Convicted

For Christine Bell, who never let me fall too far.

You’re a friend, a cheerleader, a whip cracker, and laugh when I need it the most.

Thanks for being my hero.

Never shall I forget the principles I accepted to become a Recon Marine.

Honor, Perseverance, Spirit, and Heart.

A Recon Marine can speak without saying a word,

and achieve what others can only imagine.

Chapter One

Marketta, California

The new cop was lying under a tree again.

Sheriff’s Deputy C. Evigan had stormed into town and begun making friends in a big way. Four drug busts in as many days had netted him the general enmity of everyone in the Wheels of Pain motorcycle club. The damages caused by those busts all over town had probably caused the enmity of pretty much everyone else.

Now thanks to the undersheriff’s bulldog arguing, twelve members of the club had spent a full five days in county lockup. While the initial charge was assault—the possession with intent to distribute charges had disappeared like magic thanks to another evidence breach—he’d managed to get disorderly conduct added for being high and fighting the officers when they’d been picked up. Again. The entire town knew the charges wouldn’t stick, but it would keep those men out of everyone’s hair for another few days.

Well, everyone’s hair except Katrina’s.

She had to haul her ass to the Municipal Center’s detention building most every day to deliver any communication from her boss. Frank Carter had run the club—and the town—ever since her delinquent uncle got himself locked up a few years ago. Katrina had the fun of maintaining Cooper’s Tavern—Uncle Red Dog’s shithole biker bar—until he got out. Playing lackey to Frank was Red Dog’s idea of putting her in her place for running away as a teenager and the subsequent decade of silence before coming home. Red Dog had been suspicious of her claim that she had nowhere else to go—he was always suspicious—but he’d put her to work and never imagined he’d let a DEA agent right in his front door.

She smirked at that thought. It was probably better payback than her uncle realized. Dealing with Frank Carter fell somewhere below being mauled by a pack of rabid animals on her list of good times. But here she was, day in, day out, putting up with his shit. Because she had to, for now. The second she didn’t, she’d take enormous pleasure in kicking that sadist as close to death as humanly possible and dragging his ass to jail. Until that beautiful moment arrived, she made due with whatever distractions she could find.

Thus, watching the new deputy’s comings and goings.

She shouldn’t have, of course. Everything about him screamed Don’t even think about it. First, he was a stranger. Unlike most people in Marketta, he wasn’t born there and he didn’t have family to vouch for him. Second, cops didn’t exactly think highly of biker bars, and according to the gossip that was the life’s blood of their small town, this cop didn’t seem to think highly of anything. He didn’t speak to anyone, preferring to either nod or stare at people until they left. That included Frank’s men, which might have been a good thing since most of the other deputies were on Frank’s payroll, but it sure made folks nervous. Rumors were already flying that he’d taken some kind of serious damage during his military years so he was likely to lose his mind and kill them all at any moment. She cringed inwardly every time she heard that particular story, even as she told herself his possible mental issues had nothing to do with her. Her orders were to keep an eye on Frank Carter and the rest of Wheels of Pain, not to get turned around every time some sexy military man walked by.

But he was hard to ignore while she waited for her visitation.

Deliciously tall, he’d let his black hair grow way too long. He’d brushed it out of his eyes and under his hat at least twice each time she’d seen him. He wasn’t used to that hat, she realized pretty quick, but it seemed to be growing on him. He visibly relaxed a little every time he put it on again. Broad shoulders, long legs, and a hell of a lot of muscle made her wonder exactly what it was that brought him home from the Middle East. Nothing she could see, at least not from the window. It was tempting to get close enough to find out.

Well, tempting for her. Most other people seemed to give the big man an insultingly wide berth whenever he walked by. Just her luck, she had serious problems staying away from trouble, and this new bad-cop was definitely trouble.

She paused on the steps leading to where she’d parked her bike. In the distance, kids climbed on a play set. Shrieks of laughter carried a long way, as did the sound of parents giving warnings and probably being ignored. That was where the new guy parked himself every day, right under the big oak tree that topped the slope of grass. With all the noise, he would probably never even hear her coming. She could get a good look, satisfy her curiosity, and get the hell out. No big deal.

If anyone on Frank’s payroll noticed her lingering, she could just tell Frank she was checking to see if the new guy might be someone she could work up.

Yeah, Frank would like that.

Maybe. He hated when people thought of things before he did, though it didn’t happen often. Paranoid and pathological weren’t adjectives she used lightly, but they sure fit Frank to a T.

Still… She took the first step toward the park.

This is a stupid move, Killian.

The last thing she needed was to complicate her tenuous situation.

So, sooo stupid.

Because her feet began a steady stride on the sidewalk leading to the rolling green hillside surrounding the Municipal Center and she wasn’t doing a damn thing to stop herself. She just wanted a better look. How much could a look hurt?

Which was what she’d always asked herself as a kid, right before she hopped on someone else’s bike for a joyride.

That memory almost stopped her, but she gave a mental shrug and kept going. That was the danger to coming home. Who you really were had a sneaky way of disappearing into who you used to be.

Her boot heels sank into the rich grass, each step kicking up the fresh scent of sun-warmed, freshly watered earth. But earth wasn’t what had her attention. No, that was firmly trained on the length of man stretched out where the ground had just started to slope.

Arms folded behind his head, wide-brimmed green felt hat over his face, those long legs crossed at the ankle, and his chest rising and falling evenly, he was the picture of relaxation. She slowed, allowing her gaze to trace the thick ropes of muscle where his biceps escaped the short sleeves of his brown uniform. Arms the size of anacondas, she decided, feeling a curl of inappropriate interest rise like smoke in her belly.

Six-three if he was an inch, the guy was head-to-toe muscle. His chest spread the confines of his uniform shirt so far he’d had to undo several buttons to allow his arms up like that. The fabric of his pants strained at the upper curve of his quads. She glanced briefly at the not-so-subtle bulge at his groin. Definitely not a eunuch, this one.

The smoke grew thicker…

All too easily, she could picture herself straddling his hips and rubbing her breasts against that massive chest. Skin to skin, sweat blending together, breath coming in frantic pants… The image was so clear she shifted to press her thighs together, holding onto the phantom sensation her imagination created completely on its own.

What would it be like, sex with a man containing so much physical power? To know he could take complete control of her anytime he wanted? She’d never considered that to be a turn-on, but a man like this? One who caught her attention without even trying? It could be something she’d be willing to test out—

Until she heard the quiet click of a hammer cocking from under the hat brim.

Sonofabitch.

Seen enough? His voice was almost painfully gritty. Like gravel over her senses, rough and abrasive. Which didn’t at all explain why she liked it.

Not really, you’re still wearing clothes, she replied, since it was the truth and she always found that to be a fun novelty. But I guess it’ll have to do.

The hat lifted a little and she caught sight of one narrowed dark eye and the glint of his small handgun. Okay, then. Man with a gun and rumored post-traumatic stress disorder. Brilliant idea, traipsing up to him and ogling him while he slept. Just fuckin’ brilliant.

She quickly searched for signs that he might be at all in distress. No sweating, his gaze didn’t dart nervously, and most important, the gun didn’t waver though she knew she’d confused him.

She smiled, deciding to go with flirty, since that hadn’t set him off so far. Do you always say hello with a nine-mil, or are you just happy to see me?

To people who sneak up on me in this town, yes. He must have decided she wasn’t a bullet-worthy threat because he applied the safety and sat up, slipping the handgun into his shoulder holster at the same time. The heavy weaponry, she noted with surprise, remained at his hip. A flat-black M45, if she wasn’t mistaken. She never was, when it came to guns.

It wasn’t every day you got your hands on one of those. Military issue, she assumed, though pretty sure that wasn’t exactly legal, even for law enforcement. A second later, he was sitting up, still staring at her cautiously.

Light sleeper? she asked unnecessarily, hoping to set him at ease.

More staring.

Yeah, ease probably didn’t come real natural to this one. You’re not much of a talker, are you?

Not surprisingly, he didn’t respond.

That’s okay, I am. She took the fact that he kept both guns put away as a positive sign. Mind if I sit? Figuring it wasn’t a good idea to wait until he gave her an answer, she lowered herself to the ground a few feet from him. It was a bit squishy, which she hoped like hell wouldn’t ruin her leather pants. So how have you been?

Excuse me?

Finally, a reaction. Katrina clapped her hands between her open knees to get the dirt and grass blades off. Definitely wet. She bit back a sigh and glanced at the man next to her.

Dark brown eyes caught just enough sunlight to turn the irises a brilliant gold as he studied her. A strong jaw, squared and shadowed with dark bristles, though he’d clearly shaved that morning. His skin was pale, as if he’d been in hiding or sick recently.

I asked how you’ve been since you moved to Marketta. People treating you right? When he still didn’t say anything, she sighed. You’re this close to bruising my ego, Tiger.

His snort of disbelief made her grin. He might not talk much, but he was listening.

Yeah, okay, my ego is pretty impenetrable, but it’d still make a girl feel pretty if you answered her questions.

I’m fine. Sure he was. Fine people always snarled.

She decided to sound happy with that. Was that so hard?

His glare should have set her on fire.

"You know, you could stand to work on your people skills. Most people around town don’t even know what your first name is. They just keep calling you that big fella. Even the other deputies. I heard there’s a running pool on what the C stands for. If she had her usual access, she’d have found out in a heartbeat, but she was so far off the grid that local gossip was her main source of information and the town had a great big blank when it came to this particular tidbit. Call her a control freak, but she didn’t like holes in her knowledge. The big money is on Cecil, but I hope to God you didn’t get saddled with that one. It’s just not the kind of name you can see yourself screaming in bed—"

You’re with that biker crew, right?

She brightened at his interruption, which made him scowl. You been checking up on me?

Can’t check on people I’ve never heard of, he scoffed, looking away from her. The leather kinda gives it away.

She looked down, taking a second to view herself the way he would. Leather pants weren’t exactly a prerequisite for bikers, she just happened to prefer them. Black tank top and only a few tattoos on her arms and shoulder. Maybe it was the matching black leather vest hanging open? Ah, well, her trainers at Quantico hadn’t exactly been fond of her tastes, either. I run Cooper’s Tavern.

He lifted a sardonic brow. "You run the crew’s bar?"

Don’t be so critical your first week, Deputy. You might hurt yourself. And possibly a few others. "For the record, it’s not a crew, it’s a motorcycle club or an MC. Most folks connected to the club wear jeans and T-shirts, just like everyone else. Shitty jeans, sure, but nobody’s perfect." She let her gaze slide over his length again and bit back a sigh. Okay, so a few people were closer than most…

You’re not with them? He sounded so doubtful.

"With is such a subjective word, don’t you think?"

No.

She rolled her eyes. Military types were so literal. They spend a lot of time in my bar. Like, every waking minute.

That’s a yes.

She squinted at him. Is that how you’re planning to run things? Judging people guilty by association?

No, but figuring out who’s most likely to get me killed in this town seems like a good idea.

Ooh, that was practically an insult. He was definitely warming up. Now why would I want to get you killed when you’re so—she ran her gaze over him again, appreciating every inch as she did—"interesting alive?"

You must have a strange definition of interesting.

Not really. Mysterious handsome strangers would have any red-blooded woman’s antenna twitching.

You’re barking up the wrong tree, lady. I’m not interested in bikers.

Lady? Her? Her brows went up this time. You got a problem with bikes now?

No. I just don’t associate with criminals.

"You’ve got the wrong hat on, then. Criminals are about all you’ll be associating with in this town." The only innocent ones in Marketta were the kids in that playground.

Drug dealers, then.

"Me? A drug dealer? She held her hand to her chest in mock offense. How’d you guess? Is my Ecstasy showing?"

She knew he’d expect her to be flippant, because he couldn’t touch her on that score even if he’d caught her selling drugs on his front porch. Not if she was connected to the MC. Playing the part usually came easy, but his steady stare tore right through her illusion, turning the moment tense in a heartbeat. She put her hand down, dropping the artifice like the mask it was.

You have proof of that accusation?

No.

She nodded, pretending to think about his expansive answer. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up dead in his sleep.

Let me give you a friendly tip, then. Don’t let anyone else hear you say it. You never know who plays recorder for Frank. Too many did. Shop owners, county workers, the bankers, even the damn school advisors. She knew fear and desperation played a big part of it, but it still made her skin crawl when she thought about how many people around her had sold out.

Not you?

She shrugged. I’m different.

He settled his arms on his knees, his big hands falling between them so he could hold his hat and run it through his fingers. Round and round, the soft purr of the texture against his skin becoming a strangely soothing sound. Seems to me being different around here isn’t much of a good idea, either.

Hmm, that almost sounded like concern. I’ll be fine. Frank gives me some leeway as long as I keep my head down and my mouth shut when he’s giving orders in my bar.

He faced her again, definite interest now.

He doesn’t have much choice. His boss told him I’m not to be touched.

"Frank Carter has a boss?"

Shit. This just got worse and worse. The sheriff didn’t brief you on this place before you came?

Rick Trelane gave me files when I got here, but I haven’t gotten through all of it.

You need to. Like, immediately. She should have known Clive Barrows had done nothing to fill him in—the sheriff was useless as hell—but she’d thought his former teammate would have been more thorough. Red Dog Killian has run Wheels of Pain for over twenty years. He owns the bar they use for their headquarters. He got pulled up on a parole violation last year and he’s finishing his last sentence. Frank’s just holding down the fort ‘til Red Dog comes back. Which, if she had her way, would never happen.

"Frank doesn’t seem like the second-in-command