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)
Brooke, the president, Curly’s, ol’ lady. Someone who had more than enough reason to hate the police based on her partner’s horrendous experience. Fantastic.
“Uh, no, I haven’t.” She lifted a hand. “I’m Jo.” No way would she introduce herself as Officer Baker or give any indication she was a cop. Maybe Olivia wouldn’t mention it, and they could get through this encounter without Brooke ever finding out.
Brooke’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re Jo.” Her gaze met Olivia’s, and the women shared some silent communication as Brooke’s lips curled into a knowing grin.
Guess that ruled out flying under the radar.
“It’s so nice to meet you, officer.”
Okay, beating around the bush wouldn’t cut it. It wasn’t Jo’s style and wouldn’t make this situation any less torturous. “So, does everyone in your club know who I am?”
Brooke pressed her lips together. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Do you mean does everyone know you hooked up with Tracker then defended Lock… when your, excuse my French… when your asshole partner tried to interrogate him five seconds after his sister died?”
Oh, God. She wanted to slide off the chair into the water at her feet and drown. Too bad it wasn’t deep enough. “Uh, well, I was referring to the part about Tracker, but, thank you? For the other part.”
Brooke cocked her head and studied her for a moment. Jo gave as good as she got, taking in the woman who was probably ten years or so older than her. In her cutoffs and fitted tank, she was beautiful in a natural, unadorned way, whereas Olivia clearly spent more time in front of a mirror. Her perfect face of makeup and impeccable hairstyle were expensive and as on-trend as her adorable sundress. She also had to be even younger than Jo. Maybe fifteen years Brooke’s junior. The two seemed opposite yet close as could be.
“You’re welcome because it was definitely a compliment. It’s been a rough few days for Lock, and he’s gearing up to face a huge battle for custody, so believe me when I say our entire club appreciated the way you didn’t let Officer Simpson tear him apart even more.”
Did that appreciation extend to Tracker?
Not going there, Jo.
Brooke’s words warmed in a way they shouldn’t. Being buddy-buddy with an MC wasn’t her goal and would be career suicide. Either the club would try to take advantage of her kindness as Tracker had at first, or the department would take advantage of her relationship with the bikers and try to get her to turn one of them into an informant. Either way, she ended up screwed. “Well, I can’t say much since it’s an open investigation, but I don’t believe in hitting people when they’re down.” There, she’d set boundaries but let the women know she wasn’t the monster their club thought she was.
Olivia smiled at the woman who switched on the water for her feet. “Okay, ladies, I have a proposition.” She glanced right and left between Brooke and Jo. “I propose for the next forty-five minutes, or however long we are here, that there is no MC talk or cop talk. We chat, have some laughs, and get to know each other without any baggage in the form of tall, muscular, sexy bikers.” She blinked then smirked. “Sorry, I digress.”
Laughing, Brooke nodded. “That works for me. You in, Jo?”
God, this was exactly what she’d told herself to avoid five seconds ago. But these women were great—kind, funny, and personable. And between her hellish work hours and being relatively new in town, she didn’t have girlfriends to hang out with. Would it really be so bad for her to let down her guard and have some fun with the women for a little while?
“I’m in.”
“Awesome.” Olivia stuck her feet in the water. “Ahhh, that’s nice.”
“Your feet wouldn’t hurt so bad if you didn’t wear those twenty-five-inch heels,” Brooke said with a roll of her eyes as she submerged her own feet.
“Twenty-five-inch heels?” Olivia laughed and thumbed in Brooke’s direction. “You believe her? For your information, Miss Judgy-Pants, they are five inches, not twenty-five.” She shrugged. “And Spec likes the way my legs look with them on.” A smug smile curled her lips.
“Ahh, the truth comes out.” Brooke leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I’ll stick with my flip-flops, thanks.”
Jo chuckled. “I’m with you, Brooke. I spent way too many years in feet-pinching heels. Now I avoid them at all costs.”
Brooke raised an eyebrow. “Too many years?”
Oh, shit. Had she really blurted that out?
“Yeah, what do you mean by that? Please tell me you had some fabulous job as a model for Manolo Blahnik or something?” Olivia added, her eyes all but begging it to be the case.
Laughing, Jo shook her head. “No. Nothing that fun. I, uh…” Her face heated. All these years later, she shouldn’t feel the visceral effects when thinking of her pageantry days, but there it was, as always. The twist in her stomach, the heart-breaking misery of participating in an activity she loathed, the knee-knocking nerves of being under the spotlight. She cleared her throat and rolled her eyes. “I was in pageants for my whole childhood. Up until I literally threw my shoes across the room and quit at nineteen.” She shuddered. “I hated every second and haven’t worn a heel over two inches since.”