by Avery Flynn
Decade-old resentment started to float to the surface and she planted a hand on one of her hips. "Why would I be in trouble?"
Drew raised an eyebrow and snorted. "You pull into town like a rocket in a fancy car that you're driving into the ground like money doesn't mean a thing to you."
"I own a successful business." Not successful enough for an Aston Martin in the garage, but what did she care?
"You run a pot shop," he retorted.
"Yeah, one that's totally legal in Denver." She should have expected the judgment she heard in Mr. By the Book's tone, but like an asshole, she hadn't. That stung. "Why, do you want to search the car?" Unable to stop herself from tormenting the both of them, she took a step closer to him and looked up at him through her thick eyelashes knowing just how much he liked to feel in charge—he never took that domineering attitude off, not even when he took off the badge. "You wanna search me?"
His body stiffened. "I don't think that's necessary."
For a second, she teetered on the edge of reaching out and touching him—letting her fingers skim down the length of his broad shoulders, across the solid wall of muscle he called a chest, and over the hard plane of abs in a journey that led straight to his belt buckle and all the hard goodness that was tucked away inside his pants—but she pulled back just in time, snapped out of the coquette imitation and back to her normal self. "Good, then how about helping me change the tire?"
He let out a half groan, half sigh and started to roll up his sleeves. "Give me the jack."
She could change the tire. It wasn't that she didn't know how, but some things were too good to miss. Seeing Drew Jackson's forearms flex as he went to work on her flat tire was one of them, especially when he'd be so focused on the job at hand that he wouldn't know she was watching.
"So what's the deal with those guys following you?" he said in mid-tire change.
Leah had noticed the ginormous truck in her rearview mirror about thirty miles outside of Fort Worth. It hadn't gotten weird until she noticed the truck mirroring every one of her moves as she switched lanes, passed cars and did an almost stop at a gas station. By the time she'd gotten to Catfish Creek, adrenaline was slingshotting through her body hitting every nerve.
"I really don't know." She wished like hell she was lying, but she had no frickin' clue who those assholes were.
Drew grunted in answer and finished putting on the donut tire he'd gotten out of the trunk. "This should get you to the service station. They'll probably have to order the tire you need. I doubt that Vasquez's Auto Care carries Aston Martin-approved tires."
Oh, she was so not forking over that kind of cash. "It's a rental."
"That's one way to treat yourself."
Pride pricked at his disapproving tone, she doubled down on his obvious belief that she was some sort of drug queen pin. "At least I know how to have a good time."
He stood up, eyeballing her from head to foot and back up again as he wiped his hands on the small mechanic's towel that had been in the trunk next to the jack. The look made her flush in all the best ways as warm desire slid across her skin as tangible as a lover's touch. Judging by the knowing smirk on his face, he noticed.
"As I recall," he said, tossing the towel in the small compartment where he'd already put the jack, "you know how to do a lot of things—most of which don't exactly fit in the good category."
Not when it came to them. "Are you flirting with me, Drew Jackson?"
His jaw tightened. "Of course not."
Bam. Direct hit. The quick way he'd answered in the negative was a solid smack to her ego—and picked the Drew-sized scab on her heart.
"It just wouldn't do for the sheriff to flirt with the big bad pot store owner in combat boots, now would it?" Their time together had only lasted for the summer after graduate school and had been totally covert, but it had been hot, intense and the marker by which she judged all affairs. Obviously, it hadn't had the same effect on perfect Drew Jackson, first-born son to one of the most powerful families in town and older brother to the bitchy queen bee of Catfish Creek High School who'd been Leah's best friend and, later, total nemesis. Well, fuck him and his better-than-you attitude.
"Still playing by the rules and doing what Mommy and Daddy tell you, Drew?"
He slammed the Aston Martin's trunk down and glowered at her—all heat and danger and dominance as he stalked toward her, his tall, muscular frame moving with a predatory grace that made her pulse spike and her core clench. She knew that look. Even more, she knew what happened after that look. It usually involved ties, orgasms, and promises that would never be kept. For most of her life, her body and her brain had battled it out over Drew Jackson and today was no different. But unlike that summer, her brain won this time and she scurried into the car, shutting the door behind her and locking it for good measure.
The cocky bastard strolled right up to her door and rapped a knuckle on the window. While there was nothing she'd like better at the moment than to drive off, that wasn't going to happen thanks to the tree blocking her in from the front and Drew's truck cutting her escape off from behind. Surrendering to the moment, she rolled down the window.
He rested an arm on the roof of the car and leaned casually against it, his lazy grin not fooling her for a single, solitary second. "I know it'll be hard, Sweets, but try to stay out of trouble while you're in Catfish Creek."
Sweets.
He thought he had the upper hand.
Not today, buddy.
"Whatever you say, Sheriff." With her hands on the wheel, she squeezed her upper arms closer to her body—a move that brought her boobs closer together as it lifted them. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't meant to be. In her experience, subtle went right over most men's heads and she wanted—needed—Drew to remember that he'd been much more than a passive partner that summer. Hey, girls had egos to maintain too. "I'd hate for you to have to handcuff me...again."
Drew's eyes went dark with lust and his nostrils flared before her sanity returned and she rolled up her window, then turned the key in the ignition. He got the hint, stalking off to his truck. Her sideview mirror provided the perfect shot of his smackable ass as he did so and she wasn't woman enough to look away. Half a minute later he yanked the police light off the roof of his truck and pulled out onto the street. She made a three-point turn and headed in the opposite direction toward the service station, wondering how in the world she'd ever thought such an insufferable prick like Drew Jackson could be her one and only.
2
Leah
Vasquez's Auto Care was right on Main Street, a short drive off the highway and two blocks down from grease heaven, also known as The Hamburger Shack. Leah had caused a total work stoppage when she'd parked the Aston Martin inside their service bay. With the way Jorge Vasquez and the rest of the mechanics were looking at the car, she kinda felt like a pimp.
Seriously, it was getting a little awkward. The guys were whispering to it for the love of Pete.
"I just need a new tire," she called out to the group of men enthralled with the Aston Martin.
Jorge Vasquez looked up at her, made a tsk-tsk sound and shook his head. "Can't do that."
And she thought only her best friend Grayson Cleary was this weird about cars. "Why not?"
"It would be a sin to put a non-manufacturer-endorsed tire on this beauty." He crossed himself and kissed his thumb.
This was Catfish Creek. Population: Lotsa Crazy. There was no way she'd hear the answer she wanted but she had to ask anyway. "Do you have one of those?"
"Nope."
"Jorge, you're killing me," she said with a groan. "I'm only in town for a few days for the reunion, I don't have time for you to baby a rental car."
"Shhhhhh," Jorge said, looking at the Aston Martin. "Don't listen to her, mi tesoro, she doesn't understand you."
Despite her rising frustration, no doubt helped on by her run in with Drew, she couldn't help but laugh at the scandalized expression on the mechanic's face.
>
Jorge smoothed his hand across the Aston Martin's gleaming hood. "I've already reached out to the rental place listed on the registration to get pre-approval to work on the car and find out who their parts supplier in Fort Worth is. I'll have the tire tomorrow morning, plus, that will give me time to make sure you didn't damage the wheel driving around on a flat like that."
Okay, not the best news in the world, but not the worst either. "Good thing I can walk to the hotel."
He tipped his head back toward where her bag was sitting on a stool near the garage door. "We took your bag out of the trunk and popped everything from the interior into here." He handed her a manilla envelope, his gaze still locked on the Aston Martin.
"You know I'm coming back for the car," she said.
"Yeah, but this way you don't get to the hotel and realize you forgot something." He grinned and gave her a quick wink. "It's small town service. Bet you don't get that up in Denver."
"It's definitely not Catfish Creek."
Not by a long shot. She'd gotten out of town as fast as she could after high school graduation and hadn't regretted her decision once. The fact that her shop in Denver, Botanical Solutions, was only a block away from the garage where Grayson worked made it even better—she got to keep the one part of Catfish Creek she'd liked. If only she was attracted to Gray. Oh yeah, he was cute and inked up and funny, but not even at her horniest had she ever wanted him. Drew on the other hand? Her panties got wet just thinking about him and she hated his guts after what he'd done. That whole Jackson family was nothing but bad news. Principal Christianson had been right about one thing when it came to her, she made some pretty shitty choices--especially when it came to that summer and acting out on the Drew Jackson fantasies she'd had from the first time she'd slipped her fingers beneath her panties and got herself off.
And before she could start thinking too much about the firmness of Drew's ass and how it felt when the muscles moved as he pumped into her, she grabbed her wheeled bag and headed south toward The Hamburger Shack. She smelled it before she hit the front door and by the time she walked through it, her stomach was rumbling for the kind of artery-clogging goodness that came with cheese, bacon and a hunk of red onion sandwiched between two toasted buns and served with a side of spicy fries.
Fifteen minutes later she was two bites into a heart attack when something—or someone, really—blocked the sun streaming in from the restaurant's huge glass window. Glancing up, she took in the no-neck, muscle-bound pseudo cowboys in store-starched Western shirts, jeans, and boots so gaudy only a tourist would even think to pick them up. Both wore sunglasses. One was blonde, the other had carrot red hair and a dimple in his chin. If they were local or here for the reunion, she'd forsake the homemade lemonade that had come with her burger—and that stuff was liquid gold.
"Table's taken," she said before turning her attention back to her meal.
Blondie snorted. "We see that."
"So move along." She took another bite, chewing slow while watching the men out of the corner of her eye. These two set off a whole passel of warning bells, but she wasn't about to flinch. Botanical Solutions may sell legal marijuana but that didn't mean that all of her clientele stayed on the right side of the law. She'd learned to listen to her danger early warning system.
"Be glad to," Red said as he swiped one of her fries off her plate. "Just as soon as you give it back to us."
She edged her hand closer to the steak knife by her plate. It wouldn't do a lot of damage but jabbing it into one of the Rhinestone Cowboy's softer spots might be enough of a distraction for her to slip past them because she had no fucking clue what they were after. "It?"
"Don't play dumb," Red said. "We know Jessup gave it to you."
Fucking A. This was like being in one of those dreams where she had no clue what was going on beyond the fact that it was probably really bad. "Jessup?"
Red took off his sunglasses, planted his palms on the table on either side of her plate, and leaned forward, not stopping until he loomed over her. "Give it up or pay the consequences."
His breath smelled like stale cigarettes and onion rings. Not a great combination. Keeping her gaze locked on him, Leah curled her fingers around the knife handle and gripped it tight, ready to do what needed to be done to get out of here before 'roided-up Red decided it was time to get really serious.
Movement to her left flashed in her periphery.
"The only one who's gonna be paying is you," Drew said, his hand resting on the butt of his still-holstered gun.
Drew
Paid muscle. It wasn't something Drew spotted every day in Catfish Creek, but he'd run up against enough thugs for hire when he was in Fort Worth to recognize the breed. They were big, cocky, and no doubt had at least one gun concealed on their persons. His money was on their ugly-ass boots since their pearl-button shirts were too tight to hide anything.
"The door's that way." He jerked his chin in the direction of the front door, thankful that the smattering of customers at The Hamburger Shack for a late lunch were more interested in watching the show rather than getting involved in it.
The goon straightened up until he could almost look Drew in the eyes and puffed out his chest. "This has nothing to do with you."
Wrong answer.
"I say it does." Especially when it comes to Leah Camacho.
"Don't get your panties in a twist," the guy said as if it were an insult. "We'll be gone soon." He glanced back down at Leah, offering her a cold smile, before putting on his shades. "One way or another."
The men ambled out as if they hadn't just delivered a promise there was no way he'd let them keep. Standing his ground, Drew watched their progress as they exited The Hamburger Shack and got into the extended cab pickup truck that was a match for the one that had slow rolled by Leah’s car earlier. He snapped the loop back over his service weapon and noted the license plate number for later—and there would be a later, he had no doubt about it. There always was with their type. He wasn't worried about catching up with them when he needed to later though because it was hard to hide that much douchebaggery in a town this size.
The waitress dropped off a glass of sweet tea just as Drew slid into the chair opposite Leah.
"Thanks, Marsha," he said.
He took a long sip of tea while Leah continued to eat her fries, as if what had just gone down was a normal part of her daily life. Shit. For all he knew, it was. She did sell pot for a living.
"You following me?" she asked, licking the dusting of fry seasoning off the tips of her fingers.
Distracted by the sight of her pink tongue and the memories it conjured of what it looked like when she'd used the same technique on the swollen head of his cock, it took a few moments for her words to sink in.
He shrugged. "Noticed the truck from earlier parked outside and figured trouble was stirring. How about you finish your burger and tell me what's really going on."
She gave him a haughty look and pushed her plate away. Stubborn woman. Only place she liked to be told what to do was in bed--and even then sometimes it got a little dicey.
"They think I have something of theirs."
"Drugs?" he asked.
It seemed the obvious choice considering what she did for a living, but judging by the fire in her brown eyes as they narrowed and the snarl that curled up on one side of her full lips he'd chosen poorly.
"No," she retorted with enough attitude to all but give him the single finger salute. "Believe it or not I'm not packing our most popular HEA brand of marijuana to my high school reunion in Texas because that would be illegal."
Testy. It looked good on her. Always had. Every time she'd gotten all riled up that summer, they'd spent fucking each others brains out on any flat—okay, any—surface, the wildest times had always happened when she'd gone all spitfire on him. His cock thickened against his thigh and he had to shift in his seat. Her not-so-subtle glance down and smirk confirmed she hadn't missed his maneuvering.
; Fucking A.
"So what do they want?" he asked.
She shrugged. "No fucking clue."
Okay, she didn't trust him to help. That was as obvious as his half-staff hard-on, but he had one week left on the job and he wasn't about to let his jurisdiction go to shit because of some out-of-town trouble hot on Leah's ass. She knew something, she just may not know it. Time to figure it out.
He crowbarred his brain out of the gutter and put it into cop mode. "Where were you before you got to Catfish Creek?"
"Fort Worth to see my mom," Leah answered. "She and my stepdad bought a house there after Shana graduated."
There were five Camacho girls—besides Leah there was Ariella, a bush pilot out in Alaska or somewhere like that; the twins, Meira and Dalia, who had a ranch in Montana; and the baby, Shoshana, who, according to the Catfish Creek gossip mill, was getting a degree at UT—and one brother, Isaac, who'd been a year behind Drew in school. Isaac was a former military special ops type who was in Fort Worth now working with B-Squad Investigations and Security. Drew had run into Isaac several times while he'd still been working in Fort Worth. All of the Camachos had done like Leah and had gotten out of Catfish Creek as soon as they'd graduated—exactly like Drew had done until that call that came from his mom had dragged him back to town.
"Anything weird there?"
"Beyond the normal Camacho craziness?" Leah laughed. "Not much."
Okay, that knocked out his first and second theories. There had to be something though that would bring in heavyweights on Leah's ass. "After that?"
"I went to the car rental place," she paused, her eyes rounding with excitement. "Now that was weird."
His cop instinct started buzzing. "Explain."
She did, giving him a quick rundown of the sweaty guy at the rental car place who'd given her a free upgrade to the Aston Martin. Then, in the middle of describing the shady experience, she stopped dead and smacked her palm against the table.
"No fucking way," she exclaimed. "That thing can't be real."