What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3 Read online

  About this book

  “What You See is the third AMAZINGLY THRILLING book in Cherise Sinclair's Sons Of The Survivalist series and is Bull's story. And what a fantastic, compelling, and soul melting romance it was too!” ~ Marie’s Tempting Reads

  She will risk everything to rescue her friend.

  Frankie’s BFF and four-year-old son are trapped inside a fanatical militia’s compound. In Alaska, no less. Wilderness rescues are so not in the New Yorker’s skill set. But she’ll figure it out. She must.

  * * *

  Bull’s new roadhouse server is a mass of contradictions.

  The city girl’s reasons for being in Alaska don’t add up. Bull’s been burned by liars before. So, why is he falling for this crap again? Maybe it’s her big brown eyes, exuberant personality—or her generous, compassionate heart. Whatever the reason is, he cares. If she’s in trouble, he’ll do his damnedest to get her out.

  * * *

  The huge Alaskan is terrifyingly compelling--and heartwarmingly concerned for her.

  But Frankie refuses to involve Bull in the deadly mess. Her plan to rescue her bestie will work without anyone getting hurt. As she tries her best not to fall in love, she doggedly acquires each skill she’ll need.

  * * *

  Getting shot, though…that hadn’t been on her to-do list.

  What You See

  Sons of the Survivalist: 3

  Cherise Sinclair

  VanScoy Publishing Group

  What You See

  Copyright © 2020 by Cherise Sinclair

  ISBN: 978-1-947219-29-8

  Published by VanScoy Publishing Group

  Cover Art: I'm No Angel Designs

  Edited by Red Quill Editing, LLC

  Content Editor: Bianca Sommerland

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

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this eBook only. No part of this work may be used, stored, reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews as permitted by law.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Club Shadowlands

  Also by Cherise Sinclair

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Fiona Archer and Monette Michaels for critting Bull’s story. When you both yell at me for the same problem, I know I’d better fix it.

  To my beloved Alaska authorities, JJ Foster and Kathleen Cole: You are so good at keeping me from making any horrible cheechako goofs. (Any errors that slipped in are my very own).

  Daniela Gardini, thank you so much for helping with the Italian. You rock, girl! (Any errors are because the author is stubborn).

  Many hugs to my wonderful beta readers, Marian Shulman, Lisa White, and Barb Jack.

  So much appreciation goes to my Red Quill editors—Ekatarina Sayanova, Rebecca Cartee, and Tracy Damron-Roelle. Because of your hard work and superb skills, Bull’s story will be released before winter…and will be readable. Thank you!

  It’s been a rough fall for my team—loss of furbabies, bronchitis, infections, even cancer—and I can’t believe how you each insisted I send the manuscript anyway. Because you wanted to help.

  I love you all.

  Prologue

  The sweet smell of pineapple, coconut, and hot oil jerked nine-year-old Kana Peleki to a stop in front of the small, brick-fronted restaurant. “Dad?”

  A woman bumped into him from behind, then stepped around him with an annoyed sigh.

  He didn’t apologize. All he could see was the restaurant. All he could hear was an echo of a deep voice, “My little sous chef. Look, hold the knife this way...”

  Kana shook his head hard. No, his father wouldn’t be in that restaurant making Samoan half-moon pies. Wouldn’t be giving that booming laugh and pulling over a stepstool so Kana could help.

  Dad was dead. Gone.

  Kana leaned against the building and scowled at his feet. Big feet.

  “I can’t believe how fast you’re growing.”

  Dad had said that too.

  Would he even know me now? He’d grown a lot since his father died.

  Because of that woman.

  Anger roused inside him. Dad had died because the owner of the LA restaurant wanted him, always calling him her “handsome chef” and touching him. But after they’d done the sex stuff, she’d changed and got all mean and called Dad names and hit him, even though he never yelled back or anything.

  In the car that night, she’d shouted at Dad and slapped him real hard. The car had gone sideways and—

  Kana’s belly lurched, and he put his hand over his mouth. Heat ran over his skin, then cold, like he’d fallen in the icy stream outside Mako’s cabin.

  Don’t puke.

  He pulled in long breaths and fought off the sickness. He wasn’t a little kid anymore, not like when Dad died. He’d been in foster care, been on the LA streets. He was tough now, not a wimp.

  He walked on.

  “Hey, Bull. Bull.”

  He jumped—because Gabe was yelling at him. Bull’s my name now.

  Bull. Frigging good name, right? He puffed up his chest to look bigger. Yeah, by the time he was grown up, he’d be as big as the bull moose that Mako had shot last week. The one that had given Kana—no, Bull—his new name.

  He raised his hand to show he’d heard Gabe but didn’t move. Did he want to hang out with his kinda-sorta foster brother—or the other two?

  Mako called them a team. A-huh. Bull wasn’t so sure.

  Okay, maybe the four of them had fought back against the foster home perv, even though they hardly knew each other. And when Mako said he’d bring them to Alaska and raise them, they’d all agreed. Better than being homeless on the streets, right?

  It still didn’t make them no team or a family either.

  “C’mon, Bull!” Dark-haired Gabe, a year older than Bull, motioned toward Caz and Hawk who were surrounded by big-ass teens. The pushy jerks weren’t a gang, though. Not here in bumfuck Seward.

  Bull didn’t move. Did he want to get in a fight for the other boys in the sarge’s log cabin?

  Gabe was okay. Bossier than anything, but he made
up good games—and played fair. Made sure they all played fair.

  Caz? Yeah, he was okay, too, even if he didn’t speak English so good. When a bird’s nest fell down off a tree, Caz kept the babies alive, getting up early to feed them and everything.

  Hawk? Well, Hawk was weird. If anybody looked at him funny, he’d hit them. Bull had some good bruises since the kid hit hard. But he’d sneak bugs and worms to Caz’s baby birds…and then pretend he hadn’t. Why’d he want them to think he was an asshole?

  Wondering what they thought of him, Bull waited to see what’d happen down the street.

  Trash-talking, the local kids surrounded Caz and Hawk. “City brats. Go back to the Lower 48 where you belong.” The pimple-faced town boy must’ve been around fifteen, same as the other three circling Hawk and Caz.

  Bull growled. Hawk was a jerk sometimes, and Caz just a shrimp, but they were all living together. Kinda makes them, like, mine, right?

  “Ugly-face, don’cha got nothing to say?” Another teen poked his finger at the scar on Hawk’s face.

  Caz slapped the kid’s arm away. “Chinga su madre, hijo de puta!”

  The Alaska dumbasses got even madder. They could probably tell that he’d called them nasty names.

  Caz had some guts.

  Turning a pissed-off red, Hawk lifted his fists. Uh-oh. When he lost it, no one was safe.

  As Bull headed toward the group, the fight busted out.

  The pimple-faced kid punched Caz right in the face.

  Hawk kicked the jerk’s leg, and then all the town kids jumped in.

  Like that was fair?

  With a yell, Gabe grabbed a bike from the sidewalk and clobbered one teen right off his feet.

  “Go, Gabe!” Bull launched himself into the fight and hit a ginger in the side, knocking him onto his ass.

  Next to Bull, Hawk pushed the asshole who’d called him ugly-face. Shoving his head into the kid’s chest, Hawk punched him in the gut, right-left-right-left. Getting hit back didn’t slow the crazy hawk down any. Screaming bloody murder, the teen fell over, got up, and ran like a chickenshit.

  Cheering, Bull realized he was bouncing on the ginger’s back and had rammed the kid’s face into the pavement. Oh, crap.

  The weenie was crying.

  “Yeah, scram.” Bull rolled off, and the ginger ran.

  Caz was fighting pimple-face and, shit, using one of his knives!

  Coming from behind, Gabe bashed the bike into the teen. Bleeding already—go, Caz!—the teen staggered back and ran after his wannabe gang.

  Gabe scowled. “Put those knives away before someone sees them.”

  Slicker than snot, Caz made the knives disappear.

  Bull snorted. If he’d been littler, he’d want knives, too. And Caz could sure work those blades.

  “Fighting, huh?” The deep gravelly voice made Bull jump and spin.

  Mako stood right behind him. The big-shouldered man used to be in the military and was hard as steel. His blue eyes saw everything.

  Fuck.

  He’d promised he would keep them till they were grown up. Maybe they shouldn’t’ve got in a fight the first time he brought them to town.

  Tensing, Bull backed up until his shoulder was against Gabe’s. Caz was on Gabe’s other side, and after a second, Hawk wiped the blood from his mouth and stood next to Bull.

  They’d done okay, Bull decided, against all those bigger kids. Felt kinda good.

  Gabe looked Mako straight in the face. “They were picking on Hawk and Caz. That’s not right.”

  “No, it’s not.” Mako eyed the street. The teens had disappeared. “Doubt they’ll try it again.”

  Bull folded his arms over his chest. “Cuz we won.”

  “You did.” The sarge actually grinned. “You’ll do even better when you learn to work together.”

  They all looked at each other. Together?

  Maybe.

  “You got a fat lip, boy.” Mako slapped Hawk’s shoulder. “An ice pack’d help—but winning a fight deserves ice cream.”

  They all grinned—even Hawk, although it made his lip bleed more.

  A bit later, with a strawberry ice cream cone, Bull sat with the others at a patio table outside. It was a cool town. The sea gulls strutted around at their feet, begging for food and acting like clowns. Big planters had dark blue and yellow flowers matching the colors of the flag hanging overhead from a light pole.

  While Bull slowly licked his ice cream, Mako told them to guess stuff about the people who walked past. What they did for a living. If they were good people. If they could fight.

  Bull pointed his chin at a guy in mud-covered clothes who was leaning on a lamppost. “Homeless, no job, asshole, probably he’d fall over if he tried to fight.”

  Mako snorted. “You’re seeing the dirt and the clothes. Look past that shit, boy.”

  Bull scowled.

  “He’s wearing fancy cowboy boots. Good ones.” Gabe tilted his head. “An’ his jeans ’n’ shirt aren’t new, but not cheap, either.”

  Mako nodded. “Better. Keep going.”

  “Got knife in boot,” Caz said.

  Bull blinked, and yeah, there was a hilt at the top. So much for being worthless in a fight.

  A big pickup pulled up to the curb. The big shell on the back had ten tiny doors in it, and dogs were whining behind them.

  The guy climbed into the passenger side and leaned over to kiss a really hot woman.

  Mako said, “He owns the sports store. He and his wife aren’t millionaires, but well enough off. That’s a dog truck, and he’s muddy from training his new sled-dog team, fixin’ to race them. Probably took himself a spill.”

  “Crap,” Bull muttered. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Exactly. Learn to see past the surface—with men and women. It’ll save you a world of hurt.”

  Hurt. Bull turned away, mouth tight. If Dad had really seen the restaurant owner who wanted him, maybe he’d have stayed away from her. Maybe he’d still be alive.

  And Bull wouldn’t be in Alaska with a bunch of strangers.

  Chapter One

  It is not your outward appearance that you should beautify, but your soul, adorning it with good works. ~ Clement of Alexandria

  * * *

  “I’ll speak to the stylist about her schedule and see if she can fit in more time for you,” Frankie Bocelli told the woman in the doorway, who was afraid the newer and younger models were getting more attention from the stylist than she was.

  Che cavolo. What the heck? How petty. Typing a reminder to follow through, Frankie put a stranglehold on her mouth. She must be polished and gracious. Always. No matter what.

  Besides, fighting amongst the models was to be expected. To them, hair and makeup stylists were as important as her organizational software was to her. So, don’t be judgy.

  “Thanks, Francesca.”

  Francesca. Ugh. “You’re very welcome.” Watching the model strut out of the office, Frankie rubbed her face. Why in the world was she so grumpy these days? It seemed as if everything irritated her recently—although her annoyance with her given name was long-standing.

  Fran-chess-kah. Could anything sound fussier? And it had so many letters. In preschool, she’d still been printing her endless name as the short-named classmates like Eve and Ann headed out to play.

  In elementary school, hadn’t she just adored being called Frankenstein or Frankfurter? Not. But it was worse when her breasts appeared, and the boys took to calling her Chesty. Really, her breasts were awesome—thank you, Italian genes—but at the time, well…

  Things changed when she started college. Her new friends decided her stuffy name didn’t suit her, and her roommate, Kirsten—Kit—dubbed her Frankie. When everyone started calling her Frankie, her world expanded.

  Names were important, a kind of acknowledgment. “I see you.” Being called the wrong name constantly felt like a slow erosion of her identity.

  But after graduation, she’d f
ulfilled her parents’ expectations and returned to work in the family business. Mama insisted her daughter mustn’t be called something as masculine-sounding as Frankie. No matter what Frankie wanted, she’d be known by the name on her birth certificate.

  Lucky me. Needing a moment, Frankie walked over to water the plants that lined her window. The African violets were blooming in bright lavenders and pinks as if to urge her to cheer up. Beside them were two plants her bestie had given her—a so-called “money” plant and one to clean the air. Kit was all about useful plants.

  From outside came the low hum of traffic, punctuated by honks and beeps. New York cabbies loved their horns.

  She braced her hands on the sill. Through the drizzling rain on the glass, her tenth-floor office window gave a dreary view of skyscrapers. Spring was late arriving in New York.

  The gray, smoggy sky suited her mood.

  However, moods could be improved by food—and she had something to eat. She’d bribed one of the gofers to get her a Shake Shack burger.

  Back at her desk, Frankie opened the sack and grabbed a crinkle-cut fry. Yum.

  “Francesca, I need your help.” Birgit, her oldest sister, entered with the signature catwalk strut that’d made her famous. A second later, she reclined in a chair in such a perfect picture of anguish that there should have been a violin accompaniment.

  “What’s up?” With a sigh, Frankie set her burger to one side. Alas, it’d be cold by the time she got to eat it.