Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Unfortunately, the judges loved her, and she now found herself a finalist for the Miss Teen USA pageant. A young beauty queen’s dream, but all Jo wanted was her denim shorts, combat boots, and a ride on her brother’s motorcycle.
“Jolene, college admissions have been declining over the last five years. An analysis performed by researchers has discovered that colleges and universities aren’t admitting fewer students, but the number of individuals applying to colleges has declined drastically. What do you think is the reason for this?”
She could blow it. Answer in a rambling mess like that girl who made the rounds on the internet a few years ago. The notoriety of becoming a comedic meme would be humiliating, but at least she’d be done with this charade. But one look at the hope shining in her mom’s eyes and the pride in her father’s, she once again fell in line.
“Great question, Bob,” she said, making sure to flash her pearly whites. “I think the answer is a complex assortment of political, social, and economic factors, but the most problematic has to be the economic strain college puts on young individuals.” She managed to smile while answering the question and stating how important college was for young people.
A scholarship was given as part of the winnings, so if she spoke her truth and said she herself had no desire to attend college but join the police academy instead, she’d shoot her chances for that sparkly tiara in the foot.
Ugh, another fu—freaking tiara.
If she busted out the F-word, she’d not only disgrace herself but her family right along with her. Too bad shaking that habit was nearly impossible, living in a houseful of macho cops.
“Thank you, Miss Alabama.”
“Thank you, Bob.” She smiled her practiced and perfected show smile and waved at the cheering crowd as she glided off the stage.
As soon as she made it out of sight of the audience, her shoulders sagged, and she rolled her eyes. Would this ever end? If she won today, the Miss America pageant would be next, after spending the entire next year traveling, interviewing, modeling, and collecting brand sponsorships like stamps. Every part of that sounded dreadful. All she wanted was to throw away the gown, jump into some cargo pants, and join her brothers at the shooting range.
Yeah, she could shoot. And she was damn good. That was the worst part of growing up in a cop family full of males. She was dragged along on hunting trips, karate matches, and every event the boys participated. She’d learned to fight, shoot, climb, wrestle, and swear with the best of them, but she wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. Or excel at it. She wasn’t supposed to want any of it for herself. She was supposed to like glitter, pink, ruffles, and smelling like a flower.
It sucked.
“Ladies, please line up. You’ll be entering the stage in thirty seconds.” The stage manager clapped her hands and waved them into place.
Jo took her spot at the front of the line. As they’d rehearsed, she smiled and paraded on stage after the host said, “Please welcome back your Miss Teen USA finalists.”
Five minutes later, Jo smiled and waved while sporting a shiny new tiara and cross-body sash.
Her family cheered like never before. Even her brothers, who didn’t give two hoots about pageants, screamed their excitement at her success. Over and over, congratulations flew her way, but all Jo heard was the voice in her own head begging for a different life.
CHAPTER ONE
THE WOMAN DIDN’T take shit from anyone.
She hadn’t come to pick up a man, and every brave slob who made a pass at her ended up sliced to ribbons by her sharp tongue. Don’t-fuck-with-me vibes radiated off her with so much force that he felt them across the bar. Except they didn’t have the desired effect because they made Tracker hard as hell.
But then, he’d always been an odd duck.
“Be still my beating heart,” he whispered as a slick dude in a pricy suit strode away from her, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Probably calling her a bitch.
Tracker thought she was hot when he’d offered to seduce the rookie cop, but watching her tear down these idiots without even trying made her fucking incendiary in his book. The tits didn’t hurt, either. Neither did her biteable ass.
But the tits had caught his attention first. The woman had a stellar rack. And Tracker considered himself an expert judge of tits. He fucking loved them. Big, small, firm, soft. He was an equal-opportunity tit-connoisseur.
She sat facing the bar with her back to him, wearing a simple black tank top and denim shorts. He’d watched her walk in from his table in the back corner, so he’d seen how the ribbed fabric clung to her chest and the shorts cupped her round ass.