Excerpt from Book Three of the Red Rebels MC Series, “Protect.”
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.