Busted

by Diane Kelly

  At the bottom of the box was an eight-by-ten glossy photo of Tiffany Tindall, her mug shot. The bright orange jumpsuit did nothing for her sallow complexion, making her look like a bleach-blond sweet potato. Her eyes were their natural hazel, the tinted contacts seized by the booking officers to be returned when, and if, she was released from custody. With her daddy also under indictment and in bankruptcy, she’d have a hard time making bail. Heh-heh.

  Some smart ass, probably Dante or Andre, had written “With all my love, XO, Tiffany” in black Sharpie across the bottom corner of the photo. I tacked the picture on the bulletin board next to my booth for all the world, or at least all in the Jacksburg Police station, to see.

  In mere minutes, the paperwork was caught up. I grabbed my goggles and helmet, waved goodbye to Selena, and headed out on the police bike. I wanted to thank the Ninja rider for saving my life, but his number hadn’t been listed in the phone book and, even if it had been, a phone call seemed an inadequate, impersonal way to express my gratitude. If not for him, Tiffany would have killed me. I planned to go to his house in person, that evening, right after my shift. I’d finally meet Bartholomew Edmund Jonasili, my mystery man, face to face.

  I wondered how old he’d be, what he’d look like, how his voice would sound. I had no idea what to expect as far as those things go. What kind of man would risk his life for a woman he doesn’t even know? One who was chivalrous, brave and selfless, that’s what kind of man. One who, unlike Trey, knew right from wrong and was willing to risk his life to protect those values. Those facts told me all I needed to know. Even if nothing romantic developed between us, we’d share a bond for the rest of our lives.

  But what if something romantic developed? He seemed like a knight in leather armor, riding a yellow and black 140-horsepower steed, a helmet for a crown. My stomach twisted in excitement and anticipation. I visualized him leaping from the motorcycle into Tiffany’s open convertible, prying her clenched, manicured hands off the steering wheel, forcing the wheel to prevent the car from running me over. I thought of him disappearing down the highway, refusing to claim his rightful spot in the limelight. Nervous as I was, I could hardly wait until the workday ended.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  GIRL FINALLY MEETS BOY

  I drove to my usual hiding spot behind the WELCOME TO JACKSBURG sign. Some do-gooders, probably the Boy Scouts or the high school Key Club, had painted over the graffiti. Some teens over in Hockerville were probably already plotting to deface the sign again. It was an ongoing battle, but at least it gave the bored kids something to do other than drugs or petty thievery.

  After settling in behind the sign and cutting my engine, I debated what to dial up on my phone now that I was back at work. Loverboy’s “Working for the Weekend?” Donna Summers’ “She Works Hard for the Money?” Nah. Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumping?” Yeah, that was it. Like the lyrics said, Tiffany Tindall could knock me down, but I’d get up again. That bitch would never keep me down.

  Just as the song’s slow prelude began, the far-off drone of a high-performance motorcycle engine drifted up the two-lane highway on the cool late November breeze, the volume and pitch escalating as the bike grew closer.

  He’s coming.

  I leaned forward to peer through the oleander bush.

  A moment later, the shiny yellow and black Ninja popped up over the hill, the noise from its powerful engine now a full-blown primal scream, its rider hunched forward over the sport bike. My heart spun madly in my chest and my body broke out in an icy sweat. I wanted to roll forward onto the shoulder where he could see me, but my legs refused to move. The guy had saved my life and here I was, too awestruck to wave him down. What a chickenshit.

  The bike bore down on my hiding spot and then he was right on me. He passed me and his helmet turned as he did a double take. The bike’s brake lights flashed, then held. The Ninja slowed, pulled over onto the shoulder, and made a U-turn.

  He was heading back, straight toward me. What should I do? My mind went blank, my stomach somersaulted inside me, and my skin felt as if fire ants were swarming all over me. All I could do was stare.

  The Ninja’s rider slowed as he approached me, rolling onto the shoulder and across the dead, dry grass, coming to a stop a mere five feet from me, his engine idling. He faced me for a full minute, his face still obscured by the tinted faceplate of his helmet, only a vague outline of his jaw line visible.

  I sat there stupefied, saying nothing, doing nothing. Gah! I must look like an idiot. The guy saved my life and I can’t even work up a few words of gratitude? Finally, I managed a small symbol of thanks. I gave him the same sign of approval he’d given me after Fulton’s bust. A thumbs-up sign followed by a victorious fist in the air.

  He nodded once and sat still for a few more seconds, watching me. Then he gunned his engine, maneuvered in three tight circles around my bike, and took off, tires squealing, wheels kicking up a spray of dust and brown grass. Clearly he wanted me to pursue him. This time he won’t get away.

  I started my engine, pulled onto the highway, and raced after him, my breathing fast and loud inside my helmet. Siren wailing, lights flashing, I cranked the accelerator back and began to gain on him.

  He swerved back and forth across the lanes, blatantly taunting me before slowing down and pulling to the side. He rolled to a stop and I pulled up perpendicular in front of him, blocking his escape. I cut my engine. With shaking hands, I unsnapped my helmet and pulled it off, shaking my head and swiping at the bangs stuck to my forehead. I set my helmet on my thigh, pushed my dark goggles up onto my head, and stared him straight in the eye—or at least where his eyes would be behind the faceplate.

  I stuck out a hand. “Driver’s license, please.”

  After removing his right glove, he reached his hand into the back zipper pocket of his leather jumpsuit and retrieved his wallet. He rifled through it, taking his sweet time, torturing me with his slow movements. Finally, he pulled the card out and handed it to me.

  I took it from him, inhaled a deep breath, and looked down. Trey’s face looked up at me from the card. How can this be? There had to be some mistake. I looked up.

  Trey flipped his faceplate up so I could see his eyes, eyes that bore into mine with a shameless intensity. With sorrow. With regret. And with love.

  I could hardly believe it. Trey and the Ninja rider were one and the same. It couldn’t be, could it?

  Thinking back, it all made sense. Trey said he knew who owned the Ninja but refused to give me a name. Trey worked fairly regular hours and the Ninja rider came through town on a consistent basis. Trey’s spiky hairstyle was the result of fingers run through his short dark hair in an attempt to fight helmet head. Trey had complained about the ungodly traffic in Silicon Valley, his time-consuming commute, noting how motorcycles could use the carpool lane and shorten the time spent sitting in gridlock.

  But the registration records had showed the bike as belonging to Bartholomew Edmund Jonasili.

  My eyes snapped to the name on the license. It read Bartholomew Edmund Jones III. No doubt the clerk at the DMV had been unable to read Trey’s chicken scratch handwriting, mistaking his “e” for an “a” and the three hash marks after his name for the letters i-l-i.

  My mind reeled. I didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Should I be devastated my man of mystery was a guy I already knew, one who’d proven to be so right, and then so wrong, for me? But, my God, Trey had saved my life! I should be thrilled that Trey had risked his life for me, proven his love beyond any doubt. But does that fix everything? I wished it did, but it didn’t. He still lived half a continent away, devoting his life to glorify the very things I fought each day. Crime and violence.

  Still staring down at the license, I heard the sound of Trey unsnapping the chin strap on his helmet. He reached out, cupping his hand under my chin, softly turning my head to look up at him.

  Our eyes met and locked. Tears welled in mine and I blinked to hold them back.

/>   After clearing my throat, I managed to croak out a few words. “What are you doing here?”

  He dropped his hand. “Your father told me you’d returned to work.”

  “He did?”

  Trey nodded. “I’ve called him every day to check on your recovery.”

  Dad hadn’t said a thing about it.

  Trey seemed to read my mind. “I asked him not to tell you. I needed some time to make things right.”

  “Make things right? How?”

  “I quit my job, Marnie.”

  “You did?” A tear escaped and slid down my cheek.

  Trey wiped the tear away with a warm, rough thumb. “You were right. What I was doing was wrong.” He paused a moment. “I want you to respect me, Marnie. To respect what I do. Just like I respect you and what you do.”

  Conflicting emotional data flooded my system. Elation. Relief. Frustration. My circuits froze, experiencing a major emotional glitch. Trey may have quit that particular job, but he’d made it clear that Silicon Valley was the only place to be for someone who wanted to work on cutting edge technology. What was there for him in Hockerville or Jacksburg? He may not be working on Felony Frenzy 2, but he’d find a job with another high-tech firm in California and be gone again in a few days or weeks. Nothing had changed. I was right back where I started. Alone.

  “Are you job hunting now?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “But you said you quit your job.”

  He shifted on his seat. “When I told my boss why I was quitting, that I didn’t want to work on a violent project and that I wanted to move back to Texas to be with you, he said he didn’t want to lose me. Code can be written anywhere and transmitted over the internet. I’m going to telecommute from here. I’ll have to travel out to California for meetings, but it will only be for a few days each month.”

  It took a moment for my brain to process the information, but once it had I couldn’t help myself. I squealed like a schoolgirl, my fists clasped to my chest with relief and joy. “That’s fantastic! What will you be working on?”

  Trey grinned. “I pitched a game idea to them. An E-rated game starring a female motorcycle cop with a long auburn braid and a bunch of sexy freckles.”

  I ducked my chin. “Does she have a big butt?”

  He chuckled. “She has a womanly figure, but the focus of the game is on her policing skills.”

  “Do the good guys always win?”

  “Every time.”

  Happy tears pooled in my eyes as I climbed off my bike and Trey climbed off his. We grabbed each other in a hug so tight we both had to gasp for air. It felt so good, so right, to be back in his arms. I belonged in those arms, and he belonged in mine. My smile grew so wide my lips hurt.

  I had someone who loved me. And I had someone to love. I wasn’t alone anymore. I released Trey, reached down, and took the cuffs from my belt, snapping one on Trey’s wrist, the other on my own.

  He grinned. “Kinky.”

  “Kinky, nothing. You’re busted.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Theft,” I said. “You’ve stolen my heart.” Corny, yeah, but what the heck. I could give as good as him.

  Trey wrapped his free hand around the back of my neck, drawing me to him for a warm, deep kiss. After a few seconds, he ended the kiss and pulled his head back to look into my eyes. “I plead guilty as charged.” He reached into another pocket and pulled out a ring box. My heart seemed to stop as he opened it to reveal a brilliant diamond ring. “Any chance you’ll give me a life sentence?”

  My heart soared with joy. “Yes!” I cried through a fresh set of tears.

  Trey slipped the ring on my finger and gave me another kiss.

  Fate had tired of toying with me, had a change of heart, decided to make up for all her bullying by giving me a smart, funny, sexy man to share my life with. Maybe fate isn’t such a bitch after all.

  ***

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for buying this book! I hope that you enjoyed Busted, and had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Posting a review at online retailers and the Goodreads website are a great way to share your thoughts on the story with other readers.

  Be the first to hear about upcoming releases, special discounts, and subscriber-only contests by signing up for my newsletter at my website, www.DianeKelly.com.

  Find me online at www.DianeKelly.com, and on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/DianeKellyBooks.

  I’d love to connect with you on Twitter and Instagram, too! Just look for my handle @dianekellybooks.

  Following is a list of my other books, then read on for a sneak peek at Paw of the Jungle, which releases on November 26, 2019!

  Happy reading! See you in the next story.

  Diane

  OTHER BOOKS BY DIANE KELLY

  If you enjoyed Busted, you’ll like these other books, too!

  The House Flipper Mystery Series:

  Dead as a Door Knocker

  Dead in the Doorway (Releases March 2020)

  The Paw Enforcement Mystery Series:

  Paw Enforcement

  Paw and Order

  Laying Down the Paw

  Against the Paw

  Above the Paw

  Enforcing the Paw

  The Long Paw of the Law

  Paw of the Jungle

  The Tara Holloway Death & Taxes series:

  Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure

  Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte

  Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

  Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria

  Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers

  Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream

  Death, Taxes, and Silver Spurs

  Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses

  Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli

  Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter

  Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries

  Death, Taxes, and a Shotgun Wedding

  Other books:

  A Sappy Love Story

  Love, Luck, & Little Green Men

  Love Unleashed

  One Magical Night

  PAW OF THE JUNGLE – SNEAK PREVIEW

  Chapter One

  Second Chances

  The Poacher

  Please say yes.

  He knew it was dumb to cross his fingers, that the childish gesture wouldn’t change anything, but he needed any help he could get.

  The man leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, sending a pointed look over his desk. “We’ve taken chances on ex-cons before. It hardly ever works out.”

  The guy’s words weren’t exactly encouraging, but he wouldn’t have offered an interview to a felon if they weren’t desperate to fill their openings. Besides, he’d said hardly ever, not never. How can I convince this guy to give me the job?

  “I got early release for good behavior,” the Poacher said. “I’ll do what I’m told. I just want to earn an honest living. I’m not the same man who—”

  “Stole from his employers?” The man’s brows lifted, his forehead ridged like corrugated metal.

  The Poacher’s gut tightened. He’d planned to say he wasn’t the same man who’d made those stupid mistakes years ago, but there was no point in arguing with the guy—especially when he was right. Even so, the Poacher had only been trying to provide for his family, to give them the things they needed and deserved. He hadn’t done it for himself. He wasn’t a bad guy. But trying to explain himself or excuse his behavior wouldn’t get him anywhere.