Sinners are Winners (KPD Motorcycle Patrol 5)

“Hey,” she smiled. “You scared me.”

I took her in up close and personal.

She was in a gold dress that went all the way down to her ankles. It was a strappy number, looser on top with a deep V to expose her ample chest, and a tighter empire-type waist that accentuated how curvy she was. And on her feet were some wicked looking heels that I would love to hold on to as I bent her in half and fucked the hell out of her.

My mind had been in overdrive since yesterday.

Remembering how she’d been licking the spatula with the leftover batter on it, then even later when she’d finished icing the cakes and had given me the bowl to try the icing…

I readjusted myself surreptitiously in my pants, hoping that nobody could see my half-chub I had going on.

“What’s wrong?” I wondered.

She sighed.

“My parents are on their way, but they’re late.” She sighed. “A flat tire. Then they got another one about twenty minutes later.”

“Fuckin’ sucks,” I admitted. “They gonna make it in time?”

She nodded. “Yes. They were with a couple of others in the club, and they got it repaired fast. But still. They worry me. They’re not twenty-one anymore.”

I grinned.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I never used to worry about my dad at all. Yet now that I know the kind of dangers he runs into when he goes to SWAT calls, I tend to worry about him even more.”

“Your dad is on the SWAT team?” she asked in surprise.

I nodded once. “Yep. Though, he’s the negotiator for the department now. He doesn’t go in at all. Just stands at the scenes and talks to the fucktards that need SWAT called on them.”

Her mouth twitched.

“My parents aren’t senior citizens by any means,” she said. “But there’s been a lot of freaky shit happening lately that has me jumpy.”

“You talked about his accident yesterday,” I said. “There’s more?”

She’d told me yesterday that he’d been in an accident at work that had fucked him up pretty bad. And that he’d just returned to work not too long ago.

“Little piddly shit.” She crossed her arms over her chest, making her breasts press together and up. I licked my lips and looked away. “They think they have an arsonist on their hands.”

I grimaced. “Those aren’t any fun.”

Just then the photographer called for us to return to our positions.

Nobody hurried to move.

“It looks like the photographer is getting pissy,” Saylor said, eyes on the woman that was indeed losing her shit behind me. “You better get over there.”

I winked at her and then did just that, but not before tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

Her hair was down and around her face, a riot of black curls that I wanted nothing more than to pull on just to see if they’d bounce back into place.

The photographer hollered again, this time sounding extremely upset, and I sighed before leaving her standing there with a small smile on her face.

“What the hell was that?” Justice asked.

I looked at him in surprise.

“What was what?” I wondered.

“That thing you just had going on with Saylor.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t hurt her.”

I tilted my head. “When have I ever given you any indication that I wasn’t a trustworthy person? I’d never hurt her.”

“Not on purpose, no,” he agreed. “But Saylor is one of mine…and I don’t want you fucking with her heart.”

“I’m not going to fuck with her heart,” I said, sounding just a little bit testy.

“No?” he asked. “You better not because I’d fuck you up.” He paused as his eyes caught on something over my shoulder. “Then again, her dad would do that for me.”

I looked over my shoulder to see a rather large man heading straight for Saylor.

I would’ve tensed and been ready to fight had I not seen the smile aimed at the big man filling up Saylor’s entire face.

“That her dad?” I asked.

I should, technically, know at least some of these people. It wasn’t as if we didn’t go to the stray party with the Dixie Wardens here and there when I was growing up. But I was really shit at remembering people’s faces and names. I hadn’t gone to anything in quite a while, either. Everyone was different.

“Yep,” Justice confirmed. “His name is Tiago Spada, but everyone calls him Kettle.”

“Why do they call him Kettle?” I wondered. “That’s an odd name.”

Justice grinned as he looped an arm around my shoulder and dragged me back to the almost-crying photographer.

“That’s because Kettle can take a lot of shit and not get mad. But when he finally boils over, shit’s going to hit the fan. Like a tea kettle. One second he’s fine, and the next he’s going nutso.” He let me go when we were near the photographer. “Hey, Ford,” Justice called.