Jacked

by Tina Reber

  I wanted a hug, too.

  Self-doubt and a shitload of insecurity bounded right in to douse that wish with a huge dose of reality when she shifted the pup and offered her hand.

  “Hi. I’m Kate.”

  She had a great smile.

  Hi, I’m Horny. Why don’t you put the dog down and suck me off quick?

  “Hi. Yeah. Jay.” I cleared my throat and reached for her. “Jason.” Her fingers were tiny in my hand. I tried not to squeeze too tightly. Nice fingernails with a fresh manicure. High maintenance kind of girl or just one that takes care of herself?

  Her shorts were puckered up around her crotch and the dirty bastard in me enjoyed imagining what things might look like if I spread her open. She had great legs.

  Erin was obviously thrilled to see her sister and viewing them side by side, I could see the resemblance. Two adorable blondes with big blue eyes, pouty mouths, and asses meant to be grabbed.

  I wondered if Adam was having the same thoughts as I was. I’m sure he’d never share with Erin, but one side glance and an eyebrow raise between us, and I was positive he was having the same dirty thoughts I was.

  He may be hooked deep into one, but he was still my brother.

  “I brought someone to meet you.” Kate set the tiny puppy down on my bed, letting it stretch.

  It started to sniff around my blankets, hesitant to move too far. Don’t know what it was but the damn thing was so cute, I tried to get its attention. “Come here, boy.”

  I quickly glanced up and noticed Kate was gazing at me with what looked like worry. What’d she think I’d do? Toss the little furball off my bed?

  “She’s a girl,” Kate corrected.

  Girl. Boy. Didn’t matter. The paw pressing on my semi hard-on was what I was most concerned about. I snagged her behind her arms and lifted her before a puppy claw pierced my dick.

  Round little eyes gazed up at me, and then she made herself comfortable on my chest, staring back.

  “Aren’t you the cutest little thing?” Weird urges were coming over me, like wanting to kiss her black little nose and hug her.

  “Here name is Victory. Tory for short,” Kate said. “She and her two siblings had been abandoned.” She shook off her thought and ran a caring hand down the pup’s back. “Long story. Anyway, we’ve been taking care of them at the clinic.”

  The pup and I were locked in a stare-down. “Hey, Tory.”

  The puppy yawned. Apparently I wasn’t a threat. She was so soft and warm and had tiny white teeth.

  The pup stretched, sniffed at my chin, crawled a few steps, and then climbed up my face. When she was done sniffing at my eyes and making me smile, the pup settled herself under my chin, sharing my pillow with me.

  I took a deep breath and relaxed.

  The soft flutter of puppy resting peacefully the only sound I heard, apart from the relieving sigh from one very sexy future sister-in-law.

  READ JASON TRENT’S STORY IN THE UPCOMING NOVEL

  AMPED

  It takes a village to create a novel. Seriously. I have many people to thank, not only for moral support but for my endless technical questions while writing.

  So many questions arose while weaving the details into the storyline. For instance, did you know that the police “10-Codes” are not universal? Each jurisdiction has their own set of codes, which makes communications between neighboring counties almost impossible. While some codes are basic—like 10-4 for acknowledging/understanding—most are not, and since the tragedy of 9-11 in NYC many police departments have abandoned using 10-codes altogether.

  Each department has their own protocols for handling when an officer is injured on scene as well. Should I have an ambulance come for Adam when he sliced his hand open or would one of his fellow officers simply drive him to the hospital? This is just an example of the bazillion questions that I required answers to.

  So many questions.

  So many details.

  While the rules change from city to city, state to state, and country to country, I tried to be as close to accurate as possible for situations occurring in Philadelphia and may have used “creative license” in some places, as this is a work of FICTION at the core. Some street names, places, etc. are fictitious.

  So here goes: my list of awesome people who so graciously gave me their time, patience, and expertise:

  To my two collaborators and BFFs, Dr. Jennifer Johnson and Sherry Durst. Your friendship, love, patience, and utter devotion mean the world to me. Jacked would not be what it is without either of you—you know that, right?

  My talented muse, Mr. Erick Baker, for crooning your songs into my ears for months and for helping me write the emotion between the words. Your music is what feelings sound like. It is an honor and privilege to call you friend.

  Detective Nathan Woods and his wonderful wife, Chrystle, for fielding my police questions.

  David Tretter, EMT with Cumberland Goodwill Emergency Medical Services. I know our conversations stretched the boundaries, touched upon the stress and pressure on our First Responders, and I am eternally grateful for you answering ALL of my texts.

  Ms. Kimberly West and her hospital staff friends for assisting with my laundry list of questions.

  Seriously—I texted these people to death.

  Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, for the awesome cover. It’s beautiful.

  My sexy cover model, who wishes to remain a beautiful shadow. I love you with all my heart.

  My editor, Marion Archer of Marion Making Manuscripts, for the hours of love you gave me to help this novel all that it is. Thank you for knowing the difference between rigid and ridged ;-) I’m glad you knew what I meant.

  My interior formatter, Angela McClaurin of Fictional Formats. You amaze me! I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done to make this novel special.

  The officers of the Newark Auto Theft Task Force for countless inspiration.

  My Beta Readers: Melissa, Katie, Jolene, Michele, Morgan, Kimberly, and Joanne for your valuable input.

  My readers from around the globe for believing in me and showering me with your love and support.

  To all the wonderful women in my Tribe who give me their unending encouragement daily. I hope you smile when you see some of your names inside. I adore you all.

  To all of the wonderful book bloggers out there. No author would be what they are today without you and I owe you a huge debt of gratitude.

  To the wonderful women of FP—I am honored to know you and feel your love daily.

  A special thank you to my dynamo agent, Jane Dystel, and her equally fabulous cohort, Miriam Goderich, at Dystel and Goderich Literary Management. Thank you for taking me under your beautiful wings.

  For more information, visit the author at www.tinareber.com

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  ALSO BY TINA REBER

  The Love Series:

  Love Unscripted

  Love Unrehearsed

  Continue reading for a preview of

  Golden Hour

  Book One in the Crescent City Series by

  Steph Campbell and Liz Reinhart

  “Beautiful, sexy, and romantic. Golden Hour made me want to be best friends with Elise, fall madly in love with Caleb and brought the Louisiana setting to life before my eyes.”

  —Nyrae Dawn, International Bestseller of the Games Series

  “A captivating story that is raw, powerful, gritty, and topped off with a fiery love that stems from, and heal, different forms of loss.”

  —Molly McAdams, New York Times bestselling author

  Copyright © 2014 Steph Campbell & Liz Reinhardt

  All rights reserved.

  “WARREN, YOU DONE? We got the call like five minutes ago. We shouldn’t keep them waiting. You hear me?”

  It’s actually been a minute and a half, but to a medic as green as Dean, it must feel like an eternity. I remember those days.

  I sig
h. “Damn, it Dean. I know this is your first week, so you’re still all gung-ho, but I can’t piss while you’re yammering in my goddamn ear. So why don’t you play the quiet game or count out gauze rolls or whatever the hell else you wanna do. Just keep your mouth shut while you’re doing it. I’ll be back just as soon as I drain the lizard.”

  I yank my pants back up one hip and try to keep my balance. Good thing I’m pissing into a wide open ditch on the side of the road, because I can’t aim for shit this morning. I realized I went too far last night when the town drunk had to nudge me to inform me it was last call.

  If Old Man Doherty is more sober than you are at closing time, you’re probably in for a world of liver damage and hangover pain.

  When I’m done hosing down a fair amount of weeds along the highway, I climb into the back of the truck. Dean slides the window open and his face sticks out, clean-shaven and so damn good. The kid’s like the Boy Scouts and Superman and Leave it to Beaver all rolled into one upstanding hulk. It makes my soul darken just looking at all that upstandingness.

  “What the hell is it now, Dean?” I moan as I grab an IV set up and a bag of saline. I hook myself up without so much as a wince, used to this routine, and settle back, an arm over my eyes.

  “Are you riding back there?” he asks.

  Even his voice is like some radio announcer’s. Good fucking god, could they have paired me with anyone more obnoxiously eager to do his best every day to keep physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight… I did make it to a few Boy Scout meetings during my tattered youth. Mostly because Billy Santos’s sister was hot as hell, and his mother led the troop, so Sierra Santos tagged along.

  Once Mama Bear Santos caught me with my tongue down her daughter’s throat, I was out of the scouting life for good.

  “No, Dean. I’m riding up front with you. This is a hologram of me lying back here. Just trying to keep you on your toes.” How the hell long does this IV take to work? I need to rehydrate. My head is pulsing.

  Dean starts the engine and pulls out. I rock back and forth, and it makes me smile. He’s driving like a dick because he knows it will shake me up. So Superman has a shitty side. I like it.

  “Look, you can drink all you want on your own time. But you shouldn’t show up to work drunk. People depend on us, Warren. We have lives on the line.” He makes the speech like he’s been practicing it in his head since I forced him to pull over so I could take a wiz.

  I slow clap. “That’s it, man. Keep it coming. I have this feeling your speeches are going to be exactly as much help as my guidance counselor’s feel-good posters in high school. That speech you just made? It’s the equivalent of that one poster with the kitten on the tree branch that said, ‘Hang in there!’ Both of ‘em just about changed my life.”

  “Screw off, Warren. You may think this is just some big joke, but I take this seriously.” I look up. He’s staring straight out the windshield, and—damn—even the back of his head looks serious.

  “I’ll tell you what. When you’ve been on this job more than a week, you come back and talk to me about serious.” Talk to me after you work your first code. Talk to me once you watch someone you love die. I feel the sludge of churning acid burn at the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.

  “This call? The two of us showing up five minutes late might mean we’re too late to help. Did you ever think of that?” he demands, his hands squeezing that steering wheel the way I know he wants to squeeze my throat.

  “I might have,” I say, closing my eyes and breathing easy through my nose. “If it wasn’t a call to the Fenwick’s.”

  I can see him itching like hell to ask me, but his pride won’t let him. I chuckle and lean back, glad to let him stew. He thinks he invented this game, but he doesn’t even have a clue how to play. And the Fenwick’s will be a nice introduction to ‘Get Off Your Fucking High Horse 101.’

  Dean keeps the lights and sirens going the whole way there, then pulls into the tiny driveway of the Fenwick’s’ home so sharply it feels like he’s taken part of the curb with him. He flings open the backdoors and glares at me.

  “You have to get off the stretcher, Warren. We need it for the call.” He nudges my boot, but I don’t budge.

  “We don’t need the stretcher, because this call is gonna be bullshit,” I say. He tosses a pair of gloves onto my lap and shoves a pair into his back pocket.

  “You don’t know that. Dispatch said ‘unknown medical emergency.’ Someone could have had a stroke. Or fallen. Get off the damn stretcher,” Dean yips. He yanks at the heart monitor on the bench seat and slings the medical bag over his shoulder. “You want people dying on your watch, fine. But I’m going inside, even if I have to carry the patient out on my back.”

  “There’s no patient!” I yell after him, but he’s already slammed the heavy door to the back of the truck.

  I grab a four-by-four and tear it open with my teeth, yank the IV from my arm and press the gauze square to my skin as I heave myself off the stretcher and follow Dean across the pristinely manicured lawn.

  The front door, made of heavy, ornately carved oak, flings open with a bang.

  And Chelsea Fenwick is standing there in a nearly identical version of the next-to-nothing dress she was wearing last night at the bar, holding a glass of tea, looking like every southern boy’s fantasy.

  “Well, well, well,” she says, nibbling on the end of her straw. “Talk about full service. I asked for you, Caleb, and they sent two handsome men in uniform.”

  “You requested him? You can’t request medics, ma’am,” Dean says, his cheeks a deep, frustrated red. “Where is the patient?”

  Chelsea giggles and fixes her stare back on me. “I’m the patient.”

  Dean’s eyes make the rounds back and forth between Chelsea and me. All I can do is shake my head. “I tried to tell you,” I say, holding my hands up surrender style.

  “Let’s check your vitals.” He’s determined to do this by the book, ignoring the obvious fact that Chelsea is healthy as a horse and called with an emergency need for something Dean can’t give her.

  “I think it’s my heart,” she says dramatically, her eyes still trained on me. My chest. My belt. We got cut off in the middle of something last night when Chelsea’s friend tossed her cookies in the middle of the bar. Chelsea had to bail to take her home. Looks like she’s called to finish what we started, and I can’t say that I mind one bit.

  “Okay, well, I’ve got the heart monitor here. Let’s get inside and we can take a look. Are you feeling nauseous? Have you taken any medication?” Dean asks, stubborn as a mule to find the mystery ailment Chelsea is “suffering” from.

  “I think… I think I should lie down in the back of your ambulance. Do you have a stretcher I can use?” Chelsea winks at me.

  “I told you we needed the stretcher,” Dean mutters.

  “Come on, Chelsea, I’ll show you the truck,” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist and leading her down the narrow drive. I know this game. I’ve played it before. It’s a fetish for some women—men in uniform on their turf does it for them. And that’s fine with me.

  “You can’t—” Dean calls after us.

  Chelsea slips her hand through mine and calls, “Go ahead and make yourself at home! There’s a pitcher of sweet tea and some boudin on the counter!” over her shoulder.

  In my mind, I can picture Dean shoving his hands in his pockets, kicking at the ground, and pouting, but I don’t turn around, because Chelsea is walking backward and unbuttoning my crisp shirt. Next she’ll go for my belt, and pull me into the back of the truck, ignoring the fact that there’s been blood and brain matter and countless other bodily fluids spilled on the very surfaces that she’s willing to bump against as she strips down—and goes down on me.

  “So, ma’am,” I say, closing the door of the ambulance behind me. “What’s your emergency?”

  “You didn’t say goodbye last night.” She pushes my collared shirt off of my shou
lders and gives my undershirt a good tug. I help her out and pull it up over my head, then get to work on the zipper holding together the thin lace of her dress.

  “That was emergent?” I ask.

  “No, but doing this was,” Chelsea says. She reaches inside my pants and wraps her hand around my dick. I press one hand onto the wall of the truck to steady myself and shimmy out of my pants. Chelsea licks her lips, top first, then bottom, and sinks down to her knees, her tits barely contained in her tiny lace bra.

  I look down as her fingers slide into the waistband of my boxer briefs and give a solid tug, revealing my raging hard-on. She goes to work with her eyes closed, moaning appreciatively in the back of her throat as she sucks harder.

  Good as it feels, I keep an eye on the closed door, waiting for Dean to bust in and get the shock of his respectable young life. Damnit. That kind of thinking makes it hard to concentrate on the amazing job Chelsea is doing.

  I reach my hands down to her shoulders and tug her up.

  “Did you not like?” she coos with a frown.

  “I fucking loved it, baby, but I’m not selfish.” I let her push me back on the floor and straddle my hips. I’m sure as hell ready to pick up where we left off before her friend blew chunks. But I’m also ready to get what we both want and be done.

  It’s not like me to give a rat’s ass what anyone else thinks, and I guess I really don’t. It’s not so much that Dean’s opinion matters; his silent judgment is just irritating, and I don’t want to deal with more of it if he catches me and Chelsea.

  “That’s it, sweetheart.” I can’t help smiling as she unhooks that bra. Man, the joy of getting some one-on-one time with Chelsea Fenwick’s tits is worth listening to Dean lecture me all goddamn shift. I bury my face in her perfumed skin, muttering a prayer of thanks for girls who know exactly how to drive me out of my mind.

  The vibration of the pager on the floor of the truck couldn’t come at a worse time.

  I pat at the floor blindly, reaching for it, but unable to pull my mouth away from Chelsea.