Protect (9 page)

“Next time you need my help,” she muttered
coldly, “we’ll just see how that works out.”

Then she turned on her heel and stalked out
of the compound. On the way to her cruiser she noted Deputy Sheriff
Kerry Troy across the street, leaning against his own cruiser. Her
step faltered only a little, then she decided to directly face off
against him, too.

Such was her mood that evening.

She still hadn’t decided what to think of
Troy. She’d known him, of course, the entire seven years he’d spent
with the Markham Sheriff’s Department. But earlier that year he’d
arrested Trevor Williams, or “Tank,” and then allowed two strangers
to be put in the same cell with the Rebels’ VP. She couldn’t see
where he’d done anything wrong, and when he’d learned Williams was
being assaulted in lockup he’d done everything by the book to stop
it and get medical help. But something felt off there and she
couldn’t honestly say why.

“I don’t need a police escort,” she began
with, thumbs looped on her belt as she stared him down. “What are
you doing here?”

“I wondered if you’d come here,” he said,
head jerking towards the clubhouse. “I was right. Why are you
always running to the Rebels when shit goes sideways?”

She may have been plenty pissed off at Jayce
at the moment, but this guy still worried her more. “Sometimes they
know things we don’t. Sometimes they can get to people we can’t,
Troy. You know the drill, don’t play stupid.”

“You have competition in the next election,”
he snapped sharply, and she brought her head back, a lot shocked
and a little stunned. “You get that, right? These men have money
and friends with money, but that’s hardly their biggest weapon in
this campaign. Who’s playing stupid?”

She felt the heat in her blood as her spine
lengthened, and she raised her chin. “I have been Sheriff here a
long time. And crime has been low.”

“
Reported
crime.”

“Listen to me, and listen good.” Now the
finger was up and she was in Mom Mode but she didn’t particularly
care. “People in this town are perfectly happy being unaware of
shit that’s been taken care of. And that’s
why
it’s done
this way. This isn’t hurting anyone in town.”

Troy tilted his head, apparently unimpressed
by her backbone. “Devon Turnbull got beaten up selling pot for this
club. Did you know that?”

Sharon frowned. “What?”

“Yeah. These Mazaris went after the Rebels
through their dealers and Turnbull got beaten pretty bad. His
father was furious. The kid’s fine, I mean, he was likely numb from
the ganga as it was. But this is part of why his dad wants you out
so bad. It
is
hurting people outside of the club, Sheriff.
You’re wrong.”

With that Troy folded his considerable height
into his cruiser and drove off, leaving her in the middle of the
street. She dug out her keys and headed for her cruiser, noticing a
form standing just outside the gates of the Rebels’ compound.

She looked up and down the street both ways
as Fritter approached her. He wasn’t looking at her, though. He was
watching Troy’s tail lights grow dim and then make a left onto
Turnbull Drive.

Fuck, that guy really
was
everywhere.

“You okay?” he eventually asked, turning back
to her.

Sharon blinked at him, stunned. “What are
doing?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What are you doing out here? Talking to me?
Are you fucking insane?”

Fritter titled his head and took a drag on
his cigarette. “Relax. The girls are inside, everyone’s getting
distracted and occupied. No one’s looking for me, believe me.”

A flash of white slipped out under the arm of
his T-shirt. “What’s that?” she asked, uninterested.

“What?”

She had to point. “That.”

The tendons in his neck stood out and his
collarbone stood out in the fading light as he looked down to see
what she was talking about. She ignored that damn flutter and moved
a half step away from him. He didn’t notice. “Got scratched.”

Now her bullshit meter was dinging like a
motherfucker. “Really? On what?”

He gave her that ridiculously devastating
smile stepping closer again. She was against her car, back to the
driver’s door. Still he came closer, stopping just short of
touching her. “What if I said it was a woman? Got a little
frisky?”

Heat raced from her chest up her neck and
into her face. “I wouldn’t care. She must have had long nails.”

His smile got just a bit wider and he pulled
the cigarette from his mouth, letting his arm hang at his side
while he jammed his other hand in his pocket. His eyes ran from her
face down to her chest; she
felt
it and it pissed her off he
could play her like this. Especially since she was so pissed
off.

“They weren’t that long, she was just
that
motivated.”

“Good for her,” Sharon breathed back,
ignoring the smell and heat of his body. He’d been on his bike that
day, she just knew it. There was something to the leather of his
kutte and the slight sweat she could smell on his skin that told
her he’d been in the wind and sun and grit.

“Nothin’ to be jealous of, Sharon.”

“Who’s jealous?” she snapped, too
quickly.

“I mean,” he went on, like she hadn’t even
spoken, “it’s not like it’s been that long since we had one of our
meetings. I’m sure you’re holdin’ up without it.”

Fuck. Oh, fuck her for ever starting
this.

“What do you want, Mark?” she asked. There.
Using his real first name was less personal. Good for her.

“I think I want to see you again real
soon.”

She looked right into his eyes at that, taken
aback. “What?”

He was still smiling, but he had a bit of
wonder in his expression, too. “I was thinkin’ about you a lot
today. And it made me hard every time. I’m startin’ to hurt here,
Sharon.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, no fire in it at
all.

“Sometime in the next few days, you should
call me. When you get a chance. Okay?”

“Okay,” she was answering before she could
actually
stop
and
think
about this.

“Good,” he said easily with that ridiculously
sexy smile then turned, effectively leaving her personal space so
she could breathe again.

As quick as she ever had in her life she was
in her squad car, starting the engine and willing her hands to stop
shaking. Whatever the fuck
that
was, she had been terribly
unprepared for it.

“You got this, Tims?” Fritter shouted over
the sound of the weed whacker.

The other prospect, Tims Gatlin, looked up
and gave a thumbs’ up before returning to trimming the edges of the
Cullen’s back lawn. Fritter moved the sliding glass doors,
responding to Mrs. Cullen’s call for him to come inside for
lemonade. It was a hot day, after all. And injured as he was, he
needed a rest.

The stitches were healing up nicely but it
was still an angry-looking wound. He could have kept it covered but
then he’d be way too warm in this late-June heat.

And Mrs. Cullen wouldn’t be tempting him with
her lemonade.

In the kitchen he found the missus of the
house, pouring out a glass of yellowish liquid into a couple of
glasses. She’d been tanning while he and Tims were doing her yard
work. Her bikini top barely kept those tits wrangled in, and since
she’d gone inside she’d pulled on a thin, see-through robe that
showed him she hadn’t bothered keeping that top on.

And just like that he was hard.

She turned to him, the robe falling open and
proving him right. Her hips were back against the cupboard, hands
out to her sides, holding onto the edge while she stared at
him.

This was one of those man-eater types of
women. For Fritter any attempts to sink in her hooks were
pointless, but if she wanted his dick she was certainly going to
get it.

“Came for the lemonade, ma’am,” he said,
letting the accent through a little thicker than usual. He reached
around her for the glass then stood close as he downed the whole
thing in three long gulps. She just stared.

Fritter knew what he looked like; the weight
room had mirrors. He worked out hard, usually tried to avoid foods
that would make him soft, and he knew that the opposite sex had an
appreciation for the results of his hard work. Before he could
bring the glass down Mrs. Cullen, whose first name he did
not
know, was running both her hands up his stomach and
around his sides. Brown eyes wide, she probably didn’t even know
she was breathing through her mouth.

With a sigh Fritter caught her hands. “Told
you,” he scolded with a smile. “I’m not ticklish.”

She smiled brilliantly. Not because it was a
particularly pretty smile, just abnormally white. Teeth bleaching,
he guessed. It was almost non-human to have teeth that white.

“Open my jeans,” he instructed, and she
quickly did as told. “Now get me ready, honey.”

Her hand closed around his cock and he closed
his eyes, letting her give a little rub and tug. “You feel ready to
me, baby,” she whispered.

Fritter reached into his pocket, searching
for a condom. Pretty sure he had one. He never left home without
‘em. Once it was in place he turned her to the counter, facing the
window that overlooked the back yard. No one could see in the
window, he knew that. It was too bright outside.

He pushed her robe up over her hips, pulled
the crotch of her bottoms out of the way and sank in deep with one
thrust. She moaned but he knew she was trying to keep it down.

He yanked back on her hips, riding her back
and forth over his cock, moving her against the motion of his hips,
when quite suddenly he heard an unmistakable sound; the sound of a
shotgun shell being chambered right behind him.

He froze, and apparently Mrs. Cullen didn’t
hear the incredibly dangerous sound that he had. She tried to keep
moving as he raised his hands, stepping away from her ass as he did
so.

“What are you doing? Fritter, we’re not done.
I know you can last longer than that.”

“I knew it,” came the snarling voice behind
him. “I fucking
knew
it!”

Now the Missus was shrieking, righting her
bikini and pulling her robe tight across her chest, eyes wide as
she slumped back against the cabinets. “Wayne! Wayne, what the hell
are you doing? Put that shotgun away.”

Fritter closed his eyes, internally cursing.
Shit
. Wayne fucking Cullen. Member of Markham city council.
Owner of the town’s only specialty shoe store and chair of the Fire
Department Charity Fund for Markham County.

And owner of a shotgun, as it turned out.

Fritter stayed right where he was, wishing
like hell his erection would at least go down. But no, it had been
getting some action and it usually took an orgasm or a few more
minutes for it to realize it was time to settle down.

“I fucking
knew
it! You fucking whore!
Trina, how could you do this to me?”

Shit. Fucking shit. It sounded like he was
crying, but Fritter would be risking getting his head blown off if
he moved or said anything.

“No baby, no. I love you Wayne, you know
that!”

“How
could
you?”

“You know things haven’t been good for us.
Not ... intimately.”

Now
he
wanted to tell the bitch to
shut up.

“But him? Why him?”

“Listen,” Fritter finally had to cut in.
“Listen. I do apologize, sir. You have a fine-looking woman. You
know this. I know I did wrong. I did.”

“And yet this isn’t the first time. Is it,
Trina?”

She had the crocodile tears going, he had to
hand it to her. She was trying her best.

“I heard you, you bitch. You’ve done this
before and I fucking
knew
it.”

“May I please pull my pants up?”

The cold barrel touched the back of his neck
and Fritter actually stopped breathing. There was a tense pause
where he didn’t so much as move his eyes to look at Trina. Then the
gun left his skin.

“Fine. Go ahead.” The defeat was obvious in
the man’s voice.

Fritter tucked himself away, still wrapped,
and zipped up his jeans. Before he could fasten his belt he was
turning on the man behind him, knocking the shotgun from his hands
and yanking him into a headlock.

Trina was screaming, running out the room,
but he couldn’t pay any attention to her. This shit couldn’t stand,
even if Fritter
had
been fucking the guy’s wife.

“Listen to me, you spineless shit,” he
snarled into Wayne Cullen’s ear. “You’re pissed. I get that. I
would be, too. But you know who I am, you idiot. You can’t put a
gun to my neck unless you mean to pull the trigger. You get
that?”

“Fuck you! That’s my wife, you piece of
shit!”

Fuck, he
was
crying. Fritter knew he
was an asshole, but this was all about reputation now. “Get it
together you pussy,” he admonished, sounding disgusted. In truth,
he felt sorry for the guy. He was balding, pudgy around the middle,
likely worked more than he should and left his wife to mind their
lovely home with absolute trust.

Fritter knew he was one of the assholes in
the house, but Wayne Cullen wasn’t the other one.

“You don’t need her,” Fritter said, calmer,
but not letting Cullen out of the headlock. “She’s using you, man.
Your money, your position. All of it. There are nice women out
there, you know.”

“Yeah, how would you know?”

Good point. “I just
know
,” he answered
lamely. “But this woman ain’t for you. She needs to learn to
appreciate someone like you, someone good. You gotta kick her to
the curb to show her what she had.”

That’s when he heard sirens, and he frowned,
letting go of Cullen and moving to the front room of the house that
overlooked his shaded front yard. Trina Cullen was gripping the
phone in one hand, holding her robe closed with the other, and
stuttering into the mouthpiece.