Pretty Shameless, page 7
part #2 of Deputy Laney Briggs Series
Gunner reached out in an attempt to grab my hand, and I swiftly sidestepped, only to be wrangled in by my chin. He tipped my face upward to meet his dangerous brown eyes. “You know Luke’s no match for me on the dance floor, Laney. And besides, you can’t go home and screw him afterward.”
“Who says I can’t, Wilson?” That’d been unjustifiably dirty. But hell, maybe the sock to the gut might straighten him out.
He was not a happy camper as he moved in front of my face and shouted, “I’m going to wring that son of a bitch’s neck!”
“You can try, but I really don’t care what you do.” I flipped him a friendly finger wave as I walked out of the office.
Ballsy reply on my part, since deep down I cared a shitload about what Gunner did or didn’t do.
I know bringing up Luke Wagner had been low. Still, Gunner had been the one to draw the line in the sand. I made haste across the parking lot, the winter humidity murdering my hair, and my blouse becoming a second skin. I was enraged by the thought of him finding joy in my belittlement. It all had my skin crawling. I jerked open the car door and slid down on the crummy pleather seat. It was a horrible mistake to believe that Gunner Wilson could hold his weight in gold when it came to relationships.
Chapter Five
It wasn’t any more than fifteen minutes after I left Gunner’s workplace that I was sitting on the side of the road trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do next, when my phone rang. I could’ve woken up after an all-night bender with an I Love My Mom tattoo on my titty and not been as surprised as I was when I heard the voice on the other end of the line. It was Wyatt, and he was calling me from a jail cell in Lubbock. He’d gotten busted for trying to buy weed, and he wanted me to come bail him out. I told him to hang on and I’d come get his ass out, but before I could ask him anything else, the idiot said, “Thanks, Laney,” and hung up.
By the time I reached the Lubbock police station, I could’ve used a cold shower and a strong pot of Irish coffee. I pushed through the LPD door, took a second to scan their playground, then scooted the soles of my dusty red cowboy boots farther inside a police station that had me green with envy. The lobby walls were freshly painted and lined with plastic gray chairs. I rounded a coffee table cluttered with newly released magazines, and approached the receptionist desk. Talking into a headset, eyes lowered toward the computer screen and punching buttons on her phone, sat the precinct secretary.
Slipping my hat up, I leaned over on my elbows and looked down at the receptionist. When she finally made eye contact, I told her, “I’m here to bail out my cousin, Wyatt Bennett.”
She started typing into her computer and then said, smacking her lips first, “Okay. Give me one second to pull up the information on your cousin, Ms.…?”
“Briggs,” I said. “Deputy Laney Briggs.”
“Deputy Briggs?” she asked with a lick of her lips and a slight pitch in her voice.
“That’s right. From Pistol Rock,” I said, sort of proud to be throwing my weight around just a little bit.
“Is that in Texas?” she asked, cocking her eyes at me.
“Yes,” I said, a little annoyed. “It’s in Texas. West Texas.”
“Oh, I’ve never heard of it.”
“I figured as much,” I said, deflated.
She clicked around on her computer screen a few seconds. “You’re here to bail out your cousin, you said?”
“Yeah. That’s right,” I answered impatiently.
“Who told you that you could come bail him out?” she asked, and I was about getting to the point where I was ready to grab that purple-streaked raven hair of hers and direct her head into the path of the computer screen if she smacked her lips at me one more time.
“Wyatt did. He called me about two hours ago to come bail him out. What’s the deal here?”
“Well, it shows here that your cousin hasn’t faced a judge yet to even set bail, but a detective has been assigned to your cousin.”
“What the hell do you mean a detective has been assigned to him?” I almost screamed. I thought I had this whole chapter in my life wrapped up, and now I could not only feel myself getting into some shit again, I had an even worse feeling it was about to get whole hell of a lot deeper.
“Detective Cavanaugh. Let me get him for you,” she replied shortly while dialing a number into her phone.
“Yes, Detective Cavanaugh, I’ve got a Deputy Laney Briggs here to speak to you about Wyatt Bennett,” she said into her headset, way nicer than she talked to me. She listened for a second, then finished the call with, “Thank you, Detective.”
She looked up at me and said, not forgetting to pout those lips, “Detective Cavanaugh will be with you momentarily.”
Within the last three minutes of conversation, I witnessed everything that I thought was a done deal start to fizzle quicker than my New Year’s resolution to cut back on beer during the week.
I tried to compose myself, really I did, but between this and slumming it with Manny Sanchez only to find out Wyatt had gone and got arrested again on pot charges, well…my cup of tolerance was overflowing like the bar ditches in Pistol Rock after a real turd floater of a thunderstorm. If Wyatt had the attention of a detective, and he wasn’t aware of it, I knew this wasn’t going to be good.
“I can’t believe this,” I exclaimed, completely fed up. “Why can’t something just work out for a change?”
“Deputy, I’m real sorry,” she said, slightly pitchy, “but maybe you misunderstood whoever told you to come by to bail out Mr. Bennett.”
“Mr. Bennett is the one who told me to come bail him out. Now do you see why I’m a little pissed off?” I fired at her, making her face twitch. I must’ve caught her off guard.
“You’re welcome to take a seat,” she told me, gesturing toward the plastic rows of chairs, clearly ready to be done with me.
As I was making my way to the sitting area, my iPhone vibrated in the back pocket of my jeans. I fished the phone out to see who was texting me. Goddamn it! Not a pot to piss in.
Staring me in the face was yet another text from the only man on the top of my hit list—Gunner Wilson. If I hadn’t been itching for a throwdown, I would’ve ignored the message. But then again, that wasn’t my style.
I glanced again at the screen, and a hot flash crawled up my back.
Thought about you during lunch, the message read.
Another text popped up.
About your delicious lips. About your mouth sucking me dry.
Oh? I typed. What else?
About me burying my face between your legs until I run out of breath.
And then what? I asked.
And then, when you’re dripping with desire, I plunge my cock inside you so deep you scream my name until your voice goes hoarse.
Well, I thought about you, also, I texted back.
I knew you’d forgiven me. Now tell me what you thought about, my dirty little deputy.
I thought about getting out my shotgun again, and this time aiming a little higher! I answered, hoping I expressed how I was feeling as clearly as possible.
Gunner took a bit longer to reply than he had previously.
We really need to talk about this, Laney.
Before I could reply, the secretary interrupted me, saying, “Deputy Briggs, Detective Cavanaugh asked that you come on back to speak with him.”
“All right,” I said, getting up from my chair. “Whatever gets me out of here with my cousin the quickest.”
Can’t right now. Got shit to do, I texted back before heading off to speak to this Detective Cavanaugh.
Florescent lighting danced overhead, glistening across the dingy, speckled beige-tiled floor. The air conditioner thumped to a steady beat, and the lone fan whipped and whistled in the building. Doors slammed and boots trampled up and down the hallway as I strolled toward the detective’s office. This was not what I’d call a blissful Wednesday morning. These shit pricks hadn’t even offered up a cup of coffee as condolences for wasting my time.
I stopped directly outside a sterile white door and picked at a piece of auburn hair that could’ve used a decent trimming, then sucked in a breath and pushed the door open. Well, shit a brick. There was no need for Mr. Big City Cop to look like he could’ve graced last month’s Men’s Health Magazine. Damn, I was pissed, and yet I was hotter than a forged check.
“Deputy Briggs,” he said, his sexy male voice too damn enticing, and right on cue my eyes and nipples perked up. “Please, have a seat.” He motioned to a chair in front of his desk. I had a tendency to overindulge, especially when it came to tall, dark, and handsome lawmen. Perfect. The last thing I needed was another pretty-boy cop to lust after. What? Sue me. There’s a slight possibility I might be a cowboy addict. And maybe a hot lawman addict, too. And ain’t the rule of thumb “look—don’t touch?” Anyways when it came to fulfilling my fantasies only one man could get the job done…a very sexy Texas Ranger.
I walked over to the chair and sat down. “So, what’s the deal with my cousin?” I asked, getting straight to the point.
“First of all, I want to apologize for making you wait. It’s been one of those days,” he said, oozing charm as he laid the good ol’ boy smile on slick and thick. We locked eyes, examining who was the prey and who was the hunter, but then he tossed me a set-your-panties-on-fire wink, and hands down I lost the outstare. “You know how those are, right?”
“Some days are just a peach,” I answered back, swallowing hard as I took in the sight of the sinfully good-looking detective. Aw hell, this detective was gonna be a thorn in my side.
“Indeed they are, Deputy Briggs,” he offered, fiddling with a manila folder on his desk, which happened to have Wyatt’s name at the top of it. “There are some things we need to discuss about your cousin, Wyatt Bennett.” All six feet five inches of his country-club charm locked in on me.
“Well, that’s why you called me back here, isn’t it?” I asked, intentionally surly.
He chuckled before answering, “Yes, it is, Deputy.”
He was beating around the bush about something, and I didn’t like that one damn bit. But gazing at his outrageous sexiness from across his desk was another thing all together.
I mean, most of the time a suit-and-tie guy didn’t stand much of a chance of buzzing my bell. It was a hard gig to get Gunner to shuck that amazingly mouthwatering black T-shirt for something remotely presentable to attend church gatherings, and I had always been more than satisfied with it. But this hazel-eyed hottie had me day-tripping about all the smooth, hard, and ripped planes beneath that impeccable, pressed button-down white dress shirt. He casually ran a hand through his sun-kissed brown locks, leaving them disheveled and looking hotter than a naked Matthew McConaughey on a bearskin rug.
My gaze made its way down to the crotch of his khaki dress slacks, at which point I began to indulge in all the possibilities of what made those pants fit so tight.
“Deputy, if I have something on my pants, I’d appreciate it if you told me.”
Heat burned my cheeks. “Excuse me,” I stuttered, hoping to God I wasn’t blushing. My eyes clicked in sync with his.
“You were staring at my pants, Deputy Briggs,” he persisted, smiling wryly.
“I’m waiting for you to get this show on the road,” I told him, “unless you’d just prefer to hand over Mr. Bennett, and then I’ll be on my way.”
The line of his mouth hardened as his eyes narrowed, slipping into a frown for a mere second before gathering control again. “Deputy Briggs, please call me Brock.” He reached out a hand.
I sat up straighter in my chair and squared my shoulders. “Call me Laney.”
This drew an even bigger smile. “Well, then,” he said, unbuttoning a cuff and rolling up the sleeve mid-elbow before working on the other. That’s when I spotted the black tribal-art sleeve tattoo inching up his arm. Shit! Run now, Laney Briggs. Eyes still guiltily drinking in the tattoo, I heard his deep, sexy voice speak up again. “Now that we got the formalities out of the way”—he stopped mid-cuff roll and eyed me down—“let’s talk about Wyatt. He’s quite a mess, isn’t he?”
“That’s a nicer way of saying he’s a pain in my ass,” I corrected him.
“Well, however much of a pain in your ass he is back in…Pistol Rock, isn’t it?” Brock asked, waiting for me to reply to his condescending question. For the love of Peter, Wyatt’s file was right there in front of him.
“That’s right. Pistol Rock,” I answered.
“I thought so,” he said, continuing. “Wyatt has gotten himself wrapped up in some serious trouble here in Lubbock.”
“That’s no surprise. But it probably doesn’t top the shit he’s gotten himself tangled up in back home, which is why I’m here in Lubbock.”
“Do you mind telling me why exactly you are here?” he inquired, squinting his eyes at me and tightening his lips to make himself look sincere.
“Hasn’t Wyatt told you already?” I asked, crossing my legs.
“He just got picked up this morning, so we haven’t had a chance to discuss his comings and goings back in Pistol Rock.” The way he said “Pistol Rock” with such disdain made me want to reach over the desk and pop him one right in the mouth.
“Since you mentioned it, what was he picked up on?”
“Marijuana charges. He got busted trying to buy it,” he said with a satisfaction I couldn’t quite understand at the moment.
“Pot? That’s it?” I said, bolting upright in my chair. “Why the hell, then, are we having this conversation?”
Brock straightened his tie and cleared his throat.
“It’s a lot more complicated than that,” he tried to explain.
“Then, please,” I snapped, throwing my arms out at my side, “enlighten me.”
“I will, Laney,” he said, scooting his chair in closer to his desk, “but first, let’s get back to the shit, as you call it, Wyatt is deep in down in Pistol Rock.”
I didn’t like the way this guy was withholding information. I knew he enjoyed jerking me around with it, but I also had a wary suspicion about him, kind of like the way you want to keep some distance when kicking up a stone or a piece of wood that’s been outside for a while just in case there’s a snake lying underneath. After thinking about it a moment, I went ahead and decided to fill Cavanaugh in on Wyatt’s escapades back home. Hell, if he really wanted to find out, he could’ve gotten a pretty damn good idea of it all with no more than a couple key strokes on his computer, and I figured some cooperation on my part might work in my favor more than it could hurt me.
Relaxing back in my seat, I let him have the whole story.
“And that’s why I’m here, to drag his ass back to Pistol Rock,” I finished.
The detective leaned across the desk, and my throat started to sweat due to some extreme hot, big-city-detective closeness. When he caught me staring at his chest again, he smiled and tossed me a wink.
He examined my face, then responded to my story by saying, “You have one shitty family.”
I shrugged. “Tell me about it. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me what sort of shit Wyatt has gotten himself into here in Lubbock?”
Brock scratched his nose and cleared his throat.
“Of course,” he said, too pleasantly, as he reached inside his desk and came out with another case folder. “Let’s start by you having a look at these crime-scene photos.”
I opened up the folder and began flipping through a series of photographs showing gruesomely murdered people. I’m talking slit throats, mutilated private parts, whip marks, burn marks. Ice picks, and what looked like shish kebob skewers, and whatever else this murderer could get his or her hands on, inserted into every orifice of the victims, and even some of the aforementioned private parts completely removed and then reinserted in whatever holes hadn’t been filled yet. In two photos there was just a man and a woman. In another there were two men and a woman. One was a single snapshot of a pocketknife placed next to a dead body on a gurney in the morgue. It seemed to have been taken by the county coroner. And then there were a couple with just two men in the picture. In all of the photos but the one in the morgue, the victims were naked and in bed. After I was finished looking, I put them back in the folder and tossed it on his desk.
“That’s some sick shit. Thanks for showing it to me, Brock,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.
“You’re welcome,” he said, stroking his tie.
“Do you want to tell me why you had me look at those?” I asked, leaning back into my chair.
“Sure,” he began. “Well, one of the things we have in Lubbock that doesn’t get advertised to the tourists is a healthy swingers scene.”
“Hang on a second there,” I interrupted. “When you say swingers scene, you aren’t talking about swing dancing, are you?”
“No.” He laughed. “I’m talking about the kind where they screw one another.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He continued. “As I was saying, Lubbock has a thriving swingers community, albeit an underground sort of populace. I’ve done some detective work on this group, and it turns out that there are different clubs people can join, based on their fetishes, and I guess what you could call ‘boundaries.’”
“What do you mean by that?” I was so far from Kansas at that point.
“Boundaries for what is acceptable in a club. Some clubs trade wives. Some welcome in a third party to enjoy the debauchery. Others are the type where the men, or women, like to go at it with each other. And that only scratches the surface.”
“I see now,” I confirmed, adding, “and so in those photos, the victims were all in swingers clubs.”
“Exactly,” he answered. “Except for one small detail. It turns out they are all in the exact same club, which, as you saw by the makeup of the victims in the photos, was the type of club that was pretty much open to anything.”
“That’s interesting, but I still don’t see how this has anything to do with Wyatt.”
