Make You Mine by K.T. Quinn

3

Charlotte

I spent the drive to the sheriff’s office feeling sorry for myself. I’d lost my boyfriend to a skank named Tammy. I’d abandoned my job, my business that I’d sunk countless hours into. The apartment I’d been slowly adding things to was now Scott’s, since I was fleeing back home.

And now I’d been arrested. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The sheriff was silent during the ride. I mimicked him, since clearly anything I said was just going to tick him off more. I could hear my dad’s voice in the back of my head: never upset a small-town sheriff. They’re always looking for an excuse to take someone in.

My dad knew that because he was a small-town sheriff.

But even he would’ve thought this was ridiculous. On nights like tonight, when rain poured down and thunder boomed across the sky, most cops would’ve looked away from all but the most reckless offenses. For this sheriff to trudge out in the rain and pull me over for no reason, and then haul me in, he must have had a really bad day.

At least that’s one thing we have in common, I thought with a grimace.

The sheriff’s office was a small structure that looked like it was built over a century ago. Six motorcycles were parked in a row outside, blocking the road into the parking lot. When the sheriff saw this, he cursed and drove around them through the mud.

“Let’s go,” he said when we were parked.

I’m going, I thought, but didn’t say.

The receiving room of the sheriff’s office had a single desk—which was currently unoccupied—and four chairs against one wall. The sheriff began leading me down the hall to the back, but then suddenly stopped cold. He jumped aside, pulling me with him.

Six men came marching down the hall toward us. All of them wore dark jeans, black shirts, and black leather vests covered with faded patches. Between the six of them they had two dozen piercings, and nearly every inch of skin I could see was covered with ink. One guy’s head was totally shaved and covered with deathly tattoos: bones, fire, and roses with decaying petals.

The sheriff tensed as they came toward us. Was this a jail break? But all he did was nod politely and say, “Give Sid my best.”

He sounds like he’s scared, I thought.

The gang—if that’s what they were—ignored the sheriff the way a millionaire would ignore the hired help. But I wasn’t so lucky. They ogled me in passing, eyes raking my body like broken fingernails at the end of disgusting fingers.

“New one turning tricks?” the biker at the back said. “Wish I’d found her before you snatched her up.”

I realized what he meant: he thought I was a prostitute. I felt a pang of annoyance. These were my most professional clothes. Surely I looked nicer than some random hooker. The biker gang roared with laughter as they headed out into the rain, pulling on jackets and throwing hoods over their heads.

The sheriff breathed a sigh of relief as soon as they were gone, then shoved me down the hall. The sheriff’s deputy waited there with his thumbs tucked into his belt.

“What’d they want with him?” the sheriff asked.

“Same as before. Just talkin’.”

“Any blood?”

The deputy snorted. “Only a little.”

“Thought so.”

“How long we keepin’ him?” the deputy asked.

“Sid said until the morning. Then we turn him loose.”

“Yessir.”

The left wall of the hallway changed to the open, vertical iron bars of a jail cell, and the man they were talking about came into view. He sat on a bench with his head resting back against the wall like he was sleeping. His faded blue jeans had holes in the knees, and a leather jacket was draped across his lap. Strong arms bulged from his black T-shirt, and I caught a glimpse underneath one of the sleeves of what looked like tattoo ink peeking out on his right bicep. He wheezed while breathing, and his sexy face was twisted with pain.

I didn’t normally go for the bad-boy biker type, especially one who was sitting in a jail cell. But this guy? He was one of the most gorgeous men I had ever seen in my life. Even while wincing in pain, he exuded sexy charm.

“Hey,” I said to the sheriff. “Is he okay?”

He barked a mocking laugh. “Who, Jayce? Don’t go worrying about him.” His voice boomed a little higher, “He’s a dead man, he just don’t know it yet. Or maybe you do know it, huh boy?”

The man—Jayce—didn’t respond. His eyes opened and then followed me as I was led to the cell next to his. The sheriff removed my handcuffs, and then the bars banged shut behind me with an ominous clang.

I’m in jail, I thought pitifully. I’m actually standing in jail.

I turned and grabbed the bars with both hands. They were as cold as ice. “Don’t I get a phone call?”

“Phone’s right there,” the sheriff said, pointing to the wall just outside the cell. “Knock yourself out.”

I waited until he walked away before rushing to the phone. It was the old kind, made of yellow plastic and with a curly cord connecting it to the receiver on the wall.

“Don’t bother,” came a deep, but pained, voice.

I glanced over my shoulder. Jayce had turned his head to look at me. My better sense said to ignore anything that man said, but I’d had a long day. Plus, unlike the biker gang that had just marched out of here, he looked a lot cleaner and put-together. One of the good bikers.

One of the sexy ones, I thought.

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” I said curtly.

“Don’t doubt it,” he replied smoothly. “But I’m trying to tell you—”

“Leave me alone, please.” I picked up the phone and started dialing. Nothing happened. I hung up and then listened for a dial tone. Nothing. The numbers didn’t even beep when I pressed on them.

“Phone’s broken,” Jayce said. “That’s what I was trying to say. You’re not gonna get your call, Charlotte.”

“Oh.” I hung up the phone and walked to the bench, acutely aware that I was wearing heels in a jail cell. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I gave a start. “Wait. How do you know my name?”

He nodded toward the hallway. “Sheriff ran your license plate and called it in to the deputy. Checkin’ to make sure you didn’t have any priors. I heard their conversation.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Me? Priors?”

Jayce smiled with me and leaned his head against the wall again. I took a longer look at him. His hair was long, but tied back. It was so brown it was almost black, with lighter strands falling across his face. It was the cologne-model kind of messy that lots of guys spent hours in front of the mirror trying to perfect, but this guy wore the look naturally. Especially with the clean, short-cropped beard that covered his cheeks and jaw. And his eyes were like glistening sapphires, shining fearlessly in the jail.

He coughed, and then his chiseled face twisted in agony again.

“Hey,” I asked, “are you okay?”

“I’m nowhere close to okay.”

“Do you need anything?”

Jayce frowned. “Nothing you can give me.”

He was right. I couldn’t even help myself right now, let alone a stranger.

I looked around my own cell. The floor was cement that gradually sloped down to a drain in the center. For easy cleaning, I thought. Just hose the room down and everything would wash away. There was a stain on the floor of Jayce’s cell that looked like blood. It probably was blood.

The room was chilly, and a rivulet of water was running down the back of my neck. I took a deep breath, let it out, and then took another one.

I’ve already cried once tonight. I won’t do it again in front of a complete stranger.

“Word of advice?” Jayce said in that deep, smooth voice. “Don’t do anything else to piss off the sheriff. Or anyone else in this fucking town. Just keep your head down and your mouth shut, you understand?”

“Wish I’d known that an hour ago,” I said, keeping my voice low so only he could hear. “Sheriff seemed intent on throwing me in here the moment he pulled me over. I wasn’t even speeding!”

“First time in Eastland, huh?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Pretty fucking stupid of you to come here.”

“You don’t need to curse at me,” I replied curtly.

Jayce’s chest shook with silent laughter, which brought another wince of pain. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but your priorities are all fucked up if you give a shit about my cursing.”

His words stung and made me recoil. A moment later, anger rose up in my chest. Scott had too much control over my life. So did the power-tripping sheriff who had locked me in here. But I was definitely not going to allow the jerk in the next cell to have any power over my emotions tonight.

“I don’t see why you think this is funny. I’ve had my entire life torn apart and now I’m stuck in jail in some podunk little town in the middle of nowhere, Georgia. The last thing I need is somebiker criminal making fun of me.”

One of his sharp eyebrows rose. “Your life was torn apart? Join the party.”

I cocked my head to one side. “You think you have it worse than me?”

“I know I do,” he said flatly.

“Let’s hear it, then. How’d you end up in here?”

Kissable lips puckered into an amused smile behind his beard. “You don’t wanna hear my story.”

“Sure I do.”

“Nah.” He twisted sideways to lay back on the bench. Corded lines of muscle flexed as he covered one arm over his chest protectively, the one with the colorful tattoos.

Whoever this guy was, he was gorgeous. Like a big, sexy teddy bear. He didn’t look like a criminal. Was he a victim of the overzealous sheriff too? Regardless of the legitimacy of his crime, I realized I wanted him to be a jerk so I would be justified in taking out my frustration on him some more. I wanted him to be my punching bag.

But he just lay there on the bench, wincing with each breath.

“I shouldn’t be in here,” I said, more to myself than anything.

Jayce snorted without opening his eyes. “Like I said. Join the fuckin’ party.”

“Asshole,” I muttered, but my heart wasn’t in it.

“Watch your language,” he replied. “Your cursing offends me.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Jayce’s rumbling laughter filled the jail.