Pretty Shameless, page 1
part #2 of Deputy Laney Briggs Series
He’s gunning for her heart, but aiming for her body.
Wherever deputy Laney Briggs goes, trouble always follows behind—except when Laney is the trouble. Right now, Laney is on the hunt for her not-so-bright cousin, who is wanted for gun-smuggling. But there’s a sexy, hot-assed Texas Ranger on the same case, and Laney would bet her britches (and everything else she’s wearing) that Gunner Wilson knows something she doesn’t. It just requires a bit of sexy espionage...
Gunner knows all too well just how damned distracting Laney and her little red cowboy boots can be. The pure, unadulterated want between them has never been stronger—and Gunner can’t resist making her crazy. But even as she gives into every carnal craving for Gunner, Laney is determined to get her answers, one mind-meltingly hot night at a time. The only question is whether she’ll be ready for the truth...
Pretty Shameless
A Deputy Laney Briggs Novel
Jodi Linton
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Jodi Linton. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Select Suspense is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Karen Grove
Cover design by Fiona Jayde
ISBN 978-1-63375-180-4
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition January 2015
Thank you, Veronica Forand—
For the friendship, the late-night chats, and the love of suspense.
And to my editor Karen Grove—
This book wouldn’t have happened without you. Thank you for helping me craft Laney into an amazing, kick-ass heroine.
Chapter One
I was farther up shit creek than I’d ever been. Walking out to my ’99 Chevy Malibu parked outside the sheriff station, I cracked open a can of Dr Pepper and took a long swallow. A light misting of icy snow coated the pavement, even though the sun still peeked through the clouds. My chestnut hair was pushed up under my straw cowboy hat, and my white embroidered cotton uniform top was starting to bunch, all stuck to my stomach under the beige fleece protecting me from this god-awful wintry chill. The holiday season was upon us, for pity’s sake, and everybody in Pistol Rock, the tiny west Texas town I hang my hat in, with enough sense about them was either staying inside for the day or paying off their layaway bills at the Kmart in Odessa.
As I stood by my car, thoughts of my sorry lot of kin were starting to take a toll on my good humor. My cousin Wyatt had been pulled over in Harper’s Ridge a few days ago, stoned like he was at a Willie Nelson concert, and saddled down with a trunk load of illegal guns, probably belonging to some offshoot of a Mexican drug cartel. Naturally, Wyatt had been charged with trafficking illegal guns. Now being an upstanding woman, my mother bailed Wyatt out, mostly to save face during the shit storm. But directly after he got let out of the cage there in Harper’s Ridge, the idiot went AWOL. And wouldn’t you know it, his disappearance had managed to get me into all kinds of hell with my mother. Being that I am deputy sheriff of Pistol Rock, which most days having two people working at the station was about as ridiculous as asking for help with blowing out a match, she wanted me to track down Wyatt, and if I didn’t find that son-of-a-bitch cousin of mine soon, I had the feeling she was going to hang me out to dry by my boots from her clothesline.
I crammed myself behind the wheel, tossed my .9mm onto the passenger seat, stuck my Dr Pepper in the cup holder, and angrily slammed a boot on the gas pedal, leaving a cloud of dust behind. This clusterfuck that Wyatt had managed to muck his boots all over was slowly spinning out of control.
I was damn set on finding my dickweed of a cousin and dragging his scraggly tail back home.
Ten minutes past the outskirts of town, my old cruiser bobbed up and down as I eased the department-issued vehicle along the dirt road. A quarter mile into the barren land, I came to a stop on a weed-infested lawn and stared at white-trash hell. Wyatt didn’t have many friends, and I’m not sure if the teenagers coming by his trailer to score a quarter bag of weed counted as buddies. Be that as it may, I was still impressed with him just a tad. I mean, even though the crazy bastard had plastered images of his buck-toothed, mullet-head holding a twelve-gauge rifle on signs the size of McDonald’s arches all over the county, he did own Locked and Loaded, the only official firing range for miles around. However, the dumbass had opened his shooting range in the middle of west Texas, a place where all you needed for a firing range was a twelve-pack of beer, a rifle, and a fence post.
If Locked and Loaded was a little piece of white-trash paradise, then Wyatt’s pea-green doublewide that’d been bitch slapped by the Texas winds must be the promised land. One strand of icicle lights drooped from the flat roof. Half the shingles were missing, many of them scattered across the lawn, the screen door hung by one screw, and the ’89 GMC pickup’s back window was bashed in. It was no surprise to see the place looking like a rat’s nest, but it seemed that Wyatt’s living conditions were experiencing a slump. Here, staring me straight in the face, was proof that evolution could go in reverse. If only Uncle Tate had been shooting blanks, because the face on the Locked and Loaded welcoming banner flapping around in the wind was a beer or two short of a six-pack.
I killed the engine, mentally crunched my knuckles, grabbed my pistol, and kicked open the door. When I planted a foot on the dry, hard ground the dust settled over the tops of my red cowboy boots. I stomped across the punishing land as grass burs bit into the soles of my boots and the chilly winter air beat down on the nape of my neck. If Wyatt put up a fight, I intended on knocking out those buck teeth of his, relieving him from the burden of owning and operating a toothbrush. I scanned the stark, barren space, taking into account that the gun shed was wide open. Someone had been a busy little bee. As I stalked up the porch stairs, a horny toad slithered across the tops of my boots. I stopped in front of the tattered screen door, raised a fist, and rapped on the side of the trailer. Something crashed to the floor, and then a door smacked a wall before the trailer fell dead silent. There were the likely possibilities that either Wyatt was hiding out in there, or I’d just disturbed one hell of a rat. I wasn’t sure which I’d have preferred. I placed a hand on my gun and frantically began to pound away at the trailer.
“Wyatt, now open the goddamn door,” I called out, “or I’ll shoot the damn lock off!” When the ratty screen burst open, I almost choked on my own spit. “Holy shit, buckaroo,” I said, completely getting bucked off my horse.
There I was, staring at a damn familiar black cowboy hat poking through the door opening. Moving past the hat, my eyes stopped on a pair of tight-assed Wranglers leaning against the doorjamb. I dropped the gun to my side, tipped my hat up, and understood immediately that I was screwed. All it took was one look at those mouthwatering lips, and my mind had washed down the gutter. My panties had a habit of dropping around my ankles whenever I laid eyes on Gunner Wilson, a Texas Ranger of the most rotten variety. Not to mention that he could also be a cocksucker in the boyfriend department. Take last Thursday night for starters. He’d bailed on me for our regular Briggs’s family dinner/domino night. By the time the lovely family bonding crawled to an end, I was one bottle of Jack lighter and eyeballing the last beer in the fridge.
Gunner owed me big time. And he still hadn’t coughed over payment.
We stood in silence for a moment, staring each other down like buzzards around fresh roadkill.
“Well, speak of the devil,” I finally sputtered out. “Aren’t you supposed to be working out in El Paso until Sunday? You know a phone call can go a long ways.”
One corner of his mouth tugged up into his signature I’m-bad-and-you-know-it grin while those amazing melt-in-the-palm-of-your-hands brown eyes fell upon my face. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of those Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader pom-pom-dropping Wranglers and started to close the gap between us. And for the love of God, I was already zeroing in on that sinful black rattlesnake tattoo stretched along the bulging muscles of his tanned, flexed right forearm. This was so not good. A fistful of butterflies settled in the pit of my stomach, and then we locked eyes in our old, sinful I’m-yours-baby stare down.
Get it together, gal.
Gunner had a way of tickling me pink, which in turn only stalled whatever pressing matter I’d been attending to…like trying to get a line on my dipshit cousin.
“Good to see you, too, Laney,” Gunner Wilson drawled in his deep voice, signaling me home. He rocked onto the toes of his black boots and reached out and pulled a piece of my hair between his fingers, slowly skimming the pad of his callused thumb down the side of my face as he added, “We hit a dead end, and then my boss called me in to attend to more pressing matters.”
Watching him like a hawk, I searched the taut lines of his rugged face, lingering on his wickedly handsome five o’clock shadow, and concluded, well mostly, that my boyfriend wasn’t trying to derail me. It’s not like it was a government-guarded secret that Gunner’d been moonlighting on the side by sniffing out eve
Gunner moved in, lining up for the kill, securing himself a sweet smackaroo on my lips, then brushing his mouth beneath my earlobe, only to pull back, whispering, “Are you gonna fill me in as to why you’re out here, sweetheart?” That widemouthed smile pressed into my cheek, and smack, he’d gained an extra footing. “Because I have it on good faith you didn’t drive all the way out to Wyatt’s for a lunch date.”
And now we’d gone back to ground zero.
The man must believe the sun came up just to hear him crow. I snapped out of my schoolgirl swoon and swatted his hand away, shifting uncomfortably in my boots, and gave him one hell of a dirty look. This is such bullshit.
“Why don’t you tell me first? We both know Wyatt and you aren’t drinking buddies,” I said, watching his sly grin change into a frown.
He took off his hat and scratched nervously at his brown hair. “I’ve been busy with a case.” With a wink he continued, “Like I said before, darling, my boss has me working a new case, and I’ve been pulling all-nighters this past week. Can we discuss it tonight over a few cold ones?”
“Did your phone go on vacation, too?” I snapped a quickie of his tight jeans, saying, “Or were you just ignoring my messages?”
He gave that some thought before putting his hat back on. “No,” he replied, defensively. “Okay, fine. I should’ve called. I know that much. And let me say I’m sorry I didn’t answer any of your texts.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Sorry ain’t gonna cut it this time.”
“I know. But I’m here now, and doesn’t that count for something?” he asked, smiling with his arms outstretched.
If Gunner was serving bullshit for dinner, I’d need a steak knife to cut through the pile he was stacking on my plate there at Wyatt’s trailer.
I shrugged. “Not sure. I’m still weighing my options.”
The smile vanished. He was dumbstruck that he wasn’t able to snake charm me out of my panties again. At that moment, the last thing I wanted was to go raw dogging with my boyfriend when I had family problems on the brain.
“And why the hell are you at my cousin’s place anyway?”
He grunted. “It’s official Ranger business.”
“I guess you’re going for the hard-ass Texas Ranger thing today,” I countered.
He narrowed his eyes and pinched the brim of his hat back at me. “Call it what you will, but you better be on your way, seeing that this is none of your business.”
I felt my face burn. There was no denying it. Gunner Wilson could be a jerk like no other. Not long ago, I’d been dumb enough to fall for his whole bad-boy act, and yeah, it still had the power to bring me to my knees, but like hell was he going to keep me out of my cousin’s shitty trailer. We’d been on this roller-coaster ride of a romance ever since high school with enough heat and passion to light up the west Texas skyline. Still it really got me flaming mad that Gunner thought he could boss me around on the job. Not like I didn’t have a damn badge, too. So I did the only reasonable thing and lifted a boot to drive a swift kick into his shin.
“Shit, Laney,” he hollered as he bent over to rub his leg. That was my cue. I took off like a bat out of hell, running past his wide shoulders, only to stop in midsprint when I came face-to-face with a pigsty.
I was going to be sick. There was no way in hell Wyatt was related to me. Boy did the Lord have a sick sense of humor. Yellow, water-stained walls adorned with newspaper clippings lined the living room, and empty Icehouse beer bottles spilled out of the trash can. The leather recliner was ripped to shreds, and a bong sat in the butt-imprinted seat. Above the fake fireplace was a twelve-gauge shotgun hung from two Command wall hooks. A helluva thirsty Christmas tree decorated with a few strands of popcorn ribbon butted the back wall of the trailer. Everything else, as a testament to his lack of cooking skills, was littered in fast-food wrappers and pizza boxes. I made my way across the filth, dodging banana peels and beer bottles, before stepping inside the dingy cubicle kitchen. Fliers announcing Danny Redbud’s Annual Barbecue, Pistol Rock’s very own celebrated melon farmer who supplied a regional grocery store chain’s produce section, were crumpled up in the trash can. Wyatt had mentioned the party a few weeks ago, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember exactly why he’d received an invitation. Normally the filthy rich didn’t mix with the low-life rednecks in town. Just another topic I would need to pick my cousin’s brain about…if I ever tracked down his hidey cove.
I directed my attention back to the task at hand. The bar was cluttered with stacks of unpaid bills—from the telephone company to the electric—and small plastic bags littered the countertop along with his precious Case pocketknife Granddad had given him for a Christmas present back in middle school. With two fingers, I picked up a crusted dish towel and flung it into the grimy dishwater, taking note of the white-film residue cloaking the chipped Formica. Good God, my cousin might be involved in more than just a gun bust. Why in the hell didn’t I give him a chance to let me hear him out at Bristol Mills? Fuck me. I should be the first to know that nothing is ever so simple in life. There was no need to alert my good-ol’-boy Texas Ranger to the mystery powder. Heck, for all I knew, Wyatt had spilled a pound of flour. One thing at a time, Laney Briggs. And at the top of my list was to hunt down Wyatt. After that…well, I’d take the punches as they came.
I brushed off the wariness and focused on a bowl filled with Ziploc bags of marijuana sitting behind an empty milk jug. I had a sinking feeling Wyatt had gotten himself into some bad shit here. He’d as much go without toilet paper for a week than a day without weed.
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Gunner called from behind—I turned, catching him swaggering back through the front door—“but your cousin is one fucking pig.”
Dropping a wadded-up tissue back on the countertop, I lifted an eyebrow in reply. “And here I thought he was the next Martha Stewart.”
Gunner crossed my path and slowly gave me a full-body check. “I meant it when I said I’m sorry about not calling.” He tipped his hat. “And I really want to take you downtown tonight. Show you off to all the boys.”
Deciding to play along, I asked, “Will there be shots involved?”
“Yep.” His slow, lazy grin widened, sending my lady parts humming. “And maybe some hot, sweaty sex, if the night plays in your favor, cowgirl.”
Both had a promising ring, but I needed to tie a neat little bow around my cousin’s disappearance before tossing it back in the sack with my boyfriend. I slung a hand on my hip. “Please tell me you know where Wyatt’s hiding out,” I said, brushing off his advance while scanning the trailer for any clue of my cousin’s whereabouts.
“Beats me.” Gunner pulled off his hat, running a hand through his messy brown hat hair.
I pulled a stool out from underneath the bar, flicked the cracker crumbs off it, then parked my ass to sulk for a moment. The sound of Gunner moving about the trailer, tossing objects and cursing under his breath, was driving me up a wall. This wouldn’t be much of a treasure hunt. There wasn’t anything even Goodwill would take in as a handout. A few seconds later, the sound of his shuffling boots came to a standstill.
He had his hands shoved in his jeans pockets. “Well?”
I looked up from the countertop. “‘Well, what?” I asked.
One brow arched. “Are you gonna help?”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Okay,” he said, and his eyes took on a devious glimmer before adding, “save your energy for later.”
Hit in the gut by old memories, I squeaked, “I don’t even want to know what you’re trying to imply.”
Gunner’s upper lip twitched into a cocky smile. “I mean, right now you go ahead and rest your ass on that stool, and later on we’ll put it to better use.”
The man had a way with words. I swear it was like listening to a Bon Jovi song.
“Nice try, but rummaging through Wyatt’s bedroom sounds better.”
