by Cop Versus Biker) Christa Wick - Shield Her (A Bad Boys in Her Bed Menage
Shield Her (A Bad Boys in Her Bed Menage, Cop Versus Biker)
Christa Wick
Christa Wick (2015)
* * *
I fell in love with Maddox and Carson in college, but not once have they made a move on me. So, for eight years I settled for being best friends with two of the biggest players in the city, watching Maddox cycle through girlfriends every few months and Carson jump from one hook-up to the next.
Now our friendship is in jeopardy. An outlaw motorcycle club has started hanging around Carson's bike shop, drawing him deep into their underworld of violence and crime. My pleas to Maddox to intervene as a cop are ignored. Both men are shutting me out, avoiding my calls and treating me like I never even existed in their lives.
After I show up at Carson's shop and make a scene, life goes from bleak to terrifying. I find myself right in the middle of a police investigation, wearing a wire around hard core criminals while Carson feels me up in their club house as I play the role of his "old lady."
But the night's not over. Listening to the audio of all that heavy petting made Maddox jealous. Carson suggests that the only way to set our friendship right is to let Maddox have his own time on the couch with me -- while Carson watches.
**
About Shield Her
I fell in love with Maddox and Carson in college, but not once have they made a move on me. So, for eight years I settled for being best friends with two of the biggest players in the city, watching Maddox cycle through girlfriends every few months and Carson jump from one hook-up to the next.
Now our friendship is in jeopardy. An outlaw motorcycle club has started hanging around Carson’s bike shop, drawing him deep into their underworld of violence and crime. My pleas to Maddox to intervene as a cop are ignored. Both men are shutting me out, avoiding my calls and treating me like I never even existed in their lives.
After I show up at Carson’s shop and make a scene, life goes from bleak to terrifying. I find myself right in the middle of a police investigation, wearing a wire around hard core criminals while Carson feels me up in their club house as I play the role of his “old lady.”
But the night’s not over. Listening to the audio of all that heavy petting made Maddox jealous. Carson suggests that the only way to set our friendship right is to let Maddox have his own time on the couch with me — while Carson watches.
********************
Visit christawick.com/wickedreads to register for email notices on new releases (two per release), sales, free ebooks, ARC opportunities, contests and more.
Shield Her
Catcalls followed me across the showroom of the West Bay motorcycle shop. I ignored them as I searched for the dark ginger curls of Carson Brody. He owned the shop, and when I found the dumb ox I was going to wring his neck.
“You need a tail pipe because I got a big one for you, baby.”
My chest tightened and my stomach churned at the same time. The men filling the shop were disgusting. Almost every one of them had long, dirty hair, unkempt beards, and bodies reeking of tobacco and other smokables.
I wanted to tell them off, or at least flip them the bird, but they all wore club vests with West Bay on the bottom rocker and Steel Tide on the top. West Bay had big enough crime problems that I knew they weren’t just part of a motorcycle club. They were outlaws, that bottom rocker signifying the city was their territory and they’d kill to keep it.
My spine stiffened and my shoulders pushed back as I saw the closed office door. Carson had to be behind it because he wasn’t on the shop floor and he wasn’t in the build room.
He also wasn’t answering his phone, emails or texts. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have braved the shop after what it had turned into over the last few months.
Reaching the office, I tried the handle, intent on just barging in and not giving him a chance to pretend he wasn’t inside. Finding it locked, I slammed my fist against the door over and over as I called out for him.
“Open up, Carson! I know you’re in there, your bike is out back. OPEN THE FUCK UP!”
From inside, someone slowly turned the knob. When the door opened, I wasn’t looking at Carson, one of my two best friends since college. Instead, six-foot-two inches of scrawny evil with graying black hair ran its narrowed, bloodshot gaze across my body, his frame blocking my view of the room inside.
Like the other men loitering in the shop, he had a club vest on, only this one had a patch that identified him as president of the assholes who had been catcalling me. He also wore a one-percent patch, proclaiming himself an outlaw in case the poor hygiene and stink of weed didn’t clue me in.
“Who is this bitch?” he asked with a glance over his shoulder.
I heard the chair squeak as Carson got up from behind his desk. “No one, I’ll get rid of her.”
“If she’s ‘no one,’” the club president said, his body still blocking the door. “One of the boys will get rid of her.”
I heard a few snickers and volunteering from the men who had gathered at my back.
“A friend,” Carson amended, his voice coming from a point near the club’s president.
“Friend talks to me like that,” a masculine voice proclaimed from a few inches off my right shoulder. “She better be ready to suck my cock for a few hours in apology.”
Way to use your syllables, asshole.
I kept the snarky remark sealed behind pressed lips. I had arrived at the shop pissed and only grown angrier as I walked through a store that had been so different just a few months before, when these filthy human beings weren’t hanging around all the time. That burgeoning fury had made me reckless enough that I — a mere woman surrounded by obvious misogynists — had ordered a man to open up and stop hiding from me.
Things were on the verge of getting far worse. It didn’t matter that Carson was six feet of packed muscle and fought like a pit bull. The shop was filled with more than just the slime ball in front of me and the six at my back. There was another right outside the front door and more in the build room.
And I was no longer sure that Carson was the man I once thought him to be.
“I think she owes us all an apology,” another creep behind me joined in.
My muscles grew tighter as I stared at the dead eyes of the club’s president.
“I said I’ll handle it, Eight Ball.” Carson cleared his throat, the sound a warning I’d heard only a few times in the past eight years when things had gone too far during a night out and he was going to have to unleash a beat down on some guy or group of guys.
I stayed silent, wracking my brain for something I could say that would erase my mistake of having stepped into the shop to begin with.
Eight Ball slid his hand inside his vest, down around the belt line. His fingers wrapped around a pistol grip.
“I don’t like the tone of your voice, shop monkey. So shut your mouth.”
Out came the gun. Seeing it, my knees went weak and my head started to spin.
“What’s your name?” he asked, the pistol resting lightly against his chest and the barrel tip pointed at the ceiling.
“Reggie,” I said, somehow managing not to choke all over my answer.
“I got a bunch of guys thinking you need to show us how sorry you are.”
I blinked, said nothing while I focused on keeping my feet under me. I had stupidly walked into a den of criminals and was about to get myself killed. And if Carson was still the man I’d known all these years, he’d be dead, too.
Eight Ball stepped closer, Carson finally visible over his shoulder, his jaw tight and his teal-green eyes burning so hot they should have been able to explode the head of the creep between us.
Leaning in, Eight Ball brought the tip of the gun against my breast, the metal circling around my nipple, my flesh trying to crawl away from the contact.
“Tell me, Reggie,” he asked as the chimes on the front door sounded. “Are you sorry yet?”
“Cops!” a voice shouted from the front of the show room. “One-car patrol team.”
I felt a sudden rush of air as the men at my back exited a quick right into the build room. Eight Ball’s gun disappeared into his vest and he casually stepped over to one of the racks of filters.
Standing in his office door, Carson glared at me, his lips moving with a silent command.
Get out!
I turned, but Eight Ball hooked me with a creepy whisper as the front door opened again and the two uniformed cops entered.
“You’re not going anywhere, Reggie.”
I froze. I could leave, but what would that mean for Carson? Should I care? He had somehow immersed himself in the company of these men. He had an out — Maddox, my other best friend. The two had been inseparable since their first day of kindergarten and Maddox was a cop, a detective in West Bay’s Safe Streets task force.
I blinked, tears coming to my eyes for the first time as salvation was within reach but at an unknown cost to a man I loved.
“Ma’am,” one of the cops asked as he spotted me a few feet from Eight Ball. “Is that your Blue Ford Focus in the parking lot?”
I nodded, a spark of an idea blooming inside me. If I freaked out on the cops, played the spoiled princess or did something else that got me arrested, would Eight Ball take it out on Carson? I’d be leaving without openly defying the club president’s command and Carson could play it off like I was some flaky, insane chick everyone should stay away from.
“We’re going to need you to come outside and open the trunk for us,” the cop said, his hand going to his sidearm.
What the hell?
The question almost slipped past my lips, then I remembered I wanted out of the store. I nodded again, my near-paralyzed feet shuffling one in front of the other until I reached the two police officers. The second one took me by the elbow and walked me at a faster pace to my car while his partner stayed inside for a few seconds.
Instead of letting me open the trunk on my own, the cop took my keys from me and popped the release, then he made a long show of looking under the mats and checking the well that held the spare tire. He moved on to the inside of my vehicle as the first cop came out of the store and put me in cuffs.
“What’s going on?” I asked, a slightly less terrifying worry replacing the one I’d left behind me in the store.
“We ask the questions,” the first cop said, his name tag identifying him as Officer Maldonado.
“You aren’t asking any,” I replied, my voice soft and confused.
He slid a glance at me, one I recognized from all the times Maddox had given me a similar look. I think it was something all the cops had to learn as recruits — some part of their interrogation training. Or maybe it was Suspect Intimidation 101.
I kept my mouth shut after that. They weren’t going to find anything, unless they planted it. And whatever happened next, I was getting off this damn lot and my first phone call, arrested or not, would be straight to Maddox.
Fresh hurt constricted my chest. Maddox had been ignoring my calls lately, probably because all of them had to do with our mutual best friend, the one currently surrounded by dirt bags in his store.
Calling Maddox would be pointless, even if I needed bailed out of jail and was facing some kind of made up charge.
The first cop, Davis by his name tag, finished upending the interior of my Ford and threw his hands up. Maldonado turned me around and removed the handcuffs, talking low under his breath as he did so.
“You’re going to get in your car and leave, do you understand, Miss Fox?”
I dipped my head and whispered, “Yes.”
“If you return, you will be arrested,” he continued. “Do you understand that, too?”
“Yes.”
Free of the cuffs, I rubbed at my wrists. Davis handed me my keys with an angry glare then got into the driver’s seat of the patrol car. Maldonado watched me as I went around closing the trunk and the car doors Davis had left open.
When I finally pulled away, they were both sitting in the patrol car, Maldonado writing on a clipboard while Davis studied Carson’s bike shop through his side mirror.
Six blocks away from the store, a sedan pulled behind me, a red and blue light flashing on its dashboard. An arm reached out the window and gestured for me to turn off the main street.
I knew the arm, knew the pissed off driver behind the wheel.
Somehow, West Bay Detective Zen Maddox had known I was in deep-shit-probably-gonna-die kind of trouble and had, without so much as stepping foot in Carson’s store, just saved my ass.
********************
Four hours later I was pacing in the living room of my co-op apartment when a single, sharp knock drew me to the door. I flung the door open, expecting and finding Maddox outside in the hall. He brushed past me with an angry look on his face then shut and locked the door.
“Is it too much to expect you to lock your doors and check the peephole?”
“I used it,” I lied. “And I knew it was you.”
He shot me one of those side glances and I snagged his shirt sleeve.
“Is it too much to expect an explanation instead of a lecture?” I asked.
Seriously, I needed to know what was going on, badly and soon. The two most important men in my life were working overtime to alienate me — or so it seemed. Maddox, upon pulling me over, had curtly ordered me to haul my sweet ass home and stay there until he came by this evening to “handle” me.
The words had chafed. I had dreamed of him handling me way too often for us to just be best friends who had never shared so much as a single romantic kiss. Most of the time, those dirty fantasies included Carson in the same bed. But as much as I supposedly meant to the two men, they were clearly cutting me out of something that was a danger to both of them.
“I’ll explain,” he stopped and shot another withering glance at me. “As little as I can when Carson gets here.”
“He’s coming by, really?” Fresh relief flooded through me. I’d spent the last four hours either pacing or angrily scrubbing at every speck of dirt, real or imagined, in my apartment while I tried not to imagine Carson dead or badly beat up.
“Yeah,” Maddox answered, sinking into the chair near my sofa.
I stood alongside the chair, fingers dancing on the armrest. A month ago, I would have sat on the spot, but a month ago was the last time I saw either of my two best friends in person. And Maddox never liked me getting very close to him to begin with, something I could never quite understand given how much he professed to like me.
“You want something to drink?” I asked, pulling my hand to my side.
“A coffee,” he answered, reading through his Blackberry and ignoring me already.
Going into the kitchen, I put a coffee pod in the machine and poured myself a glass of wine while I waited for the cup to fill. When the machine shut off, my glass was empty. I refilled it then took Maddox his coffee.
He took it with an absent “thanks” and continued thumbing through his messages, blind to the fact that I took a seat at the far end of the couch, when it was my habit to sit on the end closest to him.