Hung (Mister Hotshot Book 1)

by Anne Marsh

  “You looking for her?” I counter, already running options in my head. Outing Sarah Jo to this man isn’t happening. There’s something off here, and I learned years ago to listen to that little voice in my head. My subconscious processes way before the facts reach the rest of my head—there’s probably a big, fancy study backing me up, but this is experience talking, too. So, if my gut insists there’s something wrong, my head’s gonna listen.

  “Sure am.” Hill’s thumb strokes over the glossy and I get the bad feeling that he’s imagining that he’s touching my girl. “Sarah Jo here is wanted for arson. She burned down the house of a little old lady she took care of.”

  “The lady get hurt?” Christ, I hope not. Whatever happened, Sarah Jo doesn’t need to carry that burden, too.

  Hill shakes his head. “Just a whole lot of property damage. You know where Sarah Jo is?”

  “Can’t help,” I say blandly. More like, won’t, but no point in tipping my hand to Hill just yet.

  “No?” Hill sounds skeptical. Guess he’s not as stupid as he sounds. “Because I’m fairly certain she’s up here.”

  “Let’s call in the boys, then,” I suggest. “See if they’ve got anything to say.”

  Deputy Douche thinks this is a fantastic idea, even if I did come up with it myself, so that’s what we do.

  The reaction of the other hotshots when they pile into the cabin says plenty, too. My boys don’t like the newcomer. Thad Hill is a slick, friendly guy, but he’s also a little too friendly. One by one, each hotshot admires Sarah Jo’s picture, a few of them a little too much (Colt actually asks for her number as if Deputy Douche is running a dating service), but all of them insist that they’ve never, ever seen her. They fucking lie like champs and I love them. Deputy Douche gets visibly frustrated as he gets one no after another, which is entertaining for the first ten minutes but ten gets old. Twenty Questions is so not my favorite game—that would be Truth or Dare, dirty style. Muttering a quick excuse, I leave Hill to wrap up his interrogation and head out for the cooks.

  The good thing about those gals is that they’re easy to find. Unlike my team, which can be almost anywhere along a fifty-mile fireline, cooks tend to be found near stoves, sinks, and large collections of knife blades. Blowing through the door of the cafeteria, I step into the path of the first cook I spot. She wisely comes to a halt rather than slamming into me because I seriously outweigh her.

  I’ve got just one question. “What does Sarah Jo drive?”

  The cook eyes me suspiciously for a long moment. Yeah. She’s aware of Deputy Douche’s surprise visit, and now she’s calculating whose side I’m on. This isn’t a playground, and we aren’t playing boys against girls. I give her a nice, sexy, calm smile. A smile that promises we both want what’s best for Sarah Jo. Safe and happy, right? And if I plan to ensure happiness with my mouth, fingers, and dick, that’s nobody’s business but mine and Sarah Jo’s. Before any orgasms can happen, however, I have to catch up with her first.

  “Honda Civic,” she says finally, when I sling an arm around her shoulder and wink at her, tacitly promising that Deputy Douche isn’t getting within a hundred yards of our girl.

  My cook prefers words to coded gestures, however, because she proceeds to spell our agreement out. “You going after her—or selling her out to that man over there?”

  She nods toward the office where Deputy Douche is exiting. He looks distinctly unhappy. Colt marches along on one side of him, and Kade brings up the right. Kade’s the new boy on the team, and he was something hush-hush in the US military before he joined us, so he must know at least a dozen ways to kill a man and that’s fine with me. Leave nothing to chance. They’ll see him off and make sure he leaves. Also, FYI? Thad Hill had better not accept any offer of coffee these ladies make him, because the cook leaning into my side is definitely out for blood. She’s a fucking amazing woman.

  As is the one I’ve temporarily misplaced. As soon as I catch up with her, I plan to point out that I’ve got her back, even if she’s not ready to open up anything more than her legs. So sue me. I’m not a poet. Hallmark wouldn’t hire me if I were the last person left on Earth (although I guess they wouldn’t need greeting cards then, would they?). What I’m trying to say is that I’ll take sex for now, but I’d like to get inside her head and maybe her heart. Just a little and whenever she’s ready. I’m a patient man and I know how to wait.

  I let the cook go, dropping a kiss on her cheek. These ladies rock.

  “I’ll always go after her.”

  9

  SARAH JO

  The Harley comes up fast behind me. The powerful cycle devours the road, easily chewing through the small distance I’ve managed to put between myself and the camp. Low-slung with a custom black paint job, the bike pales in comparison, however, to the helmeted man riding it. Pick hugs the powerful machine with his legs, all black leather and raw power. He looks hot.

  Good enough to eat.

  And almost-sex with Pick rocked my world in more ways than one yesterday. I’d pulled him into the storage shed because I’d known I was running out of time, so I’d planned on taking what I could. If you only get one pass through the world’s best buffet, you load up your plate and you start with dessert first. Screw vegetables and eating what you should—you go for the good stuff and you shovel it in. Life’s too short not to get my hands all over my hunky hotshot. What I hadn’t expected, however, was that Pick would make me feel like something besides a mind-blowing orgasm. Why does he have to be so hot? And so freaking sweet underneath that tough guy exterior? He makes me dream about curling up next to him, into him. Letting him take care of me as I pour out my worries and concerns. I can’t explain why I feel this way, but I know it’s a mistake.

  In fact, it’s a super familiar mistake, and one I swore I’d never make again. There are plenty of enjoyable uses for the penis-owning members of society, but expecting them to stick around and partner up isn’t happening. So that makes my fascination with Pick pure trouble.

  Pure temptation.

  I can ignore him, right? That’s a possibility. I’ve left camp so it’s not like I’m on pancake duty. He has no business following me, plus I could always argue that I didn’t recognize him with the helmet on. Driving on and on is a tempting thought. I cranked the radio up as soon as I cleared the parking lot and Thad’s line of sight, going pedal to the metal somewhere else. Anywhere else. Unfortunately, the near-empty gas gauge reminds me that I’ll need to refill before I do too much more driving. I’m certainly not making it to Mexico before I’m coasting on empty.

  Driving like a mad woman isn’t the wisest of moves, but I’m not going to lie to myself. Thad scares me. He wields his badge like a weapon, and I’m in his sights. He’s already insinuated that I can make up my bad behavior in the backseat of his patrol car. After I’d peeled away from the camp, it had taken the next fifteen miles of windy, twisty highway to get my panic under control.

  I half expect Pick to pass and cut me off, but instead he drops in behind my Honda. Not crowding my bumper any, but right up on my butt where I can’t possibly miss him. He flashes his lights and jerks a thumb to his left. Once. Twice. Part of me agrees that talking might be smart. That’s a very small part, however. The rest of me remains convinced that the faster I run, the better. Mexico looks better and better the more I think about it. They have beaches, margaritas, and an unlimited supply of colorful fish I can hang out with. Of course, it would mean life on the run, and I’m fairly certain I’d be violating like a million Mexican immigration laws. And I’m broke. Driving an ancient Honda Civic that has two gallons of gas left. I flip the turn signal on and ease my foot off the gas.

  Running forever isn’t feasible. I know it, you know it, and now Pick knows it.

  Twenty yards of guardrail and mountain give way to a small turnout. Bingo. I pull off carefully because dying now isn’t part of my plans, either. A small placard declares this to be a Scenic Spot, and sure enough, there’s one hell
of a view. Other than the generous helping of outdoors beauty, however, there’s not much. Just a few yards of rutted gravel and a wooden picnic table. I kill the motor but leave my keys in the ignition. On the horizon, a dark boil of smoke announces that the Rogues will have plenty of work tomorrow.

  Getting out of the car, I cross to the picnic table, hop on top, and give the impressive drop-off a serious once over. Or pretend to. There might be more than a few stupid tears between me and the view because I’ve just been crashed by a pity party.

  Behind me, gravel crunches as Pick pulls his bike off the road and coasts to a stop. Leather and denim rustles as he throws a leg over the seat and then approaches. For a big man, he moves quietly. He won’t hesitate or pull his punch about what he saw back there in the camp. For some reason, that’s not as scary as it should be. I think he might actually listen to my side of the story and not rush to judgment, and not just because a guy who looks like him and who rides around in leather on a bike has probably been on the wrong side of assumptions before. But because Pick’s a fair man. Dirty, rough around the edges, and more than a little bull-headed when he gets an idea—but fair.

  I might just freaking trust this man and I have no idea how that happened. Perhaps I should revisit my belief in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy as well.

  “Hey,” he says when he’s standing in front of me, opening his arms wide. He’s blocking the fabulous view, but that works for me. I stare at him instead. “You want to tell me what this is about? Why there’s an officer of the law looking for you?”

  Despite my newly discovered trust, I really don’t want to answer that particular question. So… fight fire with fire, right? “Did you tell him about me?”

  He smiles, real slow. “What do you think, Sarah Jo?”

  “Do I look omniscient? If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “No,” he says. “Of course I didn’t tell him anything. I was singularly unhelpful, as were the rest of the guys. We didn’t know a damned thing. Had never spotted your pretty face before. By the way, Colt wants your number. Last I saw him, Deputy Douche was getting back in his car, as unenlightened as when he arrived.”

  Deputy Douche. I like that name. It sums up Thad’s sterling qualities so well.

  Pick gestures with his arms, another, smaller Come here gesture. “You gonna spill the details now?”

  Not a chance. I wrap my arms around myself. If I need a hug, I can totally self-provide. My butt’s staying planted right here on the picnic table at a safe distance from Mr. Hotshot. “Nope. Not a chance in hell.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I figured. You have trust issues, Sarah Jo.”

  “Working on it,” I snap. Wow. I might even mean it because some part of me I’d thought was long dead rears its head, almost begging for us to launch ourselves at this guy and spill all. Pick mutters something and drops his arms. Maybe they got tired, or maybe he just realized that hell would freeze over before I flew to him like some helpless little lady.

  He covered for me, though, and that gets the warm fuzzies going. He hasn’t asked too many questions. Has, in fact, simply followed my lead in a show of support that’s as unexpected as it is appreciated. Pick is turning out to be far more than a dare or a delicious treat. He’s rock solid and a genuine hero . . . but he’s also alpha to his core. Taking control is second nature to him. I need to run hard—in the opposite direction. He’s used to being in charge and giving orders. My deputy ex was like that, and I’ve totally learned my lesson there. No more take-charge authority figures for me. Never, ever again.

  Pick does some more silent staring. Or maybe it’s waiting. I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at him to break the growing tension, but there’s something impossibly sweet about him. He came after me. Maybe he was worried. Maybe he cared. Hah. As if. It’s far more likely that he just wants to finish what we started yesterday. I chew my lip and examine his face, looking for answers. The sexual tension between us is out of this world, but that’s all we have going for us. One hot kiss and an even hotter twenty minutes in a supply cabin. He didn’t even get an orgasm out of it, although I haven’t heard him complaining.

  Since I’m watching him like he’s my favorite show, I know the exact moment he decides screw this. Moving slowly enough that I could dance away and make a joke, he steps up to the table and pulls me into his arms, hugging me close. And I let him. Are you surprised? Because it shocks the hell out of me. Worse, I turn and rub my cheek against his chest like I’m his goddamned sex kitten.

  His voice rumbles overhead. “You change your mind, you know where to find me, honey. I got one question, though.” He pauses, clearly waiting for some sign from me. But I’m obviously clueless, so I shut the hell up and eventually he continues. “Why did Deputy Douche come all the way up here looking for you? Seems like one hell of a drive.”

  “Six hours,” I agree. Oops. This is why it’s better to say nothing because I’ve just incriminated myself.

  “So you do have a passing acquaintance with the good officer,” he drawls.

  Admit nothing. “I can read a map,” I offer, shoving away from him. It’s harder to do than I’d like. He feels so good, all steely muscles wrapped up in sun-warmed leather and cotton. Someone should totally bottle that. “And do math. That doesn’t mean Thad came out here looking for me.” I point toward the motorcycle parked alongside the road. “You should go back to fighting your fires.”

  Our moment—whatever it is—needs to be over.

  Pick just smiles. “And you’ll come back to cooking dinner in camp as soon as Thad’s gone?”

  Shit. Well, it’s not like it’s really a secret that I’ve got secrets, is it? I’m still going for somewhat plausible deniability.

  “Sure.” I fold my arms over my chest, and wait for him to get a move on. Unfortunately, Pick’s as stubborn as he is large. He leans down, placing his hands on either side of me. His fingers brush my hips, he’s that close. I can’t bring myself to complain.

  “Here’s the thing, honey,” he says. “You can’t cook worth shit. So I have to wonder why you came out here, in the middle of nowhere, providing three squares for a crew of hotshots.”

  I slap a hand on his chest and shove. God, he feels so warm and solid beneath the cotton T-shirt that proclaims big bear rogues. I so do not want to curl my fingers into that fabric and pull him closer. The man just insulted my cooking skills. I should be insulted—not turned on. “You heard about this little thing called the economy? It sucks.”

  “Uh-huh. Which is why you’re on a first-name basis with Deputy Douche and hiding out on the road instead of starting dinner.”

  He knows my work schedule? I’m not sure if I’m flattered or creeped out that he’s been watching me enough to know when I work.

  “I’m a bad employee.” He just insulted my cooking—he can hardly disagree.

  “You work at camp, so you should know something.” He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t give me the space I crave. He just keeps me boxed in… and I like it. He smells like laundry detergent and wood smoke, plus something indefinably, indescribably Pick. He’s freaking spectacular, but he doesn’t even seem to know it. He prowls through camp, putting everyone to rights, and he doesn’t notice the feminine looks that follow his ripped and corded body. God, I’d like to get him into an actual bed. I’ll bet he’s the best, the kind of man who gives as well as gets and who ruins you for anyone else because he’s hung and he sets the bar high.

  “Hey.” He nudges my cheek with his fingers. “Still talking here. Earth to Sarah Jo.”

  “Present.” God. Am I blushing? Please say no.

  “You work here,” he repeats, “and that makes you part of the team, okay? That means the Rogues have your back. Trouble follows you here, trouble has to deal with us. I sent Hill packing.”

  He got rid of Thad. Relief courses through me, and it turns out that all that adrenaline actually does make my knees weak. There’s a funny, low-grade buzz throughout my body and a prickle of heated
awareness in my belly and lower. Where Pick spent quality time yesterday. I can’t tell if I’m just relieved or horribly turned on. I can go back to camp, and my nemesis won’t be waiting for me there. The reprieve will be only temporary—Thad is stubborn—but, God, I appreciate it.

  “Right. Trouble.” The most pressing trouble I have right now is my reaction to this man. I kissed him and went up in flames. I don’t need another chance at his mouth to know that the reality of Pick will be better than any fantasy I can dream up.

  “Bottom line me,” I suggest, tilting my head back. The move buys me a few inches, no more. Certainly not enough to defuse the six-plus feet of rugged charm pressed against me. “Are you offering to be my knight errant?”

  He blinks, all delicious masculine confusion. He finally doesn’t know what to say. Good. He doesn’t get to have the upper hand here. I might be done with men, but confused Pick does something to my insides. Dazed suits him, and I love knocking him off balance.

  Just to keep him off said balance, or so I tell myself, I run a hand down his chest, savoring the solid beat of his heart. That’s my Pick, rock solid inside and out. He’s dependable. Loyal to the core. He looks out for his team members, but I’m no hotshot. No matter what promises he makes, I don’t really belong here. His fire camp is a temporary pit stop on my journey, and I’ll move on sooner rather than later.

  “You in the market?” he asks finally as my hands dip lower, resting against the rock-hard muscles of his abdomen. This is crazy. I blame him.

  “No.” I push gently and this time he backs up. Hopping down off the picnic table, I head back to my car. I don’t need his help. Don’t have to humble myself to accept it. I stand on my own two feet. Always.

  “All right.” He follows me and opens my door for me so I can slide into the driver’s seat. “You headed back to camp?”

  I hear the unspoken question: or am I hitting the road? His face watches mine patiently, focused and determined as he waits for me to answer.