by Pamela Clare
Then Julian stood, tapping the blade of a pocket knife against an empty beer bottle. “I’ve been asked to say a few words, so I’d like to get it over with as soon as possible.”
What the hell?
Marc hadn’t seen this coming. “Sit down, Darcangelo.”
“Shut up, Hunter.” Julian cleared his throat. “A little over a year ago, we all had our lives turned upside down when Hunter here took Sophie hostage. Our lives got turned upside down again when we found out he wasn’t quite the bad guy we’d all believed him to be—and that Sophie actually liked him. Well, I can’t say I’ve ever understood women—”
The men laughed, while Tessa gave an indignant, “Hey!”
“Apart from my own lovely wife, of course.”
More laughter.
“But yesterday, Hunter had his life turned upside down when, thanks to Mr. Senator, Governor Rollins gave him an official pardon.”
Cheers and applause—and a big grin from Reece.
Julian raised his bottle. “Not many men have the guts or the skill to do what you did. You put your life on the line for the women you loved, and you prevailed. So here’s to you, Hunter, for being one of the good guys all along.”
“Hear, hear!”
“To Hunter!”
Holding Chase on one arm, Marc stood, met Julian’s gaze, and raised his own bottle, emotion swelling in his chest. Across the table from him, Sophie beamed. “Thanks, everyone, for the support you’ve given us. We couldn’t have gotten through this without you.”
More cheers.
Then Sophie stood—and pulled a bandana out of her back jeans pocket. “Now it’s time for your present.”
“Present?” As if a full pardon weren’t enough. “What present?”
“You’ll see—in a minute. Sit.” Sophie circled the table, covered his eyes with the bandana and bound it in place.
Shit!
He heard her cell phone key pad beep as she dialed a number.
“Okay, we’re ready,” she said.
Whispers. A toddler’s fussing. Holly’s unmistakable giggle.
And then—a deep, purring rumble.
The sound grew nearer and nearer.
A car? Sophie had bought him another car? But—
The rumble drew right up beside him, seeming somehow familiar…
Holy shit! No, it couldn’t be!
Sophie pulled off his blindfold. “Surprise!”
The breath left his lungs in a gust—and Marc could only stare.
It was.
An old shiny blue ’55 Chevy Bel Air. His old ’55 Chevy Bel Air. The Chevy he’d driven to the Monument that summer night.
At the wheel sat Chief Irving, a broad smile on his face. He climbed out, held out the key. “Sophie thought you might want your wheels back now that you’re no longer a crook.”
Feeling dazed and utterly blindsided, Marc stood, handed the baby to Sophie, and reached for the key. “But how in the hell…”
The cops had confiscated it the day of his arrest. The last he’d known, it had been sold at a police auction. He’d never in a million years even hoped to see it again.
He walked over to the car, slid his hand along the hood, taking in every beautiful inch of chrome and steel. Not a scratch from fender to fender. And the interior—the original two-tone interior—was still beautifully intact. “Jesus!”
“Chief Irving looked up the old records for me right after we got married. I spent the past year tracking the car down and negotiating with its former owner. It’s yours now, Hunt.”
Marc tore his gaze away from the car and found Sophie watching him, a sheen of tears in her blue eyes. He drew her into his arms, not even sure what to say. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“I want you to have your life back, Hunt.”
Marc couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve already given me that—and more.”
“Damn, this is one sexy vehicle.” Darcangelo looked the car up and down, blatant lust on his face. “You used to drive this?”
Holly caressed the hood as if it were muscle instead of machine. “This is the perfect makeout car. Look at the size of that backseat!”
“I may need to borrow this from time to time.” Reece leaned down and looked inside. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Marc chuckled, his mind on one thing and one thing only—being alone with his wife. “What do you say we ditch these losers and go for a drive?”
THEY LEFT CHASE in Tessa’s care and drove up I-70 and into the mountains, parking at an overlook somewhere above Genesee, the city of Denver spread out below them, stretching to the horizon.
Sophie watched as Hunt set the emergency brake, then turned the radio to an oldies station, a feeling of deep contentment settling inside her. This was the great thing about loving him—it made her happy just to see him happy. If she lived a hundred years, she would never forget the look on his face when she’d taken off the blindfold and he’d seen the car.
“Come here.” He reached over, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and drew her close.
For a while, they sat in silence watching the lights of the city come on, his fingers stroking her hair, a cool mountain breeze carrying the scent of pine through the open windows, some romantic love song drifting through the speakers. One by one, the stars revealed themselves, the last tendrils of sunlight stretching pink across the sky, the moon a miracle.
He turned and nuzzled her ear. “I am the luckiest bastard on earth.”
She tilted her head, bared her throat to him. “Why?”
He nipped her sensitive skin, sucked her earlobe into his hot mouth, then whispered. “You, sprite. Because of you.”
She turned her face toward him, offered her lips, felt her breath catch when his mouth took hers, his tongue sliding inside, scattering her thoughts.
“There’s no tire iron this time,” he whispered. “What are you going to do? I’m warning you right now, sprite—I intend to have my way with you tonight.”
“I sure hope so!” She arched into him. “Show me the stars, Hunt.”
And he did.
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
Bitch up—To break down, to act afraid or subservient.
Bull dogs—Prison bullies
CO—A correctional officer, i.e., a guard at a prison or jail
CORA—Colorado Open Records Act: A Colorado statute that defines which documents are open to the public. Any citizen may request documents under CORA, but most requests come from journalists, investigators, and attorneys.
DEA—Drug Enforcement Administration: A federal agency charged with enforcing laws regarding illicit drugs and illegal drug use.
D-Seg—Disciplinary segregation: Isolation for prisoners who are being punished for bad behavior.
DOC—Department of Corrections: The part of a state’s government in charge of running state prisons. Also responsible for inmate health and safety.
Fefe—A deadly mix of heroin and the anesthetic fentanyl. Also called “drop dead,” “executioner,” and “flatliner.”
G-ride—Stolen car; the G is derived from the charge of grand theft.
L.W.O.P. (pronounced EL-wop)—Life without the opportunity for parole.
Kill—To end someone’s life. Also to masturbate, i.e., “He likes to kill to porn.”
Kill one’s number—To serve one’s full prison sentence.
Rip—To sodomize by force, to rape.
Shim—A slender piece of metal manufactured illegally in prison.
Shank—An illegal homemade prison knife.
Tango—A sniper’s target.
Turn out—To sodomize by force, to rape.
GABRIEL ROSSITER BENT her over the back of her sofa and pushed her skirt up over her hips, rubbing his hands over her smooth, round ass, her impatient whimpers urging him on. He slipped on a condom, then grabbed her hips, forced her legs wider apart, and filled her with one slow thrust.
Oh, hell, yeah.
It felt so good, so dam
ned good. He let his mind go blank and drove into her hard, allowing himself to feel only the pulsing ache in his cock, holding back just long enough to hear her scream. Then he fell over the edge, orgasm washing through him in a white-hot rush.
“God, Gabe, you are the best.”
He closed his eyes, giving himself a moment to catch his breath, her muscles still pulsing around him, the musky scent of sex filling his head. He slowly withdrew, then walked to the bathroom, and tossed the condom in the trash, wiping himself off with a tissue. When he turned to go, she was blocking the bathroom doorway, wearing nothing but spiked heels and a smile.
Samantha Price had the best body money could buy, from her surgically enhanced tits to the tips of her polished toenails. She ran her fingers through her red hair, looked him up and down. “Why don’t you stay? We can do that all night long—as many times as you like. I’ll even let you tie me up.”
He supposed he should take it as a compliment. He doubted Samantha, one of Boulder’s most expensive criminal attorneys, invited many men to dominate her. At another time in his life, he’d have been only too happy to oblige her. Instead, he felt annoyed. “That’s not how it works, Samantha. You know that.”
She tilted her head, an attempt at being seductive. “Things can change. We’ve been together for almost six months now.”
“Together?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Fucking now and again doesn’t mean we’re ‘together.’”
He zipped his pants, buckled his gun belt, and pushed past her, adjusting the weight of his sidearm as he went. He’d known it was going to come to this. It always did—the mutual exchange of physical pleasure ruined by delusions of attachment.
“It doesn’t have to be just sex. I know that’s what I said at first but—”
“Forget it, Samantha.” He picked his undershirt up off the floor, slipped it over his head, then reached for his shirt, buttoning it and tucking it into his pants while she watched. “It won’t work.”
“What makes you so sure?” She picked up his winter uniform jacket, traced a finger over the badge pinned to the front, then began to search the pockets in a cloying display of possessiveness.
“Because I’m sure.”
She drew something out of his pocket and held it up to the light. “What this?”
It was Katherine James’s turquoise earring. He’d forgotten to give it to her before the chopper had taken off. He’d meant to track down her address and mail it to her afterward but hadn’t. Even he couldn’t explain how it had ended up in his pocket. Of course, he wasn’t about to tell Samantha any of this.
“Is she your next destination?”
“We never agreed to be exclusive, Samantha—only safe.”
She shoved the jacket into his chest, the earring still in her hand. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Did you enjoy what we just did?” He put on his jacket and held out his hand for the earring.
“Yes.” She dropped it onto his upturned palm. “You know I did.”
“Then what do you want from me?” He tucked it back in his pocket.
“More. Just more.”
Christ, were those tears in her eyes?
“Sorry, Sam, but I don’t have anything more to give you.” He turned and walked out of the living room and down the hallway toward the front door.
“I know about your fiancée,” she called after him, an edge to her voice. “I know what happened.”
Gabe felt his stride falter, but he didn’t look back. He opened the door and stepped into the night, knowing he wouldn’t be coming here again.
A cold wind hit him in the face, carrying away Samantha’s scent, taking the hottest edge off the anger inside him. He filled his lungs, walked down the icy sidewalk to his service vehicle, putting Samantha and her last salvo out of his mind and trying to ignore the pricking of his own conscience.
Why in the hell should he feel guilty? Samantha was an adult. She knew what she’d signed on for. He’d told her right up front that he wasn’t interested in a relationship, and she’d told him all she wanted was good sex. So now she’d changed her mind and he was supposed to feel bad?
You are an asshole, man.
He climbed in behind the wheel, adjusted the gear on his gun belt so that it wouldn’t jab him in the back, then shoved his key into the ignition. The digital clock on the truck’s dash read 8:45—enough time to get in a few good routes at the rock gym before it closed. He’d turned onto Pearl Street when his pager went off. He pulled it out of it’s holster and read the LED display.
“Flames seen on Mesa Butte. On-call officer please respond. Police request backup.”
On-call officer. Tonight, that was Gabe.
He flipped on his overheads, pulled a U-turn, and sped east toward the Butte.
KAT STARED IN disbelief and shock toward the open sweat lodge door, only to be blinded by a flashlight.
“Police!” a man’s voice shouted. “Everyone out!”
Stunned, she shielded her eyes and looked to Grandpa Two Crows, who sat around to her left closest to the door. He looked amazingly calm, beads of sweat on his wrinkled face and bare chest, an eagle-bone whistle in his hand, its piercing song silenced.
“Come on! Move it! Out!”
Grandpa Two Crows leaned toward the door, spoke to the man outside. “You are interrupting the inipi, a sacred Indian ceremony—”
The police officer reached in and grabbed Grandpa by the arms. “Come on, old man. Out!”
Towel wrapped around his waist, Grandpa was hauled roughly forward, whistle clutched tightly in his hand.
“No!” Kat shouted, her cry echoed by the dozen women who’d come to Mesa Butte to pray.
This can’t be happening!
Oh, but it was.
No sooner had Grandpa Two Crows been dragged through the small opening, than the same cop ducked down and took hold of Glenna, an Oglala Lakota elder from Denver. Her eyes wide, Glenna cried out for help in her native tongue, her towel slipping from her shoulders as the officer pulled her through the doorway.
Then the cop ducked down and shined his flashlight into the lodge once more. “Are the rest of you going to come out or do we have to drag you out one at a time?”
Pauline, a young Cheyenne woman and next in line to the door, looked to Kat, panic in her eyes. “What should I do?”
Kat swallowed her own fear. “I’ll go, and you follow me.”
She crawled around the edge of the fire pit toward the door, feeling trapped in some kind of surreal nightmare. When she reached the doorway, she ducked down to press her forehead to the earth as she would have done at the end of the ceremony had it not been interrupted. “Mitakuye Oyasin.”
“Come on! Hurry it up!” the man’s voice said.
She lifted her head and crawled forward another step, only to feel a fist close in her hair, the cop yanking her painfully upright, her towel falling into the mud. She tried to stand, but her weight came down on her right leg, which had been out of a cast for less than a week. Her ankle gave way, and she lost her balance, falling forward, clutching at the hand that held her hair, trying to keep it from being ripped out by the roots.
“What the hell are you doing?” A familiar voice, footsteps. “Let go of her! You can’t just manhandle people like that!”
“They’re resisting.” The cop released her.
Scalp still burning, Kat landed on her hands and knees in cold mud, her heart slamming, tears of shock and rage and pain blurring her vision. Unable to stop her trembling, she looked up—and felt as if the breath had been knocked from her lungs.
There, striding toward her, was Gabriel Rossiter, the park ranger. This time he was dressed in his full ranger uniform—dark jacket with a silver badge on the front, gun on his hip, heavy boots on his feet. From the way he walked, she could tell he was angry.
“It looks to me like they’re doing what you asked them to do, so why don’t you stand back and give them some room?” He knelt down befor
e her, his face cast half in golden light from the fire and half in shadow. “How’s your leg? Are you able to stand?”
Kat nodded, confused to see him here, horrified to think that the man who’d saved her life, the man she’d thought about every day for the past three months, the man she’d just remembered in her prayers, could be a part of this…desecration.
“You know her?” the cop asked. Lantern-jawed and clean cut, he had a military look about him. “Better get her out of here before she gets herself arrested.”
The ranger didn’t answer. “I’ll help you up.”
Before she could tell him she didn’t want his help this time, strong hands grasped her arms, lifting her out of the mud until she could get her footing. Her gaze met his, and for a moment all she could do was stand there, looking up at him.
He was taller than she remembered—and angrier. “I’m sorry, Katherine, but we have orders to put out the fire and clear the Butte.”
“Why?” Cold November wind blew through Kat’s damp hair, piercing the wet cloth of her skirt and T-shirt, chilling her to the bone.
“I’m not exactly sure why.” He released her. “Apparently, the sweat lodge and fire violate city land-use codes that the cops have suddenly decided to enforce.”
Land-use codes?
She started to tell him that federal laws protecting Indian sacred sites trumped land-use codes, but the cop had knelt down before the sweat lodge.
“I guess all we got here are squaws,” he said, panning his flashlight over the women inside, a degrading tone to his voice. “Must be the braves’ night off. Either that or the old guy has himself a harem. Come on! Move it!”