Edward Unconditionally Common Powers 3 (2 page)

The gun went off.

The front tire on the car hissed and flattened.

Someone screamed.

The man grabbed the dog, cooed to it, and Jack felt the dog's teeth release his leg.

No one was going to believe this. Thank God his patrol car wasn't one of the ones that had the new dash video cameras and that this moment wouldn't be captured. And shared among all his men for them to laugh at him.

If it were up to him, no one would know about this either.

Standing over Jack with the dog in his arms, the man looked down at him. The bulldog's tongue licked around its mouth as if savoring the taste of Jack's flesh and blood, looking very pleased with itself.

From his spot on the ground, Jack said, “You're lucky I didn't shoot
you
.”

He shoved his gun back into the holster and pushed himself up to sitting. After pulling up his leg, he rolled up his cuff, pushed down his black sock, and examined the bite. Two puncture wounds just above his ankle leaked blood, his pants were shredded, and his dignity was shot to hell.

Would it be murder? First degree or manslaughter? How much time would he have to do?

“I'm going to have to impound your dog. He doesn't have a tag.” Jack grabbed his hat and shoved it back on.

“You can't do that!” The man clutched his dog to him and stepped back. “Winston can't go to jail.”

“Yes, I can. I'm the fucking chief of police. I can do anything I fucking want to. And if you give me any more lip, I'll toss you in a cell and throw away the fucking key.” Jack pushed to his feet. “Now, put the dog back in your car.”

Finally, the guy did what Jack told him to do. The dog hopped in, and as the man shut the Miata's door, he murmured to the dog, “Stay right there, Winston.”

Woof.

Jack glared at the dog, then said, “Now, hands on the car and spread your legs.”

“What?”

Jack grabbed the man's arm and spun him around. “I said, spread your legs,” he growled as a flash of power and control shot through his body. Uh-uh. Not good.

“But I hardly know you. I'm really not that kind of guy,” he drawled over his shoulder.

As the bulldog kept his eyes on Jack, probably looking for a chance to bite again, Jack slid his hands over the guy's back, hips, and down his legs, lingering on firm muscles, absorbing the heat of the younger man's body. “Anything you want to declare?”

“Just my sexuality, Officer.”

“That's chief of police.” Unfortunately, he was clean. Jack had hoped he'd find something on the dude, just to add to the list of charges. “Put your hands behind your back.” Jack pulled out his cuffs.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Put your hands behind your back.'”

“Am I under arrest?” This time the younger man did as he was told. Jack slapped the handcuffs over his wrists and then walked him by the arm over to his patrol car.

“This is for your protection and mine. I'll take them off if everything checks out.”

“Promise?”

Jack caught a flicker of fear in his brown eyes; then it was gone. Jack didn't answer. Instead, he said, “Stay here; don't move.” Jack leaned him against the bumper.

Sliding behind the wheel, he picked up the radio and took a deep breath. The man had made him so mad Jack had lost his professionalism, lost his control, and had cursed. Not cool.

Christ, Jack had been so rattled, he hadn't followed procedure. For all Jack knew, he could be wanted in three states. That shirt alone should get the guy arrested.

He stole a look at his prisoner, decided it was time to pull himself together and act like the cop he was, put down the mic, and got out of the car. He strode over to the Miata and picked up the driver's license and wallet lying on the ground, then gathered up the other papers.

Jack stared at it. “Edward Paul Beauregard the Third? Are you joking?”

“No.” The man stood straighter.

“The Third?” Who puts that on their license? Senior, junior, maybe, but the little III behind the name seemed so pretentious.

“Yes. I'm Edward Beauregard, of the Atlanta Beauregards,” he drawled, as if it should mean something to Jack.

“Well, Mr. Beauregard, I'm going to call in your license and see if you need to be sitting in the back with that crazed mutt of yours.” Sitting in the car again, he picked up the mic and read off the numbers to his dispatcher. If it came back positive, he'd put the guy in the back of the car. With his damn dog.

“He's not a crazed mutt. He's registered.” Beauregard tilted his nose upward.

“Registered as a lethal weapon?”

“Lethal weapon. Cute. I had no idea sheriffs were
so
funny.”

Jack let the sheriff comment slide. “Does he always attack people?”

The man looked Jack up and down, then purred, “Like me, I guess he can't resist a man in uniform.”

Jack stared at Beauregard, opened his mouth to respond, but before he could put his big foot in, dispatch came back. “He's clean. No record. No warrants.”

“See.” He gave an exasperated shrug. “I'm not a criminal escaping justice.”

How the hell was Jack going to explain this?

“Jesus, give me strength,” he muttered, his finger on the button.

“Come back, Chief? What'd you say?” his dispatcher replied.

“Dispatch a tow truck to mile thirteen on FM 123 and pick up a red Miata. Have them take it to Smith's to have the tire fixed.”

“Everything all right, sir?” The voice crackled back at him.

“Just peachy-damn-keen.” He slammed the receiver on the hook, leaned back against the headrest, and closed his eyes.

His head pounded, he'd been dog bit, and he'd lost a fight with the gayest man he'd ever seen in his life.

Jack groaned.

“Officer, are you all right?”

Jack stared into the man's worried face as he looked through the windshield.

“Against my better judgment, I'm going to release you.” He fought the urge to shoot someone, including himself. Instead, he got out of the car and opened the rear door, then uncuffed Beauregard.

“Put the dog in, sir.”

“But... ” The man bit his bottom lip, full and pink. Men shouldn't have such plump lips; there should be a law. And he certainly should
not
be noticing such things.

“Now.” Too tired to argue, Jack stared him down.

He nodded, got the dog from his car, and led him back to the cruiser. “Get in, Winston. Don't worry. I'll get you a lawyer.”

The dog hopped in, climbed onto the seat, and sat back. His owner fastened the seat belt over the dog's broad chest, gently closed the door, and stared through the window at the beast.

“You're not going to hurt him, are you?”

Jack looked down into brown eyes surrounded by thick lashes that matched the younger man's short black hair.

For some reason Jack
absolutely
did not want to explore, he softened his tone. “You'll have to prove he's had his shots, see the judge, and pay a fine. But no, I'm not going to hurt him.” That would be up to their animal control officer, if it went that far. “Get your stuff from the car. You're coming with me until I get this all straightened out.”

Jack watched as that incredibly firm ass walked back to the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a suitcase and a duffel bag. He'd seen a set of bags like those in the mall in San Antonio, at one of the upscale shops. Leather, maybe, and if the guy's wallet was any indication, they probably cost more than Jack made in a month. Maybe two months.

The young man shut the trunk and then came back to the patrol car. Placing the luggage on the ground in front of Jack as if
he
were supposed to stow them away, the man turned and went back to the wounded Miata. The familiar smell of leather came from the bags, reminding Jack of saddles and tack. Heady. Manly.

They didn't seem to match the man. At all. Maybe they were borrowed.

The dog's owner leaned over the door, giving Jack another eyeful of ass, then scooped up a worn brown leather jacket and returned.

He pointed to his bags. “Those need to go in the trunk, Officer.”

“I'm the chief of police,” Jack gritted out.

“Of course you are,” he said, then walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and slid into the seat with nary a by-your-leave.

“Jesus.” Jack looked up at the sky. “Don't give me strength. I'd just kill him with my bare hands.” Then he picked up the bags and put them in the trunk of the cruiser.

Jack drove to town in a steaming silence. His ankle had beaten out his head for the grand prize of pain as it throbbed with every movement. In the backseat, the dog rode peacefully, no frothing at the mouth, no wild barking, as if he'd ridden in the back of a cop car his whole life. And wearing a seat belt, for God's sake. He'd never seen a dog wear a seat belt.

Beside Jack, the stranger stared out the window at the scenery.

Not one word of apology for Jack's bite.

Jack snatched up the mic again. “I'm bringing someone in.”

“What's your ETA?”

“Ten minutes.” He hung up the mic.

Jack cleared his throat. “So, what are you doing in Spring Lake?”

“Spring Lake? Why, I thought I was in Hooterville,” the guy drawled.

The comment set Jack's teeth on edge. He hated being thought of as a hick cop. “Look, I don't care if you're from fucking New York City, Spring Lake is not... ”

“Relax, Sheriff.” Beauregard grinned at him. “Besides, I thought all you country boys were easygoing and laid-back.”

“Normally, with decent folks, that's the truth,” Jack shot back.

Beauregard stiffened. “And I'm indecent. Why? Because I'm gay?”

“I didn't say that— ”

“There are laws against discrimination, you know,” Beauregard snapped.

“I know, it's my duty to uphold— ”

“Because if you treat me any less than you would any other run-of-the-mill
straight
criminal, I'll get a lawyer, and you and Hooterville will
never
hear the end of it.” His voice rose and quivered with emotion.

Jack restrained himself from pulling his gun again by clutching the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. His head regained the lead as it passed his ankle in the quarter-mile stretch of the pain derby.

Why did this kind of shit always happen to him? Why couldn't one of the other men have caught this, like his new officer, Brian Russell? He was gay, living in Spring Lake with his life partner, rancher Rush Weston.

“Oh, I promise to treat you the same as any of our
regular
criminals.” Jack fought to keep his voice civil.

“Well, I should hope so.” Beauregard gave him a curt nod and turned away.

Did the guy have to have the last word?

“Don't worry,” Jack added.

“I won't.”

Yep. The last word.

Jack gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead as he drove down Main Street to the station. He prayed no one would be in the parking lot when he pulled in, and he could slip the dog and Beauregard in unnoticed. The fewer questions, the better.

He pulled through the gates, drove to the spot marked CHIEF OF POLICE, and parked.

“Hey, does the chief know you're parking in his spot?” Beauregard asked.

“I told you. I'm the chief,” Jack replied, barely keeping his temper in check. Throwing the guy in a jail cell and forgetting about him for a few days was looking better and better. Maybe he could get his hands on a cattle prod.

Except for the personal cars of the officers on duty, the dispatcher, and Jack's secretary, the place looked empty. Before anyone else showed up, he got out and opened the back door.

The dog sat on the seat, panting. The plastic seat was covered in dozens of shiny droplets of dog drool. Someone was going to have to clean that up, and Jack had a sinking feeling who that would be.

Beauregard got out, came around to Jack, leaned down, and peered in. “Winston? Are you all right?”

Woof.

With a loud sigh, he reached in, took the leash, and led the dog out of the car.

“He's going to need some water. He's very upset.” Beauregard looked down at his pet and frowned. The dog sat on the blacktop and grinned up at Jack.

“He doesn't look upset to me.” Jack glared back at the dog.

“Well, he is. You don't know Winston as well as I do.”

“And I hope I never do.” Jack shut the door. “Let's go, Roy Rogers.” Dale Evans was more like it.

“Roy Rogers? What do you mean by that?” Beauregard's eyebrows rose.

Jack motioned to the man's clothing and thickened up his Texas twang. “Why, you look like you're fixin’ to go to one of them there Yankee fancy-dress parties, pretending to be a cowboy ‘n’ such.”

Beauregard's eyes narrowed. “I'll have you know this shirt is the
height
of Dallas Western fashion.”

“Dallas, huh? Figures.” Jack led the way to the station's back door. He pulled it open and waited as the dog and his owner entered.

“What's wrong with Dallas?” The guy actually sounded a little worried.

“Well, that's
north
Texas. We don't hold with their ways here in
south
Texas.” Jack gave the guy his serious “I mean business” face as he walked down the hall to his office.

“I didn't know that.”

Jack stopped, leaned in, and lowered his voice. “Well, I'll bet you didn't know that down here in
south
Texas, a man could get his ass kicked for wearing a shirt with that much fringe on it.”

Beauregard looked down at his shirt and ran a well-manicured nail across the breast pocket's fringe. “Too much fringe?”

“Hell, yeah. But don't worry, cowboy. Uh, you don't have any more of those shirts, do you?” Jack raised an eyebrow at Beauregard and kept walking.

“Nooo... ” He sounded unsure, or afraid to admit he had more.

“That's good. Folks around here do hate fringe.” Jack shook his head as if it were a pity people took such a dislike to fringe.

Beauregard's eyes narrowed and he stopped. “Sure it's just the fringe they hate?”

Jack looked Beauregard up and down.