Her True Blue (A Fireworks Series)

by Sierra Hill

  Her True Blue

  A Fireworks Series

  Sierra Hill

  Flirt Club

  Ten28 Publishing

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sierra Hill

  Other Fireworks books

  Copyright © 2019 Sierra Hill

  Published by Ten28 Publishing

  Cover Design: Dandelion Designs

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Jordana

  The cold steel of the gun barrel presses painfully deep into my temple, shaking slightly in the hand of its owner.

  The high-pitched ringing noise in my ears is deafening, nearly drowning out the loud demands being barked at me by the faceless man standing in front of me at the cash window.

  The man’s posture is agitated and twitchy, his black ski-mask covering the majority of his face, leaving just his icy-dark eyes and the bearded lips visible, although I try to keep my head down and eyes from connecting with his. It’s what I learned through my bank manager training, that the less eye contact you make with the bank robber, the more likely you’ll appear less threatening and remain alive.

  As I comply with his demands, my hands shake as I fumble with the packets of money, a nervous laugh nearly bubbled from the back of my throat at the irony of this whole situation. It was specifically for this reason that I left the city two months ago, landing in this quaint, touristy town of Milltown, Colorado. I wanted to escape the chaos of the city.

  Among other things.

  “Hurry up, bitch,” he spits, his saliva splattering across the counter between us. “Fill the bag and keep your hands where I can seem them, or I’ll shoot you in your fucking face.”

  I nod, hurrying as fast as I can, having already triggered the silent alarm with my heel the minute he shoved the gun in my face. It was done out of instinct, bolstered by years of teller training on how to behave in these situations.

  Surprisingly, even after five years in a large bank in Denver, this is the first time I’ve ever been held up. So, I keep my head down, fill the ratty bags he’s shoved at me and avoid eye contact, doing my best to slow it down just enough to give time for the authorities to arrive.

  “I know you’re fucking stalling! Don’t make me shoot you.” And then with a leer in his tone that sends greasy jitters down my spine, he adds, “It’d be a shame to waste such a gorgeous piece of ass.”

  The hostility in his tone and crude remark gives me pause, knowing things could grow exponentially worse if he feels he’s being double-crossed.

  I quickly make my way through the drawer and then bend down to the additional shelf near my knees. I’ve been counting the minutes since setting off the alarm and am a little concerned that it’s taking the police so long to arrive. It’s going on one minute and forty-three seconds already and they are just down the street from here.

  What is taking them so long?

  The police station is right down Main Street and I see them patrolling all the time. In fact, I’ve seen the younger one regularly the last few weeks. He always smiles and waves, but has never spoken directly to me.

  Maybe they’re out on patrol right now. In fact, my guess is they may be down at the town square this afternoon, working to prepare for tomorrow’s July Fourth celebration.

  As I rise to my feet, my knees give out and I lose my balance, clipping the corner of the counter with my chin.

  “Hey, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry,” I sputter, blood pouring out of the gash in my chin, raining over the money I’ve just pulled out of the extra drawer. “I fell.”

  “Clumsy bitch. Hurry up. Put it all in there.” He waves the gun in my direction as I continue to stuff the rest of the money in the bag, holding it out to him as he grabs it hard, ripping it free from my hand.

  The masked-man jerks his head side-to-side, checking out the front entrance and windows, seeing nothing that alerts him to police presence, and then waves the gun haphazardly in my direction.

  “Get down on your hands and knees on the floor and put your head down on the ground.”

  I whimper like a scolded kitten, slowly bending on one knee, and then the other, leaning over at the waist as if I’m in child’s pose. “Okay. I did what you asked. Please don’t shoot me.”

  His laugh is grotesque and dangerous, laced with something more than sinister.

  “You’re damn lucky I don’t have time, angel. Because I’d dick you hard and so fucking good in that position.”

  And then, as if his face is right at my ear, not on the other side of the counter, he makes good on his threat.

  “I know where you live, Jordana Bolton. And if you say anything, I will do exactly as I promise.”

  Jordana

  Tears run down my cheeks, faster than the waterfall at Creekside Bluffs. The minute the bank robber left, my adrenaline spiked and then crashed, sending me in a tailspin of anxiety and retching sobs.

  I remain in the same hunched over position until I hear the sounds of movement, the front door opening, the bell clanging as the door swings open, and then an announcement that floods me with relief.

  “This is the Milltown Police Department. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”

  Knowing I’m not visible to the officer as I sit on the floor behind the counter, I lift my hands high above my head and wiggle my fingers in the air as a form of surrender like I’ve seen in the movies. I know I’m not the criminal here, but the officer doesn’t know that yet.

  “Stand up slowly with your hands above your head,” he commands, as I do as he says.

  “Please don’t shoot me. I’m the bank manager.” I don’t even recognize my own voice. It sounds like it belongs to a scared child and not a twenty-six-year-old woman.

  I rise slowly, my legs trembling with instability, reaching for the edge of the counter, the same one that drew blood from me just five minutes earlier. God, was it only five minutes? It feels like an eternity.

  My head wobbles, a whoosh of darkness descending over me, the sound of waves pounding in my ears drowning out everything else. The voice of the officer sounds so far away, like I’m in the back of a cave, the words he shouts disconnected, muffled and unclear.

  And then all I see is black.

  “Miss Bolton? Jordana? Can you hear me?”

  There’s a crackling noise, like the walkie-talkies my brother and I used to use as kids. Someone cradles my head. Someone warm and large.

  “This is Dispatch. Officer Clawson, what’s your twenty?”

  There’s a click, click, click and then a deep, throaty male voice. “Dispatch, this is Officer Clawson. Over. I’m at Milltown Savings & Loan.” Scratchy static. “There’s a 10-18, suspect appears to have fled the scene. Aid car requested for female victim. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Copy that. Medical assistance on the way. 10-4.”

  And then there’s a female voice stating, “All units
requested. Milltown Savings & Loan.”

  I try lifting my head, but the wooziness encroaches on my vision and I return my head back down. Something hard pokes at the back of my head as the officer shifts his position.

  “Miss Bolton, I’m Officer Cord Clawson. You’re okay and medical aid is on the way. You have some blood from a gash under your chin. I’m going to move your head and find something to stop the bleeding.”

  The officer’s strong hands carefully move me from his lap and onto something cushiony – a vest, maybe? – and a little sigh escapes my lips. My limbs shake from possibly shock and my mouth has gone arid.

  “May I have some water, please?” I say with a wobbly voice that sounds nothing like me.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right back.”

  Ma’am? What I am, his eighty-year-old grandmother? The thought would normally make me laugh, but right now the throb in my head is too much. I close my eyes at the pain.

  Officer Clawson moves to his haunches and then stands, as I get a whiff of his scent. It’s a mixture of fresh clean soap, a hint of aftershave and a day’s work. He smells masculine and some kind of weird tidal wave moves over me, from my head down to my toes. It could be from the dizziness, but I don’t think so.

  He returns with a Dixie cup of water from the breakroom, once again carefully gathering the back of my head in his palm and propping me up, this time against his solid frame. I take the cup from his hand and swallow the cool liquid down, feeling it coat my parched throat, giving me a momentary sense of relief.

  “Ma’am, are you hurt anywhere else?” He looks me over as he presses a bunch of torn paper towels underneath my chin, holding it there in his grip.

  Now that I’m in an upright position, my legs stretched out in front of me, I notice the blood spatter all over the front of my clothing.

  “Dammit,” I hiss. “I just bought this blouse.”

  His eyes flash toward my chest, covered in what could only be described as a murderous amount of blood, and then they move up to my mouth. He stares intently at my lips for a long second, before meeting my gaze.

  A slight tick in his muscular jaw before the corner of his mouth tips up into a smile. “I take that as a no, then? No other injuries?”

  I pat myself down with the free hand and shrug. “I think I’m okay.”

  “Good, because I’ll need to ask you some questions about what happened so we can track this perp down and put him behind bars. Do you feel okay to move over to the table over there?” He nods his chin in the direction of the office normally reserved for new clients or business and home owners who stop in to complete their new loan applications, the walls painted a putrid green color.

  I never thought I’d be the one being interviewed in there.

  “I think so.” I prop my hand behind me and give myself a push up on shaky legs.

  “Here, ma’am. Let me help you.”

  With one hand on my forearm and the other behind my back, I’m overcome with a weightless sensation. My tummy drops to my toes from the warmth that radiates and sparks where his skins touches mine.

  “I’m okay. It’s fine,” I grimace, shifting out of his hold and plopping down on the chair with as much grace as a drunken college student on a bender. “And please, the love of God, please stop calling me ma’am. It makes me feel like I’m my grandmother.”

  Officer Clawson gives a sheepish grin and shakes his head. “Sorry about that, ma’…I mean, Miss Bolton. Habit. How I was raised around here.”

  Although he’s dressed to the hilt in his police uniform, navy blue from head to toe and a vest over his chest, I do notice a bright red flush that sprouts up over his neck as he pulls his notepad and pen out of his pocket, flipping it over so he can take notes. I pull the bloodied towel away from my chin, lifting it so he can get a look.

  “Is it still bleeding? Do you think I’ll need stitches?”

  He reaches out a hand, gently cupping my face in his palm and inspects the injury.

  “You look good,” he says gruffly, but then follows it with a flare of humor. “I mean, I’m pretty certain you’ll live.”

  I laugh at his lame attempt to make light of the situation.

  “Anyway, let’s get started. It’s important we get your recollection as close to the time the robbery occurred, so you don’t skip any details. And by the way,” he says with a hint of remorse. “The FBI and county authorities will be here soon, too. Bank robbery being a federal offense, and all.”

  He lifts his broad shoulders in a shrug.

  “Have you investigated any bank robberies before?” I ask him, curious about the level of crime in such a small town off the beaten path.

  I watch his forehead crinkle in thought, the tiny lines around his very blue eyes displaying his serious contemplation on the matter. From the looks of it, Officer Clawson appears to be about my age, maybe a few years older, so I’d assume he doesn’t have a long or vast history of this sort of thing.

  He shakes his head and clears his throat. “No ma’am. Sorry, I mean, Miss Bolton. You’re my first.”

  Just the way he says it, how he throws it out there between us, gives me butterflies. I’m his first.

  Sucking my lower lip between my teeth, I try to hide the interest in my rescuer. Although the robber left me unharmed before police arrived, Officer Clawson is the first responder. He’s technically my white knight and hero, giving claim to the rescuer phenomenon, this strange, unexplained connection and bond we share. He’s now seen me at my most vulnerable state in life.

  Although, I’d argue that was before any of this happened to me.

  Officer Clawson begins asking me questions as my jumbled brain tries to answer through hazy recollection, hands still shaking like they’re in the spin cycle setting.

  Did he have a gun? Yes.

  Did he say anything? Yes and yes.

  What did he say? I tell him the particulars of what I can remember.

  Could I describe his facial features? Yes, his lips and eyes.

  What color was his skin? White.

  How tall was he? Maybe five-ten. Only a few inches taller than me.

  Any remarkable things I noticed about his appearance? His mouth. He had a scar or something on his upper lip, half disguised by a patchy dark mustache.

  “Oh!” I blurt, making Officer Clawson glance up at my unexpected exclamation. “He had a lisp. When he accused me of stalling and called me bitch, he spit all over the counter and glass. All I could think about in that moment was how gross it was and angry that I’d have to clean it off later.”

  Officer Clawson slowly lifts his head, his eyes connecting with mine, an amused side-grin on his face. “Actually, that’s good for discovery. We’ll fingerprint and see if we can get DNA samples from that.”

  He scribbles some notes before looking back up at me.

  I take note of the warmth in his blue eyes. Like the sky on a perfect summer day, a tinge of white clouds trailing over the horizon.

  “Miss Bolton.”

  “Jordana, please.”

  He tips a smile at me. “Jordana. You’re a brave woman. You didn’t lose your cool and followed protocol under intense pressure. I know you’re relatively new in town…”

  I quirk an eyebrow inquisitively, wondering how he knows that. I mean, obviously, if I’ve seen him around, the same holds true for him. And it’s public record, and all.

  He shrugs, coughing to clear his throat. “Small town. There’s been talk about the beautiful new bank manager.”

  My face flushes as I fiddle with the Kleenex in my hand, damp and falling apart, keeping my eyes off his gorgeous, rugged face and his rough layer of scruff that I want to touch.

  “If you can believe it, I actually moved here from Denver, hoping to get away from the crime. Among other…things.”

  He’s quiet and reflective for a moment, his dark, full brows narrow into a crease between expressive blue eyes. I don’t elaborate on my comment because I don’t want to draw atte
ntion to my past or anyone I was with before this. I wanted to leave that all behind and start fresh.

  And something in the way Officer Clawson looks at me feels just like that…a fresh start.

  Cord

  For crying in the beer, I’ve never had a problem keeping my composure or remaining professional in the midst of doing my job ever before. Not until her.

  But Jordana had me sporting a hard-on the size of Texas. In the middle of a goddamn investigation. Did she notice it poking into her backside while her head was cradled in my lap? While her face was buried in the crotch of my uniform pants, as we awaited medical assistance?

  It also didn’t help matters that I’ve seen her around town over the last few weeks, looking sleek and gorgeous, a nice easy-swing in her hips and a pretty smile across her lips. I practically discharge my weapon every time I catch a glimpse of her.

  And I don’t mean my service issued-gun.

  Sometimes in the mornings, I’ll see her as she stops in the Milltown Bakery down the street, always thoughtful to buy a cup of a coffee and an extra pastry for Homeless Hank and his dog, Chuck, who she’d stop by the park to visit.

  I think I fell for her the first time I saw her bend down and let that old mangy rascal lick her face. I mean Chuck, not Homeless Hank.

  So, you can imagine what having her on my lap, alone in the privacy of the bank, did to my muddled brain and libido. Her scent was a sweet aroma. She smelled like a baked apple pie and the Fourth of July.

  While I was completely enamored by her beauty and essence, I still had enough brain capacity to read between the lines during my questioning of the robbery events and my Spidey-senses perked up with what she didn’t say.