by Lori King
So she’d take a chance.
“I think we’ve put each other through the mill tonight, but if you’re prepared to do some serious wooing, then I’m willing to see where dating takes us.”
Aidan let out a slow breath before saying in a gruff voice, “I think I’m one lucky bastard.” He lowered his head and captured her mouth in a demanding kiss. She parted her lips, wanting his tongue to stroke hers, to offer herself freely to him. As he lifted his head, he nipped her bottom lip. The resulting sting made her blink.
“A taste of how it’s gonna feel later in your bedroom when I spank your ass.” His hand reached down and squeezed her bottom.
She gasped. What if someone saw? She glanced back over her shoulder, but everyone was busy with their tasks. A plainclothes officer was talking to Coach Parker, who sat on the other side of the room, his face empty of emotion. A broken man.
Mercy felt a stab of sympathy for the grandfather. Whatever his reasons for sending Brooke to the academy she hated so much, Mercy guessed he thought he was doing the right thing. Brooke’s actions were her own.
“How about that shot?” Isaac said from behind them.
Mercy and Aidan turned to see the student spinning a basketball on the tip of his finger.
The basketball that had hit back of Brooke’s legs. That was Isaac?
“You could have gotten hurt!” She marched over to him, but her scowl melted at the sight of his bruised and swollen face. Another of Brooke’s victims.
“No chance. I was surrounded by cops. She fell right on her face. That’s what I call a slam dunk.” Isaac dropped a kiss on her forehead, before joining the cops in the hallway, no doubt ready to relive his moment of heroism.
But Mercy wasn’t so ready to let the matter drop. She fired a look at Aidan. “What he did was dangerous.”
Aidan nodded and walked slowly toward her. The determined look in his gaze should have warned her to run. “It was foolish. We had Brooke covered, but he acted without thinking.” He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Same as getting out of your car.”
“What was I supposed to do? She was screaming for help.”
He gathered her in his arms. “We’ll debate the ways in which you should have acted later.”
“When you’re spanking me?” she whispered, only half believing she was actually looking forward to finding out what that entailed.
“That’s the plan, gorgeous.”
And Lord knew, good things happened when you had a wonderfully sinful and love-filled plan.
* * *
The End
About the Author
Fiona Archer writes erotic romance filled with masterful Aussie alpha heroes, and teams them with sassy heroines who limit their submissive side to the bedroom. She lives in the sunny environs of Sydney, Australia, and is harassed by a flock of wild cockatoos that take over the back yard each afternoon, demanding their feed. Her favorite hobbies include watching Nathan Fillion on television, shopping for that ever-elusive perfect shade of lipstick, and drinking iced coffee.
www.FionaArcher.com
Also by Fiona Archer
King’s Bluff, Wyoming
Chloe’s Double Draw
High-Stakes Loving
Surrender to Chance
* * *
Sons of Sydney
Craving Justice – Out now
Tempting Justice, Coming November, 2016
Riding Justice, Coming early 2017
Defying Justice, Later 2017
Street Justice by Holly S. Roberts
A Hotter Than Hell Novel
Street Justice combines a sexy alpha cop, a bohemian woman with a heart of gold, and a half-Shepherd, half-Poodle mix with a leg-humping need to prove who’s top dog in the neighborhood. With suspense, humor, and steamy romance, Street Justice will have your alpha-cop fantasies on full alert.
1
I’m exhausted. Ten straight days of double shifts with no end in sight. We have two dead women identified as known prostitutes, and I’m worried there will be more. Standing from my desk, I stretch and try to alleviate the pain in my middle back from writing this damned report for more than three hours. My joints pop as I bend. I’m getting too old for this, and I’m only thirty-two.
If anyone had told me when I signed up to catch bad guys, that being a cop consisted of eighty percent report writing, ten percent putting up with political bullshit, and ten percent catching bad guys, I would have decided on tree trimming. I come from a long line of men in law enforcement, and they omitted a few details about this job.
I stare down at the words in my report from my standing position.
* * *
Victim: Maddy Hilcox
Gender: female
Date of Birth: 07/24/1993
Age: 23
Occupation: Prostitution
Victim: homicide, aggravated assault, sexual assault
Notes: ritualistic knife wounds
* * *
I have another similar report dated three months prior. The ritualistic wounds are the same. The name, birth date, and age are the only differences. No one wants to admit we may have a serial killer on our hands, least of all me. The brass doesn’t ever want to hear those words. It makes it harder that the victims are prostitutes. These cases don’t garner public sympathy, but with or without the public’s help, I swear I’ll take this guy down.
I tip my head to the side and relieve some of the ache in my neck, rotate my head forward and then to the other side. I’m just about to sit down again when my phone rings.
“Detective Street,” I answer.
“Detective, this is Alphonso from the jail. I have an arrestee here who insists on talking to you.”
Alphonso’s a good guy, but I don’t have time for this shit. “What’s he been picked up for?”
“He’s a she, and the arrest paperwork says prostitution.”
Hell. I guess I’ll make time. This could be the break I need. I have no information about the murderer except his MO. The son of a bitch is smart and uses a condom. I have a hunch he shaves himself, too. Fucking Hollywood gives these guys the basics for how to escape detection. It’s one of the only things Hollywood gets right. The lab is still isolating DNA on the first body, and with the victim’s line of work it will most likely not pay off. The woman sitting in jail better give me something fucking good.
County jail is ten minutes away from the downtown station, where my office is located. I make it in five. The sally port opens and I pull my car inside. I hate this place—the smell of shit and urine seeped into the walls within a month of the new jail’s highly publicized opening. It’s been eight years now, and those odors are part of the foundation.
I walk over to the lockers and store my gun. This gives me a stupid big-ass key on a large round key ring that I loop onto my belt. They make the ring holding the key to fit around your wrist. I refuse to carry the fucking thing that way and place it on a belt attachment I carry for just this reason.
Alphonso is sitting behind the glass at the first entrance, and I give him a wave. He speaks on his radio, and I’m immediately buzzed through the heavy door, wait for it to close, and hear the buzz of the second door. Gray is the color scheme of choice throughout the entire building—every wall, every door, every counter. You would think they’d use baby-shit yellow to accent the smell.
“She hasn’t shut up since vice brought her in. She gave me your name and said she wouldn’t talk to anyone else,” Alphonso says as soon as the door makes a solid clang behind me. I’m not one of the cops who chats with detention officers. I’m not a chatty fellow at the best of times, and when I enter the jail, I’m here because I made an arrest. When I leave, I’ll spend hours writing a report. Who has time for niceties? “Thanks for giving me a heads up. I’m heading back there,” I say as civilly as possible. It’s not Alphonso’s fault I’m a dick.
“I’ll notify the tower so they buzz you through,” he says with a smile.
; I nod my chin and head to the next series of doors that lead to general holding. It’s a slow process. The tower guards have no problem making me wait before unlocking each door. On the last one, a solid minute goes by and I flip the camera the bird. For my impatience, I wait another minute. Power. Give a little and the guards fuck around with you because they can. I resist lifting my finger again and miraculously the door opens.
There are two community holding cells—one is the drunk tank; the other is the tail tank. I hear the soft crying before I turn the corner. There are two types of tail—the criers and the crabs. I have no idea what mine will be. I don’t expect the bold brown eyes of the woman standing in the cage holding the bars. She’s my sexy-as-sin, nutcase next door neighbor.
Her glare is one hundred megawatts of anger. I know the feeling. “What the hell?” slips from my lips before I stop myself. Fuck, I’ve been having sexual fantasies about a prostitute.
“It took you long enough to poopadoodle over here,” she responds testily. No embarrassment or remorse anywhere in the statement, and her imaginative words drive me crazy.
I think about turning around and walking away. She’s the last woman I’d peg as a hooker. She has the goods to be a high-class escort, but walking the streets for money stumps me.
“Come to momma,” says an older prostitute standing behind Shelby.
I ignore the older woman, back away, and hold up my hands in classic I give up style. “Nothing I can do about this. You’ll see the judge in the morning for your arraignment.”
Her eyes roll. “You think I asked you here to get me out, Marshal Puckerbutt?” she bitches in the voice I remember from our prior run-ins. Each and every interaction with her has been a disaster, so why is she at the top of my fantasy list? She crosses her arms and taps her dainty little foot. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m asking you to let Daisy outside when you get home.”
My legs freeze. I hate that damn dog and she knows it. Who in their right mind names a male dog Daisy? I lower my hands. “You’re on your own, honey,” I say unsympathetically and turn to leave. Her long, loud sigh makes me grit my teeth.
“Fine, if you want me to beg, Lincoln, I’ll beg.” Her voice hasn’t softened in the slightest, and wow, a prostitute begging, what a concept.
I pivot and give her the famous Street stare. It’s a family trait and usually leaves men shaking in their boots. Of course, it could be more than the stare. I’m six foot four with plenty of muscle to back it up. I’m one of five strapping boys, as my mother likes to say, and all of us gifted with great genes. “I want nothing to do with that beast from hell you call a dog.” Shivers run down my spine remembering every contact I’ve had with the mutt. Daisy on his hind legs can rest his front paws on my shoulders. He has no training to speak of and enjoys jumping. I could handle the jumping if the dog didn’t latch onto me and hump my fucking body every time. Not a gentle humping. We’re talking grab hold with his front paws, put his entire pelvis into it, and try his damnedest to create puppies.
My stare appears to have no effect on Shelby. However, her brown eyes have turned pathetically pleading, and she bats her lashes for good measure. She’s the queen of manipulation. It irks me that the look affects my dick and it swells slightly beneath my pants. Buck up, Street, she’s a fucking prostitute, a professional. She probably uses those eyes to squeeze extra money from her johns. No way am I helping her with that damn dog.
She bats her lashes again. “Look,” I run my hand over my face. I’m so fucking tired and can barely keep my eyes open. I can’t believe I’m doing this. “I’ll call the judge and see if he’ll come in tonight. Can you post bail?”
Her sigh is half strangled cat this time. “I don’t want bail,” she grinds out with the stubborn set to her jaw returning. “I’m not leaving this delightful Disneyesque establishment.” She gestures around with a sweep of her arms. “I just need you to let Daisy out and feed him. If you do, I’ll owe you a favor.”
A favor. That’s priceless. I look at her. She’s dressed in jean shorts more conservative than any prostitute wears and a rainbow tank top that shows off her well-endowed breasts. White deck shoes do nothing to detract from her long legs. This outfit does not scream sex for hire, but maybe some men have a thing for the yuppie look. Hell, I’m aging myself. She’s one of the gen Ys and thinks a quick smile and large eye blinks will make me fall in line. I disregard how strange it is to see her without crazy scarves and crazier hats. Booking removes those items during processing. Right now she looks almost normal instead of like a hippy reject. “Sorry, honey, I don’t need one of your favors.” My contempt drips through because I’m just too tired to deal with this shit. “I can’t call the judge until I get outside. Cell phones don’t work in here.”
Her fingers tighten on the bars. “Please… I know what you must think.”
“Yup, Mr. Blue thinks you’re one of us, sugar pie,” a bleach blonde arrestee says in a sing-song voice. She’s standing next to Shelby and casually drapes her arm over Shelby’s shoulder.
My sleepy brain doesn’t quite register exactly what she means when the older hooker who spoke earlier adds her two cents. “She ain’t one of us. I bet I can blow you better than she can too,” she says with a grin. I cringe at the gap where her two front teeth should be. She sticks her tongue between the missing teeth and flicks it at me.
I do my best to ignore her and look straight into my neighbor’s eyes. “What are you charged with?” Maybe Alphonso had it wrong.
Shelby presses her face against the bars with no shameful lowering of her brown eyes. “I’m asking for a favor. I don’t need a therapist.”
I take a step closer to the cell. “What,” I enunciate, “were you brought in on?”
“Prostitution,” she says stubbornly.
“And you’re not a prostitute?” Yep, sarcasm drips.
“Look, Mr. Blue,” the blonde speaks up again, “you get this chickie out of here; she don’t belong.”
“Christ,” I say under my breath.
Shelby turns, dislodging the woman’s arm from her shoulder. “No, Ta Ta. I belong here as much as you do. Selling one’s body should not be a crime. It’s your body to do with as you choose.” Her brown eyes meet mine again. “Let my dog out, give him some food, and you’ll never hear from me again, I promise.”
Finally, a proposition I can live with.
2
I call the judge anyway. He can’t make it in until the next morning so Shelby Ryan is stuck overnight in county lockup. I walk up to her front door, tip the flower pot on the front porch, and sure enough, there’s her key.
We don’t live in the greatest neighborhood. Not that it’s high-crime, but the small Albuquerque suburb of duplex homes is also not crime free. A loud “Woof” comes from the other side of the door. I left my gun at home in case I’m tempted to shoot the dog. I use the key and push open the door with both arms ready to save my manhood. The interior is cool; the stupid woman leaves her air running on high for a dog.
One hundred and forty pounds of ugly mutt hits me as soon as I take a step inside. His tongue slathers my face and sure enough, his curly haired body begins the writhing motion of a dog trying to increase the size of his pack.
The first time I had an intimate encounter with Daisy, he almost took me to the ground during his sexual assault. I kid you not, my balls receded for a week afterward. This time, I’m wiser and grab his collar to hold him back. “No, Daisy,” I say in my toughest cop voice. It has no effect as he scrambles while trying to lock his front legs around my upper thigh. “Daisy, no,” I say again. “Sit.”
At that moment you could have knocked me over with a feather. The damn dog sits immediately. After shaking my head, I march past him to the back door and throw it open. Daisy stays put. He’s trained… well trained. Just a month ago he tried to pass his genes to me, disobeying all Shelby’s yells of “Stop” and “Bad dog.” Now this. Fucking woman. She obviously enjoyed watching her dog unman me.
<
br /> “Get your ass over here and do your thing, dog,” I say in pure frustration. Daisy doesn’t move. “Stand,” I try next because I don’t know what the hell command to use to get him out of a sit.
Still nothing.
I take out my phone and call Theo. He’s a friend who works K9. If anyone knows what the hell to do, he does.
“Yo, Linc. What you got?”
Usually, I call him for drugs when I need his dog to do a sniff and sit. “I’m doing a favor for my neighbor. I told her dog to sit, and now the damned thing won’t move. I need him to take a shit and eat his dinner.”
“I thought you didn’t like dogs.”
“I don’t like anyone, including dogs or you. You got a command for me?” I grumble.
Laughter pours into my ear. “Try the ‘release’ command.”
I put the phone down at my hip and look at Daisy. “Release.”
Sure enough, the damn dog gallops by me at full steam and runs out the back door. I return the phone to my ear. “Thanks, Theo, it worked.”
“No problem, but if you’ve taken up dog-sitting, I can give you some work. Just let me know.”
“Ha ha.” I end the call and look around Shelby’s home. It’s pure chaos. There are scarves tied and draped over furniture, and her drapes are made from different colors of gauze material. An old eight-ball rests on the coffee table. I remember girls playing with them in my childhood and it’s her centerpiece. Then we have artificial flowers in every imaginable color. A wreath of them is wrapped around a lamp, another trailing over the back of her couch, and even more filling colorful vases. And cuckoo clocks. There must be twenty of them on the walls. I can’t imagine being here when they go off. The woman is a certifiable nut job.