The Way Down

By Danielle Stewart

Roark Miller protects people for a fee. A substantial one. It’s a fair exchange. His expertise in security for their money. Socialites. Diplomats. Famous athletes. He doesn’t ask questions once the check clears. No matter how screwed up the job gets, it’s still less stressful than his days as a homicide detective in Detroit. Roark had blurred the lines between right and wrong too many times to pick up his badge again. But his past won’t stay buried for long.



Demi Kay finds herself choking on a cloud of body spray in a bar crawling with college-aged kids. It was meant as a night of celebration but turns quickly to a nightmare she can’t wait to escape. The only silver lining is the attractive bodyguard who looks equally disappointed with the establishment.



Roark and Demi find they have far more in common than their mutual distain for the party scene. When Roark realizes Demi is a victim from a case he’d consulted on a decade ago, he knows trouble is just around the corner. Mysterious threats turn to violence and Roark is the only thing standing between Demi and danger. But will he be enough?


• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094458595

Danielle Stewart

Danielle Stewart is a USA Today Best Selling Author of over 50 books. She has held the number one book rank on Apple Books, Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Danielle currently lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with her husband and son. She works hard to perfect her ability to write in a noisy house and create story lines while daydreaming and folding laundry. She loves hearing from readers so please find her on social media.

Book preview

1

He’d stolen it from the library. Or rather borrowed it with no intention of returning it. That was the kind of thing Roark had done when he was twelve and looked to rebel. But he’d been surprised to find the book was captivating. At first he read it just to indulge in the excitement of his thievery. But a couple chapters in he’d been hooked.

Now thirty years later it was poignantly familiar to him. He’d read it, cover to cover, a couple dozen times. Somehow it morphed from an unpretentious fictional story of a teenager and his trek across Europe to Roark’s own personal navigation system.

When fog rolled in and he wasn’t sure which way was up in his life, he’d grab the tattered novel and treat the words like a map. It wasn’t just the message or the verses he connected to. It was the creased pages that had yellowed over the years. His favorite mug had left a coffee ring on the cover. The library stamp, preserving forever the day he swiped it. Locking in the memory of the adrenaline surge he felt when he tossed it in his bag and knew he’d never bring it back. It was laughable now to think of how electrifying that act was back then. The years had long since dulled the childish excitement, but the book remained a staple in his life.

He imagined people, normal ones, felt about old friends the way he did about the book. When they were unsure of what to do next in life, they probably picked up the phone and chatted with a familiar and kind person.

Roark didn’t do that. He never had. Mostly because it didn’t seem productive. People didn’t talk through their problems because they wanted real advice. They wanted someone to agree with them. Someone to echo their thoughts and feelings and validate what they’d already decided they were going to do. If that was the case, the actual conversation was just a waste of time. And Roark hated wasted time.

The military had made him mission-oriented. Any undertaking had to have a goal, then an action plan. He was wired that way. It worked. His mother had always said if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. And while many women had called him broken, he didn’t agree.

So when his hands trembled and his temple throbbed to the beat of old machine-gun-fire memories, Roark picked up his book and started to read.

The apartment wasn’t made for cozy perusing of books. The overhead lights were contractor-grade fluorescent bulbs that made everything seem yellow and drab. The furniture was ordered out of a catalog and was so cheap the wood frame could be felt through every cushion. There was no fireplace or reading nook. The walls were beige, the ceilings low, and the appliances were bottom of the line. This was like a before picture on one of those remodel shows.

When he’d signed the lease a decade ago, the landlord had asked how long he’d been divorced and what weekends every month he would have his kids. Her entire building, all six apartments, were occupied by divorced dads who all mostly looked desperate to get back to their old homes. Roark wasn’t divorced. He had never been married and he had no children that he knew of. Most of the women he dated would have likely decided to be single parents if they’d gotten pregnant. Being boyfriend, husband, or father material was never his goal. His energy was always poured myopically into his career.

Rather than use a bookmark, Roark always tucked the same tattered picture of his mother between the pages to hold his spot. Shifting the picture to his latest page, he stared hard, trying to remember the sound of her laugh. It was high-pitched and cut through a room like a hot knife through butter. Just like in that photograph, when something caught her attention, she’d always tuck one hand under her chin. Fingers curled into a fist, she’d plant it there and smile. Roark always wondered who took this picture and what they were doing that made his mother fall into the familiar position.

The mystery had become so captivating that he applied his many years as a detective to try to sort out the answer. His mother was wearing a red dress, but not a formal one. Something she’d sport in the summer by the lake. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, something she usually only did when she was cooking or cleaning. The background of the photograph was the standard 1970s living room with shag carpet, wood paneled walls, and windows covered with loud patterned drapes. But it was not a room Roark recognized. It wasn’t a house he remembered being in. A good guess put his mother around twenty-five years old, which meant Roark wasn’t even born yet.

It had always been just the two of them. His mother and him. No one else. No father. No grandparents. No family at all. There was the occasional acquaintance to discuss the weather and the neighborhood gossip with, but nothing more. Roark had a few neighborhood buddies to ride bikes and prank the girls with, but no one he’d ever tell his secrets to.

He and his mother were two parts who made up a whole. Nothing ever seemed like it was missing. So who, then, had snapped this photograph? Was there a life, exciting and full of people, that had been somehow dismantled when she became a mother? For all the things they’d talked about over the years, Roark and his mother never discussed the before. Before he was born didn’t exist in her mind, therefore it didn’t in his world either. She’d put up an invisible electric fence around those memories and the very few times he’d reached out for it, he’d felt the shock and learned to leave it alone.

Wherever she was born, whoever she was related to, that information died with her in the ICU of Blue Rock Memorial Hospital five years ago. Roark hadn’t bothered with an obituary. It would have been short and who would have been looking for it anyway? On the rare occasions when someone would ask where his people were from, he’d shrug and say their guess was as good as his. But he didn’t waste time wondering. All roads led back to how he was wired. If it didn’t have a purpose, if it didn’t move him toward his goal, it didn’t matter. A bunch of dead ancestors didn’t solve his latest murder case or pay the bills.

Roark pitied people who stepped in the quicksand of the past and couldn’t pull themselves out. Reminiscing wasn’t appealing to him. Nostalgia wasn’t something he pined for. To romanticize the past, and long for it, was no more productive than trying to pull the moon from the sky. You couldn’t change the past. You couldn’t relive it. You couldn’t even visit it for a little while. It only made logical sense to be completely in the present.

Over the years, not a damn thing infuriated the women in his life more than his staunch philosophy of living only in the now. It meant he wouldn’t talk about his past or dream about his future. Apparently, judging by the outcomes, you couldn’t have a relationship without those things. Without parsing up the pain of prior loves and forging paths toward bright tomorrows. It was always at that point, when the woman he was dating realized he wasn’t going to change, that things would irrevocably fall apart.

And then he’d pick up the book, look at the picture of his mother that held his page, and he’d read. He’d read until it all made sense again.

2

Swigging back the last of his neat scotch, Roark prayed for death. Well, not really death . He’d settle for something slightly less final as long as it resulted in his getting out of this Detroit nightclub. The Oyster’s Crystal , a name that made absolutely no sense, was a dark, loud cave of a club. The neon green rope lights over his head gave everyone the appearance of being ill. As the music thumped incessantly, he was starting to feel a little sick himself. He was in his early forties, but tonight, sitting there, he felt like he was a grumpy eighty-year-old. The urge to shake his fist and tell these punks to get off his lawn was real.

That was the job, though. When his client’s daughter intended to go out clubbing that weekend it was up to him to be completely prepared beforehand. He now knew the exits, the staff, the regulars, and in such a place, the irregulars. Why any nineteen-year-old girl would insist on coming to a place like that completely escaped him. The second a woman walked through the entrance she transformed into nothing more than an object. Every eye judged her. Nearly as many hands tried to grope her. But as hard as he worked to talk Kimberly out of it, she demanded to be allowed to live her life, arguing it wasn’t her fault her father was a diplomat.

Remembering the argument, Roark rolled his eyes. He hated the life of private security. The obstinate and reluctant people he had to protect were enough to drive a guy to drink. Literally. He waved down the waitress for another scotch. His client’s daughter was safe at home. This was only a night of research so drinking was a must. Hell, he needed to blend in.

I know there’s a sign on the door that says you have to be eighteen to come in here, he heard a woman’s raised voice behind him say, but there should be another sign that says if you’re over thirty you should stay out too, for your own good. He glanced over his shoulder, only part way, to show her he’d heard, but not enough to say he wanted to engage in a conversation.

He didn’t chat. Not because he was doing recon, but because he never saw the point in it. How’s the weather? Look out the freaking window. Did you have a good day? What the hell defines a good day? Especially in his line of work. He’d been accused many times by many women of being distant. He wasn’t. He didn’t consider himself emotionally shut off, just verbally. But they didn’t seem to be able to tell the difference.

Do you mind if I sit down with you for a minute? the woman asked as she took a step to his side. He didn’t answer. He pushed his dark, slightly too long hair off his forehead and nodded, still not giving her his full attention. She continued to speak even though he hadn’t even said hello.

"Someone called me a cougar and I’m trying to process that. Does that mean I’m old? Old and hot? I mean, I’m thirty-one. If that’s cougar status, what the hell do I have to look forward to when I’m sixty-one?" She was talking mostly to herself as the waitress placed his scotch down in front of him.

Roark interrupted her, You need a drink? He might not be chatty but he had been raised a gentleman.

Yes, she sighed, refocusing. I’ll take a Seven and ginger.

Is that like a blue and red martini? We have those on special. They come with an energy drink shot too, the far-too-skinny blonde waitress asked, full of perky excitement. Her curls were sculpted by a thick curling iron and her lashes were obviously not her own. The same could be said for her breasts and her too-plump lips.

No, the woman answered, frowning. You know what, I’ll just have what he’s having.

It’s scotch, Roark retorted flatly, expecting the woman to change her mind once she knew. It was a drink that required tolerance. Both of taste and the ability to handle one’s alcohol. He hadn’t liked it himself until he’d hit his thirties and realized the mixed drinks might taste better but they took too long to enjoy the effects.

Scotch? That’s perfect, she said to the waitress, much to Roark’s surprise.

You like scotch? He raised a brow at her and she didn’t bother replying. She was instead rubbing at her temple, looking exasperated.

A blue and red martini? she asked, slapping her hand to her forehead as the waitress bounced away. What the hell is this world coming to?

Don’t feel bad. I asked for my scotch neat, and she brought me an extra napkin. I told her it meant no ice and she asked why I didn’t just say that. Roark gave the woman a casual shrug before sipping his drink. His eyes were still roaming the room, still looking for the little details the rest of the world would miss. It took effort not to focus completely on the woman who’d just joined him. He wanted to look her over, explore her features, and dissect what her choice in clothes said about her. But tonight, he was working.

Really? she sighed with a breathy laugh. I honestly worry about this generation. How do they plan to get through life if they never look up from their damn phones? The guy who called me a cougar, he designs cars. She snickered and reached out to touch Roark’s arm. "But only for fun. In a notebook. At his parents’ house where