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Pretty Shameless

by Jodi Linton

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.

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 every lead on the cold case pertaining to his parents’ murders, while dealing with a pretty hefty Ranger’s workload. Occasionally I wished he’d give me some heads-up on his next move. Being left in the dark sucked worse than accidentally snorting soda up my nose.

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.”

I took my time easing my sweet ass off the stool and straightening the wrinkles out of my shirt and adjusting the waist of my jeans before rounding the kitchen bar. Then I pushed him aside, making a beeline to the bedroom. It was a trek. I almost landed belly up once or twice on what I think was old pizza crust. Gunner was hot on my heels. My boots stopped in a dead heat at the smell of week-old body odor coming from Wyatt’s bed. I fought the urge to gag and pressed on, rounding the rumpled, hair-infested sheets. On the bedside table sat a vintage Penthouse magazine, right next to a purple lava lamp. I walked over to the window and flung open the tattered Superman curtains. The last place I wanted to go picking was under Wyatt’s king-size bed, but out of the corner of my eye I spotted some crumpled dollar bills. Not sure why, but I dove on all fours, desperately hoping to find some evidence. Ass sky high and sucking air through my nose, I was just about to push aside an old Little League trophy, when a deep, humorous laugh seared my ears.

“Find anything useful?”

Instinctively, I shot up, banging my head on the bed rail. “Son of a bitch,” I yelled, looking back over my shoulder while rubbing my scalp. “No, I haven’t,” I said. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Gunner dropped a shoulder, his attention clearly only interested in one thing: my behind.

Snapping my fingers, I looked from my butt to his face. He smiled, clueing in, so I plunged on with my questioning. “Have you found anything useful?”

Gunner had a hip leaning into the doorway as his gaze dropped to my ass, again. “As a matter of fact, I just laid eyes on something I could really use.”

I felt my face start to blush but fought it as best as I could. “Will you stop? I’m debating whether or not I’m still pissed at you.”

He kicked away from the wall and reached out, offering up a hand. “All right,” he said, taking hold of my hand, pulling me to my feet, and slamming my breasts flush against the solid wall of his chest. My stomach took a nosedive, and my heart started to bang nervously. He ran his hands up and down my backside, looking straight into my eyes. I stayed there against him, locked in his gaze. “I think I might have something of use for you,” he said, that rough yet smooth voice blessedly breaking the trance I was under. Pathetic. I know. “But it’ll cost you.”

I should know better than most that playing with fire burns like a bitch. I wiggled out of his strong arms and acquiesced with a heavy shrug of my shoulders.

“I’m gonna regret this, but all right.”

He let out an agitated chuckle and fell back against the wall. “Have I ever made you regret anything?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. Just cough it up.”

He tossed a black duffel bag on the floor.

On a sigh I scowled at yet another shitty-ass problem piling up on my doorstep. “What’s this?” I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me.

My hunky Texas Ranger kicked it with his boot. “Take a look.”

Of course, I had to check it out now. I glanced inside. “Is this Wyatt’s?”

“I believe so.” He gave a halfhearted shrug, and with his lady-killer smile widening on a laugh, he simply asked, “Have any idea why Wyatt would have so much cash?”

Shit, that was one hell of a stash for a guy like Wyatt, who could never even scrounge up enough dough for a two-dollar fried burrito over at the Filler-Up.

“We weren’t the closest of cousins,” I said, still astonished by the amount of cash in the duffel bag.

Gunner cocked his head and gave me one of his famous gut-twisting, body-melting grins. He really did think he was God’s gift to women, either that, or he could magically make me turn to mush. Fine, I’ll admit it. Occasionally I’d experienced a pantyless episode around the bullheaded man. But that smug little grin wasn’t helping a damn bit. He’d been sitting on this duffel bag of cash the whole time while he watched me crawl around Wyatt’s bedroom. I was ready to kill him. But I composed myself.

With a hat tip, a boot shuffle, and a swing of my hips, I plowed on. “Where’d you find this?” I asked while finger-thumbing at the mysterious black bag.

A humorless grunt split my feistiness in two. “Out in his shed,” Gunner stated matter-of-factly, his voice on edge, yet still so deep it aimed a heat-seeking missile directly in the path of my jeans.

I gave him a puzzled look. There was no way in hell he’d just thrown me a bone. “In his shed, huh?”

“Yep.” Gunner hitched a thumb in a belt loop. “Found it up on a shelf behind some gas cans.”

I elbowed him in the gut on my way out the door. “Make yourself useful and get out here,” I hollered.

We headed back out into the misty December air and hustled through the sludge piling on top of the patchy dried grass. The chilly drizzle that an hour earlier wouldn’t have required a coat was slowly becoming a bitch. I could feel it sticking to my eyelashes as I stomped to the shed. We made our way around five trash bins piled to the brim with empty beer cans. There were lawn chairs perched in mud out back and a plethora of joints bobbled in the puddles. Wyatt, the idiot, had left the water on. I stepped over the hose and turned the faucet off. I looked back over my shoulder. Gunner’s gaze was like a torpedo locked on my ass and ready to fire.

“You do know that you have problems.”

He rocked forward in his boots. “Name one.”

“My cousin’s on the lamb, we’ve got a shitload of money here stuffed in a duffel bag, it’s freaking drizzling, and all you’re able to think about is my ass?”

With a tip of his chin, he replied, “Have you checked your ass out lately? It’s pretty dang distracting, darling.”

“For the love of God,” I muttered under my breath. I stomped over to the shed doors and poked my head inside, taking a moment to stare at the emptiness.

“Gunner, all the guns are missing.”

He whipped off his hat and wiped his forehead. “Well shit, Laney,” he said, putting his hat back on, “aren’t you observant.”

“You could’ve told me that Wyatt’s personal gun stash was gone. It was pointless walking all the way out here.”

Laugh lines surfaced around his eyes. “Now where would the fun have been in that?”

“You are such an ass.”

“Easy now.” His grin widened before he tossed me a belly-aching wink and said, “You’ve always known I’m an ass. And you’ve loved me just the same. So let’s not start the name-calling, sweetheart.”

Well, that just dilled my pickle. I slung my fist on my hips and was ready to throw down.

“Why the hell were you inside Wyatt’s trailer?”

He placed his black cowboy hat on his head, tipped the brim at me, and smiled. “It’s privileged information.”

I stared at him for a minute. My bullheaded boyfriend was stringing me along. If he didn’t come clean I’d strangle it out of him. I rocked forward on the toes of my boots and grabbed him by the shirt. It was time to fight dirty.

“Come on, Gunner. You can trust me,” I purred, my voice sounding like a Hooters waitress laying the charm on thick to get a big fat tip.

I had one hand toying with the hem of his snug black T-shirt, my hips grinding into his Wranglers. The way that zipper fly was bulging against my thigh almost made me forget I was on the attack. “You can tell me. I’ve always been good at keeping secrets.”

Gunner looked pained. “Again, it’s privileged information, Laney.” He leaned in closer, grazing his five o’clock shadow along my chin. “Damn you smell good,” he said, sucking in some air. “Buy the lavender soap at the Piggly Mart again?”

I hooked my thumbs in his belt loops and tugged, pulling him into me. “Why are you all of a sudden acting so serious?”

He always did have a hard-on for the slutty-bimbo type. A low, throaty groan tore from his chest when he dipped his mouth toward mine. My lips parted, welcoming him home. I felt his tongue skim my teeth, and then he swallowed my moan with a hungry kiss. Aw hell, he tasted like homemade vanilla ice cream, a little too sweet, but so sinfully delicious. Maybe I hadn’t completely thought this through, because the way he was kissing me torched any comeback as a raging wildfire of pure undignified lust burst throughout my entire body. On a long, hard caress, he forced the tender embrace deeper and pulled my tongue into a tantalizing dance with his. Savoring the moment, he wrapped both arms tighter around my waist, and wasted no time to teach me each one of his smooth moves.

And damn, did I want to be schooled.

Gunner broke the body-aching kiss, and before I could say “more” his mouth touched my earlobe, and then he whispered, “Word has it that Wyatt might be in deep with Manny Sanchez.”

“Manny Sanchez?” I asked, surprised.

“That’s right.”

He continued working his mouth along my neck, which might as well have been between my legs. I’d gone from bitch to horny in about five seconds flat.

I feathered my lips across his stubbled chin, inhaling the richness of his aftershave as I said softly, “Who’d have thought.”

“You might wanna run out there and check.” He half moaned.

Leaning in, I placed my mouth inches from his neck. “Thanks,” I told him before jabbing my red boot down on his foot and storming off to the cruiser, leaving Gunner to deal with his erection and holding his foot.

“You cooking dinner tonight, or am I?” His voice whistled on a curse as he shook out his leg and gained my attention once more.

I wrenched open the car door, paused, then shot a promising look at his zipper fly, saying, “We both know you didn’t shack up with me for my cooking skills. So if you don’t wanna eat a cold pot roast, I suggest you figure something out, honey. I’ll see you around seven as usual?”

The mischievous smirk slowly working across his sun-kissed, chiseled face told me he intended on my ass being the main course. Not that I could deny him since I’d been antsy to get my full serving of his tight-ass cowboy butt, too. But tonight I’d make him work for it. He pushed the brim of his hat up, smiled, and let that masculine, country-crooner voice fly. “How about I swing by the Piggly Mart and pick up a bottle of wine?”

“What shitty thing did you do this time, Gunner Wilson?” I asked, curiously.

He toed a weed with the tip of his boot, laughing. “Nothing, darling.” He made a show of crossing his heart. “Can’t I just want to have a little romantic reunion with my girl?”

Romantic evening my butt. Gunner’s idea of romance had never been warm candle glow with a glass of red wine. No, he was more the type to talk me out of my pants, and then whisper sweet nothings in my ear as he took us both to the best damn orgasmic high known to man.

I pulled my keys into the palm of my hand. “You hate wine.”

“You know me.” He chuckled. “I’m always willing to do whatever it takes to make ya happy.”

“Yeah, I know you, Gunner.” I smiled. “Really damn well.” Then I slid inside the cruiser, fired up the engine, and hit the gas pedal. The heater choked out its last spritz of semihot air. I flipped on the radio. “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” bled through the scratchy speakers. Merry Fucking Christmas, Laney Briggs. I slumped down in the cold leather seat and thought about Wyatt, the bag of money, and Manny Sanchez. The missing guns, of course, made sense. They were the reason I was searching for Wyatt in the first place. Aside from Gunner’s intel, I had no leads but lots of questions—and the nagging fear that once my mother heard news of Wyatt being knee-deep in the mud with Manny Sanchez, she might fly off her rocker. I knew who’d be on the receiving end if that happened.