Pretty Lawless

by Jodi Linton

  “Don’t look so happy, Wilson,” McNalley barked. “Wesley’s just moving the Wagner boy down the hall to a more secure room.”

  Just then my phone beeped. I glanced down at the screen to check out the incoming text.

  “Got somewhere more important to be?” the boss man asked.

  Shutting it off, I immediately responded, “Nope.”

  “Really?” He lifted a brow in question.

  I slung my arms about my chest and rested a hip against the wall. “That was my point over at Pokey’s Strip Club. We placed a ranger outside Redbud’s titty bar, hoping he’d show up and then our guy could swoop in to question him.” I paused. When my boss said nothing, I continued. “The text was from our guy letting me know two unidentified people just strolled inside at the exact same time Redbud’s daily poker game starts.”

  My boss looked at me cross. “I must be real cute, Wilson.”

  “Actually I’ve seen sexier,” I replied, rubbing my temple.

  “Wilson, get your scrawny ass over to the strip club,” he grumbled, sucking the air through his teeth as if he was clearly trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. “And for the love of god, try not to punch anyone in the nose this time.”

  I pushed through the office door. “If his name’s not Wagner, then all should be fine.”

  Chapter Nine

  Laney

  “I’ll get us some drinks.” Colt pinched the Stetson lower. “How about you go work the crowd,” he added, face in full-on cop mode. “Just stay in my line of sight. There’s not too many shit bags here this early in the morning.” He smiled, the corners of his mouth barely reaching toward his deadly serious eyes. “But the ones here have sure taken notice of the pretty girl in red high heels.”

  I tugged the neckline of my nylon tank lower and adjusted my tits, putting them on display. “Just make mine a double, will ya?” Then I turned on a heel and faced the I-still-live-at-home mommy’s-boy crowd.

  Red and yellow and purple strobe lights blinded me in the room smelling of too much Old Spice cologne. A long, tin-covered stage took up most of the space. Tattered, puke-stained, and yeah, more than likely come-doused navy carpet was littered with wobbly chairs and scraped-up four-legged tables. The old adage “boys will be boys”—well, it made Locked and Loaded, my cousin’s now-seized shooting range, look as if it were Trump Tower in comparison to this cesspool. I scanned the dismal crowd of men in stained wifebeaters and slicked comb-overs and the clouds of cigarette smoke funneling up to the corkboard ceiling. Nothing appeared more promising than an evening spent riding Gunner’s cock while he watched a porno on the couch. And that said a lot.

  Something cold nudged my arm, startling me. “Spot us a suspect?” Colt drawled.

  “Nope. But hey, thanks for the drink.”

  That smug grin returned. “You looked like a whiskey and Coke kind of girl.”

  I slung back a shot, the warm burn of the liquor coating my throat. “That I am.”

  Suddenly, male voices started to hoot and holler, and the already dim lights darkened even more, drawing my attention away from the drink-buying marshal. We moved toward the commotion. Entering stage right and sporting a matching bra and panties, dangling a pair of cuffs from violet-manicured nails, was none other than the pastor’s goddaughter…Hannah Roberts. And boy, did I hate that floozy’s guts. Hips grinding and ass bucking, she slid up and down the metal pole stationed in the middle of the stage. I knew that note Hannah had given to Luke held more clues to the swinger parties than he’d let on, and she was probably hiding secrets that would clear his name.

  I toed Colt. “There’s our suspect, titty slapping a grease pole.” His eyes pinned on the mark as I moved away from his side, weaving through the tightly packed tables.

  Normally I would be shy about nose butting a stripper stage up close and personal, for fear of catching some nasty disease, but as my knees touched the wooden edge I decided if I found a single I’d keep it to pay for my time spent tracking down sluts. I pulled the whiskey and Coke to my lips and took a drink. Hannah sure knew how to dry hump a pole better than a dog in heat. Maybe that’d been what got Luke’s groove on. I mean, even I was impressed enough that if she’d asked me for a date I probably would have said yes.

  “Lane—Cat,” Colt tried to correct the mistake, but it was too late.

  Thickly mascara-coated lashes batted downward. One bare thigh slid nervously down the pole, and then the other. I peeked up into a face haunted in booze and drugs. The local Bible-thumping, snotty-nose rich girl, aka Hannah Roberts, dropped the cuffs in her hand and bolted stage right like a scared alley cat.

  Kicking off my heels, I shouted as I charged backstage, “We’ve got a runner, Dick.”

  Okay, fine. It would’ve been stupid to pass up a chance to call Colt Larsen a dick.

  It hadn’t gone unnoticed that all glassy, sex-drugged eyes were pinned squarely on me as I toppled over a chair and breezed through the doorway behind the stage. The balls of my feet stuck to the tacky carpet, making me regret ditching my newly scuffed-up pumps. Girly giggles spilled out into the narrow passageway. I’d just strolled past the single dressing room when an arm snaked around my waist and pulled me back around the corner.

  “Hold on there a sec, Calamity Jane.” Colt tightened his grip into a firm hold. “No need to scare the rats.” He peered around the corner, scoping out the scene, then looked me up and down. “I know how much you want to nail her ass for helping seal that bum murder deal on the Wagner boy.” His face grew serious. “Truly, I do. But you can’t go in all guns a-blazing.”

  My arms flew out from my sides. “Does it look like I have a gun?”

  “Well, I know for a fact you pack a mean uppercut.”

  “That ex-wife of yours deserved to have her nose broken.”

  “Uh-huh.” The sexy, tormenting federal marshal nodded. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

  I made up my mind once I was done rearranging Hannah’s garter belt I’d rearrange Mr. I Am Too Sexy for My Own Good.

  He smiled, just a tad too self-assured. “Why don’t you let me do the talking, honey pie?”

  I dismissed the “honey pie” comment with a shrug of my shoulders. “Be my guest.”

  We strolled blissfully hand in hand—well, mainly Colt held onto mine as if it was slipperier than butter—out the back door leading into the alleyway. Sunlight was obscured by a heavy overcast sky. The afternoon winter chill nipped at my calves, making my bones ache for a quiet night by the fireside. Cardboard boxes lined the brick wall. Paper bags billowed in the wind. Colt moved his hand to the small of my back and eased us both farther into the void.

  I heard a lighter flick, and then the all too familiar sound of someone taking a long, satisfying drag.

  Colt gave me a simple tip of the chin, then took center stage. “We need to have a word with you, darling.”

  Blond hair flipped into view along with a pair of worried baby blues. “I’ve got nothing to say to Deputy Briggs,” Hannah Roberts replied, the venom dripping from her mouth.

  Colt scooted around me and whipped off his hat. “What about to a cowboy?” He arched a brow playfully. “You feel like chatting with one of them?”

  Hannah fiddled with the menthol between her fingers, leaving behind pinched, chapped lips. “No. Not particularly.”

  This bitch was going down.

  “God damn it,” I began to put in my two cents. “I think it’s time to put this whole buddy-buddy thing to rest.” Sidestepping around Colt, I shoved him out of the way and pressed on. “Now listen here, you little twit.” Even Colt gasped at that one. “Luke Wagner is facing murder charges. And don’t you even begin to shit-talk me, missy, because I know for a fact you and him had a run-in at one of those group sex swapping parties.”

  Her mouth fell so far open that her thin bottom lip might’ve scooped up some nearby trash. “Always knew you had a thing for that rancher,” she hissed. “Besides, didn’t that skirt chaser of a b
oyfriend of yours arrest him?” She flicked the cigarette on the ground. “I just don’t get why you’re so bent out of shape here, Laney Briggs. Everyone in Pistol Rock knows you’ve spread your legs for both those cowboys.” She glanced behind me at Colt. “I bet you’ve even played with this one’s tallywacker as well.”

  I was gonna strangle her with my own bare hands.

  “Hey, now,” Colt chimed in. “As much as I enjoy seeing a good catfight like any other man”—he tossed me one of his infamous belly-tumbling smiles—“I’m not really in the market for such a thing on this fine day.” Then he slipped his jacket open and flashed the marshal badge pinned to his belt buckle. “So, Hannah, still not in the mood to talk?”

  Minutes later, I was leaning against a Dumpster with Colt sidled up to my hip, listening to the tall tales spewing from Hannah’s mouth, killing any kind of buzz that whiskey might have started. For the most part, every single detail she’d given so far about the night she and Luke spent at one of Redbud’s sex parties held the potential to make me toss the remains of the Hostess doughnuts swimming around the bottom of my stomach. I’d had enough nonsense to last me two lifetimes.

  “Run that by me again, Hannah,” I interrupted the long-winded explanation she was giving Colt. “So Luke and you had a date.” My gaze landed on her face. “And the outing for said date was a swinger party at Danny Redbud’s house.”

  Her cheeks reddened. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Fiddling with the waistband of her panties, she spoke so softly I swear a mouse squeaked by. “Not entirely.” Her round, fuzzy blue eyes batted Colt’s way. “I might’ve run into Luke at the party as he was storming out of a room.”

  “Go on…” I pressed her for more information.

  Sliding a quick glance at Colt, Hannah gulped nervously and then fitted me with the image of her worriedly gnawing away on that now-puffy bottom lip of hers. “Guess you want to know what the two of us talked about?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I guess.”

  Smoke circled in the air. “When I found Luke outside, he was cursing up a storm, and I overheard him on the phone with your boyfriend,” she said on a frown, “the Texas Ranger.”

  Colt nudged me in the elbow, then took the reins on the Hannah questioning. “They wouldn’t have by chance been discussing Molly?”

  Hannah actually gave the stunner marshal a smile. “I might’ve heard of that girl.”

  Oh, jeez. Surprising how my cousin Wyatt and Hannah had never hooked up.

  “It’s a drug. Not a chick,” I blurted out. Both the marshal’s and the stripper’s eyes widened. “Oh, come on. You’ve gotta be sick of all this stupidity as much as me by now.”

  Colt just nodded. “Okay, Hannah. Thank you very much for your time.” The sly grin slowly spreading across his face really ate at me. “But I do believe that’s my cue to get this little pistol home.”

  He made an advance to snag me up by the arm, but I lifted a finger and mouthed, “Touch me and you’re dead.”

  He had to throw in a wink before backing off. Jesus, men and their frustrating mind games.

  Then a lightbulb went off, and everything seemed to click into focus. “The letter,” I said, walking toward Hannah. “What about the note you gave Luke? And don’t you dare try to give me some bullshit excuse, honey, because I saw the dang thing on his kitchen countertop.”

  She rocked from one stiletto to the other. “The thing is, I gave that note to Luke because I was curious about seeing him at the party.” She licked her lips. “He just never seemed like the type to be into that sort of thing. You know?”

  I slung a fist upon my hip and, yeah, the deep chuckle roaring from Colt’s chest put me on pins and needles. “No, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure the marshal tagging my behind…”

  I glared coldly at Colt. He gave me a damn smug smile while whispering, “Sorry.”

  Ignoring him, I continued, “…would like to be filled in as well.”

  Hannah swallowed, long and hard. Then she let it all fall out into the open. “Come on, Laney. Every folk in town knows that Luke Wagner has a hard-on for you.”

  The sound of Colt choking was no match for my temper. I was fixing to show the twig just how pissing mad I really was when the back door swung open wide.

  “It ain’t your goddamn break yet,” a guy shouted angrily.

  “Shit. Sorry, Devon.” Hannah tossed her smoldering cigarette on the ground and tapped it out with a heel. “Laney and Colt, this is Devon Cooper,” she said, the soles of her high heels clicking and clacking loudly on the damp pavement as she walked up next to our unwelcome visitor. “These two want in on the weekly poker game today. They’re clean, Devon. The chick is an old friend of mine.” She winked at me and sauntered through the door, vanishing out of sight.

  I felt the weight of a seedy gaze sliding up and down my body. “Is that true, cupcake? You and the cowboy want to play with the big boys?” The blockhead straddling the doorway assessed Colt, who’d taken it upon himself to ease as snug as a bug up against my backside. If we’d been under any other circumstances, his gut would’ve been having a not-so-pleasant meeting with my fist. Be that as it may, I was sort of comforted he’d taken on the protector role.

  Colt leaned in closer, his mouth pressed firmly into the nape of my neck. “I’ve got this, Briggs,” he whispered, and hell, the heat in his voice should have clued me in on his true intentions. “She’ll strip if we lose.”

  Damn the arrogant marshal.

  I stood off to the side, watching the boys align the tables. Scruffy number one clamped down on the cigar bobbing about his mouth as he scooted a chair across the ratty carpeted floor. To my left, Colt huddled close by, his hand planted firmly on the small of my back. Blockhead, our nosy visitor Devon, had planted his steel-toed boots straight ahead, and shit, were those green eyes of his glowering my way.

  “Hope you’ve got your game faces on, boys.” Devon looked at me. “If we win, you’ll get to see some fresh stripper tail.”

  “Where I’m from, strippers don’t discard their panties.” Colt tightened his hold on me. “Anyways, I normally don’t lose at poker.” He tipped the brim of his hat, then pushed me in the direction of an empty chair. Colt placed both hands on my shoulders and shoved my ass down onto the seat, his lips rustled past my earlobe. “Better not suck at cards, because it’s your ass on display if we lose.”

  “Deal me in,” I shouted above the heart-thumping rap music. Cards slid toward me. “Y’all ready to show me the goods, boys?” I asked, picking up a stack of cards. “Because if I win, you’ll be dropping trousers, including my cowboy friend.” Fanning the cards out in front of me, I added, “And boy, do I love a good wrinkly cock like the next girl.”

  Probably should’ve bit my tongue on that one.

  An hour later, I was sporting a purple bra, a tight black miniskirt, and red high heels, which I’d snagged up on my way back inside as we passed by the stage. Colt, on the other hand, sat in a pair of white boxer briefs, black tube socks, and that damn Stetson hanging low on his head.

  I leaned into him. “You fucking suck at keeping a poker face.”

  Colt shifted in his chair, eyes glued to his cards. “I’m using the reel-them-in tactic.”

  “Oh my god,” I mock whispered, then smacked my cards down in front of me. “Read ’em and weep, boys. That there is a full house.”

  Heated voices echoed among the small confines of the oblong wooden table, chairs scooted across the floor, jarring the table before chips spilled to the floor as Devon hunched over to spy the cards I’d sprawled out.

  “Sorry, cupcake,” he said, the wickedness thickly coating his throaty rasp. “But I do believe you’re one step closer to shucking those lacy panties.” He tossed four aces into view.

  Damn poker face.

  Slowly, I stood on my own two feet and scrutinized the bastard. With nimble fingers, I pulled at the zipper on my skirt. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m more of the cotton Walmart bargain-bin kind of gal
.” The zipper fell open an inch.

  The lawman sitting at my side reached out and jerked at my arm, stopping me in mid-striptease. “Okay, this has gone a little too far,” he said, scanning the crowd of drooling onlookers. “Don’t y’all think, gentlemen?”

  I nudged his hand away and got to work shimmying the skirt over my hips when the side door to Pokey’s burst open and my worst nightmare blurred into focus. There I was, under a set of very unflattering strobe lights, tits bobbing for air in my tiny lace bra and ass hanging out of my miniskirt, looking like a tarty, sex-starved girl in a B-movie slasher flick. And then everything bottomed out at the sound of that all too familiar male voice shouting, “Texas Rangers. Everyone show me your hands.”

  Fuck a cow. So I did the only plausible thing left to do and dropped on all fours. Crab crawling about the floor, cigarette butts stuck to my kneecaps and cocktail straws jabbed me in the wrists. Not to mention I had a tail. The brim of that panty-dropping cowboy’s hat grazed my bare thighs. My head bumped into the edge of a table, and then something cold tapped my behind.

  “I’d suggest you remove that hand from my girlfriend’s ass…or I can just break it off. Your choice, cowboy.”

  I tilted my head back, locking in on that black rattlesnake tattoo bursting from the vein of a ripped tan arm indolently draped next to my head. To say I was shell-shocked didn’t even come close. He had a hip braced against the table leg, and he had his bullheaded cowboy face on. Wonderful—the man had impeccable timing.

  “Didn’t I tell you to stop hitting up the strip clubs, Gunner Wilson?”

  My hunky, headache-inducing Texas Ranger knelt down beside my behind. He pushed the black cowboy hat up, the devilish glint in his brown eyes brightening as he responded, “I hope they tipped you well, sweetheart.”