Keys To My Cuffs (The Heroes of The Dixie Wardens MC Book 4) (11 page)

In a matter of minutes, we had the kitchen clean, and she was leaning on the counter next to me. “Do you know how to make ice cream?”

Thrown off guard by her random question, I nodded. “Sure.”

“I need the salt. It’s in a big tub in the pantry. Oh, and the ice cream makers on the floor in the corner,” she said, pointing to the pantry to the left of the counter.

Walking into the tiny room, I grabbed the salt and the ice cream maker, noticing that her shelves were nearly bare.

“Hey, when’s the last time you went to the store?” I asked as I walked into the kitchen with the machine.

Placing it on the counter, I turned to her as she dug in her fridge for the milk.

Her ass was swaying back and forth, as she dug for the half gallon that she’d buried earlier when she was looking for something to make for dinner.

The outline of her thong, in her tight gray shorts, was drawing my eyes and making my imagination take off. Was she wearing those cute little black panties with the tiny pink bow on the top, or the red ones with the black lip imprints all over them?

I was so distracted while I was thinking that I missed her question.

“Hey!” She snapped.

My eyes finally focused on her face, and I blinked, bringing her back into focus.

“Did you hear what I said?” She asked with concern.

Bringing my hand up to my face, I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and pointer finger. “Sorry,” I said. “What did you ask?”

“Chocolate or vanilla?” She repeated.

Her hair was still in its ponytail, but now the sweat on her face had dried, making the stray locks surrounding her head curl.

“Is your hair curly?” I blurted.

She grimaced. “When it wants to be. Most of the time it’s frizzy with a side of curl. That’s why I keep it in a ponytail most of the time.”

Then she shook the chocolate syrup at me in question.

I shook my head in answer. “I’m a vanilla kind of guy. I don’t do artificial additives. If you do it right, vanilla’s all you need.”

I hadn’t meant it to sound so...sexual, but it most assuredly came out that way, and if the look in her eyes was any indication, I’d made a point, and I hadn’t even meant to.

“Jesus, it’s those fucking shorts. Why are they so goddamned tight?” I burst out.

She giggled, making my heart thaw slightly after the shit day I’d had.

“They have to be tight. That way they stay in place when I run, keeping my thighs from chafing,” she laughed.

I stayed far away from the whole ‘chafing’ part, sensing the trap that was inevitable.

“Alright, what do you need me to do?” I asked.

An hour later, Channing was dressed in her simple black scrubs, ready to go to work, and eating a bowl of ice cream.

“Where do you work?” I asked. “Why did I think you did hair?”

No hairdresser I knew of worked this late at night. Nor did any wear scrubs.

“I do dead people.”

I let that hang there in the air for a minute, and then laughed until I saw that she was serious.

“Say what?” I asked skeptically.

She smiled cryptically and then took a long slow lick of her ice cream. “You want to come with me tonight?”

I need a prince on the streets, and a beast between the sheets.

-T-shirt

Channing

“I guess I thought that the mortician was the one to do the makeup and hair,” Loki said to me as I applied another swipe of concealer on the woman’s face.

“Oh, Brittany; you know Brittany, right?” I asked turning to him.

He was sitting on a stool beside my table and watching me work.

He’d been sitting in the exact same spot, going on three hours now. He looked exhausted, but he hadn’t stopped talking since we got here, asking me questions.

He nodded. “The Chief’s wife. I didn’t realize she was a mortician, though. I knew she worked in the funeral home, but I guess I didn’t realize that being a mortician was a—ahh, woman’s job.”

He smiled at me conspiringly. Remembering the fit I’d thrown earlier about what he said about female body builders.

I mock glared at him and went back to my client.

Her name was Penelope Stanley, and she’d died in a car wreck three nights ago. She’d been driving on a back road when a deer stepped out in front of her. When she’d swerved to miss the deer, she’d ran head on into a large oak tree, killing her instantly.

She needed a lot of reconstruction on her face, but her family was adamant about it being open casket.

I’d been surprised when Brittany had told the family she could do it.

Normally, if they were as bad as Penelope here was, she’d tell them straight up that it would be better to have a closed casket. The only reason she’d agreed was that Penelope was the wife of a member of the city council. She didn’t want to risk pissing off her boss, so she’d put in a lot of work reconstructing her face, and making her look as normal as possible.

“Brittany’s father was a mortician. Being a mortician seems to run in the family, but when Brittany turned sixteen, her father contracted cancer, and they had to sell the business to afford the treatments. When her father died from complications, Brittany set out to follow in his footsteps,” I explained.

He nodded understandingly. “When we made that bust at Bayou Funeral Home, you were up front. You’d said you were the receptionist.”

I noted a hint of accusation in his voice, and I wondered how long he’d been stewing on that question. He was a detective, after all, and it had to have been killing him not to ask it.

“I work—worked there as well, on the weekends. It was rare for me to be up front. Since that closed down, though, I’ve been picking up shifts at Clip Tease off Texas Street,” I explained, as I ran the sponge covered in foundation over the black bruises around Penelope’s eyes.

He grunted.

I worked while I listened to his brain turn over and over again.

It took him another ten minutes to get to his next question.

“Why do you do this?” He asked finally.

I lifted both of my shoulders. “I got in a fight with a customer. He kept coming in once a week just to get his hair washed. Never paid for a clip. Never tipped. Turns out, he just got his rocks off by having his head rubbed. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t come. He yelled, causing me to inadvertently drench him with water, and he’d called the manager. From there it degraded into a he said/she said match, and I lost my job. Not that I liked listening to people bitch about their problems all day long.”

“You probably wouldn’t do so well at being a cop. That’s all I fucking do all day; listen to people’s life stories,” he muttered as he watched me squish a piece of Penelope’s face back on. “That’s disgusting.”

I shrugged. “I’m used to it. At first, it wasn’t so great, but now it’s just natural to me. I enjoy the silence. I love that I can make them pretty for one last party in their honor. I used to sing to them when I first started. The silence was disturbing, so I sang. Brittany still teases me about that.”

He smiled. “So, what are your plans for Christmas?”

“I think my dad is going to try to come by. He didn’t really say he could or couldn’t yet, but he won’t know until closer to the day. How about you?” I asked.

I thought about the question for a few moments before answering. “I don’t really know. My mom and I don’t spend it together. My brother’s in Germany. I haven’t seen him in two years,
since he took his command post. Normally, I’d spend it with Trance, but he just got married and all that fun shit. Guess it’s just you and me babe. If your pop shows up I’ll head home.”

My mouth pursed. Christmas hadn’t really been that big of a deal to us since my mom died.

“What does your brother do?” I asked as I inspected the color of Penelope’s face to make sure there were no inconsistencies.

“Master Sargent in the army. Although he met his wife in Germany, and I suspect he has no real desire to come home anymore. His job is cushy. He doesn’t deploy. Hell, I don’t even think he goes out of his office during the day,” he explained.

The next thing I picked up was my curling iron.

I had two pictures of Penelope, both of which had her hair straightened. Except Mr. Stanley wanted her hair in curls, because he hated that she straightened her hair. He also hated when she wore makeup. Unfortunately, I had to since she’d used her face to debark a tree.

“Have you always been a c-cop?” I asked shyly.

The fact that he was a cop still bothered me, but not as much as it once did.

I still had a problem with cops in general. However, Loki was different. There was just something about him that made everything right in my world.

Sadly, that trust didn’t extend to his friends.

Trance had shown up at his place to borrow a car jack yesterday, and just the sight of him in his uniform had sent me into a near panic attack.

It was Loki’s reassuring arms around my shoulders that kept the attack from going into full out panic mode.

I was sure, with time, it would get better, but in the interim, I had a lot of work to do.

“No. From seventeen to twenty-three I was in the Coast Guard, I went to school part time and got my paramedic certification. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, I got out. While she was doing treatments, I got my peace officer and firefighter certification,” he told me.

The curling iron in my hand dropped down to hang parallel to my leg, and I stared at him open mouthed. “Holy shit! You’re like...quadruple certified!”

He chuckled. “Triple certified, and yes.”

“Hmm,” I observed. “Then why did you choose to be a police officer?”

“My stepdad was,” he said, as he stood and stretched his arms up high over his head.

The move showed off the tight expanse of his belly, as well as the gun and badge at his hip.

He didn’t hide them around me, and I was grateful. I’d never get over my phobia if I wasn’t facing it, and it wouldn’t do to have a panic attack every time I saw my boyfriend’s friends.

“When did your mom remarry?” I asked.

He smiled fondly as he walked over to the bulletin board on the side of the room that had pictures of the funeral home staff.

“When I was seventeen,” he told me. “I fucked up and got sucked into a gang when I was eleven. When I was sixteen, I decided I needed out and I went to the gang resource officer for help. He helped all right, and told me what I should do. The next day, I went to the leader, Mick, and told him I was out. He said if I could survive the exit, I was free to leave. I thought I was in the clear, too, until some little wannabe came out of fucking nowhere and landed on my back. He’d already slit my throat by the time I realized anything was even wrong.”

I stood up straight as I listened to him talk, and stared at his back with open mouth shock. “He slit your throat?” I gasped.

He turned and gave me a sardonic smile. “How did you think I got this pretty scar?”

As he asked, he fingered the scar at the base of his throat.

It was so much a part of him now that I didn’t even realize he had it most of the time.

It was only when I would run my lips over his neck, or absently run my hand down his jaw to his collarbone that I’d feel it and remember it was there.

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t that,” I snapped.

His blasé attitude pissed me the hell off.

“At the time, it was a big deal. I remember laying there feeling the warmth spreading from my throat; I knew I was about to die. But I crawled out of the abandoned building that The Crimson Horde used to inhabit, right into the path of Officer Zeth Merritt. He held his hand over my throat, staunching the flow, while he waited for medics to arrive. Held it all the way to the hospital and into surgery. When my mom met him, he was covered in my blood, and she loved him instantly. The relationship was a slow build, and they waited nearly a year before he asked her to marry him. It was the best day of my life when that happened.”

“What happened? Did they not slit your throat and arteries? I thought you always bled out really fast when that happened. Or, at least, that’s what happens in the movies,” I said as I went back to curling Penelope’s hair.

Her hair was very brittle as if it’d been colored way too often, and never treated. Which made me have to be very careful or I’d burn off her hair.

“The kid was about two inches over five feet. He had to jump on my back to slit my throat, and missed the jugular. Got a hundred and twelve stitches, though,” he winked.

I rolled my eyes at his casual attitude and went back to work until Penelope’s hair and makeup was perfect.

Then I got started on her clothes.

“Whoa,” he said turning around.

“What?” I asked as I stripped the gown off Penelope’s body and threw it into the corner where the wash pile was.

“She’s naked,” he said waving blindly with his hand.

I giggled. “Sure is. But she’s dead. She’s not going to care that you saw her dead boobs.”

“That’s not the point. It’s just wrong,” he said roughly.

I smiled as I worked to get Penelope’s bra, button up shirt, panties, hose, and long ruffled up skirt on. Her shoes, the ones she paid $1000 for, as her husband said, were the last thing to be put on.

“Okay, you can turn back around,” I told him.

He turned around cautiously and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her covered.

“You probably see naked bodies a lot as a police officer...” I left the statement hanging and raised my eyebrow at him.

He lifted one shoulder. “Sure, but that’s not the same. She looks like she’s just...sleeping. Most of the ones I see while I’m working look obviously dead.”

“Necrophilia...not your thing. Got it,” I teased.

He mock glared at me before asking, “Are you almost done?”

I nodded. “Yep, just have to get her jewelry on and call Ralph down to help me move her into the casket.”

His head tilted. “Who’s Ralph?”

“He’s our muscle. When Brittany or I need an assist, he comes down to help. He’s the night security guard,” I explained as I placed the back on Penelope’s earring before backing away to survey the finished product.