by Anne Marsh
“He knows where you live.”
Sheriff Hernandez nodded slowly, clearly thinking things through. The woman had a sweet, Madonna-like face that probably got people to confess all their troubles right before she did her job.
“You’re a smoke jumper. You’re not jumping yet?”
The sheriff was new, only on the job for the last three months or so. She hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the full jump team yet.
“You bet,” he said. “I’ve got a place over by the hangar the team works out of. We’re doing practice runs now.”
“I’m a big girl,” Mimi said, shoving to her feet. “And I’m not the one who’s committed a crime here. You don’t get to arrest me and you definitely don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Mimi.” Her name came out as more of a rough sigh than anything else. Yeah. Mack wasn’t happy. That appeared to be his usual state of mind when she was around. “Come home with me.”
“No,” she said. “I’m staying at my own place. Not yours, not anyone else’s.”
Chapter Eight
Mimi had tried avoiding Mack since his offer to play house with her. Because that was what he’d been suggesting. It was a nice game, a fun time, but real? Not so much. Unfortunately, Mack made it hard to ignore him. Whenever he hadn’t been stuck to her side during the last two weeks, he’d sent another jumper to keep an eye on her. She felt like she was living under a microscope. A sweet, overprotective, smothering microscope. She needed to clear her head.
She needed to ride.
There was almost no better feeling in the world than flying over the roads on her Harley. Chocolate, winning, sex… nothing else stacked up. Okay, so sex with Mack did, but that had been a one shot deal. The Harley was forever.
She’d learned to ride the hard way, hopping a bike one day in an all-in moment. It had come natural, however, and she’d come up from San Francisco with nothing but her bike and two saddlebags. Someday, she’d sell the bar and drive off. No fuss, no muss. That day wasn’t today, however. Mack’s face flashed through her mind. Yeah. She imagined he’d have a thing or two to say about that. Fortunately for her, Joey was her babysitter tonight.
Joey and she had shared more than one midnight ride. He was a speed freak with more than his share of demons riding his shoulders. And, since he’d spent the evening helping her re-paint the bar, he was perfectly sober and therefore exactly the companion she needed right now. He was a fellow wild child. Big, dark-haired and tattooed. She loved his ink, the stories behind each design. Funny how they’d avoided using each other for sex. She didn’t know what his story was, but Joey lost himself in sex the same way she did, and they’d had an unspoken agreement from day one. They wouldn’t do that to each other. Everything and everyone else, though, was fair game, although he’d recently turned his attention to Mercedes Hernandez.
She smiled slowly at Joey. “You up for a ride?”
“A ride? Or a race?” His answering grin said he had her number.
“Loser buys pancakes at the Blue Lou’s diner.” Strong’s solitary diner had the best blueberry pancakes she’d ever tasted. She was pretty sure she’d packed on an extra five pounds from those pancakes alone.
“We’re going to get into a world of trouble.” Joey’s grin got bigger.
Joey wasn’t wrong—but she also didn’t care. “It’s a free world.”
“With rules,” he pointed out, but he was grabbing his jacket as he spoke.
“You think we’re going to get busted?” She excelled at not getting caught.
He shrugged. “The good sheriff may be keeping her eye on me.”
The twinkle in his eyes said it all. That and she’d seen him staring at Mercedes Hernandez when the woman had been off-duty at the bar. The two of them were polar opposites, but clearly she wasn’t one to talk. She was lusting after Mack and that was a recipe for disaster. He wanted to get married. He’d probably been joking, but he’d still put the question out there. She doubted Mercedes had marriage in mind when she looked at Joey. More like twenty years to life, because Joey pushed all the good sheriff’s buttons.
“She won’t let you off just because you’re cute.”
The slow smile lighting up Joey’s face was magic. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“You want her to arrest you?” She’d lived in San Francisco. She’d seen it all, right? Joey didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d find cuffs appealing, but she wasn’t going to judge.
“I want her to look at me,” he said.
“Really? While she reads you your rights?”
He shook his head. “That’s my problem, not yours.”
“Keep it your problem,” she advised. “I don’t want to get arrested.”
She’d been arrested once before, for a sit-in protest at City Hall. That kind of arrest had been practically obligatory when you were a San Francisco resident, but she hadn’t enjoyed the experience at all. She’d remember for the rest of her life those plastic cuffs biting into her wrist and the nonchalant, don’t-give-a-shit look of the cop doing the arrest. It had been useful, though. She knew now that there were some lines she couldn’t cross because even she couldn’t live with the consequences.
She grabbed her keys and her jacket, tucking her license and a five into an inside pocket. “Ten mile loop. Here to the lookout point and then back.”
Joey turned and headed for the bar’s door. “Lock up here. You’re on.”
***
In the last two years, Mimi had spent hours riding the roads that covered the mountains surrounding Strong. At night, in the dark, everything narrowed to the star-lit carpet of the night sky and the thin ribbon of asphalt unwinding in front of her. She couldn’t see past the edge of the road, where the mountainside dropped down with lethal intent. A wicked chorus of crickets warming up for summer assaulted her ears when she slowed and the roar of the wind in her ears stopped. She loved looking at that night sky. Maybe if she’d paid more attention during her one semester at Brown, she’d have been able to name some of the brighter points gleaming overhead. In the end, it didn’t matter much. She knew what she knew, and it wasn’t like she had to figure out which way was north. The highway was well-marked.
They put the town behind them, flying over the sweetest stretch of highway, part straightaway, part deadly curve. When the road dipped, they drove the bikes hard and fast over those stretches, whooping and yelling.
April nights were still cool and she was grateful for her leather jacket and jeans. Part of her bad ass look was just for show. She’d be the first to admit that she liked raising eyebrows and standing out had always been her first choice. People didn’t look too closely—or try to get too close—when you looked like trouble.
She rode.
Away from town, to town. It didn’t really matter as long as she wasn’t sitting still. Staying put. Joey tore past her, pushing his Harley in a burst of speed, and she felt a burst of affection for him. He was wearing a black leather jacket, his long legs encased in black jeans that ended with a very sexy pair of motorcycle boots. His ripped T-shirt advertised an underground metal band that crashed warehouses and staged impromptu concerts. He wore a small silver hoop in his ear, the jewelry somehow underscoring how large and masculine he was, rather than the other way around. Shoot. It would have been so much simpler if she could have taken him to bed. Instead she was chasing Mack—or he was chasing her—and Joey was running after the completely unattainable Sheriff Hernandez.
She gunned the motor and glanced over her shoulder at Joey.
Sucker.
He’d slowed down on that last curve and now she was winning.
He bellowed something as she sped up. She didn’t catch it, but he could ride faster if it was important. After all, Mack had ridden her ass all day. You shouldn’t go out alone. You want me to take that trash out for you? I’ll lock the front door. You wait for me to go first. Because apparently the Molotov cocktail had not only singed her dance floor. It had also sh
ut down her brain.
Did she see the guy? Would she recognize him if she did? No, she didn’t know what Sal’s henchman might or might not look like.
Would she recognize the car? Well, if it was a navy-blue sedan with the business end of a handgun pointing out the window in her direction? Absolutely. Next time she’d make a point of scribbling down license plate numbers. Maybe she could go all MacGyver and trace the numbers in the dirt or on the back of her hand with some dirt and her spit. Yeah. She liked that last one.
Bring it on.
She checked her mirror. Joey was coming up behind her fast, as if he might intend to pass her on the curve. Ballsy. And he was assuming she’d stay in her lane. She grinned and twisted the right grip towards herself. He could kiss her ass.
With a whoop, she sped up into the turn.
Chapter Nine
The sheriff lit them up as they blew through the straight bit at the bottom of the hill. She must have been waiting for them because Mimi definitely hadn’t seen any sign of a cop car. Not being stupid or suicidal, she would have done a little preventative braking, if only to minimize the price tag on the new speeding ticket clearly headed her way.
“Not my night,” she groaned as she rode the brakes, trying to slow down. Joey didn’t share her sentiments, whooping loudly as he blew past the sheriff. Damn it. Between the helmet and the speed, reading Joey’s face was impossible. Tearing it up had felt so good, the wind whistling in her ears as she hugged the curves fast and tight, and now the good sheriff’s siren wailed, deafening her. The flash of red and blue in her mirror demanded an immediate cessation of the good times… and it was time to admit she’d lost this battle. She wasn’t outrunning her demons any more tonight.
She signaled and started to slow down, her Harley crunching over loose gravel as she steered the bike onto the shoulder. Damned if Joey, however, didn’t pick the pace up. A speeding ticket was one thing—although Mimi already had a nice collection of unpaid ones—but evading an officer was the kind of charge that stuck. He was an idiot. He was also a grown man and she had no way of controlling him, so all she could do was watch him ride off while the sheriff pulled in next to her, blocking her access to the road just in case she decided to follow in Joey’s footsteps after all. A year ago, she might have.
Five minutes later, she was seriously questioning her newfound responsibility. “You’re arresting me? Why?”
Sheriff Hernandez handed back Mimi’s license. “You’ve got unpaid tickets.”
Well, yeah. She’d prioritized things like the electric bill.
“And?” She was clearly missing a connection.
“The county passed a law last year. If you don’t pay your tickets and you’re ninety days past due, I have to take you in.” The sheriff actually looked vaguely sympathetic. Of course, she probably had better things to do with her time than process Mimi for unpaid speeding tickets.
“You’re throwing me in jail for fifty bucks?” She knew she sounded like a bad actress in a mediocre sitcom, but really? She was getting arrested over an unpaid bill when other people literally got away with murder?
The cuffs closing around her wrists were her answer. Her ribs seemed to tighten up, squeezing her lungs and making breathing difficult. She’d played a few kinky games in her times, but those games came with safe words. There was nothing sexy about this. She hoped Joey knew what he was getting into. She’d caught him staring at the sheriff a time or two, but there were better ways to get the woman’s attention.
With her usual efficiency, the sheriff led her over to the patrol car, opened the door, and guided her inside with a hand on her head. Yeah. God forbid she hit her head. She knew the drill, though, and it was too late to get out of this mess. All she could do now was minimize the collateral damage.
“What about my bike?”
“You want me to call a tow truck?” The deadpan expression on the other woman’s face didn’t give anything away, but… shit. If she couldn’t afford a ticket, she definitely couldn’t afford a tow.
Her head hit the back of the seat with an audible thump. This was definitely not the kind of ride she’d imagined. Although, damn, they’d gotten some speed. Joey rode like a demon.
“You going to catch up with him?” She interrupted the other woman’s speech about unsafe speeds, could have had an accident, blah blah blah. The only person who could have gotten hurt tonight was herself. She knew that. Part of her had wanted it.
The sheriff’s fingers tapped on the roof of the car. The look in Mercedes Hernandez’s eyes promised that Joey had definitely bitten off more than he could chew. Sheriff Hernandez was all neat creases and starch. Lined up, tucked in, no-nonsense—the exact opposite of laidback, devil-may-care Joey. On the other hand, the sheriff’s eyes snapped plenty when she talked about Joey. Whatever was going on between those two was complicated.
“You bet,” she said. “Just as soon as my deputy shows up and takes care of you. Then I’m heading after Joey and he and I are going to have a little talk.”
She’d bet talk was a euphemism for kick his ass. Joey seemed to be inviting the contact, however, so it really wasn’t her business.
“You got somebody local you can call?”
At least the sheriff didn’t mention her family in Chicago. That was one bright spot.
“You’re really going to make me sit in jail until I pay off those tickets?”
“It’s not my call. And you owe two hundred and twelve dollars—not fifty. If your checking account isn’t up to it, I suggest you start thinking of numbers to dial. The courts are going to overturn that law someday, but that day isn’t going to be tomorrow. That’s a whole lot of sitting and twiddling your thumbs.”
Well, damn. Just… damn.
Unfortunately, the list of folks she could call to hit up for money was mighty short. Non-existent, even. She’d never asked anyone for money after she’d left home. Cold-calling now made something in the pit of her stomach quiver. She hadn’t thought she still knew how to feel shame, but apparently she did. She thunked her head back against the seat.
She could call Mack.
He’d made it plenty clear that he’d help her, if she asked.
That was a mighty big if for her.
On the other hand, sitting in jail for a week until she came up with two hundred bucks was equally unappealing. She tried out phrases in her head while she waited for the deputy to make his appearance. When the police car finally pulled out and Sheriff Hernandez lit out after Joey, she still didn’t know what she was going to say.
***
Mimi had no idea where to start because there were so many things wrong with her current situation. Fortunately, the deputy sheriff was matter-of-fact. Her current housing situation was not precisely cozy, what with the industrial lighting, but the deputy had been surprisingly respectful and he hadn’t so much as patted her down. She appreciated that.
Then, of course, he’d asked her who she wanted to call, she’d made the obligatory joke about using her single phone call well… and she’d passed on doing so. For the next hour, she’d sat there, cooling her heels and trying not to panic, but she couldn’t come up with an out. Her sole credit card was maxed to the gills. She was paying it off thirty bucks at a time, but it couldn’t handle this kind of hit. The deputy had obligingly run it for her, just to see, but it had come back with a big, fat decline.
Her lousy taste in men had compounded an already perilous financial situation, leaving her well and truly up financial shit creek. The sad truth was, no one got rich running a tattoo street shop. Sure, she’d put in the hours and she’d been good at what she did, but at fifty bucks a pop, she’d been lucky to make the rent and still have enough left over to cover her ink.
Her ex-boyfriend had cleaned her out.
Inheriting Ma’s from Auntie Belle had been a godsend in more ways than one. She’d packed up what she could and headed out. Now, however, she was closer to broke than she liked to be, with approximately forty buc
ks in her checking account, and a bar that was still closed due to smoke damage. The closed part worried her, because she liked eating.
She also liked keeping the lights on.
Toilet paper.
All those attractive essentials of life—including freedom.
Strong’s jail wasn’t precisely a hellhole, but neither was it a luxury spa on a Tahitian island. She was stuck until she coughed up the money to cover her tickets. She spared a moment to wish she’d voted in the last midterm election (and she’d sure as shit be voting in the next), but…
She was stuck.
“You got family to call?” Her jailer clearly wasn’t any happier about her unexpected and increasingly long-term presence in his jail. “You sure you don’t want to make that phone call?”
She tried to remember if she’d seen him in the bar before. He was wholesome, in a lanky, sun-browned way, with bony wrists, large hands, and a tall, shambling frame. Wherever Sheriff Hernandez had gotten him from, he was young. And painfully earnest.
“No family,” she said, the lump in her throat just making her angrier. The good deputy didn’t need her personal details. She might have living family in Chicago—a mother, stepfather, and a decent assortment of cousins, uncles, and aunts—but it’d been years since she’d had any kind of a relationship with them. They’d tried hard. She’d give them that, but she’d been the cuckoo in their nest. They hadn’t understood her any more than she—if she was being honest—had understood them. Eventually, her nineteen-year-old self had given up trying. Now, ten years later, maybe she’d try harder if she had the chance.
Maybe.
That was the thing about looking backwards. You had a whole different view than when you were standing on ground zero.
“Someone here? A friend? Boyfriend?” The deputy eyed her cautiously. “Girlfriend?”
He was charmingly equal opportunity. Or PC.
Whatever. She was bitchy and locked up and more than willing to knee him in the crown jewels if he gave her the chance, because there was really only one person she could call and she didn’t need the deputy’s coaching to do it.