Three Strikes and You're Mine

Three Strikes and You’re Mine Copyright © 2023 R.S. Grey All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Published: R.S. Grey 2023 [email protected] Editing: Editing by C. Marie Proofreading: Red Leaf Proofing, Julia Griffis Cover Design: R.S. Grey CONTENTS Author’s NoteThree Strikes and You’re MineChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28EpilogueExcerptThe Foxe & the HoundChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Stay ConnectedAcknowledgments AUTHOR’S NOTE Three Strikes and You’re Mine is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve included an excerpt from my #1 bestselling romantic comedy The Foxe & the Hound. Three Strikes and You’re Mine concludes at around 90% on your device. Happy Reading! XO, RS Grey ONECHLOE I think I’m about to have to be a hero. Let me set the scene for you: it’s late. The fancy restaurant where I work is dark and deserted. I shouldn’t even be here. I left thirty minutes ago, dead on my feet. My boyfriend stayed behind at his desk. “Can’t you come home with me?” I pleaded. He sounded annoyed when he replied, “I have some work to catch up on. Call an Uber if you’re worried about walking home alone.” “It’s 1:00 AM, Miles. Can’t it wait until the morning?” He leveled me with a pointed glare, so I got the hint and left. According to Miles, a head chef’s job is never done. A head chef is the captain of the ship. Without him, we’d all sink. Oh my god, how many times have I had to listen to that spiel? I left without saying goodbye and was mere inches from my doorstep when I realized I’d forgotten my keys back at the restaurant. I clenched my teeth in suppressed annoyance. It wouldn’t have been a problem had Miles just come home with me. We could have just used his apartment key and picked mine up in the morning. Instead, I begrudgingly turned around and trudged back through the desolate city streets, reflecting on my frustration as I went, just me and all the other weirdos out and about at this time of night. Unfortunately, all wasn’t right when I arrived back at the restaurant. Immediately, I noticed the back door was slightly ajar, but there was no Miles inside. His desk chair was empty, doing an ominous slow spin. Papers were strewn about on his usually immaculate desk. Now, from the kitchen, I hear guttural groans. Muffled crying. Flesh hitting flesh. Oh god, Miles has gotten himself into trouble. I have to lean over and clutch my knees. I feel sick. What has he done? Who is it? Loan sharks, the mob, drug dealers? Miles doesn’t seem the type to mess with anyone, but you never know! My mind starts racing, matching the terrible sounds to my imagination’s worst-case scenarios. The deadened thuds are loan sharks breaking his kneecaps with a baseball bat. The clanking on the metallic table must be from the shiny instruments the mobsters are using to pry off his fingernails. I pull out my phone, ready to dial 911 as I creep closer to the kitchen, but I realize I have no time to wait for backup when I hear the thud of the refrigerator door. Is he dead? Are they stuffing his body into the cooler? I have to act if I want to save Miles. A weapon—obviously, I need one, and the bigger the better. In the movies, there is always a perfectly blunt lamp to slam down on a henchman’s head; we’re fresh out of those. Instead, I find a reasonably durable umbrella by the back door, and to my been-at-work-for-twelve-hours brain, it seems ingenious. I’ll whip it open, blind the bad guys, and—voila!—save the day. I inch closer to the swinging door that leads to the kitchen and wince when I hear another sharp cry of pain. For a split second, I think, You know what? Miles is scrappy. He can take care of himself. But no. I can do this. I can— I push the door open and am about to slash and jab with the umbrella, but instead, I freeze in place. There are no mobsters in this kitchen and there is no murder taking place. There are two lovers intertwined against the industrial-sized refrigerator. Butt cheeks press right up against the cool stainless steel. And through all the hazy confusion and panic, I still think, Gross, that’s really unsanitary. The city inspector would have a field day with that. Miles would flip. He’s a crazy person when it comes to maintaining the cleanliness of his kitchen. Only I suppose he’s made an exception to that rule because he’s one of the two lovers. I see that now. It’s his dimpled butt I’m staring at. But who is he with? I squint to make out the other person in the shadows. Oh, it’s Angie. That makes sense. Angie is my good friend here at the restaurant, the friend to whom I’ve been pouring my heart out the last few weeks about all my problems with Miles. Cool. As seconds pass, I realize they didn’t hear me come in. They still don’t realize I’m here watching them. I’ve missed my big opportunity to announce myself, to make this a real soap opera production. Or have I? There’s a pan to my left I could chuck at them, but that’s Ernesto’s pan and I’d hate to put a dent in it. Also, I’m surprised to find I don’t have all that much