Protect

by C. D. Breadner

  “You have competition in the next election,” he snapped sharply, and she brought her head back, a lot shocked and a little stunned. “You get that, right? These men have money and friends with money, but that’s hardly their biggest weapon in this campaign. Who’s playing stupid?”

  She felt the heat in her blood as her spine lengthened, and she raised her chin. “I have been Sheriff here a long time. And crime has been low.”

  “Reported crime.”

  “Listen to me, and listen good.” Now the finger was up and she was in Mom Mode but she didn’t particularly care. “People in this town are perfectly happy being unaware of shit that’s been taken care of. And that’s why it’s done this way. This isn’t hurting anyone in town.”

  Troy tilted his head, apparently unimpressed by her backbone. “Devon Turnbull got beaten up selling pot for this club. Did you know that?”

  Sharon frowned. “What?”

  “Yeah. These Mazaris went after the Rebels through their dealers and Turnbull got beaten pretty bad. His father was furious. The kid’s fine, I mean, he was likely numb from the ganga as it was. But this is part of why his dad wants you out so bad. It is hurting people outside of the club, Sheriff. You’re wrong.”

  With that Troy folded his considerable height into his cruiser and drove off, leaving her in the middle of the street. She dug out her keys and headed for her cruiser, noticing a form standing just outside the gates of the Rebels’ compound.

  She looked up and down the street both ways as Fritter approached her. He wasn’t looking at her, though. He was watching Troy’s tail lights grow dim and then make a left onto Turnbull Drive.

  Fuck, that guy really was everywhere.

  “You okay?” he eventually asked, turning back to her.

  Sharon blinked at him, stunned. “What are doing?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “What are you doing out here? Talking to me? Are you fucking insane?”

  Fritter titled his head and took a drag on his cigarette. “Relax. The girls are inside, everyone’s getting distracted and occupied. No one’s looking for me, believe me.”

  A flash of white slipped out under the arm of his T-shirt. “What’s that?” she asked, uninterested.

  “What?”

  She had to point. “That.”

  The tendons in his neck stood out and his collarbone stood out in the fading light as he looked down to see what she was talking about. She ignored that damn flutter and moved a half step away from him. He didn’t notice. “Got scratched.”

  Now her bullshit meter was dinging like a motherfucker. “Really? On what?”

  He gave her that ridiculously devastating smile stepping closer again. She was against her car, back to the driver’s door. Still he came closer, stopping just short of touching her. “What if I said it was a woman? Got a little frisky?”

  Heat raced from her chest up her neck and into her face. “I wouldn’t care. She must have had long nails.”

  His smile got just a bit wider and he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, letting his arm hang at his side while he jammed his other hand in his pocket. His eyes ran from her face down to her chest; she felt it and it pissed her off he could play her like this. Especially since she was so pissed off.

  “They weren’t that long, she was just that motivated.”

  “Good for her,” Sharon breathed back, ignoring the smell and heat of his body. He’d been on his bike that day, she just knew it. There was something to the leather of his kutte and the slight sweat she could smell on his skin that told her he’d been in the wind and sun and grit.

  “Nothin’ to be jealous of, Sharon.”

  “Who’s jealous?” she snapped, too quickly.

  “I mean,” he went on, like she hadn’t even spoken, “it’s not like it’s been that long since we had one of our meetings. I’m sure you’re holdin’ up without it.”

  Fuck. Oh, fuck her for ever starting this.

  “What do you want, Mark?” she asked. There. Using his real first name was less personal. Good for her.

  “I think I want to see you again real soon.”

  She looked right into his eyes at that, taken aback. “What?”

  He was still smiling, but he had a bit of wonder in his expression, too. “I was thinkin’ about you a lot today. And it made me hard every time. I’m startin’ to hurt here, Sharon.”

  “Shut up,” she whispered, no fire in it at all.

  “Sometime in the next few days, you should call me. When you get a chance. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she was answering before she could actually stop and think about this.

  “Good,” he said easily with that ridiculously sexy smile then turned, effectively leaving her personal space so she could breathe again.

  As quick as she ever had in her life she was in her squad car, starting the engine and willing her hands to stop shaking. Whatever the fuck that was, she had been terribly unprepared for it.

  Chapter Eight

  “You got this, Tims?” Fritter shouted over the sound of the weed whacker.

  The other prospect, Tims Gatlin, looked up and gave a thumbs’ up before returning to trimming the edges of the Cullen’s back lawn. Fritter moved the sliding glass doors, responding to Mrs. Cullen’s call for him to come inside for lemonade. It was a hot day, after all. And injured as he was, he needed a rest.

  The stitches were healing up nicely but it was still an angry-looking wound. He could have kept it covered but then he’d be way too warm in this late-June heat.

  And Mrs. Cullen wouldn’t be tempting him with her lemonade.

  In the kitchen he found the missus of the house, pouring out a glass of yellowish liquid into a couple of glasses. She’d been tanning while he and Tims were doing her yard work. Her bikini top barely kept those tits wrangled in, and since she’d gone inside she’d pulled on a thin, see-through robe that showed him she hadn’t bothered keeping that top on.

  And just like that he was hard.

  She turned to him, the robe falling open and proving him right. Her hips were back against the cupboard, hands out to her sides, holding onto the edge while she stared at him.

  This was one of those man-eater types of women. For Fritter any attempts to sink in her hooks were pointless, but if she wanted his dick she was certainly going to get it.

  “Came for the lemonade, ma’am,” he said, letting the accent through a little thicker than usual. He reached around her for the glass then stood close as he downed the whole thing in three long gulps. She just stared.

  Fritter knew what he looked like; the weight room had mirrors. He worked out hard, usually tried to avoid foods that would make him soft, and he knew that the opposite sex had an appreciation for the results of his hard work. Before he could bring the glass down Mrs. Cullen, whose first name he did not know, was running both her hands up his stomach and around his sides. Brown eyes wide, she probably didn’t even know she was breathing through her mouth.

  With a sigh Fritter caught her hands. “Told you,” he scolded with a smile. “I’m not ticklish.”

  She smiled brilliantly. Not because it was a particularly pretty smile, just abnormally white. Teeth bleaching, he guessed. It was almost non-human to have teeth that white.

  “Open my jeans,” he instructed, and she quickly did as told. “Now get me ready, honey.”

  Her hand closed around his cock and he closed his eyes, letting her give a little rub and tug. “You feel ready to me, baby,” she whispered.

  Fritter reached into his pocket, searching for a condom. Pretty sure he had one. He never left home without ‘em. Once it was in place he turned her to the counter, facing the window that overlooked the back yard. No one could see in the window, he knew that. It was too bright outside.

  He pushed her robe up over her hips, pulled the crotch of her bottoms out of the way and sank in deep with one thrust. She moaned but he knew she was trying to keep it down.

  He yanked back on
her hips, riding her back and forth over his cock, moving her against the motion of his hips, when quite suddenly he heard an unmistakable sound; the sound of a shotgun shell being chambered right behind him.

  He froze, and apparently Mrs. Cullen didn’t hear the incredibly dangerous sound that he had. She tried to keep moving as he raised his hands, stepping away from her ass as he did so.

  “What are you doing? Fritter, we’re not done. I know you can last longer than that.”

  “I knew it,” came the snarling voice behind him. “I fucking knew it!”

  Now the Missus was shrieking, righting her bikini and pulling her robe tight across her chest, eyes wide as she slumped back against the cabinets. “Wayne! Wayne, what the hell are you doing? Put that shotgun away.”

  Fritter closed his eyes, internally cursing. Shit. Wayne fucking Cullen. Member of Markham city council. Owner of the town’s only specialty shoe store and chair of the Fire Department Charity Fund for Markham County.

  And owner of a shotgun, as it turned out.

  Fritter stayed right where he was, wishing like hell his erection would at least go down. But no, it had been getting some action and it usually took an orgasm or a few more minutes for it to realize it was time to settle down.

  “I fucking knew it! You fucking whore! Trina, how could you do this to me?”

  Shit. Fucking shit. It sounded like he was crying, but Fritter would be risking getting his head blown off if he moved or said anything.

  “No baby, no. I love you Wayne, you know that!”

  “How could you?”

  “You know things haven’t been good for us. Not ... intimately.”

  Now he wanted to tell the bitch to shut up.

  “But him? Why him?”

  “Listen,” Fritter finally had to cut in. “Listen. I do apologize, sir. You have a fine-looking woman. You know this. I know I did wrong. I did.”

  “And yet this isn’t the first time. Is it, Trina?”

  She had the crocodile tears going, he had to hand it to her. She was trying her best.

  “I heard you, you bitch. You’ve done this before and I fucking knew it.”

  “May I please pull my pants up?”

  The cold barrel touched the back of his neck and Fritter actually stopped breathing. There was a tense pause where he didn’t so much as move his eyes to look at Trina. Then the gun left his skin.

  “Fine. Go ahead.” The defeat was obvious in the man’s voice.

  Fritter tucked himself away, still wrapped, and zipped up his jeans. Before he could fasten his belt he was turning on the man behind him, knocking the shotgun from his hands and yanking him into a headlock.

  Trina was screaming, running out the room, but he couldn’t pay any attention to her. This shit couldn’t stand, even if Fritter had been fucking the guy’s wife.

  “Listen to me, you spineless shit,” he snarled into Wayne Cullen’s ear. “You’re pissed. I get that. I would be, too. But you know who I am, you idiot. You can’t put a gun to my neck unless you mean to pull the trigger. You get that?”

  “Fuck you! That’s my wife, you piece of shit!”

  Fuck, he was crying. Fritter knew he was an asshole, but this was all about reputation now. “Get it together you pussy,” he admonished, sounding disgusted. In truth, he felt sorry for the guy. He was balding, pudgy around the middle, likely worked more than he should and left his wife to mind their lovely home with absolute trust.

  Fritter knew he was one of the assholes in the house, but Wayne Cullen wasn’t the other one.

  “You don’t need her,” Fritter said, calmer, but not letting Cullen out of the headlock. “She’s using you, man. Your money, your position. All of it. There are nice women out there, you know.”

  “Yeah, how would you know?”

  Good point. “I just know,” he answered lamely. “But this woman ain’t for you. She needs to learn to appreciate someone like you, someone good. You gotta kick her to the curb to show her what she had.”

  That’s when he heard sirens, and he frowned, letting go of Cullen and moving to the front room of the house that overlooked his shaded front yard. Trina Cullen was gripping the phone in one hand, holding her robe closed with the other, and stuttering into the mouthpiece.

  “Yes. Yes, I was attacked. My husband had to defend me with a shotgun.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Fritter roared, reaching for the phone. She avoided him.

  “Please, tell them to get here quickly.”

  Fritter turned for the kitchen, ready to head out to the yard and tell Tims to load up their gear and get ready to go. These fucking people were too precious for him.

  He ran into the barrel of Cullen’s shotgun, level with his chest.

  “You’re kidding,” he repeated, shaking his head at Wayne.

  “Sit at the kitchen table and don’t fucking move.”

  Fritter did as told, sighing the whole time.

  “Tell the police you made a mistake, tell them to turn back.”

  “No!”

  “Trina!” Cullen roared at his wife, not letting his guard down this time, though. “Put the fucking phone down!”

  “They’re already here,” Fritter muttered, hearing the sirens stop and car doors slam shut, very close.

  “Shit,” Cullen muttered, and Fritter could tell he was running through scenarios.

  “She ain’t worth it man,” Fritter assured him. “Put the gun down and tell them the truth, tell them exactly what happened. I’m telling you, that’s the easiest and best way to go. You are not made for prison, Wayne.”

  The doorbell cut through the long silence that followed. Fritter cocked his eyebrow at Trina, who was hovering between the kitchen and living room, clutching the phone even though she`d hung it up.

  “Let them in or they’re kicking your door in,” Fritter warned.

  Trina went to do as asked. Wayne put the shotgun on the table. And when Sheriff Sharon Downey walked in, police issue revolver drawn and down by her thigh, it was all he could do not to throw his head back and laugh.

  Chapter Nine

  It wasn’t until she was behind the wheel with Mark Horton in the backseat that Sharon cracked up, laughing so hard her stomach hurt and tears rose in her eyes. For his part he was pretty pissed to be in cuffs and in the back of a cruiser but that was just too fucking bad.

  She started the engine, still cackling, and pulled out on the street. Fritter’s assistant was loading equipment into the back of a pick-up truck and gave a slightly jaunty wave as they drove by. He was grinning, too.

  “Are you seriously arresting me?” he asked from the backseat. “Because you didn’t read me my rights.”

  Sharon glanced up into the rearview mirror, not quite done giggling yet. “Of course not,” she finally answered, biting back another mad cackle to see he was relieved. “It was kind of obvious what had happened there.”

  They drove on a while and she composed herself. After a few blocks he asked, “You pissed?”

  She frowned at his reflection a moment before looking back at the road. “Why would I be pissed?”

  “I was fucking another woman.”

  That surprised her. She felt how her eyebrows lifted before she could get her reactions in check. “Why would that make me angry?”

  “Come on, Sharon,” he laughed, leaning back against the seat, letting his legs spread. She really had to keep her eyes on the road.

  “Come on, what? What are you talking about?”

  “You find out I’m with someone else and that’s okay?”

  Sharon waited for him to elaborate. “Yeah,” she answered eventually. “We’re not exclusive, Mark. I know that. I never assumed we were.”

  He leaned forward now, against the bulletproof shield between the front and back seat. “You’re not shitting me?”

  She met his eyes in the mirror again. “I’m not shitting you. We meet once a month. What about that suggests we’re in any way involved in a relationship?�
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  He had an unreadable look, complete with his odd half-smile, then he leaned back. “I’ll be damned.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the manic girlfriend type.”

  “No, no. I’m getting that.”

  “Sorry if that’s a disappointment.”

  He laughed at that. “Considering you walk around armed, I’d say at the moment it’s a very lucky thing for me.”

  She shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. “Relax, Mark,” she eventually said. “I’m not trying to trick you into being my boyfriend. I’m a grown-up. I know what’s what.”

  “Yeah, you do,” he muttered in an odd tone, but when she looked up she just got his profile, staring out the window.

  The rest of the ride to the clubhouse was silent. She pulled up to the curb, opting not to pull into the lot given the way her last interaction with the rest of the club had gone. She opened the side door and helped Fritter out, unlocking his cuffs when he was upright. She’d been kind and cuffed his hands in front.

  He rubbed his wrists anyway, nodding cordially. “Thanks for the ride, Sheriff.”

  “And from now on, check the house for weapons before fucking a guy’s wife.”

  He laughed, stepping away from the car so she could shut the door. “That’s good advice. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “And Sheriff?”

  She turned back before opening her car door. “Yeah?”

  His grin was back to being downright impish. “What if I told you I get hard when you cuff me?”

  Something dropped and clenched in her lower abdomen, but she kept her face stoic. “I’d say ask someone inside to help with that, and never tell me that again.”

  His grin didn’t drop. It got wider actually, and he was laughing as he rounded the corner of the building into the parking compound. She got behind the wheel with heat rising in her chest and neck, then she stared at her dashboard trying to remember what she had to do.

  Shit, Brayden!

  Only breaking the speed limit slightly she got back to headquarters, clocked out and changed into shorts and light T-shirt for the drive to Bakersfield. A shower would have been great given the close humidity of a day spent in a polyester uniform, but there just wasn’t enough time. Jasmine only wanted Brayden left alone for a few hours at a time at the condo.