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“Me?” Holly asked out loud as though someone would answer. “You’re pulling me over? What the hell?”
Before easing up on the gas, she glanced at the speedometer which read an even sixty miles per hour. Okay, so the speed limit was fifty-five, but wasn’t there a five-mile-per-hour margin of error in these cases?
Her heart lodged in her throat as she moved her foot to the gas. Even with two cops in her immediate family, Holly had always been terrified by the prospect of being pulled over. The one other time it had happened, she’d been a sweating, stammering mess by the time the officer had knocked on her window. Barely able to speak around her nerves, he’d thought she was wasted and demanded a breathalyzer, which she’d passed with flying colors and a hefty dose of mortification.
“Take a breath, girl,” she whispered. “Relax. Hands on the wheel.” She did as she advised herself, sitting with her hands at ten and two and staring straight ahead. Despite anticipating it, the rap on the window had her jumping out of her skin.
She depressed the window control. “Yes, officer?” He looked familiar, though she hadn’t officially met him. If she remembered correctly, he was one of the cops present during the raid on the clubhouse.
“Well, you don’t look like a Jack Olsen.” The slim officer with a bushy blond mustache and a wicked southern drawl tucked his thumbs through his belt loops and rocked back on his heels. “You’re a might bit prettier, I imagine. Though you never can tell these days with people switchin’ genders left and right. Ran the plates as I was pullin’ ya over. Says this here vehicle belongs to a Jack Olsen.”
What. The. Hell. Did this guy seriously say that bigoted garbage to her? She took a breath and pushed it aside. They weren’t there to discuss his social views or hers, just the ownership of the vehicle. “Um, yes, this truck is Jack’s. He’s my—” Well shit, what was he? He’s my fuck buddy probably wouldn’t be the wisest phrase to blurt out. He’s my friend with benefits? “He’s my boyfriend,” she said.
Kinda.
Close enough for today.
“Boyfriend, huh?” The officer, actually the sheriff’s deputy, said with a smug grin. “If that’s what ya wanna call it, guess ya got the right.” He propped his hip on the side of her car, folding his arms as though he planned to linger.
“Um, excuse me?” she asked.
The deputy, Higgins, his name tag read, leaned down until his face was level with her open window. “It’s okay, darlin’, ain’t no judgment from me. Lived in this town a while now. Those Handlers always seem to have plenty of ‘girlfriends’”—he dared to use air quotes—“hangin’ ’round the club. Now here’s the thang, ma’am. Some of those girlfriends have been known to cause drama. You know, stir up some trouble when their ‘boyfriend’ gets a new ‘girlfriend.’ Maybe ya decided to teach Mr. Jack Olsen a lesson by takin’ his truck on a little joy ride.”
If the man crooked his fingers in midair one more time, Holly was going to reach out and snap them off. Okay, she never would, but the fantasy took some of the sting out of being subtly called a whore and a thief.
After taking a calming breath, Holly looked at the officer. “My car wouldn’t start his morning. Jack, my air-quote-free boyfriend, lent me his truck so I could get to and from work. If you’d like, I can call him, and he can verify my story.”
“Hmm, how about ya just hand on over yer license, the registration, and insurance card.”
“Sure. My license is in my purse and the other items are in the glove box. May I retrieve them?”
“Wouldn’ta asked for ’em if I didn’t want you to get ’em,” he said with a laugh that raked down Holly’s back like metal scraping concrete.
Her nerves went haywire as she fished her wallet out of her purse. “Here’s this.” She handed it through the window, willing her hand not to shake.
“Purdy,” he said. “Though you’re even better lookin’ in real life.” He winked.
“Um, uh, thanks.”
His focus wasn’t on her license. In fact, he’d barely glanced at the thing. Instead, he zeroed in on her breasts, though they were fully hidden by her T-shirt. Goosebumps rose along her arms and the back of her neck. Not the good kind, either. Not the kind she got when LJ kissed her neck or whispered in her ear. No, these were warning goosebumps. Basically, an internal alarm system or creeper alert.
“Going to grab the registration now.” She leaned over the center console and reached for the glove box. It was a stretch. The truck was just so damn big. Her shirt rode up in the back. A high-pitched whistle pierced the air making her jaw drop.
