Protect

-A Red Rebels MC Novel-

C.D. Breadner

The Freak Circle
Press

Copyright 2015 C.D. Breadner

Smashwords Edition

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Acknowledgements

Expose: Red Rebels MC Book Two

About C.D. Breadner

Connect With C.D. Breadner

Acknowledgements

Thank you to the writers of the Freak Circle Press
for their amazing support. I’m not sure I’m deserving of such
amazing friendship, but I’ll take it.

Thank you to Susan Fanetti for her honest feedback in
all things, and to Kirsten for helping me find a few more remnants
of my genius (that is, spelling mistakes and type-os).

And thank you to my friends and family for their
support and enthusiasm. I am not surprised by it but I truly
appreciate it.

And thank you to my husband just for being you.

-NEARLY TWO YEARS AGO-

Mark “Fritter” Horton covered a yawn with one
hand, the one belonging to his injured arm, while the other stayed
on the wheel of his mom’s old pick-up. Still another month or so
until he’d be cleared to ride and this touring around in a cage
sucked. He refused to wear the sling, opting instead to leave it on
the passenger seat. He’d have to put it back on before going into
his mother’s house, though. She’d kick his ass.

The highway leading out to his Ma’s was dead,
not another headlight to be seen. He hit the gas, anxious to get to
his own bed. The party at the clubhouse had been a lame duck so he
left after a blowjob. If he got his ass to bed his mom would make
him breakfast the next morning. That was worth the late-night drive
at one o’clock.

When the lights flared up behind him he
checked the speedometer, wincing. Shit. Twenty miles over the
limit.
Fuck
.

He pulled over immediately, knowing full well
the unregistered Glock in the glove box would be enough to get him
taken into custody. No need to give the cops a reason to search.
He’d only had one beer and knew it wasn’t on his breath. He’d be
fine, take the ticket with a smile, and go.

With a heavy sigh he put the shifter in park
and reached for his wallet, flipping it open to his license. The
window groaned and squeaked as he rolled it down, then he covered
another yawn. Man, he wanted his bed.

“License and registration,” the voice said,
and Fritter put on his most charming grin.

“Sheriff Downey,” he drawled, letting the
Oklahoma accent roll in heavier than usual. “Is it normal for the
sheriff to be workin’ late shifts?”

She took the wallet from his outstretched
fingers without expression. He kept the smile in place. She’d been
cold to him since he got shot, and he had to admit there was some
embarrassment on his part. When he’d been coming out of surgery
he’d pulled up his hospital gown, terribly proud of the erection
he’d had.

Fritter had no idea why the hell he’d done
it.

“Step out of the truck please,” she snapped,
moving away from the door and circling to the front quarter panel
of his truck.

With a frown he opened the door, and then
resolved to keep his smile and easy demeanor in place. “Problem,
Sheriff?”

“I need you up here, place both hands on the
hood.”

Fritter paused, scratching his head. “I know
I was speeding. Is something else goin’ on?”

“Mr. Horton, please place both hands on the
hood of your truck.”

His brain was cycling through what this could
be about. His license was current. Was the truck’s registration
expired? Nah. He always renewed it for his mom on her birthday.

With another sigh he moved to stand over the
wheel well, and put his hands on the warm hood. She kicked his feet
further apart and he hid a chuckle at that, something off color
just on the tip of his tongue but he kept it in check. The club
wanted to treat her with more respect. He was one of the worst
offenders in light of the flashing incident. He’d need to play nice
here.

Sheriff Downey’s hands slapped down his sides
in that standard cop way, under his arms, over his hips and down
both legs. It was involuntary; he got hard. She was an attractive
woman, and he liked the uniform. As the frisk continued he had to
roll his eyes. He had no idea what this was about, but if someone
called something in there was no way it was about him. He knew damn
well he hadn’t done anything to—

“Whoa,” he mumbled, looking down. Downey’s
hands were on his crotch.

They were both frozen in place, his dick torn
between wanting to enjoy itself and being terrified this was some
kind of trap.

Fritter even held his breath, wondering if
she was embarrassed, too. First that her hand had gone where it
had, secondly because he was apparently unable to control his
cock.

With an exhale she pulled her hand away and
he stayed put, blinking furiously to get himself under control. He
tried to call off that hard urge but it was up and ready to play,
suddenly not as tired as the rest of him.

She moved away, he could hear her boots on
the asphalt, and when her hand slammed down on the hood in front of
him between his own paws he jumped about a mile. His wallet was
left behind as she pulled back, as was a large plastic oval, about
the size of his wallet, with a key attached.

It made no sense and he was frowning at it as
she spoke, close enough to his right arm that her chest was pressed
against it. His dick took note of that, too.

“Markham Manor. Room 214, one hour. If you’re
interested.”

The scrape of boots on concrete faded away
and still he was staring down at the hood between his flattened
palms, frowning and blinking. Trying to compute.

The cruiser pulled out from the shoulder and
drove past him. That’s when he straightened, staring at the tail
lights heading off down the highway. Hands on hips he turned to
study the items on the truck.

The answer was, of course, absolutely fucking
not. It was disaster. Awkward.

But shit. Sherriff
Downey
? Fucking
hell, who
didn’t
want a good look at what was under that
polyester uniform? He knew she was hot. She had to be. Her face was
pretty but the body, from what you could see, was trim and fit. His
cock throbbed again, casting its vote.

He adjusted his junk and scooped up the
wallet and key. It was maybe the stupid choice, but not a lot of
people accused him of being smart.

“I’m telling you, that cat is always over
here. Look at these petunias! You know how much work a flower bed
is?” The ever-put-upon Mrs. Tyler prattled on about bedding plants
as she scuttled her way around the side of her house to the flower
bed in question.

Biting her tongue Sharon Downey followed,
tucking her notepad back into her pocket and holding back on a
sigh.
This is the real hard-hitting crime they trained you
for
, she reminded himself, fake smile still plastered in place.
This is you doing the good work
.

Just put a bullet in my fucking
head
.

“See? Look at this cat shit. That’s not from
my cats. They know to stay in the back yard. It’s Ethel’s damn cat.
I think she trained it to shit in my garden.”

“Mrs. Tyler,” she broke in as kindly as she
could. “I can only write up a fine for this. If you’re entirely
sure that Mrs. Graham’s cat is the one defecating in your flower
beds I can talk to her. I’m sure there’s a way to work this out
without fines, though.”

Mrs. Tyler squinted with one eye up at her.
Sharon pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Jesus, it was
hot.

“I want her arrested.”

She bit down on a laugh. “Mrs. Tyler, this is
barely a bylaw infraction. You have no proof that it’s Mrs.
Graham’s cat. I’d suggest mothballs or cayenne pepper. Cats hate
both of them.”

Mrs. Tyler sniffed, then her eye squinted a
little tighter. “Why don’t you try wearing a little make-up? Do
something nicer with your hair? You’ll never get married looking so
much like a man.”

It took all of her fingernails digging into
the palms of her hands not to smack the old bitch. Unfortunately,
she was used to this and there was only one way to deal with
it.

“You have a nice day, Mrs. Tyler,” she said
amiably, slipping her shades back on and walking to the front
walkway again.

“My taxes pay your salary, young lady!”

Sharon gave a wave as though she was merely
saying goodbye and climbed into her cruiser. As she was shutting
the door the radio crackled to life. “Dispatch to Sheriff.”

She grabbed the handset. “Go ahead,
Dispatch.”

“Your presence has been requested at the
station. Two detectives from Kern County just dropped in. They
won’t say what’s going on, but I think you should get here.”

“All right. I’m on my way.”

She pulled her belt across her lap as she
racked the mic, then pulled out onto the shady, quiet street.

Markham was home for most of her life. There
was the half-year she spent at the police academy, then the three
years she tried living in Pasadena with Steven, her ex. Other than
those not-quite-four-years, she’d lived here. Her father had become
an accountant when the steel mill shut down, her mother stayed home
to tend the house and their two kids. Sharon’s little brother was
in the Army, had been for nearly a decade now. Normal life, all of
it so wonderfully normal.

Other than the fact they were in Markham, of
course. A town with a motorcycle club in residence. Her father had
sold his bike when she was born; apparently her parents had needed
the money. But he hung around the clubhouse belonging to the Red
Rebels and was considered a friend. Now she knew he’d be labeled a
hang around. He just liked the bikes, liked
talking
bikes
with the guys.

Her mother forbade bikes, even once they were
financially stable. As soon as he could Scott, her brother, bought
a used Harley Softail with money he’d been saving for years. Jesus,
her mother and brother had fought over that. The family had paired
up in that odd way; the mother having a soft spot for her son, the
daughter that could get anything she wanted from her father. But
that bike had been a crack between mother and son that still seemed
to gape a bit wide when Scott was home for an extended period of
time. Relief over his safe return gave way to past, imagined
wrongs. And holy hell, did her mother hold a grudge.

Neither Scott nor Sharon were strangers to
the clubhouse. They never went inside, but the yard was where the
town was welcome during Fourth of July barbecues and other
holidays. Sharon’s mother always stayed home.

As she grew older and the club began to
change, largely in part to the president at the time growing a bit
soft in his old age, the town began to feel safer with the club.
Their hard edges were better hidden.

By the time Sharon was in high school Jayce
McClune was vice president, poised to take over for his old man.
The club was almost entirely new, so the change looked like it
would work well. His father’s club was almost a dead entity. The
new members embraced the friendlier persona.

Sharon had never had a bad boy fetish. Any
kind of fetish, really. She just liked what she liked. But even
she
took notice when Jayce McClune, rough and handsome even
at twenty-three, would roll down the Markham main drag on his bike,
cigarette hanging out of his mouth.