting to get my life together.

Moving to Suitor’s Crossing to be nearer my friends. Landing a higher-paying job. I’ve even managed to overcome my cautious nature by hanging out at a motorcycle club’s compound on the outskirts of town.

Granted, I’m surrounded by my best friends and their significant others—military veterans, andnotbiker criminals—but it’s a step in the right direction.

Death at this point would really suck.

A few of my officemates get up to look out the window, but I remain seated, sharing a look of confusion with Shawna across the room. We’re all waiting for an explanation for the sudden noise and subsequent rattling of the building when an insistent hammering echoes through the walls.

“What the—” My question is cut off when the overhead lights blink out, our computers go dark, and alarms start blaring in the hall.

Emergency lights flash.

Sirens whine.

It’s like I’ve been plopped in the middle of an apocalyptic scene of chaos, and I amnotprepared to survive in a world gone wild,Mad Max-style.

Panic sets in as people gather their phones and personal effects from their desks. I should probably get moving, too, but shouldn’t we figure out what’s going on before running out into god knows what?

“Are you coming?” Shawna has her purse slung over her shoulder and glances toward the hall where groups of City Hall employees are trekking toward the exits—one elevator and a narrow set of stairs.

The elevator was the city’s concession to comply with ADA laws since the original layout barred anyone who couldn’t climb stairs from accessing the second and third floors, but it’s slow and not meant to carry an entire floor’s worth of people in a hurry.

How is the elevator even working since the power cut out?

“You go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

Wisdom dictates staying in the less hectic office versus becoming trampling fodder in the hall, except our supervisor pokes his head in the room, a harried expression on his craggy face.

“Everyone evacuate. A water main blew, and it’s screwing with our pipes. We need to get out.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Shawna hustles out the door behind Harold.

“Okay, guess I’m wading into the melee,” I mutter to myself.

The din in the hall has lessened, but there are still stragglers waiting for the elevator.

Using an electric death box in the middle of a water emergency seems like a scene fromFinal Destinationwaiting to happen, so I bypass the small crowd and head toward the stairs.

The sound of rushing water becomes louder during my careful descent to safety. It’s apparent that a whole bunch of ancient City Hall pipes decided to take a page from the water main and burst open.

Trickling water slicks down the walls to gleam on the floor, and my steps grow reluctant, since my sensible low-heeled pumps don’t have the best traction.

And I’m not about to traipse barefoot through bacteria-filled floodwater.

Once I reach the last stair on the ground floor, there’s at least a foot of water between me and the exit, and black and yellow uniforms dot the halls as firemen usher employees out the main entrance.

How the hell did it get this high already?

As I contemplate my options—newsflash, I have none—one firefighter breaks from his position a few feet down the hall and trudges my way.