Busted

by Diane Kelly

  I’m not one to boink and tell, so let’s just say Trey and I achieved connectivity, overloading each other’s circuits. I’d never felt anything as intense as the high-voltage power surge he sent through my system.

  Afterward we held each other for several moments, neither of us wanting to let go just yet. When we’d recovered, Trey went offline, sliding down the trunk of the car to stand behind it. He shot me a pointed look, for once his face deadly serious. “You think the guy on the Ninja could make you feel like that?”

  No, I didn’t. I’d never experienced anything so pleasurable in all my life. I was beginning to think Trey was the only man whose system was fully compatible with mine. I looked away, declining to answer him, the anger returning, but my refusal to meet his eyes told him what he wanted to know. For the time being, he held an exclusive license to my software. And my heart.

  Trey retrieved his pants and slid into them. He began to pick up the rest of our clothing and had just handed me my dress when a bright spotlight ignited behind him, locking on us, blinding me.

  Busted.

  Damn! I’d suggested the night officers make regular runs by the baseball fields to check for young couples making out in cars. No sense letting teens get pregnant any easier than they did already. But the officer on duty tonight, the pudgy Jared Roddy, rarely followed orders, usually opting to sit in his cruiser in the Grab-N-Go parking lot, dipping snuff and reading Field and Stream. He’d picked a fine night to actually do some police work. Guess Trey and I had been too distracted to hear the cruiser pull up.

  I turned my head away, pulling my knees up and holding my dress to my chest to cover my bare breasts. Trey stepped directly in front of me, blocking the light behind him, hiding me from view as I fumbled to pull on my dress.

  Roddy’s voice came over the public address system. “Let’s see your faces, kids.”

  Trey called over his shoulder. “We’re both consenting adults, officer.”

  Roddy wasn’t satisfied with that answer. I wouldn’t have been either. The door of the cruiser slammed and I heard footsteps coming toward the car. The beam from his Maglite played around the car. “You got some young thing hiding back there?”

  “No, sir. She’s of age.”

  Roddy’s footsteps stopped a few feet behind Trey. “Can’t take your word for it. She’s going to have to show her face.”

  Trey looked down at me, mouthing the word “sorry.”

  I was sorry we’d been caught, too, but I wasn’t sorry at all that Trey and I had shared such an intense experience, such a special, intimate connection.

  “Come on, hon,” Roddy called to me. “Let’s see ya.”

  There’s no getting out of this. I finished dressing and slid off the trunk. I stood, arms crossed over my chest, and glared into the brilliant beam, my cheeks blazing brighter than the flashlight.

  Roddy squinted into the night. “Captain Muckleroy? Is that you?”

  I marched over to Roddy and slapped the flashlight out of his hand. It fell to the ground, spilling its batteries.

  He hooted with laughter, laying one hand across his beer belly, the other on his thigh. “Well, hell, Marnie,” he said when he got his laughter under control. “You was the last person I ‘spected to find out here.”

  Trey stepped over, picked up the pieces of the flashlight and inserted the batteries. Roddy eyed Trey as he handed him the flashlight, probably trying to memorize Trey’s features so he’d be able to describe him to his buddies at the Watering Hole next time they met up for beers.

  “You say one word to anyone, Jared,” I warned, “and you’ll be moved to the day shift so fast you’ll get whiplash.”

  His face sagged. Roddy didn’t want to work days because day shift officers actually worked. The night shift was nothing more than a few hours of driving around town, listening to the radio, circling the bank buildings and convenience stores, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity that rarely occurred. Heck, I couldn’t remember the last time a night officer had filed any kind of incident report.

  Roddy raised a hand in surrender. “All right, all right. Keep your panties on.” He aimed the beam of his flashlight at my red panties hanging from the Lincoln’s bumper. “Oops, too late for that.”

  He laughed again and I spun him around by his shoulders, shoving him toward his cruiser.

  Once Roddy drove off I turned back to Trey. He leaned against the side of the car, watching me. He’d put his shirt on and buttoned it, but he hadn’t tucked it in. He looked rumpled, casual, and completely sexy.

  He held a hand out to me and I took it. He pulled me to him, holding me to his chest, running a hand down my hair. “You ever gonna forgive me?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Getting caught with my pants down had been totally humiliating. But it had also been totally worth it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  GETTING PERSONAL

  The next few weeks flew by. September ended and October was well on its way. Trey and I spent every spare moment together, taking this fling as far as it would go. I found myself avoiding the highway, putting the Ninja on hold. For the time being, I wanted to focus only on Trey.

  We went for leisurely rides on my motorcycle, Trey’s arms wrapped tightly around me, his chest pressed to my back, taking a blanket along in the saddle bag and finding hidden, out-of-the-way places to make love. We rented goofy movies and ignored them while we made love on the couch at my house when Dad was out. We took another stab at rock climbing, located a small, private cave, and made love on the cold stone floor. The sex was so good I didn’t mind that I had to dig pebbles out of my butt cheeks afterward.

  Trey even invited me to dinner at his parents’ house, a serious step for what was merely a short-term relationship. His mother and father, Frances and BJ, were wonderful people, down-to-earth and genuine. I enjoyed his mother’s extra-cheesy lasagna, but felt conflicted at seeing his father getting around so well, his speech sounding normal, his right arm functioning at nearly full capacity. Thanks to the severe PTSD I’d suffered, I knew what it was like to be incapacitated. The man deserved to have his life back, and I was glad to see that happening. But his gain would be my loss.

  Over lunch at the diner one Friday afternoon, Trey eyed me intently over the table and told me the news I’d been dreading. “I bought my return plane ticket. I’m leaving for California on Wednesday.”

  We had less than a week left together. Though I’d known this moment was coming, it nonetheless shattered my heart. “Maybe you could find a permanent job here,” I blurted out, sounding as desperate as I felt. “You never know when your father might relapse.” Okay, so I was trying to guilt him into staying. Sue me.

  Trey exhaled a sharp breath. “I’ve looked into it, Marnie. Dallas is too far to commute, and the only tech jobs in Hockerville or Jacksburg are network administrator positions. I’d rather poke myself in the eye than fix people’s computer problems all day long.”

  “You could keep freelancing.”

  He shook his head. “These contract gigs have bored me to death. It’s mostly installations. There’s no challenge in it, no creativity.”

  “What about the websites?”

  “There’s not enough work here to keep me busy full time. Besides, what I can charge for a site is a pittance compared to what I can earn as a programmer.”

  In other words, websites were below his pay grade. He’d thought through his options and none of them was workable. I’d soon be alone again.

  ***

  Trey would be leaving in five days, but we’d get to spend the day together Saturday at the Jackrabbit Jamboree. At least I had that to look forward to.

  Late Friday afternoon, Eric pulled his delivery truck into the lot and came inside empty-handed to flirt with Selena. Before he left, he stepped over to my booth. “I’ve got another delivery for 612 Renfro. Want to take a look?”

  Another suspicious delivery. Something odd really was going on. I wasn’t losing it. Good
to know. “Absolutely.”

  I followed him outside to his truck. In the back were two boxes, a small one from Macy’s and a large one from Bergdorf Goodman. Both were addressed to Zane Nichols, Savannah’s youngest son. Whoa.

  “Zane Nichols is my best friend’s kid,” I told Eric. “He doesn’t live on Renfro.” Besides, Savannah never shopped at Macy’s or Bergdorf’s. She was more of a Marshall’s and T.J. Maxx kind of girl.

  Eric shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you. I have to deliver them to the address on the label or I’ll get in trouble with my supervisor.”

  “I understand.” But understanding wouldn’t stop me from swinging by the Parker house later to nab the packages.

  I gave Eric a half-hour lead, then headed over to Renfro. The boxes addressed to Zane sat on the sagging porch of the Parker house. I gathered them up and carried the packages to my bike. The one from Bergdorf’s was too big to fit in my saddle bags, but I managed to fasten it down with a bungee cord I kept handy. When I returned to the station, I called Savannah, telling her I’d bring the boxes with me on Sunday, when I’d agreed to babysit for her.

  This situation was not only getting weird, it was getting personal. If someone was preying on people who were important to me, God help them. Wonder Woman does whatever it takes to defeat the bad guys, especially when they victimize people close to her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  PARTY TIME

  The Saturday of the jamboree dawned unseasonably clear and cloudless, the endless blue sky meaning it would be hotter than hell by noon. I’d be outside all day in my uniform, a non-breathable polyester blend. Such was the risk of living in north Texas, with its unpredictable weather patterns, the four seasons constantly playing leapfrog with each other.

  My head was already sweating in my helmet when I started my engine, leading the parade lineup out of the high school parking lot. I turned on my flashing lights and rolled down the road, followed by Andre driving the cruiser with the busted lights. With him was a part-time officer who worked weekends. Dante was supposed to be at the rear of the line-up in the other cruiser, but since the line snaked around the back of the gymnasium out of sight, I couldn’t verify his presence. Yet. But today I’d learn if Dante and Andre really were twins, or whether I’d been had.

  Behind Andre’s patrol car, Chief Moreno rode next to the mayor of Jacksburg on the mayor’s hay baler, the two men crowded shoulder-to-shoulder on the narrow seat. A metal bucket full of individually wrapped pink bubble gum rested on the chief’s lap, both of the men tossing the candy into the crowd, eager hands yanking the treats out of the air.

  Behind the mayor’s tractor came the Jacksburg high school marching band, led by a prancing drum major in a tall furry hat with a thick black strap cutting across his chin. Behind him, on the band’s front row, followed six girls with flutes and one with a tiny piccolo, enthusiastic yet heat-weary in their heavy purple and red fringed uniforms. The remaining woodwinds followed, the brass not far behind, while the percussion brought up the rear, the drum line setting the pace with a rat-a-tat-tat. Flanking the band was the flag brigade, dressed in lighter uniforms of ruffled skirts and blouses, twirling their oversized flags. While swinging her flag over her head, a smiling redhead stepped in a long-neglected pothole and lost control of her flag, whacking a nearby saxophone with a loud clang but luckily missing the boy’s head.

  An assortment of homemade floats followed, many improvised from spare parts scrounged from garages or the flea market, pulled by pickups. Between the floats walked a group of kids from the elementary school decked out in their Halloween costumes. Zane looked adorable dressed as a miniature police officer. When he took off his hat and waved it at me, I saluted in reply.

  Not exactly a Mardi Gras-caliber parade by any means, but this was a show, Jacksburg style. I weaved my way back and forth across the road to maintain my momentum while allowing those behind me to keep up. Once we reached the parade route on Main, I sped up and drove the entire route, making one last check that all crossroads were properly blocked and the road was free of traffic and obstacles that could impede the parade.

  When I reached the end of the route, I squeezed my shoulder radio. “All clear.”

  One of the twins answered back. “All clear. Got it.”

  No answer from the other. Hmm.

  “Take the lead, Andre,” I radioed. I was going to find out once and for all if I really had twins on my payroll.

  I made a U-turn and headed against the parade traffic, past Andre, past the marching band, past the dozen or so young girls from Tina’s Tap and Twirl, dressed in pink leotards and tap shoes, twirling silver batons with pink streamers on the ends. When I was five, I’d marched in the parade myself, along with my fellow students from Tina’s, my hair in long, dark braids tied with pink-and-black polka dot ribbons Mom bought especially for the occasion. I’d felt really special until the parade seemed to go on much too long, especially for a young girl who’d drank three full glasses of Tang for breakfast. I wet my pants before reaching the end. When I bawled in embarrassment, Uncle Angus’d pulled out the waistband of his jeans and poured his snow cone into his underpants to make me feel less conspicuous. I’d laughed so hard I’d wet my pants again. But once Mom had taken me home to change into dry clothes and we’d returned to the jamboree for a ride on the pony-go-round, I’d forgotten all about it.

  Dad and Angus were participating in this year’s parade, too, Dad’s SUV decorated with purple and red streamers. Dad tooted his horn at me as I passed by and tossed me a Tootsie Roll, which I caught in my leather glove. Clearly, the Jamboree organizer was fairly lax on the qualifications for participating in the parade. Slap a few balloons on your butt and you could call yourself a float. But it wasn’t like the residents of Jacksburg had much money to spare for fancy decorations. Besides, who were we going to impress? Ourselves?

  I carefully eased my way past the local Boy Scout Pack, who carried the American and Texas flags. The Scout Master, a former classmate of mine, walked behind his charges. Not to be outdone, a troop of Brownies followed the boys, pulling radio flyer wagons loaded with cages containing dogs and cats available for adoption from the city pound. A drooling basset hound mix in the rear howled along with the marching band, sending up a racket. An ice cream truck followed, playing tinny ice cream music. The current selection was “Do Your Ears Hang Low?”

  The grand finale was the big red fire truck #1. Why it was assigned a number when it was the only rig the town owned, who knows. But the buff firemen hanging off the sides, flexing their muscles and tipping their bright yellow hard hats at the ladies, were a big hit. The Jacksburg Jackrabbit, wearing the stifling costume that, despite repeated cleanings, still reeked from years of accumulated sweat, rode on top of the fire truck, his long ears nearly reaching the overhead wires.

  The police officers normally rotated duty as the rabbit. I’d taken a turn last year. It was absolutely miserable. Not only was the suit stinky and hot, you couldn’t talk to anyone all day. You could only gesture. It was a stupid rule. It’s not like little kids thought the darn thing was a real bunny, anyway. And how would they remember a voice from one year to the next?

  This year, Jared Roddy had won the honors of serving in the stench-suit, my punishment for him spilling the beans about finding me and Trey naked, rounding home base at the baseball fields. Despite my warnings, the jackass hadn’t kept his mouth shut. I’d learned as much when Selena had greeted me the following Monday morning with, “Heard you finally got laid.”

  I passed the cruiser bringing up the rear. Jared Roddy and the other night officer sat in the front seat. What was Roddy doing in the cruiser? And if Roddy was in the cruiser, who the heck was in the bunny suit? And where was Dante? I squeezed my shoulder radio. “Dante. You there?”