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  “You look good,” he assured her, stepping in a little bit closer. “You look really good. I am dying to hike this skirt up.”

  “Stop talking like that,” she hissed, but her cheeks turned pink. He fucking liked that, too.

  “You came out for Mickey’s memorial.”

  “Yeah. I felt I ... had to.”

  Damn, he really liked that, too. “I’m glad. I miss you.”

  She inhaled, cheeks getting pinker. “Missed you, too. It’s been busy.”

  “I can’t imagine. You doing okay?”

  She shrugged. “Not bad. Investigation is wrapping up on the bike shoot out on the highway. Bodies have been released from all those home invasions, not that anyone’s claiming to know anyone from that group. And I’m still getting DEA pressure to hand over Mickey’s file.”

  “Who’s giving you hassle?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I mean it. Who is it?”

  “I’m not telling you that. You don’t need to worry about me, Fritter.”

  He was though, and he wanted to take care of her. He wanted to hug her when she had a bad day and he wanted to make sure other pricks weren’t giving her a hard time. He needed to be that guy. “If you need help, you say so.”

  “You know I won’t.”

  “I know.” He looked around, and they were still alone. “Where can I find you later?”

  “What?”

  “I wanna see you. I need ... I need to be with you. Tonight. Can you meet me?” It was the most painful thing to stand there and wait for her response, like he expected to be rejected as a prom date or something.

  “Fritter, I don’t know.”

  “Please, Sharon. I can meet at the motel if you want.”

  She eyed the lot, keys in hand, fidgeting.

  “Sharon, if you’re changing your mind about—”

  “No,” she cut him off, alarmed. Her blue eyes came back to him. “That’s not it. I just don’t see how we can make this work, Fritter.”

  “Meet me tonight. One night at a time.”

  With a heavy sigh she crossed her arms, and somehow he knew he was getting his way. And he was right.

  “Brayden’s got a house party tonight. He leaves in about an hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You can’t stay the night.”

  “It’s okay, as long as you can keep it down.”

  “Me?”

  He grinned. “I’ll gag you.”

  She was ready to argue, processed what he said then blushed as she muttered, “You’re the one that’s loud.”

  “Okay. You gag me then. Just do me one favour.”

  “What?”

  “Keep the shoes and the skirt on.”

  She turned away and opened her car door, shaking her head. He watched her slide in behind the wheel then shut the door behind her. He had to wipe the smile off his face before he reentered the clubhouse.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I saved you some pizza, Mom.”

  She groaned, hand going to her stomach. She’d been well fed at the clubhouse, and as she kicked her shoes off at the door the smell of pizza hit and she wasn’t hungry in the least. “Thanks honey. Save it for your lunch tomorrow. They fed me at the wake.”

  Brayden appeared in the kitchen entry, pulling a T-shirt on over his young man chest. “Really? You went to the clubhouse?”

  “Jayce invited me. You did your laundry, right?”

  “Yep! So, you were at the clubhouse. What was that like?”

  They’d had a talk about Fritter. She explained that it was a secret, which if it were revealed it would be punished with death. Brayden had found it funny, but she wasn’t entirely sure she was exaggerating. At least not where Fritter was concerned. He told her he “got it,” and he wasn’t going to say anything. She trusted him.

  “Never mind,” she said, tone of the warning variety.

  “Okay, okay. How do I look?”

  She raised an eyebrow and leaned against the cupboards. “Like a sixteen year old going to a house party. Where is this again?”

  “Sinclairs? Out on a farm or something.”

  She knew the Sinclairs, and their house out in the boonies. Not far from where Fritter’s mom lived. “Okay. And no drinking, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “No drugs.”

  “Mom!”

  “I’ve told you before; pot doesn’t bother me too much but I’m the Sheriff. Let’s pretend I still have some chance of winning this election.”

  Her son, fruit of her loins, approached and gave her a hug. “You’re gonna win, Mom.”

  “Yeah, tell that to the polls.”

  “You’re ahead in the polls.”

  And she was. The newspaper had done an on-the-street survey, probably using the opinions of about twenty people all together, to gauge where the election sat. She was ahead by a slim eleven percent, but maybe people would just jump on the winning bandwagon and she’d come out on top.

  She was tired of campaigning, and she hadn’t even done much. A few door-to-doors here and there, reminding middle-aged couples the importance of voting. She just wasn’t comfortable selling herself to people. She knew she was capable of this job, she didn’t want to have to explain why. She wasn’t a dancing monkey for fuck’s sake.

  “I hope it sticks,” she muttered as her son stepped away and scooped his wallet up off the table. “You got enough money?”

  “Yeah. I gotta find another job soon if the garage is going to be closed much longer, though.” He sounded guilty saying it, and she was proud of him. He had an even grasp of empathy and responsibility.

  “I don’t see it opening too soon, bud. Might need to go on the hunt again.”

  He looked crestfallen. He must have really enjoyed the garage.

  “Sorry, Bray.”

  “Nah, it’s not that. I’m just ... what’s Jolene going to do?”

  That took her by surprise. Of course he knew Jolene; she’d hired him. And it was a good question; the woman ran the garage for Mickey. Would she even want to keep doing so now? Even if the crime scene was released in the next few days, would anyone bother making a go of it?

  “I don’t know, Bray. That’s a good question.”

  “Do you know if the club ... takes care of the widows?”

  Sharon tilted her head. “I’m pretty sure they would, yeah. Where’s this coming from?”

  “It just sucks. Some people can be on their own but ... I don’t think Jolene’s one of those people.”

  Her heart melted, just a little, and time she hugged him. “You are a real sweetheart under the smartass exterior.”

  He scoffed but he hugged her back.

  “I think you might be surprised at how tough people can be, no matter what you think of them.”

  “I hope so. She’s cool.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  She let him go with a tug on his long hair, then she was alone in the house. Earp made a half-hearted tour of the kitchen while she stared at the clock on the wall, noisily slurping down some of his water before flopping onto his dog bed.

  “Good boy,” she grumbled as the sound of straight pipes died one street over, and her heart sped up. Just a bit.

  She was officially stupid. Her emotions could not be trusted, and sitting next to Fritter at the clubhouse proved it. She would have loved to have him touch her, much like Buck always had to have his hands on Gertie. Even while holding his son so she could eat, his hand was on her knee, running up and down her thigh. Absently. He likely didn’t even know he was doing it.

  That would have been nice, and it would have been great to have that with Fritter. He’d brushed his leg against hers and it took everything she had not to put a hand on his thigh.

  Stupid. So stupid.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by her back door opening. At the sound she jumped and Earp leapt to his feet, gruffly barking a couple of times as a warning as he ap
proached the top of the steps leading down to the landing. She was watching as Fritter bounded into the kitchen, and greeted her dog with a “Hey there, guard dog!” Earp’s tail started wagging and he sat down to let Fritter scratch his chin and ears.

  Fucking guard dog was right.

  Fritter looked up eventually, and his grin slipped a little. But not in a bad way. In a way that made her body clench low, and when he straightened up she stood up, too. His eyes swept over her, warming her, until he said, “You took off the shoes.”

  “No shoes in the house,” she replied, and he immediately kicked his sneakers off, shoving them down the steps to the landing. It made her laugh, then he was in her space, pulling her into his with both arms and crushing his mouth down onto hers. She let out a whimper, and his hand went to her ass, gripping it tight as he gave a grunt of his own.

  She let him wash through her; his smell in her nose, the taste of beer and cigarettes in his mouth, the hard wall of his body as he mashed her against him. It was a relief to not think; to just let go. And she was in good hands with Fritter.

  “The kid gone?” he nearly snarled, nipping along her neck as his hand in her hair held her head where he wanted it.

  She gasped and clutched at his shirt, decided it wasn’t good enough and shoved her hands under the cotton, nails scratching across his ribs. “He’s gone,” she assured him as he hissed, then nipped at her collarbone.

  “Good.”

  Quite suddenly both hands were under her skirt, shoving it upward. She made a sound of sudden shock, then he was pulling at her panties, shoving them to her knees until they dropped.

  “Jesus,” he was muttering, pulling her away from the cupboards and walking her to the kitchenette table. “Tell me you’re ready. I need you ready.”

  “I’m ready,” she gasped against his mouth, then he spun her around and shoved her against the table. Another gasp, and her skirt was up around her hips while his hand wrapped around the front of her hip, then rode roughly across her clit. “Fuck! Fritter!”

  “I know honey. I’m gettin’ ready. I need a minute.”

  There was the sound of a zipper and a ripping condom package, but it barely registered because his hands were so fucking good at getting her off. She was climbing as he nudged into her, and his hand continued, unaffected, as she crested and gasped and squeaked against the fake wood top of the kitchen table.

  “God, I love that. I love knowin’ just what to do with you, Sharon.”

  She could only groan in response as he slammed into her, over and over. The table jumped and squealed against the vinyl flooring, eventually stopping as it wedged a chair against the wall. That’s when it got really good.

  One of his large, warm hands rode under her shirt, taking its time roaming over her ribs before tucking into her bra. He pinched and rolled her nipple, and her fingers scrambled for something to hold onto. There was nothing. Her nails scraped at the wood veneer until one caught his arm, the one that was torturing her tit. His other arm ... she had no idea where it was.

  Until she felt its hand on her clit again. “Oh fuck, Fritter!”

  “I got no purchase here. You gotta use me to get off, Sharon.”

  So she did. She grasped both arms, bent over as she was, nails digging into skin and muscle that was built for tearing up this way, and shoved against the motion of his hips with each thrust.

  “Oh fuck. Like that. Just like that.” His voice was coarse, rough. She liked that. It meant he was losing control, too.

  “Fritter—”

  “Don’t stop, babe.”

  “Oh God!”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Like that.”

  The squeak was loud, and she face-planted onto the table as her body quaked. Almost immediately after he let go with a long, male, caveman grunt that she felt between her legs and everywhere else.

  His hands stilled on her, then moved away. His chest was heaving. He’d collapsed on her. The hair covering the side of her face was gently pulled away, and he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. That was sweet.

  “Hell, babe,” he groaned while pulling free. “That’s the cost of wearing that skirt.”

  She giggled and stood, letting the skirt fall into place as he tucked himself away again.

  There was a snort, and they both looked down to see Earp, sitting on the floor next to the table. At their gaze he wagged his tail.

  “You’re a pervert,” Fritter told her dog.

  Earp whimpered, moved three inches closer and sat down again, tail wagging harder.

  “He’s a mooch,” she corrected, patting the dog’s head and scratching his ears. “But that’s okay.”

  “Save some of that affection for me,” Fritter advised, taking her by the hips and turning her for the doorway. “I’m taking you to bed until the kid’s curfew is up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Rebel Circus was a disaster of a construction zone. Drywall was half done, no mudding yet. Wires hung from open holes in the ceiling waiting for light fixtures. But most notable were the missing tools the contractors had been using for the past four months.

  Rose had called Tank in a tizzy that morning, even though she was right next door. The contractors had walked off the job, something about being scared of working with the club. They’d kept the cash for the work they done and gave back the advance.

  Contractors. Returning money for unfinished work. This was bad.

  Fritter stood on the bare concrete floor, waiting to hear what the big idea was going to be here. They’d hired local; the only local contractor, to be exact.

  “Shit,” Jayce was muttering, alternating between that and fuck as he kicked through the discarded ends of drywall that had been cut off and left where they landed. The missing lights, generators and work tables had left a footprint in all the dust on the floor.

  “Wiring and plumbing have been done,” Tank was pointing out. “Even the bathrooms are tiled, they just need grout.”

  “And who the fuck’s going to do that?” Jayce snapped.

  “Tiny used to finish houses, man. It’s been a while but we could ask if he knows about some of this shit. And even I can figure out how to paint a fucking wall. How hard can mudding be?”

  “It sucks,” Fritter spoke up. “My first summer job was with a dry walling company. I hated it. Preferred to be outside, even back then.”

  Jayce grinned. “But you remember how?”

  Shit. “Yeah, I remember how.”

  “Okay. So between runs and hunting down these pricks that got Mickey, we’re here working on this. Use the prospects for whatever you want. Make sure they know what to do in case we need to leave them in charge.”

  “Jayce?” Shit, he couldn’t believe he was about to ask this.

  “Yeah?”

  “What about Downey’s kid? Brayden?”

  Jayce blinked, then shrugged. “What about him?”

  “He worked at the garage, it was the only job he could find. He’s young. We should ask him if he’d like to make a few bucks doing this grunt work.”

  Jayce nodded. “Good idea, actually.”

  “I don’t know if getting the Sheriff’s son electrocuted is a good idea,” Tank grumbled.

  “There was that guy that used to chum around here,” Fritter said. “A hang around. Remember? Older guy, bald. I thought he had his electrician’s papers. All we need is the lights hooked up. They’re here already, the wires have been run.”

  “Charlie,” Tank said, nodding. “Yeah, that’s right. He’s still around.”

  “See? Solutions are all over the place.” Jayce sounded like he was trying to be optimistic, but it wasn’t a great sell job. There was a chirping noise and the Prez pulled out his cell, checking his messages. “It’s Spaz. He wants to show us something.”

  “I’ll track down this electrician,” Tank offered as they left the half-light of the reno zone and hit the sidewalk in full sunshine. Fritter winced and Tank did the same. “Come up with a schedule. Then we call
in the kid to help.”

  “Sure.” Sounded enough like a plan.

  They circled the club, cut through staff parking off the alley, then they were in the compound in front of the clubhouse again. Inside the clubhouse sweetbutts were at work cleaning up from the night before. Once the families and old ladies had cleared out it had, predictably, turned into a biker clubhouse again. It still stunk of many bad deeds.

  Spaz’s office off the hall leading to the can was open with the lights on. They let Jayce in the room, since there wasn’t room for anyone else.

  “This just popped up on 4Chan,” Spaz was saying, his eyes darting to Tank then resting on Fritter.

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It doesn’t really matter what it is, but it can be a super anonymous way to share files and trade secrets for hackers. There’s also a lot of disgusting shit on it.”

  “What kind?” This from Tank.

  Spaz shrugged one shoulder. “Nasty videos. Like anything else on the internet, there’s plenty of porn.”

  “So why is this so special?”

  “The anonymity,” Spaz said, turning back to his computer. “Anyone with half a clue can post pretty much anything and it’d be hard to trace to them. But something started showing up online and I sourced it back to here.”

  “What is it?” Jayce asked, crossing his arms impatiently.

  “I just ... I’m sorry. I’ll have to show you.” Spaz glanced at Fritter yet again, which made him frown.

  “Why do you keep looking at me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Spaz said, and Fritter didn’t think the nerd was apologizing for staring. He hit play on something on the screen and a window popped open with a video. No sound, just grainy, jerky images.

  They all crowded closer, not sure what they were looking at until the camera gained focus, then Fritter felt his stomach turn to ice like he’d swallowed nitrogen.

  It was Downey’s kitchen, and he was right there. On screen. The back of his kutte completely recognizable as he held her head in place by the hair and sucked at her neck.